Brick

by Conrad Jones

  “I don’t see the urgency.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No,” Eddie slurped his coffee. “You have Tucker’s shipment don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And everything has been moved from the garage?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what is the problem?”

  “Tucker is the problem. We had him cornered at the garage but he escaped.”

  “You’re not doing very well at keeping hold of people are you?”

  “They drove a truck through the wall,” Nikolai snapped. “There was nothing we could do about it. We don’t know if he is alive or dead but if he is alive, he will be coming for his drugs.”

  “Then you had better get the shipment split up and moved on hadn’t you.”

  “I need your help for that.”

  “Like I said, I’m going to be busy.”

  “Victor called me earlier.”

  “I know.”

  “He said that you know where your priorities lie.”

  “I do, Nikolai.” Eddie was beginning to lose it but he kept his voice calm.

  “In which case we need to meet up and talk. There are some things that we cannot discuss on the telephone. I am not offering you an alternative here, Eddie. I understand your dilemma but we have a serious problem to deal with and it will not wait until you’ve finished your little vendetta. This Evans kid will still be there next week. We may not be.”

  Eddie rubbed his hand over his forehead, rubbing his temples with finger and thumb. He squeezed his eyes closed and chewed another bite of sandwich. The urgency in Karpov’s voice concerned him. He had never heard him sounding so vulnerable, almost frightened. He wasn’t sure if frightened was the right word but there was something in his voice that was unusual. There was obviously more to the issue than either Nikolai or Victor had explained; something that couldn’t be discussed on the telephone.

  “Okay, Nikolai,” Eddie sighed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Give me a time and a place and I’ll be there.”

  “Thank you, Eddie. Can you meet me at the mill at ten?”

  “Okay,” Eddie agreed, finishing his breakfast. “I’ll see you there.”

  34

  Bryn felt sick, his mouth full of blood and pieces of tooth. He looked down at the unconscious boy on the floor. His face looked angelic, asleep. Or was it blank, expressionless or dead? He looked down at the blood on his top and the world began to spin. The guards were shouting instructions that were beyond his comprehension. Their voices sounded like echoes in a train tunnel. They grabbed him and pushed him backwards onto the bed, more guards arriving; more shouting their voices deafening and incoherent. Everything was garbled and confusing. His vision began to fade as a subarachnoid haemorrhage began to cause pressure on his brain. The injury caused when his head hit the bed was at the back of his skull, the blood from the external scalp injury not instantly obvious to the guards; the injury to his brain completely invisible. Bryn felt himself falling away from reality, the noise fading, the pain gone and he suddenly realised that he couldn’t breathe. His body went into spasm but as he drifted away, he didn’t care anymore.

  “This kid is fitting!” the guard holding him shouted. He was young and inexperienced and easily panicked.

  “The doctor is on the way,” another guard called from outside.

  “Tell him to run!”

  “Doctor!” The call echoed up the hallway. “We need you here now!”

  “Something isn’t right here,” the guard began to panic. “He’s turning blue!”

  “Is he breathing?”

  “Fuck knows!” the guard hissed putting his cheek next to Bryn’s mouth. “Where is the fucking doctor?”

  “He’s here,” someone shouted from the corridor.

  “Move Ginge out of the way,” someone ordered. Two guards picked up the stunned boy, his faculties returning to him slowly. They dragged him from the cell to make way for the doctor who was followed by a male nurse pushing a trolley. “Doctor,” the guard called. “This kid is fitting and I don’t think he’s breathing.”

  “Let me get to him,” the doctor made his way to the bed. Bryn’s body was still in spasm, his lips turning blue. Blood from his nose injury was beginning to crust around his mouth and chin. “What the hell happened to him, he looks like he’s been in a car crash?” the doctor leaned over Bryn and opened his mouth to check his airway.

  “The bruising around his eyes is old, doctor. Most of the injuries were there when he arrived.”

  “Most?” the doctor retorted. “Does this blood look fresh to you?” the doctor snapped as he examined Bryn. “He’s not breathing. There’s an obstruction in his airway,” the doctor said, urgency in his voice. He pushed his fingers inside Bryn’s mouth, blood had pooled in his throat. Turning him onto his side he tried to clear the congealed fluid. Bryn didn’t draw breath. “He’s stopped breathing!” the doctor slapped Bryn hard between the shoulder blades.

  Nothing.

  Another hard slap.

  Nothing.

  He looked inside his mouth again.

  “His teeth are broken. I think he’s got teeth and blood stuck in the trachea,” he looked over his shoulder at the guards. “Is there an ambulance on the way?”

  The guards looked at each other, faces blank. “Jesus Christ has no one called an ambulance!” he snapped. “Get one called now!”

  “Go to the office and call one,” the senior guard ordered. “And tell the governor what’s going on,” he added. A guard ran off immediately.

  The doctor was running out of options. Looking into Bryn’s mouth again he shook his head and turned to the nurse. “Give me a hand lifting him up.”

  “Are you going to use the Heimlich manoeuvre?” the nurse asked panicked.

  The doctor nodded. “Three attempts and if he doesn’t respond then we’re going to have to perform a cricothyroidotomy.”

  “What is that?” a guard asked. The doctor held Bryn like a rag doll, his head hanging on his chest, arms limp, face blue. He squeezed the boy hard. His body twitched but there was no sound from Bryn’s chest, not even a gasp. He squeezed again. No reaction.

  “I need to make an incision in his throat so that we can breathe for him,” the doctor said on his last attempt at the Heimlich. Bryn flinched but didn’t respond. “Put him down on the bed, quickly now,” he said to the nurse. “How long are the paramedics going to be?”

  “Fifteen minutes at best.”

  “Okay, we have no choice now,” the doctor sighed. “There’s a blockage in his windpipe I need to bypass it or he’ll die. Does everyone understand and agree?” everyone nodded. “I need a dressing, a scalpel and two drinking straws. Can you get me some from the dining room?” A guard ran off at full speed, his footsteps reverberating from the walls.

  “How will we sterilise things?”

  “We haven’t got time. Infection is the least of his worries.”

  “Okay. What do you need?” asked the nurse.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve studied this but it is simple enough,” the doctor said nervously. He ran two fingers over Bryn’s throat. “We need to find the indentation between the Adam’s apple and the cricoidcartilage,” he muttered to himself. “Hand me the scalpel and a gauze swab.” A guard arrived in the cell door panting.

  “Here are the straws,” he puffed handing them to the nurse. The nurse wiped them with a sterile pad, the best he could do under the circumstances. The doctor took the scalpel and made a half inch incision, an inch deep. He pinched the incision and inserted his index finger to open the wound.

  “Pass me the straws,” the doctor said. He took them and inserted them into the incision. Then pushing them further, he blew into them with two sharp breaths. Bryn’s chest rose slightly with each one. “Two, three, four, five,” he whispered before doing it again. “Two, three, four, five, he’s not responding.”

  “Keep going,” the nurse said. “His face has changed
colour.”

  The doctor put his lips over the straws and breathed again. “Two, three, four, five.” A hissing noise came from the incision. Bryn began to breathe for himself.

  “You’ve done it,” the nurse sighed with relief.

  “Well done, doctor,” the senior guard said relieved.

  “Pass me the tape and a pad.” He stuck the pad around the straws and taped it into place. “Find out where the paramedics are. He needs a hospital right away.” The doctor opened Bryn’s eyes and shone his penlight at them. They didn’t respond. He knew it was nothing to do with his breathing. Something was wrong with his brain.

  35

  Braddick climbed out of the Evoque and shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets. He shivered and shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he waited for Ade Burns to catch up. The canal side industrial estate was quiet, some units derelict, some empty and up for rent. The wind blew off the canal cutting through his overcoat and the material of his trousers. He nodded a silent hello to the uniformed officers who manned the cordon and then they ducked beneath the crime scene tape and walked towards the garage. Debris was strewn across the road. He was about to speak to Ade when his phone rang. He fumbled for it from his inside pocket with cold fingers, muttering beneath his breath.

  “Braddick.”

  “DI Braddick?”

  “Yes!” he snapped, wondering if there were many other Braddicks in the ranks. “How can I help?”

  “I’m calling from the admissions department at HMP Altcourse,” the woman explained. Her voice was local, almost guttural but she was doing her best to disguise it and failing miserably. “I have a note on file to inform you of any incidents involving an inmate named Bryn Evans. The warden has asked me to call you immediately.”

  “What has happened?” Braddick stiffened. He felt his muscles tense.

  “Bryn was involved in an altercation this morning which resulted in a head injury. He’s been taken to hospital by ambulance.”

  “What condition is he in?”

  “I don’t have the details.”

  “Do you know which hospital?”

  “The warden wasn’t sure if they would take him to the Royal or the Neuro-care Centre at Walton. Apparently the paramedics were undecided.”

  “Do you know what happened?”

  “I don’t have the details.”

  “Was he attacked?”

  “I don’t know, Inspector. I don’t have...”

  “The details, I know,” Braddick quipped. “Thank you for the call. You’ve been a great help.”

  “You’re welcome, Inspector. Bye.” The line went dead and Braddick shook his head and looked up at the sky. Bryn Evans was an unusual case and he felt responsible for him.

  “Bad news, Guv?”

  “That was Altcourse calling to tell me that Bryn Evans has been shipped to hospital with a head injury,” Braddick sighed. “He’s been in some kind of altercation but the woman didn’t have the details.”

  “You’ve got to feel sorry for the poor kid. How bad is he?”

  “I don’t know but she said that the paramedics were considering taking him to the Neuro-care Centre at Walton.” The expression on Ade’s face reinforced what he was thinking himself.

  “That doesn’t sound good does it?”

  “No.” Braddick thought for a few seconds. “There’s nothing we can do about it from here. Once we’re done I’ll call and find out where he is.” He walked on towards the industrial unit.

  “There are no signs on the building, no business name anywhere,” Ade noticed.

  “There’s no CCTV anywhere either,” Braddick said looking up and down the road. “This place is out of sight and out of mind. They could be up to anything down here and no one would know. Not a camera in sight.”

  “That’s suspicious itself,” Ade stopped and kicked at a piece of broken plastic. “Nobody runs a business nowadays without surveillance. They can’t get insurance without it.”

  “Do you think this place is insured?” Braddick said with raised eyebrows.

  “I’ll be very disappointed if it isn’t,” Ade answered sarcastically. “Very disappointed indeed.”

  “Prepare to be disappointed, sergeant,” Braddick smiled. He pointed towards the canal. “I met a DI in Staffordshire last year and he reckoned that most of the heroin and cocaine that is moved south from Manchester goes by barge.”

  “It would be safer than putting them in a car I suppose,” Ade said thoughtfully. “No chance of being pulled over and searched.”

  “That was his theory. They had a three month purge on known traffickers stopping them every time they saw them on the road and didn’t find an ounce on them. He went to his DS with his suspicions that a large amount of the drugs were being brought south on the canals.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” Braddick shrugged. “They didn’t have the resources to investigate his theory and waterway laws are very different and difficult to enforce. He retired last Easter but I think he might have had a point.”

  “This place couldn’t be much closer to a canal.”

  “Makes you wonder doesn’t it,” Braddick said looking at the colourful barges that lined the far bank.

  “It does.”

  “Did Google manage to dig up anything on the owners?” Braddick asked, already knowing the answer. Experience told him that this was a chop shop and the owners would be ghosts.

  Ade shook his head, “It’s registered to an umbrella company in Bermuda. There are no directors listed here and no tax returns submitted for the address. Whatever was going on here, they made it untraceable.”

  “I’m getting pissed off with dead ends,” Braddick moaned. He looked at the hole in the side of the building. The reception was in ruins, smashed and burnt. “That is too big to be a car or a van. I’m guessing a lorry?”

  “Smash and grab?”

  “Grabbing what though?” Braddick shook his head. “I’m going to talk to Kathy before I speculate.”

  “That would make sense. I’ll shut up shall I?”

  They walked towards one of the service bay doors that had been opened, white clad technicians were walking to and fro; triangular yellow evidence markers were spotted on the ground. A group of local police officers were huddled, talking in whispers, at the far end of the service area. Kathy Brooks waved at them from inside. “Are we keeping you busy?” Braddick smiled.

  “Well,” Kathy said, hands on hips. “Your overtime bill for this month will be hefty. Come on inside. This will get your grey matter ticking.” Braddick and Ade exchanged glances. Braddick shrugged and rolled his eyes. He wasn’t sure that he wanted his grey matter ticking any faster than it was already. The local SIO waved and walked towards them.

  “DI Braddick?” he introduced himself. “I’m DI Barns. I believe this might be related to a case you’re on?”

  “It sounds like it from what I’ve been told,” Braddick nodded. “Thanks for the call. What have we got?”

  “We’ve found two bodies. Raymond Johnson was found hanged in the office upstairs. I believe he’s related to a victim you’re investigating?”

  “Yes, cousin I believe.”

  “His hands are tied behind his back so he had help,” the DI explained matter of factly. “There’s a second victim at the rear of the garage, Kathy Brooks reckons he burned to death in a gas explosion. We have no ID on him yet. The gas main was still leaking when the fire brigade arrived but the fire had blown itself out. They think that whatever crashed through the wall caused a blowback and the fire blew out. Kathy can fill you in on the rest. If you need anything else, call me.”

  “Cheers,” Braddick said with a quick handshake. He walked back to Kathy and Ade. “I’m ready when you are. What have we got so far?”

  “We’ll start over here.” Kathy walked towards a trailer to their left. At first the shape confused Braddick but as they neared it he realised that it had a container on it. The red container
had been dismantled, the sides and lid peeled back from the base. “Firstly, we have this container which has been dismantled to allow access to the hollow sections in the structure,” she said looking into one of the larger cavities. She turned around and gestured to the empty service bays. “The oil and tyre marks on the concrete are fresh. This place was full of vehicles recently but this is the only thing that was left behind.”

  “Why leave something that can be traced?” Braddick asked. “These things have trackers don’t they?”

  “No, not GPS trackers,” Kathy said shaking her head. “This one has a tracker plate. It’s like a barcode but they’re specific to individual shipping companies. We’ve run the tracker number on it but without knowing which shipping line it was on, the number is useless. We’ll get there by a process of elimination but it may take a few days.”

  “It was obviously used to smuggle something and then brought here to be dismantled.”

  “It certainly looks that way,” Kathy agreed. “We’ve swabbed the void spaces and one of them tested positive for Ketamine.”

  “Ketamine?” Braddick asked concerned. “Is it zombie?”

  “I think so,” Kathy nodded. “Whatever was used to wrap the drugs was punctured at some point, probably during the extraction.”

  “I’m guessing that this is what the Johnsons stole,” Braddick said. “This is what got them killed.”

  “And we know the Tuckers killed the Johnsons.”

  “So this is Joseph Tucker’s container.”

  Ade nodded.

  “That would certainly fit with our next find,” she said walking up the stairs to the mezzanine floor. When they reached the office, the mortuary team were recovering Ray Johnson’s body. “Ray Johnson was hung above the desk, hands tied behind his back. From the lividity and body temperature, I would say he has been dead less than twenty-four hours.” She pointed to the black body bag. “He still has his ID on him. Whoever killed him wanted us to know who he was.”

  “That is not a mistake that even the most stupid killer would make so we have to take it as intentional,” Braddick shrugged. “They left us a container that we can trace and a victim that we can identify, all pointing at Tucker.”