The Burning Man

by Paul Finch

  ‘An hour and a half after the attack.’

  ‘Correct.’

  She circled a roundabout, barely braking despite the wet conditions.

  It was early, the crack of dawn, and a Saturday, so there weren’t too many other vehicles around. The bulk of the police convoy – a bunch of unmarked cars carrying a number of Wandering Wolf detectives, two Tactical Support Unit vans with a bunch of armoured PCs with riot gear riding inside them, and two divisional uniform units, the response car and a prisoner transport – had no problem staying in formation. Heck and Hayes were just behind Gemma and DI Gibbshaw, who rode on point in the command car. All those present, CID as well as uniforms, wore body armour marked with POLICE logos, and hi-vis, chequer-banded baseball caps. While Hayes drove, Heck assessed a sheaf of paperwork. It primarily comprised intelligence reports from the Longsight Division in inner Manchester, many of which related to Marvin Langton during his days as a Wild Bunch soldier.

  He read quickly, turning page after page. In 2007, Langton had commenced a five-year prison sentence (of which he eventually served three) for committing arson with intent to endanger human life. He’d petrol-bombed the entry hall to a nightclub popular with a criminal faction at odds with the Wild Bunch. The door staff had managed to extinguish the flames before anyone was injured, but eighty grand’s worth of damage was still caused.

  Knowing this already, Heck turned more pages.

  Of all Lee Shaughnessy’s current crew, Marvin Langton, whose curious metal-grey eyes peered amusedly out from this latest mugshot, seemed a reasonable candidate for the Incinerator crimes, but Heck still had reservations.

  During his Wild Bunch days, Langton had been notoriously brutal, and was suspected to have been involved in several murders. He hadn’t been convicted of anything for a few years now, not since his move to Bradburn, but it was inconceivable that so prolific a gun-hand would lay his weapons down overnight, especially now that he was involved with another underworld crew. And, flamethrower or not, firebombing a crowded nightclub revealed an excessive lack of regard for human life.

  ‘He won’t break easily,’ Hayes said. ‘Langton, I mean. In 2011, the Wild Bunch leadership went down for long jail terms, mainly for drugs and guns offences. Langton was an enforcer, but elbows-deep in the violence, as that nightclub incident illustrates. Trouble is there was nothing else we could prove against him. He certainly wouldn’t cough to anything, and he wouldn’t take a deal either. Deadpan in the interviews, wouldn’t name names … a good soldier to the end.’

  ‘And presumably no one else would name his name.’

  She shrugged. ‘That’s the advantage of having a rep like his, isn’t it? Who’s going to dob you in? They might end up in the same cell … wouldn’t that be fun?’

  Heck pondered. ‘Seems odd – that he’s involved in all that, manages to get away scot-free, only to willingly get himself involved in all this.’

  ‘Won’t know any other way, will he? This is his life, his career.’

  ‘I mean the flamethrower thing. Five murders in as many weeks? That’s pretty extreme.’

  ‘It’s clear that him and Shaughnessy fell out badly with Vic Ship. Revenge can be quite a motivator.’

  Heck was still unconvinced. ‘Langton’s a professional. So … what’s his endgame here? What does he expect the outcome’s going to be?’

  She glanced sidelong at him as she drove. ‘You’re now having second thoughts? I thought it was your idea to lock him up?’

  ‘No second thoughts, ma’am.’ Heck closed the paperwork and stuffed it into the glovebox. ‘I’ve always been of the opinion that you can learn at least as much from suspects you don’t charge as suspects you do.’

  ‘Well … whatever the hell that means, now’s your chance to put it to the test.’

  They swung onto the rambling, run-down housing estate called Gulwick Green. This wasn’t the worst of Bradburn’s many sink estates, but it had plenty of social problems, and crowds of stone-throwing youths had been known to gather in response to a police presence, though it was hoped that the earliness of the hour and the on/off rain would put paid to that today. There was certainly no one about as, one by one, the police vehicles switched off their headlights and glided into the cul-de-sac where Langton’s downstairs flat was located.

  By prearrangement, all conversations were silenced, doors were opened quietly, boots landed on pavements with extreme stealth. Still nothing stirred. Within seconds, everyone was in position.

  Heck waited on the other side of the road with Gibbshaw, while the arrest team, which consisted of Gemma herself, Hayes, Gary Quinnell and several other detectives, muscled their way up the front path to Langton’s ground-floor flat, three burly bodies from the first TSU, all of whom were equipped with visored helmets, shortened riot shields and staves, marching in front. The most physically impressive of the lot – a TSU officer who had to be six-foot-eight minimum – wielded the so-called ‘love hammer’, the front door exploding inward on its first impact.

  With much shouting, the team piled inside, reappearing less than three minutes later, marching Marvin Langton between them, his hands cuffed behind his back, Hayes providing him with the verbal caution. The prisoner was only wearing trainers, shorts and a T-shirt. Clearly he’d been tucked up in bed. A girl in her late teens, with tousled hair and smeared make-up, appeared in the ground-floor window, naked except for the quilt she’d wrapped around herself.

  In the flesh, Marvin Langton looked every inch the bruiser he was supposed to be. He had that ex-boxer’s build, his squat, heavily muscled form implying raw power. However, he was grinning as if this was all a big joke, his single gold tooth glinting.

  Gemma emerged behind them, talking with some of her underlings. She broke off to signal the search team, which comprised both uniforms and CID. They advanced across the road, now suited up in protective clothing. They would turn the flat and any associated outbuildings or garages upside down in their efforts to find incriminating evidence – the flamethrower itself would be an obvious prize, but also petrol or petrol canisters, other weapons, body armour, the modified motorbike helmet the Incinerator had been seen to wear during the canalside attack, and any clothing they could send to the lab to be checked for traces of petrol, smoke damage or blowback splinters from Nawaz Gilani’s shattered window.

  A prisoner transport reversed around the corner, its rear doors and the cage doors within swinging open. Langton was placed inside without fuss. Officers from the second TSU formed a watchful cordon around the vehicle and the front of Langton’s flat, shields hefted, though, aside from a few curious faces now appearing at the windows of the tenements opposite, there was no sign of activity.

  ‘Good clean pinch,’ Heck said, as Hayes approached him.

  ‘Too clean, if you want my opinion.’

  The transport’s rear doors slammed shut, and it pulled away quickly.

  ‘How did he reply to caution?’ he asked.

  ‘Laughed,’ she said.

  ‘Standard bravado.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ She looked troubled.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘He didn’t seem surprised. It was like he’d been expecting us.’

  ‘Well, he would be, presumably … at some point.’

  ‘Which is what’s really bugging me,’ she said. ‘It’d be weird enough provoking a war with a crew that’s bigger than yours. But to do it in the open? Right under the noses of the cops? Make yourselves the prime suspects?’

  Heck shrugged. ‘Crims are not always the sharpest tools in the box.’

  Hayes shook her head. ‘That doesn’t apply to Marvin Langton or Lee Shaughnessy. They’re sharper than this. Usually.’

  Heck realised that he couldn’t fault her logic in that regard.

  *

  ‘What?’ Langton chuckled. ‘So it’s illegal now to pay tribute to a great old comedian?’

  ‘Terry Bayber fan, are you, Marvin?’ Gemma wondered.

>   She and Gibbshaw faced the prisoner across the interviewroom table. Langton, having had his hands swabbed for petrol, was in the mandatory custody suit. A duty solicitor sat alongside him, scribbling in a pad.

  Heck, Hayes and several others watched from the VDU room, a small closet of a chamber attached to the MIR, with several video screens, one of them wired to receive live feeds from the interview rooms.

  Langton laughed again. ‘Me? I love all classic comedy.’

  ‘So what’s the name of the Terry Bayber character that town centre statue portrays?’ Gemma said.

  ‘I said I’m a fan, not an expert. Look, all I was doing was going and watching the unveiling … what’s the big deal?’

  ‘That’s the only reason you were in town last night?’ Gibbshaw said. ‘To watch the grand unveiling?’

  Langton shrugged. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Who was that girl in your flat this morning, Marvin?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘Ah … Sandy. She’s pretty new, but she’s hot stuff, if you know what I mean. And before you ask, she’s well old enough – she’s nineteen. Going on thirty-nine, actually.’ He winked. ‘What she doesn’t know, I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Did you take her with you?’ Gibbshaw asked. ‘To watch the unveiling?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It’s a simple question, Marvin,’ Gemma said. ‘Did you take your girlfriend with you when you went to see the Terry Bayber statue last night?’

  ‘Or did you go on your own?’ Gibbshaw said. ‘Which would seem even weirder to me than you going in the first place.’

  Langton sat back. ‘On my own last night. Sand doesn’t live with me. Just see her now and then.’

  ‘So what time did she roll up at your place?’ Gemma asked. ‘Middle of the night? Early hours of the morning?’

  ‘Waiting for me when I got home. She’s got her own key.’

  Heck knew what the interviewers were driving at. If they could find a reason to pull Sandy in, it would be interesting to see if the two stories matched. No doubt Langton would have prepped her beforehand, but if she was only a teenager she might struggle under the pressure of a full interrogation. That said, Langton didn’t seem concerned.

  ‘Where did you park last night?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘Erm … Goose Lane.’

  ‘What time did you arrive and what time did you leave?’

  ‘Got there around seven-thirty. Left … I dunno, sometime after eleven.’

  ‘You know Goose Lane car park is covered by security cameras? We can verify that.’

  ‘Good … so I can go home, yeah?’

  ‘The unveiling was done and dusted by nine o’clock,’ Gibbshaw said. ‘How come you only headed home two and a half hours later?’

  ‘Had a couple of drinks in a couple of bars. No alcohol though. I was driving.’ Langton grinned again, his tooth a gold chip among pearls. ‘Gotta respect the law.’

  The bastard had covered all bases, Heck realised. Even if Langton was the Incinerator, he was a pro; he’d have set up alibis to protect himself, probably involving local bar staff, local barflies.

  ‘You’ll need to give us the names of the bars you went in,’ Gibbshaw said.

  Langton began to reel these details off, at which point Heck decided he’d seen enough. They’d been at this two hours now, and patently were getting nowhere. Langton looked as if he was enjoying himself. They could detain him for the full 24, but on this basis it seemed a slam-dunk he’d hold out – even if he was guilty, which Heck increasingly suspected he wasn’t.

  He left the MIR, walked down the passage, through the station canteen and into the rec room. This was a large, messy area with windows overlooking the road outside. There was a coffee table in one corner and a flat-screen TV in the other. Armchairs were ranged all over the place, littered with that day’s newspapers. As they were between refs breaks, there was nobody present. Heck grabbed himself a coffee from the vending machine in the corner, strode to the windows and looked down. Additional press activity was now taking place on the station forecourt as word had got out that someone was in custody, journalists milling around, vans with TV antennae and satellite dishes on the top double-parked along the road.

  As Heck had expected, the drink was very hot and very tasteless, but for a moment or two he barely noticed as he ruminated on everything they knew so far.

  On the face of it, it was a reasonable assumption that if anyone in Shaughnessy’s crew was operating the flamethrower, it would be Marvin Langton. His casual demeanour on arrest could easily be a double bluff – he wouldn’t be the first to pretend he had nothing to worry about in an effort to con his captors. By the same token, he was experienced, a player, he’d definitely be organised enough to cover his tracks, at the very least ensuring there was nothing incriminating on his own premises. But if Langton had been responsible for the murders of Shelley Harper and Nawaz Gilani, would he really have driven into the middle of Bradburn, where he planned to launch the ambush, in his own car? And again, Heck was nagged by that issue of someone like Lee Shaughnessy deliberately picking a fight with someone like Vic Ship, whose crime family was much larger and better resourced, especially as that fight now seemingly involved the torching of Ship’s former squeeze.

  That wasn’t a challenge to a scrap as much as an invitation to Armageddon.

  And that was another thing. Langton might not have been expecting the police this morning, but he clearly hadn’t been expecting anyone else either. There’d been no guns in his flat, no armed guards in the area, and yet surely if he’d burned Vic Ship’s girlfriend only the previous evening, he might have anticipated that the Manchester mob would come looking for him directly. And then …

  Speak of the bleeding devil, Heck thought, suddenly spotting a vehicle he recognised.

  It sat separately from the chaos of press and TV vans, on the other side of the road from the police station. Heck initially noticed it because it was parked illegally, but quickly realised that it was a white Mazda CX-5, with a number of men inside.

  According to the intel file, Lee Shaughnessy drove a white CX-5.

  There’d even been an accompanying photograph of it – and this was the same vehicle.

  Knowing this was an opportunity that likely wouldn’t come again, he threw the foul coffee away, unstrapped his Kevlar vest – the less attention he drew from the press outside the better – and hurried downstairs in his shirt and tie, leaving the nick by the side personnel door. The press pack were still too distracted to notice him. He sidled through their ranks, and crossed the road in nonchalant fashion. The occupants of the CX-5 didn’t notice him either. They remained unaware until he toddled right up to them, hunkered down by the driver’s door and tapped on the window.

  A face spun to look at him. All conversation inside the car ceased.

  Heck grinned. There was no mistaking who he was looking at. It was exactly the same face in the file, the same face he’d seen plastered on every display board in the MIR.

  ‘If it isn’t the living legend that is Lee Shaughnessy.’ Heck planted his warrant card on the glass and indicated for Shaughnessy to wind the window down. Shaughnessy made no such move – not at first, which gave Heck a chance to look the rest of them over.

  There were five in total, and though he didn’t like admitting stuff like this, they spooked him. If there was one thing even hardened coppers hated to associate with violent crime, it was the very young – because though the faces packed inside the Mazda were not exactly juveniles, he doubted there was one among them, with the exception of Shaughnessy, who was over 25. The gear they wore was a giveaway: designer jeans and trainers, short anoraks zipped to the collar, baseball caps, tasteless bling. Facially, they were lean, scarred and feral.

  Again, though, none of this applied to Shaughnessy himself.

  As the underworld leadership caste so often seemed to be, he looked less battered and more refined than his crew. He was handsome even, with smooth cheeks, grey eyes and sho
rt, neat, white-blond hair. He wore neutral black clothing – black jeans, a black sweater, which fitted his youthful form snugly.

  Very slowly, the window descended. Shaughnessy threw an amused glance at his followers. A couple smiled, but the rest speared Heck with icy hostility in their eyes.

  ‘Don’t wish to have you at a disadvantage, Lee,’ Heck said, leaning in and offering a contact card. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Heckenburg. I’ve just joined the taskforce here at Bradburn.’

  Shaughnessy gave the card brief consideration, but made no effort to take it. ‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Mickey Mouse not available?’

  Sniggers sounded from the rest of the team.

  ‘Guess you’re parked up here because you’re waiting to collect your mate after he’s done inside, eh?’ Heck said.

  ‘Just passing the time of day, Detective Sergeant.’

  ‘You’re parked illegally, Lee.’

  ‘No other way around here.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got that right.’

  ‘Suppose you’d better give us a ticket.’

  ‘Nah.’ Heck shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you what I will give you, though – a warning.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Shaughnessy exclaimed.

  Further sniggers from his mates.

  ‘A friendly warning,’ Heck added.

  ‘No such thing, my man. No such thing.’ Shaughnessy spoke with a local accent, but it wasn’t broad or loutish. At the same time his manner of speech, his construction of sentences and such indicated a measure of education. It wasn’t uncommon in Heck’s experience for some dangerous gutter-rat to weave an image of acceptability around himself by upgrading his style, taking elocution lessons – and this never made them any the less dangerous, in fact quite the opposite.

  ‘Think about it,’ Heck said. ‘Five flamethrower deaths, maybe more to follow … and all the victims on Vic Ship’s payroll.’

  Shaughnessy looked to his front. ‘Just goes to show, Sarge … shit happens to the worst of us.’

  ‘Too true, Lee. Not many serious crims last long in the North. Especially not little fish trying to get into bigger ponds, openly challenging the big fish that are already swimming there.’