Critical Threat hc-10

by Nick Oldham

  And to be honest, Henry loved this sort of place.

  It said so much about the town itself.

  But it wasn’t open that night.

  The Ford Galaxy with smoked out windows, which was the Armed Response Vehicle, was parked with two wheels on the kerb ahead of him on the opposite side of the road to the club, hazard lights flashing.

  Henry drew his Rover in behind it, clicked on his hazards and looked across to the club, which was in darkness. The building stood alone, its front entrance opening directly on to the pavement, but the double wooden doors were firmly closed. Dark alleyways ran down either side of it, places where many people had been assaulted over the years.

  Henry got out and was approached by Bill and his ARV partner, a female officer Henry did not know. They wore reflective jackets over their body armour and Henry could just see their holsters poking out below the hems of their jackets — including the muzzles of their pistols. They were both still tooled up and Henry realized that the authorization had not been revoked. Both were sipping coffee from polystyrene cups with lids on. Bill handed an extra one to Henry.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind, boss,’ he said. ‘We did a quick drive through on the way down from Fishmoor. Thought you’d appreciate one, too.’

  ‘No probs.’ Henry gratefully accepted the drink. He knew it all looked pretty slack, drinking like this in the eye of the public, but he was gagging after his sandwich and his adrenaline-fuelled dash across the county which had dried him up like a kipper. He broke back the seal on the lid and took a gulp, burning his mouth.

  ‘So, no sign of life up at the flat?’

  ‘Nothing, boss.’

  ‘Isn’t this place usually open by now?’ He pointed at the Class Act.

  ‘Too early,’ the WPC said. She was a local officer and Bill had been teamed up with her for the night. ‘Doesn’t usually open until eleven thirty-ish.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Henry said, realizing. ‘Of course, silly me.’

  ‘You think this Kippax woman might be in here?’ Bill asked.

  Henry shrugged. He had some more coffee, which tasted amazingly good. ‘It’s something we were going to look into tomorrow as there might be some connection with the people who run this place and Eddie Daley’s murder … his girlfriend, Jackie Kippax, thought they might have some grudge against him, but we haven’t had the chance to make that inquiry yet.’

  ‘I take it you know who owns the place now?’ the WPC asked rhetorically.

  ‘I take it you do.’

  ‘Johnny Strongitharm.’

  ‘Really!’ Henry knew Strongitharm by reputation, though he’d never had any dealings with the guy. Strongitharm, an appropriately named crim from Blackburn, was one of a dying breed of violent armed robbers who specialized in money on the move. Security vans, in other words. It was estimated he had made millions from highway robbery over the years and Henry recalled several unsuccessful crime squad operations against him. He was finally convicted of a very brutal robbery-gone-wrong about ten years before at a Royal Mail sorting office when a security guard was maimed when a shotgun blew off part of his leg. A big NCIS investigation had finally nailed Johnny, but not the money, some?600,000. ‘I thought he was still inside,’ Henry said.

  ‘Released last year and bunked off to Spain, but not before buying this shit-hole for some reason,’ the WPC said.

  ‘A bolt hole,’ Henry suggested. ‘Allows him to keep tabs on comings and goings in town.’

  ‘Maybe … anyway, he owns it, but someone else manages it.’

  ‘That someone is?’

  ‘Guy called Darren Langmead.’

  ‘Dear me, bad to worse,’ Henry exclaimed. He also knew of Langmead, a vicious low-life enforcer and tax collector who revelled in breaking people’s fingers.

  ‘The licence is in someone else’s name, of course,’ she explained. ‘Some clean-sheeted guy called Jones, who is never there. Way of the world,’ she shrugged. ‘That’s how they keep the licence.’

  ‘Right, OK,’ Henry breathed, taking in these facts and not being surprised that Langmead could well have been embezzling from a boss who lived two thousand miles away, whatever his ruthless rep might be. He looked across at the club. ‘Let’s check it out.’

  The three of them crossed Mincing Lane and spent some time at the front door, getting no response from inside and finding the door well secured, so they entered the narrow, cobbled alley running down the right side of the club. They were hit by the immediate stench of rotting food from several overfilled wheelie bins and plastic bin bags which had burst, their contents scattered by the indigenous wildlife — cats, dogs, rats and tramps. It wasn’t easy to tell what was being stepped on and Henry tried not to think about it as he dropped his coffee cup on to a pile of trash.

  They reached a door in a wall surrounding the rear yard of the club. Henry tried the handle, but it was locked.

  ‘I have an idea,’ the WPC announced, looking fairly repulsed by her present situation. ‘Why don’t I go and ring the bell again? And I’ll see if comms can get hold of a key holder. You boys have fun.’ She didn’t wait for an answer, just turned on her heels and picked her way carefully back down the alley.

  ‘She should be a sergeant,’ Henry sniffed.

  ‘She will be,’ Bill sniffed, too.

  Henry tried the handle once more, confirming it was indeed locked. He put his shoulder to it, but it didn’t budge. Taking a step back he surveyed the height of the wall and wondered if he was capable of scaling all seven feet of it. He thought he could, but what bothered him was what might be on top of it, such as glass shards embedded in concrete or razor wire, and what might be lurking on the other side, such as something with sharp fangs, a bad attitude and hunger pangs.

  He and Bill exchanged glances in the dark.

  ‘Is there anything to say she’s actually in there?’ Bill asked hopefully.

  ‘Nothing, a hunch, could be a million miles off the mark … but it needs to be checked out. Once we’ve eliminated this, we’ll try elsewhere.’

  ‘Better get over, then.’

  ‘It’s what we like doing best.’

  Henry jumped at the wall, his fingers gripping the top of it, and found a purchase for his left foot on the door handle and, shakily, eased himself up so his elbows were on top of the wall and his head high enough to peer over.

  ‘No broken glass, anyway … doesn’t seem to be any wildlife in the yard, just junk and barrels.’

  He scrambled on to the wall and perched there, one leg on either side, letting his eyes adjust themselves to the shadows beyond. He could see the backdoor of the Class Act reached by half a dozen steps. It looked like a reasonably easy door to break down, if necessary. He swung his legs over and dropped clumsily into the yard, jarring his knees, causing his right one to give unexpectedly, though he managed to remain upright, stumbling slightly.

  Bill was with him moments later, landing heavily with all his kit on.

  The yard was quite large and, as Henry had seen, full of discarded waste, wheelie bins, barrels and crates, all pretty typical of the back of a poorly managed licensed premises.

  They walked towards the backdoor, stepping in and out of the mess, until they reached the foot of the steps — when Henry noticed something to his left, pushed up against the wall. As he realized what it was, he gulped and tapped Bill and at the same time thought he heard something behind which could’ve been a low, guttural growl.

  He froze. ‘That’s a kennel,’ he hissed.

  ‘Yep,’ said Bill, also having seen it.

  ‘Did you hear what I heard?’

  ‘Yep.’ Bill was never the most chatty of people.

  They rotated slowly and in the shadow between two wheelie bins stood a beast which had cunningly allowed them into its lair, stalked and trapped them. It stepped forwards, revealing itself, its powerful head and shoulders protruding from the darkness.

  ‘Shit.’ Henry swallowed, experiencing fear like nothing before.
A kind of desolate emptiness, a panic of epic proportions.

  ‘Pit bull,’ breathed Bill quietly. His right hand moved slowly to his holster.

  ‘If you shoot it, it’ll get mad,’ Henry said seriously.

  ‘It already looks pretty mad.’

  The dog took a few more steps and became clearly visible to the two officers. It was a magnificent creature, even Henry had to grudgingly admit, scared as he was and ambivalent towards canines in general. Basically they did nothing for him. He could see no further than eating, shitting and biting and costing money, which is why he had always declined his daughters’ pleas for one.

  This animal looked the business. A good twenty-two inches high, probably weighing in about fifty-five pounds, all of it rippling muscle, under a thick, short coat of shiny hair, the colour of which could not be made out in the light available, but was probably a light brown. On top of that, there must also have been a brain inside its thick skull which was intelligent enough to allow two idiots to climb into its den without letting them know it was waiting with bared teeth.

  Its ears lay back, its hackles up, head thrust forward, lips drawn back revealing a set of dentures that would do a good job of tearing these intruders apart.

  ‘Bugger,’ Henry said weakly, already imagining his face being ripped away.

  The dog took a few more steps in their direction, moving more like a leopard than a canine.

  Henry swallowed. Bill slowly withdrew his Glock, his hand shaking, desperate not to make a sudden move.

  ‘Think it’ll let us go back the way we came?’

  ‘Only minus our balls,’ Bill said.

  His dithering hand came out with the gun.

  Henry laid a hand on his forearm. ‘Back up slowly to the door,’ he said. ‘It might be open. One step at a time.’

  As they stepped back one, the dog stepped forwards one. It was like some ritualistic dance of death. They dog knew it had them, had all the time in the world. Henry could see its eyes as it looked from one, then to the other human, deciding which to savage first.

  Henry caught his heel and nearly tumbled over on to his arse, but steadied himself, knowing that a quick movement could precipitate a charge.

  Bill had slowly raised the Glock, easing his left hand under his right to support the weapon, aiming at the dog’s head, somewhere at a point where a cross drawn between the eyes and ears met — centre skull.

  About ten feet separated them from the animal. If it leapt towards them now, it would be on them in a flash.

  Each man stepped carefully back, tension coursing through them.

  ‘It’s fuckin’ playing with us,’ Henry said, his terror growing. Why couldn’t a back yard be guarded by some knife-wielding maniac, or someone with a machine gun? Both would have been preferable to this.

  The dog growled again, a primeval sound expertly designed to turn would-be prey into immoveable lumps. It worked.

  Then Henry heard something from behind, inside the Class Act. The sliding of a bolt. Yes, he almost jumped for joy; the WPC had obviously managed to get inside. She had made her way through to the back of the premises to let them in.

  There was further noise from inside. Keys being turned. More bolts sliding.

  Bill removed his left hand, the supporting hand, from underneath the gun and it went to his PR transmitter button and mike affixed to the outside of his jacket on his left shoulder.

  ‘Get the door open, Carly,’ he said urgently, without preamble. ‘Get it open now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we’re about to be attacked by a pit bull.’

  There was more noise behind the door, something being dragged away, a scraping. ‘It’s stuck,’ she said. ‘This bolt is stuck.’

  Henry could sense the dog was about to launch itself. It quivered, collecting itself, bracing itself and then it happened and it was hurtling towards Henry.

  He saw it rise up into the air, ears pinned back, teeth bared, like a beast from hell. He found himself rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle. The height it reached was incredible and it could easily have latched its jaws on to Henry’s face, but at the last moment, when Henry believed he could smell its deathly breath, his survival instinct cut in and made him move. He twisted desperately away, raised his forearm in self-defence and at the same time, Bill lashed out and kicked the animal in the stomach with his steel toe-capped boots, sending it sprawling across the yard.

  But this was no lapdog, which would go away cowering and whining.

  As it landed on the concrete, it immediately regained its feet and launched itself back at the cops, its claws scratching the floor for leverage.

  In that moment, the WPC wrenched back the sticking bolt and yanked open the door.

  Bill scrambled in, leaving Henry still outside to face the oncoming savagery of the dog, which had now got ten degrees madder.

  Henry’s instinct for self-preservation took over. A slight slip of the pit bull as it clawed its way to him gave him an instant to do something. Stacked up next to him in a precarious pile were a dozen plastic beer crates. He grabbed them and toppled them into the gap between himself and the pooch, pushing them over the dog as they fell. In terms of hurting the dog, they were ineffective, but they impeded its charge and gave Henry that extra moment to turn and throw himself through the open door, which was slammed shut behind him by the WPC.

  Henry dropped his hands to his knees, gasping for air, almost retching. Bill had adopted much the same position. They traded glances, blowing out their cheeks, a connection between them having just avoided a mauling. Outside, the dog howled in frustration and clawed at the door like a monster from a horror movie.

  Henry stood up.

  Bill holstered the Glock. ‘That was fuckin’ close.’

  Everything on Henry was shaking. He took several deep breaths.

  Eventually both got their breath back, and their manhood.

  ‘Thanks,’ Henry said to the female officer. ‘Carly, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah — no probs,’ she said — but the expression on her face told a different story.

  ‘How did you manage to get in?’

  ‘Member of staff turning up for work,’ she said, unsteadily.

  ‘Hey — it’s all right,’ Henry said, picking up on her voice. ‘We’re OK.’

  ‘I’m not bothered about you,’ she said. ‘Back there.’ She pointed down the corridor into the building. ‘Blood everywhere.’

  ‘Bodies?’ Henry asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I haven’t seen anyone, but it’s a blood bath.’

  ‘Let’s go see.’

  Carly led them through to the main body of the Class Act by way of a storeroom, through another door and they emerged into the main bar room, coming in behind the bar itself, which was long and wide. The lights had been turned on and Henry could see the place was an unkempt dive. It reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke, which was only to be expected, perhaps; but it was also a dirty mess with hundreds of uncollected glasses on the bar top and tables, all the ashtrays full to overflowing. There was a small dance floor to one side, next to which was a raised circular stage from which a pole rose to the ceiling. Henry could visualize the customer base immediately: the best of Blackburn.

  A thin blonde woman sat at one of the tables, smoking, looking at them nervously.

  ‘That the staff member?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Yeah, she’s the pole dancer. I told her to stay put.’

  ‘Where’s the blood?’

  Carly showed the way across the bar, weaving through tables over sticky carpets, crunching with broken glass and savoury snacks, through another door leading to the tiled entrance foyer behind the front doors. Henry could hear the traffic passing on Mincing Lane. Carly held out an arm to stop them going any further. ‘Here,’ she said. Bill peered over her shoulder. Henry was by her side, maybe half a step behind her, her raised arm preventing him from going any further. His jaw literally dropped. Blood was everywhere i
nside the foyer. All over the floor, up the walls, runny and congealing. ‘I came in, slithered a bit, saw what I’d been standing in and after I’d dumped the dancer in the bar, I ran through to the back door. I know my way round the place,’ she explained. ‘Been to a few jobs here in my time.’

  There were two more doors off the foyer. One, closed, had the word ‘Private’ stamped on it and another, slightly ajar, had a sign with the word ‘Snug’ on it.

  ‘That’s the posh bar in there, I take it?’ Henry said.

  ‘And kitchen,’ Carly said, missing Henry’s stab at irony.

  Henry took a few seconds to look at the blood. Something major had taken place here and he would have bet his underwear it was connected to the phone call from Jackie Kippax.

  ‘Looks like someone’s been dragged through there,’ Bill said, pointing to the ‘snug’ bar. There was a smeared trail of blood leading towards the door.

  ‘Yeah,’ Henry agreed. ‘Let’s take a look and do your best to keep your feet out of the blood if at all possible.’

  Henry moved in front of Carly and tiptoed across the foyer, trying his best to place his toes in spaces where the blood hadn’t splashed, which was incredibly difficult. The two firearms officers followed with equal care.

  He stopped on the threshold of the snug and, using the knuckle of his right forefinger, pushed the door fully open, revealing a small bar, but no more appetizing than the larger one on the other side. It was smelly and unappealing. The blood smear continued across the carpet, making Henry wonder who was dragging who. He thought it unlikely to be female dragging male. The trail went through a double swinging door at the back of the room marked ‘Kitchen’.