Kiss of Death

by Paul Finch

  ‘You’ve got three seconds to decide, Fiona.’

  ‘You’ll seriously let me go?’ she said. ‘I give you this note and walk away, and no one ever knows?’

  ‘Not unless you tell them yourself.’

  She evidently wasn’t as stupid as she looked, and realising that this was the best deal she was going to get, she reached to her back pocket and drew out a folded beer mat.

  ‘First thing you should know …’ She handed it over. ‘Nan Creeley’s a sad cow.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ Gail replied.

  Heck studied the beer mat by torchlight.

  ‘She’s written three of these the last few nights,’ Birkdale added. ‘They always say the same thing.’

  Heck handed it to Gail. She too read the scribbled handwriting:

  Contact me

  Ed in trouble

  Scared

  Heck’s immediate thought was that this message possibly referred to the extra police effort being put into locating Creeley since the launch of Operation Sledgehammer, but he quickly dismissed the idea. The robber-turned-murderer lived on the lam because the cops were always after him. This was clearly something else. But it was still the link they’d been looking for.

  He eyed the woman so intently that she hung her head.

  ‘You told us this message wasn’t for Nan’s brother,’ he said. ‘Quite clearly that’s true, which is a big tick for you, Fiona. But it begs the question who is it for?’

  She shrugged but kept her head down. ‘Eddie Creeley used to have lots of contacts on Humberside, but not so many now. Only one, really. You know Cyrus Jackson?’

  ‘Remind us,’ Heck said.

  ‘Eddie’s mate. His bosom buddy from way back. Like … they knew each other when they were kids. Even did time in reform school together.’ Her eyes were moonlike with worry. ‘But Cyrus is bad news too. An out-and-out crim. Truth is, they’re both as fucked up as each other. That’s why they get on so well.’

  ‘And Cyrus knows where Eddie can be found?’

  ‘Dunno. Nan thinks that. Or she can’t think of anyone else to turn to. One or the other.’

  ‘So, you’ve been delivering these notes on beer mats to Cyrus?’ Gail asked.

  The barmaid nodded.

  ‘And each one says the same thing?’

  Another nod.

  ‘And Cyrus doesn’t think that’s weird?’ Heck said.

  ‘Don’t think he’s arsed about them. But I give them to him because I don’t want to be the one who fails to deliver a message that matters, if you know what I mean.’ She shook her head, looking tearful again. ‘Wish Nan’d pack it the fuck in. I didn’t ask for any of this.’

  ‘What do you mean when you say he’s not arsed about them?’ Heck said.

  ‘I put them in his hands, he looks at them, bins them. Carries on as normal.’

  ‘Why would that be?’

  ‘Look …’ her voice turned shrill again, ‘I don’t fucking know! No one tells me anything!’

  ‘So, you don’t know whether this Cyrus Jackson is in contact with Eddie Creeley, or not?’ Gail sought to establish.

  ‘No, and I wouldn’t dare ask.’

  The cops exchanged glances. Several seconds ago, this had felt like a live lead. But now they weren’t so sure.

  ‘How do you know Cyrus?’ Heck asked her.

  She squirmed under his gaze. ‘All you wanted was the message. I’ve given it to you, so let us go, eh?’

  ‘What’s so embarrassing about knowing Cyrus Jackson?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh dear, Fiona … now you’ve got us intrigued.’

  ‘Used to deliver stuff for him, if you must know.’

  ‘Let me guess … drugs?’

  ‘Course, drugs!’ she snapped. But again, just as quickly, she lowered her voice and hung her head. ‘Was a user too. I needed stuff … did what I needed to, to get it.’

  Heck regarded her carefully. ‘What does he hook you up with?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m clean.’

  ‘Spare me, Fiona. If you weren’t still using, you wouldn’t be seeing him regularly enough to give him Nan Creeley’s notes. We’re not going to tell your boss down at the pub, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

  ‘We’re not here to arrest drug addicts, Fiona,’ Gail added.

  ‘So why are you interested in what I get up to?’

  ‘Because we need to know what we’re dealing with,’ Heck said. ‘Tell us everything.’

  ‘On the pipe, aren’t I!’ She glared at Gail. ‘And I’m not the only one round here, so don’t look at me like that …’

  ‘I’m not looking at you like anything.’

  ‘Yes, you are, you snotty bitch. You’re fucking judging me …’

  ‘Ease off with the aggression,’ Heck cut in. ‘You’ve got no power here, Fiona.’

  ‘It’s like I’m the shit on her fancy shoes.’

  ‘What do you expect, when you’re protecting a drug dealer?’ he said.

  ‘I’m not protecting no one. Just told you who he is, didn’t I!’

  ‘Well, let’s see …’ Heck paused, mainly for effect. ‘The fact is, I’m not interested in you or Cyrus Jackson. As far as I’m concerned, you’re both tiddlers. But if your mate, Cyrus, knows where Eddie Creeley is, I’ll have to speak to him.’

  ‘Hah, some chance!’ She seemed genuinely amused. ‘You won’t find Cyrus a pushover like me. He’ll do time rather than dob his mate in.’

  ‘Which is why I’m going to need to catch him doing something he shouldn’t be.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Like you say … I can’t just knock on his door and expect him to talk.’

  The penny dropped, and her eyes bugged even more.

  ‘I’m not fucking giving you Cyrus. You can forget it. My life wouldn’t be worth living.’

  ‘We’re getting him anyway,’ Heck said. ‘Doubtless, we’ll have his details on file. And now that we know he’s the man, all we need do is watch him till he crosses the line. And when he does, just think what a shame it’d be if I let it slip that you’d told me he’s been in touch with Eddie.’

  She looked appalled. ‘But I haven’t …’

  ‘Yeah, but you see … I’m a Lancashire lad, and Cyrus is from Hull, and how often the truth gets lost in translation, eh?’

  Now she was crying for real. ‘This is blackmail, you pig bastard!’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Heck said. ‘It’s your only way out of a real fucking mess. Now, you tell me where and when we can catch Cyrus in the act, and your name never even needs to come up. In fact, I’ll even return this …’ To her bemusement, he handed back the beer mat. ‘Now, you can carry on and give it to him as if this meeting never happened.’

  She regarded it dully, before shaking her head. ‘He’ll still sus me. I’ll be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life.’

  ‘Don’t be so melodramatic,’ Gail said. ‘There are probably junkies all over Humberside who owe everything they are to Cyrus Jackson. You really think you’re the only one who’s likely to peach on the guy? When it comes to getting even, he won’t know where to start.’

  Again, the barmaid’s sniffles seemed to dry up. She glanced from one to the other, as if hoping to find a chink of mercy. But Fiona Birkdale was nothing if not pragmatic, and she knew a get-out when she saw one.

  ‘The new thing is changa,’ she said.

  ‘You mean spice?’ Gail replied. ‘The zombie drug?’

  ‘That’s what they call it. It’s a kind of synthetic cannabis. Knocks the shit out of the users.’

  ‘We know what it is,’ Heck said. ‘You’re telling us Jackson’s peddling spice in Hull?’

  ‘He runs all sorts. But that’s the new one. He’s got a few dealers doing it.’ She glanced over her shoulder, as if belatedly checking that one of these self-same villains hadn’t somehow crept up on them. ‘They work the parks and playgrounds at night.’
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  ‘The playgrounds?’ Gail said.

  ‘Who do you think are keenest to try new stuff? It’s always kids.’

  ‘Cyrus Jackson is selling spice to teenagers?’

  Birkdale looked genuinely puzzled by the female cop’s disgusted tone.

  ‘If he’s got dealers doing this for him,’ Heck said, ‘when does he get his own hands dirty?’

  ‘Look, if anyone finds out this has come from me …’

  ‘You still won’t be going to prison for the next few years, which you will be if you don’t give us something useful.’

  ‘Aiding and abetting a two-time murderer,’ Gail reminded her. ‘Just think about that.’

  ‘Perverting the course of justice,’ Heck said.

  ‘Assisting an offender to avoid arrest,’ Gail added.

  ‘All right! All right … for fuck’s sake. Look, he’s got a collection point.’

  Birkdale paused again, nervously pondering the wisdom of what she was doing.

  ‘Keep talking,’ Heck said.

  ‘It’s where he goes to collect the cash. He goes there every Tuesday and Friday night. Tuesday’s the biggest, ’cause that includes the weekend take.’

  ‘What time?’ Heck asked.

  ‘Ten on the dot. Lasts about twenty minutes. He doesn’t hang around.’

  ‘Cyrus collects it personally?’

  ‘Yeah. He doesn’t like having too many middlemen. More chance they’ll skim.’

  Heck looked at Gail. ‘Ten p.m., Tuesday night. How convenient, tomorrow being a Tuesday.’

  ‘How do we recognise him?’ Gail asked her.

  ‘Drives a white Audi A4.’

  ‘Registration?’

  ‘Do me a fucking favour …’

  ‘Attitude, Fiona,’ Heck warned her.

  ‘I don’t know his registration. Anyway, you won’t need it. It’ll be the only car there. It’ll be the only car anywhere near the fucking place.’

  ‘And where is “the place”?’

  ‘St Andrew’s Dock. Derelict spot on the riverfront. Off Clive Sullivan Way.’

  ‘Will he have muscle with him?’ Heck asked.

  ‘No, like I say—’

  ‘He doesn’t trust people. Yeah, we heard.’

  ‘Bit risky for him,’ Gail said.

  ‘You haven’t met Cyrus.’

  ‘Will he be armed?’ Heck asked.

  ‘Never known him carry a shooter. Like I say, he doesn’t need one.’

  ‘He’s really that much of a badass?’ Gail sounded sceptical.

  Birkdale snorted with contempt. ‘You have no idea, love. You really have no idea.’

  Chapter 15

  ‘Everything OK?’

  Barry Hodges seemed a tad puzzled that it was halfway through another day, and yet their guests from Operation Sledgehammer didn’t seem to need any assistance from their official liaison. He knew that Heck and Gail had done a late stint the previous night, which explained why they’d only clocked on again just before noon. But it was now two o’clock, and still neither he nor Mortimer had received any kind of report or update.

  ‘We’re fine,’ Heck said, looking up from the desk he’d been allocated in a corner of the Clough Road DO. Gail, on the other side of it, said nothing.

  ‘Anything last night?’ Hodges asked.

  Heck thought it through. ‘Not really. We made some enquiries around Nan Creeley …’

  A few yards away, Vic Mortimer shuffled paperwork at his own desk. He smiled to himself and shook his head.

  ‘Nothing doing there so far,’ Heck added.

  ‘OK, what’s the plan for today?’ Hodges wondered.

  Heck shrugged. ‘Just some follow-ups. Nothing too promising, but I’ll let you know.’

  Mortimer threw a quick glance in their direction. He still looked amused, but also irritated, as if he couldn’t believe departments still existed in the cash-strapped police service of England and Wales where detectives could afford to spend day after day dawdling through unpromising leads. A couple of minutes later, he and Hodges left the office on other business, and Gail spun her chair round to face Heck.

  ‘Lying comes discomfortingly easy to you,’ she said tersely.

  Heck didn’t look up from his notes. ‘Do you believe in God, Gail?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Simple question. Do you believe in God?’

  ‘I’m a twenty-first-century person … why would I?’

  ‘Then zip it.’

  Half a second of surprise passed, before she sat up straight. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Lying’s not a crime, it’s a sin … and you don’t believe in God, therefore you don’t believe in sin. End of conversation.’

  He still didn’t bother looking up, as he emailed his latest dispatch to Silver Command.

  ‘Cute logic,’ she snapped. ‘But at the end of the day, what really matters here is not whether I believe in God, it’s whether we go out there tonight minus back-up. I mean, last night was one thing, but this is something else again. And, for the record, I want it writing down on paper that I’ve expressed that opinion.’

  ‘I told you … back-up means awkward questions.’

  ‘You mean they’ll want to lock Cyrus Jackson up for selling spice, whereas all we’re interested in is Eddie Creeley?’

  Finally, he glanced at her. ‘That’s what we’re up here for, isn’t it?’

  ‘Heck … some crimes we can turn a blind eye to. But this is deadly serious.’

  ‘Tonight, we’re only there to observe. Let’s see what happens. For all we know, Miss Tattoo might have fed us a load of baloney. You want to send the whole of Humberside on a wild goose chase?’

  ‘We’re just observing? Definitely?’

  ‘Definitely,’ he confirmed. ‘We’ll probably shoot some footage, too … to strengthen our case. Now is that OK with you?’

  She sat back again, only vaguely placated.

  ‘And just to be on the safe side,’ he said, ‘I’ve got some spare bits of body armour in the car. Some of it should fit you.’

  Outside on the car park, Heck stood by his open boot and rummaged inside a bulky blue travel-bag. Gail waited in silence, her face written with doubt.

  ‘Heavier duty gear than normal tonight,’ he said. ‘An ordinary stab-vest might not cut it. No pun intended.’

  ‘Heck … why do we need heavyweight body armour if we’re only observing?’

  ‘Think this’ll fit.’ He tossed her an undershirt made from thick layers of white, tightly woven Kevlar fibres. ‘You should know by now, Gail … surveillance can be one of the most dangerous jobs there is. Try these too.’ He handed her a pair of shin guards, before rooting out some equipment for himself.

  ‘Will I need a gumshield as well?’ she wondered acidly.

  ‘If you don’t already have one, you need to rectify that.’

  ‘Heck … I’m not a rookie, OK. Surveillance is not one of the most dangerous jobs there is, if you do it properly.’

  ‘In which case, as I’ll be in charge tonight, you’ll have nothing to worry about.’

  ‘You’re gonna go for it, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘If Cyrus Jackson shows up, you’re gonna try and grab him?’

  Heck gave her a tired stare. ‘Gail … we’re strangers in a strange land. Two police officers on foreign soil, pursuing a dangerous criminal who is not just native to this region, but has all kinds of connections here. That means, at the very least, that we need to be adaptable. If I have to make snap decisions when we’re out in the field, if I have to change plans on the hoof because a good option has unexpectedly arisen … I’m not going to apologise to you for that.’

  ‘Heck … we may be strangers, but we’ve got a whole police force at our beck and call.’

  ‘You’ve already seen how uninterested they are. And, frankly, I don’t blame them. What are we, Gail … homicide specialists, serial killer experts? No, I’ll tell you … as far as this lot are concerned, we’re the only two units ou
r ailing, underfunded outfit can spare, and like everyone else in Operation Sledgehammer, at present we’re part of a last-gasp, scattergun effort to prove to the top floor that we are worth our elite status. Meanwhile, like divisional forces up and down the country, Humberside are struggling to keep nicks open and man everyday shifts.’

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I get that. But we still don’t need to do this thing on our own.’

  ‘If it goes pear-shaped, they’ll only be a radio call away.’

  ‘Late on a Tuesday night? How many are likely to be on? We’ll be lucky if we get any more than a pair of bored beat-lads.’

  ‘They’re an urban police force, Gail.’ He slammed his boot closed. ‘They don’t have time to get bored.’

  Though a lot of the Hull riverfront was undergoing modernisation and redevelopment, the St Andrew’s Dock area, despite its central location, was still in need of some TLC.

  Much of it was barren, wild grasses and weeds growing along its disused roads, flat demolition land where warehouses and other installations had once been. The skeletal timber structures of a few disused piers, protruding out into the lapping brown waters, were a melancholy reminder of better times past.

  There were various spots here where Cyrus Jackson could have chosen to park up and await his couriers, and none would have been any more conspicuous than the next, because though it was a relatively open place, there was very little else here. There was no reason for anyone to visit, especially after darkness had fallen, as there was no streetlighting. Even so, Heck and Gemma had finally got Fiona Birkdale to be specific about where the exact spot was before letting her go and had learned that it was an empty, litter-filled parking bay in front of the chain-link fence blocking the entrance to Pier No. 6, another dilapidated relic of the local fishing industry, which, according to the notice on the chain, was ‘Unsafe’.

  They parked a considerable distance away on a nearby retail park and then recced the area on foot early that evening, finally locating the spot and discovering that, directly across the deserted road from it, there was a tumbledown red-brick wall, beyond which lay only scrub-thorn – which made a perfect observation point. By nine o’clock that evening, a balmy dusk had fallen, the sky burning a dim orange over the distant south shore. At the same time, the sounds of the city gradually diminished until, by 9:30 p.m., they were almost non-existent. The water sloshing around the decayed pilings of No. 6 was eerily audible.