by Paul Finch
‘The day after that is St Mark’s Eve,’ Gregson added. ‘Don’t know much about that one.’
‘Supposed to be a good day for reading the future.’
‘Great. Maybe they’ll club someone to death with a crystal ball. The real biggie’s in eight days’ time according to Eric Fisher. April 30 … Beltane. Eric reckons it’s a full-blown pagan Sabbath, whoaaa … Boyd’s on the move!’
‘Can’t see him,’ Heck replied, checking his own mirror.
‘He’s coming this way.’
Heck snatched the newspaper open again and slid down a few inches, so that it concealed him. Gregson bent into the foot-well as if to rummage through an imaginary tool-bag. Boyd sauntered past. They watched him warily as he receded down the road.
‘You walked last time, my turn today,’ Heck said, opening the door, then rolling the paper and stuffing it into his back pocket. ‘Give me five, then bring the van. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.’
Gregson nodded and Heck slipped out. Fifty yards ahead, Boyd crossed the street and vanished down a ginnel. Heck followed as casually as he was able.
Initially, the pursuit took its usual desultory course through the endless warren of flats and maisonettes. But this time, instead of entering the local bookies or off-licence, Boyd pressed on through Longsight into West Gorton, where he entered a small corner shop café. Heck waited at the bus stop opposite, still reading his paper, watching covertly as Boyd sat in the window and wolfed down egg, chips and buttered bread. He used his mobile to summon Gregson, who appeared a few minutes later and parked the van in a side-street.
It was seven o’clock by the time Boyd shifted again, and daylight was waning. Two buses, now with headlights switched on, had passed Heck’s stop without him climbing aboard. To keep up appearances, he’d jumped onto the third, getting off again at the next stop, and jogging back. He approached the café again, just as Boyd stepped out onto the pavement. Heck darted into a doorway, but Boyd headed in the opposite direction, hands jammed into pockets. A second passed before Heck continued the pursuit, calling Gregson and informing him.
Dusk was now turning to darkness; one by one, streetlights flickered to life. Some thirty yards ahead, Boyd entered a pub called The Hayrick. The name evoked an image of rural idyll; a cottage-style inn with a black-beamed exterior and thatched roof. But in fact it was a squalid-looking building, half redbrick and half grey plaster, with grubby windows and a rusted iron bar where the pub sign had once hung.
‘Andy?’ Heck said into his mobile. ‘Where are you?’
‘Hyde Road,’ Gregson replied. ‘Where are you?’
‘The Hayrick on Gorton Lane. I’ll go in and buy a round … like I’m meeting someone. Show up in ten?’
‘Got it.’
The Hayrick’s interior matched its exterior. It was filled with a dull, brownish light; its upholstery looked worn; and even though the smoking ban had been in force for a number of years, there were yellowish marks on the walls and ceiling, indicating how long it was since the place had last been decorated. The sparse clientele suited their environment. A bent old man with stringy, grey/green hair was seated at one end of the bar, nursing a large scotch. Halfway along it sat a middle-aged woman, overweight and wearing too much lipstick; her tight denim miniskirt exposed podgy white thighs encased in fishnet. Two lads, who couldn’t have been a day over seventeen, their hair cut very short and shaved into fanciful patterns at the rear, accosted the fruit machine, arguing and swilling beer as they fed in coin after coin. Seated next to them was a bored-looking girl: again overly made-up, again in a miniskirt and high heels, though she couldn’t have been much more than sixteen, despite the pram she had alongside her. Boyd sat alone in a corner, a lager on the table in front of him.
‘Two bitters please,’ Heck said. ‘Pints of.’
The barman, who was twenty stone at least, with a beaten-up face and long, straggling red hair, served him without comment. Heck glanced sideways at the woman in fishnets. She smiled. It was a pleasant smile actually, warm and friendly; under all that slap she might once have been a looker. But Heck didn’t bother speaking to her. He took the two drinks away, walking past Boyd’s table – the criminal didn’t even glance at him – and through an open door to the pool room, which was currently empty.
Heck chose a berth diagonal to the entrance, so that he could keep an eye on his quarry and, to maintain appearances, set the pool-table up. Five minutes later, Andy Gregson ambled in. During the time they’d been shadowing Boyd, he’d used a variety of watering holes. They hadn’t followed him into this one before, though all were pretty interchangeable in terms of how depressing they were.
‘Really knows how to live, this fella, doesn’t he?’ Gregson said, lowering his voice as they commenced a leisurely game of pool.
‘Want my take?’ Heck replied. ‘He’s laying low between jobs.’
‘Yeah?’
‘No one leads a life this uneventful. Apparently it’s the same with Mullany. Pissed at night, lies in bed all morning, greasy spoon for his lunch, bookies in the afternoon, on the piss again … sees a few people, chats, goes home. Too easy, that. Him and Mullany are best mates. But they haven’t seen each other in a fortnight. That’s suspicious too.’
‘Who’s sitting on Mullany this evening?’ Gregson wondered.
‘Gaz and Shawna.’ Heck downed a stripe. ‘We’ll get a conflab with those two tomorrow, and see what we know. Assuming nothing of interest happens tonight.’
Chapter 22
Though a Manchester cop for seven years before transferring to SCU in London, Shawna McCluskey had never worked on the E-Division, which was South Manchester. She’d been located five miles away in Salford, the F-Division, so only knew Cameron Boyd and Terry Mullany by reputation. She’d never dealt with them personally, nor any of the other criminals in this neck of the woods. As such, it had seemed a reasonable option to put her on a plainclothes stakeout here.
It was pure bad luck that Theo Taylor, a gangbanger, otherwise known as ‘Mr Ed’ because he had a mouthful of protruding yellow horse-teeth, should have turned up at this very moment. Over in Salford, Shawna had arrested him three times – once for burglary, once for having an offensive weapon and once for robbery. The latter of those charges ought to have sent him to prison for a couple of years at least, but his barrister had performed intellectual gymnastics over some legal technicality, which the judge had been swayed by, and Mr Ed had walked out a free man. Shawna and everybody else in Salford CID had felt cheated at the time, but the law was the law even if it was sometimes an ass. And ultimately it hadn’t mattered much, because Mr Ed had dropped out of sight shortly afterwards, apparently having moved on, which they were all mightily glad about.
The problem was that he’d moved here, to Rusholme.
‘DC McCluskey, isn’t it?’ Mr Ed shouted. ‘I fucking knew it!’
They were in a supermarket at the time. It was unusual for Terry Mullany to do any shopping. Both Shawna McCluskey and Gary Quinnell had been caught on the hop by it, even if it did transpire that all he was popping into the store for was a case of beer. But it was seriously bad luck that they’d met Mr Ed in there as well.
‘What’re you going to try and fit me up with this week, detective?’ he shouted.
Shawna stared down the aisle at him in disbelief. He was wearing a long yellow coat and a snazzy purple running-suit, an ensemble which looked vaguely ridiculous over his tall, gawky frame. He still hadn’t had his teeth fixed – they were a mismatched bunch of yellow pegs – but he was laughing loudly as he approached, arms outstretched, a bunch of his idiot pals sniggering behind him.
‘What’s it to be?’ he shouted. ‘Shoplifting? Fuck, I haven’t chosen anything yet … but hey, give it a go. I’ll enjoy watching them rip the shit out of you in court again!’
Shawna was less concerned about Mr Ed than she was about Terry Mullany. She gazed the other way along the aisle in the direction of the tills. Mullany was at the
rear of the queue with his case of beer, but he, like the other shoppers gathered there, had heard the fracas and glanced around. He fixed on her intently, perhaps finally thinking it odd that he’d glimpsed her, or someone like her, once or twice in the last few days – and suddenly broke from the base of the queue, chucking his goods and running towards her with heavy, clumping steps.
Shawna went rigid, not sure what he intended, but then realising from his thousand-yard stare that he was actually looking past her. He was seeking to escape, not attack.
Mullany was a slobbish, toad-like individual, with a wide mouth, a broad, flat nose and eyes buried in pallid flesh. But he was at least six feet tall, and must have held a seven-stone advantage on her. However, Shawna had been raised in the GMP school of thought that the only excuse you could ever offer for letting a scrote escape was if he beat the living crap out of you.
So she stepped into his path.
Mullany kept coming.
She attempted to crouch, throwing her arms out, hoping to rugby tackle him around his legs. But all she caught was his denim-clad knee full in her face. Pain lanced through her head, along with a crackle of cartilage.
And then she was down on her back, the side of her skull smacking the floor.
‘Hey!’ she heard someone shout.
It was that buffoon, Mr Ed; probably bewildered – and not a little upset – that none of this was about him. Blood bubbled into the back of her throat as she craned her head around to look. Mr Ed and his cronies jumped to one side as Mullany’s big frame barged past them, his left shoulder catching Ed in the chest, catapulting him backwards through a neatly-stacked pyramid of spaghetti tins.
‘G– Gary,’ she stammered into her radio. ‘I’ve been clocked. The bastard’s coming out the back …’
Mullany tore through the supermarket stock room, kicking boxes out of his path, cannoning into staff members and sending them flying. He ran outside via a goods door at the rear, jumping down from the concrete platform into a loading bay, fishing the mobile phone from his pocket. An engine roared and tyres shrieked as a dented Volvo swerved into view around the nearest corner.
The call was answered. Mullany didn’t wait to hear his mate’s voice; he just began jabbering. ‘Leg it! They’re onto us! Dunno where you are, just go, fucking go!’
When Gary Quinnell jumped out of the Volvo in front of him he looked so big that for a split second Mullany had trouble rationalising how he’d ever fitted into it in the first place. The cop wasn’t just tall; he was as broad as an ox, with a neck as thick as a telegraph pole.
‘Give it up, boyo,’ Gary Quinnell said menacingly.
Mullany hurled his phone over the nearest wall, hoping to Christ that it would land somewhere like a river or sewer from where it couldn’t be retrieved, and then tried to run again. Quinnell ballooned into his path. Mullany tried to change direction. But Quinnell blocked his way yet again.
The rugby tackle the big cop now put in was somewhat more successful than the one his female colleague had attempted. The brawny shoulder that smashed into Mullany’s capacious gut felt as though it had cut him in half. The fugitive was flung down on the concrete with so much force that the air whooshed out of his lungs. Quinnell landed on top of him, eighteen stone of bone and muscle, his ham shank forearm crushing Mullany’s windpipe.
‘You’re locked up, you little bastard!’
In The Hayrick, Cameron Boyd only heard the start of this commotion. He stood bolt-upright in shock, the phone clamped to his ear. White-faced, he pivoted around, gazing across the pub interior. There was nobody immediately, obviously suspicious. That slapper at the bar? No fucking way. The barman himself? That was a non-starter as well. He’d seen that fat bastard in here a dozen times. The kids in the corner were too young.
Then Boyd heard another phone ringing.
He peered left through the entrance to the pool room. There were two blokes in there, weren’t there? One of them had red hair, freckles and ludicrous ears. But it was the other one who Boyd saw answer the call – the lean, dark-haired fella – he now stood there with phone to ear, cue in hand. A rough-looking customer, but he seemed agitated. Then the one with the ears stepped back into view and gazed out into the main bar – his eyes locked with Boyd’s.
And he knew.
Both of them knew.
Chapter 23
‘Sorry Heck, I got clocked,’ Shawna said into Heck’s ear. She sounded half-dazed. ‘Some fucking clown from years ago. We’ve had to lock Mullany up.’
With a crash, a table was upended as Gregson dashed from the pool room.
Heck spun around – just in time to see Boyd sprinting across the pub interior, glasses rolling in his wake, and vanishing through the door that led to the toilets. Gregson vanished through the door after him. Heck gave chase too. Both officers came under attack in the narrow, darkened passage. Boyd had hung on to his own pint glass and now flung it at them; it struck the wall and glass exploded, causing both to duck. Boyd ran on, leaving the pub by a rear exit.
‘You alright?’ Heck shouted.
‘Yeah!’
‘The bastard’s running … you know what that means, don’t you?’
‘Pretty good idea, sarge!’
‘Whatever happens … whatever, don’t let him get away!’
Behind the pub there was a small car park. Its entrance was a rutted drive, which cut left around the side of the building to the main road. But a small alley branched away in the opposite direction. Of Boyd there was no sign. Heck and Gregson halted, breathless.
‘Check the front,’ Heck said, lurching to the alley mouth. ‘If you don’t see him, grab the van.’
Gregson nodded and galloped away. Heck was twenty yards along the alley, which veered downhill between sheer brick walls, when he heard a tin can clattering ahead.
‘DS Heckenburg, SCU … to Echo Control?’ he shouted, switching channels on his radio.
‘SCU?’ came the reply.
‘Chasing a suspect for the Desecrator murders – down the alley behind The Hayrick pub! I need support fast, over!’
‘Received, sarge. We’ll get someone there, over!’
The alley’s slope steepened. Heck passed a point where an empty can was rolling. Someone had just clouted it as they’d hammered past. The mobile bleeped in his pocket. He slammed it to his ear. ‘Heckenburg!’
‘Sarge, it’s me!’ Gregson shouted. By the rumbling engine, he was back in the van. ‘Where are you?’
‘Dunno … tell you in a minute. Try and get round to the back of the pub.’
He emerged from the alley on level ground. To his right a street led away between terraced houses, but directly ahead stood a one-storey, flat-roofed building, which looked like a working man’s club. Beyond this lay open rough ground with a few parked cars dotted across it. Past those stood the tall, monolithic shapes of tower blocks. A distant figure was fleeing towards them.
‘Got him,’ Heck shouted into his radio. ‘He’s running past St Mary Magdalen social club, heading towards the flats, over.’ He could hear sirens in the distance, but a long way off. The radio crackled in response, as messages were dispatched back and forth.
‘Sarge?’ Gregson bellowed down the phone. ‘Can’t find you!’
‘This is the blind leading the blind, Andy! Follow the radio chat.’
Some distance ahead, Boyd vaulted over a metal crash-barrier, scrambled down a paved embankment and vanished into an underpass. Heck leapt over the crash-barrier as well and almost turned an ankle as he side-scampered down the flags. He staggered at the bottom and fell, only just avoiding scatters of broken glass. When he regained his feet, Boyd was already about eighty yards away, running full pelt.
‘DS Heckenburg, we need your precise location, over!’ came the voice of Comms.
Heck gave it as he ran, even though he knew his message would break up with so much concrete and steel above and around him. ‘Target is Cameron Boyd!’ he added. ‘White male, thirty-three ye
ars old, strong build. Well known to your lot, I’d imagine. Wearing a black canvas jacket, white t-shirt, khaki pants!’
Boyd swerved left at the end of the underpass and disappeared. Heck skidded around the corner a few seconds later, and saw him racing across a kiddies’ playground. The night was now filled with sirens. He spotted spinning blue beacons in his lateral vision, but they were still far away – hurtling over bridges in the wrong direction, or parked on flyovers, attempting to locate him. Meanwhile, Boyd ducked through a wire-mesh gate at the far side of the playground. Heck ran on, chasing him down the next street. Terraced houses stood down either side, and a row of concrete bollards sat at the far end, but just as Boyd reached these, a pair of headlamp beams slashed across him and a vehicle screeched into view on the far side. It was the Bedford van. The driver’s door burst open and Andy Gregson jumped out.
Boyd came to a sliding halt. He whirled around, spotted Heck … and darted left towards a fence made from front doors nailed together. With the athleticism of the truly desperate, he sprang up, catching the top of this rickety construction with both hands, and in a single smooth movement, threw himself up and over.
‘Back in the van!’ Heck shouted to Gregson. ‘Keep trying to head him off!’
The younger cop nodded and doubled back.
Drenched with sweat, lungs aching from the exertion, Heck scrambled up the fence and levered himself over – into a shadow-filled yard, where a small, bullet-like shape came at him, snarling. It was a pit-bull, but thankfully it was chained. Heck edged around it and stepped out through an open gate, beyond which a narrow entry cut left to the foot of a flight of steps. At the top of these, a single bulb glowed over an arched brick entrance. There was a clamour of splintering wood.
Heck galloped up there, three treads at a time. The entrance opened into a passage connecting various council flats. The first door on the left had been reduced to a mass of shattered softboard. Heck shouldered his way through. On the other side, a heavy, middle-aged man had clearly been seated in an armchair watching the small television in the corner; he was now on his knees, one hand cupping his nose, from which blood was flowing copiously. He regarded Heck with dazed eyes, and pointed through an open door.
