Kiss of Death

by Paul Finch

  He reached the shed at a stagger, flattening himself against the wall next to the door.

  It was anyone’s guess how many more such abandoned tools-turned-weapons Jackson might find in there. Maybe a handful, maybe none – but why make it easy for him?

  Heck probed at his side. It was tender but tolerable. Thanks to the Kevlar, there’d only be a little bruising there.

  He held his breath to listen.

  Then heard a clumping of feet and a scraping of timber – it sounded like a stiff door being lugged open. The bastard was working his way through the boathouse to the other side.

  ‘Where do you think you’re escaping to?’ Heck shouted. ‘You’re not going to swim the Humber, you thick twat!’

  There was no response.

  Heck shook his head and followed.

  The interior of the shed was rank. It stank of mildew and stagnant water. With a slimy floor underfoot and stands of cobweb draped over him, he bored through cavernous darkness towards the uber-dim oblong of another open door. A violent attack could come from either side; the sound of that door being opened might have been a feint. But it was a chance Heck had already taken.

  He made it to the other side unharmed and poked his head out.

  The first thing that struck him was that he was almost at the end of the pier, only thirty or so yards of it remaining. It had once been longer than this, maybe by another couple of hundred yards, but years of disuse had seen the seaward end collapse. The footway now terminated at a precipice delineated by stubs of rotted, broken planking. Beyond that, two lines of blackened, tooth-like projections trailed out into the silt-black water, until they too submerged. As before, there was no sign of his quarry.

  Heck held his breath, straining to listen, his eyes slowly adjusting.

  Further objects emerged. Some ten yards in front, a steel pole protruded up through the middle of the footway, standing to a height of about thirty feet. Maybe there’d once been a flag on it, or a lantern. Either way, there was no possibility someone could hide behind that, not someone of Cyrus Jackson’s girth. But ten yards to the left, square against the east barrier, was a small hut, the size and shape of a sentry box. Heck padded towards it, but the closer he got, the more apparent it became that its frontage had been kicked in and that there was nothing inside.

  He backtracked to look at the rear of it – but it was fast against the barrier. No one could be hiding behind it.

  ‘Damn it!’ he hissed.

  He turned, scanning the immediate area – and completely failed to notice the immense shadow rise to its feet up on top of that small hut.

  Cyrus Jackson was about four feet above Heck’s head. Not a huge distance, but given his weight, he knew that if he landed on the cop from up here he would crush his target flat, slamming him into that unyielding woodwork with a force that could pulverise flesh and bone alike.

  Chapter 16

  It was Jackson’s colossal weight that was his undoing.

  He’d risen to a crouch and was just levering himself fully up when a dull creeeaaak split the air. Heck spun around as the entire arthritic structure of the hut gave way, sagging sideways and then crashing downward, every joint splintering apart.

  He leapt back as the massive shape of the fugitive descended. Jackson had still partly managed to jump, but it was wild and uncoordinated. He landed on the flats of his feet about half a yard to the left of the steel pole, but it was a huge collision, which dropped him into a squat, his ankles smashing upwards into his backside, causing him to choke in pain.

  Meanwhile, the planking he’d landed on exploded down, and he passed through it like a cannonball. But not completely. He lodged halfway.

  ‘Shit!’ he gasped. ‘Oh shiiit!’

  It looked as if gravity would now do the rest, tugging on him inexorably. Jackson scrabbled at the shattered boarding, trying to get a purchase as his bulk slowly sank.

  ‘Help! For Christ’s saaake!’

  ‘What’s up?’ Heck asked, standing over him. ‘Can’t swim?’

  ‘You pig bastard!’ Jackson’s voice rose to a falsetto shriek.

  ‘Relax …’ Heck bent down. ‘Gimme your hand.’

  Jackson reached up with a desperate paw – only to feel a handcuff snap around its wrist.

  ‘What the fuck you doing?’

  ‘The other one,’ Heck instructed him.

  Jackson held it back, trying to brace himself with his free elbow.

  ‘Give me the other one,’ Heck said, ‘or I’ll chain you to this flagpole and let you hang.’

  ‘Fuck you!’ the fugitive snapped, but he offered his other hand anyway.

  Heck grabbed this one rather than cuffed it, and stepped behind the pole, where he locked the two hands together.

  ‘What … you said …’

  ‘I’m getting you up. Stop your whingeing.’

  Heck strolled around to the back of him, crouched, reached down through the jagged hole and, grabbing Jackson by the belt of his pants, hauled him up. It wasn’t easy; the guy weighed a ton, and with his arms bound around the pole, he couldn’t exactly assist.

  ‘Jeez,’ Heck said, with much puffing and grunting. ‘Could do with getting some flesh off, Cyrus. Or would that make you look too much like your customers?’

  Jackson said nothing. But when he was up on his knees, he clambered to his feet, panting. He yanked at the cuffs, but they were good and tight. He looked up; the old flagpole was solid – it didn’t so much as sway when he tested his bulk against it.

  Heck watched him impassively. ‘I’m disappointed, to tell the truth. I thought you were supposed to be a living legend. Expected a lot more trouble from you than this.’

  Jackson glared at him balefully, before a slow smile curled his fat, wet mouth. ‘There are different ways to win, pig.’

  And with a ringing impact, he drove his forehead against the steel pole. He did it three times at least, and when he’d finished, blood trickled down his face from two deeply lacerated eyebrows.

  Heck watched, thoughtful.

  ‘Shit,’ Jackson chuckled dazedly. ‘Look what you did to me. Brutalising me while I was under arrest. My brief’ll have a fucking field day.’

  ‘No, mate. It was all in self-defence.’ Heck stepped up to the pole, and headbutted it, himself, twice.

  Like all heavy blows to the skull, the initial impacts sounded worse than they felt. The pain would come later – once he’d stopped seeing stars. He rocked backward on the balls of his feet, as warm liquid dribbled down the left side of his face. Poking gingerly, he found that only one of his eyebrows had split, but this too was deep.

  When he glanced at Jackson, the criminal was gaping.

  ‘You seriously think there’s anything a clown like you can do that I’d can’t do better?’ Heck said.

  ‘You’re fucking nuts.’

  Heck dug his phone out and flicked the light on. He used it to examine the prisoner’s wounds, which would probably need stitches, as his own doubtless would.

  ‘You’ve got a couple of extra gashes on me,’ Heck said, prodding his eyebrow gingerly. ‘But one is all I need. They’ll put the discrepancy down to me being a better fighter than you.’

  ‘Jesus wept …’

  ‘Not for you.’ Heck stared back towards the boatshed. ‘But that reminds me … I’m going to check my partner’s OK. If, by any chance, she’s drowned … so will you.’

  ‘Hey, fuckhead … you’re not leaving me here!’

  But Heck was already walking back.

  He met Gail on the landward side of the boatshed. Even in the dark, he could see that she was plastered in mud. Not just her feet and legs, but her body and arms. It even smeared her face and hung clotted in her hair. But at least she was carrying the muck-caked sports bag.

  She immediately noted that he was dabbing at his brow with a bloodstained handkerchief. ‘Oh, God …’

  ‘It’s nothing, don’t worry. Well done on that.’

  She hefted th
e bag, which she’d clearly already unzipped and checked inside. ‘Low tide, thankfully. It’s full of gear, by the way.’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear.’

  ‘You sure you’re OK … that looks nasty?’

  ‘The nastier, the better.’ Heck took the bag and looked into it. Even at first glance, it contained bundles and bundles of string-tied money, and at least ten additional bags of greenish resin.

  ‘I presume you got him?’ she said.

  ‘Sure did.’

  Gail looked uneasy. ‘Is he hurt too?’

  ‘No worse than me. Come on.’ He zipped the bag up again and set off back. ‘Did you get a response from local Comms?’

  ‘Hardly. I was only play-acting.’

  He glanced at her with new respect. ‘Really?’

  ‘I knew you didn’t want the world and his wife here. Plus, I thought I’d try and put the willies up Jackson.’

  ‘Well, it worked. Good girl.’

  ‘Please don’t patronise me, Heck. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt on this occasion, because, so far, your instincts have been right. But we’d better get this case back on the straight and narrow damn soon, or I’m going to be very upset with you.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Heck handed her the bag back. ‘You carry this, if you don’t mind. Let me lead the questioning.’

  Jackson was still waiting on the other side of the boatshed when they got there. He hadn’t managed to free his hands from the cuffs and was now sitting on the floor.

  ‘Get up,’ Heck said, approaching.

  The prisoner did so, but sullenly. ‘I want my fucking brief.’

  ‘I’ll bet you do.’

  ‘You almost fucking killed me,’ Jackson said, already trying his bogus assault claim now that a newcomer had arrived. ‘They’ll rip you apart in court, you smart-arse bastard.’

  ‘Going to court, are we, Cyrus?’ Heck asked him.

  ‘Well … you are. Not sure about me.’

  Heck appraised him. ‘Does this bravado ever get you places? I mean, I’m genuinely interested to know. Do coppers round here actually quake in their boots when a moron like you threatens to sue them?’

  ‘You forced entry to my car,’ Jackson stated. ‘I thought you were trying to rob me, so I ran. You followed, kicked the shit out of me. End of … that’s your career, I mean. End of your fucking career.’

  ‘Sounds as if he’s done us like kippers, DC Honeyford.’

  ‘Fucking right,’ Jackson snorted. ‘You got all mucky for nothing, darling.’

  Heck looked at her. ‘Did you get mucky for nothing?’

  ‘I don’t think so, DS Heckenburg.’ She produced the sports bag from behind her back. ‘You didn’t reach the waterline, Cyrus. It was sitting on a mudbank.’

  Jackson tried to brazen it out. ‘What’s that supposed to be? Someone’s squash kit?’

  ‘Good question,’ Heck said. ‘But as you’re under arrest on suspicion of possessing Class A drugs with intent to supply, the law empowers us to have a good rummage inside.’

  ‘Don’t try it, pig … that’s not my bag.’

  Heck took it off Gail and unzipped it again.

  ‘We both saw you throw it, Cyrus,’ she said.

  ‘Be a laugh trying to watch you sell that in court,’ he retorted. ‘One look at your two faces says you’re stitch-up merchants from way back.’

  Heck pulled out a handful of tens and twenties. ‘So, if we set fire to this pile of cash … you’re OK with that?’

  Jackson’s expression tightened, but he clamped his mouth shut.

  Heck pulled out two or three more handfuls. ‘There must be four or five grand here, Cyrus. Wouldn’t half go up with a flash.’

  ‘Not mine. What does it matter?’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Heck threw it back in the bag. ‘No fires tonight … not when this all needs to go to the lab. It’s come straight from the dealers, hasn’t it? Which means it’s likely impregnated with trace evidence. As, no doubt, is the inside of that flash motor of yours.’

  ‘That’ll also be going to the lab, Cyrus,’ Gail said. ‘Did we plant that on you too?’

  Jackson’s mouth stayed shut.

  ‘Where are those trusty middlemen when you need them, eh?’ Heck said.

  ‘You won’t make this stick.’

  ‘We might make this stick.’ Heck pulled out a couple of bags of resin. ‘Is this the spice of life, or what?’

  ‘I don’t know what that is,’ Jackson replied.

  ‘Let me enlighten you.’ Heck examined the plastic sacks closely. ‘This is a form of synthetic marijuana. It’s the same stuff that’s rotting the hearts, minds and souls of people all over this country, turning once happy members of society into the living fucking dead. You feel me, bro?’

  Heck just about managed to restrain himself from slapping the pugnacious face in front of him.

  ‘While you were driving round in your swanky A4, this is the stuff that’s destroyed lives, broken up families and ruined dreams. And yet …’ Heck shook his head, as though bewildered at where this business had taken him, ‘even now … after all that, I might be prepared to let you off the hook.’

  Jackson arched one of his wounded eyebrows – especially when he sensed Gail stiffen.

  Heck shrugged. ‘Really, Cyrus? No snappy comeback?’

  ‘Who do I have to kill?’

  Heck chuckled without humour. ‘Suppose it’s no surprise that’s the way a rodent like you would think. But, actually, it’s going to be worse than murdering someone.’

  ‘Pig bastards,’ the prisoner breathed.

  ‘I’d save your anger till you hear the offer,’ Gail advised him. ‘Because it’s a lot more than you bloody deserve.’

  ‘I want Eddie Creeley,’ Heck said.

  There was protracted silence, before Jackson snorted with derisory laughter. ‘You and everyone else.’

  ‘The difference between me and them, Cyrus, is they haven’t got you on a dealing-to-children charge,’ Heck said.

  ‘Eddie’s gone, all right. He did a runner two years ago. And when Eddie does a runner, he really does a runner.’

  ‘How unfortunate.’ Heck regarded him stonily. ‘For you.’

  ‘You seriously saying you want to trade?’ Despite his scorn, Jackson seemed interested.

  Neither of the cops replied; they simply stared at him.

  The prisoner snorted again. ‘You can’t think you’ve got a bang-up case against me here or you wouldn’t be doing this.’

  ‘We caught you in the act,’ Gail said, adding the lie: ‘We filmed some of the dealers you’ve got selling in the parks. We followed them all the way here.’

  ‘You’re totally fucked, pal,’ Heck said.

  ‘I don’t know where Eddie is. I swear it.’

  Heck frowned. ‘That really doesn’t work for me.’

  ‘But I can give you something …’

  Jackson left it hanging there, glancing from one to the other.

  ‘Make it good,’ Heck said quietly.

  ‘Eddie’s sister’s been trying to get in touch with me.’

  ‘His sister?’ Gail said, play-acting again.

  ‘Nanette … stupid fucking name for a loser like her.’

  ‘We know Nanette Creeley,’ Heck said. ‘We’ve already checked her out. She’s got no form.’

  ‘No, but she’s recently heard something.’ Jackson now seemed animated, increasingly eager to cut himself a deal. ‘Or she thinks she has.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Gail asked.

  ‘She’s been trying to get in touch with me. Sending me notes, keeps saying Eddie’s in trouble, can I help her, and all that stuff.’

  ‘Why did she come to you?’ Heck said.

  ‘Same reason you have. She thinks I’m the fucking man.’

  ‘Well, don’t worry, we’ll soon strip her of that misconception.’

  ‘I’ve not responded anyway.’

  ‘Why not?’ Gail asked.

>   Jackson barked with laughter. ‘Eddie’s a bad lad. I don’t want a piece of that.’

  ‘Well, of course,’ Heck replied, ‘you being pure as the driven snow.’

  ‘No one wants to touch him these days. He’s a right nutter.’

  ‘So, what are you saying?’ Gail said. ‘You ignored these notes Nanette Creeley wrote?’

  ‘Course I fucking did. I binned the lot of them.’

  ‘But you think she knows something?’

  ‘She thinks she does. I couldn’t tell you what it is. I’m not fucking interested either. And that’s it … that’s absolutely all I know.’

  Heck and Gail pondered this, before Heck finally nodded.

  ‘I believe you, Cyrus … you know why, because you’d have absolutely nothing to gain if that was a lie.’ He turned to Gail. ‘Call Comms. Ask them to send prisoner transport. We’ve got one in custody for possession with intent to supply.’

  ‘Hang on!’ Jackson blurted. ‘We just made a bargain.’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ Heck shook his head. ‘The bargain was I let you go if you give me something good. You didn’t.’

  Chapter 17

  When they booked their prisoner in at Clough Road, the custody sergeant was bemused, especially when he saw the filthied state Gail was in. But when the evidence was presented to him, which included the footage Heck had shot, the bag of drugs and money and the spanner Jackson had thrown, there was no way he could refuse detention. However, it was plain to him that both Heck and the prisoner needed medical treatment. A couple of uniforms were called in to escort Jackson to Hull Royal Infirmary, while Heck opted to drive himself there, though before going outside, he had Gail photograph his split eyebrow and bruised ribs.

  Out in the car park, he said: ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be, but while I’m at the hospital, can you get in touch with our liaison officers. Apologise to them for the hour and tell them we’ve got a prisoner in for offences unconnected to Eddie Creeley. We could do with contacting the Humberside anti-drugs team too and letting them know what’s happened. That’s a formality really, but with any luck they’ll come in and take Jackson off our hands. In the meantime, we also need those substances sent off to the local lab … fast-tracked, if possible.’