Henry felt they’d been at it for an age. But he knew a second could feel like a minute in a fight; in reality probably only a couple of minutes had passed. Hopefully, before Chip gathered himself for his next all out onslaught, help would arrive.
It was a forlorn hope. Abandoning any pretence at a scientific approach, Chip rushed him, all guns blazing. Henry endured a battery of kicks and punches, which ended when he managed to get both arms around his opponent in a bear hug. Pushing his hair right into Chip’s face, he rubbed hard, then released him and stepped away. Chip went straight after him but jerked to a halt, pawed at his face and eyes. The Fiery Jack Ointment Henry had rubbed into his hair back in the barn, a dirty trick but a necessary one, had done a job.
Chip stared at Henry through watery, red eyes. Like a bear pawing itself, he rubbed his eyes again, cursing Henry who knew he was so enraged that next time he wouldn’t stop until he’d used up all his formidable strength. He risked another glance over the crowd, thought he detected signs of movement near the door, didn’t have time to let his gaze linger because Chip was starting forward now, a grim implacability about him that compelled full attention.
‘Everybody stay exactly where you are!’
The booming voice echoed around the building, followed by a moment of perfect quiet, as though an hypnotic spell had been cast. Not immune to it, Chip froze, an uncomprehending look on his face. Henry let out a sigh of relief. He could see a detective standing near the door with a megaphone in his hands. Uniformed police were pouring into the building. This was what he’d been waiting for. Why had it taken so long?
The crowd came back to life. Heads swivelled seeking the voice’s source. Then a low, angry murmur started, grew in impetus, reached a crescendo as armed police in riot gear swarmed the place.
Chip stared at the policemen dressed in riot gear who burst into the cage. A plain clothes detective followed them, looked the fighters up and down with a triumphant gleam in his eye.
‘So you like playing in cages,’ he said. ‘Well, I’m sure we can provide one for you where you’re going.’
Chip and the referee knew they were beaten, said nothing. Scowling, they did as they were told, headed out of the cage, Henry falling in behind them. The punters had formed a single file, were flanked by police all the way to the door. They’d been caught bang to rights at an illegal fight and their glum faces showed their displeasure. The Jacksons were off to one side surrounded by police. Henry couldn’t see Frank with them.
A policeman at the door took names. From his lugubrious expression, he was bored with the task, but perked up when it was the turn of the two fighters who were given priority at the front of the queue.
‘King Kong and Godzilla, is it?’ he asked, brandishing his pen.
Chip grunted, ‘Mister Chip Jackson to you, pig.’
Henry gave his name. Then they were taken outside into a blaze of floodlights. The yard was full of police vans, spectators climbing in, faces like undertakers.
They were ordered into one of the vans. Danny, Jet and Terry were already inside, huddled on a bench like three identical ornaments on a crowded mantelpiece. All three were staring fixedly into space, silent as the grave. Henry took a secret delight in their discomfiture. Like them, he was put in handcuffs. Finally, two armed policemen climbed inside. One of them closed the doors and the van drove off.
The miserable drone of the engine complemented the sombre mood of the men. Danny finally dragged his eyes in Henry’s direction, stared hard, as though his brain was emerging from an enforced sleep, thinking dark thoughts.
‘Where’s that brother of yours, Torrance?’
Henry shrugged. He’d been wondering himself, figured he’d been lumped in with the punters, the money he’d been holding confiscated.
‘There are other vans.’
Jet flicked his eyes at Henry. ‘Someone’s grassed us up!’
Henry understood what he was implying, but Terry threw his bit in just to make sure.
‘Couldn’t possibly be dear old Frank, could it?’
Chip rubbed his eyes with his sleeve, said inconsequentially, ‘That bastard rubbed something in my eyes.’
Henry ignored him, concentrated on Danny. ‘I’m not my brother’s keeper.’
‘Bastard was holding all the money,’ Danny said.
Henry didn’t like the way this was going, decided to nip it in the bud. ‘If he’s done something, it’s without my knowledge. It’s my money, too, not just yours.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Besides, like as not he’ll be in another van.’
The rest of the journey passed in silence. Henry kept his head down, wishing he was somewhere else instead of being confined in this poky van with men he despised as human vermin. But he knew it was all for his own good, a charade for his own protection.
Half an hour later they stepped down into the courtyard at Middlesbrough Police Headquarters. The guards ushered them inside, into a large room where they sat in plastic chairs. A custody sergeant, with a world weary expression that said he was the veteran of a thousand such nights, was behind a desk out front.
Danny was first to be charged. Henry wondered about the other punters, presumed they’d been dispersed to different police stations, leaving this one to deal with the main players. But he’d told them Frank was a main player, so where was he? The Jacksons had voiced their suspicion and Frank’s absence was disconcerting.
Two detectives in smart suits came into the room, hovered near the desk. In contrast to the sergeant’s insouciance, they seemed to give off an enthusiastic glow. As Danny Jackson was led out, he looked them up and down as though he was head of CID and they mere minions.
‘You must be hard up for business,’ he sniffed. ‘All that trouble and we’ll be out before you get your next paltry pay cheques.’
Jet heard and piped up, ‘They must have done their quota of motorists this month. Got nothing better to do now than spoil people’s fun.’
One of the detectives, who must have been close to fifty, smiled. ‘You’re on the canvas, boy. Don’t think you’ll beat the count either.’
Terry gave him the eyes. ‘What’s this, Call My Bluff?’
‘No worries, lads,’ Danny called out to his sons as he exited.
Henry saw the look pass between the brothers. They wouldn’t do much time on account of an illegal fight and they knew it. The detective was all hot air.
Jet and Henry were the last to be processed. Jet was called up before Henry and, as he exited, glanced over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed until they were no more than slits. The strip lighting showed up dark semi-circles underneath, as though someone had used black crayon on them to make him look more evil.
‘Let’s hope Frank hasn’t kippered us,’ he said, ‘or there’ll be Hell to pay.’
Henry turned his head away. He didn’t care a jot what happened to his brother or the money. He had a different agenda. All he cared about was returning to a normal life.
After the custody sergeant was finished with him, Henry was led into a long corridor with rows of cells. All the bad memories of his time in gaol came crowding in. He consoled himself with the thought that, if he could endure five years, one more night was a mere flea bite.
Inside his cell, he was given paper clothes. Once he’d changed the guards took his clothes and locked him in. But he was only alone for a few minutes before a young policeman entered the cell, accompanied by a short man who had a vague, distracted air as though his mind was somewhere else. Putting his bag on the bed, he announced brusquely that he was a doctor and needed to examine him for any damage done during the fight. Henry submitted himself to the examination and had his cuts and bruises treated. Job done, without so much as a nod in Henry’s direction, the doc marched out with the guard on his heels. Henry wondered about the Hippocratic Oath, if it included treating all men with common courtesy.
Surprisingly, Henry managed to get some sleep but awoke disorientated. He reached out, touched the wall, realized
what he’d thought a grey mist was in fact solid and remembered where he was. He lay there wishing time away until finally the door unlocked and the young police constable from the night before stepped in carrying a plastic mug and two slices of toast on a plastic plate.
‘Wife doesn’t bring me tea in bed,’ the constable mumbled. ‘Must be bliss.’
Henry took the breakfast from him and grinned. ‘Talking of bliss, how long are they going to keep me in this cave?’
‘No idea,’ the constable replied. ‘Enjoy!’
The constable left and Henry took his time over the tea and toast, eking it out. He didn’t have a watch and it seemed like hours before the door opened again. It was the same fellow who’d brought his breakfast but with a pair of handcuffs this time. The custody sergeant was just a step behind him.
‘We’ve got to handcuff you, son,’ the sergeant told him. ‘All right?’
It was nice to be asked, Henry thought, shrugging.
‘I must be going on a trip.’
‘Just to an interview room, son. Detectives Oates and Brownlee want to speak to you.’
Henry held his hands out. The sergeant took the cuffs from the constable and put them on Henry’s wrists.
‘Off you go, then. No trouble, eh!’
Henry smiled at the young constable who was looking a bit tentative.
‘It’s my legs you have to watch,’ he announced in a stage whisper. ‘I’m a cage fighter. They’re deadly weapons, my legs.’
A worried look crossed the constable’s face. The remark had been a reversion to an old habit from prison. Keep the screws on their toes. But he immediately regretted using it on the constable, realizing he was just a harmless rookie.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m a gentle giant really, my granny’s favourite.’
The interview room was as he’d expected, cold and functional. He figured it must have witnessed the whole range of human emotions in its time, yet its ambience remained devoid of soul. Henry had read somewhere that walls could absorb everything that occurred within a room, that future generations would use technology to extract past happenings from them, that walls truly would speak. If that was true, he figured these particular walls would be the greatest repository of human folly. Why weren’t they weeping blood?
Two detectives were seated behind a table, shoulder to shoulder. The detective he knew as Oates, a tall, cadaverous man with an aquiline nose and swarthy complexion, gestured at the chair opposite.
Brownlee, the other detective, was smaller and rounder. He wore a dark jacket but his tie was bright red, like his cheeks. Henry thought the red seemed incongruous in this room, like the red coat the little girl wore in the film Schindler’s List, the only splash of colour in depressing black and white scenes.
Henry sat and Oates leaned back. ‘Hope you weren’t treated too badly.’
‘Water off a duck’s back,’ Henry told him. ‘Served a purpose.’
Brownlee puffed out his cheeks out so that they were like red balloons.
‘Served your purpose and our purpose. After the raid, we used the Jacksons’ own Mercedes to approach Brass Farm. In the dark the guards assumed it was the family inside the car. We took the place by complete surprise. Apart from a large quantity of heroin we found a factory for growing cannabis.’
‘Your photographs, plus the conversation you recorded on the mobile, will be a big help,’ Oates added.
‘Only the second time we’ve used that crafty little mobile,’ Brownlee enthused. ‘It’s a fairly new invention.’
Henry grinned ruefully, pointed to his bruised cheeks. ‘What took you so long? I was beginning to wonder, thought the thing hadn’t worked.’
‘Sorry about that.’ Oates had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘The technology was spot on but there was a bad road accident, held us up for a good few minutes.’ He quickly changed the subject. ‘But we’re very grateful to you. We’ll be able to put the Jacksons away for years. You did the right thing coming to us.’
Brownlee puffed out those florid cheeks. ‘Just one little blip.’
Henry had a feeling he knew what was coming even before Oates elaborated.
‘Frank — your brother — has disappeared into thin air. One of our lads found a hole in the wall at the back of the building just big enough to crawl through. We think he used it to slip away.’
Henry shook his head. He wasn’t really surprised. Frank was always one for an escape route. He should have remembered that vulpine mind of his. While he was negotiating in the barn his brother had probably sniffed around, found that hole. He always did know how to take care of his own skin.
‘We’ll get him,’ Oates said, thrusting his chin forward. ‘And you could say he’s done you a favour. His absence makes it look as though he was the one who came to us, not you.’
Henry placed his elbows on the table, eyed both of them in turn.
‘When I’m safely out of Teesside, I’ll have that kind of confidence.’
‘All fixed,’ Brownlee said, wafting a hand. ‘You can leave tomorrow. We’ve fixed up that house in Bournemouth we spoke about.’
‘A change of names would be good,’ Oates chipped in.
‘I’ll talk to the others,’ Henry began. ‘I don’t think —’
A knock on the door stopped him mid-sentence. A thickset detective entered and approached the desk. He leaned between Oates and Brownlee. Henry couldn’t catch what he was saying, but surmised, from the way all three kept glancing in his direction, he featured in the exchange in a big way.
Finally, heads nodding in agreement, the trio broke apart. The newcomer plodded to the door. Henry noticed Brownlee and Oates exchange quick glances, sensed their hesitancy. Neither seemed to want to take the lead now and he had the idea it couldn’t be good news. When they did speak, they started up simultaneously, had to rein themselves in. Finally, Oates took the initiative, placed his hand on Brownlee’s arm and spoke out.
‘Your father collapsed last night in his caravan. They think it was his heart. They’ve taken him to hospital. We’re arranging a car to take you straight there.’
It took a moment to sink in. The old man wasn’t well, but he still thought of him as indestructible. He was tempted to tell the detective not to bother with the car; he wasn’t going to the hospital. After all that had happened in the past, why should he go? They’d probably have nothing to say to each other.
‘There’s something else,’ Oates said.
‘You’ve caught Frank,’ Henry mumbled, not fully concentrating.
‘No, not that. It’s a delicate matter, Henry.’ He paused thoughtfully, as though working out the best way to say it. ‘In hospital, your father called for a policeman and made a confession. He’s requested to be allowed to tell you about it rather than you hearing it from us. The way he is — well, it could be his last request.’
Henry nodded, supposed he’d have to go. As Father Andrew had kept telling him, ultimately he was his father, no matter what. Blood was thicker than water. Had Frank heard that one?
‘I’m ready to go,’ he said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Fred Torrance was in a small room on his own when Henry walked in. He was propped up on pillows, face chalk white, thinner even than the last time he’d spoken to him. His eyes were closed and he had a peaceful look as though a weight he’d been carrying for years had suddenly dropped off his shoulders and nothing mattered quite as much any more.
Henry pulled up a chair, wondering whether his father would wake. But as soon as he sat down, he opened his eyes as though he had sensed his arrival, raised his arm, and pointed it at Henry’s face.
‘Bruises!’
Henry felt sympathy for the old man. He looked so pitiful. Like Tom Daly, his father had never enjoyed being shut in, and this was a small room for a gypsy who had once roamed. Yet, he needed to be here, needed to be taken care of. If his time had come, it was better than dying alone and uncared for in his caravan.
�
��He could punch,’ Henry said.
‘But you won, didn’t you?’
Henry knew what his father wanted to hear, how much it meant to him to hear it. It was all there in his eyes, even as death stalked him. What harm now to give him what he wanted?
‘Yeah, sure. I won — for the Torrance name.’
A ghost of a smile flitted across the old man’s face. ‘Knew you would.’ He closed his eyes as a spasm of pain hit him, opened them again when it passed. ‘And Frank? What about him?’
‘Free of debt now.’ It was a straight lie but what was the harm. ‘A fresh start, if he takes it.’
With a look like thunder, Fred Torrance shook his head. ‘Too late for him.’
Henry didn’t understand. Did his father know about Frank disappearing, that he was being hunted? How could he?
‘Nothing for you to worry about. Everything’s cushty.’
His father opened his eyes wide, looked right through him.
‘I’ve told the police everything — last confession.’ Grimacing, he added, ‘You need to hear it.’
What did he mean, Henry wondered? That he’d told them about Frank’s drug dealing? If that was so, why then had the detectives implied it was such a delicate matter when he’d already informed them about his brother’s activities himself?
Henry forced a smile. ‘Last confession? Don’t think so! There’s plenty of sinning left in you.’
Fred’s eyes twinkled for a moment, then his face took on a grave look.
‘We both know there won’t be time for that. I’ve been a sinner, Henry, God forgive me.’ He lowered his head until his chin almost touched his chest. ‘But you don’t know the worst of it. Not yet.’
Henry was perplexed. Seeing his father enfeebled, he wondered again how he could have stored so much hate for him. But it was true he had never been a good father since their mother died, thought more of the booze than anything else. Then, when he’d needed him most, he’d abandoned him so callously. Nothing could excuse that. It would always be there, niggling.
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