‘10 seconds,’ he heard Johnson shout as he counted down, ‘9, 8, 7’.

John was back at the passenger door of the car, clutching the trainers and rolled up overalls before Johnson finished his count only to hear Johnson proclaim in a loud mocking voice,

‘Too late me old mucker, too fucking late’.

He saw the flash of the blade as Johnson stabbed Dave’s right thigh. He screamed in pain and jerked his head back. ‘Steady on officer’, said Johnson as he looked not at him, but at John. ‘Don’t yank your head about. This might go off without me wanting it to. Then where would we be eh?’

Dave’s shoulders slumped and he began to moan. The knife had cut into the soft tissue but had not connected with the bone or major artery and whilst the blood began to flow, it did not spurt out and John breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Now, just to show that I am not altogether without feeling, you can tie that cloth around his leg. We wouldn’t want poor old Dave here to lose too much blood would we?’ said Johnson, using the dripping knife to indicate the cloth on the dashboard that had been routinely used by the normal driver of the car to demist the inside of the windows on occasions.

He told John to twist in his seat and tie the cloth around Dave’s thigh. He knew there was too little room to allow him into the back seat and he could sense that, for all his experience as a negotiator and his usual calm demeanour, he might just have a go at being a hero. He had plans for John, but not just yet. He needed him to get them away from this location to somewhere that he could feel safer. Johnson thought to himself that he still had an opportunity to walk away from this situation, provided he maintained control.

John finished tying the bandage, not too tight that it would cut off the blood supply to his leg, but tight enough to ensure that he could adequately stem the blood oozing from Dave’s thigh.

‘Right.’ said Johnson, ‘now that you’ve done your Florence Nightingale bit, strip off.’

‘What are you talking’, he never finished his question before Johnson screamed at him in such a loud, aggressive voice that even the officers in the command post jumped in shock.

‘Don’t you fucking question me, get out of the car, stand where I can see you and take everything off. The fucking lot, understand? And when you’ve done that, put the overalls and trainers on.’

He was convinced that John would have a transmitter or listening device somewhere in his shoes or clothing and this was his way of further strengthening his position, intimidating John, and showing to his listening audience that he could still think clearly. He watched very carefully that john did not retain anything as he saw him put on the overalls and the trainers which, whilst a size too small, would not restrict him from driving the car.

‘Now, get fuckin your arse into the drivers seat, we’re going for a little drive. Just remember Mr Walsh that you’re sitting in front of me.’

‘Mr Walsh,’ thought John. He didn’t particularly like that sound coming from his kidnapper’s mouth. John was now not a negotiator any more, but another hostage and he became increasingly aware that any influence he hoped to bring to bear on this situation had disappeared in the last hour or so. He was as much a victim as Dave and time was not on their side. John started the engine, the headlights cutting through the gloom of the rapidly darkening day. He slowly turned the car around to face the service road that led back towards the Motorway. He could see the police barricades and vehicles being moved out of position to allow him to leave the industrial estate.

‘Where are we going then?’ He could feel Johnson’s breath on the back of his neck as his captor leaned forward and it made him shiver.

‘Just drive the fucking car,’ he said menacingly. ‘I’ll tell you when to go left or right.’

He glanced in the mirror at Dave slumped in the back seat. His face was grey and his eyes were closed. With the earlier wounds to his head, shoulder and hand and this latest wound to his leg, he was slowly but surely bleeding to death. He drove forward through the avenue of police vehicles. Shit, said John to himself, this is not going to plan; this is not going to plan at all, and his shoulders sagged as he headed toward the Motorway.

Chapter 14

‘Take the next left,’ growled the voice from behind.

‘What, back on the Motorway?’

‘Just do it. That’ll do for the time being. I need time to think.’

Johnson, pretty confident that his driver didn’t have any bugs or listening devices on his body; the overalls and trainers saw to that, was also absolutely sure that there would be plenty of them in the car. He didn’t have much choice when getting away from the industrial park. He had to take whatever car they gave him. They were bound to have fitted them somewhere. He had to get shut of this motor as soon as possible. He needed to give himself time to think. He had no problem with killing both his captives; in fact, he was rather looking forward to it. He’d had the shit kicked out of him plenty of times over the years by the screws and coppers and, even though it hadn’t been in his mind earlier that morning to take any body hostage, other than the lorry driver, this was now quite a bonus.

There was no way he was going back to the nick. He was already out on licence and with his form and today’s episode going tits up, he knew that the next sentence would be his last. ‘Hanging’ Judge Wilson had as much told him so when he gave him fifteen years. If he was caught this time, he would die in prison, plain and simple.

Well, he pondered, if I’m going to die in prison anyway, might as well make it worthwhile and see these two fuckers off. Besides, he thought, if this bastard hadn’t been so nosey this morning and just taken the pass from the fucking driver, I would’ve been sunning meself  in Spain in a few weeks time. Sunbeds and beer for the rest of me fuckin natural. He looked at the figure alongside him; and as he realised his plans would never become reality, he banged his fist hard on Dave’s thigh at the point where he had knifed him earlier causing him to cry out with pain.

John instinctively hit the brake pedal with his right foot when he heard the shout from his injured colleague.

‘Just keep fucking moving,’ came the voice from behind; ‘He’s not dying, not yet anyway.’

Johnson’s thoughts drifted back over the last few hours.

If they didn’t know before, and chances are that they would have no idea, the cops would know by now as they’d have been all over the wagon in the last half hour or so. As soon as they’d driven away from the industrial estate, the back of the container would’ve been opened. The precious cargo in the container he had left behind consisted of 24 million pounds in Bank of England notes that were on their way for incineration as they had been taken out of circulation. Even though they were destined to burn, they were still legal tender. The Bank of England sometimes transported huge amounts of cash by ordinary carriers, partly as a means of moving the money quietly, without drawing attention to the cash being taken out of the system, and partly to save money on the transportation costs.

When large amounts of notes were carried by a recognised carrier, there was a massive operation involved as the goods were easily recognised because of the Bank of England logos and the distinctive livery of the wagons. The Bank would never be able to maintain credibility if one of its vehicles was attacked by armed robbers and the load stolen. It was always necessary to have armed escorts accompanying the transfer from start to finish. It cost a small fortune in itself to keep it safe and even the Bank of England were constantly looking for ways to save money.

Johnson and his brother had no idea, not many people did; they couldn’t believe that huge amounts of untraceable cash could be moved in such an insecure way. They had happened upon the information by chance during a drunken conversation with a lorry driver on the Dock Road several months earlier.