by Linda Coles
“What’s Jim-lad have to say, then? There was more steam coming from your ears than that kitchen behind me.” He figured he might as well give her a nudge.
“The Parkers know about Dupin,” she said. “Don’t ask me who told them, but it’s out there. Japp has a press conference organised.”
Jack had figured as much; it would have been only a matter of time anyway. Now it was out, though earlier than expected.
“A neighbour, by chance?”
“I’d say so. Or a leak. I’d prefer the former.”
“I’ll find out who lives near the accident scene. It was bound to be a witness or a nosey neighbour.” He made a mental note to look up the inhabitants of that stretch of road after his pie and chips. He opened the manila folder by his elbow now and flicked through the top sheets, scanning the text and reacquainting himself with the case. It had taken place some years ago. Amanda sat silently, watching.
“What’s the case about, then? I’m assuming it’s the one you mentioned earlier.”
“It is. It goes back to my earlier days, long before you arrived on the scene. A rather different time to be a cop back then, the way we did things. Couldn’t get away with it now,” he said almost longingly. “Though sometimes I wish I could give the odd one a good slap or shake their bones until their teeth rattle.”
When a pervert or murderer was sat opposite you with their brief advising ‘no comment,’ shaking their bones was only the beginning of what you’d like to do to them. Especially if children had been hurt or lost. Holding the file up in the air, Jack announced, “This is the file of a man still inside eighteen years on. And he was in the exact same circumstances as Dopey Dupin is in now.”
Their pie and chips arrived. Jack reached for the brown sauce and squirted a dollop onto the side of his plate. He picked a chip up and dunked it. “Allow me to tell you the story,” he said, biting into it.
Chapter Thirteen
A little over 15 years ago
DC Jack Rutherford watched as DS Eddie Edwards threw Michael Hardesty up against the wall – for a second time. Spittle collected at the corners of Edwards’ mouth as he shot accusations at the man cowering in front of him, his face clenched up tightly, eyes firmly closed. He looked to Jack like a kid who was waiting for a slap from the back of a parent’s hand. Eddie had always had a short fuse, but of late had found it even harder to control his temper. He knew he needed to work at it to keep it in check, and so did his team.
Jack was going to give the man five seconds more before he stepped in himself. He counted backwards in his head from five down to one before he lurched forward to stop his sergeant from doing something he’d later regret. And to save the suspect from a bloody nose.
“You’ve made your point. Let the man sit back down,” he ordered. Even though Eddie was his superior, he sat.
The two of them had worked together long enough for Eddie to know that Jack was usually right in situations like this. For the life of him, Jack couldn’t figure out how or why Eddie had been promoted. Although he wasn’t complaining about still being a DC himself, he chafed at how Eddie took advantage of his new title and regularly offloaded on his team instead of showing leadership and drive to get things done. Fortunately for Eddie, his direct boss was no different than he was: DI Will Morton preferred the racing pages and a lunchbox of ham and mustard pickle on white to putting his mind to police work. He therefore never saw the need to keep Eddie Edwards in check; why bother? Retirement loomed in the near distance for the DI, after which his successor would take over. Whoever that would be. So, for the time being anyway, Eddie was safe from being picked up and reprimanded for his behaviour; it was too much like hard work for Morton to contemplate.
Eddie sat back in his chair now, glaring at the suspect in front of him. Jack glared at Eddie in return and then interjected to give Eddie some time to calm down; he was getting nowhere with the man.
“Mr Hardesty,” he started, calmly. Comfy cop to Eddie’s ‘in your face’ cop. “Everyone knows you hit that driver. There are witnesses, and I understand you’re not disputing it, either. But that poor man is now lying in the morgue because of that thump, and that puts you in a good deal of trouble.”
Michael Hardesty kept his head hung low, listening but exhausted. He’d been either in the cells or the interview room being grilled for almost 24 hours, and tiredness was catching up with him. He knew he’d be charged soon enough, and remand was not somewhere he’d want to spend the next six months. But the manslaughter charge was looking more like a murder charge, as Eddie Edwards was arguing he’d planned it.
“There is plenty of evidence pointing towards you. We've done our homework, you know,” Eddie went on. “You and the victim go back a long way, and we’ve had you both in here for various spats in the recent months. Now he’s dead and you expect us to believe that it was an accident, that it was manslaughter? Well, I'm telling you, Hardesty, you're going down for murder, and if I have my way, you'll get the maximum.”
Jack watched, without saying another word; it wasn't his place. Eddie was in charge of the interview. It was his gig; he held the authority of the two of them. But that didn't mean it felt right in Jack's stomach. While it was true that Michael and the man he was now accused of killing had a long and sometimes violent history together, it was unfortunate that Michael Hardesty had now killed his arch-enemy. He'd picked a bad family to deal with.
The McAllister family had a rough and torrid reputation, and had ruled parts of London for as long as Jack could remember. The Hardestys weren't quite in the same league, but the two families allowed each other to exist as long as they didn't get too cheeky and overstep territory. It also helped that they were in slightly different lines of criminal business: the McAllisters focused on illegal gambling and money-laundering, while the Hardesty family complemented their services with pills for the clubbing scene. But the previous evening, the two men had come to blows, quite literally, when their cars had collided at a junction in the centre of Croydon.
Even though it had been nearly midnight when the crash happened, there had been plenty of eyewitnesses who could corroborate the story that Chesney McAllister had struck first, but it had been Michael Hardesty who had thrown the punch that had stopped everything. Thinking he had merely knocked the man out, Hardesty had then left the scene, leaving McAllister lying on the pavement unconscious—or so he thought. When McAllister hadn’t come back round, someone had called an ambulance and he’d been taken to hospital, where he’d been pronounced dead on arrival. An hour later, the police had knocked at Hardesty's house. And that was how he’d found himself in the interview room at Croydon police station with DS Eddie Edwards and DC Jack Rutherford.
“I'm sure you realise the trouble you’re already in, Hardesty, and this isn't going away,” Eddie continued. “There will be an autopsy in the morning, and no doubt that will confirm what we already know. You threw the killer punch, and he was probably dead before he hit the pavement. But let me ask you this: why didn't you check for a pulse before you just walked off? Like any other decent human being would have done?”
“I thought I’d simply knocked him out, that's all. I hadn't planned on killing him, as you suggest. Why would I?” It was the longest sentence Hardesty had uttered during the repeated hours of questioning.
“Because your two families have been warring for the last ten years, to my knowledge. That's why.”
“We coexisted. We each knew where the line in the sand was. We had our spats, but we worked things out. And do you not think that I would be safer if Chesney McAllister was alive rather than dead?” Hardesty’s eyes were bloodshot with exhaustion, but his words made sense. To Jack, anyway. Why would he risk the shit-fest that would fall on him and his family? It didn’t make sense. The McAllister brothers were hardcore—Mac and Cheese, they were affectionately called.
Jack grunted that he had a point. “Well, you’re in one sticky position now, then. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes. The McA
llister family have long tentacles, and those tentacles reach into all sorts of sweaty crevices, whether you’re home sleeping with Barb in bed or safely bunking with your new best friend in a remand centre.” Jack put air quotes around the word ‘safely,’ knowing full well that a remand centre was far from safe. He looked at his watch—they didn’t have much time left. Jack wondered what would happen in the time they had. Could they charge him, or would they have to release him? How much evidence did they have that wasn’t circumstantial? A couple of witnesses to a fight was not enough to show premeditated murder. Regardless, he wondered if maybe Hardesty was better off in the police cell downstairs for protection, because Mac McAllister would be out on the prowl looking for the killer of his brother. And when he found him …
Eddie stood to stretch his legs for a moment. He’d also seen the time. It gave him an opportune segue.
“So, Hardesty,” he said, “what would you like us to do with you? Send you home, where you can risk a grisly visit from Mac McAllister and maybe some of his other family members, or keep you here in the police cells where we can talk some more? And before you answer, I suggest you think about Barbara and Cassy and how they fit into this one.”
Hardesty rested his grimy forehead on the Formica table. Jack could see that his hair was stuck to the back of his neck with sweat; there was a damp patch on his shirt between his shoulder blades. It wasn't particularly warm in the room, but Hardesty had clearly been feeling the heat nonetheless.
“I’m going to give you some time to think about what you'd like to do,” Jack told him, “so it’s back to your cell for you for the time being. Then, in half an hour, you can let us know what you decide.” He looked across at Eddie, who nodded slightly in agreement. It wasn’t up to Jack to decide, of course, but Eddie was used to his ways. Jack had more authority in his pinkie finger than Eddie had in his whole body; he just wasn't allowed to officially use it.
Jack stood and waited for Hardesty to summon some energy and get himself right. His face was flushed and clammy, his five-o'clock shadow looking more like two-day-old stubble. Eddie opened the door and the three men filed back out. As Eddie escorted Hardesty back towards the holding cells, Jack ordered the man a sandwich from the custody sergeant.
Important decisions were best made on a full stomach.
Chapter Fourteen
His feet hung over the end of the narrow mattress in the cell. Hardesty was well over six-foot against Jack's 5 foot 10 and expanding girth, and he kept himself trim working out in the gym most days; his philosophy was "a healthy mind in a healthy body.” The youngsters who had taken his party pills over the years and had ended up in hospital, or worse, died, would probably disagree.
The harsh blue plastic crunched as he turned over on to his side and then, unable to find comfort on the skinny bed, turned onto his back, arms by his side, and stared straight up at the ceiling. An orange glow emanated through the tiny window at the top of the concrete wall, from the street lamp outside. He had no idea what time it was—sometime between midnight and dawn, probably. He had to give them a decision when they came knocking. There was no way he was going to put Barbara and Cassy in harm's way. They’d been there before, and it had terrified not only them but Michael himself. When it was over, he’d sworn that it would never happen again: he would keep his business interests totally separate and if anyone had beef with him, they could come for him—and only him.
But pleading guilty to murder wasn't right, either, because he hadn't done what they said he’d done; not exactly, anyway. Ches McAllister had gone down like a sack of rocks, and he hadn't hung around to check his pulse. Perhaps he should have done, but would McAllister have done the same for Michael had he knocked him out? He doubted it. And so, he’d left him lying on the pavement and walked, figuring he’d get up on his own soon enough. Alas, he hadn’t.
He was exhausted. He needed a shower desperately. The police cells were no place for a good night's rest, his mind on overdrive. If he admitted it, pleaded guilty, then Barbara and Cassy would be safe—it was the only saving grace. He was a big, strong man and a businessman with a reputation, so he knew he could handle himself in prison. He’d had a taste of prison life some years before, when he was just getting his business going, and while he couldn't recommend it to anyone, he knew it was doable. He just had to make sure he stayed on the right side of the lads who were running the wings—and that didn't mean the screws.
But the prospect of 15 years to life daunted him, and he knew the cops were not going to give up easily. They’d been after him for years, though never for murder, and nothing had ever stuck. Murder wasn’t his modus operandi, however: a strong word with a hard fist or a crowbar was usually enough for people to see sense if it needed dishing out.
The orange glow was getting dimmer; finally, it disappeared altogether as the timer on the street lamp outside clicked off. A dull grey seeped in now, into the walls and into his bones, like a damp fog. This was going to be his life from now on. He rubbed his arm. Cassy’s name was intricately tattooed on the inside of his forearm, where it was more visible to him than anyone else. He loved his girl.
The jangle of keys on a ring out in the corridor broke into his thoughts, but he didn’t stir. There was no rush. The lock was opened and the door pushed a draft of fresher air towards him as an officer approached with his breakfast tray. It was a long way from room service.
“Breakfast,” the officer said, and left, locking the door behind him with a firm clunk. It could have been Prince Phillip that had delivered his food; Michael hadn’t turned to look. He shifted now and looked at the tray of food on the floor—it was all the same colour. White bread, pasty cereal and white milk, all delivered on white paper plates, plus a Styrofoam cup of pale tea. He could have pissed stronger. But he knew he’d better get used to it, because prison food wasn't going to be any better.
He swung his long, lean legs off the mattress and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He rotated his neck to alleviate the cricks that had gathered during his sleepless night, then rolled his shoulders to loosen them. Finally, he got down on his hands and knees on the grimy concrete floor and cranked out twenty perfect press-ups.
Afterwards he made his way to the stainless-steel sink in the corner, which supplied cold water in short bursts if he kept his hand on the tap. There, he refreshed his face to rid his gritty eyes of what the Sandman had delivered as he’d dozed. There were no paper towels, so he dried his face as best he could on the tail end of his shirt. He could feel the sharp stubble thickening on his face.
He glanced at the tray of pasty food and picked up the tea, which was still faintly warm. He drank it down in one go to avoid it hitting his taste buds, then started on the bread. It had a dry feel to it; clearly it was meant to be toast. He forced himself to chew; he knew he’d need to keep his strength up, although he didn't feel much like eating. He prized the soft cereal down after the bread, then rinsed his mouth as best he could in the sink using his finger as a make-do toothbrush.
His teeth felt furry; his mouth tasted sour.
He turned at the sound of voices outside his cell. There was the now-familiar sound of keys, then the push of a welcome breeze as the door opened back into his space. His solicitor had arrived. Tall with long greying hair, he looked like an extra from Lord of the Rings; he just needed a cape and a horse. His name was Howard King; he looked ready for action in his well-cut navy suit, but his eyes were full of concern. His glasses magnified the effect.
“I wanted to meet you here rather than in an interview room. Hope you don't mind,” King said by way of greeting.
Michael shrugged; it made no difference to him where they talked. Howard King sat on the edge of the bed. In the absence of a table and chairs it was the only place to sit. Michael joined him, keeping a little distance between them; he was conscious of his personal hygiene status. Michael would normally have made a joke about having a chat on a bed, but now was neither the time nor the place.
/> “They'll be charging you today, I'm afraid. Not the news we’d hoped for, but the Crown Prosecution Service feels they have enough evidence for a case against you. Then it’s off to the Magistrates court where, because it’s murder, they will no doubt commit you, the accused, in custody, to the Crown Court. It’s the Judge at Crown Court that has the say on your future. I, of course, will be working on getting you bail, but murder is a serious charge, an indictable only offence and I must warn you not to get your hopes up.”
Michael dipped his head in resignation. Despite having prepared himself for the worst during the night, this wasn't the news he wanted to hear.
Chapter Fifteen
Jack met Eddie coming back from the cells; he was grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. Jack had seen Hardesty’s solicitor leave and knew that Hardesty had been charged. He should have felt pleased, himself—they’d been after the man for long enough—but it felt a bit like catching Al Capone on tax evasion: it wasn't quite right. While Capone had served a lesser sentence than he deserved, given the 33 deaths he’d ultimately been responsible for, Hardesty would be the reverse. Some would say his murder charge was exactly what he deserved. He had been responsible for the pain and suffering of others besides Ches McAllister, and now he was going to pay for it.
“What a result,” Eddie exclaimed, pumping his fist in the air. Jack raised a weak smile. He knew that for Eddie, this meant a nice neat tick against the charge and a hearty slap on the back from higher up. For Jack, though, like the rest of Eddie's minions, it meant simply a pint of bitter at the pub later.
“And he’ll be straight off to the remand centre,” Eddie carried on, “the magistrate won’t be letting him go home tonight, not for murder. A little less scum on the street, and another job well done.”
