Recoil - Andy McNab [28]
We descended through cloud. The outskirts of London were worn out and grey, but then we did our approach over the sci-fi film set they called Docklands. There were so many cranes, they looked like wheat in a field.
I didn’t want to power up my mobile again. That blank screen was starting to get to me.
7
I drove west. I wanted to cross London, get on to the M40 to Oxford, then off towards Hereford. There had been no call from Silky, and it had taken a lot longer than I’d wanted to get hold of the little Corsa 1200. The problem was, my Virginia driver’s licence carried my old address in Crystal City, just outside Washington DC, and my credit card had the Swiss address. I’d done the switch when Silky and I had moved from Australia so there was somewhere to send my bills. I’d stood my ground while the computer stood its own: I told the woman behind the counter that it wasn’t going to process my details because they didn’t fit the software. At last she accepted my ‘I’ve just moved over there to work’ excuse. The final receipt would be sent to Lugano.
I knew I should have taken the M25 orbital, but it felt more immediate to cut directly through the city. I just wanted to keep moving in the right direction.
Big mistake, as I realized within twenty minutes when I crept from traffic light to traffic light in Silvertown. Then I hit a faster stretch of road and got flashed by three consecutive cameras that had sprung up like weeds since the last time I was here.
I couldn’t help but think about the row we’d had yesterday. Maybe it was me who’d sparked this whole thing off . . .
I’d just got away from another lot of traffic lights and was stuck between two trucks when the mobile rang.
At last.
I picked it up but didn’t see the twelve digits I was hoping for. It was the Swiss prefix instead.
‘Nick?’
‘Étienne . . .’
‘Just calling to say still no news. Come in for a coffee if you want. It’s fresh on.’
‘Thanks, mate, but I’ll have to take a raincheck on that. I’m on my way to a mug of tea.’
8
It took far longer than it should have to get to Hereford. It was bucketing with rain all the way, and everyone drove like it was the first time they’d seen the stuff.
I came down Aylestone Hill into the city centre, and passed the railway station. Four and a half hours was still quicker than a train would have been, by the time I’d trekked from Docklands to Paddington. In any event, I needed wheels. He didn’t know it yet, but Crazy Dave was going to find me a contact in-country and buy me a ticket – fast. As soon as I’d read him his horoscope, I wanted to be heading for an airport.
I passed the cattle market and headed for the other side of town. Huge estates had sprung up like mushrooms in the eighties. Bobblestock had been among the first of the new breed. The houses were all made from machined bricks and were uniformly ugly. Then they had given the roads names like Chancel View and Rectory Close, even though there wasn’t a single old church in sight. With two point four children inside, a Mondeo on the drive and front lawns small enough to cut with scissors, these places had about as much individual character as a room in a Holiday Inn. No wonder it was Crazy Dave’s manor.
The only crazy thing about Dave was that he’d earned his name because he wasn’t: he was about as zany as a teacup. He was the kind of guy who analysed a joke before saying, ‘Oh, yeah, I get it. That’s funny.’
There had always been a broker knocking around Hereford. He had to be ex-Regiment because he had to