Carver - By Tom Cain Page 0,64

of the columns. ‘Fucking firing positions everywhere. Enough cover to hide a fucking regiment. Even a fucking para could get a shot off before we could stop him.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but I can’t say I disagree,’ Tyrrell said, giving Carver a nod of greeting. ‘How familiar are you with the way these things work?’ he asked.

‘I know more about mining and ore extraction.’

‘Well, you heat the crude up to about six hundred degrees centigrade, till it vaporizes, then stick the gas in these distillation columns, where it separates into different petrochemicals. They all condense at particular levels of the column: the higher up you go, the finer the product. And here’s the bit that we need to worry about: every one of those petrochemicals has different properties of flammability, explosiveness and toxicity.’

‘In simple English, having a bloody great media bunfight at a refinery is like having a barbecue at a fireworks factory,’ said Schultz.

‘Well, you lads enjoy the party,’ said Carver. ‘Can I have the keys to the car?’

‘Off to the pub, are you, sir?’ asked Schultz, smirking.

‘No, just curious about something Holloway and his lads might have missed.’

Tyrrell frowned. ‘Anything I need to know about?’

‘Not yet,’ said Carver. ‘Just want to take a look around the area.’

Tyrrell looked at him searchingly. ‘That’s all you’re doing?’

‘Positive.’

‘Well, if you come across anything suspicious, give me a call.’

‘Will do … So, the keys?’

‘Catch,’ said Snoopy Schultz.

Carver plucked them from the air one-handed, and headed for the car park.

48

* * *

Blackpole Retail Park, Worcester

SHORTLY AFTER 10.30 A.M. Uschi Kremer pulled into the parking lot of a McDonald’s restaurant located within a soulless shopping centre on the northern outskirts of Worcester. She had driven hard from Rosconway, cutting across South Wales and up into the English Midlands, avoiding motorways, tolls and the CCTV cameras that came with them.

‘You can turn your phones on now,’ she said, oblivious to Brynmor Gryffud’s notional status as group leader. ‘In fact, I think you should use them. Call some friends, or maybe, Bryn, you could check in with your office. Keep it nice and light, everything very normal. OK?’

‘I’m bursting for a piss,’ said Smethurst, getting out of the back of the car, closely followed by Gryffud.

‘If you guys do that, then make your calls, I will get you some food,’ said Kremer, walking beside them towards the golden arches. She gave them both a cheeky smile. ‘So … you want to go large?’

‘Looking at you, love, I’m getting large already,’ Smethurst replied.

‘Really? I didn’t notice,’ Kremer said, putting him in his place. ‘So, Bryn, are you hungry?’

‘I won’t have anything, thanks,’ said Gryffud. ‘I don’t want to give McDonald’s any money. I don’t approve of their impact on the environment.’

‘Oh, fuck off,’ Smethurst sneered. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, you’re about to blow an entire fucking refinery to pieces … and you’re worried about having a Big Mac? You’ll be telling me meat is murder next.’

‘He’s right,’ said Kremer, pausing for a moment outside the restaurant door. ‘It is important that we are seen here, a long way from South Wales, acting like ordinary people. Really, if you think about it, this is part of your mission.’

‘Well, if you put it like that …’ Gryffud conceded.

Kremer took their orders, collected and paid for the food, and spent a minute at a side counter, putting milk and sugar in the men’s coffees. It would have taken a very acute observer indeed to notice that two of the miniature plastic pots of milk that she used had not been supplied by the restaurant.

Back at the BMW she settled into the driver’s seat, then turned to the two men. ‘One Big Mac with large fries for you,’ she said, reaching into a brown paper bag and handing two cartons to Smethurst. ‘And one Big Tasty with bacon and regular fries for you.’

Gryffud took his food, and then a moment later his cup of coffee. ‘You not having anything?’ he asked Kremer.

She laughed. ‘And ruin my figure? Never!’

‘Good thing I don’t have a figure to ruin, then,’ said Gryffud. ‘I’m starving.’

The men ripped great bites from their burgers, grabbed fistfuls of fries, and then washed the whole lot down with gulps of scalding coffee. They ate and drank greedily, saying nothing. And then they started gasping for breath as the cyanide that Kremer had slipped into their drinks got to work, shutting down their bodies’ ability to use oxygen, and attacking their hearts and brains. Smethurst,