Shadows

by Conrad Jones

  “Go and open the parcel,” Braddick said. He felt is heart quicken. The sounds of the office crackled on the line for a minute.

  “Are you still there, Guv?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a laptop,” the detective said excitedly. “DI Cain’s laptop.”

  “Get it to the tech boys immediately,” Braddick said. “Tell them that I want everything that she did on that laptop for the last two weeks and then work backwards and tell them I want it yesterday.”

  “Yes, Guv.” The line went dead. Jo raised her eyebrows in question.

  “What was that?”

  “Steff Cain posted her laptop to me,” he said, turning to face Jo.

  “Fucking hell,” she whistled. “It will have all the UC information on it. I’ll head to the tech lab and see you at the station later,” she said, heading for the lifts.

  “Keep me in the loop,” Braddick nodded and looked at his phone again. He dialled the DS in charge of the search team at Mike Pilkington’s house. The feeling that they were missing something was eating away at him from the inside.

  21

  Rickets pulled the Audi to a halt on a double yellow line. He turned off the lights but kept the radio on low and the heater on high. The street was cobbled and narrow, neon signs flashed on both sides. It was dark and raining and the pavements were empty. The late night revellers wouldn’t appear until after midnight. The other side of town was always busier early on. He watched the door of the nightclub halfway down the road. The sign above it read ‘Liquid’ in blue neon. He remembered it had been called at least a dozen different names during his lifetime. It was a downstairs basement club with a narrow staircase leading to it. The dance floor was huge. A bar a hundred metres long served cocktails, shots and beer to six hundred punters at any one time while the doormen monitored the dealers. Coke, Ketamine and ecstasy were sold to fuel the dancers, the club taking the lion’s share of the profits. Unauthorised dealers were hammered, robbed and ejected in brutal fashion to deter others. The club had changed hands many times as waves of foreign muscle washed over the city. Italians, Poles, Chinese, Pakistani and Turks had run the place, each outfit stronger and more violent than the last. The Karpovs ousted the Turks from the city two years earlier and their grip on the drug supply was cemented. They controlled the big venues and crushed anyone trying to take a bite of the action. Their tactics were appalling. Nothing and no one were untouchable. Property, vehicles, pets, elderly relations and children were all fair game. Cross them and they would hurt you and those you care about. The hardest men in the city had their weak points and if they tangled with the Karpovs, they would find them and exploit them. It didn’t matter how tough they were, how good a fighter they were, they could all be broken. No one wanted to risk feeling the wrath of the Russian organisation, which led to a status quo in the city. There was a fragile peace, begrudgingly or not, everyone knew where they stood. Alliances had been formed over the years although they rarely lasted long and usually ended violently. The Karpovs always came out on top. Rickets knew a couple of their doormen. He had met them when Eddie Farrell was providing muscle to them. He was hoping that he could find one of them tonight.

  After forty minutes of mind numbing boredom, a figure emerged from Liquid. The man looked up and down the street and lit a cigarette. He turned up the collar of his coat and stepped into the rain, heading in the opposite direction. Rickets started the engine and followed slowly, edging over the cobbles, keeping close to the kerb. The man reached the end of the street and crossed the road, turning left onto an unlit section of road. Bin bags and cardboard boxes were piled up against the walls, sodden and rotting. Rainwater poured from the drainpipes, flooding the gutters. Rickets put the vehicle into second and picked up speed. He reached the end of the street and followed the man, picking up speed again. He sounded the horn and waved as he drove by. The man waved although he looked confused about who he was waving at. Rickets braked and indicated left, pulling up to the pavement a few yards ahead of him. He wound down the passenger window as the man approached.

  “Leonid,” he called through the window. The man stopped and bent to look inside the vehicle. Water dripped from the end of his nose. “It’s me, Rickets. We worked at Revolution together.”

  “Oh, yes! Hello, Rickets.” The man recognised him and smiled. “What brings you down this end of town?”

  “I came to see an old mate,” Rickets lied. “Do you want a lift. Jump in, its pissing down.”

  “That would be great,” Leonid said, opening the door. He climbed in and the car rocked with his weight. “This weather is shit. It rains in the summer. It rains in the winter. It is always fucking raining,” Leonid moaned. Rickets could smell vodka on his breath, his words slurred slightly. “I am going to the petrol station on the dock road for some cigarettes. I should have bought some on my way to work but I didn’t have time. You know how it is.”

  “No problem,” Rickets said, checking the rear view mirror. He pulled away and accelerated hard. Leonid was still struggling into the seatbelt. The Audi lurched forward at speed, the engine roaring.

  “Are you in a hurry,” Leonid joked, nervously.

  “No hurry,” Rickets said, slamming on the brakes hard. Leonid was propelled forward, his head hit the windscreen, stunning him. Rickets grabbed the back of his coat and pulled him backwards before smashing his forehead into the dashboard. A gash had opened above his nose. Rickets pulled him up and then rammed his face against the dashboard again and again. Two teeth clattered off the stereo. The Russian’s body went limp but he thrust his head against the dash once more for safety’s sake. There was an audible crack as his nose bone splintered. Rickets checked his mirrors and the street ahead. The road was deserted. He popped the boot and climbed out into the rain. Leonid was a big man but Rickets was powerful. He dragged him around the car and bundled him into the boot, fastening his wrists and ankles with cable ties. Slamming the boot closed, he rubbed his hands together against the cold and blew into them. His breath made a plume of mist and he shivered as he climbed back into the driver’s seat.

  “This is not the weather for digging holes in the woods,” he muttered to himself as he started the Audi and headed out of the city.

  22

  Mike Pilkington’s House

  Yellow tape flapped in the breeze. Uniformed officers huddled in groups, stamping their feet against the cold. Inside, white clad figures moved quietly through the house. Yellow markers were spotted about the ground floor where the ARU had brought down the intruder. The smell of blood, urine and excrement lingered in the hallway. DS Ade Burns made his way through the garage, stopping to look at the MG. It was mint for its age. He inspected the tool bench, impressed, his fingers touching the cold steel. They were all high quality pieces. He figured the entire set would cost over five hundred pounds, the kind of tools professionals used. They were way too pricey just to use for an hour on a Sunday. He wondered what a Drug Squad detective would be doing with tools like that. There weren’t enough hours in the day to eat and sleep properly never mind finding time to rebuild an old classic car. The garage was spotless. Someone spent a lot of time in there. He didn’t know Mike Pilkington well but he didn’t come across as a petrol head. Ade took a last look around and decided that there was more to Pilkington than first appeared.

  He stepped into the hallway and looked into the kitchen. A CSI was painstakingly searching through the cupboards and drawers. The units were new and bespoke. He reckoned the tiles cost a month’s salary at least. His ex-wife had wanted something similar. The arguments had gone on for months. The silly bitch had always wanted whatever he couldn’t afford. Kitchens, bathrooms, designer shoes, holidays, the list was endless. Whatever they had was never good enough. She always wanted one better. He frowned at the memories and shook his head. Thinking about her pissed him off. Letting her piss him off, pissed him off even more. He pushed the thoughts from his mind and scanned the kitchen again. Ade didn’t disturb th
e technician while he worked. He walked down the hallway and peered into the lounge. A female CSI looked up from a pile of unopened mail.

  “Hello, Ade,” she said with a nod. There was no warmth in her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh you know, fighting crime, defending the weak and vulnerable, striking fear into the hearts of criminals everywhere and nailing parking tickets to as many windscreens as I can along the way.”

  “What, did you get a promotion?” she said sarcastically. “They don’t let you give out parking tickets yet, do they?”

  “I might be doing just that if they make the corruption charges stick. I’ve been caught stealing toilet rolls from the station.” He winked. She laughed sourly and shook her head. “Have you found anything exciting?”

  “We’re not sure yet, nothing too unexpected.” She sounded guarded. “We’re running some checks.”

  “Oh, that sounds very mysterious.” Ade frowned. “What type of checks?”

  “The usual,” she said, blushing a little. “Electoral role, mobile phone records for the address. You know how it goes.”

  Ade nodded and walked into the room. He pretended to be taking a cursory inspection. As she processed the mail, he glanced over her shoulder. She had sorted it into two piles. One pile was addressed to Mike Pilkington, the other to Michael David Pilkington. It explained why they were running basic checks on the occupancy. As far as the force was concerned, Pilkington was a bachelor living alone. Ade looked at the furniture. One armchair was worn, the arms showed signs of regular use. The material was marked where the sweat of the owner’s hands had stained it. The rest of the suite was pristine. Ade could tell only one person used the suite.

  “I’m going to take a look upstairs,” Ade said, glancing at the CSI. She looked up and nodded, thin lipped. “I’ll catch you later.”

  He stepped into the hallway and headed for the stairs. The beige carpet was thick, no signs of being worn by foot traffic. A plug-in air freshener exuded the smell of pine. It didn’t have the feel of a house occupied by a single male. The first floor was well lit. Tasteful black and white prints were mounted on the walls. He could see into the bathroom. The toilet and shower were visible from the stairs. White marble tiles covered the floor. As he reached the landing, a colleague stepped out of the main bedroom. He seemed surprised to see Ade.

  “Alright, Ade,” he said, greeting him.

  “Hiya.”

  “Terrible business,” he muttered and shook his head. “I liked Steff Cain.”

  “She was a good copper,” Ade agreed.

  “I didn’t really know Mike Pilkington but I wouldn’t mind five minutes with the bastards who took them out.”

  “Me and you both, mate.” Ade nodded.

  “What brings you here?”

  “I was on my way back from the scene. I just wanted a look around myself. I’m trying to get a feel for it. You know what I mean.”

  “Knock yourself out, Ade,” he said, patting him on the shoulder. “We’re nearly done on the top floor. We’ll do the garage and garden tomorrow when we have daylight.”

  “Cheers,” Ade said, stepping into the bedroom. A huge bed dominated the room. The bedding was slate grey and neatly made. He opened the wardrobe door and scanned the contents. All the items were the same size. His clothes were all designer labels. The suits were mostly Hugo Boss. Ade didn’t have a clue how much a Hugo Boss suit would cost but he guessed that anyone who owned more than one earned a substantial amount more than he did. He walked to the bed and opened the drawer of the bedside cabinet. Indigestion tablets, ibuprofen, condoms, blackberry flavoured lube and a six inch sheath knife. It could have been for protection, or it could have been a kink. He frowned and closed the drawer, opening the next one down. Socks. The third drawer down held boxer shorts and vests. Everything was well ironed and neatly folded away. He ran his fingers underneath the clothing but found nothing but wood.

  “What are you looking for?” A female voice made him jump. He blushed a little and grinned. “I don’t think you should be poking around in here. Not until we’re finished anyway.”

  “Old habits die hard,” he mumbled. “I can’t help having a look myself.”

  “I get that,” she said flatly. “But what are you looking for?”

  “I was trying to work out who lives here,” Ade shrugged. “I didn’t know Mike well. Just trying to get to know him. You know what I mean?”

  “Yes.” She nodded. Her face remained deadpan. “Please don’t touch anything.” Ade held up his hands in surrender. “I need to dust in here so if you don’t mind…”

  “No problem,” Ade said, heading for the door. She stepped aside to let him pass and looked uncomfortable as he brushed his groin against her, ‘accidently’. “I’ll let you get on. I need to get back to the station anyway. I’ll see you again sometime,” he muttered as he headed for the stairs. She didn’t answer. The atmosphere between them had been strained since he had bumped into her in town a few months earlier. She had looked amazing in a little black dress and he was very pissed. After declaring his undying love for her and trying to stick his tongue down her throat, she had told him to fuck off and they hadn’t talked since. Embarrassing as it was, she needed to get over herself. If you squeeze yourself into a tight dress and wiggle your arse, men will try it on. That was why she had put it on in the first place, wasn’t it? Dress up, put on makeup, perfume, try to look as fuckable as possible and then call him a pervert for trying. Ade didn’t understand what her problem was. He didn’t understand any of them really. He felt pissed off again as he reached the bottom of the stairs and headed back into the living room. The CSI had bagged the mail and labelled each packet. He could see the top document was a bank statement in the name of Michael David Pilkington. There was over thirty thousand in the account. Regular payments were paid in every month. He wanted to open the packet and study the documents but he knew that he would have to wait for forensics to finish their work. Whatever Mike Pilkington had to hide would be revealed soon enough. All he could hope was that there was something there to make him look like he was dirty. It would cause a shit-storm but so what? All it took was one bent copper and the Internal Corruption Unit would descend on the entire division. Corrupt coppers attracted attention that no one in the force wanted. Corruption had a smell to it that drifted through the entire station, pervading every nook and cranny, infecting everything that it touched. No one was beyond scrutiny. Fingers would be pointed, whispers would be heard from behind every door. Everyone would be scrutinised. Accusations would be thrown and some would stick like shit to a blanket. The blame didn’t always fall at the right feet.

  Ade left the room and walked down the hallway. The CSI in the kitchen saw him and nodded hello. He stepped into the garage and closed the connecting door behind him. One of the garage doors was fully open, the other half closed. He ducked low to see if the uniformed officers outside were nearby. They were out of sight for now. Ade walked to the MG and opened the passenger door. He leaned in and popped open the glove box. It was empty. Ade reached inside his jacket and removed a Makarov pistol that was wrapped in cling film. He checked outside again and then unwrapped the plastic, placing the gun into the glove box. The wind howled and brought a fresh deluge with it. He closed the flap and shut the door quietly before walking out of the garage, pulling his coat tightly around him against the rain.

  23

  George licked the plastic tray and savoured the saltiness. The traces of vinegar danced on his tongue. He was full but a little disappointed to have finished his fish and chips. He tossed the wrappers into a bin and wiped his greasy hands on his trousers. The rain was still bouncing off the pavements and the crowds were thinning out. The shops were closing and the nightlife hadn’t begun yet. He looked around and pulled up his hood and headed for the river, taking the long way around. The naked statue outside Lewis’s looked down on him as he walked towards Chinatown. He would cut through along the cobbled streets to reach t
he red light district around Jamaica Street. There, he could leave a message with a prostitute who called herself Candy. Finding her would be easy enough. She always worked the same pitch. If she wasn’t there then she would be servicing a client somewhere and that didn’t take very long. She didn’t move far from her pitch, choosing to use the alleyways nearby as her stage. If the client had a vehicle, then it was a bonus. At least she could stay warm and dry while she performed. Ade had left messages with her before. One of her bosses was the link to the Karpovs.

  George walked through Chinatown, the aromas teasing his senses. He was glad he had eaten. Taxis rattled past spraying rainwater in their wake. They swooped towards the pavement, picking up and dropping off diners. He grinned as a couple sprinted past him, bent double against the rain as if stooping would keep them dry. They ran, laughing into a restaurant and his grin disappeared. Memories of an old life haunted him. A life when he lived and loved like ‘normal’ people, before the job swallowed him up and drove his wife into another man’s bed. The restaurant door closed, the slam like an icy dagger through his guts. Even his fondest memories of her didn’t make him happy. They gave him no solace from the loneliness. Seeing couples being happy made him incredibly sad. He was bitter and almost begrudged their happiness.

  George picked up the pace and weaved through a beige brick housing estate. The Bridgewater Street buildings loomed in the distance, empty and derelict. Once mills and warehouses, they were a rotting reminder of the port’s distant past. The area was known as the Baltic Triangle. It had undergone a dramatic facelift as Liverpool reinvented itself. Redevelopment had brought investors to the area and the police had tried to clean it up, moving the sex industry to other parts of the city. Candy and a few other diehards weren’t for moving, no matter how many times they were lifted and moved on. She would wait half an hour and go right back to her spot next to the seven-storey mills.