My eyes opened and as soon as my brain kicked back in, I realised it was the business day. That singular thought had me fully awake moments later. I sat up and knocked the alarm clock off before it woke the house up. Six a.m. Or five fifty-nine to be precise. Whenever it was serious that I was up on time, I always seemed to wake up a minute or two before the alarm. But if I didn’t set the alarm, I’d sleep in.
Thirty minutes later, I was showered, with tea and toast inside me, and I gently woke my wife with a brew and said I’d see her late tomorrow. I reminded her that I would be incommunicado, but would call or text her when I could. She stirred and sat up. Then looked me up and down. I was wearing tired jeans, a T-shirt, and an old donkey jacket.
‘What are you up to today?’
‘A long-distance lorry driving job.’
‘How long?’
‘One day, hopefully if all goes well,’ I answered cryptically. She knew I wouldn’t be able to give her the details.
She smiled and answered, ‘Worth a try.’
I kissed her forehead and said, ‘Gotta go.’
‘Stay safe.’
‘Always, but worry not; this job’s as straightforward as they come.’
She rolled her eyes and settled back down.
I grabbed my holdall and keys and approached the car, a white Ford Sierra saloon. A quick walk around it revealed nothing out of the ordinary, as did a look underneath the motor. I also checked the wheel arches. Good to go. I drove off the estate and within a couple of minutes I was on the Shankill Road heading east towards the Cathedral Quarter. I then turned north and made my way towards Belfast Harbour.
I pulled up at a lorry park on Corry Road used by the Isle of Man Steam Packet company, where my contact and wagon were waiting for me. I’d done several minor runs for this mob and always met the same bloke. He was in his mid-forties with the build and appearance of a trawlerman. He certainly smelled like one. He said his name was Peter, but I suspected it was not.
‘Glad you didn’t get caught up in the drama off the Falls Road,’ he started with.
I had a small flat off the Falls Road, and as far as he was concerned, that was where I lived. He’d been round there several times before my first job for them, checking me out. They didn’t need to know where I really lay my head.
‘Aye, stopped at some bird’s house last night, so missed it, thankfully.’
Peter eyed me for a little longer than I was comfortable with, and then asked, ‘What was the bird’s name?’
An odd question. ‘We never got as far as formal introductions,’ I answered. Then keen to change the subject, I asked, ‘What was the drama off the Falls? An accident?’
‘Nay, some Proddy bastard threw a pipe bomb into a taxi office. Cordons and roads closed all around.’
I glanced at my watch; it was gone seven. This caused Peter to look at his own watch. A good non-verbal way of distracting someone.
‘Well, your ferry to Birkenhead leaves in less than an hour, you’d better get going,’ Peter said before walking towards a forty-four-foot juggernaut. He turned as he reached the driver’s door and threw the keys at me. ‘You driven one of these before?’
‘Aye, but a while ago,’ I lied, catching the key fob.
‘The documents are above the driver’s sun visor. Text once you’ve arrived at Liverpool.’
I said I would, and Peter turned and disappeared among the parked vehicles.
I had a quick walk around the vehicle and opened the container rear doors to make sure it was empty. I spent a minute familiarizing myself with controls, before starting the powerful diesel engine and heading out towards the ferry terminal.
As I left the lorry park, I failed to notice the two men sat in dark blue Toyota Corolla parked in the shadows.
The trip across the Irish Sea took eight hours and passed without problems, but it was a long drag. By five p.m. I was through the Queensway tunnel under the Mersey and headed inland towards the M62 Motorway which would take me to the outskirts of east Manchester. As I joined the start of the motorway, I passed the Rocket Bar and Grill pub: named after Stevenson’s Rocket which made its maiden run between Liverpool and Manchester. One of the earliest steam locomotives, which became the template going forward for 150 years.
I was in good time so stopped at a service station for an unhealthy breakfast, and to freshen up and change my T-shirt. I texted Peter “All good, leaving Liverpool” and he texted back that all was as arranged.
I was back on the motorway by six, and rolling along in slow moving traffic. The evening rush hour would normally wind me up like most folk, but on days like today, it gave great cover. A wagon in a sea of lorries. I was quite chilled. But that would change later, it always did.
An hour and twenty minutes later I passed Birchwood services, just before junction nineteen at Heywood, Greater Manchester. I left the motorway, confident that no one was behind me, and did a one-eighty round robin and headed back down the M62 westbound towards Liverpool. I pulled off at the services and went to a quite end of the lorry park as instructed.
Now my heartrate was starting to climb. It had been fully dark for a while; the clocks having gone back a week ago. There was an eerie glow of yellow sodium vapour illumination across the lorry park which was only a quarter full. I pulled my rig up in a parking bay and turned off the engine. The dashboard clock said 7:30 p.m.
I glanced around, but tried to do so naturally. Nothing looked more suspicious than frantic head turning. On the plus, side there were no saloon cars parked up. They would stand out in a wagon parking only area.
I was once told that if you push your stomach out as you inhaled, it had a calming effect, and it always seemed to work. My pulse was returning to normal. It was essential that I looked calm even if I was not. The Duck on the pond analogy was vert apt. Serene on top, but under the water, legs going like the clappers.
I saw lights in my mirrors as I heard a diesel engine. A large, long-wheelbase van was reversing up to my rear. Here goes. I jumped from the cab as I heard the squeal of the container rear doors being opened. I was met immediately by the side of the rig by a man in his forties, medium height but with the physique of a wrestler.
‘Get back in your cab, I’ll tell you when you can go,’ he ordered in a gruff Yorkshire accent.
I nodded and complied. Back behind the wheel, I could hear the sound of several heavy case being thrown into the container.
I’ve done similar before, but always in Ulster, and never on this scale. Twenty or so minutes later, Yorkie reappeared by my window, which I rolled down.
‘Five hundred kilos are in the boxes nearest to you. Then there are several boxes of fruit and veg as per your documents. Customs will be less bothered pulling all that perishable goods out to search as they usually get billed for contaminated losses more easily. But should the worst happen, you know the rules,’ he said, and then handed me a key to the padlock they had put on the rear doors.
And with that, Yorkie, the van and whoever were with him, were gone. An uneasy calm now returned and I blew out the stress I’d been hiding. I pulled out a phone and texted Peter the update, and that I was about to commence my return trip. He texted back in seconds wishing me luck. I then bent down and pulled a small Nokia phone from inside my right sock. I texted the only number in its memory: ‘Collection made, en route back. I can confirm I’ll be on the 2200 crossing.’
Seconds passed before this one received a response. ‘Everything is in place, you know what to do.’
And I did. The plan was straightforward enough. I wouldn’t have any problems going through Customs at Birkenhead. The wagon would be waved through. Then while I wiled away the hours on the Irish Sea, my load would be carefully removed. The five hundred kilos of cannabis would be taken, and replaced with five hundred kilos of brown wax bars which looked the business. The fruit and veg would be carefully replaced. Peter and his chums would be in for a shock. But not straight away.
I thought it was hugely hypocritical of the Provisional IRA. They went around the streets of Belfast, and elsewhere across the province shooting young men through the back of their knees for selling bits of weed. And here they were importing vast amounts of the stuff, just to make money for their cause. Unbelievable really.
But the Provos’s problem was that they didn’t have the knowledge or the connections to arrange such importations, so they had to involve criminals. That’s where Yorkie and I came in, though we had never met before tonight. I’d done a few runs with bits of gear for the Provos across Ulster and when they were happy with me, Peter propped my for the big one. It would take a while before the Provos realised that they had been twirled.
The fake gear looked good to the untrained eye – which is what they were. But a time-swerved drug dealer would spot it straight away. The smell always strong, and even with the real stuff removed, there would remain a significant smell in the boxes. But a real dealer would smell a rat by the reduced odour. I smiled at my own unintended pun as I thought about the job as I drove back to Liverpool. It was always good practice to go through things in one’s mind, just to make sure I’d not forgotten anything. After all, the Provisionals were serious people, and not to be crossed lightly.
I went through all the contacts and conversations I’d ever had with Peter, and I was happy I was trusted, without doubt. I wouldn’t be driving this wagon now if I were not. It would be a couple of days before someone tried to smoke the wax, and then all hell would break loose. The lock on the wagon was intact, and I had the only key, which I would give to Peter. Meaning, it would be either me, or Yorkie.
If I did it, I would not have continued my end journey to Peter. The Provos would be left to conclude it was a switch done by Yorkie. The fact, that they wouldn’t be able to contact him would add credence. But the Provos didn’t know that after every job, Yorkie would bin his phone anyway. Operational security. They all did.
The next few hours passed as planned. A man approached me soon after the ferry left Liverpool. I handed the key over and he returned with it four hours later. As we were approaching Belfast and I got a phone signal back, I texted Peter as instructed. He replied giving me a different location to take the lorry to. It was out near the Black mountains in the middle of nowhere, but that was to be expected.
As I drove towards Belfast Customs, I was stopped and a Customs man approached and waved me to pull over. Damn, this wasn’t supposed to happen. As soon as I stopped, he came around the other side of the cab and got into the passenger seat. My pulse rate was climbing again. He then pulled out a leather wallet and showed me the badge of a National Crime Squad detective.
‘What’s up mate, I thought it was all going swimmingly?’ I asked.
‘We don’t know how, or who yet. But an incoming call into the target you know as Peter was fortunately intercepted.’
‘Go on,’ I said, my heartrate through the roof now.
‘I’ve no idea how, but you’ve been blown out. “Peter” has been told that you are an undercover officer, and they are being set up.’
It took several seconds for the full meaning of the detective’s words to hit me. I felt dizzy. Scared witless, and I started to tremble. ‘What happens now?’ I eventually managed.
‘Your wife and kids have been collected. They are safe. Take a breath, you are safe. You are all going to be relocated in Lancashire.’
‘But what about my wider family?’
‘They don’t know who they are, so they are safe. But you can never go back to your homeland, I’m really sorry.’
My facade cracked. I put my head into my hands and started to cry. The pretend Customs man put his hand on my shoulder. My life would never be the same again.
Shoot to Kill by Roger A. Price is published by Sharpe Books.