Chapter 88
The target or Baddeley? He would have liked to have said he didn’t think twice, but he did.
The man had perfected a knack of turning up and flat-footing his way, at the wrong time, through the right time. He was a bloody nuisance but Nicks knew he couldn’t leave him. He had to do something.
He watched Hegner calmly walk away from the bungalow and disappear down the footpath alongside the railway.
A screech of brakes, door open, the house windows shattered over the lawn.
“Si, be careful!” he shouted as Simon galloped across the lawn and launched himself towards the brass knocker.
They found him in the hallway which was full of acrid smoke. Simon had fallen over him, otherwise they wouldn’t have known he was there. Nicks had taken one look from the doorway and knew it was too dangerous to go further. Together they dragged him out, Si falling to his knees at the entrance, coughing and spluttering. Nicks pulled Thurstan onto the grass by the car.
“What should we do?” Simon looked at Nicks for inspiration.
“Well, he’s still breathing so I suppose we should stick him in the recovery position. We need to get these plasticuffs off though. Watch him while I check the car.”
He went to the boot, rapidly rummaged through the toolbox and the other assorted rubbish Si liked to keep there and quickly returned with a set of tin snips. Cuffs removed, they rolled him over and rearranged his arm and legs.
“You’ll have to phone, I’ve got to find Hegner.” Nicks left him with a pat on the back.
Gunning the red mini away from the smoke and flames behind him, he desperately searched the adjoining streets wanting to finish this. It’d already taken more time and patience than he possessed and he wasn’t looking forward to explaining how he’d allowed years of careful work to be wasted. He needed to think logically. The railway station! He’d either got a taxi somewhere or he was heading for the railway station. On the verge of defeat, he knew if this didn’t work he was fucked; he had nothing in reserve.
He took to the side roads, bouncing over road humps and narrowly avoiding the loss of his wing mirrors. One hundred metres to go and he shot out onto the main street and pulled into a parking space. He grabbed the weapon from beneath his seat and placed it on his lap. His intention had been to check the platforms, on foot, but before he could turn off his lights a dark coloured Honda turned in front of him and stopped by the entrance to the bus terminal.
He didn’t know why, but it had caught his attention; there was something familiar about it. The driver got out, removed a suitcase from the boot, extended the handle and pointed towards the pedestrian crossing that fed directly into the station entrance. The figure shook his hand and walked off, dragging the suitcase behind him.
The lights on the crossing changed green to amber. Plan B it was. Weapon back under the seat, a quick check of the mirror and he was off.
The mini hit Hegner hard propelling him onto the windscreen with a sick, dull thud; the glass cracked and crazed as he tumbled over the roof to hit the ground head first in a sad, crumpled, distorted heap, his suitcase spinning into the gutter. If he wasn’t dead now at least he’d be a lot easier to find next time.
Off the dock road, on the wasteland, Nicks took the plastic petrol can from the boot and liberally sprinkled the car seats and mats. Throwing the container inside, he’d lit the rag and tossed it through the open window. As he reached the dimly lit street a satisfying ‘whooomph’ made him briefly turn.
He took out his mobile. “Si, you ok?”
“Yeah, but I think I’ve done my bloody shoulder in,” he spluttered between coughs.
“Is he ok?”
“He’ll live. You picking me up?”
“Can’t mate. I’ve had to torch the mini. I’ll tell you about it later. Where are you now?”
“I’m in the village.” He coughed again then spat it out. He could still taste smoke. “You’ve not bloody left my tools in there, have you?”
“Don’t panic, I’ve got ‘em here. Fancy a pint? Ten minutes?”
“Silly not to really.” He was clearly feeling better already.
Nicks put the phone back in his jacket and buttoned up the leg pocket containing the gun and its suppressor. He stood on the corner, a black hackney pulled up.
In the back, he quickly unloaded the weapon, lifted the seat and dropped everything into the ballistic bag. The driver turned to him: “Where would you like to go now?”
Nicks sat back, a little laugh. “I’d like to go home, Phil, but for now the Crow’s Nest will have to do.”