by Mike Craven
The door opened, and a man of about thirty stood before them, shaven-headed and topless. Heavy muscles competed for space over his squat frame. He was covered in prison tattoos. His small eyes were dull and malevolent. Coarse black hair crept to the top of his shoulders. His body language was shouting ‘I’m dangerous, don’t mess with me’. He was holding a can of beer and it was obvious to Fluke that he was deliberately sucking his stomach in and tensing his muscles hoping to give the impression that it was how he always looked.
Towler smiled at him, but not in a good way.
Failing to get the fearful reaction he wanted, his stance changed from intimidation to confusion. ‘What the fuck do want?’ he said.
Ignoring the insult, Fluke asked, ‘Are you McNab?’
Some of the tension seemed to leave his body. He gestured to his right with the can. ‘Next door mate,’ he said, closing the door.
‘I think that’s him, sir,’ Douglass whispered.
Fluke nodded at Towler and gestured towards the back of the house. Fluke waited until Towler had enough time to get round the back and knocked again.
‘Mr McNab, can we have a word, please?’ There was no whispering but the sound of running, a door opening and then a loud crash. Someone shouted. A child’s scream rose, wild and piercing, above the sound of whatever was happening at the back. The noise rose as a woman started crying. Fluke and Douglass ran down the side alley.
Douglass looked shocked and a little worried. Fluke saw exactly what he’d expected to see.
McNab was on his knees in front of Towler, who had him in some sort of wristlock. He was clearly in a certain amount of discomfort and was keeping as still as possible to avoid more pain. Towler was exerting minimal pressure on his wrists, which were nearly at right angles.
A woman, no more than eighteen or nineteen, was yelling at Towler and tugging at his suit. He ignored her. She wore a sleeveless T-shirt, and fresh and old bruises were visible on her pale, thin arms.
Inside the house, the baby’s cries grew louder and more urgent.
‘Get her out of here,’ Fluke told Douglass.
Douglass tried to calm down the woman and persuaded her to go and see to the child. With one last look at everyone, the girl went back inside.
Fluke beckoned Douglass over. ‘Go and see if she’s all right. And while you’re at it, search the house. See if Ackley’s in there,’ he whispered. She nodded and followed the girl in. Eventually, the sound of crying stopped.
With silence restored, Towler loosened his grip on McNab who stood up warily and rubbed his wrists. He looked at Towler with a mixture of hatred and fear.
He turned to Fluke, animal cunning telling him that he was in charge. ‘Bastard can’t do that. I’ve got fucking rights, you know.’ He looked round to see if there were any obvious ways out. He took a look at Towler, six feet eight and built like a whippet, and decided there was no point running. ‘What the fuck do you want, anyway? I’ve got no charges coming up and I’m clean. Not touched smack this year, ask anyone.’
Bet you’ve had some steroids though, haven’t you, McNab? Fluke thought, but didn’t say anything.
‘What’s your first name, McNab? And we’re not the drug squad,’ he said as he got out his warrant badge and identified himself.
McNab didn’t say anything.
‘No first name? McNab it is then. Shame, I was rather hoping we could be friends. I want to know what you can tell me about Darren Ackley,’ Fluke said.
A brief glimmer of understanding flitted across his dull eyes.
Yeah, you know something.
‘No comment.’
So it was going to be like that? The copper’s anthem, no comment. Fluke wondered how many times he’d heard that said by someone on the opposite side of an interview room. Thousands probably. Like detectives using pens to pick up evidence and doctors saying ‘sharp scratch’, it was another of those anomalies that made little sense. Criminals watched the same bad cop shows as police officers, he guessed. Everyone arrested has the right to remain silent but they don’t have to say ‘no comment’ to assert that right. Saying nothing is enough.
‘You’re not under arrest, fuckface,’ Towler said.
McNab stared at him but looked away when he realised that Towler wasn’t looking even looking at him.
‘My colleague is right, of course. You’re not under arrest. Now stop pissing about. When did you last see Ackley?’ Fluke said.
‘No fucking comment.’
Fluke had seen it countless times. When the police were involved in their lives they felt powerless. Refusing to answer anything allowed them to get some control back.
‘Ackley’s not in trouble, McNab. You’re not in trouble either, unless you lie to me. Then you’ll be in big trouble. I don’t want to search your house but I will. I wonder what I’ll find? What do you think, Sergeant?’
Towler turned to look at McNab, his contempt obvious. ‘At the very least enough steroids to put him away for six months, boss, would be my guess. Maybe something harder.’
The flash of fear that crossed McNab’s face told Fluke that he was right. Steroid abuse. It explained his muscles and the bruises on the girl’s arms. Steroid abuse and increased aggression were inextricably linked.
‘We think Darren may have witnessed something last night that he’d rather not have. We need to know what he saw.’
Another flicker of recognition passed across his face. Bingo. He’d seen him recently.
‘No comment.’
Douglass reappeared and shook her head briefly. Ackley wasn’t inside.
‘McNab, don’t be a tit all your life. Tell me what you know,’ Fluke said, raising his voice slightly. ‘If you don’t, you know I’m gonna have to nick you.’
Fluke thought he saw another flash of fear cross his face. So he’s scared of being arrested. Why? He must have been arrested countless times judging by the tattoos and the way he was talking to them. Hostility towards the police is a learned behaviour. Upstanding citizens were normally polite and as helpful as they could be. McNab was hiding something, that much was obvious.
As he stood and thought for a minute on how he could get the information without arresting him, Towler took matters into his own hands.
‘You know something, boss, I don’t think he’s cool enough to be called McNab. I met a McNab once when I was in the Paras. He was doing a talk on resisting interrogation. Something he’d learned when he was caught by the Iraqis during Desert Storm.’
‘Andy McNab,’ McNab grunted. ‘Bravo Two Zero. They made him eat his own shit.’
‘Check out the military historian here,’ Towler said. ‘Yes, that’s right McNab. Andy McNab. And I think he’s a cool bloke. A credit to his country. I don’t think you should have the same name as such a cool bloke. What do you think, McNab?’
McNab glared at him but said nothing.
‘I think you need a different name. From now on you’re called McKnob.’
There was an immediate reaction. Anger replaced the fear in his eyes. His breathing changed, became shallower, as adrenalin flooded his body. Towler was taller but McNab easily had a three-stone advantage, three stones of steroid-induced muscle, brawn and aggression. It would make no difference.
Towler would wind up a difficult suspect to such an extent that he’d provoke a primal physical reaction which gave him every reason to meet it with his own.
At that point, the girl came back out. She was holding the baby.
‘Ah, just in time. Can we get a cup of tea here, please, love? McKnob here is very thirsty. He’s been telling us all sorts of things haven’t you, McKnob?’ Towler said.
The woman looked at McNab then at Towler, decided she didn’t want anything to do with what was going on and disappeared back into the house.
‘You think we’ll get biscuits with our tea, McKnob?’
Again McNab said nothing. Being humiliated in front of the girl had turned his face and neck bright red. Fluke could tel
l he was only one remark away from losing it. And that would be bad for him. He could sense Douglass fidgeting beside him, wanting him to stop the deliberate provocation but Fluke didn’t have time to explain what was happening.
Towler then delivered it. ‘How’d your missus get those bruises, McKnob?’
The ‘quick and dirty signal’ scientists call it. A survival trait where the thalamus allows the body to react without speaking to the brain first. In dangerous situations, it can save several seconds. If you know what to look for, there is a subtle change the split second before someone switches from flight to fight. With McNab, it wasn’t that subtle. With a bellow, he charged and swung a giant hairy fist at Towler with a force that would probably have killed him. If he’d been where McNab thought he was.
He wasn’t.
Chapter 12
Fluke was no stranger to violence. He’d been a Royal Marines Commando for six years and a police officer for eighteen so had witnessed his fair share. From barroom brawls to full-blown riots, from the fully mechanised war in 1990 to women pulling each other’s hair out in Carlisle city centre, he’d seen good fighters, brave fighters, psychotic fighters and any number of others.
And he’d seen Towler, and Towler was in a category all on his own.
He wasn’t a martial arts expert and he wasn’t the biggest dog in the pack. It was a combination of absolute confidence, controlled aggression and an utter lack of fear that made him so formidable.
During the part of Parachute Regiment basic training known as P-Company, all recruits are required to undertake a particularly brutal test called ‘milling’. Two recruits of equal size are paired against each other, and for the longest minute of their lives are forced to go head-to-head in a version of boxing not seen anywhere else. Having a solid defence is frowned upon. Fancy footwork is frowned upon. Boxing skills are irrelevant and not scored. The object of the test is to demonstrate that the recruit can stand up to violence, that they won’t let their head go down. That they can take a pounding and still come back for more. That they are in control of their aggression. That in battle, when they are pinned down by effective enemy fire, they will have the character to get up and fight.
The spirit of Wireless Ridge and Goose Green.
During one of the rare times their leaves coincided, Fluke had met up with Towler and a mate he’d brought up from Aldershot who he’d been going through P-Company with. After several beers and a couple of hours of Marines versus Paras piss-taking, and when Towler was in the toilet, his friend had told Fluke about their experience of milling.
Already having a reputation as a hard man, the recruit Towler was paired with was terrified. Correctly guessing that the instructors were not looking to see him simply bullying and humiliating his opponent, he opted for a different approach.
For virtually the whole minute, Towler kept his arms by his side and his gloves down. He looked straight at his opponent and allowed him to rain blow after blow on his head. His nose broke immediately. A cut above his eye restricted his vision. Still he kept his arms down and allowed himself to be beaten. With the sixty seconds almost up and the point clearly made, with a lightening quick jab which seemed to come from nowhere, he laid his fellow recruit out cold.
When he was finished telling his story, they sat in silence. Fluke didn’t doubt it was true. It had that paradoxical mix of violence and compassion that made Towler who he was.
A fight wasn’t the best way to describe what happened next. A fight implies two people engaged in violence with a shared aim of hurting each other.
McNab never got to lay a finger on Towler, but in trying to had run into the wall, punched it twice and hurt his neck with a missed headbutt. Fluke thought his right hand was broken and there was a nasty cut on his forehead. He was drenched in sweat and that, combined with the blood from the cut, was affecting his vision. Every time he lunged or swung something at Towler, he missed.
Fluke watched dispassionately, moving out the way occasionally, as Towler allowed McNab to beat himself into submission. Using some fairly basic defensive moves, Towler used McNab’s own strength and lack of control to make him hurt himself.
Eventually McNab ran out of steam and he stood with his hands on his hips, gasping for breath and looking with hatred at Towler, who hadn’t broken sweat and was watching him with an amused look. Fluke thought that he might have had enough. Until Towler taunted him again.
Putting on a terrible Michael Caine accent, he called out, ‘You’re a big man, but you’re out of shape, McKnob.’
Fluke groaned to himself. ‘Stop pissing about, Matt, and finish this, will you,’ he called out.
At the point of exhaustion, McNab charged one last time. Towler sidestepped again but, as if putting an animal out of its misery, his right arm darted out like striking viper as McNab passed him. It firmly connected with his solar plexus and he collapsed to the ground, gasping. He moved onto his side and vomited noisily. He wasn’t crying but he wasn’t far off.
Towler and Fluke casually discussed the previous two minutes while McNab writhed on the ground, panting. Douglass looked shocked and Fluke didn’t blame her. She asked if they needed a van to come and get McNab. She assumed they’d be arresting him. Fluke didn’t think it would be necessary and said so.
It took a full five minutes for McNab to get his breath back, which was followed by five minutes of threats of violence and legal action and tears.
‘Just in case you were wondering, McNab, this isn’t going well,’ Fluke said. ‘You know I can arrest you now? Take you in for assaulting a police officer,’ Fluke said. ‘Trying to anyway,’ he added. He heard Towler snort with laughter.
McNab looked at them both, sullen, defiant, planning a revenge he wasn’t capable of. There was vomit on his chin, the side of his face and matted into his chest hair. He said nothing and carried on muttering under his breath, Fluke may have heard the words ‘filthy bastards’ but chose to ignore them.
As he looked at them, McNab shivered. Adrenaline extracting its payment in all likelihood. Nothing was free. It dawned on Fluke that they were maybe looking at it from the wrong angle.
McNab was scared. Not scared for Ackley. Fluke doubted he’d give two shits if something happened to him. He was scared for himself. He wasn’t protecting Ackley for any altruistic reasons. But Fluke needed to know what he knew. Time to do to him psychologically what Towler had done to him physically.
‘Look, McNab. If Ackley really is your mate then you need to speak to us. He’s in trouble. Not legal trouble. Proper trouble.’ Fluke said. ‘Tell us where he is and we’ll leave. Don’t and you’re gonna have to come with us.’
McNab stopped sobbing and looked up, his eyes red, his nose running heavily. Staring at Fluke, he tried to regain some control. Not fearing him as much as Towler. His efforts to regain some dignity were ruined however when a snot bubble coming out of his nose burst.
‘We know he saw something, something that scared him.’
Like a punctured tyre, he deflated in front of them.
He’s terrified, Fluke thought.
‘Not out here,’ McNab said, looking round.
He led them back into the house and they took seats in what Fluke supposed was the lounge. The sofa in the front garden looked cleaner but Fluke was wearing a machine-washable suit. Before they started, Fluke asked Douglass to go and stay with the woman and make sure she was okay. He wanted to keep it as restricted as possible.
‘Ackers came by yesterday morning,’ McNab said, lighting a cigarette and picking up an empty beer can to use as an ashtray.
‘What time?’ Fluke asked.
‘Dunno, but it was still fucking dark. I was in me bed. Kept bangin’ on the door. Ignored it to start with, thought it must’ve been a smackhead looking for some gear and I don’t do that anymore.’
Pinegrove was a short walk from the deposition site so it fitted in with what they knew up to then. ‘So what did you do?’ Fluke asked.
‘I got fuck
in’ sick of it, didn’t I. I’ve been good lately, haven’t really been up to much. Doing weights and that. Hoping to get on the doors in town. Good money and it’s cash in hand.’ He stopped and looked up, aware that he’d admitted to benefit and tax fraud.
‘Go on, we’re not bothered about that. What happened next?’
‘I sent Siobhan down, didn’t I? She was gonna be up anyway feeding the larle ’un.’
‘You’re a modern man, McKnob,’ Towler said.
Fluke winced. Sometimes Towler’s off button malfunctioned. He had McNab talking now. He could do without them going at it again. He flashed Towler a warning look.
McNab continued, ‘No, it made sense for her to get the door. She’s got a fuckin’ mouth on her anyway. You heard her before. She’s lived on the estate all her life and knows how these things go. If I’d went down and it’d been a couple of dirty smackheads I’d have fuckin’ killed ’em and I’d have got lifted.’
‘But it was Darren?’
‘Who? Oh aye, it was Ackers. Darren. Funny that, I’d forgotten what his proper name was. I know he sells ’is arse an’ that, but he’s a good lad really. We were in the same children’s home when we was little. He came in crying his eyes out. Said he’d seen a big fucker dumping a body up at where the new hospital’s gonna be. Said he’d left a note but wished he hadn’t. He’s been staying there a few days. Siobhan won’t have him in the house with the larle ’un because of the needles. She thinks he’s got AIDS or Hep B so won’t even make him a brew in case we catch something off the cup.’
‘What else did he see?’
‘Dunno, didn’t fuckin’ ask him. Told him I didn’t want to know anymore. Sounded proper scary, it did. Didn’t want any fuckin’ part of it. Ackers was fuckin’ brickin’ himself like. He wanted to get out of Whitehaven.’
‘And you helped him?’
‘Did I fuck. What could I do? Don’t have a car and he wanted a hundred fuckin’ quid to get to Newcastle. I don’t have that kind of money and even if I did, I wouldn’t let him have it. I know he’s a mate n’all but he’s a smackhead. He’d have just fucked off with it. I’d not see him for six months and then he’d deny ever fuckin’ lending it. I gave him a fiver from Siobhan’s purse. Just to get him to fuck off. I didn’t want anyone finding him here.’
