6
A fine summer drizzle was falling. Danny zipped up his leather jacket and turned up the collar. He pulled the Foxcroft front door shut and walked towards the bus stop.
'Stand by. Stand by. That's a possible Bravo One foxtrot. He's gone left.'
The dark blue VW Golf was parked about sixty metres further down the street. It was two up, a man and a woman, both sitting back in their seats. They didn't look at each other. They hardly moved; just glanced down at the copy of Danny's RCB photograph resting on the driver's lap.
A single squeeze of the radio pressel on the gearstick activated the concealed microphone in the surveillance car.
'That's a definite Bravo One, brown leather on blue jeans, still foxtrot on the left, approaching the first junction left.'
The team was four-strong. They used first names only – that way there was no confusion when talking on their radio net. Mick sat in the driver's seat of the Golf, Fran was next to him. They were responsible for initiating the surveillance when the target moved. They were the trigger.
Further back down the main road, Jimmy, dressed in black leathers and clutching a helmet, was perched on the saddle of a black TDM motorbike. Parked nearby in a side street was Brian, at the wheel of a silver Nissan. Both listened to the second-by-second information coming into their radio earpieces. At any moment it could be their turn to take over the follow.
'Bravo One at the junction, still straight.'
Fran got out of the Golf, checked that her jacket hadn't ridden up and exposed her pistol and the two spare thirteen-round magazines attached to her jeans belt, and walked in the same direction as Danny. Mick went on the net.
That's Fran foxtrot. Mick still has Bravo One.'
Fran was fifty metres behind Danny as she hit the pressel sewn into the shoulder strap of her handbag to activate her personal covert radio. The mic sewn into the bag easily picked up her softly spoken words.
'Fran has Bravo One, halfway to the next junction left. He's not aware.'
Mick could see that, should Danny turn round and look back up the road, he was directly in his line of sight. It was time to shift. He started up the Golf, drove off and took the first turning right.
Danny reached the bus stop. Fran hit her pressel again.
'Stop. Stop. Stop. Bravo One static at the bus stop on the left.'
Fran kept walking, making sure she didn't catch Danny's eye. There was nothing unusual about the way she moved or looked. Everything was natural. Normal. Ordinary. The whole team were experts at being ordinary. It was all part of the training. Avoid causing suspicion. Make sure there's a reason for every action. Be third party aware.
On this job, 'third party' meant anyone but Danny. The last thing the team wanted was some do-gooder spotting that he was being watched or followed and then phoning the police. That would compromise the whole operation.
Fran still had her finger on the radio pressel as she neared the bus stop.
'I see bus number thirty-six, I've got to keep foxtrot, I'm gonna lose him.'
The team had to keep the target in sight at all times. Brian, in the Nissan, and Jimmy on the TDM were both about to move when Mick came onto the net.
'Mick's going for the trigger.'
Mick had taken the first right and two quick left turns. He was driving back towards the main street looking for a parking space with a sight line to the bus stop. He had to find a space quickly; Fran was too near to Danny to continue. She turned left at the side road close to the bus stop, spotted a shop and headed towards it.
'Fran no longer has Bravo One.'
Mick pulled on the handbrake and switched off the Golf's engine.
'Mick has the trigger, Mick has the trigger.'
He'd made it.
'Bravo One still static at the bus stop. Reading bus times . . . now checking his watch. That's hands in pockets, he looks unaware.'
While Mick had been racing to get into position, Brian had gone online with his Nokia and had found the information the team needed.
The thirty-six goes from Camberwell to Victoria, Marble Arch, Paddington and ending at Queen's Park. That's along—'
Mick cut in on the net.
'Stand by! Stand by! That's a thirty-six towards Bravo One. He's getting money ready. Last three on the plate romeo bravo alpha and the back of it has a dark green Nikon advert. Here we go.'
The bus pulled into the kerbside. The air pumps hissed and the doors opened.
'That's Bravo One cash in hand. Stepping on the bus, now unsighted in the bus. Wait . . . wait . . . that's doors closed and indicators on. Stand by. Stand by . . . that's the bus mobile.'
Jimmy, the TDM rider, cut in on the radio net by pressing a button that was part of the motorbike's light selection console.
'Jimmy has the bus, mobile towards the first set of lights.'
Jimmy had taken control of the surveillance. Brian, in the silver Nissan, was also on the move as Mick drove off to collect Fran. The operation was going smoothly: the target was correctly triggered away.
The bus was crowded but Danny managed to find a seat downstairs. He glanced around at the other passengers. Most were gazing zombie-like at the television monitor at the front as it relentlessly repeated adverts for W H Smith and Woolworths.
But Danny had other things on his mind. He reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out the old photograph of his grandfather with his two army friends. Elena had carefully joined the two halves together with clear sellotape so that the tear was barely visible.
Danny looked at the bright-eyed young man smiling back at him and saw for the first time that it was almost like staring into a mirror. Fergus would have been in his early twenties when the photograph was taken, not many years older than Danny was now.
They were so alike in looks, if nothing else. Fergus was a little taller than average, just like Danny. He looked strong, but wiry rather than muscular, just like Danny. His face was lean, his smile was wide and his eyes were clear and piercing, just like Danny's.
As Danny studied the black-and-white image, he wondered again what had turned the smiling, cheerful-looking young squaddie into the cynical veteran his grandfather had become. But he knew the answer. Money. Nothing more and nothing less. It made him burn with rage. He turned the photograph over. Scribbled in faded ink was: Watts 8654 – 2/6 to pay. He knew that 2/6 was how old money was written but had no idea what the other numbers meant.
The bus came to a sudden halt as, up ahead, a delivery van double-parked outside a parade of shops.
That's the bus held in traffic. Jimmy still has. Can't see Bravo One.'
Jimmy idled the TDM's powerful 850cc engine. He didn't like being in situations like this: motorbike riders don't usually hang around in traffic jams.
Fran was at the kerbside as the Golf drew up. There was no hurry as she got into the car, she did nothing to arouse the interest of any inquisitive passer-by. But the moment they were on the move she went onto the radio net.
That's Fran complete.'
Jimmy answered.
'Roger that. Jimmy still has bus, slow moving towards the lights. Can anyone at the next bus stop?'
The silver Nissan was just three vehicles behind the TDM.
'Brian can.'
'Roger that, Brian. Lights to red, we are going to be held.'
Mick was steering the Golf through quieter back-streets, following Fran's directions as she checked the route of the 36 bus in one of their map books.
This is Mick. We'll jump ahead on the bus route.'
The traffic lights changed and the bus pulled slowly away.
'Stand by, stand by. Lights to green. Can you now, Brian?'
'Brian can.'
Jimmy opened the bike's throttle and squeezed the bike through a gap between the lumbering double-decker and a van travelling in the other direction. On the lower deck, Danny heard the throaty growl of the TDM and glanced through the window as the bike roared by. He was into bikes in a big way and had promised himself one as soon as he joined the army. He shook his head; that was another plan his granddad had cocked up.
'Brian has the bus. That's indicators on.'
The bus came to a standstill and Brian pulled in behind a line of parked cars.
'Stop, stop, stop. Brian has the trigger. Doors open, people getting off. Wait . . .'
The rest of the team listened to hear if Danny was about to go foxtrot again.
'That's doors closed, no sign of Bravo One. Indicators on, that's the bus mobile.'
The bizarre game of vehicular leapfrog continued through the streets of south-east London and on towards the heart of the capital. As the bus neared Marble Arch, Danny got up from his seat and moved towards the doors.
The TDM passed the bus for the final time. Mick and Fran in the Golf had the trigger at the next bus stop.
'Stand by, stand by. That's Bravo One at the doors. He's at the doors ready to go foxtrot. Indicators on, bus slowing . . . Stop, stop, stop at Marble Arch. Fran's going foxtrot.'
Before Danny was even off the bus, Fran was on the pavement ready to take over the follow.
'Fran has Bravo One foxtrot on the Edgware Road, on the left towards the first junction left. He's checking a street map.'
Fran was briefly on her own while the others tried to shortcut their way towards Danny. It was a critical phase, but the pavement was busy with pedestrians, meaning Fran could continue for some time without fear of alerting any third party. Then she hit a problem.
'That's Bravo One approaching first junction left. That's Bravo One gone left. Temporarily unsighted.'
Fran quickened her pace, hurrying but not running: it was crucial to stay third party aware. But there was no need for her to worry. Just before she turned the corner, Jimmy came on the net.
'Jimmy has Bravo One. Foxtrot on Seymour Street. He's slowing – looks like he's searching for an address. Wait . . . wait . . .'
Fran turned into Seymour Street and saw the TDM parked towards the end. There was no sign of Jimmy, but Danny was standing outside a building with a glass canopy over the entrance doors.
'Wait . . . wait . . . Bravo One going into building now. Now unsighted.'
Fran cut in on the net.
'I'll do a walk past. Wait out.'
She walked slowly down the street, not stopping as she reached the building, just glancing up at the words written along the side of the canopy. They read: THE VICTORY CLUB.