Chapter 36
The Old Man crossed his arms, "You make a persuasive argument, Gallagher. The problem is that at the moment we're not completely sure the Cherneys are who we're after and in any event we haven't got any firm evidence with which to convict them. That's what I would prefer to be able to do, if we can get them." The pipe came out of the pocket, then he continued.
"If we remove Ward from the playing board tonight or tomorrow probably all we'll end up with is circumstantial possession of a syringe and a long, tedious but ultimately plausible explanation. I want to get them red-handed and don't want to jump the gun. We don't even know if it'll happen tomorrow."
He waved the pipe around, vaguely. "We should set her place up with some 'technical' and that'll take time if it's not to be seen and I'd much rather she has no knowledge of what we're doing, less chance of the game getting out if she's blissfully unaware. Yes, we need to protect her but we need to catch them in the act and the timing is a matter of life and death." He fell silent for a moment in thought. "With respect to your runaway sleepers? We'll get Box to check the manifests, all ports and airports to Scandinavia, shortest routes to the Soviets. They'll have wanted to keep it simple and quick." He nodded appreciation, leaving them with, "Show me a plan that gives us time to put in the relevant 'technical' equipment, protects our subject and allows us to disrupt any attempts until we're in a better position to control the situation." He went back to his office.
They drank tea in the main room, occasionally tossing an idea into the air to see if the other caught it. Once or twice something was but then, in the detail, it slipped through their fingers.
Winston sat quaffing a large bottle of cream soda. He wiped his mouth and said, "Can I just mention something?" He belched then carried on. "Why don't you close her street down and just say there's a gas leak."
Sandy threw a ball of paper into the bin in the far corner from his desk. "Not a bad idea, Winston, but you can smell gas so how do we conjure up that." He thought he saw something coming back at him. "No, we can't rupture a gas main, if that's what you're thinking."
Winston was undeterred. "A mate of mine works for the Gas Board and he says they have canisters they let off to simulate the real thing when they're doing training stuff."
Sandy sat up in his chair. "Do you know? I think you might have something there."
Gally butted in. "We could block both ends of the street off. We'll need SB to quickly arrange some uniformed bodies to do that and simply tell the residents to keep their windows closed and stay inside, have the Gas board spray some of their training gas around to convince them then the gas boys dig a hole in the road, anywhere will do."
Sandy picked up on the idea. "Yeah, and we can have a couple of Farralland lads disguised as coppers or workmen and you, me and Clive can alternate ends whilst we ID them if they turn up. The thing is we'll need the Old Man to pull a few strings to get it up and running but as he doesn't want them arrested just yet, what happens next time?"
Gally shrugged. "At the moment, it's beyond me, so I reckon we get a bite to eat and think about that later. Who knows? It might have all changed when we come back. Fancy a Wimpy, Ginge? I'll pay if you're short of cash. Do you want anything, Winston?"
He shook his head and waved something wrapped in foil. "I'm fine, thanks."
By the time they got back, Clive had returned and was ensconced with Reg.
"Hello, Clive. Reg mentioned you were on your way back so we got you a king-size Wimpy and a cheeseburger. He said you'd told him you hadn't eaten and he reckoned these would be ok." Gally fished them from the paper bag and put them on the table.
Clive looked up. "Thanks, chaps. I'm starving actually. You can leave the paper bag, I might have that for dessert. What did you have?"
Sandy put the kettle on. "We pushed the boat out and had a sit-down meal. I had the Shanty brunch and Gally the Wimpy grill. It was good, went down well with a cheeky 7UP."
Gally threw the bag in the bin. "We'll just have a brew and a chat with Winston and let you have your burgers in peace, then we'll let you give us the update."
Twenty minutes later, as Winston gathered his things to leave, Clive and Reg sauntered into the room.
Winston gave them all a wave. "Have fun, boys, and I hope you get a chance to see the match. Doesn't sound as if you will though. Hopefully, on Monday we'll be champions of the world. Ta-ta."
Reg was first off. "The Old Man's on his way back in, by the way. Oh, and I signed you and Sandy a camp bed out. It's on my signature so for pity's sake don't damage them. I don't fancy an earful from Arthur downstairs, Sandy knows what a pain he can be."
After thanking him, Gallagher said, "We think we've got a plan but we're not sure it's got a happy ending. What can you tell us, Clive?"
He'd done the rounds, Pinker and Twentyman solicitors in Chippenham had been first and there he spoke to the receptionist, Joanna, a redhead with beautiful green eyes. A solicitor would be available very shortly she'd told him and insisted on making him a cup of tea in the meantime. She was so nice he didn't feel he could refuse. Apart from having to bullshit the suave but uninterested Mr Pinker, the preamble with Joanna had proven quite useful and enjoyable. She had a good sense of humour, a new boyfriend who was, she told him in confidence, a policeman and she clearly wasn't the material a spy or an assassin should be made of. Clive discounted her from the proceedings. Next, he'd gone to Crantwell Evans. The receptionist had been pleasant and when she'd got up to take a file out for Mr Evans he could see she was pregnant. Coming up to six months Clive thought. No, Mr Evans couldn't see him today and the solicitor who should have been there had phoned in to say he couldn't make it, a personal crisis of some sort, she hadn't really been listening. If he came back on Wednesday, there was a female solicitor who specialised in wills but she, the receptionist, wouldn't be there because it was her day off. He wasn't to worry though because Wendy the temp would sort him out and he'd like her she was sure; she had lovely long blonde hair.
"What type of car has the temp got?" Gally asked.
Clive gave him a little flash of incredulity. "And how was I supposed to work that into the conversation. Ooh, Wendy hey, what sort of car does she drive, is it red and is this the registration number? The woman hasn't met her in person, they've only spoken on the phone."
Gally countered, grinning, "So how does she know she's got 'lovely long blonde hair' then clever clogs?"
Clive laughed. "Because Evans, the solicitor, happened to mention it to her when she got back into work. It seems he's very keen on blondes, smarty pants."
Gally still wasn't happy. "Well, I'm still not having it. I mean, a blonde called Wendy? I’ve never met a Wendy who was blonde. Nah, picture it? It's not right. Something's false there. Either it's the name or the hair. Maybe both. Anyway, I got the reg number off Billy and had it checked out. It's false and off an Anglia, current owner says they sold it to a dealer in Salisbury. It'll take a while for the answer to that one to come back."
Clive had something else to say. "Anyway, if you'd waited I would have told you that I found the firm the temp came from. It's Cartwell, Foster and Markey so, of course, I had to go to them, another twenty miles. I sat opposite for an hour until just before closing when she came out, obviously on the way home. As soon as she disappeared, I was in and gave the older receptionist a tale about my wife wanting a home hairdresser and I'd heard there was one currently working there, a blonde girl. Anyway, it seems the older one isn't too enamoured with her. She gave me her address and phone number no problem and commented that she wouldn't be at all surprised if she didn't have any qualifications for that job either but as she was only the receptionist what did she know."
Sandy cut in. "And have we checked this out as yet?" Clive smiled. "Yes, I have. I drove past the address. No red mini. I wasn't sure what to do next but then came up with the idea of knocking on a few doors and saying I'd found a purse in the street belonging to a slim blonde whose first name was Wendy. At the second house to answer, the young man there told me the only Wendy Saunders he knew lived at number 47 but she could never be described as slim and he wasn't keen on the thought of her in a mini skirt. The address and details are false. The phone number just rings out.”