by Nick Oldham
Smith guffawed.
‘What’s the joke?’
‘Nah - you’ll see very soon. Something very pertinent to what you’ve just said.’
‘Stop stringing me along, will you?’ Crane was annoyed.
‘Hey, Bill, stick with me, eh? It’ll come good. You can trust me.’
‘Right, sure,’ he said without enthusiasm.
They were driven north to Bispham and on to a small industrial estate. The whole place was dead.
‘Here we are,’ Smith announced as the car drew to a halt. ‘Lesson time.’
Way above in the ceiling, the strip-lights pinged on. Cheryl blinked. The lights were very bright after the darkness and hurt her eyes. She was extremely cold. Her legs and hands were numb. She saw, at last, what sort of premises she was in - a garage. There were two hydraulic car ramps, over two inspection pits. A car was on one and the ramp was raised high. There was no car on the other ramp nearest to her. Cheryl could see the black, rectangular inspection pit. It reminded her of a newly dug grave.
She heard footsteps and began to sob.
Cheryl and Spencer, both naked, were now seated on plastic chairs, placed side by side. Their feet and wrists were still secured by tape, their arms pulled around the backs of the chairs. Cheryl had wet herself and was sitting in a puddle of her own urine. Spencer had gone one step further in his terror and soiled himself. A tremendous stench wafted from underneath him.
‘Fifty thousand pounds, that’s what I lost,’ Billy Crane said in a gentle voice - for the tenth time - leaning into Cheryl’s face. He was wearing a pair of overalls.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she gurgled. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Sorry doesn’t cut it, you stupid bitch.’ Though the words were harsh, Crane’s voice remained calm. As a result, he was all the more fearsome. He was playing with them and enjoying it.
He turned his head slowly, rather like Dracula, and cast his eyes to Spencer who quickly looked away and stared down at the oozing shit between his legs. ‘I don’t need to say very much to you, sonny, do I?’
Spencer did not respond.
Crane reached across and tipped up Spencer’s chin with a forefinger. There was no resistance. ‘You are a stupid little boy who thinks he’s a man, aren’t you?’
Spencer blinked rapidly and swallowed.
‘Men do not crap themselves, Spence.’
Crane stood up to his full height, looked around the floor and saw a couple of eight-foot wooden planks, each about four inches thick, lying nearby. ‘Lay those two planks on top of each other,’ he said.
Hawker and Price, the two men who had so efficiently abducted the couple, materialised from behind them. They carried out Crane’s instructions, placing one plank on top of the other.
Crane watched them work, then turned to address Cheryl and Spencer. ‘I want you both to see how angry you have made me and to realise how wrong you were to be such fools. I’ll deal with you first.’ He glared directly at Spencer.
‘Oh fuck - no,’ Spencer screamed. ‘I didn’t even know she was carrying the stuff. Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ!’ he babbled. ‘I’ve done nowt.’
‘Pick him up and lie him face down, parallel to the planks,’ he instructed Hawker and Price.
On hearing the words, Spencer shot to his bound feet and threw himself sideways in an effort to escape. The two men caught him quickly and easily. One punched him hard in the guts, doubling him over, driving all the air and fight out of him. Spencer crumpled with a groan. Then they laid him out as instructed.
‘About two feet away,’ Crane directed. ‘Good. Now, release his arms.’ Crane squatted on his haunches near to Spencer’s head and spoke quietly. ‘Listen to me, Spencer. ‘I’m going to get these guys to let your arms go free, so you can do this whatever way you want. I don’t give a shit. If you struggle or fight at all, things will be worse for you.’ Crane shrugged. ‘You know what I’m saying, don’t you?’
Spencer nodded, his face pressed into the oily concrete of the garage floor. His hands came free.
‘Good. Now, Spencer, keep yourself face down and reach out with your right arm, straight out from your shoulder and place the palm of your hand down on top of the planks. That’s it, good lad. Keep your arm rigid and keep your elbow nice and locked. Excellent.’
Crane stood up stiffy, stepped over Spencer so that he was standing in the gap between Spencer and the planks. He placed the sole of his right shoe on the point of Spencer’s elbow and tested it with a little bit of pressure, but no real body weight.
He nodded at Cheryl and smiled foully.
Her face was a mask of horror and disbelief.
Spencer began to weep.
Crane’s expression was evil. ‘This is part payment for fifty grand,’ he announced. At the exact moment he finished speaking, he rose up, put all his weight on to his right foot and forced Spencer’s elbow down like he was breaking a twig. The joint went first time with a loud splintering crack. Spencer roared in pain.
Crane stepped off.
‘I do not fuck about,’ he said, lurched over to Cheryl, grabbed her face in the palm of his hand and squeezed, distorting her features. ‘And now it’s your turn, girl,’ he growled.
Henry Christie stared with growing disbelief at Detective Superintendent Rupert Davison, then emitted a high-pitched laugh with a slightly hysterical tinge to it. ‘Did I hear you right? You’re asking me why I didn’t shoot him?’
‘You had the opportunity.’
‘Yeah - and he was being driven away in a car by some kid and he presented me with no danger whatsoever, except from exhaust fumes. Not only that, I was holding a firearm which I’d taken from Jacky Lee’s body which, it will probably transpire, was no doubt used by Lee to waste a guy a few weeks ago. . . the reason I was on Lee’s tail in the first place.’
Henry sat down after realising he had been pacing the room - a classroom at Sedgely Park, Greater Manchester Police’s training school. This was where a hasty rendezvous had been arranged for him and Terry Briggs to meet Davison for a debrief of Lee’s shooting.
‘You let a professional killer go loose, probably to kill again.’
Henry blinked. He gave a sidelong glance at Terry who was sitting there shaking his head. He could not believe what he was hearing, either.
‘So be it,’ Henry said. ‘I’ll live with it. At least I’m not at the shitty end of another PCA enquiry or civil litigation, having to justify even drawing breath, let alone firing a non-police-issue firearm. Yeah.’ He folded his arms defensively. ‘I can live with that.’ He was thinking about an on-going enquiry, in which he was deeply embroiled, following the shooting incident several years earlier when he had been obliged to put a bullet into a professional hitman. Things like that did not go away. They scarred for life.
‘You have less of a conscience than I do, then,’ Davison said.
He and Henry stared impassively at each other. Henry was determined he would not be the one to drop his eyes. Instead, he raised his eyebrows.
After leaving the scene of Jacky Lee’s murder - in keeping with the characters of their legends - he and Terry had immediately contacted Davison and filled him in on what had taken place. As a result of their information, details of the getaway car had been circulated, but as yet - 11 p.m. - it had not been found. Davison had hastily arranged to meet the two U/C officers for a debrief and statements from them.
This process was taking a long time. They had been at it four hours. Henry and Terry were worn out and needed some serious kip. Davison’s attitude did not help either; he was annoying both detectives immensely.
‘You’re criticising me for not shooting someone - is that what I’m hearing? I hate to think what you’d be saying to me if I had pulled the trigger.’ Henry snorted and let it drop. He needed a bed. He thought briefly about Kate and wondered if she was asleep or not. ‘I guess that’s it,’ he said with a touch of finality. ‘Job’s over. Jacky Lee’s met a sticky end. You’ll probably never fin
d out for sure if he killed that guy in the canal, and we’ve done our work.’
‘No, you haven’t.’ Davison shook his head.
Henry and Terry looked up together.
Davison held up the witness statements they had written. ‘I am now the SIO on the murder of Jacky Lee. I will not be making these statements available to the investigating team, though I will let my deputy know about them, of course. As far as you are both concerned, you are being hunted down by the police as witnesses to the murder, possibly even suspects. I haven’t revealed to any of my team that an undercover operation was up and running as regards Lee. It is not my intention to tell them an undercover operation is up and running to find Lee’s murderer.’
‘What are you saying?’ Terry demanded.
‘That I want you’ - he pointed at Henry - ‘to stay undercover, and I don’t want the Murder Squad to know about it, with the exception of my deputy SIO. I want you to get into the ribs of Lee’s minders and gather evidence for us . . . then when you’ve got it, I’ll pull you out.’
‘That will be so fucking dangerous, it’s not worth talking about,’ Henry pointed out forcefully. ‘There’s a good chance I’ll get iced as well as Lee. It is not a good situation. In fact, it’s a dark, murky one. These people don’t mess around, you know. They don’t like you, or don’t trust you, they kill you. They’re not like you and me.’
‘I want you to go back in and find out who killed Jacky Lee, then withdraw. Piece of piss for a guy like you.’
Henry remained tight-lipped. ‘Does Fanshaw-Bayley know about this?’
Davison nodded. ‘And approves.’
Henry’s lips reverted to tight, cynical. He looked at Terry. Each man knew what the other was thinking. It was an exciting prospect, yet appalling at the same time. Henry loathed himself for what he said next.
‘OK, I’ll do it. But everything is down to me. Every detail. Everything. Even the merest hint that Thompson and Gunk are unhappy with me, I’m out like shit off a shovel.’
‘Fine.’
‘And the first thing is, for the sake of realism, Frank Jagger would definitely lie low for a few days before slithering out of the woodwork, so that’s what I’ll be doing. Not least because I haven’t spent enough time at home for a while.’
They left the classroom a short while later.
In the very basic bedroom that had been provided for him at the Training School, Henry settled on the bed after a long, hot shower. He got to thinking about Rupert Davison. He remembered him from years before. Recalled what a prick the guy had been as a Constable. A real loose cannon. Obviously the intervening years had not changed him much. He had been unpopular way back then and as Henry dozed off he tried to remember why. Then it struck him. Davison did stupid things, always seemed to put other people in danger and always emerged unscathed himself. The thought made Henry sweat.
‘Look up, you bastard,’ Crane ordered Spencer. All bravado gone, the teenager was sitting back on his reeking chair, doubled forwards, trying to nurse the terribly broken arm. The pain was excruciating, burning up from his elbow to his shoulder and across his chest. He rocked in agony, trying to handle the sickening waves which pulsated through him. However, he responded to Crane’s harsh voice and raised his chin.
Cheryl was standing up, naked, petrified. Hawker was behind her, holding her arms, preventing her from moving.
Crane stood next to her, swinging a solid metal pipe in his right hand. It was about half the length but of a similar diameter to the thick end of a snooker cue.
‘Watch this,’ he said to Spencer.
‘Oh God,’ screamed Spencer as Crane’s body twisted at the hip and knee. The pipe arced through the air. He put his whole weight behind the movement and smashed the pipe against Cheryl’s left shin.
She screamed and fell clutching her shattered leg, fractured by the blow.
Crane surveyed his handiwork. Above the sound of Cheryl’s moans he announced, ‘This is what you get when you cock up with me. Grief.’
Then he thought the couple had suffered enough. He waggled his fingers at Smith who had watched the whole episode whilst leaning against the wall. He handed a revolver to Crane.
‘Enough of this shit,’ Crane said. He reached out and grabbed Spencer’s hair, yanked him up off the chair and dragged him to the edge of the vehicle inspection pit where he forced him on to his knees, overlooking the edge. Very quickly, without preamble, Crane pressed the muzzle of the gun against the back of Spencer’s head and pulled the trigger. The bullet lifted him into mid-air and into the inspection pit. He smashed to the bottom of it and twitched only once.
Crane repeated the procedure with Cheryl. Her body landed on top of her boyfriend’s.
When the echo of the gunfire had died away, Crane looked at Smith. He was breathing heavily, chest rising and falling, but his expression was exuberant, as though he’d just won Gladiators.
‘You said you had something else for me.’
Chapter Seven
At 10 a.m. next day, Danny walked up the concrete steps of the block of flats where Cheryl lived. She strode over pools of urine and spew and avoided broken needles. At the first landing she turned left on to a walkway. A small group of youths were gathered outside the doorway to one of the council flats. Danny had to walk past them to get where she was going.
All eyes turned to her; conversation ceased as they immediately clocked her as a cop. A lone cop at that. And a woman. They purposely edged away from the door into her path to obstruct her.
She approached them with the impression of streetwise confidence, but underneath she was quaking. She had no business with these guys and did not want to have, but people like this always wanted to know what the authorities were doing on their territory. Danny guessed the oldest of them was about fifteen. Even so, they were all mean and potentially nasty.
Their chins - marked with zits and tufts of adolescent bum-fluff - lifted. Sneers appeared on their faces. They were like a pack of wild dogs responding to an intruder ... in this case, Danny.
‘Excuse me, please,’ Danny said politely.
‘Why? What’ve you done - farted?’ one giggled.
‘Just excuse me,’ she insisted.
One of them drew himself up to his full height. He stepped directly in front of her, challenge written across his face. Danny was tall, but he wasn’t far off.
‘What’re you doing here?’ he wanted to know.
Danny sighed. ‘Just let me through, please, OK?’
There was a second or two’s hesitation; those tense moments when one or the other had to give ground. It wasn’t going to be Danny. The youngster lost his nerve and stepped reluctantly aside. A path opened and she passed through with relief.
‘Bitch,’ one of them hissed.
‘Twat,’ said another.
‘Show us yer cunt . . . I can smell it already,’ another added bravely, sending them all into fits of hysterical laughter.
Danny chose not to respond, acknowledge them or turn round. She simply sighed and thought, Ahh, the youth of today, the leaders of tomorrow, and walked to the end of the landing, turning left out of their sight.
The flat was number 23. She stopped outside it, saw the obscene graffiti scrawled on the door, the window pane boarded up with cardboard and the damage halfway down the door which looked as though someone had kicked it in.
She raised her knuckles, but did not knock. The door was slightly open. She pushed gently with a finger. It swung open with a creak of the hinges, revealing a short, empty vestibule.
‘Cheryl?’ Danny called. ‘It’s me, Danny Furness.’
Danny’s cop instinct - honed by eighteen years of entering premises - told her straight away the flat was empty. Something about the atmosphere. The stillness. The way the sound of her voice was not absorbed by human flesh, just bounced off the fixtures and fittings. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, making her shiver.
She crossed the threshold and turned into the livin
g room. She surveyed the empty room, listened and sniffed, catching the tangy mixture of cigarette and cannabis smoke, and beer; some cans of lager were open on the carpet in front of the electric fire which burned bright red, hot enough to make toast.
The room was sweltering. The heat hit Danny immediately.
The TV was on, too, the volume low; a morning chat show hosted by some celebrity on the way down career-wise. Incest being the topic up for discussion. Danny crossed the room, a quiver of apprehension inside her. She bent down, flicked off the TV and then the electric fire. The three bars faded immediately as though happy to be relieved of their task. Next to the fire was a half-smoked joint in an ashtray and next to that a clear plastic bag containing herbal cannabis. Danny recognised the illegal substance, as any cop worth their salt would have done. Alongside this was a packet of cigarettes, the lid tipped open, revealing the contents - about a dozen remaining from the original twenty. Then there was a set of keys, one of which looked like it was probably the front-door key.
Danny sighed through her nose, stood upright and considered the rest of the room.
Clothes were scattered around the floor, male and female. A pair of skimpy knickers, a dressing gown, a pair of jeans, a T-shirt. Cold remnants of a fish-and-chip supper were all over the settee and carpet, beginning to stink.
Danny checked the small kitchen, the bathroom, the untidy bedroom.
A very bad feeling made her swallow.
Earlier that morning she had checked the signing-on book at the front desk of the police station. She had seen that Cheryl, as well as missing last night’s rendezvous at the cop shop, had also missed this morning’s. Having a professional interest in the case, she decided to pay Cheryl a visit and give her the hard word, intending to warn her that next time she failed to sign on she would be thrown back in front of the court with the recommendation that bail be rescinded, and get locked up.
But Cheryl was nowhere to be found.
Danny actually wanted to believe that she had done a midnight flit, yet the state of the flat was unsettling. People who do runners usually take their fags and dope with them. Their lifelines. They don’t leave stuff like that behind.
