Taunting the Dead (DS Allie Shenton)

by Sherratt, Mel

  ‘You’re scum, you are!’ Steph yelled. ‘You have no right to be here with your filthy habit, Kennedy. Fuck off out of here, NOW!’

  ‘Mum!’ Kirstie tried to pull her away. But Steph was too strong. She hit out again. Lee retaliated in the only way he could.

  ‘Back off or I’ll spill everything.’

  Steph stopped, bat in the air.

  ‘Spill everything about what?’ asked Kirstie.

  ‘She knows what I mean.’ Lee stared at Steph, glad to see that he had the upper hand for now.

  Steph stalled as she caught her breath. She might be bottle blonde but she wasn’t stupid. As far as she was aware, no one else knew.

  Unless Phil had told Lee.

  Or had Lee seen them?

  Or maybe he was calling her bluff?

  ‘Will someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?’ Kirstie cried out in exasperation. ‘You come in here wielding a baseball bat, smash up the table and then turn on Lee. But just as suddenly, you let it go?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Steph decided to shrug the comment off. She dropped the bat back down to her side.

  Lee smirked. ‘That’s much better, Mrs R.’

  ‘Get out of my house.’

  ‘No fucking way!’ said Kirstie. ‘This is my house too and I’m not going anywhere until you tell me –’

  ‘Want me to tell your dad what I saw you snorting up your nose?’

  ‘You wouldn’t fucking dare!’

  ‘Try me. See what cock and bull story you can come up with. There were two lines, Kirstie. I’m not blind.’

  ‘No, you’re fucking stupid,’ said Lee. When Steph glared at him, he shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘You’re the stupid one,’ she told him. ‘You brought it in here.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  Steph paused, her breathing rapid as she fought to control her temper. She knew that Kirstie would be in deep shit if she said anything to Terry. So what if she didn’t have the evidence? That wouldn’t make a difference to him. Not where Kirstie was concerned.

  Lee took the silence as his cue to leave. He touched Kirstie’s arm. ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here and go back to my place.’ His eyes never left Steph’s as he continued. ‘Finish off what we started.’

  ‘Over my dead body,’ Steph told him.

  ‘That can be arranged.’

  Kirstie stood between them with arms open as Steph came towards Lee again. ‘Stop it!’ She turned to Steph. ‘You and me, Mum, when I get back, we need to talk.’

  Steph roared with laughter. ‘You and me, talk? I don’t think we have anything to say to each other that would make a difference.’

  ‘You’re ill. You need to see a doctor. This isn’t rational fucking behaviour!’

  ‘And snorting white powder up your nose is?’

  ‘You owe me for the white stuff,’ Lee said before they left the room. ‘I haven’t finished with you yet.’

  Steph ran at them again but they were out of the house before she had time to react. She could hear them laughing when she stopped suddenly as the pain registered. Her feet were bleeding, crimson teardrops sprinkling the flooring. She pulled up one foot and winced as she retrieved a large shard of glass. Seeing the blood drip onto the floor was all it took for her to start wailing again.

  It had been two days since Phil had taken a beating from Terry. Still pissed with him for lashing out, he was waiting for his brother’s mate, Kenny Webb, to arrive. When Steve had rung from prison after hearing about the murder of Sarah Maddison, Phil had been only too pleased to spell out what had actually happened.

  It had been late on a Wednesday evening. Terry had called half an hour earlier to go over some jobs with him. Andy Maddison had knocked on his front door in a mad panic saying he’d killed his wife.

  Terry had told Phil to get rid of Andy while he dealt with the situation. But as soon as Terry was out of earshot, Phil had told Andy to sling his hook and lay low. There was no way he was letting him into his house with her blood all over him. He might have incriminated him for something he hadn’t been part of.

  With Andy gone, he went to see what damage had been done at number fourteen. He got there just in time to see Terry plunge a knife into Sarah Maddison’s stomach. Apparently he’d been after a reason to get rid of them both as they were bringing the police to the row too much with all their domestics.

  Both clever enough to be wearing gloves, Terry gave Phil the knife and told him to get rid of it. The rain pouring down should have removed anything else, especially as Sarah Maddison had been left in it all night.

  Everyone knew there was no love lost between Terry and Steve Kennedy. For the past twenty years, they’d been vying for top dog status in the city. Revenge eating at him, building up every scrap of evidence against Terry had become Steve’s mission while he was locked away. Even though the knife hadn’t got Terry’s fingerprints on it, he’d wanted it anyway.

  But it had been with Phil for a week now. With the police so close by, already he’d moved it to three different places as he’d waited for Kenny to collect it. Now it was tucked away in the cellar.

  Yet, even eager to get rid of a murder weapon, Phil couldn’t stop thinking about the job Terry had lined up for him. He sat in his living room staring into space, the television switched on to some daytime dross. He wasn’t watching it. He wasn’t even listening. He was still trying to get his head around stuff.

  Every now and then he’d take a sip of beer, going over and over the conversation with Terry. ‘I want you to kill Steph,’ Terry had said. At first Phil thought he’d misheard him. But when Terry repeated it, Phil was sure his heart had stopped for a second. ‘You want me to kill Steph?’ he’d managed to say, sounding like a parrot. ‘Yes, and I want it done this Friday night’ had been Terry’s blunt reply.

  Blood had still been dripping from his lip as he’d listened to Terry running through all the details. After the initial shock had worn off and been replaced by fear he’d realised that, despite his earlier thoughts of him finding out about the affair, Terry must have been planning this for some time.

  He took another swig of his drink, wondering if he’d ever have any luck with women. After a failed marriage to Sandra Unwin, Lee’s bitch of a mother who had left them both when Lee was seven, Steph had been the only woman whom he’d cared about since. Of course there had been other women – still were, if you counted the young pup who’d given him a shag in exchange for a fix the other day. Jackie Stanton had been the longest to stay, lasting three years before moving out of Stoke when he’d given her one backhander too many. She was a mouthy cow, knew how to wind him up in a flash. She’d deserved what she got.

  But Steph had always been around, for as long as he could remember. In the early days, he would see her with Terry in the pub or on a night out. In the latter years, since Steve had been sent down, he’d seen her more frequently, been there to pick up the pieces after her latest fall-out with either her husband or her daughter. It wasn’t as if they’d planned an affair. Like many budding friendships, a shoulder to cry on had blossomed into something more. For Phil, it had blossomed into much more. But he’d managed to keep his feelings to himself. He wasn’t even sure that Steph knew exactly how he felt about her.

  Could Terry have found out about the affair? Steph hadn’t seemed to think so when she’d called round yesterday. But this could be his way of punishing them both. Phil cast his mind back, trying to remember when Terry had last lashed out at him. It had been years. And all he’d done was make a joke because he’d been so nervous about Terry knowing where he’d slept the night before, and with whom.

  But the real thing he was worried about, that he kept coming back to, was that maybe Terry was planning on setting him up. He wouldn’t put it past him to see that he got caught in the act. Yet if he didn’t do the job, Terry had made it perfectly clear he would suffer. He’d never said anything like that before – was he calling his bluff?

/>   His phone beeped. It was a text message. Phil cursed as he read it. Kenny couldn’t make it today but he’d get to him by the end of the week. And he wanted him to move the knife outside, somewhere he could pick it up whenever he was passing. Damn, he’d have to move it into the outhouse.

  He lit another cigarette and glanced at his watch. Fuck, he’d been sitting here for over two hours. Still nothing had become any clearer. Did anyone owe him a favour? Was there anyone he could trust enough to do the job and keep their mouth shut? He trawled his mind for possibilities. Was there anyone willing to do it for a small fee? Or even a large fee, as long as he didn’t have to do it? Did anyone owe him a lot of money?

  Phil’s brow furrowed as an idea came to him. Maybe there was a way he could buy some time.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Later that evening, Phil pulled up his collar and threw his cigarette butt to the floor. He stood across the road from The Orange Grove, hidden in a shop doorway. Having the advantage of looking in from the dark, he could see Shaun Morrison coming and going through the large glass window that ran the length of the restaurant. He’d wondered whether to go in but didn’t want to draw attention to himself. His nosy bitch of a wife was always moaning about something.

  He checked his watch: quarter past five. People were starting to leave for the day from offices and shops nearby. He’d wait another fifteen minutes and then he’d ring the number printed in white letters on the canopy above the window. From his position, he’d be able to see who answered the phone.

  But several minutes later, Shaun emerged from the building with two cardboard boxes and loaded them into the boot of a blue BMW parked outside. Rushing over, Phil dropped a hand on the man’s shoulder and saw his expression change in an instant.

  ‘I need a word. The Reginald Mitchell, fifteen minutes,’ Phil told him sharply before turning and heading into the town.

  Next to Waterstones book store, The Reginald Mitchell was housed in what used to be the old meat market. Phil had worked there as a butcher’s boy when he was sixteen for a few Saturdays. He remembered clearly the rows and rows of traders, the smell from the stalls, the noise as the men competed with each other to sell their cheapest cuts, the sound of the blade slamming down into the carcass of a pig. Even a glimpse of an uncooked steak or a raw chicken could make him retch now. Often a memory flashed back as soon as he opened the door but The Reginald Mitchell was a good local meeting place.

  He took the few steps down to the ground floor. It was a few moments before his eyes adjusted to the gloom but he could see the pub was pretty full. Upstairs a few people sat around the balcony, some enjoying a meal. Downstairs the bar was being propped up by the town’s regulars. Young men who hadn’t started their working lives through choice stood red-faced with pints in hand; older men who had worked the pots or the pits, the steel workers and the locals, told stories of better times as they knocked back cheap ale. Occasionally a woman would join them, usually dragging some unfortunate away by the ear after one hour too many.

  Phil ordered a whiskey chaser. He chose a vacant table tucked away in a corner but where he still had sight of the door. Missing the cigarette he couldn’t have due to regulations, he took a large gulp of lager and wondered if Shaun would show. Minutes later, he saw him push open the door and glance shiftily around the large floor. When Shaun spotted him in the far corner, he came over and sat down.

  ‘What’s up?’ Shaun fidgeted with the black beanie hat he was wearing, pulling it down slightly at the front before he sat down. One side of the collar on his leather jacket was tucked inside the lapel. He was out of breath but he took only a moment before speaking again. ‘I can’t be long. I have a business to run.’

  ‘Your payment’s overdue.’ Phil didn’t hesitate to get things going.

  ‘You said I could pay double next month!’ Shaun protested in a loud whisper. He looked warily over his shoulder, as if he was being set up.

  ‘I changed my mind. I want a grand by the end of the week.’

  ‘I don’t have it!’

  ‘I suggest you get it.’

  ‘And how the fuck do you suggest I do that?’

  ‘Call Mr Bank Manager.’

  ‘Don’t you think I’ve already tried that?’ Shaun ran a hand through his hair. ‘Look, can’t you wait until next month? The panto season started last week and we usually rake in a lot from that. I can square up with you in the New Year and try to keep the rest of the payments a bit more regular.’

  All the time Shaun spoke, Phil never moved a muscle. It was a trick he’d seen Terry use: put the other person on edge. It worked. Shaun’s colour drained. He sat forward, folded arms resting on the table.

  ‘There is another solution.’ Phil knocked back the whiskey in one go and put the glass down onto the table with a grimace. ‘You could do a job for me.’

  Two elderly men walked towards them and then sat down at the next table, shrugging off coats and hats.

  Shaun gulped. ‘What kind of a job?’

  Phil chewed on his lip while he paused. Was he really wise to trust someone who was as close to Terry as Shaun was? His wife and Steph were good friends. What happened if he mentioned it to her and she told Steph? It could all go tits up before it had started.

  But seeing no other way out of this, he’d have to chance it. He glanced around again before continuing. The two men next to them were huddled over their pints. Now Phil moved closer to Shaun.

  ‘A hit,’ he said.

  ‘What kind of hit?’

  Phil sighed. ‘What kind of hit do you think I mean, you fucking idiot?’

  Shaun’s eyes widened. For a moment, Phil thought he was about to leg it. Then he sat forward.

  ‘You mean you want me to kill someone?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Horrified but curious at the same time, he asked, ‘Who?’

  Phil leaned closer and whispered. Shaun stood up so fast that the stool toppled over. The two men on the next table turned their heads quickly. As more people started to look, Shaun stood there until he was old news. Then he picked up the stool, sat back down.

  ‘You can’t be serious, man.’

  ‘I’m deadly serious.’

  ‘But I can’t do that.’

  ‘One hit and I’ll wipe it all out. All twenty grand.’

  ‘But, I’ve…’ Shaun lowered his voice. ‘I’ve never killed anyone. I wouldn’t know how to.’

  ‘I can sort that.’ Phil knocked a third of his pint back.

  ‘You make it sound so fucking easy.’

  ‘It is. You do the hit. I’ll clear your debt. Simple.’

  ‘Not from where I’m sitting.’ They sat in silence for a few seconds before he spoke again. ‘I can’t.’ Shaun shook his head. ‘I can’t kill someone I know.’

  ‘It’s your choice.’ Phil shrugged before standing.

  Shaun was looking pretty sick now. Sweat trickled down the side of his face; his hands had a slight shake. He caught Phil’s eye for a moment and looked away.

  ‘I have a choice, then?’ His voice sounded weary.

  Phil didn’t reply. He still wasn’t sure this was the wisest thing to do. If he didn’t kill Steph, Terry would come after him. But he could take a beating knowing that Steph would still be there for him. Maybe then Terry would forget the whole thing. But for that to work he had to blag himself more time.

  He finished the last of his drink and breathed in noisily. ‘The job needs doing on Friday night,’ he said, seeming not to have a care in the world. ‘I’ll call again on Friday morning. Go over the finer details.’

  ‘No!’ Shaun stood up as Phil walked away. All eyes fell on him again as he shouted after him. ‘I didn’t mean… wait!’

  But Phil never looked back.

  As all around him the punters became merrier, Shaun sat in a daze. Usually when he could spare a night out, he and a few mates would head to The Reginald Mitchell with its cheaper ale and clientele. It would always be their first port of call. He
’d started many a good night off in there. The last half hour had tarnished that completely.

  An elderly couple asked if the rest of the seats at the table were free. Shaun nodded. He was next to a roaring fire: who was he to begrudge their warmth by hogging the table? As they plonked down a shopper and a few carrier bags, he thought about getting blotto and drowning his sorrows. But he knew the problem would still be there and he couldn’t face sobering up to it. Besides, he needed to get back to work once he had his wits about him again.

  Fuck, he was in it up to his neck. He couldn’t kill Steph – hell, he couldn’t kill anyone. What kind of man did Phil think he was? Sure, he was desperate but a killer? No way! It wasn’t as if he’d done it before and could get psyched up to do it again when the occasion arose. And what about Carole? He couldn’t keep something like this from her. They’d never had secrets in their marriage, not in twenty years. How could he not tell her what Phil had told him to do?

  But Shaun could never tell her this. Carole hated Phil, and the fact that he’d scammed them, and that there was nothing they could do about it. Shaun had known when Phil gave them the five grand that he’d probably increase the money each week, making sure they couldn’t pay, and landing them in even deeper trouble. If he told Carole, she’d be on the phone to Steph in an instant. Imagine how Phil would react then. And Terry – what would he say? More to the point, what would he do?

  Shaun choked back vomit as he wondered how he’d be expected to carry the hit out. Run her over? Stab her with a knife? With a screwdriver? Punch and kick her until she was a pulp? The thought of it turned his stomach and he came over all dizzy. He had to get out of there.

  He rushed over to the door and barged through it. Bent over at the knees, he breathed in the air outside like a deep-sea diver with an empty tank. Shit, this couldn’t be happening. What was he going to do?

  Straightening up at last, he made his way back to the restaurant. With four weeks to go until Christmas Day, there were reams of shoppers hoping to grab an early bargain. As he negotiated his way down through Fountain Square and across Stafford Street, Shaun wondered if he was about to lose his sanity as well as his business.