Driving into Darkness (DI Angus Henderson 2)

by Iain Cameron

  ‘I have to admit; it does sound like the gang I’m after. What do you know about them?’

  Harding shuffled in the seat. It was difficult for cons to rat on one another but in the end, self-interest would prevail. ‘I know one of the guys in the gang and the way he tells it, he’s the leader.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Ha, good try,’ he said pointing a finger at him. ‘You can’t trick me so easy, no fucking way.’

  ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘I live in Whitehawk, right and he comes down to Brighton now and again to see this bird. We got talking and now he looks me up whenever he’s in town.’

  ‘He admitted to you that he nicks expensive cars?’

  ‘Don’t be a fucking idiot. We told him about the sort of things we’re involved in and he told us what he does, fair trade. You never know, we might do some business together in the future.’

  ‘Not if I’ve got anything to do with it, you won’t. How does this car nicking operation work? What do they do with the cars they nick?’

  ‘They used to sell ‘em to this guy in Hackney for a grand a pop but according to him, you lot closed it down.’

  He went on to describe how a crash recovery firm in Holland would contact them with details of up-market write offs, recovered from motorway crashes across Central Europe and the gang would be instructed to nick the same car. This level of detail had not been released to the media and it wouldn’t be until the trial, which meant Harding, probably for the first time in his short, offence-laden life, was telling the truth.

  Henderson wrote all the charges against him on a piece of paper and scored out each one except ‘assault,’ and slid it over to PC Carter. To his surprise, as he expected more resistance, he put a tick against it. Clearly the young man realised the importance of the information without having it explained to him.

  ‘PC Carter here will reduce the charges against you to one of common assault, for which you would normally receive a community sentence, but you’ll have to take your chances with the magistrate about breaking the terms of your bail. There’s nothing we can do for you there.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Fair do’s, it’s a deal.’

  ‘Ok, what’s this guy’s name?’

  ‘He’s one of your countrymen, in point of fact, a Glasgow fella by the name of Rab McGovern.’

  Henderson thought for a moment, but it wasn’t a name he recognised. While working for Strathclyde Police, he came into contact with numerous villains in Glasgow but he had been away from the place for four years and by now, many young guns would have moved up to replace the old timers. In any case, it was a city of about a million people and with best will in the world, he couldn’t know or remember them all.

  ‘Like I said, he comes down to Brighton now and again to see this bird who lives on the Whitehawk Road.’

  ‘When do you expect to see him again?’

  ‘He’s there now.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  For the second time in a month, DI Henderson was preparing to go out on a raid. On this occasion, there were no armed cops and a former para leading from the front, only him, DS Walters and six heavily clobbered individuals. He would have liked to have had one or two more, but with a similar operation going on in Worthing, he was lucky to have any.

  His boss, Chief Inspector Steve Harris was jubilant when he called him last night and told him about Harding's confession and the fingering of Rab McGovern. However, his bonhomie did not extend to the CI showing up for the briefing at five-thirty this morning, as the man was fearful of turning forty and needed all the beauty sleep he could get.

  It was a positive briefing, although there were plenty of yawns due to the early start, but the promise of a full cooked breakfast when they returned, kept everything up-beat. Yet again, he had been in a quandary about using an armed response team but in the end, as the gang had never used guns, it was decided for him. Several police forces who had deployed firearms in the past, were now in the middle of investigations, high profile public enquiries, and in one instance, a court case after the death of a suspect. Even though this wasn’t far from his mind when making the decision, operational considerations won out.

  McGovern’s piece of seaside candyfloss, Sarah Benson, lived on the top floor of a block of flats in Whitehawk Road. In terms of a raid, it looked like a good location as it limited McGovern’s avenues of escape, but it had the disadvantage of providing the team with only one point of entry. At the risk of sounding choosey, he preferred a house with a back and front door, as even though there were more exits, it restricted the area of activity, giving less opportunity for the inquisitive kid next door to be hit by ‘collateral damage,’ as Archie would call it, but in the DI’s world this was not an artillery shell or a bullet, but a flying bottle or a stray fist.

  When first told of McGovern’s name, he didn’t recognise it, despite it being a common surname north of the border but it wasn’t until he searched the Police National Computer that the realisation hit him. A younger and perhaps more healthy Angus Henderson nicked him while working for the Football Intelligence Unit as McGovern had been spotted watching a football game at Parkhead, the home of Glasgow Celtic, while banned from doing so by the courts. No wonder they banned him, as he was an archetypal football thug, running all the way from his Doc Martins, red braces, severe crew cut, to the large ‘no surrender’ tattoo covering most of one arm.

  The second time he ran into McGovern was a couple of years later when Henderson was working for the Strathclyde Drugs Squad. McGovern had become an enforcer for a well-known Glasgow drug dealer by the name of Jimmy Banks and contrary to the rules of employment in his chosen profession, employees were banned from setting up on their own account.

  It was a stupid and dangerous thing to do. Banks was nothing but a bigger and more violent version of his protégé and thought nothing of slashing faces with open razors or sticking a stiletto blade in someone’s gut, wounds in themselves that were not life threatening, but served as a permanent reminder of the person they once crossed.

  The last he’d heard, McGovern was on the run from Banks after his little slice of private enterprise had been discovered. Word on the street, suggested Banks was incandescent with rage at the insolence of the little rat, one he lifted out the gutter and earmarked for bigger things, for having the temerity to bite the hand that once fed him. He threatened that whenever he caught up with him again, he would blow off both kneecaps with a hollow nosed bullet and throw acid in his face, crippling injuries that even titanium replacements and years of plastic surgery could not hope to rectify.

  The raid team parked around the corner from Sarah Benson’s flat and decamped from their vehicles. Henderson pressed the buzzer of an apartment on the ground floor, but it took an age for a grumpy old bugger with no love of the police, to reach for his intercom button and open the communal door. They piled upstairs, the semblance of stealth and secrecy all but destroyed as heavy shields and body armour clanked and scraped along the walls of the narrow staircase, making more noise than an army of feral kids.

  Without too much ceremony, the door banger moved into position in front of the door and three strikes later, they were inside. Three men turned right into what looked like the main bedroom while the rest swept through the other rooms as fast as the impediment of heavy clothing would allow.

  Henderson walked into the bedroom and his ears were immediately assaulted by an expletive-loaded exchange between the commander of the assault team, demanding to know where McGovern was, and a young woman. She was wearing no more than a see-through negligee but incandescent with rage and shouting something along the lines of, ‘what the fuck are you fucking people doing in my fucking house?’ Charming, I’m sure.

  Even from a cursory glance, it didn't take the skills of a detective to deduce that two people had been sleeping in the double bed and unless McGovern was hiding under the bed or cowering in the wardrobe, places where the team were checking n
ow, he wasn’t here.

  ‘Sir?’

  Henderson backed out into the hall and at the door of the lounge, one of the lads was beckoning him forward.

  ‘I think he might have scarpered through here,’ he said pointing to an open patio door leading to a small balcony at the rear of the flat.

  ‘How, we’re three floors up?’ he said as he strode over to take a look. He was half-expecting to see a blood-splattered body lying on the ground below but instead, caught a glimpse of a figure disappearing around the corner of the building.

  It would be incongruous to call it a balcony as he had seen bigger coffee tables, with only enough room to position three or four plant pots. In any case, the view it provided over the backs of houses and rubbish strewn rear gardens was another good reason for the occupants to stay indoors.

  ‘Help me up,’ he said to the copper. He couldn’t be sure for all the protective gear hiding his face, but it looked like PC Fenwick.

  Henderson stood on the balcony railings for a couple of seconds with one hand on the wall to steady himself, and leaned over to grasp the handrail of the fire escape with the other hand. He manoeuvred his right leg over to a rung, before shifting his weight towards the fire escape and then bringing over his other leg. It was a bit tricky to him and he wondered how a little old lady or someone with a fear of heights would manage it, but he guessed with flames licking at the bottom of their nightdresses, people were capable of doing extraordinary things.

  Hoping his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him when he saw the figure legging it around the base of the flats, he descended. If not, McGovern would be standing on the roof laughing his head off at the stupidity of the dozy cops.

  He jumped the short distance from the ladder to the ground and ran towards Whitehawk Road. It didn’t take long to spot McGovern, as there weren’t many people running around in their pyjamas at six o’clock in the morning. It was a good job he didn’t sleep in the buff or at this moment Lewes Control would be inundated with many calls from alarmed residents as they opened their curtains.

  His pyjamas were not the long, stripy cotton type, shame, as that would have made him look like the man he was, an escaped prisoner. It was shorts and t-shirt, ‘Loungewear’ as the marketing gurus at M&S called it and from a distance, resembling loose-fitting running gear but the illusion was spoiled as he wasn’t wearing any shoes. Running barefoot might be de rigueur on the sun-soaked beaches of Jamaica or Hawaii, but it was plain stupidity on rain-streaked pavements in Brighton on a chilly May morning.

  Henderson sprinted after him and as he did so, pulled out his radio. ‘Suspect running south, along Whitehawk Road. All cars, all cars.’

  McGovern was running past the Whitehawk Inn when he suddenly pulled up, holding his left leg as if he had just stepped on a piece of broken glass or a sharp stone. He glanced back to see Henderson running towards him, some two hundred yards behind and realising he couldn’t outrun him now, limped into a large building next door, the Whitehawk Bus Depot.

  Henderson arrived at the entrance a minute or so later and stopped running and peered inside. It was a large and gloomy cavernous place, designed to hold a couple of double-decker buses at the same time but at the moment it was empty; no buses, no passengers, no mechanics. The workers were probably taking advantage of a lull in operations to have breakfast or perhaps they hadn’t started work yet, or keeping well out of the way of the strange bloke who had run into their place wearing only his jim-jams, in case he was an escaped nutter or a student prank.

  It was dull inside, partly the result of the weather, a cloudy morning with no sign of the sun, but also because it was a large building without many windows. The exception was the far end of the building, where light was pouring in through a second entrance, for buses to come in one way and exit the other. He jogged towards it, his head turning left and right, looking for the fugitive.

  When he reached the end of the garage he walked outside, wary of McGovern hiding behind a wall, waiting for his pursuer to emerge. He wasn’t there and he couldn’t see him up or down Henley Road. This could only mean one thing, he was still inside the garage. He turned and retraced his steps.

  He walked through the centre of the building slowly, stopping to peer into dark corners behind pillars or the gloomy spaces at the side body of panels or giant tyres, his senses tuned for any extraneous noise. Suddenly, a figure appeared in his peripheral vision. He turned to see McGovern running towards him brandishing an enormous bus wrench.

  Before he could get out of the way, he swung it, whacking his shoulder and knocking him to the ground. His shoulder felt on fire and he moved a hand to grip it but when he looked up, McGovern was coming towards him, ready to take another swing.

  This time, the crazy bastard raised the wrench above his head, intent on smashing the DI’s brains to a pulp, but before it struck, Henderson rolled away. The noise of metal striking concrete filled the silent air, jarring the slim frame of McGovern, and Henderson used the few seconds gained, to get to his feet and scramble towards a rack of tools.

  He ignored the club hammer, which would make been a great weapon if only he could swing it, and instead selected the claw hammer. McGovern walked towards him, the wrench swinging at his side.

  ‘C’mon copper,’ he said, raising his hand in a ‘come here’ gesture, ‘fancy your chances, dae ye?’

  ‘Give it up McGovern, you’re beat.’

  ‘I’m beat am I? Why don’t you try and prove it, then?’ He held the heavy wrench in two hands, a slugger heading up to the plate, and moved closer. ‘You’re gonna die here mate, because see me, I’m no’ going back to chokey, no fucking way.’

  He lifted the wrench and swung it behind him, in readiness for making that final, deadly blow.

  At the same time, the figure of DS Walters appeared in silhouette at the entrance to the garage. ‘Stop! Police!’ she shouted.

  McGovern glanced round. Henderson leapt forward with the hammer and brought it down hard on McGovern’s hand, right at the point where he was holding the wrench, in what McGovern’s old drug dealer boss Jimmy Banks would have called a metal sandwich.

  The garage resounded with an animalistic howl, a sound to scare the living daylights out of the fiercest Rottweiler, and the wrench fell to the floor with a resounding clang. McGovern bent double, clutching his injured hand but before he could recover and do any more damage, Henderson punched him in the gut and threw him to the floor. Despite much screeching about broken fingers and police brutality, no sympathy was in evidence as he slapped on handcuffs and hauled him to his feet.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘Well, if it isn’t your good self, Rab McGovern and what familiar surroundings you find yourself in.’

  ‘After all this time to think about it, is this the best line you can come up wi’ Henderson?’

  ‘It’s Inspector Henderson to you, sonny.’

  ‘Fuck me, haven’t we moved up in the world? When I first met you, it was Sergeant Henderson but hey, everybody called you Haggis.’

  ‘I recall our first meeting as well. At this point in the match, Celtic were losing 2-0 I think it was, but you didn’t get to see the rest of it did you? You were in the back of a panda wagon, charged with drunk and disorderly and threatening behaviour.’

  ‘Aye, those were the good old days. Parkhead was a fortress.’ He leaned across the table and tapped his chest, ‘oor fortress.’

  ‘How’s the hand?’

  ‘You fucked up my chances of becoming a concert pianist for sure, but I’ll cope.’

  McGovern spent yesterday afternoon in the Royal Sussex Hospital having three broken fingers re-set and by the look of the splint holding everything in place, the staff there had done a neat job. Henderson’s shoulder didn’t require hospital treatment but it throbbed, and the giant bruise it left could pass for a badly drawn map of Africa.

  McGovern had changed little since Henderson last clapped eyes on the ugly sod all those years ago, as he led him throug
h the crowds in handcuffs at an international match at Hampden, past lines of mounted police standing easy, but ready to wade in if needed, and out to long columns of police cars and vans parked one behind the other in nearby streets.

  Dressed in a denim jacket over a clean Megadeth t-shirt, the clothes were different but the lean, scarred face under short, brown hair still sneered and snarled as if the world owed him a living.

  Despite a never-ending carousel of arrests and court appearances, it amazed him why criminals like McGovern refused to spend the riches they pillaged and plundered from ones less fortunate and streetwise than themselves, on decent legal representation. There were people in the legal profession who excelled at court petitioning and would search for a good angle to ameliorate their client’s position, but somehow people like McGovern couldn’t see it.

  It put him in mind of legendary Glasgow solicitor John Millani, a criminal barrister who would have made a brilliant prosecutor but instead chose to defend gangsters, robbers and murderers, and the waiting room of his office was often a better place to look for some of the city’s criminals than any of the pubs in the East End.

  He employed a gang of clerks to pore over ancient cases, legal directives, and law books looking for something to help their clients. He was at the centre of many high profile cases when the defendant walked free even before the trial opened, such as the man who had spent too much time on remand, another when there wasn’t a judge to take his trial, and yet another when an eagle-eyed clerk spotted a typographical error in the arrest warrant.

  Instead, people like McGovern plumped for the lottery of the duty solicitor, in this case a studious-looking man called Jeffrey Watson, a fellow who said little and spent most of his time taking notes. Some of Henderson’s colleagues preferred a weak or ineffective individual to be sitting across the table from them but he didn’t, as a skilful and combatant lawyer could spot holes and inconsistencies in their evidence, things he could make sure were fixed before the case came to trial.