‘Why? Where are you going?’
‘Nowhere,’ said Gene, fishing out a folded copy of the Mirror and flicking it open. ‘I want to catch up on me paperwork.’
He disappeared into the sports pages. Sam shook his head – then his eye was caught by the front page of Gene’s paper.
TUC CALLS FOR MASS STRIKE ACTION IN PROTEST AGAINST PRICE RISES AND PAY RESTRAINTS – OVER 1.5 MILLION WORKERS CALLED OUT
MASSIVE DISRUPTION TO RAIL SERVICES DUE TO INDUSTRIAL ACTION – ASLEF CALLS FOR DRIVERS AND STATION STAFF NOT TO CROSS PICKET LINES
Protests, mass unrests, trains up the spout. Some things don’t ever change, thought Sam. He continued to skim-read:
CAR PLANTS, COAL MINES, AND SHIPPING YARDS BROUGHT TO A HALT
FIRE BRIGADE UNIONS THREATEN MASS INDUSTRIAL ACTION
ARMY ON STANDBY TO MAN FIRE STATIONS
COUNTRY ON THE BRINK OF CHAOS
I vaguely remember all this, he thought: the strikes, the power cuts. I was only four years old – it all seemed like a world away from me back then. I never realized just how bad things got.
HEATH ADMINISTRATION IN CRISIS TALKS WITH UNIONS
JACK JONES, LEADER OF THE TRANSPORT AND GENERAL WORKERS’ UNION, WARNS THAT GOVERNMENT WOULD BE ‘FOOLISH TO IGNORE NOT ONLY THOSE PROTESTING TODAY BUT THOSE MILLIONS WHO ARE FED UP WITH THE CONTINUING PRICE RISES’
‘Stop reading my bloody paper,’ Gene growled from behind his Mirror.
Sam obediently fixed his attention on the Deerys’ house. Moments later, he saw the front door open.
‘Eh up, Guv, we’ve got movement.’
A young couple were emerging from the door of Number 14. Michael Deery was a nondescript-looking man – dark-haired, clean-shaven, dressed in a checked, wing-collared shirt and corduroys; his wife Cait had hair like a young Cher – very dark and straight – and wore a beige corduroy pinafore dress that made Sam think of Play School presenters.
‘They look so ordinary,’ said Sam. ‘Hard to believe they’re gunrunners for the IRA.’
‘What were you expecting? T-shirts with “Bugger the British” printed across ’em?’
Together, the Deerys hauled a heavily taped-up package from the house and stowed it in the boot of the Cresta.
‘What do you reckon that is, Guv?’
‘It’s not meals on wheels, Sammy-boy, I’ll put money on that,’ muttered Gene.
The Deerys glanced about, got into their car, and reversed out into the road. Gene chucked his paper into the back seat and started the Cortina.
‘Don’t make it obvious we’re tailing them,’ said Sam. ‘Keep it low-key.’
‘Is that the way it’s done, is it? Oh, thank you for informing me, Samuel, I was just about to put the blue light on and start beeping me horn.’
‘I just meant-’
‘I know what you meant, Doxon of Dick Green. Now zip your cakehole and let me drive.’
They followed the Deerys out of Dowell Road and soon found themselves heading west. Gene trailed them from a distance, at times allowing cars to get between the Cresta and the Cortina, but he never lost sight of them. Once, he jumped a red light to ensure that he didn’t lag behind, and, when a man in a sporty MG blared his horn and yelled at him to watch where he was bloody going, Gene replied with a one-handed gesture.
‘We’re heading out of town,’ said Sam.
‘Open country – moorland – somewhere deserted away from prying eyes,’ growled Gene. ‘It’s a handover, Sammy, you mark my words.’
‘But not necessarily a handover with the IRA.’
‘You just won’t drop it, will you, Tyler?’
‘As a police officer, I’m obliged to inform my superior officer of my feelings about a given case,’ said Sam.
Gene shot him a sideways glance. ‘You can’t half be an uptight little twonk, Samuel.’
They were leaving the grey suburbs of the city and approaching a desolate, flat landscape of drab grass and wind-flattened trees.
‘There are fewer cars on the road,’ warned Sam. ‘If we’re going to be spotted it’ll be out here. Ease off, Gene.’
‘And risk losing them? No way.’
‘We’ll lose them anyway if they realize we’re following them.’
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