Jaded

by Rob Ashman

  ‘Yup, sorry.’

  ‘We will keep the police out of it, none of us wants that.’

  ‘Hey, thanks for that,’ said Marshall, mopping his eye.

  ‘For what?’ I asked.

  ‘For getting that big guy off me.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  Rolo flicked his head to the side and said to Marshall, ‘Can you give us a minute?’

  Marshall nodded and walked out, closing the door behind him.

  ‘You handled yourself well,’ said Rolo.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve done a bit in the past. Who the hell were they?’

  ‘The man with the big mouth is called Ton-Up, he’s a dealer who thinks he’s the Cali Cartel. The other two are his strong men. You did the right thing telling him to take a hike.’

  ‘That’s good to hear, I was beginning to think I hadn’t.’

  Rolo clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

  ‘Do you want to earn some extra cash?’

  Chapter 8

  Kray parked in a slot marked for visitors and they both got out. The breeze was coming off the Irish Sea, hurtling up the river Wyre from Fleetwood with the sole intention of chilling them to the bone. The metallic clanking of rigging striking against the tall masts filled the air. In front of them stood a modern two-storey building with the words Blackpool Marina Yacht Club emblazoned across it. Kray was showing her frustration, having just spent the entire journey trying to justify her earlier confusion.

  ‘So, when you said–’

  ‘Nope, never heard of them,’ repeated Tavener.

  ‘You must have. They sang “Three Times A Lady”.’ Tavener pursed his lips, shaking his head. ‘I can’t believe you’ve never heard of the… ah, I give up, what’s the name of the guy we’ve come to see?’ Kray said over the roof of the car.

  ‘Commodore Chuck Bateman, he runs the club.’

  They walked across to the main entrance, Tavener pointed to the CCTV cameras. ‘That’s a good start.’

  They pushed open the door and stepped inside. The place was open plan with pale laminate wood covering the floor and whitewashed walls. Plaques and award certificates adorned the walls along with a roll of honour announcing the committee membership. To the right there was a large hall with a bar at one end and tables clustered around a dance floor.

  Tavener reached for his phone, but before he had a chance to dial the number, they heard footsteps coming down a flight of stairs. Their eyes widened as the man strode towards them.

  ‘Hi, I’m Commodore Chuck Bateman. You must be the police officer I spoke to earlier.’

  Tavener regained control of his bottom jaw. ‘Hi, Mr Bateman, thank you for seeing us at short notice. This is DI Kray.’ Kray nodded hello.

  ‘Welcome to our yacht club,’ Bateman continued. ‘We had you chaps around a few weeks ago, something to do with that terrible incident of a man washing up on the beach.’

  ‘Yes, it is connected, Mr Bateman. Can we ask you a few questions?’

  ‘Of course, I have an office upstairs, follow me.’

  Bateman was a rotund gentleman in his fifties with a white beard and white hair, tufts of which protruded from beneath a sailor’s cap with gold braiding on the peak.

  Tavener mouthed the words, Captain Birdseye.

  Kray mouthed the words, don’t you dare.

  Bateman’s office was sparsely furnished with a huge panoramic window looking out onto the boats moored against the jetties. He ushered them to take a seat.

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Have you ever seen this man?’ Tavener held up his phone showing a picture of Michael Ellwood.

  Bateman shook his head, causing his hat to wobble. ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘Have you heard the name Michael Ellwood? Maybe one of your members might have mentioned him?’

  ‘No, never heard that name before. Sorry.’

  ‘How many members do you have, Mr Bateman?’ Kray asked.

  ‘About eight hundred.’

  ‘That’s a lot.’

  ‘We cater for all types of vessels from dinghies to cabin cruisers and everything

  in-between. Our membership is growing.’

  ‘We noticed you have CCTV, does it cover all the moorings?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. We have over three hundred boats here now and have not upgraded the system to cover everywhere.’

  ‘If I remember correctly from your previous statement, you don’t keep logs detailing when owners take their boats out?’

  ‘That’s right, but what we do have are these.’ Bateman pushed a stack of paper across the table towards Kray. ‘This is a register of our members, the names of their boats, the types of vessel and how long they have been a member of the club. You’re welcome to take it with you.’

  Kray scanned the sheaf of papers. ‘Thank you. Are all the boats listed here capable of going out to sea?’

  ‘Oh no, many of them are strictly river vessels.’

  ‘Could you indicate which ones are ocean-going?’

  Bateman frowned and reached for a highlighter pen. ‘I suppose so.’

  While he had his head down working through the list, Kray took the opportunity to slope off in order to look around. There were two conference rooms on the first floor plus a small kitchen area. The rooms were decked out with modern tables and chairs. She poked around, finding nothing of interest.

  Tavener was looking out of the window at the wooden jetties protruding out into the river like bony fingers; each one had a boat moored against it. To the right was what looked like an engineering works where boats were sitting on massive cradles. In the centre was a huge cabin cruiser.

  ‘What’s that boat?’ asked Tavener.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The big one, out of the water.’

  ‘Oh, that’s the Marine Blue, a forty-footer. The biggest boat in the club.’

  ‘It looks like it. How much would that cost?’

  ‘That depends on how she is fitted out, but you would expect to part with the thick end of a quarter of a million.’

  ‘Wow! Why is it in dry dock?’

  ‘She’s having her bottom cleaned.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry, it’s a nautical joke. Every year vessels have to be cleaned below the waterline, the only way to do it is to have them on dry land.’

  ‘How long does it take?’

  ‘Depends on how dirty she is.’

  ‘How long has that one been in dry dock?’

  ‘She had to undergo repairs and maintenance so it’s been about a month and a half now. Here, I’ve marked the vessels suitable to sail into open waters.’ He slid the wad of papers across the table.’

  Kray appeared and picked it up. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘No, we have to go, Mr Bateman.’ Kray passed her phone to Tavener for him to read what was on the screen. ‘If we think of anything we will give you a call.’

  ‘Always glad to help,’ he said, showing them out.

  They shook hands in reception and walked back to the car. Kray fastened her seatbelt.

  ‘You okay to tag along?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I could do with getting out of the office for a while. Do you know the phrase they use when they clean a boat below the waterline? It’s really funny.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  Kray sped from the car park heading for Manchester. The warrant had come through to search Ellwood’s garage.

  Chapter 9

  I’m back in Blackpool, trying to ignore Rick’s parting words while lurking on a street corner with a good view of the Paragon nightclub. It’s spelled with the middle A denoted as a capital letter and inverted in the centre of the word, another piece of genius marketing that goes right over my head.

  The pubs are rammed and there must be twenty people in the queue waiting for their chance to get in. I can’t believe how busy the place is. Since when did Thursday stop being a scho
ol night?

  Seeing Rick again was a distraction I could do without. I need to focus. The problem is, try as I might, Marshall keeps barging his way into my thoughts.

  In his day, Marshall was a handful. Long before it was popular to put two men in a cage and tell them to kill each other, he had forged a formidable reputation through bare-knuckle fighting. He had first appeared on our radar when he killed a man; a Romany who went by the name of Tyrol. He was a monster of a human being with a four stone advantage over Marshall.

  A thumping left hook to the head dislodged Tyrol’s optic nerve in the first round which meant he didn’t see the punch coming in the second. It slammed into the side of his head and his brain did a little dance against the inside of his skull. He died eight hours later in hospital. Marshall went home with the one hundred pounds prize money and, two weeks later, Tyrol went home in a casket.

  When the police investigated the death, they were greeted with a wall of silence; no one had seen anything and Marshall walked away to fight another day. That was until a bunch of Tyrol’s relatives came to visit and smashed him in the throat with a pickaxe handle. He survived but never fought for money again – well, not in the ring anyway.

  I drag myself away from thinking about Eddie bloody Marshall and assess my position. This is proving to be a challenge. The difficulty is I need to be in two places at once. My car is parked around the back facing the rear entrance, where there is an area of hardstanding for the delivery wagons to pick up and drop off the booze, plus a set of huge bins along the side. The problem is, while I’m watching the front, I have no idea what is happening around the back.

  It’s cold and the wind whips through the streets plunging the thermometer down further. Still, at least it is not raining.

  The door staff are dressed in their regulation bomber jackets and black trousers with fluorescent identification badges around their arms. They are kept busy by the raucous line of people, who for some reason are dressed like it’s the middle of summer. The grand entrance is a dazzling display of lights to entice people inside. I scan the faces of the door staff, none of them are him. I take pictures anyway – it’s strange how fieldcraft never leaves you.

  Shit, it’s started raining.

  I push myself off the wall and head around the back, getting into my car. The back of the club looks dirty and worn out, a façade quite at odds with the glitz and glamour of the front.

  ‘I’m freezing my tits off.’ Jade is hunched up in the back. I swivel the rear-view mirror to catch her face. Her bobbed black hair frames her jawline. She’s wearing a thin coat with the sleeves rolled up and enough make-up to garnish the cast of an entire fashion show. Her teeth shine brilliant white against her black lipstick.

  ‘Yeah, well it’s cold,’ I reply.

  ‘Smart guy.’

  ‘If you had a better coat then–’

  ‘Give it a rest.’

  The minutes tick by as we sit in silence. ‘What are you waiting for?’ She leans forward, placing her tattooed forearms on the back of the seat.

  ‘Don’t know yet.’

  ‘Oh well, just so long as we’re not wasting our time then?’

  ‘You can be such a dick.’

  ‘Err, excuse me, in case you haven’t noticed I’ve got one of those vagina things.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Jade slumps back in her seat and folds her arms. ‘You must have some kind of plan?’

  ‘Shhh, I need to concentrate.’

  ‘On what? All I see is bricks and mortar and sod all happening. You’ve lost the plot. You need to–’

  A shaft of light cuts through the darkness as a door opens on the mezzanine walkway of the second floor and the silhouette of a man appears in the doorway. He’s carrying a kitbag and chatting to someone over his shoulder. He steps out onto the landing, closing the door behind him and blends into the black of the brickwork. He scampers down the steps to the yard below and gets into a car.

  This is more interesting than watching a queue of drunk people.

  ‘Game on, I reckon,’ says Jade, leaning forward again, running her tongue across her lips in expectation.

  ‘Shhh!’

  Headlights come into view as he noses a dark-coloured Astra out of the gates and heads off. I wait a few seconds before filing in behind.

  The roads are empty, which means I have to keep my distance to avoid being spotted. Several times he deviates from the main roads and my heart stops when I think I’ve lost him, though I catch up each time. After twenty minutes he draws the car over to the kerb and stops. He steps out into the night air. He’s not wearing his bomber jacket nor his identification. He slings the bag over his shoulder and marches off.

  I watch as he turns a corner and jump from my car. He has about thirty yards start on me. I reach the corner and poke my head around; I can see him up ahead. I fall in behind. The sound of his heavy brogue shoes striking the pavement reverberating in the narrow street.

  I’m gaining on him. Suddenly he darts into an alleyway that runs along the backs of two sets of houses. I start counting his footsteps, 1, 2, 3, 4…

  I arrive at the alleyway and he’s still going, 15, 16, 17, 18…

  He stops at 21 and I hear the sound of a bolt being drawn across. I set off after him, counting as I go. The walls either side of me are eight feet high and the further into the alley I go the less the street lighting penetrates the darkness.

  I count my steps, 11, 12, 13, 14…

  The place stinks of mould and stagnant water.

  19, 20, 21. I stop and look around. There is a gate to my left and nothing but a brick wall to my right. I can’t see a damned thing. I jump up, putting my hands onto the top of the wall and heaving myself up. A small garden opens up onto the back of a two-up, two-down house. The light is on and I can see through the kitchen window; two men are stood chatting. I struggle to maintain my grip on the slimy bricks. Suddenly the back door springs open and my man steps out clutching the holdall.

  ‘See ya!’ he says and the door closes behind him.

  Shit, where do I go now?

  I drop to the floor and hurry further into the alleyway, crouching down. The gate creaks open and the man with the bag comes out, striding back the way he came to the main road.

  This is perfect.

  I straighten up and fall in behind, closing the gap. The noise of his shoes echo in the confined space.

  ‘Got a light, mate?’ I say. He jumps out of his skin.

  ‘Err, you what, mate?’ he says over his shoulder.

  ‘A light, have you got a light? Sorry if I startled you. There’s a woman who lives here and she doesn’t like me leaving by the front door, if you get my drift.’

  I narrow the distance between us. I’m weighing up the options.

  Will I? Won’t I? Shall I? Shan’t I?

  He turns to face me.

  ‘No mate, I don’t–’

  ‘Fucking stick him!’ Jade yells.

  I plunge the diver’s knife into the side of his neck and rip it across. His eyes pop from his face as he slumps against the wall, dropping the bag, both hands clasped to his throat. His mouth is opening and closing but no sound comes out. I step aside to avoid the arterial flow.

  His legs give way and he slides down the wall to settle on his haunches. He’s rocking back and forth, gargling. Then he’s still.

  I lean down and wipe the blade on the shoulder of his jacket, returning it to its sheath on my belt. The rain pitter-patters onto the pavement as I walk back to my car. The bag feels heavy as I drop it into the passenger footwell. I head back to the Paragon, to park up and wait.

  I catch Jade’s reflection in the rear-view mirror. She gives me a half-smile and mouths, Nice one.

  They must be going berserk by now. I’ve been sat in my car watching the back of the club for forty minutes. I can imagine the frenetic activity taking place inside. They will have called the bloke at the counting house who would have confirmed that the bagman
had left. They would have called him too.

  The head honcho will be stomping around telling everyone what he’s going to do to the bagman when he returns. Or at least that’s what I was used to, maybe this operation is different.

  The door leading out onto the top mezzanine walkway bursts open and six guys pile out. They scurry down the stairs into two cars and a Transit van. I can hear the engines revving and the squeal of tyres. The first car shoots out of the gate, closely followed by the second with the van bringing up the rear.

  I catch a glimpse of the man sat in the front of the lead car. He has less hair than when I saw him last and has put on a few pounds, but there’s no doubt in my mind… the man in the passenger seat is Eddie Marshall. My camera goes click.

  Chapter 10

  ‘I don’t give a toss, find him and bring him to the club.’ Marshall was barking orders into the hands-free set in the car. ‘He should have been back ages ago and his phone is ringing out. When you find him, call me.’

  ‘Okay, boss, will do.’ The line went dead.

  ‘That fucking Tommy… I gave him a simple job to do and he screws it up.’ The man in the driver’s seat said nothing, choosing instead to focus on the road. The car behind them turned left and sped off. The car in which Marshall was travelling carried straight on with a Transit van following close behind.

  ‘He knows we have a shipment tonight, and an auction tomorrow, and he does a moonlight flit. When I get my hands on him…’

  ‘Tommy’s normally a solid guy, maybe there was a problem with the pickup,’ said the driver.

  ‘And what’s the first thing you do if there’s a problem?’

  ‘Call you.’

  ‘Exactly. I’ve heard jack shit from him.’

  The urban roads gave way to the blue signs of the motorway. Marshall shifted in his seat to look out of the back window.

  ‘They’re still there, boss. Don’t let this situation with Tommy distract you.’

  ‘I’ll distract the little shit when I get hold of him.’

  They peeled off the M55 motorway onto the M6 and made their way across the M58 until they reached a sign saying, Bootle: All Docks. Marshall opened the glove compartment and pulled out a handgun. He ejected the magazine to check the rounds, snapping it back in place.