mild, clear day, and so, as he followed the gentle bend, he had no
difficulty in seeing the large car transporter, piled high with battered
and crushed vehicles, reversing with difficulty into the scrap yard
gate.
At first it looked as though the truck would be out of the way by the
time the convoy reached it.
But the driver obviously did not have the angle of approach quite right,
for he pulled forward again, completely blocking the road.
The two motorcycles in front braked to a halt, and Ron drew the van up
behind them. One cyclist heaved his machine onto its stand and jumped up
on the foot plate of the cab to shout at the driver The truck’s engine
was revving noisily, and black smoke poured from its exhaust in clouds.
“Report an unscheduled stop,” Ron said. “Let’s work the routine like the
book says.”
Max picked up the radio microphone. “Mobile to Obadiah Control.”
Ron was looking at the truck. It carried an odd assortment of vehicles.
There was an elderly green van with
“Coopers Family Butcher”
painted on the side; a crumpled Ford Anglia with no wheels; two
Volkswagen Beetles piled one on top of the other; and, on the upper
rack, a large white Australian Ford with a coach line and a new-looking
Triumph. The whole thing looked a bit unsteady, especially the two
Beetles in a rusty embrace, like a pair of copulating insects. Ron
looked back at the cab: the motorcyclist was making signs at the driver
to get out of the convoy’s way.
Max repeated: “Mobile to Obadiah Control.
Come in, please.” We must be quite low, Ron thought, this close to the
river. Maybe reception is bad. He looked again at the cars on the
transporter, and realized that they were not roped down. That really was
dangerous. How far had the transporter traveled with its load of
unsecured scrap?
Suddenly }he understood. “Give the Mayday!” he yelled.
Max stared at him. “What?”
Something hit the roof of the van with a clang.
The truck driver jumped out of his cab onto the motorcyclist. Several
men in stocking masks swarmed over the scrap yard wall. Ron glanced in
his wing mirror and saw the two motorcyclists behind the van being
knocked from their machines.
The van lurched and then, incomprehensibly, seemed to rise in the air.
Ron looked to his right and saw the arm of a crane reaching over the
wall to his roof. He snatched the microphone from a bemused Max as one
of the masked men ran toward the van. The man lobbed something small and
black, like a cricket ball, at the windshield.
The next second passed slowly, in a series of pictures, like a film seen
frame by frozen frame: a crash helmet flying through the air; a wooden
club landing on someone’s head; Max grabbing the gear stick as the van
tilted; Ron’s own thumb pressing the talk button on the microphone as he
said “Obadiah Mayd–“; the small bomb that looked like a cricket ball
hitting the windshield and exploding, sending toughened glass fragments
into the air in a shower; and then the physical blow as the shock wave
hit and the quiet darkness of unconsciousness.
Sergeant Wilkinson heard the call sign “Obadiah” from the currency
shipment, but he ignored it. It had been a busy morning, with three
major traffic holdups, a cross-London chase after a hit-and-run driver,
two serious accidents, a warehouse fire, and an impromptu demonstration
in Downing Street by a group of anarchists. When the call came in he was
taking a cup of instant coffee and a ham roll from a young West Indian
girl and saying: “What does your husband think about you coming to work
with no bra?”
The girl, who had a large bust, said: “He doesn’t notice,” and giggled.
Constable Jones, on the other side of the console, said: “There you are,
Dave, take the hint.” Wilkinson said: “What are you doing tonight?”
She laughed, knowing he was not serious.
“Working,” she said.
The radio said: “Mobile to Obadiah Control.
Come in, please.” Wilkinson said: “Another job? What?”
“I’m a go-go dancer in a pub.”