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PARA!) SE
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1 S ?
High flying transport manager Graham Blackwell had the world of road transport at his feet, yet he couldn't resist dipping his hand in the
„G ot a light for a Benson, mate?' Those were the first words Thomson had ever said to him and they had become
something of a greeting ever since. He'd not smoked for 20 years or more, yet for some reason always carried a lighter— a Zippo with a truck on it, a gift from one of his brothers for his 21st birthday — and he'd instinctively lit Thomson's cigarette.The big fella had taken a draw on his smoke and he'd found himself dragged into his world. He woke with a start, and like last night and every night he could remember since things had come to a head, his sleep had been troublec He slopped barefoot across the room, pulled back the curtains and sucked in the air. That lovely all-embracing, low-humidity Mediterranean air: the faint whiff of olive groves, the dust, and, of course, the heat He caught a waft of warm bread from the little café at the end of the street; he should be hungry, but his otherwise healthy appetite had deserted him. He took a swig from the water bottle, plenty of time for the stronger stuff later. It was a little after eight in the morning, yet there was already a searing heat in the air; today was shaping up to be another scorcher.
It was now four weeks since he'd made his hasty exit. Packed his bags in the dead of night and boarded the plane to Athens.Twenty-four hours later he'd strolled off the ferry at Santorini to a life of peace and luxury, the contents of his bank account transferred to the local branch of the National Greek Bank. By local standards he was a very wealthy man.
By now they would have found the trail of destruction he'd left behind; all the scams, the dodgy deals, the embezzlement.Thomson would have gone ballistic when he found out. He could picture his bright red face screaming it anyone within range, the spray of spit as his anger grew and the sweat as it started to trickle down in front of his ears. Within seconds he'd DC a soaking mess of red face and screaming Christ, he'd experienced that anger a few :imes, more times than he cared to remember, nore times than he could hear.
That anger was one of the reasons he'd ;tailed dipping his hand in the till. He couldn't ear the venomous rage Thomson unleashed m those around him when anything went Nrong.The bloke was an arsehole and got uhat was coming to him, he'd get over it. 3esides, 2.500 miles away in this apartment in iantorini he was safe.
But the gut-knotting fear which was never 'ar away, warned him otherwise.
Promising career
vVhat had he done? Graham Blackwell, naster criminal. Bloody hell, they'd never lave thought that at Preston Grammar School or Boys when he was flying through his Aevels on his way to University and a promising ;areer in logistics.
He shook his head, put the worries to the iack of his mind, took a big gulp of the warm. :lean, fresh air and dressed for the day.A walk in the beach this morning, perhaps a spot of ight lunch and the pool this afternoon. knottier day in paradise.
It was eight years since he'd first met itlalcolm Thomson, boss of A2B International. -le'd been sat in the boozer, around the corner rom Thomson's yard in Preston, downing his isual few medicinal pints before heading ionic. He'd been working for one ofThomon's main competitors, enjoying his job. OK, the pay wasn't fantastic, but they looked after him and recognised his value. He could get home at a decent hour and they gave him time off for the kids sports day and the usual family stuff. He knew the transport job inside out, kept the fleet fully utilised, had a big book of contacts and the firm was making money.
Why the hell then had he been lured into Thomson's lair? It was a question he'd asked himself a number of times over the past eight years: when he'd got home that night and found Mary had taken the kids and moved out; the time he'd nearly been rumbled for selling diesel to the gyppos; every time he'd been showered with spittle from one of Thomson's rage attacks,and now each morning as he made his way through the narrow whitewashed alleys of the Greek island's main town.
In this heat you didn't need much in the way of clothing. He threw on the same shirt and shorts he'd been wearing for a few days, slipped into his sandals and made his way out onto the street. Despite the sickening knot in his guts he felt safe here on the streets of the Greek town and his mood lifted. He picked up the Daily Mail from the little shop in the town square, handed over a few Euros, folded it under his arm,and walked on.The paper was the only link he allowed himself with the world he'd left behind.
Flattery, he supposed, his mind wandering back to his past.Thomson had tracked him down, found where he did his drinking and dazzled him with promises. More money, a better car and the offer of a slice of the action when A2B opened up its planned European division." We're going places mate."Thomson had said,"and I need some heavy hitters around me to take this firm on into Europe. We're going to he big and I want you and your expertise on board." On the face of it,Thomson's business was a good one. It ran a smart fleet of brand new Volvos, had some decent contracts and, from the outside, seemed to treat the staff well. He'd lost a number of drivers over the past few years to A2B and, if you took any notice of the pub talk, most of them reckoned to be doing well from the move.
No doubt there were a few skeletons in the cupboard, but like many in the business Thomson had reinvented himself 10 years or so ago.The old 1980s transport culture of drivers running all hours and carrying out maintenance only when things broke had been replaced by a squeaky clean set-up of tacho analysis and contract maintenance by the local dealer.VOSA left them well alone and Thomson turned a decent profit.
'things were looking good when he first joined. Boozy nights in the Brown Bar in Antwerp city centre as acquisition talks with a Belgian outfit made progress, new contract wins and a big pay cheque at the end of each month. Happy days, but then in the late-90s the foreigners came flooding in and the international traffic disappeared ovemight.The expansion plans went up in smoke and with them his dreams.
Massive cut
Thomson hadn't been bothered. He just retrenched and subbed out the international work to the foreign operators, taking a massive cut for himself. "No point me sending the motors over there if Johnny Foreigner will take it for buttons, mate," was his position.
From then on he had found himself surplus to requirements and, as well as getting more and more work dumped on him, he began to see the other side of Thomson's character.The darling of the Rotary Club, Mr Charity himself, his mugshot always in the local paper donating this or that to some good cause or other.
This from the man who was not averse to sending in the heavies to settle debts or ensure his business maintained the competitive edge. A dangerous man,-someone not to be crossed," one of the heavies had told him, when there was an initial suspicion he might have been up to no good.
And yet cross Thomson he had— and in glorious fashion. It had kicked off small scale. The odd tank of diesel for his car, a few boxes of ice cream out the back of the reefers when everyone had gone home. He blamed the drivers or the poor fuel efficiency of the trucks if ever any questions were asked.
Things had just escalated from there. Flogging diesel to the local gypsy camp had been a good earner... until he'd nearly got rumbled.He'dcrapped himself when Thomson, unknown to him, hired a firm to audit the fuel efficiency of the trucks.That had called for some swift thinking.
In the event he'd got in touch with his mate at the fuel firm who came out and claimed there was a leak from the underground fuel tank.Thomson, knowing he shouldn't have been storing diesel underground and fearing a visit from the Department for the Environment, spent a fortune relocating the fuel tank to an above ground bunded affair. Further cooking of the books had ensured a decent slice was earned from that number, too.
After that he'd steered clear of diesel and turned his attention to the foreign subcontractors who'd been only too delighted to engage in a little extra hours activity.Through some yen., careful planning, and thanks to Thomson's lack of interest in all things operational—he was far too busy courting the publicity of the local rag — he had been able to develop a neat little system where the subbies, who were paid on a pence per mile basis, over claimed on their distance.Thomson had no idea how far it was from Manchester to Vienna and, as the person responsible for signing off the invoices, he had been able to keep everything under control. splitting the treasure 50:50 with his foreign chums.
Furthermore, after looking a bit closer at the operation he'd stumbled across another personal earner. By consolidating some of the loads customers were treating as single consignments he'd been able to add an extra dimension to his operations. Ordinarily, the benefits of such a practice would have been passed to A2B, but by now his loyalty was to one person only. On this one he was able to scam the subbies — bloody foreigners — as well as Thomson.Through some clever invoice manipulation and a "close" relationship with the old bird in accounts (hey, nobody got harmed) he'd been able to act as a middleman between whatThomson thought he was paying the subbies and what they were actually getting.
Other opportunities had presented themselves, but he'd steered clear of robbery, drugs or stolen trucks.That was a different league. His mission was to robThomson for the way Thornson's empty promises had ruined his life, robbed him of his dreams and left him an empty, bitter man.
He didn't bother with the beach. Instead, hi made for the top of the town overlooking the moonscape black of the volcanic islands and gazed out to sea. He'd loved the Greek island: particularly the Cyclades, ever since he and Mary had spent a summer island-hopping as students, living out of rucksacks and surviving on a diet of beer and cheap Greek fags.That summer things had been about as near perfec as he could ever have imagined, yet here he was, the first time he'd returned and he was thoroughly miserable, scared and lonely.
Searing heat He let the morning pass.Watched the tourists make their way up and down the steep, twisting lanes to the small boats which would take them out to the volcanic islands. Looked on as the donkeys struggled to carry oversized tourists up and down the murderously harsh gradients in the searing heat.
After a couple of hours he finally gave in to the hunger niggling at him to go and eat. He wandered back through the whitewashed streets of the town,into the taverna and made for his usual seat.SteLios the owner, gave him tl nod, and brought over his ouzo with a drop of water, his favoured tipple. He opened the pape two days old, but better than nothing, kept him in touch with what was going on back home. And then he heard it.,, the little dry cough, early signs of cancer they reckoned... the shuffling walk.. .the han on the shoulder...the words he'd been dreading..
"Got a light ft a Benson, mate?"