Jack Rutherford and Amanda Lacey Box Set

by Linda Coles

  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.”

  Jack and Eddie walked back out to the fresher air of the car park, where Eddie lit a cigarette. Jack watched on, glad to be out and above the surface again. The bowels of the station felt like being in a submarine at times, and the lack of fresh circulating air made him feel unclean. Prison would be a terrible place to spend the rest of your life, he thought.

  Eddie drew on the white, papery stick as though it was his last breath, and Jack watched as the smoke trickled through his nostrils. Eddie licked his lips. They looked cracked and sore and needed some Vaseline. Jack had some in his desk drawer that Janine had given him, but he wasn't going to volunteer it; he didn't want Eddie’s germs transferred on to his own lips. He shuddered; Eddie did his bit on the sleeping-around front; for whatever reason, the ladies seemed to like him.

  The sun came out from behind a concrete-coloured cloud, and for a few moments it was almost too bright without sunglasses on. Instinctively, both men turned their backs on the glare, making use of the shade their bodies created. Neither of them spoke, each enjoying the feeling of cleansing air wafting around their faces. It had been a long 24 hours. Two motorbikes sped past on the main road out front, weaving dangerously in and out of traffic, their engines spluttering loudly as gears changed. They sounded like phlegm clearing in a mechanical throat.

  “So that's that, then,” said Jack. “Magistrates next up, then off to the big house to wait it out. The McAllister family will be chuffed, but I do feel sorry for Hardesty’s wife, Barbara, and their daughter Cassy. This could hit Cassy especially hard; she’s a vulnerable 16-year-old now, and she’s quite close to her dad. I think he had designs on her taking over one day.”

  “A bit of a looker, too. She’ll be in hot demand in another couple of years,” Eddie said, and leered.

  Jack made a disgusted face and ignored him; the man had no class at all. “Aren’t you a little surprised at the CPS charging him?” he said. “I didn’t think there was much usable physical evidence of him planning the murder. Lots of circumstantial, but not much else. I must admit I’m wondering why; aren’t you?”

  “Not particularly, and quite honestly, as long as the man’s going down, I couldn’t really much care.”

  “Do you think he’ll plead guilty or not?”

  “If he’s any sense, he’ll plead guilty. It’s stacked against him.” Eddie sucked the last of the nicotine out of the stub of cigarette between his fingers, and then flicked it away. It landed alongside a strewn pile of other butts, and Jack watched it as it slowly smouldered, a tiny stream of smoke rising and dissipating. A butt graveyard.

  “Did you know it takes near on five years for a cigarette stub to finally degrade? So, you tossing your butt is no different than you tossing your gum paper out the window.” Jack turned to meet Eddie’s eyes as he said the last words, waiting for a reaction.

  “Pick it up, then,” Eddie said, and turned to head back inside.

  Jack sighed and left the butt where it was. He had a modicum of respect for his direct boss, but that didn’t include picking up his rubbish. As they headed back indoors, his thoughts turned to Hardesty again. He would wait for his brief appearance before a magistrate, then would be off and out of the way—and Jack would move on to more pressing cases. Idly, he wondered who the magistrate would be and who Eddie had been dealing with at the CPS. But it didn’t really matter; decisions had been made, and the legal ball was rolling. If Hardesty pleaded guilty, it would pass for sentencing and his life would carry on behind bars. If he disputed the charges and pled not guilty, he’d get his time to explain and defend himself in the Crown Court in front of a judge and twelve of his peers.

  “Rather him than me,” Jack said as the doors shut behind them. “On to the next case.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Michael sat back on his mattress. His solicitor, Howard King, hadn’t seemed particularly hopeful he’d be going home mid-morning, and the prospect of life confined by grimy concrete walls was daunting. Yes, he’d done a stint some years ago, but he’d been younger then. He hadn’t had a family to worry about and indeed hadn’t had anyone other than himself to think about. But that was then and this was now. He rolled the scenarios, the two possible choices he had, around in his head. If he pleaded guilty, he’d never get bail, but would get a shorter sentence when the judge heard his case for saving valuable court time and costs. It would be all over and done with in the blink of an eye, but he’d be incarcerated for the next who knew how long. He’d be at least ten years older when he got out. But Barb and Cassy would be safe—until he was released at least, though after that they’d have to reassess. Maybe move away, move to another country even, somewhere warmer. Australia was a possibility, or New Zealand even.

  On the other hand, if he pleaded not guilty, bail was doubtful, but he would get a trial in front of a judge and jury. Surely, they’d see there wasn’t enough evidence to convict him of murder. That it had been an accident, nothing premeditated about it. He could be set free, then run off to start fresh with the two women in his life, maybe run a nice bar in the Mediterranean.

  He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. Either option was frightening—there wouldn’t be a man or woman on earth who would find his situation appealing. And so, the turmoil in his head tossed about like washing in a tumble drier, bits and pieces bashing against the metal drum and falling to the bottom of it to be picked back up and tossed around again. In another hour or so, the tumble drier in his head would have to stop, and wherever the thoughts settled, that would be the decision he’d have to choose.

  The now-familiar sound of a key turning in his locked door brought his attention back to the stinking room he’d spent the night in. The welcome whoosh of fresh air once again pushed into his space, and Howard King filled the doorway. His hair seemed to be even greyer than when he’d left earlier on, and his expression was even more hopeless, if anything. He did however, hold a clean shirt, a tie and a suit for Michael to change into for his appearance.

  Michael stood. “Any chance of a shower and a shave?” he asked.

  Howard entered the room fully, and the door closed behind him. “Afraid not. But look at it this way: you’re not in a dry cell. At least you’ve been able to wash your hands and face.”

  “I’ll count myself lucky, then. Do I get my shoelaces back?”

  Howard produced them from his own pocket and handed them over. “We leave shortly, so get yourself changed,” he said. He handed the shirt to Michael and laid the suit and tie on the mattress behind him.

  “Have you come to a decision?” Howard asked. “Only it would really help me if I knew what you were going to plead,” he said dryly. “I’m on your side, remember?”

  Michael took off the sour shirt he’d been wearing so far, dipped it under the tap and used it as a makeshift wash cloth, wiping it under his arms and around his neck. It wasn’t much, but it was all that was on offer. Fragrant hot showers were not part of the en-suite facilities in police custo
dy cells. He tossed the sodden shirt to the floor and slipped the fresh one on; he felt better immediately. He was conscious he still hadn’t answered Howard’s question, but he focused on switching his trousers over and then threaded his shoes with the retrieved laces. The tumble drier in his head was still churning.

  When he’d slipped his jacket on, he stood tall and, facing his solicitor, took a deep breath before he spoke. “I’m not guilty. I didn’t do this. I’m not going to say I did.” He sniffed loudly, wrinkling his nose and upper lip like a boxer putting his fight face on before he entered the ring, his neck thrust forward, shoulders back. At his full stature, he could easily be a basketball player, and he towered over Howard King, who had to look up at him slightly when he spoke.

  “That’s all I need to know. Now, do you understand what will happen this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “But as I say, a murder charge means bail is unlikely. Your reputation as a party pill dealer doesn’t work in your favour, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m a businessman.”

  “That might be so, but the court won’t like your business model. So, I’ll see you in your cell just before you’re called, then again at the proceedings, and finally after the ruling. How are you feeling?”

  Michael wanted to roll his eyes. What a dumb question. “Have a guess.”

  Howard looked slightly embarrassed and broke eye contact with his client as he banged on the cell door to be let back out. “I’ll see you shortly.”