BLOOD MONEY a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by Charlie Gallagher

  For a few seconds the vRS came almost to a stop directly in front of him. It was plenty of time for a positive identification, even before he had seen the registration number as the car pulled away. The type of car was not common, the colour was distinctive, but it was the behaviour of the man at the controls that was the real giveaway. The car had accelerated hard up to the parked obstruction and the braking had been late and firm. The driver had his hands tight on the wheel, his eyes forwards. Everyone else seemed to appreciate the view. Even the locals used the opportunity of slowing their vehicle to gaze sideways and take in the wiry grass waving on the dunes, the smattering of polished pebbles and that deep blue backdrop.

  Lee knew the follow cars were four minutes from his location. He let the Skoda get a short distance away and reached into his top pocket where a clipped microphone was concealed.

  ‘Sierra One One, permission.’ The spaniel turned to his master at the sound of his voice.

  ‘Go ahead, Sierra One One.’

  ‘Confirm vehicle Skoda Octavia colour blue, Sierra Delta Six Zero Hotel Sierra November passed my location. One male occupant, white male, shaven head, large build. He is wearing a black polo shirt and travels east on Dymchurch Road towards Hythe.’

  ‘Receive that, Sierra One One. Sierra One Two, did you receive the last?’

  ‘Sierra One Two, yes, yes. Confirm target vehicle approaching our location, I will call up when I have the eyeball.’

  ‘Receive that, Sierra One One.’

  Lee took a deep breath and turned to face out towards the sea. He met the spaniel’s keen eyes. ‘Well, you were awesome, Jack.’

  Jack accepted a pat on the head. His owner’s attention had already returned to his earpiece.

  ‘Sierra One Two, I’ve got the eyeball.’

  * * *

  Barry Lance listened intently to his radio. The briefing for this job had come from the chief superintendent herself, and she had made it quite clear that it needed to be quick and clean. Barry had pulled out all the stops to get this done right.

  His first call had been to a contact at Highways, where he had been able to call in a favour. He had sourced a set of “stop” and “go” signs, to be held up and spun by undercover police officers in hard hats, high-visibility vests, khaki shorts, and steel-capped boots. For all the world they looked like temporary traffic signs, safely moving traffic around a parked Transit van and a small clear area beyond. The whole façade would create a second pinch point where they could bring the Skoda to a forced stop right next to another Transit van, its interior packed with five uniform officers. It would be cramped and hot, but they would be ready to strike. Barry had been clear on his instructions: Sierra One Two’s Ford Mondeo would follow the Skoda through the traffic signs and a Land Rover would then pull out and come the other way. The Skoda would have to come to a stop. By this time, the rear doors of the Transit would have spat out the five-man arrest team, backed up by the undercover officers, and the man would be in custody with the evidence secured by the time Barry had driven the half mile from his holding point. Everyone on the team knew their part.

  The Skoda passed Sierra One Two. They pulled out directly behind it as it rolled up towards the signs. The target slowed as it approached a man in sandy-coloured work boots and a hi-vis vest who scratched his hip as he spun a tall, circular sign displaying ‘Stop.’

  Barry had been forced to transmit a hurried message to a concealed transmitter in the man’s right ear telling him that the Land Rover hadn’t managed to get into position yet. He was to hold up the target car.

  * * *

  Barry’s frustration was almost tangible. His team had been caught out by the Skoda being earlier than they had expected. He held the radio mouthpiece in his hand, holding his breath for an update, his frustration mounting.

  ‘Sierra One Two. Target vehicle is left, left onto Burmarsh Road. Confirm Burmarsh Road, speed increasing. Vehicle is now making off.’

  ‘Shit!’ Barry thumped the steering wheel of his grey Range Rover Sport. His car was two up, accompanied by a sturdy Volvo four-by-four vehicle and a brand new BMW 5 Series that had been the subject of a pleading phone call by Transport Services for it not to be “broken.”

  Barry had a digital map on the centre console and he swiped a finger over it, trying to plot the change of direction. The road they had taken was effectively a long crescent. It had other roads jutting off it that skewed deeper into the marshland, but it also looped round, back onto the A259.

  ‘Sierra One Two the target vehicle continues to increase his speed, we are attempting to make up ground and will keep the zero.’

  Barry banged on the steering wheel again. He had raised the mouthpiece of his car radio to his mouth to call the chase car off, to tell them to give it some room. This might have appeased the target and saved the situation, but the Mondeo had accelerated after it. It was now a chase.

  Barry Lance selected drive, and the V8 roared out into the traffic. He could take the next right and it would put him on the same road as the target vehicle — but it would be coming straight for him. It was never ideal to strike a vehicle from a head-on position, not when the target was moving at speed, but Barry needed a quick end. The roads were narrow enough for him to force the Skoda to slow at least, then they would have to play it by ear.

  Barry checked his rear-view mirror. The BMW had fallen in behind him, followed by the Volvo. ‘Sierra One Zero, we have moved onto Burmarsh Road but we are coming in from the other end. We will force the target vehicle to slow. Sierra One Two, you are to put the box on as soon as the opportunity arises.’

  ‘Sierra One Two, receive the last.’

  The Range Rover continued down the street. A Ford emerged from a pub forecourt and nearly pulled right out in front of the speeding convoy. The BMW pulled out and round the offending vehicle’s protruding bonnet and the Volvo followed in close formation. After the pub it was a hard left onto Donkey Street, which became Burmarsh Road.

  From his lofty position in the Range Rover, Barry could see the front of an electric blue Skoda coming towards him. The road wasn’t wide enough for both to pass on the tarmac and he moved out into the middle. In his mirror he saw the BMW drop back. The Skoda kept coming, the Ford Mondeo clinging to the back. The vehicles were almost on each other, then the Skoda jerked left. Barry stomped on his brakes as the target rode up onto the slippery grass that dropped away quickly to a watery dyke. It found sufficient grip to scramble past the Range Rover. Barry flinched as the Mondeo came to within inches of his front bumper. The BMW suddenly made a desperate last play and veered to the right, meeting with the front offside wing of the blue Skoda.

  The rear of the Skoda skipped up off the ground. The bonnet of the BMW rippled and bent and the Skoda bounced left. There was nothing now to stop the Skoda’s momentum. It hit the water hard. The Skoda dropped, its left side suddenly flipping downwards, the wheels bucking out towards the road. The nearside windows blew in and the car scratched and scraped, digging itself sideways into the bed of the six-foot-deep dyke.

  Barry was already out and running towards the stricken Skoda. It was filling with water. The man in the driver’s seat was clearly in trouble, with his head almost submerged by the ditch water. Barry’s team acted quickly, clambering over the car, and wrenching open the driver’s door. They pulled the man to the bank and smoothly moved his head back to open his airway. He was soon breathing normally and reacting to their voices. This was not Barry’s idea of clean.

  ‘He’s going to be okay.’ One of his officers gave him a thumbs-up.

  ‘Well, it’s a start,’ Barry replied, turning his attention back towards the Skoda. The left side, and most of the front, was completely submerged in dirty ditch water. ‘Now we just need to carry out a quick search of the car and we’re fucking done.’

  One of the lads on his team joined him on the bank, where they looked down at the wreckage.

  ‘We’ll get it,’ he said. ‘It’ll just take a li
ttle longer.’

  CHAPTER 4

  ‘Good morning, Jim, how are we doing today?’ Inspector Martin Young said.

  ‘Sir.’ The jailer stood up hurriedly, straightened his glasses and visibly took a breath. ‘I’m doing good.’

  It was 11 a.m. and the back office of Langthorne’s custody suite seemed pretty quiet, not unusual for a midweek morning. A quick glance at the wall-mounted whiteboard showed Martin that just four of the cells were occupied.

  ‘And the cell block, Jim? As much as I like to know you’re doing okay.’

  ‘Can’t moan this morning, sir. The sarge has just booked a shoplifter in, and that takes us to four. Uneventful night it seems, nothing juicy in the bin either.’

  ‘I’m glad of that, Jim. Juicy usually suggests a large amount of paperwork.’

  ‘Good point, but we do have a little paperwork, I’m afraid. The two from overnight are due reviews. You can speak to the female that’s just come in if you want to, but she seemed pretty out of it to me.’

  ‘I’ll pop my head in on them all.’

  ‘Understood. Well, you’ve got two lorry drivers in, stopped inbound at the Port of Dover and nicked for human trafficking — load of illegals found in the trailers. Might be that some were in the cabs as well but I can’t recall.’

  Martin shrugged. ‘I’m not interested in the investigation side of it, Jim. I assume our drivers are foreign?’

  ‘Both Polish.’

  ‘Speak English?’

  ‘The usual story. Not when they were nicked but they suddenly remembered the lingo when they got hungry. I don’t doubt they’ll speak to you if they think it will get them out quicker.’

  ‘They will be sorely disappointed then.’

  ‘You’ve got a bloke who came in half hour ago or so for concern in the supply of Class A and failing to stop for police. He was stopped by the Tac team, load of heroin on the passenger seat of his car apparently. Bit of fun and games stopping him I think, a couple of our cars are gonna need some new panels. Our man ended up in a ditch full of water down on the marsh. All the evidence is drying off upstairs and he’s had a trip to hospital to get checked out before coming here.’

  Martin rolled his eyes. ‘I swear those Tac team boys go round driving into people just for fun.’

  ‘Good job, though. Fair amount of Class A, a couple of hundred grand they reckon. Just as soon as they wring it out!’

  ‘I take it the man has accepted his arrest and isn’t making an issue of his injuries? I’m not dealing with a complaint here, am I?’

  ‘Nah. He got a bang on the head and shoulder but he’s been checked over at A&E and they’re perfectly happy with him.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  Jim swung his eyes back to the whiteboard. ‘A fellow called Tony Robson, thirty-eight years old, local.’

  Martin scowled a little. ‘Local?’

  ‘Yeah, Twelve Wartam Gardens, Langthorne.’

  ‘Wartam Gardens!’ Martin smiled. ‘I used to live on that road. I don’t know the name though.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s lived there long, sir.’

  ‘I don’t mean I might know him as a neighbour, Jim, I mean as a criminal.’ Martin was good with names, and this wasn’t one he’d heard before.

  ‘No, he’s not known to anyone. Not on our system, never nicked. Not even a stop-check on the bloke.’

  ‘And he suddenly appears with two hundred thousand pounds’ worth of heroin on his passenger seat?’

  Jim nodded. ‘Just like that. Maybe he’s one of those that are good at it, that go under the radar?’

  ‘Until now.’

  ‘Until now,’ Jim agreed.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And then there’s the girl we just booked in. She’s your standard skaghead, nicking meat from the twenty-four-hour Tesco to sell for her hit later in the day. She’ll be on half-hourly checks ’cause she seemed a bit monged out. I’m due to go and see her in a minute. She wanted a coffee and might want a breakfast.’

  Martin waved him away. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll include her in my rounds, and I’ll ask her if she fancies the breakfast.’

  Martin left Jim to fill the office kettle in preparation for his return. As the duty inspector, Martin was in charge of making sure that everyone in custody was being treated fairly, was there for the right reasons and, most importantly, was being kept alive. Generally, these things looked after themselves and a lot of the duty guv’nors would simply put their stamp on prisoners’ custody records after peering through the Perspex peephole. Martin liked to visit every cell, open every door, speak to every prisoner. He was too close to retirement for a death in custody to cost him his pension. He still cared anyway.

  First Martin popped into the second kitchen where the cheap coffee, along with powdered milk, was kept and was already divvied up in individual cardboard cups stacked under a hissing urn. He filled one for his first prisoner, a convenient way to build rapport from the offset and make his own life easier. He stuffed several sachets of sugar and a plastic stirrer in his trouser pocket then fiddled with the keys to open the first cell. Affectionately known as the “drunk cell,” the bed was lower there.

  Martin recognised the odour all too well, the familiar smell of urine, vomit and unwashed body. He stood in the doorway looking at the slumped figure of the female shoplifter.

  * * *

  The woman’s face was pressed against the ground. The intense cold from the solid concrete floor bit into her cheek and she was glad of the pain. It almost overrode the agony that racked the rest of her body, beating behind her eyes if she opened them to the light, aching in her fingers and toes. She was exhausted. Her addiction had been her only consistent bedtime companion for three years now, ensuring that sleep was neither deep nor prolonged. A person hooked on heroin was never truly asleep, never truly awake.

  She moved her arm up under her head. The oversized, filthy hoodie that she had acquired at some point was pulled tight against her pointed elbows and tiny frame. Her throat stung with vomit and saliva trickled from her closed lips.

  She heard a noise at the door and forced open an eye. Her hair had fallen over her face and into her eyes, and she could not see clearly. A blurred figure stood over her with arm outstretched, holding something in its hand. Her focus moved to the hand. The addict wanted to see exactly what her mark was carrying, what she could snatch.

  It was a cup of coffee. Her eyes moved beyond the steaming cup to silver, raised pips sewn into epaulettes that marked him out as someone of senior rank. An inspector, in fact. Well, she knew the system. She wasn’t going anywhere until she’d been interviewed, and for nicking meat it would be a beat copper, probably some new recruit.

  The woman moved. She fixed on the man’s face now. It was stern and a little judgmental — as she might expect — but there was softness there too. The lips formed a smile containing genuine warmth.

  The man dropped to a squat, the coffee still held towards her.

  Her head felt like lead, heavy and out of control, and the base of her neck was stiff and painful. She swept her matted hair away from her eyes and rose to an awkward sit. Her head thumped. Her dry lips formed something approaching a smile and she coughed to clear her throat.

  ‘Hello, Dad.’

  CHAPTER 5

  George Elms was covered in blood.

  Not his.

  He held the blade at chest height, his feet firmly planted, his whole body tense. He panted from the sudden exertion. The men had stopped coming at him. Two had backed well away, bleeding from crude slash wounds onto the shower tiles. Three more sized him up but made no move. He’d caught them out. They hadn’t expected him to be ready for them, to be carrying a blade made from a piece of broken mirror and a steel ruler from the workshops, that he waved at each one of them in turn. Should they attack again, George wasn’t sure how much damage he would be able to do. His weapon was a slasher, it was not going to stop a man permanently.

  ‘A fucking blad
e, pig! You gonna take us all with that?’ the leader spat the words out.

  ‘Come find out.’ George thrust the weapon towards him.

  ‘Three of us, George. We’re gonna take that off you and then I’ll show you just how to use it.’

  George motioned at the two men clutching at abdomen and chest respectively. ‘Your mates here gave it a good go.’

  ‘It was going to be a beating, pig. But you wanna up the stakes? Well, I see your fucking homemade blade and I raise you.’

  The man reached to his waistband and pulled out a solid-looking meat cleaver. He held it up close to his eyes, twisting it like a beautiful object that he was taking in for the first time. His lips puckered, ready to kiss the blade. He looked like he was enjoying himself.

  His two accomplices were watching this performance and George saw his opportunity.

  He lurched forward. It was two paces between him and his would-be assailant, whose lips were resting against the edge of the blade. George struck the flatter side of the ugly blade with the bottom of his fist, pushing it firmly into the man’s face. He yelped, from surprise at first, and then pain. The blade was blunt, but sharp enough to draw blood and solid enough to dislodge a tooth. George used the moment to grab at the cleaver’s handle and yank it downwards, but the man wasn’t letting go easily. The two men grappled for control of the weapon. The man jerked his head forwards, catching George hard, forcing him backwards onto an ankle held together by a newly inserted pin and an oversized medical boot. The pain from his head and ankle was enough to take his breath away, and he crumpled to the floor. His adapted weapon skittered across the tiles. The man took a second to steady himself, and his smile returned as he looked down on the figure of George Elms, whose hands were clutching his right ankle.

  The two men who had been watching now moved in. They took an arm each, pulling them out sideways. One man landed a heavy punch that split George’s nose and pushed the back of his head hard into the solid tiles. Another blow struck, harder, and the men leaning over him became a dazed blur. The blows stopped. The lead man stood over him. A large globule of spit hit George on the chin.