by Jake Cross
Liz and Karl stopped eight feet away from him, as if for safety, although it meant nothing while he held the gun. Katie joined them. Karl stepped up, ahead of the women, and said: ‘It seems like you want to make amends. The only way would be to give yourself up to the police.’
A firm no.
‘But I will help you. Closure, I guess. I will tell you what happened last night.’
Karl heard a sharp intake of breath from behind. Liz. ‘Let me call the police. You can help clear our names.’
A firm no.
‘I’ll help you though. Closure, like I said.’
He looked up. Liz stepped past Karl and in front of him, into the firing line. He put a warning hand on her shoulder, but she flicked away his fingers.
‘He was good to you, Bradley,’ she said. ‘I was good to you. Why would you do this? Why would you kill my husband?’
‘I broke into his house.’
‘I damn well know that, I was there—’
‘I attacked you in the clothing shop.’
‘That’s not an answer, you bastard. Why—?’
‘I hunted you down.’
Liz said nothing.
‘So why would I lie?’ Brad asked.
‘What? What are you—?’
‘The nightclub shooting, Elizabeth. That’s why. I know you don’t want to hear this, but this is what I’m going to tell you. Believe it or not. Just ask yourself why I’d lie, after all this.’
Brad said: ‘Ron wanted a major rival out of the way and set him up. Me and a guy called Dave, we were meant to shoot the place up, make it look like a robbery, and make sure a man called Razor Randolph got hit. Shot at in the nightclub of a major rival by guys who got past his security. But he survived. How could Randolph not suspect Grafton? Grafton’s only option, apparently, was to give the shooters up. So he did. He betrayed us. He sent us in there, and then he sold us down the river when it didn’t work. He put out the word that we were good suspects, to give the impression he was eager to see justice for his good friend and business partner. It was as good as a death sentence.’
Her head said she refused to believe it. Loyal to her husband, Liz snorted with scorn. ‘That’s not what happened. So, what, you thought you’d been betrayed so went to that dodgy cop for help? What was his reason for wanting revenge? For wanting to slaughter my husband?’
Brad looked at her for a long time. Then he said: ‘If Ron didn’t tell you—’
She cut in: ‘He told me everything, you bastard. Everything. I know everything. And he wouldn’t have lied. Not to me. There was nothing he did to that cop.’
Calmly, Brad said: ‘Then he didn’t care enough to remember what he did. It was just another day in the park to him.’
It was exactly what Mick had said.
‘And if you don’t know,’ Brad added, ‘it’s not my place to tell you.’
‘I saw his chest wound,’ Karl said.
Brad laughed. ‘Yeah, you did. He made sure that fucker didn’t heal properly, as a reminder. But that’s all I’ll say about that.’
She said: ‘That man tried to kill you, and you’re going to defend—’
‘Shut up,’ Brad shouted, surprising her into silence. He jumped to his feet. She staggered back, as if physically hit by the shockwave of his yell.
‘If you don’t know what your husband did to Mick then he was right: it meant nothing to Grafton. Go find out yourselves.’
He paused and then sat on the kerb again. He saw them looking at the gun. A second later it was gone, tucked away. In its place was a mobile phone. His eyes hit the ground again.
‘Mick McDevitt wasn’t always bad. He started off good. He didn’t get knocked off the rails by money or power, unlike your husband.’
‘So, what turned him insane?’ Katie snarled from the back. Karl grabbed her, terrified that her outburst was going to make the gun and the anger and the violence reappear. But Brad didn’t even look up.
‘I’m not even sure he turned. Maybe it was in him all along. Nature versus nurture, eh? Maybe it’s in us all.’
‘You and him got a bigger share,’ Katie spat.
Now he looked up, pointing at Liz. ‘It was people like your husband who brought it out. Okay? Their ability to walk through the rain without getting wet. And I’m not just talking about murder or fraud, like the trial Ron just beat. People like him, they’ve got the clout and money to put up a fight, and the government always backs down. That’s what changed Mick. The law tied his hands, and it put people like your husband back on the streets. So, Mick didn’t respect the law in return. I don’t mean he turned corrupt. He wasn’t, at first. He didn’t fit up innocent people, or take bribes. How Mick put it once: he was bridging the gaps. Overstepping lines to do what was necessary. At least, that’s how it started. When he made DCI and got control of investigations, he came up with something he called the Loyalty Box. He kept incriminating evidence to force people to work for him. Some of that evidence was kept in order to take down the bigger fish. He was always working to put bad people away.’
‘How commendable,’ Liz said, full of scorn.
‘Is it really any different to how police informants work? Think of Mick’s people as informants who don’t get paid. That guy he sent to your shop, for instance. Król. Mick’s team searched his flat after an old Asian shopkeeper was stabbed. The knife was right there, but Mick secretly took it. That might seem like a bad move to you because Król didn’t go to prison for assault. But in Mick’s hands he’s given up two killers in the last few months. And he wasn’t paid. Two murders solved that wouldn’t have been if Mick hadn’t held that stabbing over Król. One of those guys, there was no evidence against him for murder, but the Loyalty Box got him for a burglary he had nothing to do with. The bottom line is that the guy is in prison and wouldn’t have been if not for Mick.’ Nobody looked impressed. Brad tossed his phone. Karl caught it.
‘What happens now?’ Karl said.
Brad looked at Katie. ‘I’m sorry I pushed you into Mick like that, and for tricking you. I know you’re pregnant, but there was no other way to get him off guard.’ He turned to Karl. ‘Start filming, Hitchcock. Show the cops. It’s all you’ll get. I’ll tell you what happened that night. I think you deserve that, daft as that might sound. Whatever. I’ll tell it and then I’m out of here.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ Liz asked.
‘You wouldn’t get it.’
‘Don’t act like you know me. You don’t. Not any more.’
‘Melius est nomen bonum quam divitae multae,’ Brad said, which puzzled everyone. ‘See. You don’t know me, either. Now, if you don’t want to hear this, start walking.’
Nobody moved.
Ninety-Two
Mick
Despite the rush to get out of the city, Mick opted to head back to Stepney to collect his car. It had things inside that he needed. He showed his badge to the taxi driver and told him to bill the Metropolitan Police. A few minutes later he was behind the wheel, heading out of London. Despite the rush, he pulled into the side of a desolate road as he spotted something.
The Alsatian, digging its nose into rubbish in the gutter, watched his approach with caution but didn’t scarper. It even took his stroke. Not a beaten animal that had escaped a hell of a home, then. Maybe just a stray.
He looked around. He and the dog, the only living things out here with fewer than six legs. Good, but not essential: happening regardless.
‘Good boy. What do you weigh, about four stone? Needs must, eh?’
It allowed itself to be led to his car where there was a packet of crisps. He held a crisp high, and the dog reared up to put its forepaws on his waist in order to take the snack.
‘Since I’ve been nice, would you like to help me with something? You’d like to reward my kindness, wouldn’t you?’
He got in his car and jabbed the button for the window until it was open six inches. The dog got its head through by turning it sideways. It snatched t
he next crisp and yanked its head back out to chomp.
‘Did you know that a dog called Horand was the first of your kind? I bet you’d like that name.’
The dog stuck its head through to get the next crisp.
‘But I’ll have to call you Grafton, I’m afraid. Watch my paintwork, won’t you?’
The dog took the crisp just as Mick jabbed the window button and raised glass into its throat. Its paws raked the door as it tried to drag its head out. Mick had to use one hand to help the window up because the mechanism wasn’t powerful enough to do the job.
He got out the passenger side as the dog struggled. It was still struggling as Mick stopped behind it, with his knife, but its shrieking changed to a low moan, somewhat pleading.
‘I promise it won’t hurt and will soon be o…’ He stopped. The knife slipped from his fingers. ‘You're a girl.’ He realised that punishing the dog wouldn’t satisfy his urge to kill. She wasn’t Grafton or some scumbag that deserved to die. He watched Horand struggle for a few more seconds, then got back in the car. He dropped the window.
In his headlights, he watched Horand flee.
Ninety-Three
Mick
‘On the night in question we drove in a stolen Mazda to Bexley, and transferred into a stolen Volvo for the trip to Ronald Grafton’s hideaway. We had to wait until he was released after his trial, which we knew he’d win. It was supposed to be a beating and a robbery, because we knew Ron had some rainy-day money stashed. And we were going to drop a piece of jewellery that would make Grafton suspect Ramirez. We went in the back way, through the kitchen. Just sneaked in, three guys in black. I had a knife, Mick had a handgun, and Dave carried a shotgun. We heard voices and laughter. I think they were a little bit drunk. In the living room, there they were: Grafton, and two other people I didn’t know. We knew you were upstairs, Liz, when we heard you shout down. Everyone was drinking and talking. Grafton was standing in front of the sofa, while the other two sat there. Laughing and having a great time when we burst in…’
Brad was giving up their secrets for the world on the video that had made its way onto YouTube after some bobby had leaked it from the station. It was the very last thing Mick had expected in a wild week of newspaper headlines. He could hardly believe what his eyes were seeing. But amid the shock… joy. He hadn’t thought much about the events prior to Grafton’s death, but Brad’s words sent his mind sailing back.
He had led the way into the hideaway cottage, handgun pointing ahead. They’d stopped at the living room doorway, listening. Grafton had been centre stage, talking some horseshit or other, and his wife had shouted down. Something Mick couldn’t remember, but it had made Grafton groan with embarrassment and the others laugh. That was when Mick had made his move. It was the height of their fun, as laughter echoed. Fast into the living room, behind pointing guns and bellowing voices, for maximum shock – that had been the plan. But he saw a sweeter vision float behind his eyes.
He slipped in, quiet as a mouse, and managed to get right up behind Grafton before his guests even noticed. He jabbed the barrel of the pistol against the back of his neck and actually sighed. A beautiful moment, long, long awaited.
‘You forgot our party invites, arsehole,’ he said.
The unknown man and woman started moaning, but Dave cocked his shotgun and ended all that. Grafton, hands up, didn’t even try to turn around.
‘Brad, get his wife,’ Mick said.
Brad scuttled past and through a doorway and up the stairs.
Grafton turned. His hands were up but his eyes held no fear, even after they recognised Dave and Mick. In fact, the man had relaxed somewhat, as if he thought he was going to be okay because this was a cop holding a gun on him, not a rival. Cops had to toe a line. Another trial he could walk away from.
He jabbed Grafton in the chin with the gun barrel, knocking him onto the sofa. ‘Take a seat.’
All three captives were in a line on the sofa, two of them terrified, but one of them smiling. Especially when Mick took off his mask. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Grafton announced, ‘meet Detective Chief Inspector Michael McDevitt, Metropolitan Police, on his last night as an employed man.’
He was grinning like a man who thought he was in control. Dave was looking nervous: out of the corner of his eye Mick could see the shotgun barrel shivering. Mick had unmasked himself, and there was a chance Grafton could work out who his accomplices were. The comeback would be swift, deadly.
Except it wouldn’t. Mick had removed his mask in order to give himself that extra push. Now that Grafton knew who he was, this could no longer be just a scare move. Mick had planned it that way all along.
Nobody moved for a second or two. A frozen scene, neither side wanting to make the next move. Then there was a crash from upstairs, and a shout – ‘NO YOU DON’T, YOU BITCH!’ – and Grafton tried to stand. Mick pushed him back down with a hand. And then the woman leaned forward, and Mick shifted his aim and fired. Just like that. She sat back nice and neat after that.
Dave grabbed Mick’s arm, shouted something like ‘STOP’, and Mick staggered back. That was the cue for Grafton to shift. Not to do what you might expect of a violent career criminal and fight his attacker, and not to do the doting husband thing and try to help his wife. No, Grafton’s purpose and concern was all Ronald Grafton. He was up and running, and the other guy was right behind him, both headed for the back door.
Mick grabbed the shotgun from Dave and followed, fast, calling back: ‘Find Brad, kill the wife.’ At the living room door, he lifted the shotgun and aimed. The hallway was narrow, and Grafton and the other guy were belting along single file.
He pulled the trigger, still running.
Seconds later he was past the dead body on the floor and through the hallway where he stopped at the kitchen door. Grafton had slipped while trying to turn and now he got up slowly, facing Mick, eyeing the shotgun. The back door was to his left, but he backed off, hands up, until he nudged a wine rack on the wall. Mick stopped just feet away. Grafton’s eyes told it all: he knew he wasn’t walking away from this.
‘I have money,’ he pleaded. ‘Here. All yours. And I forget about tonight.’
Raising the shotgun to Grafton’s face, Mick smiled.
And now, he smiled again as he remembered his final words to his long-time enemy. Good memories. In front of him, on the old coffee table in this grimy flat where he was hiding from the world, was a collection of newspapers he had picked out of bins last night. The story was in every single one. He’d heard it told a dozen ways already, but he was still eager to find out what some of the people connected to him had to say. His good old dad had defended him:
Now listen good, and then piss off from my face or I’ll smash that camera over your head. I’ll say this once. My son got his world cut apart, and the system let him down. It was the system, the way it hunts the small fish and lets the big players walk around untouched, that’s what turned my son. And turned he was, because he was a lovely boy and a fine young man. He was a senior detective, for Christ’s sake. He was Flying Squad twenty years ago, back when those guys were all just about crooked. He was clean as a whistle. Okay? So you arseholes ask me if I knew I’d raised a monster? Piss off, okay? The system made the monster, not me. The system let that bastard Ronald Grafton off the hook, literally get away with murder, and my son had just had enough. He did this country a favour, but now it wants him where it failed over and over to put people like Ronald Grafton. This government pays a budget of three billion to the Metropolitan Police each year, and they couldn’t get this guy. My son did it off his own back. And for bloody free! He wasn’t even on the clock! Bloody unpaid overtime! Let every cop work that way, criminals would go the way of smallpox. God bless my son.
Brad’s partner had done the same for his lover:
You’ve got it all wrong, I’m afraid. I know my Brad, and I know he wouldn’t have been involved in this unless he was coerced. Just take a look at the things they’re sayi
ng this disgraced detective did, and then tell me he wouldn’t have blackmailed my Brad and others into doing his bidding? Brad might have been a former criminal, that much is well-documented, but the word to focus on here is former. He put his shameful past behind him. He was a changed man. Believe me, I lived with him for months, I knew him better than anyone, and I’m telling you that Brad, if he did these things, did them because he was forced to. I think the detective threatened to harm me: I would be hurt if Brad didn’t help him on this daft and bizarre dark justice mission of his. When you find Brad, ask him. I’ll bet that’s the truth of it.
But that was because they had been blind to the truth. No so with Dave’s wife. Mick hadn’t realised that Dave had told his wife everything. Her outlook had made for surprising reading:
You pay for work done, don’t you? Hire a painter, he paints, you pay. What happens if you don’t pay? You get in trouble. So Ronald Grafton should have expected trouble, shouldn’t he? And then he cuts them loose. What did he expect? These weren’t painters, were they? Hardened criminals. Ten grand each, and you don’t stuff hardened criminals, not my Dave, out of ten grand, not even if you’re Ronald Grafton. He’s lucky they didn’t go straight to Razor Randolph and tell him the score. Hey, Razor, Grafton hired me and a pal to pretend to rob that nightclub, but in reality we were supposed to shoot you dead and make it look like collateral damage. How would that have gone down? Grafton would have been killed a lot sooner. I even told Dave he should do that. I mean, he gets stuffed out of ten grand, and then that bastard Ronald Grafton cuts them loose. He fired, like, ten guys that Razor’s people wanted to investigate. Appearances, he says. Can’t have guys around that Razor’s suspicious of. Got to cut the gangrenous flesh, like that sort of thing. That was his reason? To make it look like he was innocent and trying to help? That’s his damn reason for stuffing my Dave? Appearances? Well, he should have expected a comeback, shouldn’t he? And he got it. But it was all that copper’s idea, you make sure you print that. That McDevitt. Him and Brad Smithfield, two black peas in a pod. Dave only went along with it for the cash. For the money he was owed. And there was no plan to do any killing. You print that, okay? That cop wanted Grafton dead. Smithfield wanted Grafton dead. Dave was only after payment. After what he was owed. It’s no different to a painter stealing your wallet because you didn’t pay. He’s got that right, hasn’t he? I mean, you pay for work done, don’t you?
