by Nick Oldham
Anderson smiled. He had blood on his teeth. He looked like something from a cheap horror movie, but the worst of it was that this was real life and the blood on the teeth was Henry’s.
Anderson’s right hand went to his left sleeve. Henry had a quick and awful premonition ... he was right.
A huge knife slid out of the sleeve.
Henry’s heart sank. The cunt was really well prepared for the worst. It was one of those quasi-military style knives where the handle was actually a knuckle duster and the blade was pretty damned near a scythe.
‘Give up. . . Give up now,’ Henry croaked hoarsely between rasping breaths. ‘There’ll be a dozen cops here soon and when they see that thing in your hand they’ll blow you away. You’ll be dead, I promise you, Terry.’
Anderson flexed his fingers in the knuckleduster and his grip tightened on the handle.
Henry prepared himself to be skewered.
From behind him came a sound he would never have believed he would be relieved to hear.
A weapon being cocked.
Anderson looked up past Henry’s shoulder and the smile dropped off his face.
‘Armed police! Drop your weapon!’
The cavalry had arrived.
Chapter Seventeen
Munrow remained in an exceptionally bad mood as he constantly reviewed yesterday’s proceedings. He could not even begin to get over the way he’d been treated by Rider.
Left out on the moors in the middle of nowhere. Naked. Todmorden? Where the fuck was that? Freezing his bollocks off, having to undergo the torment and humiliation of trying to find an ignition key in a fucking snowdrift. Could have died of hypothermia. Then having to drive all the way back to his woman’s house, covered in an oily car blanket, cowering down all the time, hoping no one would see him, or the cops pulled him. How in the name of shit would he have explained that to a Wooden Top?
So embarrassing.
He had been made to look a complete fool.
And nobody made Munrow look a fool. No one. No cunt got away with that - uninjured.
He sat brooding in a pub in the town centre of Preston, a pint of Thwaites Mild in his hand, waiting for the woman to turn up.
They had arranged to meet here so she could take him shopping for a new set of clothes befitting a free man. She had a rich husband in the oil business and a credit card with a ten thousand limit on it. The trap of an unhappy marriage made het: want to spend to the hilt and, basically, stick two fingers up at Hubby who she knew was having it away in Saudi.
Munrow knew little about her, other than she was one of the prison visitors. Unpaid, doing it for a social service. She’d easily fallen under his powerful aura to the extent that they’d even contrived to screw in the prison classroom once, when he’d rear-ended her over a table.
He did not want to know very much about her. All he wanted from her was enough sex to see him through the post-prison rampant stage and then money.
One of his plans that afternoon was to induce her to make a substantial withdrawal and hand every penny over to him. Wham, bam, thank you, silly cow. He needed the money to payoff the men who had helped him cause mayhem in Conroy’s clubs the other night. They were cheap to hire.
He took a big swig of his beer. His mind skipped to Conroy who, he imagined, would be shitting himself at that moment. Munrow’s show of uncompromising strength would have worried him badly and he would no message across very clearly: Munrow was here to stay. He was back and wanted a chunk of the action.
Over the weekend he planned to hit some of Conroy’s council-estate distribution houses in East Lancashire ... then maybe there could be some talk. Or if the mood took him, he might just move his men into one of Conroy’s Manchester clubs and take the place over. No talk. No fucking about. Yeah, he might do that.
It could be as simple as that.
As for Rider ... that bastard would really suffer.
‘Hello, sweetheart.’ There was a tap on Munrow’s shoulder. It was his woman. He had to admit she was - or had been - drop dead gorgeous. And she was cracking in bed. Amazing what a shit of a husband can do to a woman.
But deep down, Munrow sneered contemptuously at her. Naive, stupid cow. Didn’t realise she was going to be screwed - in more ways than one.
For the time being he was going to play along. He hadn’t satisfied himself sexually yet and those years behind bars had made him crave for it. He was going to have his fill before he robbed her blind, then dumped her broke.
He slid his arm round her slim waist and squeezed her breast. She bent down and kissed him hard on the mouth, breaking off eventually with a gasp.
‘How are you feeling, darling?’
‘Fine, got myself together now. Are you OK?’
‘Yes, yes, thanks for asking.’
She had been on the verge of hysteria when he got back from his trip to Todmorden. At least she hadn’t called the cops. He reassured her it was all one big mistake and things were fine. The less she knew the better. She had swallowed his cock and bull story and it was only when they both shared a hot shower and she knelt down in front of him and swallowed his cock and spunk did she really calm down.
After a few hours’ sleep, Munrow had then scoured Manchester for the only person who knew exactly where he had been. The only person who could have given Rider the information about his whereabouts.
Toni Thomas, the bitch.
It was a waste of time. Toni was very noticeable by his/her absence.
‘So, Debenhams? Burtons? Where do you fancy?’
Munrow came back to the present. He shrugged. ‘Anywhere. You’re buying, babe.’
The adrenalin ebbed out of Henry’s body to be replaced by suffering.
He eased the protective vest carefully over his head - carefully because he did not want to knock his ear which was hanging off - laid it to one side and looked unwillingly down at his chest where the bullet from the mini-Uzi had struck his sternum.
There was a revolting, circular, deep purple mark with a single black spot at its centre which looked like he’d been struck by a hammer. When he breathed, he recoiled involuntarily. Jesus, he could not believe how painful it was. It gripped his sternum like a clawed fist. He was certain it must be cracked.
And his ear. His lovely ear. Bitten off by a madman. They estimated ten stitches to get it back on.
He was sitting on the edge of a bed in a cubicle in the casualty department of the Royal Lancaster Infirmary, a curtain drawn across. He removed the remaining items of his clothing, shoes, socks, jeans and underpants, shaking each item of clothing to try and dislodge the fragments of glass which had got into them and were slowly skinning him.
He was giving his underpants a very thorough shaking when the curtain was swished back. Siobhan appeared.
‘Henry. Can’t you wait?’
He couldn’t help but smile. She withdrew tactfully and he called her in when he was half-decent, sat there in his Y-fronts.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘The glass, you know?’
‘How are you?’
‘Shaken and stirred. How ‘bout you?’
‘I’ll survive,’ she said bravely. Henry could see that in spite of her smiles and the outwardly ‘couldn’t give a toss’ attitude, she had actually been terrified when Anderson had opened up and the firearms officer had fallen next to her.
She took in a long deep breath. ‘At least Dave’s all right, though his shoulder is a real mess. He’ll have pretty restricted movement in it.’
‘I’ll go and see him once I’m sorted out.’
They regarded each other for a moment. Siobhan’s eyes took in Henry’s bloodied, dangling ear, then lowered to inspect the other injury on his chest. ‘That looks awful,’ she grimaced.
‘I know. Feels like I’ve been hit by a truck.’
‘No, not that,’ she said wickedly. ‘Your beer belly.’
They caught each other’s eye and burst into laughter - which Henry couldn’t handle because
it made him cringe in agony.
The amusement was curtailed when a fairly fearsome-looking nurse stepped into the cubicle, pushing a trolley bearing an assortment of trays, instruments, dressings and needles.
‘I’ve come to clean your ear up. The doctor wants to sew it back on. He’ll be here shortly.’
Henry was discharged two hours later, having had an X-ray which showed nothing broken, had his ear re-fitted and visited the firearms officer who had taken the bullet. The guy was in great pain, but stoical about the injury. He was about to go into surgery.
Henry also made a quick call home, told Kate briefly what had happened and that – God willing – he would be home as soon as possible. Bad as he felt, Henry wanted to get into Anderson’s ribs.
Siobhan drove him down to Lancaster police station in the surveillance van. She found a space on the lower parking area. Anderson’s Shogun had been seized and was parked in one corner of the yard.
‘I drove it up,’ Siobhan explained, ‘but it hasn’t been searched yet. I thought perhaps you’d want to do that.’
Henry frowned doubtfully, then dismissed the thought that it should have been searched already. He happily accepted that she believed he would want to supervise a thorough search of the vehicle. She handed him the keys to it, then they climbed out of the van and walked to the Shogun.
‘Oooh, I could do with a wee,’ she declared. ‘You get on with it, Henry, if you like. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve found a loo.’
She dashed off to the entrance to the Custody Office and was buzzed in through the security door, leaving Henry alone with the keys and the car. Thinking nothing of the situation, he inserted a key into the back door and turned it. As the door opened, Henry saw that a travel rug was laid out over something in the back.
He tugged it off and what was revealed made him puff his cheeks out in disbelief.
One sawn-off shotgun - an Italian SPAS 12.
And two mini-Uzis.
He did not touch them, merely stared at them in amazement. These were the last things he realistically expected to find in the back of Anderson’s vehicle - the tools of his trade and quite possibly the guns responsible for killing Geoff Driffield and five other innocent people. How could the man be so stupid?
‘What’ve you found?’ Siobhan reappeared behind Henry’s shoulder, peeked into the Shogun and was awestruck by the discovery. She hissed the words, ‘Pure gold,’ into Henry’s good ear. ‘If these guns tied up ballistically. . .’ She did not need to say anything else.
Henry stayed silent, blinking at how easy it had been.
He called in a firearms officer to handle the weapons and disarm them as necessary, then after a full search of the Shogun which revealed nothing else, the guns were booked into the property store and locked in a safe.
DI Gallagher and DS Tattersall arrived at the station as Henry was about to have an initial interview with Anderson.
‘Well done, you two,’ Gallagher said to them. ‘We need to thoroughly debrief what went on and, of course, go through the post-incident procedures for firearms incidents and consider counselling where necessary.’
He looked knowingly at Henry here, who, following a previous firearms incident had suffered a nervous breakdown caused by post-traumatic stress. Henry was fine at the moment but he knew these things had a habit of creeping up on people and addling their brains when they least expected it. He thought that Siobhan might benefit from counselling, although he didn’t suggest it. The choice rested with the individual.
‘What you need to do now is get your statement done,’ Gallagher told him.
‘We were going to chat to him now,’ Henry said.
Gallagher shook his head. ‘Bad practice. Me and Jim’ll do that. We’ve been involved from day one. It’s our pigeon.’
‘It should be down to us,’ Henry persisted.
‘No - and that’s final. You’ve done a good job, now leave it be and let someone else take it over.’
Henry’s nostrils flared. He was getting angry. He put a lid on it and nodded. ‘Did the other targets get arrested?’
‘Two locked up, one still outstanding. They are in custody in Blackpool. We intend to interview Anderson up here though, then take him to Blackpool. They’ll be in court on Monday morning. Look, you’ve both done a superb job today,’ Gallagher concluded. ‘Get the paperwork done, then go home, relax, do whatever you fancy. Enjoy yourselves.’
The men’s clothing department in Debenhams, Preston, is in the basement. There was a vast array of clothes to choose from. Mind-boggling, really.
Munrow’s mind was totally boggled. He had already been treated to about six hundred pounds’ worth of gear from other shops in Preston and was therefore loaded with bags crammed to bursting with shirts, ties, trousers, jeans, shoes and chic sporting gear, and was frankly completely pissed-off. He stuck with it because he had not yet induced the woman to make that cash withdrawal he so desperately wanted. When she did and the money was in his fist, the shopping would come to an abrupt end.
He took a glance at his watch. Almost four. He groaned angrily. ‘We’ve missed the banks.’
She gave him a patronising look. ‘No, we haven’t, sweetie.’
‘But they close at half-past three!’
‘You have been away a long time,’ she chided him gently. ‘Five o’clock now, mostly.’ She took a breath and her eyes flickered a once-over. ‘You really need a suit.’
They browsed through the tailoring department, Munrow glumly at her heels. His body language mirrored his state of mind. Fed up with shopping, impatient for her to get her money out. Shoulders slumped. Dragging his feet. Stifling yawns between scowling at her back. He was like a husband being hauled around. He also felt ludicrously out of place.
‘I’d really like you to get some bespoke tailoring,’ he heard her saying ahead of him. ‘Fit you out in a really nice, made-to-measure suit. But that’ll have to wait. For now, how about a couple off the peg?’
She stopped, turned unexpectedly, a broad smile of pleasure on her lovely lips. Her indulgence was making her extremely happy and at the moment she did not care who knew about it, or saw them. Even her husband.
Munrow thought he had changed his expression in time, but he was wrong.
‘You’re tired, aren’t you, lovey?’ she said sympathetically, misreading the signs. ‘This is the last stop, promise. Then we’ll book into the Post House and have a fashion show. And then we shall fuck.’ She said those last five words in a dark, husky whisper. ‘How about that?’
‘Sounds good’
‘Now, what about this one?’ She unhooked a suit off the rail and held it up against him.
They finished the reports in about an hour, sitting in the CID office in Lancaster.
It was four o’clock. Henry was having trouble keeping awake. The week had shattered him anyway, but now his sore body and soul was the icing on the cake.
He yawned and slouched back in the chair, glancing very quickly through the statement he’d concocted.
‘You look whacked, Henry,’ Siobhan said softly. She was sitting on the other side of the desk, gazing at him.
‘I admit it. Been a long week.’
Yes, it had.
Beginning with kneeing Shane Mulcahy in the nuts last Saturday evening and ending here, almost a full week later, having been shot. And in between, what had there been? The murders in the newsagents. The dead girl on the beach. Boris the gorilla - Christ, he’d forgotten about the gorilla. The chase with Dundaven after Nina had been shot (Christ, he’d almost forgotten about her too). McNamara. Degsy dying. Long hours. Meeting John Rider for the first time. Virtually no sleep. Dead cops, injured primates. Gun finds and fights. Helicopters. Arguments with Kate. The NWOCS. Being teamed up with Siobhan Robson. That kiss ... which seemed to make it all worthwhile.
Henry’s back was to the door. Siobhan looked past him and nodded at someone entering the office.
It was Gallagher, having completed the
first interview with Anderson, who was being represented by a duty solicitor. Not surprisingly he’d said nothing. The interview sessions with him were going to be long and drawn-out, like pulling teeth, only much more painful. Henry was glad now that it was someone else’s problem. He enjoyed interviewing suspects but all his energy had drained out.
Gallagher told them how difficult Anderson was being, but he wasn’t worried. ‘He’ll be well stitched-up by the time we’ve finished,’ he said. It transpired that a search of Anderson’s flat had produced a Dolce & Gabbana T-shirt, a pair of two-tone shoes and a white pork-pie hat. Exactly the gear the gang had been wearing on the robberies.
The term ‘stitched-up’ left Henry somewhat cold. It had ominous overtones and wasn’t a world away from ‘fitting-up’. Falsifying evidence and other such illegal practices was a road that Henry would never go down. He believed it was his job to find evidence, root it out, even if the way he found it was occasionally off-centre. He had never resorted to anything underhand. He was just too straight.
Maybe ‘stitched-up’ was simply one of Gallagher’s favoured phrases and meant nothing. Henry let it pass. It would soon come back to haunt him.
‘Right, Henry, time to go home now,’ said Gallagher. He swapped a quick glance with Siobhan which Henry caught but did not comprehend. A furrowed brow, a questioning look, a brief nod to each other, then the DI said, ‘Oh, I forgot. That surveillance van needs to go back to Blackburn. Siobhan, do you mind? Henry - sorry, pal. The other team’ll need it tonight. Pick up one of the other cars to get you home.’
‘Sure, boss,’ she said.
‘Henry?’
‘No problem,’ he said wearily. However, the prospect of a trip all the way to Blackburn before heading home to Blackpool was fairly daunting. It would add at least ninety minutes to the journey time - on a good day - and this was a Friday, rush hour. Yuk! He was beginning to need his bed desperately.
‘I like that one, I really do,’ she said admiringly, a thoughtful finger on her chin, pretty head tilted to one side. ‘It makes you look sexy.’
