Bloody Reckoning

by Rafe McGregor

  The need for privacy was a bad sign.

  “What the fuck happened to him?” asked Bell.

  “No idea,” I replied.

  “Hands in the air,” said Napier. “Step out, move to your right, turn around.”

  I did as ordered and Spiderman shoved me forward. I spread my hands on the wall to steady myself; he kicked my legs open. I saw Napier go into the lift and drag Collier out by his hair. Collier screamed and I wondered what was going on. Spiderman gave me a very thorough pat-down search, as expected. On my right I saw Napier do the same with Collier, holding him prone on the floor with one hand while he checked for weapons with the other. Spiderman spun me around, and Putnam joined us.

  “Empty your pockets front and back,” Putnam pointed to my trousers, “and the jacket.”

  I handed over my car keys and wallet, and then withdrew an envelope addressed to DCI M. Hardy from my jacket. Meanwhile, Napier secured Collier’s wrists behind his back with a cable tie.

  Putnam handed me the keys back, but kept the wallet and the letter, and returned to Bell.

  Spiderman spun me around a second time and slapped on a cable tie. He pulled my right shoulder back, and punched me in the stomach. I pitched forward, stifling a grunt. Before I could even gasp, he drew back and hit me in the right ear. Something detonated inside my head. My legs buckled, I collapsed, and I saw the familiar flicker of white light.

  I probably passed out for a second, because the next thing I remember was hearing Collier yelp as Napier dragged him along the floor by his hair. Napier left Collier next to me, then took his place with Bell and Putnam. Spiderman stayed behind me, but didn’t stop me pushing myself up to a seated position.

  Bell was five-six and slim, with shoulder-length, sandy hair and a handlebar moustache that would have done a seventies porn star proud. Standing there in his shell suit, with the Glock, and his two henchmen towering over him, he looked farcical – though I failed to appreciate it at the time. He handed the Glock to Napier, who put it in one of his giant pockets, and took my wallet from Putnam. Bell opened it, glanced inside, and snarled.

  “Hutt. You wanted to see me? Look all you like, because I’m the last thing you’re ever going to see.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He drew his lips back again and I could see it wouldn’t be long before he lost control. “No? Why don’t –”

  “If you look in that wallet, you’ll see I’m a soldier. I’m an Army Investigator based in York, right next to the North Yorkshire CID in Fulford Road. That envelope Putnam is holding is an exact copy of a letter I gave to one of my staff sergeants. He’ll deliver it if I don’t turn up for work tomorrow morning.”

  Bell threw my wallet onto one of the long chesterfields, and snatched the envelope from Putnam.

  “DCI Hardy runs their Major Investigation Team. She’s been working at Fulford since last week. If she ever reads that, she’ll make a lot of trouble for you.”

  Bell flicked through the four pages detailing exactly what had happened in Leeds Army Surplus last Wednesday. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. You really are a clever cunt, aren’t you?” He ripped up the paper twice, roared, and threw the bits in the air. As they scattered, he marched over to Collier and kicked him in the stomach. Then he knelt on top of him, grabbed his hair with his left hand, and punched him in the mouth with his right. Once, twice, three, four, five times. Collier screamed.

  I heard a low pop as one or more of his teeth went.

  Blood spattered on the floor and all over Bell. Bell hit him one last time, stood, and kicked him in the face. He turned to me, bloody fist clenched, a homicidal gleam in his eyes.

  I clamped my jaw tight, trying to give my teeth every chance of remaining where they were when he started on me.

  Behind Bell, Collier moaned and spat a broken tooth from his bloody face.

  Suddenly Bell’s expression changed: the savagery temporarily sated, he was calm, almost reasonable. He relaxed his fist and spoke softly. “I expected something like this from you. You fucked with my family. No one fucks with my family. That means you’re either mental, or connected. If you were mental, I’d cut you up and feed you to yourself. But you’re not. I could see that because you were respectful – until you interfered with my daughter. Count yourself lucky you didn’t frighten her. If you had, you’d be dead anyway, connected or not. Why are you so desperate to bend my ear?”

  I looked up at him, the adrenalin dulling the pain in my head. “I want you to leave Siân Matthews alone. Forever.”

  “You think I’m gonna waste my time on a cokenut? You seen the state of her lately? I couldn’t even make any money from her as a skeezer.” He laughed.

  “But you had your men rough up her brother.”

  “Yeah, squealed like a girl, the little bitch. That was ages ago. I was about to hoof her out of here when she did a runner.”

  “So it’s over? You won’t contact her or her brother?”

  “You deaf? It’s finished. I’ve already cleaned this place out and changed the locks. If she wants any of her shit she’ll find it at the bottom of the canal. Make sure I never hear from her again.”

  Napier and Putnam were impassive, and I guessed they were as familiar with Bell the businessman as Bell the psycho.

  “What do you want in return?” I asked.

  “Keep your trap shut about Little Jeff and keep away from me and my boys. You and that fuck-pig copper.”

  Bell waved a finger at Spiderman, who grabbed me and pushed me to the floor.

  I saw the blade of a knife, started struggling, and stopped when my hands were cut free.

  Spiderman stepped away and I pushed myself up and stood. Napier threw me my wallet, which I put back in my hip pocket.

  Bell continued. “The Doc, on the other hand, is an entirely different story.”

  Collier was still whimpering and bleeding.

  “Mark, sit him up.”

  Napier bounded over, seized Collier by the arm, dragged him to the end of the nearest chesterfield, and propped him up against it.

  Bell knelt in front of him and waved his finger again. “You, dickend, have been nothing but trouble since I got you a job up here. First, you introduce me to that Welsh cunt, then you grass me up to the fucking Redcap over there. If you’d kept your trap shut when he came around, Little Jeff wouldn’t be on the run.”

  “But, Mr Bell, I was only trying to help you.”

  “Help me!” Bell slapped him twice across the face. “How the fuck did you help me by getting Bazza killed in front of the filth? You know how much shit you’ve caused?”

  “I was trying to take care of Hutt –”

  “Thanks to your good work I’ve had to shut down LAS, send Little Jeff for a laydown, and find someone else to run the operation. Not to mention the Redcap turning up outside my home. My home.”

  Bell clicked his fingers in the air. “That’s it, boys.”

  Napier lumbered through a door to the left and Putnam walked over to an LCD TV, mounted on the interior wall. He switched it on, picked up a remote control, and went back to Bell. Napier returned with a white towel and a Samsonite briefcase. He put the briefcase down next to Collier, dropped the towel on his shoulder, and then lifted him up to his feet. Napier drew a Stanley knife from his pocket and cut the cable tie.

  “Come on,” said Bell, walking over to the TV. “Clean yourself up.”

  Collier followed, Napier at his shoulder. Collier started wiping the blood from his face. One towel wasn’t going to be enough. Putnam handed Bell the remote.

  Bell pressed a button and a picture appeared onscreen, though there was no sound. “Recognise it?”

  Collier didn’t say anything, but I knew he did. I recognised it. The picture jumped and moved in and out of focus, but it was quite clear we were watching a man in a balaclava pour petrol all over Collier’s lounge. Then he did the same upstairs, the camcorder following his progress. Finally, he placed what looked like a tiny Improvised Explosive D
evice under the sink in Collier’s kitchen.

  “There’s about a ten-minute time delay on this feed,” said Bell. “Your house is already on fire. You saw the size of the bomb. I only used a little one, because I didn’t want any collateral damage, but it’s more than enough to make sure your home is burnt beyond repair. The firemen are fighting a losing battle, but I’m sure your neighbours are enjoying the show.”

  Bell had obviously decided to enact his revenge on Collier long before he opted to let me live. It seemed Collier was always going to pay dearly for introducing him to Siân. My fate had probably only been decided when Bell read my letter. The single-minded businessman had prevailed over the vicious gangster. There was too little to gain and too much to lose by killing me. Similarly, my persistence had apparently made Siân more of an effort than she was worth. It was all business for Bell: maximise profit, minimise loss. He’d shown Siân he didn’t care by releasing her, saved face in front of his henchmen by taking his revenge on Collier, and satisfied his psychosis by staving his face in. Just another successful day’s trading at Big Ideas.

  My gamble had paid off, and my teeth were still lodged in my gums.

  The man onscreen turned around and reached up to remove his balaclava. The recording blinked out, and the TV went black.

  Bell stared at Collier, who was sobbing into the bloody towel. “There’s a one-way ticket to Dublin in the briefcase. Your flight leaves from Leeds-Bradford in three hours. I’ve got men waiting. I don’t care where you go from there, but if you ever set foot in Britain again, Victor is going to put out a contract on you. I’ve given you fifty grand severance pay, which is for your silence, and more than you fucking deserve.”

  Everyone looked at Collier, but he’d covered his face with the towel. Bell nodded. Napier gripped Collier by his shirt and marched him to the briefcase.

  “You,” Bell pointed at me, “tell Siân what I said. If I ever see you again, it’ll be your house.” I nodded. “Fuck off out my face.”

  I turned away and walked to the lift. Spiderman had the doors open. I waited for Collier. When Napier let go of him, he hesitated, then picked up the briefcase and followed me. Spiderman reached into the lift, removed the access card, and pressed the button for the ground floor. The last I saw of him was a smirk underneath the cobweb tattoos.

  I scrutinised Collier as we descended. He’d stopped crying, but his big arms and shoulders were still convulsing. The briefcase was clutched tight in his left hand, and he held the towel to his face with his right. I thought of all the pain and suffering he’d caused Siân, directly and indirectly, and was tempted to take one last shot at him. I didn’t. I can harden my heart when necessary, but I like to think I’m not cruel. Collier had received his just desserts, and I’d never see him again. More importantly, Siân would never see him or Bell again.

  I left the lift first and didn’t look back. I heard a car door open behind, but I kept going. When I climbed into the BMW, I saw the Punto pull out into Sovereign Street.

  Instead of returning to York, I headed north-west. I could smell the smoke before I reached the ring road. I turned off the Otley Road and arrived at the next junction, but couldn’t go any further. The police had blocked off Adel Lane. I parked on the pavement in St Helen’s Lane and walked down towards Collier’s house. I could hear the roar of a portable generator and could see two fire appliances in the road. The crowd of spectators hadn’t been deterred by the smoke, which was still thick in the air. As I arrived, the firefighters were extinguishing the last of the flames. I watched them for a couple of minutes.

  Then I phoned Siân and told her she was free.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I woke on Tuesday morning with a tender head from Spiderman, a sore jaw from Lawson, and a new lease on life. Now that Siân was safe my natural curiosity reasserted itself. Hunting rogue cops in Afghanistan was mostly muscle-work. They were usually easy to find and it was simply a case of having the balls – or lacking the brains – to go and get them, sometimes with a Special Forces escort, sometimes without. Claymore was different, no place for brawn here, and I wanted to know if I was up to the challenge. I decided to begin by returning to the stacks of paper covering my coffee table. But before I started playing detective, I took my aching body off to the gym, where I puffed and panted my way through a circuit. I checked my postbox on the way back and found another envelope from Lawson. I chucked it on the table with the rest, and had a shower. I was expecting Lawson to pick me up for our interview with Vaughan later, so I dressed smartly before making breakfast.

  I was ready to attack the piles of paper by half-nine, but began with the new envelope instead. Lawson had once again been thorough, and the package contained a copy of the CCRIO file on Lance Corporal Keenan’s death in Norway in December 2006, a preliminary police report on the murder of Colonel Adamson-Woods, and the service records of both the deceased. I set the Adamson-Woods papers aside, and then read about Keenan.

  Alistair Keenan had been born in Perth, in Scotland, enlisted in the Royal Logistics Corps as a driver aged eighteen, and was twenty-one at the time of his death. He’d been held in high regard by his colleagues and superiors, and had participated in numerous sports, including rugby, mountaineering, and skiing. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much more on the accident than I already knew. Keenan and Lieutenant Bavister had been part of a group of two dozen soldiers on an adventure training course in the Jostedal Glacier National Park. All of the participants were already competent skiers and the purpose of the training was to teach them glacier skiing. The course had been led by an Army PTI, Staff Sergeant Thomas, and the accident occurred on the second to last day.

  At eleven o’clock the skiers had all paired off together as instructed and selected different routes down the glacier. There were three more full hours of sunlight to reach the rendezvous, but Bavister and Keenan ran into trouble shortly after midday. Keenan had apparently fallen into a crevasse, whereupon Bavister had gone for help, finding another group of soldiers fifteen minutes later. Three of these went to find Keenan while Bavister and the fourth raced to the nearest mountain rescue station. A helicopter went up at one o’clock, and Keenan’s body had been recovered just before dusk. I made a note of the names of all the soldiers involved, but didn’t recognise any. The postmortem showed Keenan had been killed by wounds sustained in the fall, and had either died instantly or very shortly after landing at the bottom of the crevasse. It was estimated he had fallen a hundred and twenty feet, most of which was a sheer drop.

  Bavister had been exonerated from any blame or responsibility at the inquest, and praised for his efforts to save Keenan, which included returning to the scene in the helicopter. Neither he nor the other soldiers had been equipped for a crevasse rescue, so he’d acted professionally and taken command of the situation as befitted his rank. Ironically, it seemed Keenan’s death was the only occasion where Bavister had distinguished himself for the better, rather than the worse, in thirteen years of soldiering. I wasn’t entirely convinced that his version of events was accurate, however, and wanted to find out more. I reached for my phone.

  “Hello, Mac here.”

  “Hello, Mac. Good news: Siân’s in the clear.”

  “She is? How did you manage that?”

  “It’s complicated; I’ll tell you later. How about tonight, if you want to come round for a pint?”

  “Sounds spot on. I’ve got some news myself. Bavister was found guilty on three of the eleven counts yesterday. Graeme and the boys at Catterick aren’t very happy about it, like. The guilty verdicts are for the three most minor charges and they reckon he’ll get off with a slapped wrist. Any luck with pinning the murders on him?”

  I laughed. “No, but there was something I wanted to ask you. Do you know an Investigator called Steven Webber. He was a sergeant in –”

  “Aye, I know Steve. He’s a staff sergeant at 37 Section now. Why do you ask?”

  “He investigated Bavister in 2006. I wouldn�
�t mind having a word with him.”

  “I’ve got his number; I’ll bring it over tonight. I’ll be round at about half-eight, if that’s alright?”

  “Yeah, fine, see you then.”

  I put the recent additions to one side, and started to sift through the other piles of paper. I divided them into two stacks, one consisting of all the information I thought might be useful in the future, and everything else in the other. I took the ‘useless’ stack to the spare bedroom and stashed it under the bed, mindful that I might need to retrieve some of the sheets if the inquiry changed direction. I returned to my ‘useful’ pile and selected the sheets I considered to be especially significant, many of them my own handwritten notes. I put all of these in one of the folders, and then arranged the rest in chronological order. I’d just finished when someone hammered on the door. I checked my watch: a few minutes before twelve.

  “Open up if you’re alive!”

  I did. “Hello, Alex.”

  “Survived then?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “Anyone not survive, or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “The bloke that set us up in Leeds got his house burnt down and Hampton took your advice and left the country. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Do I look worried?” He peered over my shoulder. “Busy, I see. Did you get my notes on Keenan and Adamson-Woods?”

  “I did, thanks.”

  “Anything I need to know?”

  “Not yet. Coming in?”

  “No, you’re coming out – when you’ve dressed yourself.”

  “Going somewhere nice, are we?” I asked as I put on my tie.

  “Wetherspoons.”

  “You’re a cheap date.”

  “Cut the queer crap and get on with it.”

  I locked up and followed him down to the Audi, buckling up as we shot off.