Harlington Road Bedfordshire
6 a.m.
April 18th
Mason was awake very early. The back of the van was freezing and the rain drummed on the metal roof like a hyperactive Phil Collins. He checked his watch it was six-thirty. He unfolded himself from the back of the van and stretched. All was quiet, the van was scantily camouflaged, but he needn’t have worried it wasn’t a much visited spot. He walked off through light drizzle and relieved himself behind a tree.
Sitting in the van’s cab, engine running and heaters going full blast with radio four on Mason hungrily wolfed down a packet of Pork Scratchings and washed it down with a sachet of orange juice. News headlines at seven had him nearly choking mid swallow and exhaled orange juice ran down his chin. The news of the Perth shooting and Cobb’s handiwork in Liverpool, along with the report that security forces were looking for Wheeler and himself sent a cold shiver down his spine, especially when listeners were directed to the Today website to see pictures of the wanted men.
He wiped his face and looked in the rear view mirror; he knew he didn’t look like any picture they had of him and he wasn’t far from London. They’d probably have tagged the stolen van, though they couldn’t know who it was that had stolen it. He decided to head for greater London and dump the van and the sooner the better. With that in mind he drove onto the A road and then back onto the M1. With any luck he’d hit St Alban’s without a hitch, then a he’d get a commuter train to London. Once in London he could very easily become lost from sight, especially if he was careful.