by Mark Newman
‘He’s part of Thompson’s crew, he’s your way in.’
‘Where do I find him?’
‘And if I tell you, you’ll leave?’
‘If you don’t bullshit me and I get my money, I got no reason to come back.’
Kennedy nodded. ‘Stop by Ardenlea, number forty-two, that’s Thompson’s place. Guarantee he won’t be there, but you might get some answers.’
Baxter turned to go; he’d already wasted enough time. ‘Don’t make me come back, Kennedy.’
‘Wait, where’s Lorna, what have you done with her?’
Baxter pulled the internal door open. ‘Safe, tucked up in bed where you left her.’ He watched Kennedy squirming against the pain. ‘I’d get that looked at if I was you, can’t see you playing for Rangers anytime soon though.’
‘Fuck you, Sassenach.’ Baxter smiled, then turned and left, pulling the internal door shut behind him. He made his way down the hall towards the front door. Pulling it open, the cold night air swept in, whipping up the concoction of house odours. A wild shrieking noise forced him to spin back around. Instinct kicked in, he raised his 9mm, confronted with a naked woman thumping down the stairs, a baseball bat aloft, doing her best Boudicca war cry.
Jesus Christ. He pulled the front door shut behind him and made his way to the Volvo. Ardenlea his next stop.
Chapter 12
Baxter drove across to [DA5] Thompson’s address in Ardenlea. As he’d expected, Thompson was long gone. He followed the trail of blood along the hallway, leading to the pantry, the place of death. He shone his torch around, the blood spatter was evident sprayed across the walls, he shone it upwards, the arterial spray fanning out wide, fine traces of blood covering most of the ceiling,.
He guessed it belonged to Johnston, McAlister’s muscle who’d been sent to retrieve the cash. Going by the amount of blood at the crime scene, Baxter’s best guess was that he’d had his throat slit from behind. Body number three, Thompson was on a roll. He had to have had help. Maybe he’d employed a simple distraction technique, allowing the assailant to creep up unnoticed. Baxter looked around for clues, there was nothing but a shabby enamel Belfast sink. He took a closer look. The basin was bloodstained. Someone had done what they could to clean up in a hurry. A rudimentary attempt to rinse the basin clean was evident, but the perpetrator was out of time. This wasn’t about covering tacks or even trying to hide evidence; this was someone desperate to flee the scene.
Sitting back in his car, Baxter looked through his notes, like police work, it was a process of elimination and the application of nous. The next address on his list belonged to Billy Kane. He took out the A-Z road map. Finding the location, he estimated it to be no more than two miles away. He checked the dashboard clock; at this hour, he should be able to cover it in ten minutes.
He parked up way down the street and walked the hundred yards to number ninety-six. He passed by like any other pedestrian would on their way home from a night out on the town, his eyes glancing up from the front window to the bedroom; there was nothing to see but darkness. He stopped just past the house, pretending to tie a shoelace, listening hard for any telltale signs of movement from inside. He heard nothing. He continued to end of the terraced row, taking a right turn. He stopped on the corner, hidden in the shadow of the end house, using the cover as an observation point to scan the street.
He could opt to go in through the front door, which would be the easiest, and by far the quickest solution, but the street lamp directly outside, three feet from the entrance, made it unviable, any curtain-twitching neighbour would see him in an instant and raise the alarm. Baxter walked on following the seven-foot high brick wall, the coping stones sitting on top housing three stretches of barbed wire all the way along. An assortment of broken pieces of coloured, jagged glass in situ, cemented in place in no particular fashion. A fortified garden wall designed to keep unwanted visitors out. Those stupid to enough to attempt to scale it at risk of causing severe injury to hands or knees.
Ten feet farther along, Baxter found a narrow, close board timber gate. He pushed down on the latch, it gave a little, tricking him into thinking it would open freely. Then he hit the resistance, an additional chain latch. He pushed hard against it with his shoulder, it extended four inches but held solid. A dog in the near distance began barking; it quickly turned to a chorus as other neighbourhood dogs joined the cacophony. Baxter ignored it. He took a step back and threw his shoulder at the gate. The sound of splintering wood was like music to his ears. He fell, landing on a heap of black bin bags awaiting collection. A light went on in a rear bedroom of the end terrace house but he couldn’t concern himself with that now. He had to get to Kane.
He ran forty feet back down the alleyway, observing the boundary fences between properties and counting back to locate number ninety-six. He glanced back in the direction of the house that had the rear window illuminated, it turned to darkness. The neighbour deciding it wasn’t worth the confrontation or the potential of becoming another statistic.
Baxter stopped running, he was standing next to a three-foot high, hinged, wooden pallet masquerading as a gate, he pushed it open and dodged his way through the various pieces of detritus scattered across the back yard. To reach the back door he had to pass through the assault course, navigating a path through a swath of discarded beer cans, empty whisky bottles, and broken pieces of furniture. Upon reaching the door, he squeezed in between an old refrigerator and a ragged, floral armchair, silent sentries framing the doorway.
He pushed down lightly on the door handle, to his surprise it opened with ease. He was standing in the entrance to a galley kitchen. To his right, was a mangy toilet, smelling as if someone had forgotten to collect their intestines on the way out. He wrinkled his nose at the foul smell and did his best to keep his breathing shallow. He stepped inside and faced left, letting his eyes follow the line of units, past the overflowing sink and beat-up old cooker that looked in need of an industrial sand blaster to bring it back to life. He was nine feet from a connecting door that led on to the living area.
From the look and smell of the place, he guessed that Billy Kane lived alone. A solitary bachelor, there was no way any woman would put up with the stench, let [DA6] alone anything else. That would make things easier and lessen the complications; in his experience of situations like this, it was the women who were fierce and unpredictable.
Baxter walked through to the adjoining room, pulling the door to behind him, welcoming the chance to put some distance between himself and the aroma of raw sewage. The first thing he noticed was the sound of light snoring; he twisted his head to the right, his eyes struggling to focus in the low light. He followed the noise and settled on the outline of a mound crashed out on the sofa.
He ignored it, scanning the room for other bodies, potential hazards that could be a cause for concern once he got started. There was nothing. He made his way upstairs, checking each room in turn. Still nothing, just him and Billy Kane, if that’s whom he turned out to be.
Baxter sat watching the mound, listening to the sounds getting louder with each intake of breath. Kane imitating a wild boar. Enough of this shit.
He pulled the mound from the sofa, letting it fall the short distance to the floor. It landed with a thud. Baxter waited five seconds; the mound moved and groaned then reverted back to snoring. He aimed for the gut; he pulled his leg back and directed two successive kicks to the mid-section. The sound of air forcing its way from lungs resembled a wheezing, punctured bicycle tyre. Baxter wasn’t waiting; he moved to the groin area, whacked another vicious kick, landing it with precision. The mound recoiled, taking on a foetal shape for self-preservation.
He worked his way up to the head, his boot stomping down hard on Kane’s frontal lobe. ‘You awake yet, or you want me to give it some more?’
Kane’s eye’s flicked open. ‘No more, who the fu..?’ The potential expletive killed in his vocal cords as Baxter’s paw like fist clutched at his windpipe. Kane’s
hands flapped aimlessly trying to bat away the attack.
Baxter flipped his captive over on to his front, then leant on him, wrenching Kane’s hands up high in to the middle of his back. He took out his plastic cable ties and applied one to his wrists, pulling it tight, deliberately letting the plastic bite in to the skin, drawing blood.
‘What are you doing, who are you?’
‘I’m asking the questions, Billy, got that? Be easier on you if you don’t fight it.’
‘How’d you know my name, eh?’
Baxter remained silent; he took out another set of plastic ties and fixed them in place around the ankles.
Billy struggled against the restraints. ‘You know who I work for, right? Making a big mistake, pal. Malkie Thompson, heard of him? He’s gonna come for you. I’ll see to it. Fuck you up, English bastard.’
Baxter leaned down and smacked Kane hard in the face. ‘About time you shut up and listened, Billy.’
Billy Kane lay on the floor spitting broken enamel shards from his mouth so not to choke on them. He was helpless, his arms trussed up behind his back, his ankles bound tight. Incapacitated, at the mercy of his captor.
Baxter hoisted Kane back up on to the sofa, leaving him sitting awkward on a forty-five degree angle, with his arms uncomfortable, crossed high in the middle of his back, the cramping pains instantaneous.
He stood back and admired his handiwork. ‘Now, before we begin, here’s the rules. You listening, Billy? Pay attention now, you don’t want to miss anything.’
‘Get fucked, Sassenach, you’re no more than a walking corpse.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘Fuck you.’
Baxter brought his boot down hard, the full force shattering Billy’s left shinbone. Kane let out a howl like an animal snared in the hunters trap. Baxter moved forward, inches from his face. ‘You need to listen and listen well. No more bullshit, you talk when I say you can.’
Kane’s breathing, fast and ragged, the sweat running free from his brow. ‘The fuck you want?’
‘Progress, see it’s easy when you try. So your boss, Thompson, where is he?’
‘How the fuck should I know?’
Baxter moved forward, applied pressure to the shattered shinbone. ‘Want to try that again?’
‘Jesus Mother…’
Baxter grabbed his captive by the hair, yanked him forward ‘Ssh, ssh now, Billy, he’s not hearing you. It’s just you and me.’
Kane’s eyes bulged from their sockets, his chest heaving up and down, hyperventilating. ‘He’ll kill me.’
‘And you think I won’t, Billy?’
‘You’re serious; you’re going after Malkie? You even know who the fuck he is?’
‘I’ve got an idea.’
‘See you, you’re fucked in the head, pal.’
‘Tell me where he is and this ends.’
‘Do yourself a favour, big man, whoever you are, whoever sent you. Go. Leave while you can.’
‘Known him long?’
‘Aye, all my fucking life.’
‘And you’re part of his crew?’
‘See, Malkie and me go way back. School days. Time-shared. Fucking bonded we are. Like brothers. And you think I’d sell him out to some Sassenach. Dream on, big man.’
‘Seems he’s stepping up a league, your pal Malkie. Taking out McAlister like that. Ballsy. I just spoke with Kennedy; you’ve heard of him right, Billy, the quartermaster? Well now he’s just moved up to the number one slot in the organisation. Know what he’s doing first? No? I’ll tell you then, put you out of your misery. Housekeeping, Billy. And guess who gave me your address?’
‘McAlister’s dead?’
‘What, you didn’t know, your mate Malkie kept you out of the loop, dear oh dear, Billy, that’s not on is it? I thought you two were bonded? Time served you said.’
‘No way McAlister’s dead, you’re trying to fuck with my head.’
‘Ask yourself this, Billy, why would I even bother? You know what, I’m bored. Fancy a cup of tea? I know I do.’
‘You the police, or something?’
‘Not anymore. Consider me a concerned citizen. Someone with a conscience to do the right thing. That’s where you come in, Billy.’
‘Me. Why the fuck would I help you out?’
Baxter moved towards the kitchen. ‘Because it’s the right thing to do.’
‘Tea or coffee? Provided you got some of course. Nescafé or Gold Blend? You look more like a Nescafé man to me Billy.’
‘Listen pal, this is fucked. Don’t know who you are, you got your wires crossed. You should go before Malkie and the boys turn up. Do yourself a favour eh, disappear.’
Baxter called through from the kitchen. ‘Kettle’s boiled.’ He walked back in to the room, placing the steaming kettle down on the floor in front of the sofa. ‘No one’s coming for you, Billy. Face it, you were left behind, mate. Malkie, Frank and George, they’re long gone. Just you and me now.’
He pulled Kane forward by his hair. ‘Sit up straight now, this is the fun part.’
Kane stared at his captor, unable to comprehend the complexity of the situation.
‘This is very simple, Billy. You tell me where to find Thompson, I walk out of here and you never see me again. You can go back to living carefree in this shit-hole you call home.’
‘I don’t know where he is.’
‘You said you were bonded, part of the crew, schoolmates. So I reckon you do know, Billy, you’re just holding out on me.’ Baxter took the kettle in hand and dribbled a teacup full of scalding water over Kane’s groin, letting it soak through his jeans and set to the skin like wet concrete.
Baxter muffled Kane’s scream by clamping his jaw shut tight with his hands. ‘Need to be quiet now, Billy, don’t go waking the neighbours, ssh, ssh.’ He let go, allowing Kane to breathe, each intake ragged and rasping.
‘One last chance, Billy, your choice.’
Billy Kane answered through gritted teeth. ‘Told you, don’t know where he is.’
‘Okay, let’s do it your way.’ Baxter disappeared into the kitchen again, leaving Kane to wonder at the sound of clanking pots and pans. He tried to manoeuvre himself on the sofa, desperate to get away.
Baxter returned, a yellow washing up bowl in hand. ‘Knew you had one in there somewhere under all that shit. Need to get yourself a woman, Billy. Tidy the place up a bit. Start looking after yourself, every man needs a good woman.’
‘You’re some fucking mental case.’
Baxter grabbed Kane’s ankles and placed them flat into the bowl. Kane bucked against the restraints, trying his best to get away. Thirty seconds later, with his energy spent, he lay exhausted on the couch. ‘No, please, don’t do this. Don’t do this. No. No.’
Baxter ignored the pleas, and jammed a dirty old, food stained rag of a tea towel into his mouth, forcing it to the back of his throat. ‘Now, how about we see just how strong those childhood bonds really are.’
Chapter13
The deadline had passed; Callaghan finished his drink and made his way out to the waiting Vauxhall Astra GTE Sport. He climbed in to the passenger seat and instructed the driver to head straight for the yard. There they’d swap cars. He wasn’t using his favourite vehicle for something like this, the strawberry red paint job was far too conspicuous for what he had in mind. They needed to blend in. Something non-descript and dark in colour, mundane and forgettable. Something fitting to match the sombre occasion.
Baxter needed to realise who he was dealing with. Sean Callaghan wasn’t a man to be kept waiting. Soon enough the mistake would be embedded in to his soul. Then maybe he’d make the next payment on time, once he understood the severity of the consequences.
They’d watched the house for forty-five minutes, Callaghan gave the order, the old man was crossing the road, making his way back to the quay. They let him get a good way ahead, all the time checking the road for any potential witnesses. Seeing none, they took their chance. The car, a black F
ord Cortina Mark 3, sped up to fifty mph, the impact sent the old man high in the air, hitting the bonnet then rolling off into the gutter. He never stood a chance.
Callaghan ordered the driver to stop the car.
‘Sean, we gotta go.’
‘Reverse the car.’
‘He’s dead, for sure.’
‘You gonna make me tell you again, I said reverse the fucking car.’
The driver jammed the gear stick into reverse. Hesitating, he looked to Sean.
‘Hit the bastard, drive right over him.’
The driver obeyed, the tyre tread ripping into soft tissue and splintered bone.
‘Again.’
The driver brought the Mk3 to a hard stop thirty feet from the body, his foot poised over the accelerator, teasing the revs. He daren’t question Callaghan’s logic a second time; he whacked the gearstick in to first, hit second, changed up to third, snagging the body under the belly of the car.
Callaghan smirked, feeling the old man’s carcass shudder against the metal undercarriage. ‘Now fucking drive.’
Chapter 14
The Northern Echo
Elderly Man Dies at Scene of Hit and Run
Arthur William Baxter, 68 years old, reported dead at the scene of a hit and run accident in Hotspur Street, North Shields. Residents living in the immediate area described hearing a terrible screeching noise of a car engine, sounding as though it was caught snagging on something.
Doris Littleton, an eyewitness, said that she had gone to her window, thinking that a drunk driver had ploughed in to a lamppost or garden wall. But what she went on to describe was quiet different, she witnessed the vehicle, described as a big, black or dark coloured car, reverse over an object in the road. At that point, she believed it to be the body of a large dog lying injured. Then she saw the car come to a stop and accelerate back over the object before driving off. She made her way from her house, down the garden path, and out in to the street, where a group of neighbours had begun to gather. Only then did she realise it was the body of a man.
