Edge

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Not a hooker,’ Charlie whispered, ‘just a shag.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right.’

  ‘You don’t kiss prossies goodbye.’

  ‘Cheating on his wife,’ Luke said.

  ‘Yeah – bastard,’ Charlie said, teeth gritted. ‘On the firm’s time, too.’

  ‘All-round bastard,’ Luke said.

  ‘You’re right there.’

  When the couple separated, Charlie and Luke got a glimpse of her breasts before she could pull her robe back tight, but then the gap was closed and the man walked away as she blew him a kiss and kept the door open an inch to watch him.

  He had a spring in his step.

  ‘How touching,’ Charlie snarled. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  He slammed down the accelerator.

  The big car lumbered forward at first, then surged powerfully. The engine roared as the vehicle picked up speed, narrowing the gap quickly.

  The man did not even look around.

  Not until Charlie swerved on to the pavement between the lamp posts and the Toyota was almost on him.

  Then he looked.

  His head ripped round, and his eyes almost burst out of his skull as he twisted and saw the huge car almost on him, like a Pamplona bull thundering down a narrow street.

  There was one moment there. Just the tiny nanosecond when the man’s eyes locked into those of the driver, Charlie Wilder, and despite the mask worn by Charlie, the man knew in that instant who he was – but then the moment was over and the bull bars of the four by four rammed into him. He didn’t even have time to throw up his arms. He was simply flattened.

  There was the dull thud of connection.

  Then the man disappeared under the front radiator grille of the car and there was a rumble as he went underneath and the vehicle drove over him, catching his right arm and clothing in the chassis, ripping off his arm at the shoulder and dragging him for ten metres before he rolled free.

  Charlie stomped on the brakes, almost upending the car.

  He looked back through the rear window to see the man trying to push himself up on his one remaining arm, a trail of blood from where he lay all the way to the car where his torn-off limb jerked gruesomely.

  With an expression of grim determination, keeping his eyes on the badly injured figure, and without looking at the gear lever, Charlie found reverse and floored the accelerator again.

  The car roared backwards.

  The man’s face turned towards it and although he was stunned from the first blow, almost unable to comprehend what had happened and experiencing awful pain throughout his body, he realized that a second helping was on its way.

  The rear bumper smashed into his face and the car went over him again, rising and falling with a lurch as his body went under the back wheels, then the front.

  Charlie stopped and looked. The man was not moving.

  Even so, he had to go forwards, whatever.

  ‘Hold on, bro,’ he said. He flicked the gear back into drive, pulled the steering wheel slightly down to the right and pressed the accelerator. The car rose at an angle as the front offside wheel crushed the man’s head.

  Charlie drove on, over him again, and then gunned the car off the pavement and away.

  Doors opened on the street, shocked inhabitants emerged and, as Charlie sped away, he glanced into the rear-view mirror and saw the woman step out of her front door, still wrapped in her dressing gown.

  He skidded around the corner, punching the air delightedly.

  And the prison officer called Dawson was dead on the pavement, his head crushed into a horrific mess of blood, bone and brain and an arm torn off.

  THREE

  In some respects it was an easy scene to cordon off – a street of terraced houses, simple to block off at either end. The problem was keeping people in their houses, but no crime scene was ever as protected as the cops would have wished.

  A life might have ended, but life also went on. And the public still wanted to go about their business.

  The first officer on the scene was a uniformed patrol constable who was just turning out of the police operating centre just off the A6, close to the city centre. Geographically, therefore, he was not too far away from the street where Tony Dawson, the prison officer, had been mown down. It had initially been reported as a road traffic accident, a pedestrian injured, believed fatally. A traffic car from a little further afield had also been called up to attend, as had other mobiles.

  But it was the cop from the nick who arrived first, maybe within three minutes of the call. On his arrival the PC found a cluster of shock-faced people milling around the body, over which some well-meaning soul had draped a white sheet that had quickly soaked up blood and was stained red.

  The constable alighted from his car and asked everyone to step back. He squatted down on his haunches and gingerly drew back the sheet.

  How he managed to stifle a cry he didn’t know, but after that first shock he controlled himself and re-covered the body, noticing the prison officer’s uniform underneath the anorak the man was wearing. The man’s head was crushed beyond recognition and the PC already knew that at some stage in the next few moments he would have to face the unpleasant task of delving into the man’s pockets for an ID of some sort.

  He was relieved when the flashing blue lights of a traffic car turned into the street and behind that came the patrol sergeant’s car, then another patrol car, and the police began to take proper charge of everything.

  It was only a matter of time before a call was put through, via the local CID office, to the Force Major Investigation Team (FMIT), inviting a senior detective to come and take charge of what was quickly established to be much more than a simple hit and run.

  DCI Rik Dean was the FMIT officer who took the call. He rose from his desk in his office at police headquarters, hunched himself into his jacket and set off down the corridor. He swung into Detective Superintendent Henry Christie’s office to find the incumbent surrounded by towers of paperwork that were, bit by bit, becoming a file for a major inquest. Henry, tie discarded, sleeves rolled up, concentrating on the work, didn’t notice Rik at the door; he had to knock gently to attract his boss’s attention.

  Henry glanced up, focused on Rik.

  ‘Job on,’ Rik said. ‘Fatal hit and run in Preston – with more to it by the sounds.’

  Henry gave a dismissive wave and said, ‘Keep me in the loop.’

  Rik nodded, understanding: the job was his. He pulled on his outer coat and said, ‘Will do.’ He made his way out of the block in which the FMIT team were housed and jumped into his Vauxhall Insignia, noting how dark the skies had become. The rain had not started yet, but it would. The FMIT headquarters office was situated in what had once been student accommodation at the police training centre at Hutton Hall, about four miles south of Preston, and Rik was soon motoring down the dual carriageway through Penwortham towards the city. He had said that he would be fifteen minutes, but arrived three minutes short of this ETA.

  He was pleased to see the street had been cordoned off and a screen had been erected around the body, though judging by the heavy sky, this would soon have to be replaced by a proper tent to protect the scene. A Crime Scene Investigation van was parked nearby and it was from the back of here that Rik collected and stepped into a forensic suit, shoes, face mask and gloves.

  He then ducked under the tape and made for the actual scene.

  He was briefed by the still ashen-faced PC who had been first to arrive, then he himself contorted around the screen surrounding the body.

  Normally FMIT would not have anything to do with road deaths. Traffic cops were well trained in dealing with fatalities but Rik had been assured this one was no accident. The guy had been deliberately run over, reversed over, run over again. Clearly some thought and intent had gone into it.

  When Rik lifted the blood-soaked sheet, he too was shaken by the terrible sight underneath. He had seen death in many forms, but it was instan
tly clear that this was one of the worst he had encountered. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen such a crushed head since he had once attended an industrial accident on a building site when he’d been in uniform.

  ‘Not a nice one,’ a voice behind Rik’s shoulder observed.

  Rik replaced the sheet carefully and turned to face the officer who had spoken these dour but true words. It was the patrol sergeant, someone he recognized but did not know personally.

  ‘Who would do something like this?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘A psychopath?’ Rik ventured.

  The sergeant shrugged his shoulders in acceptance of such an assessment.

  ‘What do we know?’ Rik asked him.

  The sergeant pouted. ‘Not a lot at the moment. We’ve banged on a few doors but we’ve only got one actual eyewitness so far, a man sitting in the back of a panda car round the corner.’ He jerked his thumb. He was referring to a marked patrol car. Though it was many years since the demise of the actual ‘panda cars’ made famous by Lancashire Constabulary – those blue Ford Escorts with the white stripes – ‘panda’ was a term still used by many officers. ‘He’s a window cleaner who watched the whole thing from up high. He’s still spewing.’

  ‘Are we looking after him?’

  ‘Oh yeah.’

  ‘Anybody else see anything?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘And do we know who the deceased is?’

  ‘Think so.’ The sergeant explained what he had found out so far.

  ‘What was he doing here, on this street? Does he live here?’

  ‘That we don’t know yet.’

  ‘Sarge?’ The first PC on the scene poked his head through the gap in the screen. ‘Just knocked on a door across the road—’ the PC pointed – ‘and the old guy in there said we should speak to the woman at number thirty-three. I’ve knocked, but no reply … but I kinda think someone is in, just not answering.’

  Rik said, ‘I’ll have a look.’

  There was no answer at the front door so Rik made his way to the alley at the back and counted down until he reached the back yard of number thirty-three. The walls were high, brick built, and the gates were basically full-sized doors with latches. Rik tried thirty-three and found it to be locked, but it felt rickety and weak, so he pretended it wasn’t locked and put his shoulder to it, forcing the corroded screws holding the bolt in the rotted frame to give easily. As he stepped into the concreted yard he just caught sight of movement at the back window as someone ducked quickly out of view. But not quickly enough.

  With a cynical twist on his lips he went to the window and tapped gently on it with his fingernails and held his warrant card up to the glass.

  ‘I saw you,’ he said, speaking through the glass. He tapped again. ‘Please answer the door. It’s important.’

  After a short pause, a woman rose from her hiding position behind the sink and pulled her dressing gown tight around herself.

  Rik smiled. ‘I’m a police officer,’ he said through the glass and pointed at his warrant card.

  The door opened to reveal a middle-aged lady whose face was racked with grief.

  ‘It’s just an arrangement we have,’ she said, swallowing back a choking sob. ‘He’s married, I’m married … we’re never going to get divorces, shit as it all is.’ She stopped talking and looked more melancholy than grief-stricken for a moment, as though her whole life was one big disappointment.

  ‘OK,’ Rik said. ‘Big question: did you see the … incident … happen?’

  She screwed up her face. ‘No, not really. He’d literally just gone, going back to work. I’d closed the door, but just as I closed it I heard a car’s engine rev, then I saw this big black four-wheel drive thing hurtle past the window. Er,’ she thought, trying to focus, ‘then I just had a feeling and I opened the front door again …’ Her eyes started to water and blink rapidly as she tried to hold herself together. ‘I looked out and Tony was lying there on the pavement and the car was deliberately reversing back over him.’ She relived the vision with a shudder. ‘Then it shot forwards over him again and sped off and his … his head was crushed. They must have been waiting for him, otherwise how else would they have known he was here? His arm was torn off,’ she concluded with a shudder.

  ‘So no accident?’

  A tremor rattled her chest and she shook her head vehemently. ‘He was murdered.’

  ‘Did he have any enemies?’

  ‘Yeah – six hundred in Preston Prison … and all the prisoners who’ve ever been released in the last ten years, probably.’ She frowned and said, ‘Will my husband have to know about this?’

  Rik almost sniggered at this but held back the cynical response that went through his mind. You’re having an affair. Your lover is mown down outside your house. Answer, yes, of course your husband will have to know, you silly selfish person. Not least because your hubby’s already high on my list of suspects, followed by the dead man’s wife. I’m afraid your life will never be the same again, love.

  Rik’s face gave its best sympathetic facade and he responded in a more subtle, professional manner than he would really have liked.

  The other two were waiting for Charlie and Luke when they arrived back home. They drew up in their third car of the morning, a ten-year-old Fiat Punto, not stolen and quite legit, but another car in terrible condition, similar to the Chevette. Luke had driven this one and on the journey Charlie had asked how everything really was at home.

  The big problem for Luke was the moment when Charlie asked him why Annabel’s visits had become less frequent, almost non-existent. Annabel being Charlie’s long-standing girlfriend.

  Luke coughed uncomfortably, hesitated. ‘I don’t really know, bud, not seen all that much of her to be honest.’

  Charlie had scrutinized him closely as he spoke and clocked his brother’s discomfort, noted it, then leaned back in his seat, head against the rest, his lips puckering thoughtfully. But he didn’t press the issue. He would find out soon enough what she’d been up to. His hands bunched into tight fists.

  Until that moment came, there were still things to do that day. Throughout the remainder of the journey across Lancashire, Luke briefed him on what was planned for the afternoon and Charlie soon forgot about Annabel as the prospect of some real, visceral excitement made his blood pulse.

  The other two, Johnny and Jake, were waiting for Charlie’s return in the front room of a council house on the Wallbank estate in Whitworth. The house belonged to Johnny’s sister, Monica, but she was out for the day, making herself scarce, even though this was the address that Charlie had declared as his home address for the Probation Service. The two greeted Charlie effusively, glad to see him back in the land of the living, and Jake swung Charlie’s electronic tag around his fingers.

  ‘What d’you want me to do with this?’

  ‘Leave it here. As far as the Probies know, this is where I’ve been since you dropped off the Land Cruiser and this is where I’m staying, ’cept I’m not. Now then, guys,’ Charlie said, ‘down to business.’

  ‘It’s an easy target.’ Luke was chewing fast, nervously, on gum.

  He and Charlie were in their fourth vehicle of the day, a good quality nine-year-old Ford Mondeo, stolen, on false plates, with a half-decent turn of speed. They were on a street in Rochdale with an eye-line view of a busy convenience store further down the street, set back from the housing line with half a dozen customer parking bays outside the front.

  ‘And a double whammy,’ Luke added.

  ‘How’s that?’ Charlie asked.

  They were dressed in their normal working gear: blue overalls with the name of a fictitious company embossed between the shoulder blades, light boots, latex gloves. The other two, Jake and Johnny, were dressed exactly the same, but they were sitting further down the street in another nondescript car, a stolen Nissan of some sort, facing up towards Luke and Charlie’s car, so that the shop was halfway between them.

  ‘Asians – and
money,’ Luke smirked.

  A quick smile scudded across Charlie’s face. It always felt good to point a shotgun at a dark-skinned face, he thought. ‘Nice,’ he said.

  ‘Mind you, that Hassan guy’s an Asian.’

  ‘He’s different,’ Charlie said, and glanced down into the footwell where, at his feet, a sawn-off shotgun lay diagonally across the floor mat … the gun of his dreams.

  Charlie Wilder’s heart pulsed strongly in a way it had not done for over two years.

  There was no doubt that armed robbery was a crime on the wane because it was far too dangerous for the perpetrators these days, with armed cops roaming everywhere, not afraid to shoot back, and because other forms of criminality were much safer and more lucrative, something Charlie had learned well whilst in prison. But to get grubby mitts on a bundle of cash quick, which was what he needed to do, the excitement of a robbery could not be bettered.

  He reached down between his feet for the shotgun, slid his fingers around the barrel and lifted the weapon on to his lap.

  His mouth went dry. The weapon, sourced by Johnny, was exactly like the one in his dream, right down to the alignment of the triggers, making it easy to fire both barrels at once.

  ‘This guy,’ Luke explained, ‘only banks once a week – on a Friday. Been watching him now for four months and we reckon there’s fifteen gs in the bag. Thinks he’s being cute sending his daughter to the bank, but he isn’t. We’ve followed her and watched her pay in … just easy.’ He checked his watch. ‘Not long now … hell, we’re glad you’re back out, man,’ he told Charlie.

  ‘Yeah,’ his brother said, throat dry. ‘But this is the last one … and it’s where the money is all going, to new ventures.’

  Luke’s head cricked sharply around. ‘All the money from this robbery?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To Hassan? I don’t know if the guys’re gonna totally like that.’

  ‘They’ll have to. Anyway, Hassan’s going to bring a couple of samples over tonight; that’ll soothe their savage hearts,’ Charlie said. ‘They can screw themselves into oblivion. They’ll be happy enough.’