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

by Colin Garrow

She rested a hand on my arm and squeezed it gently. 'Terry, maybe we should just forget it? Leave it to the cops?'

  'I would if I thought they were gettin anywhere.'

  'Well, unless you've got an Andersson-tracking-device down your pants, we're not likely to find them tonight, are we?'

  I pulled up at a mini-roundabout and grinned at her. 'Wanna bet?'

  It'd only been a few minutes since the Beemer disappeared so I reckoned they'd have zipped along the seafront and be round the corner into Front Street by now - and that's exactly where I wanted them. As the road bends round, it splits into two, allowing space for a generous parking area that cuts straight down the middle between the carriageways. Even at the best of times, it could be a bit of a gridlock situation and at this time of night, the half-mile or so up to the junction of Tynemouth Road would be chock full of partygoers and the like. Nevertheless, I couldn't bank on Andersson getting caught in the usual snarlup, so I'd taken the precaution of having a couple of mates on standby.

  As we rounded the corner, I spied the Beemer a hundred yards up the road. It wasn't moving.

  'What?' Carol stared at me. 'How did that happen?'

  I chuckled. Joe's car was parked across the lane, blocking Andersson's progress. The Swede himself was out of his car shouting Scandinavian obscenities in Joe's direction. I hoped my bolshie pal wouldn't rise to the bait and smack him one, but thankfully, as soon as he clocked our arrival, he shunted backwards onto the pavement, pulled forwards and sped away.

  'You arranged that?' There was a hint of admiration in her voice.

  'I did.'

  'How'd you know he'd come this way?'

  'I didn't. Geoff was ready to pull a similar stunt if they'd gone the other way.' The set-up had cost me a hundred quid but I reasoned if it helped track down Ronnie's killer, it was money well spent.

  She nodded. 'That's quite clever, Terry. For you.'

  We followed Andersson up to the junction where he turned left and put his foot down. I had to drop a gear to keep up. A mile further on, he swung a left into Stephenson Street then right onto the A187. As we made the turn, I noticed another car behind us. I glanced at it a couple of times, but reasoned it was pretty unlikely there'd be yet another car following us. Even so, I kept an eye on it until it dropped back out of sight.

  'I bet I know where he's going,' said Carol. 'Royal Quays. That's where all the posh folk live.'

  'Just cos it's where you want to live, doesn't mean it's posh.'

  She thumped my arm. 'Like you'd know.'

  As it turned out, she was right, though it wasn't the houses Andersson was heading for. We followed the Beemer down through the housing development, over the bridge and onto the road that led to the river. Then we swung left towards the marina and I dropped back, allowing him plenty of space. To the right, the Tyne looked sleek and black and I suddenly felt vulnerable on this narrow stretch of road between two bodies of water. The lights from the boats in the harbour were warm and welcoming, but I didn't imagine Andersson would be happy to see me.

  As he swerved into the car park, I took my time negotiating the dead-end roundabout, before doubling back and pulling over.

  'Where ye goin, man?' Hissed Carol, as I jumped out.

  I signalled she should stay in the car, then skipped over the grass verge separating the road from the marina's parking areas and hurried across to the edge of the quay. I could still see the Beemer moving slowly along the far side and a moment later, it backed into a space.

  Crouching down, I watched Andersson get out the car and go to the boot, though whatever he took from it up must have been small. I tried to imagine what it might be - something small that you'd want to keep in the boot. Something valuable, maybe? Or something dangerous.

  My line of thought was interrupted as Carol came up beside me. Except, unless she'd taken to wearing black overalls and started smelling of fish, it wasn't Carol.

  I looked up. 'Ah, hello.'

  Bench Face grinned down at me. 'Hiya.'

  I straightened up slowly and glanced over at the car. Carol's face appeared distorted, held hard against the rear passenger window. A man sporting an amount of facial hair that would've looked indulgent on an ape, had a hand around her mouth.

  Mr Face jabbed a cold, hard object into my side. This time, I didn't bother speculating on what it might be. Grabbing my arm, he marched me back to the road.

  Monkey Boy leaned over and opened the rear passenger door, then shifted over to the other side, taking Carol with him. That left Carol in the middle and me stuck behind the driver's seat. Bench kept the gun on me until I'd shut the door. Hairy-Face had his hand around Carol's neck. He was big in the shoulder department and I could see it wouldn't take much effort for him to do her serious damage. As his pal climbed into the driving seat, I found myself wondering where their car was. If they'd already been here when we arrived, they couldn't have known we were coming, and if not, where'd they sprung from? Remembering the car I'd seen earlier, I guessed I should've taken more notice of my rear-view mirror. In any case, it wasn't something I needed to spend time worrying about just now.

  Mr Bench pushed his seat back, squashing my knees. The comfort of prisoners wasn't on his list of priorities. He leaned over and passed the gun to his hirsute friend.

  'Where's your pal tonight?' I quipped. 'Out eating children?'

  'Yer sense of humour's a bit like your pal Ronnie's,' said Benchy, starting the car. 'So ye'll be glad to know ye'll be meetin up with him soon.' He laughed heartily as the car pulled away.

  Chapter 10

  It came to mind that as we were leaving the vicinity of Mr Andersson, we obviously weren't being taken to see him. Although, with his goody-three-shoes clean-cut image, it might be fair to assume he wouldn't want dead bodies cluttering up his nice posh yacht. No, he almost certainly had a derelict warehouse somewhere for jobs like this. Somewhere out of the way, where trivial matters like spilled blood and murder could be dealt with quietly.

  There was another possibility of course, that I was mistaken about Andersson and it was this Ahmed bloke who was pulling the strings, but even though the gorgeous Elise knew the guy, I'd been wrong about Ralph being one of his cronies, so now the odds didn't seem so strong. Then again, we were already on the coast road heading for Newcastle, so maybe Ahmed and his horsey friend were already waiting for us.

  As it turned out, I was right about one thing - we'd been driving for ten minutes when we turned onto the A19, then took a series of right and left-handers along roads that were markedly deficient in signage. In the dark, I wasn't certain where we were, but the lack of streetlights suggested our destination to be The Middle of Bloody Nowhere.

  Minutes later, we were thumping along a rough track that was so full of potholes, our heads banged with annoying regularity against the roof of the car. With Hairy-Face at a disadvantage because of the colossal size of his skull, he was momentarily distracted, so I took the opportunity to reach under the driver's seat and cop hold of my spanner. Glancing at Carol I realized she'd seen what I was up to and had shuffled herself forward to distract her captor's attention. Trouble is, now I had this great big spanner and nowhere to hide it. I knew it'd fit nice and snug in my inside pocket, but there was no way I could get it in there without being seen. With a bit of surreptitious fiddling about, I managed to slide part of it up my sleeve and hide the other end in my hand. With any luck, the Ugly Twins wouldn't decide to frisk us when we got out the car.

  Reaching the end of the track, we pulled into what must at one time have been a farmyard, but had morphed into a rambling collection of dilapidated buildings and rusty machinery.

  The car slithered to a halt and Benchy jumped out. Carol squeezed my hand. She was visibly shaking.

  'It'll be fine, pet,' I said, keeping my voice low. Her monkey friend was already hauling her out the car.

  I waited for Bench to open my door. With his mate still at the other side, I made like I was struggling to get out of the tig
ht space and deliberately half fell onto the overgrown concrete. On my hands and knees, I was facing away from him and had just enough time to slip the spanner into my inside pocket. Whether I'd have a chance to use it was another matter entirely.

  Gorilla Boy waved his gun and the four of us started towards the main building. Benchy produced a torch and moved in front of us, kicking open the door. It swung backwards, revealing some sort of workshop. There were shelves and workbenches along one wall, several rickety chairs, a table and a couple of gas cylinders, along with a few crates and what looked like an industrial space heater. Three wind-up lanterns lay on the table.

  Mr Bench indicated the lamps and I correctly interpreted his grunts as a desire that I should get them working. Picking up the first one I unfastened the handle and started winding. It was an oddly satisfying experience to see the thing light up after a few seconds. I continued with this until instructed to do the same with the others.

  Bench ordered Carol to sit down while I was otherwise employed. Furry Face attached the space heater to a couple of car batteries and a sudden whoosh of intense heat and noise filled the room. Continuing my winding activities, wondering why they were bothering to heat the place, I glanced up at Bench Face. His expression of total glee told me what he already knew - that the space heater was there for other reasons than keeping us warm.

  With all the lamps lit, Monkey Boy arranged them in suitable locations. The overall effect was almost homely. However, our 'comfort' didn't last. Bench made me sit me on a chair against the wall. The Bearded One kept the gun aimed at me while his pal tied Carol to hers.

  When they were satisfied, Benchy pulled something out of the pocket of his overalls. It looked like a couple of sardines wrapped in brown paper. I guessed that's where the smell had come from.

  'You making supper?' I said.

  Bench laughed. 'Hear that? Supper, he says!' They both sniggered in a way that was not reassuring. 'No mate, just a little demonstration.'

  Rooting around in a tea chest, he pulled out a long metal spike with three prongs on one end. I assumed it must be either an old-fashioned toasting fork or a particularly evil instrument of torture. Taking the sardines, he chucked one of them onto the table, skewered the other onto the tines and walked over to the space heater.

  'Watch.' Moving the fork gradually closer to the glowing element, we watched as the skin began to sizzle, burn and finally, turn black. I was partial to a bit of grilled cod, but this guy's technique did nothing for my appetite.

  Examining his handiwork, Bench strolled over to me. 'I'm sure a cocky twat like you can appreciate what that was in aid of, but just in case...' He swung the fork towards me, holding the singed mess in front of my face. 'That's what happens when a bit of flesh gets too close to the fire. So the plan is that you answer our questions, or we'll try the same thing...' He turned to Carol and pointed the fork at her. 'With the bonny lass, here. Okay?'

  Carol's eyes went like saucers. She swallowed noisily.

  'So,' Benchy continued, waving the fork around, 'Why don't ye tell us what ye know, eh?'

  The Beard Monger was standing a few feet away from Carol, holding the gun. The table was still between us, so it wouldn't have done a lot of good to lay into his mate. I wondered how Don Corleone would deal with this sort of situation. Finally, I nodded my head.

  'Alright,' I said, 'tell me what you know, and I'll give you the nod if I know about it as well.' I gave him my best stupid grin, though my lower lip was trembling so much it was on the verge of doing a shimmy-shimmy shake.

  'By Christ, ye're a funny fucker, you are.'

  I'd expected him to lash out, to knock me over, maybe give me some chance to yank out my secret weapon, but instead he just nodded to his mate.

  'No!' Carol's voice was sharp and loud, reverberating off the bare walls. Monkey Boy took no notice and dragged her chair towards the space heater. She kicked out at him, catching him in the shin, but he didn't stop til the chair was about six feet away. Straightaway, I saw the effect the apparatus had on Carol - with the business end of the heater angled upwards, the hot air blew her hair like she was standing on the edge of an erupting volcano. She shut her eyes and leaned back in an effort to escape the intense heat. If they pushed her any closer, she'd fry for sure.

  I had to do something, but Hairy-Faced Gun-Boy was now further away from me than before. I glanced at Benchy who was busy laughing at Carol's plight, the fork still in his right hand. He was half turned away from me and any minute now, he'd resume his interrogation. My eyes flicked around the room, desperate for something, anything to leap to my aid. And then I saw it - one dead eye peeking over the edge of the table.

  Reaching up, I grasped the thing in the palm of my hand and dropped my arm to my side, just as Bench Face turned his attention back to me.

  'Right. I think we've made the point, so it's your turn now, gobshite.' He snarled, adding another layer of hideousness to his repellent features. 'Spill it.'

  Beard Boy had pulled Carol's chair back and now they were both staring at me. Carol was looking hotter than she ever had, and not in a sexy way.

  I took a breath and looked up. 'Well, I could tell ye, but ye'd end up havin a meal with Luca Brasi.'

  Mr Bench laughed. Then stopped, confusion and disbelief fighting for supremacy on his ugly mug. 'Ye what?'

  'Eatin with the fishes.'

  Right on cue his jaw dropped and my left hand shot across and stuffed the sardine into his gaping mouth. He reeled backwards, dropping the fork and clawing at his offended orifice, spitting out cold fish. I grabbed the spanner from my inside pocket and whacked him in the bollocks before bringing it back up for a smart crack across the side of his head.

  As he stumbled backwards, I could hear his ape-like pal motoring into action, but I'd already dropped to the floor and rolled under the table. Emerging on the other side, my right leg was nicely positioned to kick his legs from under him. But he was too quick and skipped away. Even so, he wasn't fast enough for Carol - she threw herself and the chair backwards, catching him a nice one in the guts.

  As his arse hit the ground, the knuckles of his right hand smashed hard on the floor and he let go his grip on the gun. I grabbed it and jumped up.

  'Get back!' I took hold of the back of Carol's chair, dragging her away from the heater. The gun was surprisingly heavy and I had to concentrate to keep it levelled at our former captors. With my free hand, I started undoing the ropes holding Carol to the chair.

  Then I noticed Monkey Boy and Bench Face were just standing there, watching, rubbing their various wounded portions. As if this was merely a fly in their once-perfect ointment, they seemed in no hurry to make a move, but equally, oddly unaffected by what I thought of as my particularly successful take-over bid. After a moment, Bench took a step forward. Holding out a hand, he said, 'Give me the gun.'

  'Like fuck. Now get back.' When he didn't move, I tried again. 'I said back!'

  He shook his head. 'Ye winnae use it, man.'

  'Will I not? Try it an see.' The ropes holding Carol's arms were loose now and she stooped forward pulling at those around her legs.

  'Just give me the gun.'

  Carol jumped up and got behind me, her hands gripping my jacket. 'Kill him, Terry.' Her voice was low, but I knew she meant it. I glanced at her.

  Bench Face laughed, though now I detected a flicker of doubt in his eyes. 'He would, pet, but he's soft as shite. Got nae balls.' He took another step forward.

  And that's when I pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 11

  Had I actually intended shooting someone, I might well have done a bit of serious damage, but my objective was only to scare the pair of them. Like all good westerns, I imagined a ricochet off the floor in the vicinity of my enemy's foot might communicate the necessary message - that I was not to be messed with. However, there was no ricochet, western or otherwise, and the bullet went into Bench Face's right boot, popping a neat hole into the space where his big toe had be
en.

  Carol screamed at the same time as my victim, though his was more girly and screechy than hers could ever be. Ape Man, thankfully, did not scream, but a hand flew to his mouth in a distinctly camp gesture and the look on his face demonstrated this particular scenario had not been explained to him as a possible consequence of their actions.

  'You told me it weren't real,' he wailed at Benchy.

  By now, his associate was sitting on the floor clutching his injured foot. 'Course Ah did, ye fuckin ponce. Ye wouldn't have done it otherwise.' He rocked back and forth, moaning quietly.

  There was a strange, acrid smell coming from the weapon and I remember thinking it wasn't a smell I wanted to get used to. I looked at Apey and waved the gun, taking care to keep my fingers well away from the trigger. 'Ye thought it was a toy?'

  He nodded vigorously. 'I'm a friggin labourer, not a villain. Only came along to help out, an that.'

  'Not a hired thug, then?' I said.

  He waved a shaking finger at Benchy. 'I'm his next-door neighbour. He promised me two-hundred quid for a couple of hours work.'

  'And what about him? What does he do when he's not toasting sardines?'

  Beard Man glared at his pal. 'He's a plasterer.'

  'A plasterer...' I couldn't believe it. We'd been abducted by a couple of amateurs.

  Carol had stayed behind me but now she stepped forward. Approaching the bearded non-professional, she smacked him a nice one across the face. 'Ye fuckin shite. Coulda kill iz, ye stupid sod.' She slapped him again for good measure.

  I pointed the gun at Benchy. 'Where's me keys?'

  'In me pocket.' His whole face had started to tremble.

  I told him to throw them over to me. He made a big show of being in pain and not being able to function properly, but eventually the keys landed at my feet. Carol picked them up.

  'Right,' I said. 'You,' indicating Beard Boy. 'Out you go.' I pointed at the door.

  His eyes flicked between me and the exit. 'What, y'mean leave?'