Broken Dreams

by Nick Quantrill

  ‘I can’t believe they used to treat people like that’ said

  Sarah, pointing to the book.

  ‘Proper work, and no mistake.’

  We heard a car pull up outside the house. Sarah pulled the curtains back to have a look. ‘Taxi’s here.’

  ‘Enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Thanks, Joe.’ She was already halfway out of the room, looking for Lauren. ‘And you behave yourself, madam.’

  I heard the front door shut. The house fell silent. It was stupid, but I was sure I felt a pang of jealousy. I was jealous she was going out, having a good time, but more than anything, I was sure I felt jealous of the man she was out with.

  Sarah was good to her word and returned home at the time she said she would. Lauren had behaved and gone to bed without too much of a fuss. I’d read her a story before she went to sleep but I’d probably enjoyed it more than she did. I didn’t know why Don had cancelled, but he’d been the one who missed out on the fun. Once I was happy Lauren was settled, I’d read the book on the trawler industry I’d brought with me. Although it felt like I was getting a better understanding of the Platt family, it wasn’t helping us find Donna. I was certain her father was the underlying reason for her leaving but for now I was happy to let Sarah take the lead in our investigation.

  I’d lost myself in the book until I heard the taxi pull up. Sarah walked into the living room and theatrically threw herself down onto the sofa. She told me the night was still warm, so I decided to walk home. It was only a twenty minute walk and the exercise wouldn’t do me any harm. I put the key into the front door and felt a thud on the back of my head. I was aware of a hand removing the key from the lock as things turned to black.

  I could only have been out cold for a short period of time, as I was lying on the path leading up to my front door. In those seconds or minutes, though, my hands had been tied behind my back and I had gaffa tape across my mouth to prevent me from screaming. I was picked up by two men, one on each side of me, and carried to a dirty looking transit van before being dumped on the road whilst they opened the doors. Usually, the Avenue had a steady stream of traffic passing through, but tonight when I needed it, there was nothing.

  I was picked up again and thrown in the back onto a piece of old carpet. There was nothing else in the back of the van. The two men in the front of the Transit hadn’t made any attempt to hide their faces from me, and that worried me; I tried to fight the fear and the temptation to vomit back down. The engine started on the second try and we pulled away from the kerb. We quickly took two left turns, putting us on Spring Bank and heading towards the city centre. I tried to follow the route we were taking but the darkness was disorientating. I felt the van increase speed and we drove over an incline. I could hear other vehicles, so it had to be Myton Bridge and the dual-carriageway which led out of the city towards Holderness, a largely desolate area only punctuated by the occasional village. As the transit continued its journey, the air changed, polluted with the smell of chemicals from BP Saltend, confirming we were heading in the direction I thought. The van slowed down several times, meaning we were passing through a series of villages before we turned off the main road. The way the van slowed and bounced up and down made me think we were heading down a private track. As the van came to a stop, I was thrown into the corner, ignoring the rising nausea in my stomach.

  Roughly bundled out of the van, I fell face down into the mud. The two men picked me up, removed the gaffa tape and threw me forward so I landed on my knees. I looked up to see a freshly dug grave, lit up by portable lighting. I knew I was in the middle of nowhere and nobody would be disturbing us. Remembering what I’d been told about Salford’s speciality, I turned to my side and threw up some bile. The two men walked towards the grave, laughing, and leant on the spades.

  I wiped my mouth on my shoulder and spat on the floor.

  ‘What can I do for you, then?’

  Neither said a word and continued to inspect the grave.

  ‘Mr Geraghty. Glad you could join us this evening’ said a voice from behind me. I assumed it was Frank Salford but as he walked past me to join his men, I knew it wasn’t. The man was in his late forties and was slightly built. He had a shaven head and a stud earring in his left ear which twinkled under the lighting.

  ‘You’ve been a naughty boy, Mr Geraghty, haven’t you?’ He stared at me. ‘Again.’

  I continued to stare at him. ‘Call me Joe if you like.’

  ‘Very civil.’

  ‘What shall I call you?’ I asked.

  ‘You can call me your worst nightmare.’

  I laughed. ‘If you like.’ I’m not sure where the bravado came from, as given the situation, I wasn’t feeling so brave.

  ‘How about I call you Dave?’

  He laughed. ‘Very good, Joe. There’s no flies on you, is there?’

  Dave Johnson. Salford’s lieutenant. It was an educated guess. I looked around. ‘Where’s the man who’s in charge?’

  Johnson laughed. ‘You can deal with me.’

  ‘I’d rather deal with the organ grinder than his monkey.’

  Johnson stepped forward towards me and kicked me in the face. I collapsed backwards, tasting blood in my mouth. He grabbed my hair and pulled me back upright.

  ‘Don’t mess with me, cunt.’ He was so close to my face, I could smell his breath. He let go of me and walked back to the grave. ‘Mr Salford can’t be with us this evening, but it seems like you’re still not getting the message, Joe. The lads here have already paid you one visit, but you’re still sticking your nose into our business.’

  I looked at the hired help. They were every inch the thugs-for-hire I expected; big, dark clothes, no distinguishing features. I stayed still, saying nothing.

  ‘To be honest, Joe, you’re getting fucking tiresome’ Johnson continued. ‘I don’t know what your game is, but did you really think it would be that easy talking to our barman? I watch them cunts like hawks, especially the ones who are leaving.’ He walked back towards me. ‘It’s your fault he’s ended up in that state, really. He was stupid to talk to you, as that’s one of the house rules, but you should have left him alone. They’re saying he might lose the sight in one of his eyes from the accident. These things happen, though, don’t they, Joe? We both understand the way of the world.’ He leant down and held his face inches from mine, smiling. ‘Collateral damage.’

  I said nothing but felt sick.

  ‘My guess is you were asking about our friends the Murdochs, Joe. Is that right?’

  I held his stare and remained quiet. He slapped me across the face but I didn’t move. I didn’t want to let him know it hurt, that my face was stinging.

  Johnson laughed. ‘I’ll assume your silence means I’m on the right track. What’s your interest, Joe? Why are you bothering us with your presence?’

  I spat in Johnson’s face. He screamed and punched me in the face and followed it up with a series of painful kicks to my body. I was carried to the open grave and thrown in. I looked up to see Johnson stood on edge.

  ‘Listen up and listen good. We followed you tonight, Joe, and I have to say I’m surprised with you. I didn’t think I’d have to tell you to leave the slags in the brothel alone, not considering how pretty your girlfriend is, but it’s probably in your best interests. Speaking of your girlfriend, I was surprised to hear you had left her house and headed back to your own little cesspit for the night. If I was you, I wouldn’t be leaving her alone, if you follow me. Still, I’ll be sure to say hello for you when I pop round shortly. He nodded to his sidekicks, who had reappeared. The earth started falling onto me, increasing in velocity. I screamed out Sarah’s name, but nobody heard me.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sarah pointed at my face. ‘Not again, Joe.’ She shook her head and pushed past me, heading up the stairs to my flat.

  Johnson and his associates had covered me with earth, but not enough so I couldn’t remove it with a bit of effort. They’d only wanted to scare
me and they’d done a pretty good job of it. One of them had even pissed into the grave, but the mud had taken the brunt of it. I’d walked for what seemed like miles, thumb out, trying to catch a lift. Nobody stopped but eventually a taxi pulled over, heading back to the city after dropping off a fare. I’d had to offer him my new mobile phone as security, but it’d persuaded him to drive me to a cash-point. He’d also driven me past Sarah’s house; all the lights were off and there was nobody hanging around, which confirmed my suspicion Johnson was all mouth. I’d called her as soon I was back in my flat; I needed to know she was alright. Her sister had kindly agreed to look after Lauren whilst Sarah was with me.

  ‘Sit down’ Sarah said, as I closed the door to my flat. She was filling a bowl with hot water and Dettol.

  I glanced into the mirror; I had been too tired to clean myself up last night. My face was covered in dirt, as well as cuts and bruises.

  ‘Just as the first beating was fading’ I joked.

  ‘It’s not a joking matter, Joe. What happened?’

  I explained events since I’d left her house the previous night. I decided not to mention the threats Johnson had made for fear of upsetting her. I couldn’t see what purpose it would serve and I knew she was always careful enough to keep an eye on Lauren. There was no denying I was relieved to see her, though. She started to clean up a cut on my cheek and I instinctively grabbed her hand, as a reaction to the pain. We sat like that for a brief moment before she released herself to get back on with the job.

  ‘How was your date?’ I asked.

  ‘It wasn’t a date.’

  ‘Fair enough. How was your night out, then?’

  ‘Not too good. He was a bit boring. All he did was drone about his job. To be honest, I was glad to get home.’

  I smiled, even though it hurt. ‘Maybe next time.’

  ‘Maybe. What do we know about this Dave Johnson?’ she asked, changing the subject.

  There wasn’t much to tell. ‘He’s Salford’s number two and runs the casino.’ I explained he wasn’t a popular figure at the massage parlour. Sarah looked at me in disbelief.

  ‘You had a massage?’

  ‘That’s all I had.’

  ‘Whatever. I can’t believe you even went in the place.’

  ‘It was necessary.’

  ‘It must have been a right hardship for you.’

  I tried to explain about Anastazja, but finding the right words was difficult.

  Sarah stopped what she was doing. ‘What do you want to do?’

  I had no idea what I wanted to do. I wanted to help Anastazja and the best way to do that would be through Salford and Johnson. If I was really lucky, I might even find out something about Donna Platt, though I was beginning to think the investigation was a wild goose chase.

  ‘Guess who I was talking to yesterday?’ I said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That’s not guessing.’

  Sarah had finished patching me up. ‘Who?’

  ‘Coleman.’

  She looked surprised.

  ‘Let’s say he pointed out we could all benefit from working together. We had a talk. I learnt some interesting stuff.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Christopher Murdoch was under police surveillance. He reckons he doesn’t know much about it, but there’s been allegations of fraud and corruption.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘Not yet. Hopefully I’ll get the chance today.’ I wasn’t stupid enough to charge in and confront him, but I’d spent time brooding about the situation. I wasn’t having him take the piss out of me like this and we’d certainly be having words in the near future. ‘He also told me who the man Jennifer Murdoch was more than a bit friendly with at the casino is.’

  ‘What did you have to tell him in exchange for all this?’

  I slowly stood up and walked over to window, ignoring the pain from my ribs, thinking about how I was going to sell an evening in a swingers club to her.

  I felt like death as I dragged myself out of bed. The cuts on my face stung and there was a constant, nagging pain around my upper body. Sarah had stayed the night, insisting she would sleep on the sofa. She’d taken the news about visiting the club remarkably well and even said it might be fun, before leaving for home. An hour later and with two strong coffees working their magic inside me, I parked as near as I could to the hospital’s front entrance. I’d rung from my mobile, so I knew which ward to find Sam Carver on. I stopped short of the door and looked in through the large window. I could see two middle-aged people sat in plastic chairs at Carver’s bedside and I assumed they were his parents. Before I took a step back, I could see Carver had a medical dressing covering his left eye, his face heavily bruised and cut.

  I turned to look at the nurse stood next to me. She pointed to the bag of fruit I had in my hand. ‘Who are they for?’

  ‘Sam.’

  She pointed to him. ‘Nasty. Whoever did that wants locking up.’

  I nodded my agreement.

  ‘Are you his uncle?’ she asked.

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you then.’

  I wasn’t so sure. ‘Is that his parents with him?’

  ‘That’s right. They’ve driven down from Newcastle. Hardly left his side.’

  ‘Will his eye be alright?’

  The nurse sighed. ‘Too early to say, but we certainly hope so. He’s getting the best treatment he can and he’s keeping his spirits up.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Are you coming in, then?’

  I passed her the fruit. ‘I don’t want to disturb him if his parents are here. Could you see he gets this, please?’

  ‘I’m sure they won’t mind.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’ll come back another time.’ I turned away and headed back towards the lift before she had chance to ask my name. Dave Johnson had done this, though I felt like I might as well have been at his side, handing out the kicking. Once I was outside the hospital, I made a call. I knew who could tell me all about Salford’s right-hand man.

  ‘Thanks for seeing me’ I said to Julie Richardson.

  ‘I was in town anyway and I want to help if I can.’ She pointed to my face. ‘Looks like you need some help. At least your reminder will fade.’

  The office telephone rang but I ignored it, letting it click through to answer-phone. I’d left yet another message for Christopher Murdoch asking him to call me back on my mobile, but he still hadn’t got in touch.

  ‘Nice office you’ve got here’ she continued. ‘Quiet.’

  We were one of many businesses based in the building. We shared the space with computer programmers, website designers and a design company. And that was only the people I recognised well enough to say hello to. We didn’t shout about our work.

  ‘Dave Johnson’ I said to her.

  She nodded, understanding. ‘He did this to you?’

  I told her what happened, from being bundled into the transit to thrown in the grave.

  ‘Standard scare tactics from them’ she explained. ‘It was one of their favourite games.’

  ‘Do you know Johnson?’ I asked.

  ‘He was Frank’s best friend, no doubt still is. I saw far too much of him when I was with Frank. He was always the right-hand man, right from the word go. From what Frank told me, it goes all the way back to their school days. He used to find it hilarious talking about the trouble they got up to when they were kids, like he was sad they had to grow up. When I met Frank, Johnson was more than his assistant. If you wanted to get to Frank, you went through Johnson. He was trusted to do business, deal with people and problems as they arose.’

  ‘What was he like as a person?’

  ‘Horrible. I hated him. I’m not stupid; I knew what Frank was and how he made his money, but he was a different kettle of fish altogether. Frank was a violent man’ she pointed to her scar, ‘he was quite prepared to do this to me, but it was personal. Johnson was plain nasty
. I can’t think of another way to describe him. I think Frank was into the football violence because it started off as fun. It was a way to let off steam, I suppose. They used to get into some scrapes but most of the time it was just boys being boys, you know what I mean?’

  I said nothing, remembering how it felt being caught up on the rugby terraces as a child with men fighting. It had stayed with me.

  ‘It became more serious, though’ she continued. ‘Frank was always a schemer and a planner, and as he became more powerful, he dragged Johnson along with him. Frank was mainly about the money and soon cut out the fighting at the football, but Johnson couldn’t stop. He liked it too much. He’d always be around, taking drugs, fighting and upsetting people. If you looked at him the wrong way, he’d lash out. He’d hit first, ask questions later.’

  ‘If Johnson was an embarrassment, why didn’t Frank do something about it?’

  ‘I suppose it suited him to an extent. Frank stopped all the stupid behaviour but he still needed someone he trusted as an enforcer, to collect money and make sure people stayed in line.’

  I nodded. ‘Johnson fitted the bill.’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘The problem was he became too violent. I remember Frank spent a lot of time mopping up the mess. There was one time when Frank had asked him to sort out another drug dealer. Their preferred method was intimidation around a freshly dug grave, like with you. Frank had meant give him a kicking, let him know who was in charge, but Johnson completely lost the plot and killed the man. The man who was working with Johnson told Frank he couldn’t stop him. He’d gone totally mad and attacked the man with his spade, killing him.’

  It tallied with what Don’s former colleague had told us.

  ‘What happened to the man he killed?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It wasn’t spoken of. The body just disappeared. As far as I know, Frank sorted it. I remember Johnson feeling hard done by because, as usual, he needed help to clear his mess up.’