BLOOD MONEY a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by Charlie Gallagher

  ‘I’m here for my family.’

  ‘You think they’re thanking you for that?’ Howard’s face was etched with frustration.

  ‘I don’t know what they think. How can I?’

  ‘That you’re a monster, George. That’s what your wife is trying to come to terms with, and that’s what your daughter will grow up thinking of her dad. Whatever you think you are achieving by keeping up this façade is meaningless to the people you care about most. You are hurting them, George.’

  ‘There is no other way.’

  ‘Not guilty. You get to say two words in a room of your peers and we’re in business.’

  George was shaking his head. ‘No one but you wants me to change my plea. It’s all nice and tidy. Lennokshire Police won’t ever let me out of here.’

  ‘Lennokshire Police don’t get to decide. And you still have some friends that are asking the same questions as I am about the lack of evidence.’

  ‘What friends?’

  ‘Paul Baern. He was speaking to me almost daily at one point, and it’s still regular. Seems he doesn’t think it all adds up.’

  ‘Then he’s a fool. They’ll get him too. He has no idea how deep the issue with me runs.’

  ‘I get the impression he stopped giving a shit about that a long time ago. He wanted to come up here and speak to you himself. I told him—’

  ‘You can’t let him do that!’

  ‘Okay, okay! Don’t worry. I told him it would be a wasted journey, I said you wouldn’t speak to him.’

  ‘He can’t come here. I can’t be seen speaking to the police.’

  ‘We had that covered. Paul has a contact here, one of the prison officers. His visit would be recorded as a solicitor visit. There would be no mention of the police anywhere.’

  ‘What guard?’

  ‘I don’t know, it’s Paul’s man.’

  ‘I haven’t met a guard in here yet that doesn’t seem hell-bent on making my stay in here as unpleasant as possible.’

  ‘I can only tell you what he told me. He said he had someone in here that he could tug on to get it done. They could get him sat in front of you with no one else having any idea what was going on.’

  ‘And Paul trusts this man, does he?’

  ‘He said he did.’

  ‘Then he’s a bigger fool than I thought.’

  ‘I’ll pass that on.’

  George sat back and put his hands behind his head. He felt tired all of a sudden. Speaking to deaf ears has that effect. ‘Speak to him again,’ George said, without looking up.

  ‘To Paul?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And say what?’

  ‘Firstly I want you to tell him to stop and think. He needs to know that his actions out there can have a massive knock-on effect. I know Paul, he’s headstrong and he’s like a dog with a bone when he gets hold of something. You need to tell him to reel it in a bit. Get the name of this contact he reckons he has in here and find a way of getting the name to me. And I want you to be satisfied that this guard’s not going to be talking about me meeting with a copper. I need you to be sure.’

  ‘Why do I need to be sure?’

  ‘Because I trust your judgment.’

  ‘And not Paul’s? He’s already assured me that—’

  ‘Not in this case, no. He can get sucked in, can Paul, and he doesn’t mind taking a punt or two. I can’t be taking punts, not with the stakes as they are.’

  ‘So you’re saying that if we can meet your criteria, then you’ll meet with Paul?’

  ‘I’m not saying that. I can contact Paul if I need to, through you. It’s an unnecessary risk to bring him in here. I just want the name, so I know who he’s talking about. It might be relevant. Might not.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad we got that set in stone!’

  George stood, arching his back and grimacing with sudden pain.

  Howard noticed. ‘The ankle still?’

  ‘Yeah. It is getting better. Just slowly, and I’ve not exactly been treating it right.’

  ‘I like the footwear.’ Howard towered over George when he stood. He looked down at the supporting boot.

  George extended his hand. ‘Thanks again. Like I said, I hate wasting a good man’s time.’

  ‘And yet you do it so well.’

  George gave a sort of laugh. ‘I can’t promise I won’t do it again either.’

  CHAPTER 8

  Martin Young was confused. He found he was sitting up, the duvet thrown aside. His bedside clock showed 3.12 a.m. Then he heard the noise that must have woken him, a buzzing sound that came from the hallway downstairs. It was his landline, switched to low. At this time of night, it had to be an important call. He padded downstairs. The phone was in the hall, through a set of wooden double doors that always rattled loudly when they were pulled apart. He was lucky his wife was a heavy sleeper. The phone, still ringing, was out of its cradle, still on the shelf. The number on the display beamed bright in the dark.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘You know Sally?’ The voice was female, hushed. It sounded frightened.

  ‘Sally? I have a daughter called Sally.’

  ‘She’s crashing at Peto Court. She came home today with some paperwork from the cop shop. She had this phone number written on the back. Are you “Dad?”’

  ‘Yes, yes I am, I mean that’s me. Is she okay?’ Martin had written his phone number on the back of a leaflet about a drug support group that had been given to his daughter while she was in the cell. He’d contemplated writing a further message, and had stood in the custody area for a full five minutes before someone had entered and he’d settled for drawing a smiley face and scuttling back to his office. He hadn’t expected his daughter to look at the piece of paper at all, and he certainly hadn’t expected a phone call.

  ‘She had a fight. With some bloke she stays with here — he’s been getting pretty nasty recently. She’s pretty bad.’

  ‘Bad?’ Martin tried to compose himself but his legs gave way. He stood bent forward in a sort of crouch.

  ‘She’s taken a beating. He got pissed ’cause she got nicked.’

  ‘Who did? Where is she now?’

  Silence. There was a noise as though someone was rubbing the mouthpiece with a piece of cloth. Martin held the phone pressed against his ear and could make out another voice, male. He sounded angry, shouting, then a female voice pleading. The shouting male suddenly became louder, Martin heard swear words. Then the line went dead.

  Martin sprinted back up the stairs. He’d left the door to his room ajar and he pushed it hard, so that it hit the wall. His wife sat up immediately.

  ‘Martin! Whatever’s the matter?’

  ‘Sally. I need to go out and check on her.’

  ‘Sally? Has she called?’ His wife squinted and rubbed her ruffled hair as Martin switched on the main light. He grabbed at trousers and a fleece jumper. ‘Is she hurt? I’ll come with you.’ His wife started to get out of bed.

  ‘No.’ Martin’s tone was firm. ‘You stay here. I’ll call you the second I have news. I don’t know what’s going on yet and I don’t know what I might find.’

  ‘I’ll make sure my phone’s switched on.’

  Martin left the house two minutes later. His Volvo burst into life, the lights illuminating his wife’s Toyota as he backed out onto the road. The blinds in his bedroom parted, his wife watched him leave.

  * * *

  Martin knew Peto Court well. As a constable and then as a sergeant, he had been a regular visitor. It was one of those places that just kept dragging you back. It was situated on Langthorne’s seafront at the bottom of a steep hill, a solid, featureless block of seventy-eight dwellings, mostly bedsits. The miserable greyish exterior had slashes of faded red under each of the windows and two entrances at opposite sides. Both had security doors with access gained by waving a key fob at the sensors. Martin didn’t have a fob, but he’d never had a problem getting in. As his Volvo pulled into the car park, he could see lit
windows where he was sure he could get someone’s attention. This was a building that never slept.

  Martin got out of the Volvo and ran towards the entrance door, trying to get a view into the two nearest flats that had signs of life. The flat to the right of the door had its curtains wide open and the lights from within arrowed out into the car park. He stepped closer to the window and almost kicked the prone figure of a woman lying almost directly under the window. She was on her side, her left hand stretched out to rest against the brick, her back towards him. She was dressed in a vest and white knickers. Even in the poor light, Martin could make out significant bruising on her leg, which spread up towards her buttocks. He put his hand on her arm, gently. She pulled it back, with a grunt.

  ‘Sally.’ Martin’s lips drew together and his chin quivered.

  Sally turned her head towards him. Her face was puffy and red. Her left eye had a fresh swelling that would blacken, and dried blood coated her nostrils. Her hair was caked with blood.

  ‘Dad,’ she managed. Her face crumpled, and tears formed in her eyes.

  ‘Are you badly hurt?’ Martin knelt down beside his daughter. He wanted to scoop her up, hold her tight, but he didn’t know where to touch her. Her whole body looked like it hurt, everywhere raw to the touch. She was so small now, so fragile.

  ‘No.’ Sally rose to a sitting position and pulled at her vest top, stretching it over her knees.

  ‘Where are your clothes?’

  She shook her head. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Of course it matters.’

  ‘I have some at your house,’ she said. Her red eyes were now open, and her tears flowed. ‘Take me with you — just for a place to crash?’

  ‘Of course, Sally. Jesus!’ Martin helped his daughter scramble to her feet. ‘Are you okay? Do you need me to carry you to the car?’ His voice broke a little. She pressed her body into his and wrapped her arms round him. He hugged her back, holding her tight. She shook her head against his chest. He let out a sob. Her hair smelled stale, like cigarette smoke and mould, but it hardly registered.

  ‘Sorry, Dad.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  They drove back to the house in silence. Martin kept a rain jacket in the boot of the car, which he used to cover Sally. The night wasn’t cold but she was shivering. Martin held back the flood of questions. He wanted to know who had done that to her, why, and what she was doing about it. What he could do about it. Someone had tossed his daughter out of that block of flats like a piece of rubbish. But he knew Sally was not good with questions. She had always put walls up, and they kept getting higher.

  ‘Oh, good god!’ Sally’s mother was less restrained when they came in. She was standing in her dressing gown, nursing a cup of black tea. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Nothing, Ma.’ The inevitable response.

  ‘Martin, what are you doing about this?’ His wife’s reply was equally predictable.

  ‘Denise, I’ve said that Sally can have a shower and a comfortable bed, something to eat, a cup of tea — whatever she wants. She knows she can talk to me about anything she wants to. If she wants to.’

  Sally looked at the floor.

  ‘We should get her checked out at the hospital,’ his wife said.

  ‘She’s an adult. If she wants me to take her to hospital, I will.’

  ‘A cup of tea sounds like a good idea.’ Sally cracked a smile.

  ‘Love, would you pop the kettle back on?’

  ‘You’re not doing anything about this, Martin? This is your daughter.’

  ‘This has a name,’ Sally spat. She raised her head and met her mother’s disgusted look.

  ‘Well, I wonder sometimes. I mean, if you can’t have any respect for yourself, how do you expect other people to have respect for you?’

  ‘I don’t. I don’t expect anything of anyone. I didn’t come here for you to respect me. I came here because I had nowhere else to go. I should have known I wouldn’t be welcome here either.’

  ‘There you go!’ Her mother’s voice was raised, her neck and chest flushed red. ‘Making me out to be the wicked mother again, just because I care when you come back here black and blue with no trousers on. How could you let yourself get into this state?’

  Martin stepped between them, facing his wife. ‘Something happened to Sally tonight. This isn’t her fault. She needs our help to get herself cleaned up and sorted out. That’s all.’ He stepped to the side, and softened his tone. ‘And Sally, your mother is trying to say that we care about you so much that we don’t like to see you hurt and vulnerable. That’s all. I’ll go and start the shower for you and we’ll get you some of your old clothes sorted. Okay?’

  Sally was staring at the floor again. ‘I can start my own shower and sort my own clothes. Maybe I’m not as vulnerable as you think I am.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that . . .’ But his daughter was already halfway up the stairs. Martin sighed.

  ‘Aren’t you going to talk to her?’ Denise insisted.

  ‘Not right now. You and I both know that she won’t speak when she doesn’t want to, it will only result in us arguing. It’s been nine months since I’ve seen her, and God knows how long since she’s been here. The last thing we need now is an argument.’

  ‘Fine. But at least let me go and check on her. She might need a medical assessment — we can get the doctor out. We’ve got no idea what’s happened to her.’

  Martin held out his hands, palms down. ‘Just leave her to have her shower, get clean clothes and a cup of tea, and we can assess her then. I really think she just needs some sleep and maybe she’ll talk to us a bit more in the morning.’

  ‘I’m going up to see her.’ Denise started to push past him, but Martin took hold of her shoulder.

  ‘No!’

  Denise stopped in her tracks. Her husband’s expression was as firm as his grip. She shrugged him off and went back into the kitchen. Martin stood still, a little shocked at himself. He heard the kettle start, and then the door closed against him. He turned and went towards the stairs, stopping at the bottom. He could hear the faint sound of the shower running. He wanted to see his daughter again. He saw her so rarely. He knew that he had a better chance than his wife of getting through to her. He went upstairs to check that the bed in her room was made, even though he knew it would be. Sometimes he would go in and just stand there.

  He could still hear the shower running and he continued into Sally’s room. He immediately spotted that the window was wide open, the net curtain sucked out in the breeze. Martin’s stomach knotted. He hurried to the window and leaned out, looking down at the flat roof of the extension. It was damp with dew, and a footprint was clearly visible under the window. He pulled his head back into the room. The wardrobe door was open, a hanger still rocked on the rail. The bathroom was filling with steam — the shower running for no one. His daughter was gone.

  ‘Did she speak to you?’ his wife asked.

  ‘No.’

  Denise was still standing in the kitchen. She crossed her arms when he came in. Martin hated the pitiless tone his wife used whenever she talked about Sally.

  ‘Well, I’m not taking her tea up. She can come down for it and speak to us like an adult.’

  ‘She’s gone, Denise. Out the window.’

  Denise turned her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Well, that’s just brilliant. Running away as usual. Our daughter comes back here all beaten up and half-naked and you seem quite happy to do nothing about it! Well, I won’t stand for it! We need to report this to the police, Martin, I hope you realise that.’ The phone sat in a charging cradle on the kitchen counter. Denise reached for it but Martin was closer.

  ‘We’re not calling the police.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’

  ‘I’ll go out in the car and look for her. See if I can reason with her. She said herself that she didn’t have anywhere to go. She might not have gone far. And then when everyone’s calmed down a bit, maybe we can talk about wh
at happened and start making some progress with her. If we send the police after her, she’ll never come back to us. She hates the police.’

  ‘Well, maybe if she stopped breaking the law they would stop giving her a reason to dislike them.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ Martin conceded.

  ‘She had a good upbringing. We did the very best we could by her and this is how she repays us. Twenty-five years old and still giving us dramas in the middle of the night. Lord knows what she’s on today and who she’s upset.’

  ‘I’ll go and look for her, Denise.’ Martin had already put on his shoes and had one arm in the sleeve of his coat.

  ‘You know what? I wouldn’t bother. There’s nothing we can do for that girl. She doesn’t want our help — ungrateful little brat. She’ll end up dead, we both know it, dead on the street, and it’ll be muggins here left picking up the pieces.’

  ‘Denise!’ Martin shouted, catching them both by surprise. ‘Maybe this is her fault, but whatever’s happened she’s still my little girl. I’d do anything for her. That never changes.’

  Martin didn’t wait for a reply. He walked out of the house and towards his car.

  Martin wasn’t looking for his daughter. He knew he wouldn’t find her. She would be a good distance away by now and could have gone in any direction. He knew nothing about her or her associates, but he did know she would find shelter somewhere. She always did.

  His drive was aimless to start with — there were very few places to go at half past four in the morning. Anywhere would do, but home and his wife. After running through his options, he decided on the only one he really had. He was due to start an early shift in just over two hours. He had a spare uniform at work, there was a shower, and on the top floor was a coffee machine that never got turned off.

  Ten minutes later, the Volvo drew up in the car park of Langthorne House. The corridors on the fourth floor were silent and dark. The response officers manning the station were on the ground floor and had no reason to venture any higher at this time of night. The inspectors’ office was also vacant, a gliding screensaver on one of the two computer monitors the only movement. The inspector on night duty was based at Margate and would only come over if there was a major incident. Tonight had been quiet across the county.