by Conrad Jones
“What do you mean?”
“They had torches so I could see them,” he grimaced. “One of them was okay at first but the other one was ruined when they got there. His face was like a balloon, blood everywhere. Then they started torturing them, both of them. It was shocking to listen to, made me sick, the sound of them in pain.” He paused and put his hands over his ears. “They were screaming for hours but I daren’t look. Then they set fire to them. I could smell the petrol and the smell of burning skin, stinks it does. Knocked me sick, I can tell you. I couldn’t get out so I waited until they had gone. I waited ages in case they were outside watching, I was shitting myself.”
“I’m not surprised. You said that you know their names?”
“Yes. It was the Tuckers.” He nodded. “Everyone knows the Tuckers, fucking bastards they are.”
“I’ve been away for a while, Cookie so fill me in, who are the Tuckers?” Braddick asked.
“They’re brothers, Joe and Tommy,” Cookie looked around, nervous again as if the darkness could hear him betraying them. “They grew up in Toxteth. I knew them when we were all teenagers. We used to hang around together back then, you know drinking, a bit of weed here and there and girls,” he laughed sadly, “there were loads of girls around in those days. I used to take my pick back then.” Braddick nodded but didn’t comment. Whatever assets Cookie had as a young man, time had taken them from him. He looked to be in his mid sixties but Braddick reckoned he was twenty years younger than that. “The Tuckers started nicking cars and selling them and then they moved into drugs too, made a lot of money before they were twenty.”
“How long ago are we talking about here?”
“Twenty years or so, give or take,” Cookie half smiled. “I’ve probably lost a decade off my tits somewhere,” he joked but there was no mirth in his eyes. “We were all in our late teens when we met.”
Braddick nodded and smiled. “Carry on.”
“I did bits and pieces for them. They looked after me in the early days, always had a few bob in my pocket,” he looked at Braddick; his eyes seemed to glaze over, his mind focused on a time gone by. Whatever he could see in his mind were bitter sweet memories. His expression was melancholy but a smile touched the corner of his lips. “They were bad bastards back then but they’re ten times worse nowadays. When they stepped into drugs, I started to deal a bit of smack for them but I got a taste for my own stock and ended up taking more than I was selling. When I couldn’t pay them, I went in to hiding for a few weeks but they found me. They broke both my arms and threw me in the river, nearly drowned I did. I spent three months in a cast and my arms were never the same again. I never worked after that,” he shrugged as if it explained his predicament. “I’ve fucking hated them ever since but what could I do.”
“So you recognised them and you’re sure it was them that you saw?” Braddick could feel excitement building in his gut. “It was definitely the Tuckers?”
“I didn’t say that I saw them,” Cookie raised a finger. “I recognised their voices. You never forget someone’s voice. It was them alright and they’re as nuts as they ever were.”
“Okay, Cookie, then what happened?” Braddick said taking out his mobile phone.
“They were there for hours hurting them poor blokes. Eventually they fucked off in their vehicles and took the men with them. I can’t go back in there,” Cookie grimaced. “There’s blood everywhere and it stinks. I’ve moved next door into the old carpet warehouse.”
“You’ve done the right thing by telling me.”
“I knew what they had done was really bad but when I heard they were dead and dumped in an alleyway, I knew I would have to tell you; I couldn’t say nothing, it isn’t right.”
“You’ve done the right thing,” Braddick repeated. He took out his wallet and pulled out four twenties. “Here, make sure you use some of it to eat.”
“I will thanks.”
“You’ll be in the carpet warehouse if I need to speak to you?”
“I’ll be around here somewhere, it’s home now. If you pull behind B&Q and beep your horn, I’ll come to you,” Cookie opened the door and jumped out. He held up the notes and smiled, “thanks for this. You’re a good one.” He shut the door, turned around and pulled up his hood, jogging into the darkness; his dark clothing made him invisible in seconds. “You’re a good one!” his voice echoed across the car park from the blackness.
“So are you,” Braddick said to no one. He put in a call to Canning Place and finished his coffee. An armed unit would come to check the place over to make sure it was safe and the forensic team would be at the bowling alley in an hour. In the meantime he needed to find out all about the Tuckers and begin the difficult task of putting together the risk assessments that would be required to plan their arrests. Any chance of sleeping vanished into the darkness with Cookie. He looked towards the derelict retail park and sighed; he was completely unaware of the eyes that watched him from the darkness.
19
At the hospital, the Evans family had to leave Bryn and were taken through the ward by two armed officers. The lights were low, only the odd murmur from sickly patients could be heard. They walked by the nurses’ station and the ward sister looked up from her paperwork for a moment. She smiled at Barbara Evans, a mother empathising with another; the gesture said, ‘Good luck. I hope your family survives this unscathed’, all in a split second of eye contact. Barbara nodded and returned her smile, the message received and appreciated. They pushed through a set of doors into a brightly lit area that was fitted with comfortable seats and vending machines; its sole occupant sat with his elbows on his knees, a cup of tepid coffee-like liquid in his hands. He didn’t notice the strange group appearing as he stared into the cup looking for the answers to a million questions. ‘Why couldn’t they cure it? Why had it come back? Why had it chosen his daughter in the first place?’
Simon looked at him and felt for him. Anyone that was drinking vending machine coffee at that time of the night while the hospital slept was too scared to go home in case their loved one died. The lonely man’s agony was similar to his own; a loved one in life threatening peril, the family helpless to protect them. No amount of money could help the grieving man; all he could do was wait.
Above the door an exit sign pointed to their left but the officers ignored it and turned right. When they reached the main corridor they skirted by the public lifts and reached double doors that were covered with plastic dust sheets. The policemen lifted the plastic and opened the doors, allowing the family inside. They headed through a newly constructed wing, as yet unoccupied. The odour of paint and polish mingled with dust and plaster. Thick tape crisscrossed the window glass and electrical cable hung from the ceiling tiles waiting to be fastened to light fittings. Their footsteps sounded louder than they should against the newly laid floors. Simon was nervous as he listened to his parents panting. A hundred yards on, they pushed through some double doors into a dimly lit corridor and made their way silently for fifty yards to the next set of doors. The lights of the city twinkled below, filtering through the dusty glass, casting long shadows inside. Barbara and Robert were struggling with the pace, their breathing heavy, loud and laboured. Robert kept wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve, his sons glancing at him each time, worried that he might keel over at any second. Simon and Mark flanked them, patiently guiding them behind the policemen. Mark looked around nervously, agitated at leaving his younger brother behind yet eager to get his elderly parents to safety. Simon appeared cool, a calming influence on them all.
“The service lifts are at the far end of the ward opposite this one,” one of the officers said over his shoulder.
“Thank heavens for that,” Robert sighed. “I’m knackered. I was going to stop and ask for an iron lung.”
“Better make that two,” Barbara puffed.
“Nearly there,” the officer chuckled dryly. “Have you got somewhere safe to go tonight?”
“Yes,” Robert
began to answer but a nudge in the ribs from Simon silenced him. He looked at his son confused.
“We’re heading to the Lakes,” Simon interrupted. “We’ve booked a hotel for tonight and we’ll see what tomorrow brings.”
“It’s the best we could do at such short notice,” Mark added.
“I love the Lakes, Bowness is my favourite,” the officer said as they turned a corner. “Me and the wife used to go there often. Mind you, it’s expensive now. Whereabouts are you staying?”
Simon and Mark exchanged glances.
“Ambleside,” Simon lied. It was difficult to have an innocent conversation even with their protectors without giving something away. Braddick had told Mark to tell no one where they were going, not even the police, even if they asked. Paranoia pricked their minds like red hot needles, their faceless stalkers hiding behind every door. The clatter of metal rattled from the walls, sounding louder in the empty building.
“Hello!” One of the officers called out. There was no reply but the sound of metal scraping against tile reached them from beyond a bend in the corridor. The group edged forward slowly, the policemen setting the pace. A voice drifted to them, the words garbled, then another voice whispering. Simon couldn’t tell if it was English or not but they were male voices, a distance away. The group waited while the policemen listened, tense, alert and ready for trouble. Footsteps came now, two sets approaching slowly, the whispering voices interspersed with hoarse laughter, closer but still out of sight, hidden by the bend. The policemen gestured for them to move slowly and then stopped dead as two men appeared at the other end of the corridor. They were wearing overalls seemingly oblivious to their presence, lost in conversation, one of them carrying a stepladder, the other a toolbox. Their chatter stopped when they saw the armed officers and they moved over to one side of the corridor to allow them to pass. As they neared, they eyed the family suspiciously as if wondering why an armed escort was required in a hospital.
“No one is supposed to be in this wing, it’s not finished yet,” one of them said gruffly. “Are you lost?”
“We’re not lost thanks,” an officer replied curtly. He stopped and looked them up and down. His hand moved towards his Glock. “We were told that this section would be empty. What are you doing here?”
“Working obviously,” the workman shrugged, nodding to his stepladder.
“In the dark?”
“It isn’t dark where we’ve been working obviously,” the workman grinned. “We’re just heading to the next section. He’s a painter and I’m a network fitter.” The officer eyed their tools. One of the men had some paint brushes in his top pocket, the other a toolbox. “We’re on our way through here to another section that needs some cabling and a bit of touching up.” He paused to look at the group. “What are you lot doing in here anyway?” he asked frowning. “What would you be doing in here so late? I mean we’ve got work to do...”
“Then I suggest you get on with it,” the officer replied. “And mind your own business on the way.”
“No need to be so rude,” the painter grumbled. “It’s bad enough working nights without getting grief from you lot.” The men looked at each other and frowned. They moved away without answering, mumbling as they went. The policemen remained tense and alert until they had gone.
“They’re just doing their job, officer,” Robert said, feeling the policeman was a touch heavy handed. “They’re just trying to earn a living.”
“We were told that this corridor was nearly completed and that we shouldn’t encounter anyone at all at this time of night,” he explained. “They may well be a couple of contractors skiving but we can’t take any chances with your safety, Mr Evans. You understand that don’t you?” he said to the family as a whole. They nodded silently, the gravity of their situation becoming clearer with each turn. “Okay, let’s go.”
The group moved onwards and turned the corner where the workmen had appeared. Mark noticed spots of dark paint splashed every few yards. The paint spots appeared wet and sticky. It seemed odd but he didn’t want to alert the others and scare his parents. He reached around and tapped Simon on the hand, nodding to the random splashes. Simon looked down, his face deadpan. A concerned look crossed his face almost imperceptibly. The group moved on, the officers apparently oblivious to the paint spots. Mark didn’t know much about constructing multimillion pound medical facilities but he didn’t think that any accidental spillages would be left on newly laid floors, especially not in the middle of the night. He wasn’t sure why it struck him as strange but it did. The sound of metal crashing to the floor echoed down the corridor from behind them followed by the sound of running feet thumping on the ground. It seemed to bounce from the walls, engulfing them in noise. Mark couldn’t tell if the footsteps were advancing towards them or retreating. His heart was pounding in his chest, his muscles tensed for an attack.
The armed officers turned and pointed torches along the corridor. In the far distance, two figures were running away and something lay across the floor. Mark thought it might be a set of stepladders but it was difficult to tell for sure. His hackles were rising, the blood pumping through his veins. The silence was deafening.
“We move on,” the officer said assertively. Their weapons remained holstered but their hands were never far away from them. “Stay close and do not stop, no matter what happens, understand?” The family nodded as one. Mark saw the officer eying the paint splashes. His eyes flickered to his colleague who had spotted it too. He knelt and dipped his index finger into the sticky liquid, sniffing it. “It is paint,” he said, reassuring everyone that it wasn’t blood. No one had said it but everyone was thinking it. “Let’s go.”
The officers moved quickly, their strides wide but remarkably quiet. Mark and Simon did their best to guide their parents along at a pace that wouldn’t exhaust them completely. With five yards to go to reach the next set of doors, the paint drops became more frequent, thicker and pooled; some were smeared, half footprints leading from the doors. No professional had made the mess. The officers didn’t hesitate, their hands closed over their holstered weapons. They pushed the doors open and stepped into a wide stairwell which housed two lifts and was lit by fluorescent lighting. Tall windows ran from one landing to the next, allowing the sun’s rays to flood in during daylight hours. A thick layer of building dust covered everything and the cloying smell of paint was thick in the air.
One of the officers stopped still in his tracks and pushed Mark towards the lifts. “Get them over there,” he said trying to hide something. “There’s a stairwell to the left of the lifts. Get your parents down them quickly! I’m right behind you.”
Mark steered his mum and dad across the landing, looking over his shoulder as he did so, trying to make sense of what the officer had seen. Someone had painted a morbid mural on the white wall that spanned from one floor to the next. It was more than fifteen feet tall. The crude image of a hanging man, his neck snapped, tongue lolling out had been daubed on the stairwell wall. It looked like it had been painted by a child; the crudeness making it more striking. Painted below the gallows were four headless bodies, the red paint representing their blood. Scrawled below it was...
RIP THE EVANS FAMILY, YOU’RE GOING TO BURN IN HELL
Liam Johnson toyed with the mobile phone and stared at the road, his thoughts bouncing around his head. No matter how he played it out, Ray was going to end up badly hurt or worse. Time was ticking away and he still could not come up with the answer. He had gone through each scenario in his head but each one ended as a disaster. The truth was that there was no one that he could turn to and no one that he could trust. He pushed up his sleeves as he pondered and Katelyn noticed the wounds on his hands and arms for the first time. She drew breath sharply, the air hissed between her teeth.
“What the hell have you done to your arms?”
“I fell through some glass.”
“You fell through some glass?”
“Yes.”
&nb
sp; “What glass for God’s sake?”
“It happened at work, don’t go on.”
“Oh. I’m going on now am I?” she tutted dramatically. “Silly me for caring.”
“Don’t have a go at me, Katelyn. Not right now.”
“And what are you wearing?” Katelyn nudged him and looked into his eyes. Her son Daryl had his earphones in and seemed oblivious, staring out of the glass as the rain dribbled down the windows. Traffic was light, brake lights blurred through the glass and rain, warping into coloured blobs. Katelyn looked into Liam’s eyes, searching for an explanation, part of her dreading the answer, not daring to know the truth in case it destroyed what they had. She had warned him that the first sign of anything that would endanger her or Daryl and she was gone. Daryl’s real father had been a small time dope dealer and despite her warnings, his clients continued to knock on her door until one day one of them became violent with him and made threats against them. She packed her bags and never spoke to him again. “They’re not your clothes. What is going on?”
“I got wet,” Liam shrugged, his face reddening.
“Wet?” she asked calmly. “You fell through some glass and got wet. Did you fall into a shower or something?”
“It was an accident at work, that’s all.”
“Is this the best you can come up with?”
“Please don’t go on at me.”
“I’m not going on at you,” she said shaking her head, “I’m trying to find out what is going on but it is like playing give us a clue with a tree.”
“It is complicated and I don’t want you to worry.”
“Don’t worry,” she sighed. “The police evacuated the entire street and you mysteriously turned up at the same time in someone else’s clothes, battered and bruised but you don’t want me to worry?”
“Yes. I don’t want you to worry.”
