ARCHANGEL HAWTHORNE (A Thriller)

by D. M. Mitchell

  Hawthorne shook his head in despair. ‘A Scot that’s nesh – what the hell have they given me?’

  ‘Nesh, sir?’

  ‘Yorkshire slang. It has a number of meanings, Fraser. To be unusually susceptible to the cold, or to be afraid. Which nesh are you?’

  ‘Why do Yorkshiremen think they’re so damn hard?’ said Fraser. ‘You’ve not seen Glasgow, where I come from. Now people there really are as hard as bloody nails.’

  Hawthorne gave a laugh and waved his hand dismissively. ‘What, you expect me to believe that, you feeling the ruddy cold like you do, you little namby-pamby Scot?’ He walked away, laughing some more. ‘Come on, I’ve a nice knitted Balaclava in the car, and a pair of roasty-toasty mittens that’ll cover your delicate little pinkies and stop them turning blue!’

  There was a stoutly built man standing as immovable as a slab of granite outside the club door. Above his head, in dead neon tubes, was the name The Five of Hearts Club. He’d been leaning on the wall, lazily smoking a cigarette when he saw the two men walking down the street, without a doubt headed in his direction. He dropped his cigarette butt and stamped on it just as DCI Hawthorne and Inspector Fraser came up to him.

  ‘Morning, Colin,’ Hawthorne said to the man.

  The man didn’t reply. He licked his lips and pulled himself to his full and impressive height.

  ‘Cat got your tongue, Colin?’ said Hawthorne. The DCI turned to Fraser. ‘I’ve known this man since he was a babe-in-arms, haven’t I, Colin? How’s your dad?’

  Colin coughed and offered a quiet good morning to the DCI. ‘My dad’s fine, Mr Hawthorne,’ he said. Fraser noticed a flicker of nervousness in his voice. ‘The old lungs playing up still.’

  ‘What are you doing here, Colin?’ Hawthorne asked.

  The bull-necked man shuffled awkwardly. ‘Working, Mr Hawthorne.’

  ‘Working, eh?’ he said, nodding. ‘You’re working for Eddie Bates now?’

  Colin glanced at Fraser. ‘A man’s got to work, Mr Hawthorne.’

  ‘There’s work and there’s work. You ain’t a bad lad at heart, Colin. There’re better ways of making a bob or two.’

  ‘What do you want, Mr Hawthorne?’ Colin asked, straightening and giving the DCI a frosty stare.

  ‘Colin, explain to my colleague here why it’s called The Five of Hearts Club.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Colin.

  Hawthorne pointed at the sign. ‘Why is it called The Five of Hearts Club? Don’t tell me you don’t know, Colin.’ He turned to Fraser. ‘Eddie Bates has strippers here sometimes. They wear nothing but red gloves, red shoes and they dye their pubic hair bright red. Get it? Five of hearts?’

  Both Colin and Fraser thought about it. ‘At least he’s got a sense of humour,’ said Fraser.

  Colin still struggled with what Hawthorne meant.

  ‘We want to see your employer,’ said Hawthorne bluntly.

  Colin stiffened. ‘He’s not in.’

  ‘I know he’s in, Colin. Let me through, there’s a good man.’

  ‘I can’t, Mr Hawthorne,’ he said. ‘No one’s allowed in to see Mr Bates unless they’ve got an appointment.’

  ‘Well, I’m here by royal appointment,’ Hawthorne said evenly. ‘The ruddy queen wants me to see Eddie Bates, and see him I will, just for her.’ He stepped forward and Colin put a large hand on Hawthorne’s chest. The DCI stared fixedly at it. ‘Is that your hand I see on my breast, Colin?’

  ‘Please, Mr Hawthorne, don’t make trouble for me. I told you, Mr Bates is not here.’

  ‘Take that ruddy great paw off me, Colin.’

  Colin did as he was told, slowly, methodically.

  In a flash, Hawthorne had brought up his knee into Colin’s groin. The man doubled over and Hawthorne sent a fist into the young man’s face. As he staggered backwards, blood spouting from his nose, Hawthorne head-butted him and the man slid down the door of the club, groaning as he did so.

  Hawthorne straightened his hat. ‘Get yourself a better job, Colin, there’s a good man,’ he said, opening the door and stepping over him. ‘And give my regards to your mam and dad.’ He spoke to Fraser, who looked on open-mouthed at the sudden burst of violence. ‘His mother makes the best ginger pudding this side of the Pennines.’

  They clattered down a flight of stairs, the walls painted black and red, peeling posters of Jazz bands and boxers adorning them. Entering a long, narrow corridor, Hawthorne kicked open the first door he came to. The wooden frame shattered.

  ‘Wakey, wakey!’ he shouted. ‘Eddie, you’ve got visitors! Put the kettle on!’

  Almost at once, a black-suited man dashed from out of another door, his hand going to his inside jacket pocket as he saw the two officers. Hawthorne dashed forward, his hand flashing out and grabbing the man’s neck in an arm lock. He gave him a smart punch in his screwed up face. Hawthorne’s hand next went to the man’s coat pocket and took out a revolver. He pushed the man away.

  ‘Well, well, what have we here? I hope you’ve got a licence for this thing.’ He tossed it to Fraser, who caught it awkwardly. ‘Hold that for me, will you?’ he asked, before sending a fist into his attacker’s unprotected stomach. ‘Where’s your boss?’ he said.

  The man ignored him, screwing up his eyes in pain. ‘You bastard copper!’ he said, his mouth bleeding profusely. ‘I think you’ve broken one of my bloody teeth!’

  Hawthorne bent down to him. ‘I’ll only ask this once more. Where’s your boss?’

  ‘Go fuck yourself, copper!’

  ‘Wrong answer,’ said Hawthorne, and brought his knee up to crack the man under his chin. There was definitely the sound of breaking bone.

  ‘Sir!’ said Fraser. ‘You’ve shattered his jaw!’

  ‘My heart bleeds,’ said Hawthorne.

  ‘Are you looking for me?’ said a voice from further down the corridor.

  There was a man standing in a doorway further down the corridor, wearing an open-necked shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his hair greased back and shiny with Brylcreem.

  ‘Ah, Eddie!’ said Hawthorne, flexing his bruised knuckles. ‘You’re home!’

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Pinky and Perky, the two little pigs. Always a pleasure, Hawthorne. Please, come into my office and make yourself comfortable.’

  Eddie Bates was a small, slight man, his thinning hair and sharply trimmed little moustache dyed jet-black. They matched the seeming blackness of his eyes. He looked like he needed a shave, and the dark patches under his eyes betrayed the fact he hadn’t been sleeping well of late. Something Hawthorne picked up on immediately.

  ‘Business stress keeping you up late, Eddie?’ he said, pulling up a chair in front of Eddie’s oak desk and sitting down. He motioned for Fraser to do the same.

  The room was small, even poky, thought Fraser. The desk was cluttered with paper, the walls looking like they needed re-plastering and a touch of paint. A framed photo of a boxer posing with his mitts up and trying to look mean hung on the wall behind Eddie Bates, who sank slowly down into a leather chair behind his desk.

  ‘What can I do for you, Hawthorne?’ he said, his voice monotone. ‘I’m a busy man.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess you are, Eddie,’ said Hawthorne. ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ he added, looking round. ‘Very cosy little nook. Bijou, I think they call it.’

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked flatly, glancing warily at Fraser.

  ‘Now that’s not the way to talk to an old friend, is it, Eddie?’ Hawthorne said. He addressed Fraser. ‘Eddie and me, we go way back, don’t we, Eddie?’

  Eddie Bates sneered. ‘I choose my friends carefully, Hawthorne. I can’t remember listing you among them.’

  They heard a groan from the corridor.

  ‘Better get that chap to a hospital,’ said Hawthorne. ‘He walked into a wall.’

  ‘People are always walking into walls when you’re around,’ said Bates.

  ‘Listen, enough of the friendly banter, Eddie, much as I’d love to h
ang around and swap recipes, we’re here about the Grainger Forges job.’

  Bates sat back in his leather chair. It creaked. ‘What about it?’

  ‘Lot of money involved.’

  ‘So I read. Someone’s going on a few nice holidays with that. What’s it got to do with me?’

  ‘Come on, it’s right up your street, Eddie. Now that there’s only you around, you’ve got free rein to do whatever you want. Nobody there to stop you, the city of Sheffield rich for the picking, no other toes to step on…’

  ‘Sorry, Hawthorne, you must be mistaking me for someone else. I’m legitimate through and through. You won’t catch me doing something underhand.’

  ‘We haven’t caught you yet, but we will, one day. Tell me about the Grainger Forges job, Eddie.’

  The man frowned. ‘Are you actually accusing me of something, Hawthorne?’ He leant forward and pressed a button on his intercom. ‘Julian, can you spare a minute and step inside my office, please?’ He sat back again, steepled his fingers. ‘You were saying?’

  ‘You’re a crook, Eddie, make no mistake,’ said Hawthorne, pulling out his cigarette packet and attempting to light up, but the lighter didn’t work again. ‘Match, Fraser,’ he ordered, and Fraser complied, handing him one. He sucked noisily on the cigarette, blowing smoke over at Bates, who ignored it as best he could.

  ‘Who is a crook?’ said someone who entered the office.

  The officers turned to see a smartly-dressed middle-aged man walk into the office and close the door behind him. He was tall, quite handsome except for a nose that was maybe just a little too big, thought Fraser, with neatly trimmed hair and a glowing white shirt against which his black tie stood out like an exclamation mark.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Bates, ‘this is Julian Merrill. He takes care of all my legal affairs.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ said Merrill, almost gliding round the room to stand at Bates’ side. He folded his arms. ‘Was it you that caused the mess outside?’

  ‘This is DCI Hawthorne,’ said Bates. ‘I don’t know the name of his puppy.’

  Fraser gritted his teeth but kept quiet.

  ‘Inspector Fraser,’ said Hawthorne. ‘I’ll warn you: he’s a pup with teeth,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘So what’s this about someone being a crook?’ said Merrill calmly.

  ‘Seems the boys in blue think I had something to do with the Grainger Forges job, Julian,’ explained Bates.

  Julian Merrill tut-tutted. ‘Really? Surely they’re mistaken.’

  ‘My thoughts too,’ said Bates.

  Hawthorne put a finger to his lips. ‘Haven’t we met before?’ he asked of Merrill.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure.’

  ‘Maybe we have friends in common.’

  ‘Friends? I doubt it.’

  ‘Nev Murray, Billy Joe Kidman – they ring any bells?’ said Hawthorne.

  Merrill shook his head. ‘Can’t say they do, officer. Now, how can we help you?’

  ‘That’s strange, because I’m sure you defended one of them in court. Let’s see now – 1954, or was it 1955? GBH wasn’t it?’

  ‘I can’t remember every case I’ve worked on. I would need to consult my company files,’ said Merrill patiently. ‘Right now we seem to have a problem. You appear to be accusing my client of something untoward. Please tell me I’m mistaken.’

  ‘Business must be bad, Eddie, for you to look like you’ve drunk a bottle of vinegar,’ Hawthorne said, ignoring Julian Merrill. ‘Surely things must have improved with those three sewer rats out of the picture.

  ‘And you’re implying what, DCI Hawthorne?’ said Merrill. ‘My client is an honest businessman.’

  ‘What’s wrong, Eddie?’ said Hawthorne. ‘Have you lost your tongue, gone mute? You need this man to talk for you? That’s not the Eddie Bates I know.’

  ‘Screw you, Hawthorne,’ said Bates.

  ‘Now that’s more like it!’ he said, clapping. Then he leant forward and rested his elbows on Bates’ desk, the cigarette balanced precariously on his bloodless lips. ‘Why didn’t Callum Baxter have anything to say about you, Eddie?’

  The man blinked. ‘Leave that bastard’s name out of it,’ he said. ‘He’s a dead man. You coppers might think you’ve given him a new identity, and he’s out there hiding somewhere, but he’ll be found eventually. You know what happens to grassers around here? He played the wrong card by grassing on those three.’

  Hawthorne picked at his nose and Bates watched the movement intently. The DCI wiped his finger on Bates’ desktop. ‘But he didn’t grass on you, Eddie.’

  Merrill said, ‘There was nothing Baxter had to say about Mr Bates, obviously. I ask you again, DCI Hawthorne, are you implying something about my client here?’

  ‘You and Baxter in cahoots, Eddie?’

  Fraser looked at Hawthorne anxiously. This was an unexpected turn.

  ‘I think that’s enough, officer,’ said Merrill sharply. ‘I think Mr Bates wants you to leave, isn’t that right, Mr Bates?’

  Hawthorne’s face remained expressionless. ‘You make some kind of a deal with Baxter, Eddie?’

  Eddie Bates rose quickly from his chair. ‘You calling me a grasser?’

  ‘The life expectancy of a grasser around these parts is very short,’ said Hawthorne, knocking ash to the desktop with a smart flick of his finger. ‘If word ever got out you and Baxter were in league somehow…’

  ‘It ain’t gonna work, Hawthorne. Nobody will believe that shit. Baxter is dead meat!’ said Eddie.

  ‘Callum Baxter was with the Royal Engineers during the war. To a man like that, a tunnel through a couple of old walls is nothing.’

  Again Fraser looked awkwardly at Hawthorne. The man was still obsessed with Callum Baxter, it seemed.

  There was venom in Eddie Bates’ colourless eyes. ‘Callum Baxter would never come back here,’ said Eddie. ‘He wouldn’t dare. If he so much as showed his face he’d have it cut off and fed to the dogs.’

  ‘I don’t think you need to answer any more of the officer’s questions, Mr Bates,’ advised Julian Merrill, placing a calming hand on Bates’ trembling shoulder.

  ‘I ain’t a grass,’ Bates said, sinking slowly to his seat.

  ‘You know what, Eddie?’ said Hawthorne, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray. ‘I don’t think you are. And you know what? I also think you haven’t got the brains to carry out a robbery like the one at Grainger Forges.’ He shook his head. ‘Too big for you, too sophisticated. But it bothers you, doesn’t it, Eddie? I can see that. You look like a man who fears his neck is on the block. Why is that? Why is it affecting you like it is?’

  Eddie Bates stared daggers at Hawthorne. ‘Time to leave, like my lawyer says,’ he said. ‘Our little conversation is over, unless you want to formally ask me down to the station for questioning?’

  Hawthorne rose from the chair. ‘Nah, not just yet. I’ll let you stew in your own piss for a while.’

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ said Merrill, marching to the door and opening it wide. One of Eddie Bates’ men stood outside nursing a bleeding nose.

  Hawthorne held his hand out to Fraser. ‘Give it back, please.’

  Fraser frowned momentarily, and then reached into his pocket for the revolver. He gave it to Hawthorne, who cocked it and pointed it directly at Bates.

  ‘Sir!’ said Fraser concernedly, thinking the man had lost his head.

  For a moment, Eddie Bates wondered if he was going to die. You could read it in his rabbit-like eyes, his wide mouth.

  Then Hawthorne laughed lightly and tossed it onto the desk.

  ‘We have paperwork for that,’ said Merrill evenly.

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ said Hawthorne, shrugging his heavy coat into place and pulling his hat down on his forehead. ‘Next time one of your men points a thing like that at me, I’ll blow his ruddy head off. Then I’ll come and find you and blow yours off too. You understand, Eddie?’

  Silence fell hot and sti
cky as the two men locked eyes.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Merrill.

  Hawthorne breezed from the room with Fraser rushing to his side as they mounted the stairs to the outside door.

  ‘Christ, sir, what were you doing in there?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Hawthorne, who nodded briefly at Colin, who stood aside to let the men out onto the street. ‘Get a better job, Colin, I’m warning you,’ he said to the man as he passed. ‘For your mother’s sake.’

  The two men walked to their car.

  ‘What’s all this about Callum Baxter?’ said Fraser. ‘Where did that come from? You know he’d never show his face here. Bates was right on that point. He’s just out of prison and wanted by everyone in Sheffield as a grasser. Even his own relatives have disowned him. I really think your past involvement with Baxter is colouring your judgement…’

  ‘Colouring it, eh?’ said Hawthorne, opening the car door and slipping into the driver’s seat.

  ‘It’s taking you down the wrong road, sir. Clouding what you think and, quite frankly, will cause you trouble if you continue down it. Look, I know how much it must hurt you, the death of your daughter…’

  Hawthorne’s face grew thunderous. ‘You know how much it hurts me?’ he growled. ‘You know how much it hurts me? Damn you! You have no idea what it did to me, what it does to a father!’ He jabbed a finger into the young man’s upper arm. ‘And don’t ever, ever, tell me what I’m doing wrong! I’ll punch your ruddy lights out!’

  Fraser narrowed his eyes, but held his mounting temper in check. ‘I’m trying to help you, sir.’

  ‘You want to be of help? I want you to run a check on the serial number of that ten-bob note which was left behind in the safe at Grainger Forges.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I say so!’

  Hawthorne flicked the ignition key and rammed the gear stick into first. He thrust the accelerator pedal down hard and the car’s tyres squealed.

  9

  Absolution

  Tom Brody and George ‘Spud’ Wainwright were sitting at the table, a paraffin lamp throwing light onto the game of cards they played. Night had fallen, and Spud didn’t much like the look of the black outside the window. When night fell out here, it fell real hard, he thought. So bloody completely you could hardly see your hand in front of your face without a light of some kind. He was on edge. He imagined, as he stared at his own blurred reflection in the dirty glass, all manner of dark, nameless things lurking out there.