disappear into the background and watch and wait.
Exactly the same game Brady was playing.
‘Are you following them?’ questioned Brady, frowning.
‘What do you think?’ answered Harvey flatly.
‘Where are you now?’ fired Brady.
‘Joining the coast road.’
‘Heading in which direction?’
‘Let’s see … yeah, not Newcastle. We’ve just joined the slip road towards the coast.’
‘Don’t lose them! Understand?’
‘Yes, boss,’ answered Harvey.
‘Keep me updated. And call Daniels and Kenny. I want them on standby in case you need their backup.’ Brady thought for a second. ‘And notify Conrad,’ he added.
He knew out of the lot of them, Conrad was the one he could trust.
Brady disconnected the call.
He looked over at the Grand Hotel. Suddenly there was activity.
Out of nowhere the eight ex-militia men reappeared.
Brady watched as Mayor Macmillan walked down the wide sandstone steps of the hotel with the Ambassador. Behind, the Ambassador’s driver followed. The eight ex-militia flanked the two men on both sides, scanning in all directions.
Brady wasn’t sure what was being discussed between the two men, but the Ambassador looked distracted. In a hurry to get away. As did his men.
Brady watched as the Ambassador shot a look at his driver who stood directly behind discreetly talking into a hidden microphone.
The driver paused talking and waited for what seemed to be instruction.
Brady noted that whatever was unfolding in front of him hadn’t gone unnoticed by Macmillan.
Brady was intrigued. Mayor Macmillan was calm, collected. Too collected, he thought.
The Ambassador distractedly shook Mayor Macmillan’s hand.
On a nod from the driver, Brady watched as the team of eight men walked down the steps of the Grand to flank the Ambassador’s car. The driver walked alongside the Ambassador as he headed towards the limo. He opened the rear door and waited for the Ambassador to climb in.
Brady was certain that the driver looked tense. On edge. Even though he looked as if he was patiently holding the door open, Brady could see that he was alert. Discreetly scanning the unfolding scene for signs of trouble.
Brady started the Granada into action. Ready to follow.
Before the Ambassador climbed into the limousine he did something that struck Brady as odd. He firmly placed his hand on the driver’s shoulder and spoke quietly.
Brady watched, as Macmillan watched.
The driver nodded, his face terse. His jaw locked, his eyes burning with a murderous coldness.
He respectfully, albeit with some restraint, closed the door. He then walked to the driver’s side, opened the door, looked briefly at his men. He barely moved his head but it was enough for them to return to their cars.
Brady watched as the limousine pulled out in the direction of Whitley Bay, leaving the two Mercedes behind.
He waited a couple of seconds for the two black Mercedes to follow. They didn’t. He had no choice but to kick the Granada into action, otherwise he would lose the Ambassador. He swerved out, performing a 180-degree turn and headed in the same direction as the limousine.
Suddenly one of the Mercedes swung out, blocking his path.
‘Fucking bastard!’ shouted Brady as he braked hard.
He looked in the rear mirror to see what the other Mercedes was up to. As expected, it had strategically positioned himself behind Brady.
‘Fuck you!’ muttered Brady as he ground the gears furiously, throwing the car into reverse.
Foot to the floor he sped backwards, steering the car around the Mercedes.
He swung the car into the back lane further down from the Grand Hotel and reversed hard, avoiding the parked cars dotted on either side. He gunned the engine on the last stretch, hoping that there was no oncoming traffic on the quiet suburban road that the back lane fed onto. There wasn’t. He turned hard right and slammed into first, and headed back down towards the coast, leaving behind the Grand to his right at some speed.
He looked to the right and saw one of the Mercedes lurch forward as the driver spotted him. In his rear view mirror he clocked the second Mercedes reversing out of the back lane behind him.
Turning left he put his foot down.
‘
Tyres screeching, he accelerated in an attempt to keep the limousine in sight.
Brady sped over the zebra crossing and past Tynemouth boating lake, keeping his eyes straight ahead. He could see the limousine passing St George’s church as it snaked its way along the coast.
His phone buzzed. He picked it up, one hand on the wheel.
It was Conrad.
‘Conrad?’ distractedly answered Brady as he kept his eyes on the road.
He briefly looked down at his speed.
Sixty mph.
The limousine was disappearing from view.
‘Fuck!’ he muttered in frustration.
‘Sir,’ answered Conrad. ‘I’ve got some news.’
‘Go on,’ ordered Brady.
‘Simone Henderson … she’s regained consciousness.’
Brady put his foot to the floor. His speed climbed dangerously as he tried to catch sight of the limousine.
In his rear view mirror he could see he was being tailed. Both Mercedes were driving hard to catch him.
‘She managed to give us something … wrote it down.’
‘Just fucking tell me!’ shouted Brady as he swung the car round the bend in the road.
‘Her handwriting’s shaky but there’s no mistaking who she’s saying did this to her.’
Brady felt his stomach knot. He clenched the wheel. He couldn’t get rid of the image of Nick carrying Simone Henderson’s brutally mutilated, unconscious body, wrapped in a black bin liner into the toilets.
‘Macmillan. Ronnie Macmillan.’
Brady aggressively pushed his foot to the floor, ignoring the speedometer.
‘Fucking bastard!’ hissed Brady.
‘Adamson knows, sir. He’s on this now,’ informed Conrad. ‘He’s put out an all-unit alert on Macmillan.’
‘Fuck him. Does he know that Harvey and Kodovesky are tailing Ronnie Macmillan?’ demanded Brady.
‘No … not yet. That’s why I’m ringing you, sir,’ answered Conrad. ‘I do know they’ve got a warrant out for his arrest and that Adamson’s on his way to Macmillan’s club to get him. But obviously, he’s not there.’
‘Get in your car and help me before that snivelling bastard takes over. I need you to intercept those bloody bastards who are trying to stop me following their boss.’
‘What’s going on, sir?’
‘I’ve got two fucking black Mercedes filled with eight ex-militia types determined to stop me following a Russian limousine that I reckon is going to take me somewhere interesting.’
‘Where are you heading?’
‘Along the coast, past Cullercoats heading towards Whitley Bay. After that, who knows!’
‘Right, sir. On my way now,’ quickly answered Conrad.
‘And not a word to Adamson or Gates. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad said. He was already running for his car.
