long as there's a chance that the video of Patterson helped things along, I would be surprised if there wasn't a repeat. I'm guessing, of course.' he added quickly, before greeting the landlady of the Cross Keys with a smile,
'Hi Vera, you're looking particularly gorgeous tonight!
Vera Anderson was almost as wide as she was tall, and unlikely to win any beauty contests in the foreseeable future, but she gave a delighted laugh before playfully flicking Chalky with the cloth she carried on her shoulder.
'Douglas,' she called to her husband behind the bar, 'Don't give Chalky any more drink, he's obviously had too much already!'
'Get away with you, Vera, you know you're the best looking woman in the place.' insisted Chalky, a complement somewhat diminished by the absence of any female competition in the bar at that moment in time, however Vera had other matters on her mind.
'We're having a quiz in a couple of weeks time, the Keys against the Barge Inn, can I put your names down for the team?'
'Not mine, you can't!' spluttered Jim into his beer, 'The football team's my thinkology limit.'
Allan laughed, 'Me too! I reckon Chalky is your man for that job, though, he's a smart-arse!' Before he could protest, Vera had Chalky's name added to her list.
'I've roped in Rob and Elsie Histon, plus Chalky here, but if no-one else volunteers, I'll be back to see you boys,'She said, wagging a finger at Allan and Jim, 'So don't think you're off the hook yet!' And with that, she swept off.
Chapter 9
Stevie Henderson was mentally calculating how long it would take him to reach home. As a long haul truck driver on trans European routes, he was used to being away for weeks at a time, but still found himself counting down the minutes as he neared the end of a trip, especially when, like this one, he had been all the way to Turkey.
Half an hour and he would be in the ferry terminal at Calais, with plenty of time to catch the seven a.m. ferry to Dover, a bit of a snooze during the crossing, and assuming an easy passage through customs, he would be looking for a break somewhere off the M25. Frustratingly, he should already have been home by now, as he had been on schedule to catch a ferry the previous evening. Instead he had been directed to Audruicq, a little market town whose name he couldn't even pronounce. He had been given instructions on where to leave his trailer, and then he had to make himself scarce for the rest of the night. Have a meal, a drink or two, chase some french women, even go for a stroll along the canal, do what he pleased, just as long as he didn't return to pick up the trailer before five a.m. He tried not to think about what might have been added to his load.
His planning was interrupted by an unexpected call to his mobile, with new instructions he could scarcely comprehend. This, he thought, was really going to screw up his day, his plans for a nice easy jaunt home now completely out of the window. Instead there would be French police to deal with, customs and insurance people probably sniffing around and a very good chance of landing in deep shit. Every fibre of his being was telling him to refuse, but he daren't argue with these people, instead he had meekly submitted. Yes, he knew the lay-by they were talking about, he would be there in twenty minutes. Yes he would wait to be contacted. And no he wouldn't mention this to anybody. He barely waited for the connection to be cut before he started cursing to himself, a string of profanity that continued unabated as he searched for a spot to swing the big Scania around and head for his new rendezvous.
Ann Morrison didn't even make it to her office before Ian Hopkins stopped her to pass on the news.
'There's been another one!'
'Another......?'
'Another vigilante attack. On Darren Hill, no less.'
'You're kidding! Is it on video, same as the last one?'
'It sure is, it was originally posted on Darren's MyPals page, but although it has been removed from there, you can see it all over the net. I don't think the Hills will be very pleased about this one!'
'When did it appear?'
'Must have been the early hours of this morning, Brian was monitoring these social networking sites over the weekend and didn't spot anything.'
'All right, lets have a look at the Darren Hill show.
The video opened with a shot of Hill in what appeared to be a garage or workshop. His hands were tied behind his back, and a rope attached to his ankles had been passed over a metal roof beam, and used to pull him up until he was left suspended upside down about two metres off the ground, the end of the rope then being secured to a workbench. Unlike Patterson, who after an initial struggle had been relatively frightened and subdued, Hill was kicking and writhing, screaming abuse and defiance at his captors.
'My god, he's practically feral!' thought Ann to herself, while noting that his captors seemed content to wait for him to tire himself out or run out of breath.
'They obviously don't care about the noise he's making,' she said to Ian, 'Must be a location they don't have to worry about people hearing them.'
Eventually Hill calmed down a little and his captors started to ask him questions. Again it was the members of the gang dressed as The Queen and Margaret Thatcher who spoke, still talking in character. Every question, however, was answered with a torrent of abuse. They were asking him about drugs mostly, who he supplied, who supplied him and his family, when was the next shipment due. They also asked who the Hills had working for them on the police force, and on the council, and he was asked about what help and information they received from politicians, especially James Wellington, a personal friend of Darren's father, Sammy Hill. Invariably the questions would spark a fresh stream of obscenities concerning what he thought of his captors, and what he would do to them when he got free.
'Bit of a toilet mouth, young Darren.' commented Ann.
'That's putting it mildly, laughed Ian, I think I've learned a few new words myself this morning!'
'He doesn't look as if he's going to talk,' said Ann. 'He must think they're going to wimp out, just frighten him the way they did with Patterson.'
'Keep watching,' advised Ian.
Mrs Thatcher casually stepped across to where the end of the rope was tied to the workbench, pulled out a knife, and started to gently saw at the rope. Hill was watching, realising that if the rope was cut through he would plummet head first onto the concrete floor.
'You wouldn't dare, you bunch of pricks, you wouldn't bloody dare,' he roared.'
The Queen spoke, sounding quite cheerful,
'Aren’t you worried, young man, that a drop from that height might break your neck,not to mention ruin your looks, such as they are?'
'I'm telling you fuck all, I know you're too chicken shit to do it, You know you're all fucking dead men!'
Mrs Thatcher had stopped slicing at the rope, and looked at The Queen who shrugged and said,
'Doesn't look like it's going to work, Margaret, we seem to be wasting our time.'
