The Way That It Falls: DS Lasser series volume 2 (The DS Lasser series.)

by Robin Roughley

  He looked around the room, twelve months earlier the place had looked a mess. Now there were signs of a woman’s touch everywhere. The vase that had stood empty for almost two years now had flowers in it, the cushions on the sofa had been plumped and the room was dust free. He drained the glass and refilled it.

  His head full of images, all crowding in like annoying relatives at a funeral. Callum Green was as bent as they came, and seemingly, above the law, then there were pricks like Collins and Miller, running their own little empires of misery. Throwing another glass of rum down his neck, he snarled at the thought of Cathy undergoing surgery because her partner had failed to do his duty. He rubbed at his tired eyes, he had grabbed Collins but, because of one interfering cow, the animal had got away and now Cathy was in hospital.

  He eyed the bottle and then screwed the lid on before standing up and heading into the kitchen. Cathy had washed up that morning, the wine glasses and cereal bowls from the night before stacked neatly on the draining board. Placing his glass into the sink, he climbed the stairs on legs that suddenly felt unsteady.

  Falling onto the bed fully clothed he yanked out his cigarettes and wondered what Collins had been doing in Hindley. After all, he lived on the other side of Wigan, a good six miles from where he attacked Cathy. Perhaps he was looking for somewhere to lie low for a while; Lasser frowned and suddenly sat up.

  Kyle Connelly, they’d pulled him in eighteen months earlier when a boy named Billy Jones had turned up dead in a derelict farmhouse. One of the last people to see him alive had been Connelly and his motley gang of friends, including Barry Collins. Stubbing out the cigarette, he swung his legs from the bed. Connelly lived in Hindley and Cathy had been attacked less than half a mile from where the young thug lived. He glanced at the bedside cabinet, ten past one. The sensible thing to do would be to get his head down, grab a few hours’ sleep and then pay Connelly a visit in the morning. Stubbing the smoke out in the ashtray, he licked his lips, tasting the alcohol.

  An image flashed into his head, Collins lounging on Connelly’s sofa, a can of lager in one hand a fat spliff in the other, bragging about how he let the police bitch have it.

  Lasser shot from the bed, taking the stairs two at a time; a minute later he was heading out of the door and back into the freezing night.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Surprisingly, he had been unable to sleep, which in itself was an unusual phenomenon, so he had decided to keep busy. Dressed in a pair of old jeans and a washed out T-shirt it took Plymouth over two hours to clean the room, he had dragged the body out of the house and into the barn. Craig Green now lay in the corner covered in horseshit and straw, he would dispose of the body later, alternatively, he could simply leave it to rot. He smiled as he slapped white paint onto the walls obliterating the bloodstains, whistling as he worked.

  The image of Craig Green spread over someone’s garden helping the roses grow seemed quite fitting.

  When the painting was complete, he had fed his clothes into the wood burner and grabbed a quick shower, now he was dressed in clean jeans and woollen jumper.

  Callum Green was not a difficult man to understand, he’d made a name for himself in an industry that thrived on violence and mistrust. In many ways he was a stereotype, he ruled with the constant threat of violence and made examples of those who tried to cross him.

  Plymouth sipped his wine; he could see the hills through the bedroom window smothered in white. It was tempting to ring Green, twist the knife, but he knew it would be a mistake. It made sense to let him stew for a few hours, to let the enormity of his brother’s death seep into his consciousness. Plymouth was sure that Green would be at home ranting and raving, maybe smashing up the house in fury, rational thought would be beyond him. He would be busy marshalling the troops and barking out orders that would amount to nothing. Eventually, he would run down like some fevered clockwork toy and then the reality of his situation would hit home. The realisation that not everything was subject to his will would be a bitter pill to swallow.

  Placing the glass on the bedside cabinet, he looked up at the ceiling. The freezing wind howled at the small window, he could hear it blowing under the eaves.

  Hopefully, his business with Green would be completed within a week and then he could move on. Munroe wouldn’t be happy but he had never stayed in one place for more than two years and he didn’t intend making an acceptation for Charles Munroe. In many ways Munroe and Green were two sides of the same coin, he could just as easily be working for Green and terrorising Munroe.

  Closing his eyes, he conjured up the image of Craig in the last seconds of his life; the way his eyes had sprang open when he saw the gun. The enormity of what was going to happen had flashed across his face and then he had closed his eyes as if accepting the inevitable.

  Plymouth stood up, he was tired, but you had to make the most of these long winter nights. Slipping on his thick coat and walking boots he headed outside, a storm cock, smiling in the teeth of a howling storm.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Jimmy looked at his wife with a sneer of disgust. Ever since she had come off the phone, she had been crying and wailing, now a trail of snot dangled from her nose, her eyes puffy with tears.

  She sat on the edge of the sofa her hands constantly on the move, twisting together and then springing apart as if the heat they generated was too much to bear.

  Jesus Christ, she was such a drama queen. It wasn’t as if she had even liked her brother, as far as Jimmy was concerned one less Green in the world could only be a good thing. Sipping a glass of wine, he looked at her over the rim. ‘I mean, come on, Tammy, pull yourself together.’

  She swiped a hand across her nose and looked at her husband in disbelief. ‘My brother's been killed and you tell me to pull myself together.’

  Jimmy frowned. ‘Don’t give me that, you hated the man...’

  ‘I didn’t hate him,’ she looked at him with a bemused expression. ‘Why would you say something like that?'

  ‘Because it’s the truth, Craig was a waste of space and you know it.’

  Tammy leapt up in anger. ‘Don’t you dare say that!’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ he hissed, his eyes darkening with anger. If there was one thing he hated it was a mouthy woman.

  She glared at him before collapsing back onto the sofa, this time when she started to cry the tears were for herself, rather than her dead brother. Callum had warned her that the marriage wouldn’t last. In fact, he’ d tried to persuade her not to go ahead with the wedding, but she'd been young and being a Green meant she had a stubborn streak that had served her well in the past, but was now her worst enemy. No one in the family knew about the beatings, if Callum ever found out then he would kill Jimmy, it was as simple as that. There would be no reasoning with him, no last minute reprieve and even though she hated her husband, she knew she would be unable to live with the fact that she was responsible for his death.

  As soon as they’d married, Jimmy had changed, screaming abuse at her about the way Callum belittled him. At first, she’d tried to laugh it off, saying he was imagining things and that it was merely Callum’s way and for a while it had worked. Then Jimmy had started to sniff coke and things had spiralled out of control, the shouting had turned to pushing, the pushing to hitting. Now her life consisted of moving around the house like a ghost, trying simply to keep out of his way.

  Callum had sounded devastated on the phone and she fought the urge to go straight around there to see him. Her eyes flicked toward the front door and Jimmy’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Don’t even think about it.’

  ‘I need to see him, to make sure he’s alright.’

  ‘He’s a big boy, I’m sure he’ll cope.’ Jimmy stood up and grabbed the bottle of Vodka from the cupboard. Inwardly Tammy groaned, he was bad enough when he’d had a few beers, but Vodka always brought out the worst of his temper. ‘Did ‘wonder boy’ say how he died?’

  She glared at his back; he wo
uldn’t dare to say that to her brother’s face. He was the sort of man who nodded and smiled at everything Callum said. At first, he'd tried to ingratiate himself into the family, but Cal had seen through him, seen the sly snivelling man beneath the façade, and kept him at arm’s length.

  ‘Are you listening to me?’

  Tammy looked up as he moved towards her, bottle in hand.

  ‘What?’

  He lashed out, cuffing the top of her head; she pushed herself back onto the sofa, bringing her legs up to her chest.

  ‘Jimmy, don’t,’ she peeped out from beneath hands that covered her head, the age-old stance of the victim.

  Jimmy looked down at her in disgust and then swiped a hand beneath his reddened nose; his eyes appeared huge and glassy, roaming around the room as if he was finding it impossible to keep focus.

  Tilting his head, he took another chug on the bottle, she watched as his Adam’s apple rose and fell.

  Tammy screwed her eyes up in despair, the whole thing went round in a circle and unless she found the nerve to break it then the abuse would simply carry on. Some days she had found herself staring into space trying to think of a way to solve the conundrum. Trying to turn back the clock to a time when she had been so in love with Jimmy that she would have done anything for him.

  ‘I said how did your shit of a brother die?’

  Tammy swallowed her anger. ‘He didn’t say,’ she whispered.

  ‘Bet some cunt’s smashed him up down some backstreet, whoever it is deserves a medal,’ he leered down at her, happy with his quip.

  She chewed her lower lip, her hands clenched into fists.

  ‘Why don’t you go to bed, you’re drunk.’ As soon as she said it she realised it was a mistake. His face clouded over, his eyes suddenly seemed to find focus and he glared at her.

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do. I take enough shit from that brother of yours, but I don’t have to put up with it from the likes of you.’

  ‘I’m sorry...’

  Another long pull on the bottle, the clear liquid sloshed back and forth like angry waves on a beach. It was as if he was suddenly finding it difficult to stand up straight, his shoulders slumped and he began to weave slightly from side to side.

  When Cal had offered to give Jimmy a job in the office of the haulage company, Tammy had hoped it would somehow bring them closer together. In truth, it had the opposite effect; Cal had told her on more than one occasion that Jimmy was useless. He couldn’t seem to grasp the simplest of tasks, he had no head for figures and he rubbed the drivers up the wrong way. Now he seemed to spend his days making coffee and answering the phone, no more than a glorified charlady.

  ‘Yeah well, it seems as if someone wants you lot out of the way doesn’t it? The ‘Green clan’ are being fucked over and there’s nothing your big brother can do about it.’

  Tammy frowned, for a moment the fear she felt evaporated as his words sunk in.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well first the wicked witch of the west cops it and now your brother gets wiped out…’

  ‘What happened to my Grandmother was a terrible accident...’

  ‘Yeah well, it sounds like what happened to Craig wasn’t.’

  Tammy had an urge to ring Callum, to find out exactly what had happened, but she knew Jimmy would be across the room before she could reach the phone and then...

  ‘Just imagine, Tammy, some nutter out there killing members of your family.’

  She could see the delight smeared across his face, a kind of demented light radiating from his eyes, as if he found the whole idea thrilling.

  Before she could stop to think, all her natural anger swept to the surface.

  ‘You bastard, you think this is funny? Well, let’s see if you’re still smiling when I tell Callum what you said!’

  The bottle slipped from his fingers and fell onto the shag pile rug, the last of the Vodka glugging into the white weave.

  Jimmy took an unsteady step forward, his face overwhelmed with fury.

  Tammy bolted for the door.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Suzi snapped awake. Freezing cold, the gnawing pain in her stomach had intensified and she started to shiver, her teeth clattering together, hands shaking. She stood up and the snow slid from the shoulders of her coat, falling to the ground with a soft thump. Every part of her ached and her legs felt numb with cold, picking up the bag she hobbled back to the High Street.

  Apart from the fast food outlets, all the shops were closed, the street virtually deserted. Wrapping the scarf tight around her neck, Suzi headed into the nearest cafe. Five minutes later, she was back on the street with a burger clasped in her hand. She took small bites as she walked, chewing each piece slowly hoping that the food would somehow drive the craving away. Like a wounded animal walks to escape the pain, she kept her head down and trudged through the snow. If she came across a junction, she didn’t stop to think about which way she should go, left or right it didn’t matter, the important thing was to keep moving.

  When she eventually stopped and looked up, it was with a sense of total bewilderment, her breath hissed out over frozen lips. Graffiti Art was in darkness, mesh grills covered the windows segmenting the transfers beneath. She snapped her eyes to the window above; the small pokey window was a black square of grimy glass. It was as if she had walked the streets on autopilot, her mind had been elsewhere, but some internal homing device had kicked in and brought her back to the one place she had never wanted to see again.

  She spun around, determined this time to get away from this place, she would get on a train this time, would start to make a new life for herself. Then she remembered the stash of gear she had kept hidden beneath a loose floorboard. Every time Barry had left her a small bag of coke, she had spooned out a tiny amount and dropped it into a cigarette box.

  Suzi licked her lips, the scared voice inside telling her to go, to run, any second Barry could walk around the corner and then... she shuddered at the prospect. Despite her fear, Suzi found herself walking down the narrow alleyway. Standing at the foot of the metal fire escape, the smell from the bins cloying, she hesitated and then began to climb, home at last.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  The High Street was like glass. Lasser gingerly pulled away from the traffic lights, the wheels fighting for grip, the steering unresponsive in his hands.

  Turning left, he crawled up the deserted street; the mishmash of shops seemed to loom over the road as if hunkered down to get out of the worst of the weather. All the lights in the windows extinguished, leaving only a black and white world. It was as if time was unravelling, revealing the true squalor of the town with its crumbling brickwork and skewed chimneys, sitting atop roofs warped with age. Discarded pizza boxes and paper bags were scattered along the pavement, mixed with empty cans and bottles.

  Lasser popped into second gear and eased down on the accelerator, the tail of the car slithered as the wheels fought for grip. The silhouetted church loomed out of the snow, a bright banner proclaiming that ’Jesus saves’ fluttered over the doorway. Slowing to a crawl, he eased over the mini roundabout and headed out toward the Lancaster Road estate. The heater was on full, sending out a pulsing wave of heat that suddenly left him feeling queasy. Lasser eased the window down a fraction, his mouth dry, his head foggy from lack of sleep.

  The scruffy parade of shops were in darkness, battered shutters covered the windows of the Co-op, shining like gunmetal in the moonlight.

  Five minutes later, he crunched to a halt and looked at Connelly’s house, the front door had a pane of glass missing; a piece of plywood covered the gap.

  In the summertime the grass in the garden would stand over three feet tall, the borders a tangled mass of weeds. Now in the grip of a harsh winter, the grass had died back revealing a lumpy lawn of white snow. A pair of soiled curtains covered the front window. Lasser glanced at the neighbour’s house, a neon ‘Merry Christmas’ sign flashed on and off in the window, a woo
den placard asking Santa to ‘stop here’ had been driven into the snow by the side of the front door.

  Sighing, he switched off the engine and pushed the door open, the icy wind lashed at his hands and face, fat snowflakes swirled all around. Reaching over to the back seat, Lasser lifted out his winter coat and stood at the roadside fighting with the wind as he tried to slip his arms into the sleeves.

  When he looked up, he spotted the figure standing on the curb twenty yards away looking directly at him. Pulling up the zip, Lasser started to walk towards him, after he’d covered half the distance the shadow turned and bolted. Shooting across the road, he slipped through the gap in the railings of the school before dashing across a stretch of open ground toward the dark bulk of the building.

  Lasser took off after him, cursing as he tried to squeeze though the gap in the fence, the bulk of his jacket making it an impossible fit. Snarling in frustration, he leapt for the top of the railings, the metal sticky with ice. Dragging himself over, Lasser landed on the opposite side in a flurry of snow.

  The school had been built in the seventies, a sprawling edifice of glass and concrete, snow reflected off the dirty panes of glass, his breath billowing out in a cloud. Looking down, he allowed himself a tight smile, the footsteps of the runner were easy to see, deep indents in the crisp white snow. Lasser set off in pursuit, keeping his eyes on the tracks. In the shadow of the building, the temperature seemed to plummet and he shivered as a blast of icy wind slithered inside his clothing. Easing his way around the corner, he saw the figure ploughing across the school field, a vast stretch of open land, earmarked for sale to a supermarket chain. He watched as the man stopped for a moment, resting against a lopsided goal post. Lasser set off running, closing the gap to thirty feet before the runner looked over his shoulder and set off again.