8
Most days, business was over at Frankie's burger bar by mid afternoon. The white vans were heading back to their depots and the last of the reps had called in for a mug of tea and a chat. Turning off the hot water, cleaning the griddles, washing up and locking up didn't take very long.
Frankie could drive home in less than twenty minutes. But Frankie never went straight home. His anti-surveillance drill meant a long and complicated journey.
He unlocked the driver's door of his dark blue Fiesta, took a last look in both directions, climbed into the car and started the engine. The car was old and boring but in good nick, and that was just how Frankie wanted it. He never took unnecessary risks or drew attention to himself. Being stopped by the police for a routine check was taking an unnecessary risk, so the tyres on the Fiesta were legal, the lights worked, the tax disc was on display and the MOT was up to date.
On the drive towards Rochford, Frankie stuck to the speed limits, regularly checking his mirrors and taking a mental note of the make and colour of the vehicles following. Three miles from the town he pulled into a lay-by and pretended to look for something in the foot well. With no junctions for a quick turn-off, the following vehicles were committed to passing. Frankie clocked them all as they went by.
Back on the road he drove twice around the roundabout just outside the town, looking at the road signs as if he were confused. The roundabout was an obvious changeover place for a surveillance team, the ideal spot for one vehicle to peel off so that another could take over the follow. The double turn around the roundabout gave Frankie another chance to check on following vehicles.
He drove into a new residential area of flats and houses behind the town centre. The network of quiet streets gave him a wide choice of overnight parking places. He chose a different one every evening. He parked up, got out of the car and walked quickly across the road and through an alleyway towards the shops.
Frankie knew the surveillance game only too well. The most difficult time for a team is going foxtrot, so the quicker he got out of sight the harder it was to get the trigger on him. He moved as swiftly as he could but remained third party aware, never looking back to see what was happening behind.
Hiding his limp completely was impossible, and the faster he walked the more apparent it became. He'd been stuck with it ever since the bodged operation in Colombia. It was with him for life and a real bonus for any watching surveillance team. A VDM that helped pick out Frankie in a crowd.
He went into a shop and bought an evening newspaper. Standing in the queue to pay, he glanced out through the windows, looking for even the smallest sign that he was being followed. Signs like someone hovering for a moment too long by the doorway or apparently talking to themselves when walking by – a basic error. Surveillance operators are trained in not moving their lips when talking on the radio net.
Frankie saw nothing suspicious, but that didn't necessarily mean he wasn't being followed. It could mean that the team was good.
He left the shop and crossed the small town square. He went through another alleyway into a small car park, pulling from his jacket a green nylon waterproof and a rolled-up flat cap. His ancient, three-gear bicycle was locked to a railing. He quickly unlocked the bike, put on the waterproof and flat cap and cycled away.
It was a long ride home, but Frankie was used to it.
The bustling modern commuter towns of east Essex gradually give way to a flat, marshy landscape, where ancient villages like Canewdon, Paglesham and Creeksea could still almost be a million miles from the twenty-first century.
The cottage was in remote farmland, off a quiet B-road and down a long muddy track. Around it were small patches of woodland and further out were the marshes and then the river Crouch.
Frankie reached the track and stopped to check that no vehicles had made any ground sign in the mud. It was clean of tyre marks.
He walked down the track, pushing the bike by the saddle. Halfway down and off to one side stood an old, disused chicken coop. Underneath it, attached to a wire, was a mini Maglite torch. The front glass had been covered with tape so that when the torch was on it showed just a pinprick of light. Frankie checked under the coop. There was no beam of light, which meant that the motion detectors in and around the house had not been tripped during the day. If they had, Frankie would simply have turned round and never come back. The only rule was survival.
Walking towards the cottage, he made sure he tripped the four further concealed detectors. Their wiring was dug into the mud and their monitors were hidden in the branches of stunted and wind-blown trees lining the track. They were at shoulder height – that way they couldn't be tripped by a fox or a dog.
The detectors were connected to normal domestic security lights placed along the track and around the house. Normal, but specially customized by Frankie. They were covered with layers of infra-red filter paper, meaning that if they were activated there would be no flood of white light. Instead, IR security cameras hidden beneath the lights would relay pictures back to the small bank of TV monitors inside the house.
The house was like a fortress. Fortress Frankie. Everything used in its defence had been bought at either the local B&Q store or an electrical repairs shop and then been adapted by Frankie for his special requirements. He had security down to a fine art.
He reached the cottage. All seemed in order: the garden gate was still closed. He ran one hand down to a point just below the latch and felt the tip of the match head he had wedged there while closing the gate that morning. No one had opened the gate. No one had reason to: Frankie never got any mail.
He took the bike inside, locked the front door, and went into every room, checking that nothing had been disturbed.
Most of the rooms had bare, original floorboards or old carpet, but in the kitchen Frankie had fitted a cheap vinyl covering in an imitation marble tile pattern. In front of the sink unit a thick rug was super-glued to the vinyl. Frankie grabbed one edge of the rug with both hands and pulled, lifting the rug, the covering and the hidden trapdoor beneath.
The rotting wooden steps disappeared into darkness. A torch lay on the first step. Frankie switched it on and descended into the cellar. It was damp and musty, and because of the closeness to the river, a few millimetres of water covered the floor even in the summer months. But apart from the isolated location of the cottage, the cellar had been its major attraction.
Against one wall was a stack of wooden boxes. Frankie moved them to one side and shone a torch into a small hole halfway up the wall. The piercing beam picked out the coffin-sized cave a metre and a half into the tunnel. In it was a bin liner full of clothes, tinned food and most of Frankie's savings. Beyond the cave, the narrow tunnel stretched away into darkness for nearly twenty metres. At the far end, a camouflaged escape hatch went up to ground level in the tree line to the right of the cottage. If ever the house came under attack Frankie's best chance of survival would be concealment. The cave was one of his hides; there were two more out in the woodlands.
He went back up to the ground floor and looked at the TV monitors to make sure the detectors had tripped on the way in. The reassuring green glow of the muddy track from the IR cameras told him all was well.
That was it. Drill over. Frankie could relax, as much as he ever relaxed. He would make himself a meal and then settle down to another night in front of the telly.