Death on a Dirty Afternoon (The Terry Bell Mysteries Book 1)

by Colin Garrow

  As I'd not got round to undressing before the fire, I still had my phone and wallet, but most of Carol's belongings had perished in the blaze, including her clothes. As it happened, they weren't the only things to disappear in a puff of smoke - the murder weapon had lain in the bottom on my sports bag for the last few days, so thanks to our arsonistic chum, it'd only be good for charcoal now. Naturally enough, the bag hadn't been the first thing I'd thought of saving when the caravan went up in smoke, and while I was fairly sure the outcome was a good result, the way things had been going, I wouldn't have been surprised if it came back to haunt me.

  I was glad the mobile Mrs Carver gave me had been left in the car, where it remained nicely unburned. So far, there hadn't been any calls, and though I knew there would be eventually, I hadn't decided yet if I was going to answer them.

  We went to Carol's place first. The flat looked the same as when I'd last seen it, but Carol was wary going up the stairs and grasped my hand tightly. She kept me close to her as we peered into each room, then satisfied there were no murderers lurking in the shadows, gathered a few things and shoved them into a rucksack.

  'I'll need to ring the bank about my cards an that.'

  I nodded and leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. And that's when I remembered the picture of Sven Andersson. I'd stuffed it into my wallet meaning to show it to Carol the night before, but I hadn't wanted her to feel as bombarded as I was with yet more questions. Now, it seemed like it'd be a good idea to pool our resources. Unfolding the paper, I studied it closely, as if the light of a new day might bring it into sharp focus. And perhaps it did, because that's when I realised what had been niggling away at me the day before.

  'Goin to yours now, then?'

  'Sorry?'

  Carol was off the phone. 'I'm sorted,' she said, jiggling her bag. She nodded at the piece of newspaper in my hand. 'What's that?'

  I passed it to her. 'Photo of our friend Andersson doing his bit for the community.' I sat on the sofa and watched her face as she studied the image.

  'Bloody hell - what a hunk.' She grinned. 'Sorry, that's inappropriate isn't it?'

  'Have another look,' I said.

  She walked over to the window and stared at the picture. 'What am I looking for?'

  'What can you see?'

  'Tch, God's sake, Terry, I'm not Doctor fuckin Watson. Gie me a clue.'

  'The photo's been cropped, but there's something there you might recognise. Something the photographer couldn't keep out of the image without cutting the legs off his subjects.'

  She grumbled a bit, but took another look. 'Like a person, you mean?'

  'Not necessarily.'

  She peered at it, then her mouth dropped open and she inclined her head. 'Oh.'

  I walked over to her and took the photo. It showed a fenced-off area in front of the half-built apartment block. The photographer must have crammed everyone together on the grass verge by the roadside to get them all in the frame. In the foreground, stood Andersson and the councillor, mostly smiles, with a dozen or so grinning subordinates and the usual community worthies looking on. Behind them was the shell of the building and on the right hand side we could just see the business end of a JCB. On the left side, and slightly in front of the crowd, was the back end of a red Nissan. The licence plate was just visible at the edge of the photo.

  It was Frank's car.

  I didn't waste any time at my flat - in and out like the SAS, as Sharon used to say on the rare occasions we managed to have sex at the same time.

  I'd left Carol in the car and told her to get lost if anyone remotely suspicious showed up. If the place was being watched we'd know soon enough, but there was no way we were serving ourselves up on a platter. The caravan caper had been a bit close for comfort, though I couldn't help feel we'd managed to stay one jump ahead of our pursuers.

  Nevertheless, I was taken aback to find my flat had been done over. The lock was intact, so whoever was responsible hadn't been an amateur. Scattered across the floor, my records, papers and clothes looked like they'd simply been dropped there for effect. I stepped over the mess and checked my one and only hidey-hole. The few important documents I possessed were still there. As there was nothing missing, could this be just another scare tactic? If so, it was working.

  One positive point occurred to me as I relocked the front door - the intruders hadn't been clever enough to co-ordinate their visits to coincide with ours. Unless that's exactly the way they wanted it, in which case they probably were clever.

  We arrived at Ronnie's Taxis just after eleven. Ken was at the desk. He looked like he hadn't slept for days. There were no punters waiting, only Beardy Bob and Fat Barry who sat with their feet up on the coffee table, reading back-issues of Viz.

  'Here he is, ye see,' said Barry, grinning. 'Told ye he wasn't deid.'

  'That's not funny,' I said, keeping a straight face.

  'Oh, I know, but...' He coughed. 'Just havin a laugh an that, ye knaa?'

  Carol made a beeline for the desk. 'Come on you, get yerself away home. We'll take over now.'

  Ken sighed. 'Not much to take over, to be honest, pet.' He shook his head. 'Punters are staying away.'

  Beardy Bob nodded in agreement. 'It's true. I was on the fuckin rank for nearly two fuckin hours this mornin and not a fuckin soul got in me fuckin car.' He wiped a sleeve across his mouth. 'Not a soul.'

  Carol slammed her hand down on the desk. 'Well ye'll not get anythin sat in here ye great lazy sod.'

  'I was just sayin.' Bob pushed out his lower lip and stood up. 'Fine, I'll fuck off then.'

  Carol slid a finger down the job list. 'There's a pickup from the airport at half two.' She looked up. 'Who was in first?'

  Fat Barry pointed at Bob.

  'There ye go, then.' She scribbled the address on a slip of paper and held it out. Bob sniffed and took it.

  'Go on, it'll take ye half an hour to get over there. And this time don't forget to take a bit of card with the bloke's name on. Don't want Coastal nicking our customers again.'

  He nodded solemnly and went out.

  I'd not moved from third car on the rank for nearly an hour when I saw her. She was heading for Paedophile Pete in the white Vauxhall and already had her hand on the door when she caught sight of me.

  Now, according to Taxi-Driver Law, customers are expected to take the first car they come to on a taxi rank, irrespective of which firm it belongs to, so strictly speaking Elise Andersson should have jumped in with Pete, but when our eyes met, she shut his door and walked towards my car.

  Paedo boy was out of the car in a second. I wound my window down ready for the blitz of bad breath.

  'Er sorry missus but you have to take the first one.' He pointed to the Vauxhall and shrugged like it wasn't his fault.

  Elise opened my rear passenger door. 'But I like this one.'

  'No, seriously, ye have to get in the first car, an that.' He glared down at me. 'Come on, Terry, ye know how it works.' His voice was much like his face - whiny and thin.

  'You got an account with SAHB then?' I said, holding back a smile.

  He crouched down and looked over at Elise who was now sitting in the back, her face all innocence. 'Well, no, but...'

  I shrugged and started the engine. 'No point you taking her, then. Is there? Unless you want to do it free of charge?'

  'Did I get you into trouble?' Elise turned and waved at Pete as we pulled out of the line. She looked a little different from our previous meeting. Black trousers and a dark green blouse suited her just as well though, and from the size of the bomber jacket that graced her shoulders, I guessed she'd borrowed it from a Swedish giant.

  'No. He was right though, you should've gone with him.'

  'But I didn't.'

  'So is this on account, then?'

  'I thought you preferred cash?'

  'I do.'

  Her smile lit up my rear-view mirror. 'Whatever suits you.'

  I'd reached the end of the one-way bi
t and pulled up behind a bus at the junction, at which point I realised I hadn't asked where she wanted to go. 'So where you off to?'

  'The Hexagon.'

  'Bit late for lunch, isn't it?' I tried to sound conversational, but I caught her sharp look in the mirror.

  'Did I say I was hungry?' Her tone was a little accusatory.

  'I just meant –'

  'You were prying, I think.' She laughed but the look was still there. 'Maybe you'd prefer to take me home?'

  'And where's that?'

  'Not around here.' She turned and gazed out the window. 'We have a place out of town. The countryside, you know?'

  'Sounds lovely.'

  I keyed the mic and called the job in then headed along the Esplanade. Elise fiddled with her handbag, checking her makeup, running a hand through her hair.

  I pulled into the car park at the Hex and checked the meter. 'Five forty, please.'

  She handed me a tenner and I made a show of putting it in my wallet and rooting about in my cash bag, hoping she'd say keep the change. But she didn't. When I passed the coins over, she checked the amount and dropped them in her purse.

  I watched her climb out and walk up to the door where I'd first set eyes on her. The apron guy appeared from nowhere and opened it, standing aside while she slid past him. I saw her move through the bar area then lost sight of her as a sea of bobbing heads surged out of the main restaurant.

  I picked up the mic. 'Car ten clear the Hex.'

  Carol must have been waiting for me to call. 'Was that who I think it was, Terry?'

  'Who d'you think it was?'

  'Don't be funny. Are you free?'

  A couple of lumberjacks in denims had disgorged from the back door of the restaurant and were heading towards the car. 'Hang on,' I said into the mic. 'Might have a fare.' One of the guys opened the door and stuck a foot inside, claiming his ride. His friend, whose face bore not a little resemblance to a welded bench, grabbed his arm and said something I didn't hear, then both of them climbed in.

  'Where to, lads?'

  Something cold and hard jabbed into my neck.

  'Just drive, or ye'll get it.'

  Chapter 8

  'Drive,' the voice said again, its tone low and throaty, reminding me of that bloke who does the voiceover trailers for American movies. In this case, the tag line wasn't promising.

  I couldn't tell if the cold, hard thing was a gun. For a couple of seconds I pondered on the wisdom of testing a theory, but guessed there wouldn't be a lot of space for wrong answers. As I turned the wheel in a long arc out of the car park, I saw Apron Man watching us. The look on his face told me that out of the both of us, he thought he had a better chance of getting home that night.

  Pulling out onto the main drag, I headed towards Tynemouth. As neither of my passengers objected, I assumed either this was exactly the direction they wanted to go in, or it didn't matter a fuck where we went. I chose to go with the first option.

  Taking surreptitious glances at my abductors, I reckoned they couldn't be much older than mid-twenties. There was a spotty-teenager look about them and their clothes weren't exactly Savile Row.

  The one sporting the weapon and the least ugly mug lowered his hand. 'Do as ye're told and ye'll not get hurt.'

  A quick glance in the mirror suggested this advice was almost certainly bollocks - these guys weren't looking to party. They'd been given a job and nothing was going to stop them. I had to do something, and I had to do it fast.

  'I need to call in,' I said, pointing at the radio.

  'No you don't,' said Bench Face.

  'No, really I do, otherwise the lass on the desk'll know something's wrong.' I caught the quick exchange of views and after a moment, Mr Bench nodded. 'Go on, then, but watch what ye say, or I'll put a fuckin hole in yer, right?'

  I cleared my throat. 'I could say I'll be out the car for a while?'

  Bench Face grunted. 'Fine.'

  I keyed the mic and took a little more care over my diction than usual. 'Car nine, out of the car for a few minutes.'

  There was a pause, then Carol's voice came back, 'Was that you, Terry?'

  'It was,' I said.

  Her reply was swift and casual. 'That's car nine out of the car at the Hexagon.'

  We drove in silence for several minutes, then as the ruins of the Priory loomed ahead of us, Gun Man leaned forward. 'Just keep to the main road. I'll tell yer when to turn off.'

  Normally, I'd have had half an ear on the radio and be able to follow roughly where other drivers were calling clear. But since picking Elise up, I hadn't been listening, so had no idea if there was anyone nearby. If there was, and we stayed on this road for a while longer, there might be a chance. If there wasn't, I was going to get screwed. And not in a nice way.

  Bench Face gazed out the window like he was looking for something. And he wasn't the only one - keeping my head facing forward, I casually clocked each side road as we passed, checking mirrors, hoping for a miracle.

  'Watch yer speed,' said the better-looking one.

  'Sorry,' I muttered, glad of the opportunity to apply the brakes without it looking suspicious.

  Then I saw it - half a block ahead, the hint of a familiar bumper. A bonnet appeared as a pale green Nissan Crappy nosed around a corner. I caught a glimpse of Jimmy Walton behind the wheel. As we sailed passed, he swung out and pulled in behind me and for the first time in my life, I was actually glad to see the miserable bugger. However, he was only one and I'd be needing more than that to escape this situation.

  Half a mile up the road, my salvation arrived. Joe Spud (metallic grey), appeared on the horizon. Joe was nuttier than a nut cake with extra nuts. He'd been known to employ his particular brand of persuasion in a variety of situations, such as when punters disagreed about the fare. Joe's normally smiley and open face tended to work to his advantage, creating the element of surprise. He'd once ended an animated discussion by bringing his forehead into sharp contact with the nose of his antagonist - a lorry driver who'd erroneously parked his HGV on the taxi rank.

  In this case though, Joe's reaction was anyone's guess.

  His car was about thirty yards ahead, with Jimmy right up behind me. Keeping my eyes on Joe, I took my foot off the accelerator and jumped on the brakes. At the same instant, as if we'd planned it that way, Joe's car skidded to a halt, before slewing across my lane, blocking the road. He squealed to a stop a few feet in front of my car.

  'What the fuck —' said Bench, but I was already out of the car. Jimmy thudded to a halt, missing my rear bumper by inches, while Joe marched to my nearside passenger door, a large hammer in his right hand.

  Bench Face scrambled out onto the pavement just as Joe swung his arm downwards, catching the unfortunate moron a hefty whack in what Joe liked to call 'the pods'. Bench doubled up on the ground, his face taking on a nice shade of purple.

  I turned to see where the other man had gone, but the gutless git was already halfway down the road, sprinting like an Olympian desperate for the toilet. Clearly, he'd judged the odds to be against him.

  Joe pressed the heel of his boot into Bench Face's left hand and ground it around like he was making coffee.

  A quick check inside the car confirmed there was no sign of the gun. Shutting the door, I knelt down beside the squirming mass on the pavement. 'Who sent you?'

  The man urged me to go away in words of one syllable. I looked up at Joe.

  'My mate asked ye a question.' He swung the hammer menacingly. 'Ye want to answer? Or will Ah give ye a DIY panel beat and a re-spray?'

  'A what?' It was more of a squeal than a reply, but Joe gave him a gentle whack on the shoulder to dispel any lingering doubt about the nature of the panel beat.

  'Alright, for fuck's sake.'

  Joe stepped away, but kept the hammer within bashing distance. Jimmy took up residence behind the man as the whimpering fool struggled to his knees.

  'Ah divvent knaa who it was. Honest, Ah divvent.' His face had sagged int
o a quivering blob. 'Just somebody that giv iz fifty quid to knock ye aboot an that.'

  'An what somebody would that be?' I said.

  He shrugged, then winced at the pain in his shoulder. 'Nae idea. Honest.'

  Jimmy held out his phone. 'Think ye'd better call the cops, eh?'

  Bench Face shook his head. 'No, no, divvent dae that - he'll kill iz.'

  Joe tapped him on the shoulder again. 'Who will?'

  The man shook his head. 'Seriously man, I divvent knaa anythin.'

  Joe looked at me. 'What d'you think?'

  'Doesn't matter - reckon I know who it is anyway.' I patted Joe on the back. He glanced at my hand like I'd invaded his privacy.

  'Aye, well, thanks mate. Much appreciated.'

  He nodded. 'Any time.' He gave Bench Face another not-so-gentle tap on the shoulder before going back to his car.

  It was only then that I noticed the folks standing round watching us. A few vehicles had stopped, but as Joe's car pulled away, we were no longer blocking the street. Several cars crawled past, ogling the man who was now leaning against the car, nursing his shoulder. The proliferation of mobile phones pointed in our direction told me celebrity status wasn't far away.

  Jimmy laughed. 'Be on Facebook afore ye know it.'

  I watched Bench Face straighten up. He glared at me and hobbled away, clutching his hurty parts.

  'I think ye'd better tell Inspector Brown.'

  I was sitting on the edge of the counter back at the office. 'Maybe.'

  'Never mind bloody maybe,' muttered Carol. 'It's not just your neck we're talking about here, ye know?'

  'Aye, I know.'

  As if on cue, my phone rang. It was Charis. I gave her the lowdown on recent events. She wasn't as interested as I'd expected and didn't think my theory on who Mr Big was had any merit. Even so, she suggested me and Carol get out of town for a few days. I told her it was a good idea. I may have given her the impression it was such a good idea me and Carol were going to do exactly that, but I didn't tell her what we were actually going to do. In fact, I didn't even tell Carol.