by David Evans
* * *
There it was; the premises of the bastard. George Brannigan Scrap Metal Merchant Ltd. It was time. Gary Monk pulled the car in through the gates and drew to a halt by the unmanned crane. Stepping from the car, he felt the comforting shape of his truncheon through his zipped-up leather jacket and strode over the muddy yard to the Portakabin office. He opened the door.
“Be with you in a minute,” came a voice from the man dressed in oily overalls bending down to the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet. Before he could straighten up fully, a sharp pain shot through his lower legs and he collapsed to the floor.
Monk, truncheon in hand, stood over the grimacing huddle that was George Brannigan. “That’s just the start for what you did to my mum,” he said.
“I’ve no idea what you’re …” Brannigan wheezed, before another blow from the weapon caught him sideways across the face.
“Don’t you give me that load of old bollocks!” Monk exclaimed.
Brannigan looked stunned for a second then put his hand to the side of his face. A trickle of blood ran down towards his chin. Recovering slightly, he tried to speak again. “Who are you? What is all this about?”
This time, Monk let him complete his sentences. “You drove taxis out of Leeds in 1979,” he said.
A confused expression pushed the pained one from Brannigan’s face. “Well, yeah … and so did a lot of other people.”
Monk brought the truncheon down on the man’s shoulder this time. “Ex-army too.”
Brannigan yelped, the collar bone snapped. “Wait. Wait,” he pleaded. “I think you have the wrong man.” He strained to sit himself upright, leaning against the filing cabinet he’d just been looking in.
“You’re George Brannigan, right?” Monk slapped the truncheon into the palm of his hand as he spoke.
“Yeah, but I’m not who you want.”
Anger swept over Monk as he swung the baton from left to right this time, catching the man on the floor on the right side of his face. “Don’t treat me like an idiot. I know it was you.”
The man struggled to keep his eyes open. Before they lost focus, they flicked to one side. If Monk had been trained properly, he would have realised the meaning of that movement.
Before Monk could do or say anything else, a sharp pain shot through the right side of his head as something heavy struck him, and he lost consciousness.
* * *
Strong explained the predicament to his officers as he drove to the scrapyard in Huddersfield. Various calls to the control room ensured they would be met by a number of marked cars and uniformed officers.
“But I don’t understand, guv,” Stainmore said, sitting in the front passenger seat. “How did Gary Monk know about Brannigan?”
“He was obviously suspicious when we went to speak to his mum. She told me he had a big argument with her a week or so back and she ended up telling him about his biological father.” Strong paused to change gear and negotiate a roundabout. “And I think he’s been sneaking into the Incident Room and looking at the boards with the information on,” he resumed. “Bill Sidebotham tells me he’d seen him coming down the stairs one night. Gave him a story about leaving a note under my door.”
“That makes sense of what I felt then,” she continued.
“How do you mean?”
“Remember I mentioned it when we were in on Saturday? When I got back to my desk the other week, I thought the paperwork had been disturbed, as though someone had been rifling through it. It wasn’t as I’d left it.”
“I remember you saying that. Do you think it was him?”
“Could well have been.”
“And that would have given him the link to Claire Hobson, or CH as you’d noted.”
“He’d have drawn that conclusion from these newspaper articles too.”
“Have you two been working on reviewing that case?” Ormerod asked from the rear.
“I asked Flynn to involve the rest of the team but he only wanted me and Kelly to know.”
“Christ,” Ormerod said. “And this young PC’s real dad is Claire Hobson’s killer?”
“Could be.” Stainmore said.
“So what did you find out about her attacker?” Darby joined in the discussion.
Stainmore related the facts as they saw them; taxi-driver, short, stocky mid-fifties, ex-Green Howards and tattoo of the regimental crest on the left forearm.
“Brannigan has a tattoo like that,” Ormerod said.
“But I don’t remember part of his left ear missing just above the lobe,” Strong said.
“No, he doesn’t,” Ormerod agreed.
“Where did that come from?” Stainmore puzzled.
Strong ignored the question. “Nearly there,” he announced. “Let’s be careful.”
* * *
The explosion of shattering glass and crunching metal roused Gary. Slowly his senses returned - hearing first, the growl of a diesel engine under load; then the perception of movement. He felt as though he was being hoisted into the air and had a swaying sensation. Finally his blurred vision began to clear and he saw Brannigan slumped in the passenger seat beside him. Both men were strapped in by the seatbelts. He looked out of the space where the window had been. Below, a man, not dissimilar in appearance to Brannigan, was in the cab at the controls of the grab crane, a determined expression on his face.
He watched as the car he’d just picked up rose into the air. He could see the policeman inside looking round, trying to make sense of his situation. The collapsed figure of his ex-army colleague sitting alongside him was clearly visible. The movements became more frantic as the young lad realised his predicament. A few more actions of the controls and the car swung over the yawning jaws of the crusher. He paused the crane and dropped the engine back to idle speed.
“Let me out! Get me down from here!” the young policeman yelled.
He hadn’t been aware of anything for the past few minutes but now sirens could be heard above the engine noise. Flashing blue lights attracted his attention and he looked round to see the yard filling up with vehicles, mostly marked with ‘Police’.
A Mondeo drew to a halt in front. Three men and a woman got out.
* * *
Strong drove his Mondeo into the yard and was stunned to see Gary Monk’s car dangling about twenty feet in mid-air, the grab arms through the doors and roof. He could see the agitated figure of the young constable in the driving seat. Another stockier figure was motionless in the passenger seat alongside. Brannigan.
He slowly stepped from the car and switched his focus to the crane cab. Ormerod, Stainmore and Darby got out too. Uniformed officers stood behind.
Monk was yelling from the car.
“Stay still, Gary!” Strong called as he took a few steps towards the crane.
“That’s far enough,” the man in the cab shouted.
Suddenly, Strong saw what he had in his hand. He turned his head slightly to Ormerod who was on his shoulder. “That’s a gun, Luke,” he said quietly. “Get onto control and tell them we need Armed Response here as soon as.”
“On it,” Ormerod said, taking his mobile phone from a pocket.
“And tell Kelly to stay back. We don’t need a repeat …” He left the sentence unfinished.
Ormerod turned away to make the call and gestured for Stainmore and Darby to step back.
Strong held his arms out and edged forward again.
“I said …” the man yelled.
“Okay, okay,” Strong said. “I only want to talk to you, Mr Davidson. It is Mr Davidson isn’t it? Patrick Davidson?”
“Seem to have all the answers, don’t you?”
Behind him, he could hear Ormerod requesting firearms officers.
“It’s over Patrick. Why don’t you bring them down?” Strong glanced at the swaying car.
“It was all his fault, stupid bastard.”
“Who?”
“George.” Davidson looked from the car back to Strong. “I know I
owed him big time after what happened.”
“You’re talking about Armagh, seventy-eight.”
“You have done your homework.”
“He saved your life, I heard.”
“That’s right.”
“But what he’s never understood is how you came to get yourself in that predicament in the first place,” Strong said.
“What do you know?” Davidson sneered. “I’ll bet you’ve never been to Northern Ireland.”
Strong shrugged. “True,” he said. “But I did hear about it.” The figure of John Darby creeping around the rear of the portakabin caught Strong’s eye for a split second. Fortunately, Davidson’s attention was focussed on the crusher in front of the crane. He didn’t notice the slight eye movement.
“You have been busy.” Davidson turned to look at Strong again. “Did they tell you everything? I’m assuming it was some faceless bastard from the MOD you’ve been talking to.”
Strong’s periphery vision clocked Darby slinking from the rear of the offices to the cover of the back of the shed that stored recovered electrical equipment. “But was it true?” he asked.
“Depends what you mean.”
“The double agent bit.” Davidson gave a short laugh as Strong continued, “They were going to kill you, weren’t they? Only George here stumbles across it. Did he ever know?”
“Official secrets.” Davidson chuckled. “Can’t find out now.” He increased the revs on the crane’s engine and the car swayed again.
“Whoah! Wait!” Strong called. “You don’t want to do this.”
“Don’t I? Why not?” Davidson shouted. “What have I got left?”
“Can I tell you something?”
“Is this a ruse?”
“Please, you need to hear this, but I don’t want to have to shout it.”
Davidson aimed the gun at Strong. “Two steps only.”
Strong slowly took one step, then a second as he spotted Darby sneak towards a van that was only ten yards from the other side of the crane’s cab.
“The young lad,” Strong said. “There’s something you need to know.”
“What? What do I need to know?”
“He’s your son, Patrick.”
A puzzled expression softened Davidson’s face. “What sort of joke is this? This is a wind up.”
“No joke.”
“How can he be? I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
“That’s true, you haven’t. But he is yours. DNA can prove it.”
Davidson shook his head. “No, he couldn’t be.”
“One night in 1979. You drove a group of women from Leeds to various addresses in the Wakefield area. Only you stopped near Low Laithes with the last woman.” Strong could see the expression change on Davidson’s face.
“Him?” Gary Monk exclaimed from the car. “But I thought he was the man.” Monk indicated the still figure of George Brannigan.
Strong looked up at the vehicle. “But your mother was lucky that night, Gary,” he said. “On two counts, I’d say. She was lucky to escape with her life, having encountered this man.” He pointed at the crane cab. “But, if you ask her, really talk to her, she’d tell you she escaped with your life too. And she is so glad you’ve been part of her life. And if you could ask him, I’d bet your dad would agree – I mean your real Dad. Richard.”
“I’ve heard enough of this sentimental old bollocks,” Davidson shouted from the crane. The engine revved and the car began to swing towards the crusher.
Darby could wait no longer and jumped up onto the steps of the cab on the other side and made a grab for the gun in Davidson’s hand. The man was surprised at the attack but quickly recovered and the pair tussled.
Strong dashed forward and grabbed the man from his side.
Monk screamed from the car. “No! No! Don’t let him do this!”
Suddenly, the gun went off and the struggle in the cab stilled.
There seemed to be a collective intake of breath from the assembled police officers and a second of inaction before Ormerod and Stainmore rushed towards the crane.
Davidson slumped forward and the car shot down towards the crusher. Strong pulled the man from the cab towards him as Darby pushed from his side. Just as the car disappeared into the jaws of the crusher, Darby pulled a lever back and the load slowly lifted clear. More movements on the controls and the car swung round and was slowly brought back to the ground. Finally, the grab arms were released.
Strong held Davidson on the ground but there was no fight in him. “Ambulances!” he shouted back to Stainmore and Ormerod.
They were already on their phones.
Davidson was bleeding heavily and Strong pressed tight on the stomach wound. Stainmore joined in the effort and a look passed between them.
Darby and Ormerod rushed to the car and started pulling at the tangled metal to open the doors and free the two men. Uniformed officers joined in. One knelt down by Strong. “I used to be a paramedic,” he said, feeling for Davidson’s carotid artery.
Strong caught the look on his face.
“Keep pressing on the wound,” the officer advised.
A couple of minutes later, three ambulance crews were in attendance and Strong and Stainmore could stand back.
By the car, they’d managed to release Gary Monk who was being attended to by one of the paramedics. Brannigan’s condition looked worse. He was being worked on by two of the green-clad ambulance crew.
69
Wednesday 6th March 2002
SUSPECT ARRESTED FOR CLAIRE HOBSON MURDER
In dramatic scenes yesterday, a man of 55 was shot in Huddersfield and taken to hospital under armed guard, arrested on suspicion of the rape and murder of 14-year-old Claire Hobson twenty years ago to the day. He is also believed to be facing charges of the attempted murder of a police officer. Another man of 52 was arrested in connection with the death of Marcus Weaver from Horsforth, whose body was found in a park in Wakefield on 13th February. More details are expected to emerge later today.
As readers will know, this newspaper has been reporting on Claire’s case all this week, focusing on the traumatic effects on her family and friends as well as appealing for new information. It is not known at this stage, whether this paper’s actions contributed in some way to yesterday’s arrest.
Strong folded up the copy of the Yorkshire Post he’d bought on the way in to work that morning. A good scoop for Bob, he thought; and Susan, because she had become involved too.
His mobile rang and he took it out of his shirt pocket and saw Souter’s name.
“Hey,” Strong answered. “How’s that little Godson of mine?”
“Aw, just lovely. I only wanted to make sure you were okay after what happened yesterday,” his friend said.
“I must admit it did remind me of something similar. You know, when that gun went off, there was a split second when I was waiting for the pain to hit. After that I just grabbed him out of the way.”
“And DS Stainmore was there too, I gather?”
“I made sure she kept back, yes.”
“You sure it was him? Claire Hobson’s killer, I mean?”
“We’re just awaiting DNA results, but I think it’s fairly certain. But listen, don’t print that until we say so.”
“Of course not. What about Claire’s family?”
“Officers are visiting them this morning.”
“And the other one, Brannigan – he was responsible for what happened to Marcus Weaver?”
“You know that though, don’t you?”
“That little lad, Danny. He told Susan Mark Thompson involved him in the money exchange on the Thursday night. Took us a while but two and two …”
“She never mentioned that to me.” The line was silent for a second before Strong resumed, “Thank those two for me, will you?” he said. “If Susan and Sammy hadn’t pursued that lead with the two lads, we wouldn’t have had the tunic button. It made all the difference.”
“
No problem, Col.”
“Hey, why don’t you all come over to ours on Sunday? I mean you, Alison, little David and Susan and Sammy. Laura would love to see you all again. Sunday roast?”
“It’s a deal. We’ll bring some bubbly to celebrate Laura’s new job. See you Col.”
DCS Flynn had gathered Strong, Stainmore, Ormerod and Darby in his office. “Well, I have to say well done to you all. The ACC is really proud of you, as am I.”
Strong was seated at the desk opposite his boss. “Just a pity we lost Davidson, sir. Robbed of our day in court.”
“On the other hand, it could have been you or John or any one of you on that slab.”
The mood was solemn as they all considered what might have been.
“Brannigan was kept in Pinderfields overnight,” Strong reported. “Apparently, his condition is comfortable. We’ve got uniform covering him.”
“What about young PC Monk?”
“Minor cuts and bruises, nothing broken but they also kept him in overnight for observation, suspecting concussion. He’s due to be discharged later today.”
“Have we got evidence now that Davidson murdered Claire Hobson?
“We’ve taken samples and they’re being rushed through. Hope to hear shortly.”
“Let me know as soon as you hear,” Flynn requested.
“Of course. But,” Strong added, “I’d just like to put on record that we have John Darby to thank for their rescue. If he hadn’t acted when he did, that car would have gone into the crusher.”
“I hear you played a part too, Colin.”
“I rushed it from the other side. When that gun went off … you know there was a split second when … well, I just hoped to God it wasn’t John. Bad enough last year …”
Flynn nodded and looked at Stainmore. “I know,” he said.
“But it wasn’t over then,” Strong continued. “John got into the cab and lifted the car clear.”
“Where did you learn those skills?” Flynn asked Darby.
“I used to work with my uncle on his building sites before I joined up.”
Strong’s mobile rang. He checked the screen. “The lab, sir,” he said.
