“You’re probably right,” Stone agreed. “I doubt it’d be worthwhile for them to make duplicate plates either.” He was sure that a pair of license plates would only be worth about twenty pounds, though he didn’t doubt that that would be enough for some people. “To be honest, I can’t say I understand why they used these plates, when they could have gotten plates from just about…” He stopped speaking abruptly as Grey stepped into the office and caught his eye. “What is it?” he asked, not pleased with the interruption.
“There’s something you need to see, sir,” Grey told him.
“Excuse me.” Stone left the office on Grey’s heels, wondering what the young detective had found.
Grey, who had chosen to occupy himself by looking around the yard while his superior spoke to the manager, led the way round a small mountain of scrap metal, of varying shapes and sizes. There was an avenue between that mountain and another, virtually identical, mountain, and Grey headed towards the end of it, where a collection of wrecked cars could be seen. When he got there, he walked a short distance along the wall of cars, which were piled two and three high, and ran for at least a hundred yards, before stopping.
Bemused, Stone looked around, trying to work out what it was Grey was trying to show him. He assumed it was connected to the Renault Clio they were there to find out about, but he could see no sign of either the car, or anything related to it.
“Well?” he asked finally, hoping he hadn’t been dragged away from the office for no purpose.
Grey gestured to the middle car in the stack next to him and asked, “Isn’t that the Astra that was used in the festival robbery, and the hit-and-run?”
The car was battered, though Stone got the impression that the damage was not the result of an accident, but the make, model and colour were still easily identifiable. He still had to check the license plate to be sure it was the car they were looking for, one of them at least, and that wasn’t easy given how the Astra was wedged in amongst the other vehicles. He had to climb about on the cars on either side of the Astra, ripping the pocket of his jacket in the process – he swore at that – until he got a glimpse of the license plate.
Discovering that the car was the one that would, he hoped, secure the case against the Logan brothers, made him consider the damage to his jacket in a philosophical light.
“I don’t know how you saw that plate,” Stone said as he climbed down, “but bloody good spot. Go and get the manager would you,” he requested. “I think we need to ask him a few questions.”
Stone had just finished a careful examination of what he could see of the car, during which he concluded that the dents, the smashed windows, and the other damage that was visible, were the result of someone taking a hammer, or more likely a sledge, to the vehicle, when he got his second surprise of the morning.
From behind him, Stone heard a cheerfully whistled version of a song he had been hearing a lot on the radio recently – he had no idea what the title of the song was, and didn’t care, he just wished he didn’t keep hearing it – and turning, he found himself confronted by the burly, tattooed figure of the Logans’ friend, David ‘Ash’ Ashford. As his eyes darted from Ashford, whom he recognised from the file Burke had shown him, to the Astra, now behind him, something clicked in Stone’s brain and he realised what must have happened.
Though he hadn’t been arrested or interviewed by the man before him, Ash recognised him as a detective, and realised from the way he looked over his shoulder that he was in trouble. His immediate reaction was to turn and head back the way he had come, breaking into a run as he headed for the small area where he and his co-workers parked their cars. He couldn’t go home, that was obvious to him for the police would go straight there, and would then search for him at the Logans’, so he couldn’t go there either.
Yanking his radio from his pocket, Stone gave chase – given Ashford’s size, he didn’t fancy trying to arrest him on his own, or even with just Grey’s support, especially when Ashford’s flight made it clear he had no intention of surrendering peacefully.
“Stone to base,” he gasped into the radio; he hated trying to use it while in pursuit of a suspect – even for someone in better shape than him it wasn’t easy to talk and run at the same time. “Stone to base,” he repeated.
It was a few moments before the reply came through. “Base to DI Stone, say your message, over.”
“In pursuit of suspect, David Ashford, at Tredegar Scrapyard, suspect believed to be involved in Sunday’s festival robbery, backup needed. Send plenty of bodies, Ashford’s a big bugger, six-five, and well-muscled. I need a forensics team out here as well, we’ve found the car used in the robbery.” Stone was breathing heavily from the exertion of the chase, and his words came in short bursts. “Christian!” he called out for the younger detective as he exited the avenue between the twin mountains of scrap and turned to follow Ashford, who was darting in and out of his co-workers.
“CHRISTIAN!” Stone called out a second time, lifting his voice to make himself heard above the noises of the scrapyard, which were plenty and loud. He was looking around for Grey, and trying to keep an eye on the man he was pursuing, when he caught sight of a burdened fork-lift truck out of the corner of his eye. He hurriedly skidded to a halt to avoid being run down by the approaching behemoth.
Once the fork-lift had passed, he searched for Ashford, who was no longer in sight. He glimpsed the burly man as he ducked under a cage containing a mixed mass of rusting scrap and headed for the rear of the crane shifting it. Stone immediately took off in pursuit, ducking, hurdling and weaving around every obstacle that threatened to slow or stop him – despite his lack of fitness, he found himself gaining on the larger man, who was moving at a lumbering pace.
Stone had almost reached the gate Ashford had disappeared through after dodging around the crane when Grey caught up with him, appearing out of nowhere.
“Ashford, stop where you are,” he called out as he and Grey separated so they could circle round and come at their suspect from opposing directions.
Grey reached Ashford first, blocking his progress as he made his way between two cars. “Hands where I can see them,” he told the giant, his extendable baton held warningly in his right hand, while in his left he held a pair of handcuffs.
Ashford’s response was short and to the point, “Fuck you!” Undaunted by the baton, he continued his advance, his body-language suggesting that if Grey didn’t get out of his way he would simply walk right over the top of him. Given that he towered over the detective by about half a foot, and was at least four stone heavier, all of it muscle, there was every chance that he could do so easily.
Grey did his best not to be intimidated by Ashford’s approach, his concern showed on his face, however, and he raised his baton in readiness to use it. “Stop, or I’ll be forced to use force,” he said warningly, the trembling of his hand obvious in the way the tip of his baton moved back and forth through the air.
“Don’t think about it, Mr Ashford.” From behind him, Stone could see the muscles of Ashford’s neck and shoulders tense as he prepared himself to do something. Stone wanted to prevent that, sure that if Ashford made a move it would result in Grey being hurt – he hoped he could keep him from doing anything until the backup he had requested arrived.
Looking from the detective in front of him, to the one behind, Ash decided he liked his chances and started forward again. After that one look over his shoulder, he kept his eyes on the figure before him, specifically on the baton in his hand; he was ready when Grey struck out at him and caught the weapon, pulling it easily from the young detective’s grasp. Contemptuously, he tossed away the baton, which looked more like a chopstick than a weapon in his oversized hand, preferring to stick with his fists when it came to fighting.
Grey was startled, and a little disturbed, by the ease with which he was disarmed and fear flickered across his face. He wanted to back up and put space between himself and Ashford, to avoid getting injured
, but he held his ground – pride, the desire not to be responsible for a suspect getting away, to not embarrass himself, kept him rooted to the spot. Unthinkingly, he lashed out at Ashford with a clenched fist; he hit him in the stomach, and felt as though he had punched a wall. The sudden flash of pain that shot through his hand and wrist made him sure he had broken something. If that wasn’t bad enough, Ashford showed no sign of having felt the blow.
Ash ignored the fist that struck him in the stomach like it was no more than the bite of a mosquito – it had been delivered with all the strength Grey could muster, yet he barely felt it. He might not have felt the blow, but he did respond to it; reaching out, he grabbed the detective by the front of his shirt and, with little in the way of effort, lifted Grey off the ground, holding him almost a foot in the air.
Stone was astonished by the ease with which Ashford picked Grey up, it was even more remarkable because he did so with just one hand – Stone had never known anyone so strong, and he prayed fervently that the backup he had requested would arrive soon; he strained his hearing for any sign of the support he desperately needed, but could hear nothing that might reassure him.
“Put him down,” he said sharply, wishing that he wasn’t unarmed – he hadn’t carried a baton since he became a detective.
Ashford responded to the command by tightening his grip on the front of Grey’s shirt and taking hold of his belt buckle. With a heave, he launched him over the boot of the car to his left.
Grey didn’t quite clear the vehicle, his feet thudded into the boot of the Hyundai, but that was nothing for him to be concerned about. What was more important was that he crashed into the Kia parked next to it painfully, which made him cry out as he fell to the hard-packed earth of the car park.
Before he advanced on the, much, bigger man, Stone diverted to snatch up Grey’s baton from where it had landed. He felt a little better now he was armed, but not a lot given the disparity in size between him and Ashford, and what he had seen Ashford do; he had no desire to be the next one thrown over a car.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Mr Ashford, you’re in enough trouble as it is: conspiracy to commit armed robbery, concealment of a vehicle used in a crime, involvement after the fact in a serious hit-and-run, resisting arrest.” Stone hoped that by listing his crimes, he could convince Ashford to give himself up before he committed any more. He soon saw that his words were having no effect, at least no positive one, on the muscular criminal; the only reaction he did get was a sudden lunge towards him.
Stone reacted the moment he saw the meaty fist, which was on the end of an arm that would have made Arnold Schwarzenegger jealous, come towards him. He twisted to one side, to avoid getting punched – he was sure that doing so would be painful, perhaps even seriously damaging – and lashed out with the baton. He intended driving it into Ashford’s stomach, so he could double him up and take away at least some of his advantage, but missed when Ashford pulled back from completing the punch and dodged away.
The baton smashed through the rear passenger window of the Hyundai, and Stone sliced his hand as he pulled it out. The pain was sudden and sharp, and he was sure he had injured himself quite badly; he ignored both the wound, which he didn’t look at, and the blood he could feel flowing from it, as he chased after his suspect.
In a move that would have made his P.E. teacher at school proud, Stone dived once he was clear of the Hyundai. He caught Ashford around the knees, and brought him down with a perfect rugby tackle just before he reached the next row of cars – it surprised him that the tackle worked; given the big man’s already displayed strength, he had half-expected Ashford to remain on his feet and simply drag him along. He was glad that had not happened, though his victory was short-lived.
Almost hitting his head on the bumper of his own car, Ash rolled over the moment he hit the ground, and lashed out the instant he caught sight of the man who had tackled him. A glancing blow was the best he could manage, but that was enough to spin the inspector away, and Ash scrambled to his feet, his hands plunging into the back pocket of his jeans for his car keys. In his haste, he missed the lock the first time, and then almost broke the key as he unlocked his car and yanked the door open.
Stone felt as though he had been kicked by a horse as he spun away and sprawled to the ground, scratching his cheek and forehead on the small stones embedded in the hard-packed earth. When he tried to push himself up, he found that his left shoulder, which had received the mistimed blow, was no longer fully functional – he could only wonder what damage had been done to it.
Grey was on his feet before Stone, but was moving slower – he more closely resembled an elderly man in need of a walking stick or a Zimmer-frame, than a young man in the prime of life – so it was Stone who had the car door slammed into him as he rushed to stop Ashford getting into his car and escaping. Stone stumbled back a couple of paces but recovered in time to defend himself as Ashford closed the car door and came at him, a huge fist jabbing forward with the obvious intent of doing some serious harm.
Stone twisted aside, glad that he managed to avoid being punched in the jaw – he was sure his jaw would have needed wiring if the blow had connected. He retaliated by striking out with Grey’s baton, bringing it down sharply on Ashford’s extended forearm; the behemoth had not offered an audible indication of discomfort, let alone pain, either when he was punched by Grey or when he was brought to the ground, but now he cried out. The cry brought a grim smile of satisfaction to Stone’s face.
Stone’s smile was short-lived, he was lifting the baton to strike again – he didn’t like the thought that he might be considered guilty of using excessive force, but he preferred that to both him and Grey being beaten to a pulp and Ashford getting away – when he was grabbed by Ashford, who took hold of him by the collar of his shirt. He tried to pull himself free, without success, and soon found himself sliding across the bonnet of Ashford’s Ford. He tumbled to the ground, knocking Grey off his feet as he did so.
The moment he let go of the detective, Ashford turned to pull open the door of his car; he quickly slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Shifting into gear he pushed the accelerator down and raced away from his parking space. He didn’t know where he was going to go, only that he wanted to get as far away as possible, though first he needed to get the money Ben and Jerry had stolen, so he could afford to flee.
He didn’t like the idea of screwing his friends over, it wasn’t the sort of person he was, and he knew they were unlikely to forgive him, but if he had to choose between them and freedom, he knew which he would opt for.
Stone heard the Ford roar into life and scrambled to his feet as quickly as his injured body would allow, he then reached down to drag Grey out of the way. He was sure that Ashford wouldn’t stop just because they were on the ground in front of his car. He got them both clear mere moments before the Ford raced away, clipping the rear of the Hyundai opposite, and leaving broken glass scattered over the ground as Ashford struggled to turn in the narrow space.
Troubled by a feeling of guilt for leaving the injured Grey, despite the younger man telling him to do so, Stone gave futile chase to Ashford’s car. He saw it almost stopped by the cage of scrap metal being moved about by the crane, which hit the boot of the Ford, making it bounce momentarily, and then he lost sight of it as it sped away through the yard, forcing everyone in its path to scatter to avoid being mown down.
Struggling after the no longer visible car, he took his radio out. He was about to radio an update on the situation when he heard a crash from the other side of the yard. The noise was enough to drown out, momentarily, all the sounds from the scrapyard, and even the sirens of the approaching backup, which had been getting steadily louder.
Stone hurried through the yard, following the denim and overall clad workers as they made their way to the entrance to discover what had happened. When he came in sight of the double gates, and the Tredegar Scrapyard sign above them, Stone saw that Ashford’s Ford was stopped
on the road just outside the gates, where it had collided with a police patrol car. He couldn’t make out the extent of the damage to the two vehicles from his position, but he was not terribly bothered by what state they were in, he was far more interested in what was happening elsewhere.
A short distance from Ashford’s Ford, four uniformed officers had the giant on the ground, and were struggling to secure his wrists with handcuffs. He was glad that he was not the one trying to secure Ashford, he had suffered enough at his hands, but he could sympathise with the trouble the uniforms were having; even with a broken wrist – Stone was sure that his blow with the baton he was somehow still holding had smashed the bone – Ashford wasn’t giving up without a fight, and it took all four officers to keep him on the ground and get the handcuffs on him.
By the time he reached the group – if he was honest, Stone dawdled on his way there to avoid getting involved with the struggle – Ashford was cuffed and being hauled to his feet.
“Mr Ashford,” Stone said when he reached the man who continued to struggle against the restraining grip of the constables on either side of him, constables who looked very much like children trying to restrain an adult. “You’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit armed robbery, conspiracy to…” It took him a short while to list everything Ashford was being arrested for, and he was sure that he would end up being charged with more, once the CPS looked at the case.
50
Jim finished his fourth coffee before Owen Keating reappeared, accompanied once again by DS Burke and the two constables. Keating had been in the bank for longer than he had expected, prompting Jim to wonder what had happened in there; he quickly pushed aside both his curiosity and his concern and focused his attention on the briefcase in Keating’s hand.
There was nothing out of the ordinary about the briefcase, it was no different to the sort carried by thousands of businessmen and women every day around the country, if you discounted the metal chain securing it to Keating’s wrist. Despite the ordinariness of the case, Jim’s eyes bore into it, as if he could see through it to the money he knew was supposed to be inside – three point five million Euros in five hundred Euro notes, roughly three million pounds at the current rate of exchange.