The Sister

by China, Max

  The stewards struggled to keep the masses back as they surged forward, expecting blood. With the fight moments away, Shaw fired himself up, shuffling and jabbing at the air in a state of adrenaline-fuelled, heightened awareness; a high-octane burst would be on him as soon as the bell went.

  His opponent, at only half his age, looked powerful. He was impossibly broad with short arms. They touched fists. 'Short arms' came out swinging. Fists hooking, left first and then right, his short black hair, already wet from the pre-fight warm up, shed beads of sweat with each jerky movement.

  Faster than the older man had expected, he took a step back and measured him. Flynn's eyes were little black stones that betrayed no emotion. He reminded Shaw of a shark.

  So far he'd kept out of range, skipping away, leaning back, arms loose but up in front of him. Shaw didn't like to waste energy. A lazy jab brought Flynn in fast underneath, both fists tearing through the air, knowing at any second he would connect, and then it would be goodnight Vienna for the Boiler man, who himself slipped a punch, ducked under, half twisting, leaning over from the waist, he whipped a wicked left hook into the ribs just below where Flynn's elbow had been. Wincing, he faltered and drove a shot through the middle into empty air as Shaw circled left, switched to southpaw, jabbing with his right. Flynn deflected, ducked under and caught another vicious left in exactly the same spot. The crowd exhaled as one. Ooooh!

  Tanner pushed forward. Brooks pulled him back.

  Flynn, more cautious this time, couldn't read Shaw, who seemed to be looking off at a point in the distance, unconcerned. He took his chance. Flynn jabbed, doubling it up. Shaw parried the punches with his gloves and then quick as a flash, a left, again downstairs, and a crunching right, down over the top contorted Flynn's face. He was out before he touched the ground.

  Tanner had hoped to pick up a towel or something that Shaw had used. Maybe even get in close for an autograph, a photo with his arm around him, anything that could yield some DNA material. Shaw took his T-shirt off to wipe his face. That's it - throw it to the crowd! He willed him to do it, but he tucked it into his belt, and as he did, Tanner caught a glimpse of the buckle. Suddenly they – the crowd surged forward, sweeping the undercover policeman almost off his feet, almost into touching distance.

  In the pandemonium that followed, he and Brooks became separated, and he feared for his life. With the stewards overrun, fighting broke out all around them. In the melee, Shaw floored two or three would be attackers. Somebody fired a shotgun. Everything stopped. A loud voice boomed. "That's enough! Go home boys."

  The stewards took up positions once more. The crowd began to disperse.

  When Brooks found him, he laughed. "You're as white as a sheet! You okay, Quinn?"

  Tanner nodded, but he was thinking about the belt buckle. It looked similar to the sketches drawn by Kennedy and Doherty. It had to be him.

  A couple of hours later, as Brooks drove him back, they discussed the fight they'd seen.

  "That was crazy, I've never seen a man of that age move like it," Tanner said. "Tell me Archie, where did he get the nickname 'The Boilerman' from, was he a ship's stoker or something like that?"

  "You know; he could fight before he went away, but he came back as a highly trained man. That fight just now, you wouldn't know, but this was over something that happened years ago. 'The Boilerman' came from his mother, her name was Boyle, see. Anyways, when his mother died he fell out with the father and he burnt him out, ran him off the site. Changed his name too, he did, to his mother's maiden name. What was I saying? Oh yeah, after the fire both the old man and young Boyle went missing . . . that's how it started."

  "Archie, hang on a minute, I can't keep up . . . you said he was highly trained and called himself Boyle?"

  "Yeah, that's right. Joined the Foreign Legion, he did." Before Tanner could ask any more questions, Brooks said, "Did you put any money on him? You should have. I waited till the last minute and after all that shaping up by the boy rattlin' his sabres - I got me some good odds."

  "I got a good story out of it. That's enough for me. So how long was he in the Foreign Legion, what did he do after that?"

  "Mr Quinn, is this a story about the great gipsy champions or The Boilerman? You see, I don't hear you asking me too many questions about any of those fighters, now."

  "I've just seen a fighter in his late sixties beat the favourite, a man half his age and I was impressed. I think a man like that warrant's a few words about his background, maybe even warrants a whole book about him, wouldn't you say?"

  Brooks pulled into the car park and stopped. He turned to look at Tanner… "A man like that?" he looked bemused. "That's as maybe, Mr Quinn, but you'll be getting no more from me. Good day to you."

  Tanner frowned as he stood by his car. Is Brooks just naturally guarded, or does he know something?

  In order to maintain Quinn's credibility, he would have to get their story out there. He'd pass the tape and his notes on to his friend. She'd do the story for him. After all, she owed him a favour.

  Then he called Kennedy to bring him up to date. "At least we have something to go on now, sir. I'll get straight onto it."

  Kennedy cleared his throat. "We'll get someone else onto it, you have an assignment tonight. Wharton has confirmed the meet. I'll fill you in with the details when you get to the office."

  Chapter 100

  April 1st Evening

  The Sat Nav in Billy Wharton's car took him into the heart of the industrial estate and announced: You have arrived at your destination.

  The address he sought was actually around the other side of a high security fence. Streetlamps lit the maze of roads with a distinctive soft yellow glow. He drove on taking the next two right turns before completing the circuit with a final turn into the cul de sac he'd seen from the opposite side. The entrance gates were the only ones left open. The long run of linked units appeared deserted. Drawing up to the raised loading apron halfway down, he reversed into position and left the car running. He turned off his lights, not wanting to attract unwelcome attention.

  After a few moments, he got out of the car to stretch his legs. Deciding he'd hear better without the engine running, he leant back in and turned the ignition off. Distant sounds reached him, workshop motors, shutters rolling up or down, occasional voices, too far off to make out what they were saying. He looked around. Bright yellow lights pooled down onto the area he'd parked in. Penned in by pale grey anti-climb railings, he was alone. He felt claustrophobic. There was only one way out that he could see. Back the way he came in.

  He took a cigarette from his pocket without removing the pack and lit it. Inhaling deeply, he blew the smoke out, watching as the cloud of yellow smog billowed into the night air, disappearing into the darkness beyond the light. Taking another drag, he blew a further cloud into the night.

  The sound of a vehicle's approach alerted him. As it neared, he saw it was a white transit van. The lights swung into view through the gates and it pulled up alongside him.

  He flicked the cigarette out in a high arc, away from where he stood. He moved round to the driver's door, which was already opening.

  Bishop stepped out. Wary, he surveyed the deserted estate around them. "Bill . . ." He offered a hand. Wharton took it.

  "Terry - I heard you were out. Where's Tony?"

  "He's gone on ahead. Are you on your own, Bill?"

  "Yeah, he doesn't pay me enough to split it with anyone else; you know what I'm saying?" He grinned. Bishop nodded his assent.

  "Bill, we gotta go round the corner mate - someone else is taking us the rest of the way . . ."

  Wharton looked confused. "I thought it was just me and Tony going, meeting the others…"

  "Change of plan, Bill. Come on let's get going."

  Bishop led the way. A few yards down, he turned.

  Wharton hadn't moved. He was lighting a cigarette. Holding the pack up, he raised his eyebrows and offered them.

  "No, thanks mate. Ar
e you coming?"

  Strange, it's not like the Terry I know to turn a smoke down. He must've given it up in the nick. Putting the cigarettes away, he started after him.

  Behind a boarded up window, armed police watched the two men through a slot cut into the sheeting.

  Tanner arrived back from the toilet, holding his stomach. "I had a bad feeling about that kebab I had earlier, and I was right . . ." He pressed his lips together at each new griping pain.

  He peered through the opening. "Where are they going?"

  "Oh, shit! They're heading up towards the corner."

  "Is it just those two, no one else here?"

  "No, but that's where our backup is. Shall I tell them to hide?"

  The two suspects still had fifty yards to cover before they'd reach the corner.

  "Christ! Who told them to plot up there? They'll have to shift - and fast! No wait, they've stopped. What are they doing?"

  At the point where the semicircular arc of brightness gave way to the darkness of the alley; Wharton stopped suddenly. He licked his lips anxiously, eyes filled with trepidation.

  "What are you doing, Bill?"

  "Where have they parked, mate? Why haven't they parked where we did?" he said, searching Bishop's face for an answer. "What's going on, mate?"

  "Bill, that alleyway leads through to the street the other side. That's where the other's are, just up there. See, if anything happened, there's only the one way out round this side. What's the problem?"

  "You know I can't go down a dark alley that close to the fence, not with my claustrophobia. I'm going to get the car. I'll meet you round there."

  He turned around and headed back.

  "Shit," Bishop breathed. He hadn't wanted to do it out there in the light, didn't want to have to drag the body out of sight, get covered in blood. He didn't even really want to kill him, but if he didn't, someone else would, and he'd be as good as dead himself. He probably would have been dead already if he'd refused. Something had happened with Lynch's state of mind and it wasn't just the coke. I'll do this job, get the twenty-five grand and then put some distance between him and me. Might even go straight. The unlikelihood of the last thought had him grinning.

  He produced a gun and screwed a silencer onto the end.

  "Bill?" He couldn't bring himself to shoot him in the back.

  Wharton turned and saw the gun. It all suddenly made sense to him. They'd found out about his arrest somehow. They thought he'd talked. He raised both hands in the air. "Terry. Don't. I . . ."

  "Sorry, Bill. " He sounded genuinely sad as he fired a single shot into his head.

  All hell broke loose. Portable arc lights switched on. The team hiding around the corner raced out. Heckler and Koch carbines at shoulders, they advanced on him. Caught in the dazzling light, centre stage, he couldn't see. Someone shouted, "Armed Police, drop your weapon!" Shutters rolled up. The sound of approaching heavy boots drummed on the ground.

  "What just happened?" Tanner shouted, and threw open the door to join the melee.

  "He's just shot Wharton!"

  "Oh, shit!"

  In the light of recent criticism on the shooting of an innocent man in London and police failure to warn the suspect, Bishop was given the benefit of an additional warning.

  "Armed police, drop your weapon!"

  He couldn't see beyond the dazzling brightness. He lost his sense of direction and perspective. His head spun.

  He faced a lifetime in prison if he surrendered.

  If I can just get away.

  Faced with hard choices, he hesitated a moment longer. Fingers were jittery on triggers. He made a wrong move. Turning quickly in the direction of where he thought he'd left the van, he broke into a sprint. Straight towards the armed officers, the gun was still in his hand.

  Two simultaneous shots cut him down. One passed through his head, the other his heart.

  At the subsequent inquest, held weeks later, the Specialist Firearms Officer's would testify that they'd shouted two clear warnings before the suspect raised his gun and ran towards them. Faced with the clear and imminent threat of further loss of life, they'd shot him.

  The coroner's court would record a verdict of lawful killing by the police

  Chapter 101

  Monday 2nd April

  Knowing Kennedy was under increasing pressure from all directions; the caller cranked it up.

  "I've got you stitched up tighter than a duck's arse, Jack, and even if you think you can still get out of it, mate, I gotta tell you, you can't. So from now on, whatever I tell you I want done, you do it. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  "You can't blackmail a police officer and think you're going to get away with it," he said, but his voice lacked conviction. He's been ahead of you all the way, Johnny.

  "Get away with it? Jack, what I've done to you is irreversible, incontrovertible." A cigarette lighter clicked at the other end of the line, followed by the sounds of exaggerated puffing on his cigarette.

  A feeling of dread grew within him. The first acid pangs of indigestion assailed his stomach. He knew instinctively that whatever it was the caller had in store for him, it was going to be bad.

  The caller outlined the series of predicaments that faced him.

  Kennedy recognised more than a grain of truth in the claims. The acid levels increased in line with his rising heartbeat as the caller delivered the events in sequence. Every word was a barb in a line of wire hooking in and tightening.

  "They'll investigate you, Jack, you know that . . ." the caller said.

  His thoughts raced. His prospects diminished. Left with nowhere to go, he suddenly remembered Tanner's report; someone had cloned his motorbike registration number, and he realised it was probably the caller who had done that too.

  Ten seconds of silence had passed. "Are you clear about where we are with all this, Jack?"

  Face grim, he said nothing. I need time to think. He nodded, forgetting that he was on the telephone.

  "I said, Jack, ARE YOU CLEAR!"

  Kennedy snapped the phone away from his ear. Stung by the sudden blast of the shout, he looked out through the window in the office partition, worried that someone else might have heard it. He switched the phone to the other side of his head and wiggled a finger around inside his damaged ear, hoping to gain some relief for it.

  You have to play for time.

  "Yes," he replied.

  The line disconnected.

  With no idea of the caller's ultimate aim, Kennedy's thought processes had reduced to going round in circles. In frustration, he slammed his fist into the wall, skinning his knuckles. He immediately regretted it as blood welled where skin had been. He didn't hear Theresa knock on the door; he looked up, and she was just … there. Opening a drawer quickly, he put his bleeding hand inside, hoping she hadn't seen it.

  "Coffee? Are you all right, John, you look like you've seen a ghost."

  He faked a smile. "Yes - coffee . . . that'll be fine."

  As she left, Theresa wondered what she'd done to make him so obsessed with her and whether the haunted look in his eyes had something to do with it. If it did…Feeling bad enough already, she dismissed the thought. She hadn't asked for any of it.

  After she'd confided in Tanner, he said he'd report him. She wondered if he'd already done it. She'd have to check with him, but he wasn't happy with how things had developed after they'd slept together. He said he wanted a couple of days to decide the best way forward. He hadn't said, but she knew from the hurt look in his eyes that he felt used.

  She was desperate to make it up to him.

  Chapter 102

  2nd April 2007, early evening.

  The roadside cafe was bustling with people, when a man walked in. A few heads turned lazily towards him, alerted by the door's opening.

  The stranger's eyes swept the interior of the room, scanning faces; nobody met his gaze, or lingered over his appearance for long. Rough and dishevelled looking, he wore a dirty blue boiler s
uit. His straw-coloured hair didn't look natural, and he had a nose as crooked as a stovepipe revealing the many wars he'd come through, in and out of the ring. Not much over six feet tall and heavily built, he moved with an ease that belied his size and age.

  On the far side of the room, no one noticed him at all.

  At the counter, he paid for a coffee and picked up a local paper from the rack, tucking it under his arm. He glanced around the room. There wasn't a completely vacant table anywhere, so he selected a table for two which was only half taken.

  He pulled a chair back and sat down. A look of exasperation started on the current occupier's face, but before he could object, the stranger's molten eyes settled on him, and he thought better of it. Draining the rest of his cup, he left without a word.

  "Something I said?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. He stirred a sugar into the steaming black liquid and unfolded the newspaper.

  He'd always taken an interest in the places he passed through. The sleepy towns where nothing much ever happened were the best. The residents were complacent and never expected anything to happen, because nothing ever did.

  It was a policy of his never to strike twice in the same place. Not even in a neighbouring county unless you wanted to draw attention to yourself. Since the fight, he had no need of work. The breaking and entering here and there was just for fun. It wasn't going to spark a manhunt, and that was the key. Hit a town. Blitz it and then move to the other end of the country and do the same. The police might catch on eventually, but by then, he'd be on to something else. There was always something else.

  The games no longer held the same appeal, and he understood why many killers felt the need to taunt. It created a challenge, and he was bored.

  Whoever had read the newspaper previously, must have dropped it and then put it back together in the wrong order. With the front page apparently missing, he leafed through the pages looking for it. It was there, but reversed, near to the back. He lifted the page out and turned it round.