Unforgiving

by Nick Oldham

  Jackie faced him with her eyes blazing. ‘You get your facts straight before you start alleging anything,’ she growled. ‘Your wife suspects you of cheating on her, and from what she told me, she’s probably right – but I hope she isn’t, Jake. Not for your sake, but for hers and the kids, because she’s my friend and I love her.’

  ‘The custody record …’

  ‘She asked me, OK? But I didn’t. I didn’t even look at it, because as much as she’s my mate, I won’t get involved. I’m on her side, but I won’t get in trouble with work by copying confidential documents.’ She jabbed him in the chest with her forefinger. It hurt. ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree, mate, and if you give me hassle, I’ll frickin’ have you, OK?’

  Jake pushed himself off the banister and started to walk down the stairs.

  ‘She loves you, so don’t you screw it up!’ Jackie called after him.

  His face was a red storm as he hurtled down, the air pressure drop making his ears pop as he descended. He pushed his way through to the lower-floor garage where Dave Morton was waiting impatiently for him in the Ford Galaxy. He dropped on to the front passenger seat.

  ‘Where’s your coffee?’ Morton asked.

  ‘Decided against it … C’mon, let’s roll.’

  The main offices of the Force Major Investigation Team are situated at police headquarters at Hutton, but Henry also had a cramped satellite office at Blackpool nick from which he had a view of the rear of the Sea Life Centre and beyond to Blackpool Tower. He wasn’t quite high enough to see the Irish Sea.

  After dealing with Wayne Oxford, Henry made his way to this office, which he kept securely locked, mainly because his coffee-making equipment had a habit of going AWOL if he didn’t. He filled his filter machine with water from a tap in the nearby toilets, heaped a couple of spoonfuls of ground coffee into it and set it to burble away.

  Then he sat at his desk in the cramped accommodation and got his act together for the day ahead.

  He had some breathing space with Wayne Oxford, but he intended to touch base with the grieving parents of the young lad Oxford had murdered. At least he would be telling them some good news about the arrest and charge. He wanted to ring them first and make an appointment to see them at their home.

  Next he had to pull together a small team to look into the shooting incident from last night. The offender – who Henry assumed was Fraser Worthington (and he knew what assumptions did) – had got clean away, but Henry wanted to get someone to review any CCTV footage that was available in the vicinity of the incident, rippling out as far as the motorway.

  He also needed to do a welfare check on the firearms officers who had been in the surveillance van: see how they were, if they needed counselling. From the conversations he’d had with them at the time, they’d seemed shocked but generally OK, but the implications might have sunk in overnight, and they could all be nervous wrecks now. It was his job to ensure they were OK.

  He also had work to do on Sophie Leader’s tragic death. A local detective sergeant was dealing with that, but Henry wanted to spend time with him and go to see her family, too.

  And on the subject of Fraser Worthington … Henry sighed, wondering how best to take that forward.

  Clearly, Worthington did not possess the weapons that Oxford had been holding for him, but would that make any difference to any plans he had to kick off a robbing spree? Henry had been brought up to believe that prevention was better than cure, so with that in mind he decided to track Worthington down and arrest him on any airy-fairy pretence he could, which would probably come to nothing, but might just scare him off by leaving him in the certain knowledge that the cops were watching him.

  On which note he picked up his desk phone and contacted the surveillance unit for an update. A couple of watchers were back in the vicinity of Worthington’s flat in Skem and confirmed that the Alfa was still outside and there had been no sign of a motorbike.

  Henry ended that call thoughtfully, after which he called Jamie Turner’s parents. There was no reply, so he left a message for them to call him, or he’d just call back later.

  He spun on his chair and poured himself a freshly filtered coffee, which tasted very nice. When he spun back, Rik Dean was just entering the room, clutching Wayne Oxford’s file, which was expanding quickly.

  ‘Help yourself,’ Henry told him, and Rik poured a mug of the steaming brew before plonking himself down on the chair opposite Henry.

  Henry regarded Rik – a man he’d known for a long time – thoughtfully. Rik had started off as a PC on the beat, who had been a great thief-taker. Henry had seen this and had nurtured him and got him on to CID, where he was an outstanding detective. However, Rik’s subsequent rise through the ranks had been entirely his own doing, as had the fact that he was also due to become Henry’s brother-in-law very soon when he married Lisa, Henry’s sister. And God help them both, Henry had often thought, as both of them had a history of wicked ways, but their yin and yang seemed to have cancelled this out, and they now seemed a well-suited couple, after some teething troubles. Rik had even shown some interest in getting wed at the Tawny Owl.

  Henry declared, ‘Fraser Worthington is a cunning bastard.’

  Rik nodded. ‘Which is why he never gets caught.’

  ‘He evades a surveillance team, disappears for a few hours, then reappears – supposedly back at his mum’s flat.’

  ‘Although we don’t know for sure if he is there.’

  ‘And not being able to confirm that was a mistake on my part – I’m giving myself a mental kick in the arse. I should’ve got someone to knock on his door.’

  ‘You can’t cover all bases … and it wouldn’t have proved anything if he wasn’t there,’ Rik said reasonably, sipping his coffee.

  Henry touched his shotgun ravaged ear, drawing the tip of his forefinger along the ragged edge, not terribly reassured by Rik’s comment. Inside, he was furious with himself. ‘Then some biker turns up and shoots holes in the police van …’

  ‘Just glad he didn’t spot me,’ Rik said.

  ‘He would definitely have shot you, that’s for sure.’ Henry smiled. ‘It’s got to be Fraser, hasn’t it?’ Henry sniffed. ‘It has to be linked to the weapons. It has to be Fraser,’ he repeated.

  ‘Unlikely we’ll ever prove it, though. All sorts of things have to slot into place for that to happen: ballistics – I mean, CSI haven’t even found the bullets yet; forensics; the bike turning up; admissions of guilt …’

  ‘Doesn’t mean we don’t try though … I’m just lucky three cops aren’t dead or seriously injured.’ Henry exhaled. ‘Fuckin’ hell, Rik! Close shave, as Wallace would say. At this juncture I think we need some quality time with Fraser so we can whisper into his shell, like—’ and here, Henry touched his ripped ear again, which did bear some resemblance to a clam shell – ‘and give him the hard word.’

  Henry’s mobile phone rang. He answered it. ‘Ah, Mrs Turner, thanks so much for returning my call …’ It was the murdered boy’s mother.

  Anna Niven was dumbfounded by just how dreadful she was feeling. Occasionally, over the years of her marriage she had wondered what it would be like if Jake ever cheated on her, and in those few and far between moments of contemplation she had thought she would be upset – obviously – but would not feel that everything around her, inside and out, would collapse.

  Her whole body had become dithery, a mushy mess. Each and every organ within seemed to have rotted away to jelly. Her heart and lungs were liquid as she tried to comprehend what she believed to be the confirmation of her suspicions.

  Her skull pounded; her arms and legs felt as empty as a vacuum. She had lost all her strength, mentally and physically – because she knew it was true.

  The trapped look in Jake’s eyes was the ultimate giveaway – that, and his instant, defensive demand to know where she had got the custody record from. That she had it would have only mattered if Jake had been innocent, and he would have been justified in
complaining.

  But she knew he wasn’t.

  From that moment, after throwing the rolled-up custody record at him, she had got out of the house as quickly as possible, did not want to be anywhere near him, did not even want to set eyes on him. She’d had to run because her brain had become a rushing, white-water torrent.

  She left the house before Jake got out of the shower and drove to the seafront, then headed south through Blackpool to St Annes, where she went to the Beach Café again and ordered coffee. She sat at a table with a good view through a dip in the sand dunes to the sea, which seemed a very long way out. Miles.

  How could it hurt so much, she wanted to know.

  She sat there for a very long time.

  Her mobile phone rang. She had expected it to be Jake, but the number was withheld and she almost did not answer. It could be Jake calling from work.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Babe … it’s me, Jackie … Are you all right?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Cos I’ve just had a head-to-head with your very irate hubby in the canteen here at the nick.’

  ‘Shit. What’s he said?’

  ‘He accused me over the custody record or something. Called me a marriage wrecker.’

  ‘Fuck … I’m so sorry, hon.’

  ‘Are you OK? That’s all I’m bothered about.’

  ‘I’m fine … It’s all gone, y’know?’ Anna stood up abruptly and walked out of the café, immediately hit by the buffeting, chill wind channelling through the sand dunes from the sea. With the phone clamped to her ear, she stood with her face into the wind, letting it blow her hard as she told her story to Jackie.

  For the first two hours of their tour of duty, the two officers did not speak or, where possible, even look at each other.

  Jake was churning over the events of the day so far. First his rude awakening with a custody record shoved in his face, then his stupid encounter with Jackie and her response, which had seemed to be the truth. Jackie was the sort who was brutally honest to the point of stupidity, and if she had given the photocopy to Anna, Jake was pretty sure she would have said so and, metaphorically, shoved it in his face too. Jackie Powers took no prisoners in that respect.

  When he’d worked this out, Jake’s eyes turned slowly to Dave Morton.

  It was good to let it all out to Jackie, even if she had done much the same only recently. She was a good listener, sounding board, and didn’t make any rash suggestions, such as ‘kick him out’, or ‘move yourself and the kids out and live with your mum’, or ‘move in with me’. For all her experiences with men, Jackie knew how important Anna’s marriage was to her, and her advice was to take it one step at a time, keep talking. Only if that failed should she kick the cheating son of a bitch out.

  After the conversation Anna got back into her car, feeling slightly more with it, and drove down to Lytham, the quieter, genteel neighbour of St Annes, where she decided to mooch around the shops, get a breakfast and work out a strategy.

  It sounded businesslike. In reality, it was fragmented and hazy.

  She parked in the pay and display car park near to the windmill on the seafront and strolled into the town. As she did she started feeling light-headed again. Walking was hard as, once more, her emotions began to shroud her like a kidnapper’s mask.

  It had been a quiet morning and, unusually, the ARV driven by Morton was not deployed on any jobs. Consequently, their patrolling was more of an aimless drift around, untargeted. Out of the blue, Morton announced that he fancied a drive out to Warton on the Ribble Estuary to park up near British Aerospace and see if any of the European Fighter Jets that were being built and developed there were doing any test flights that morning. There were a few spots on the surrounding country lanes which were good viewing sites for both nerds and the occasional curious folk.

  At the moment of that decision, Morton was driving down Squires Gate Lane past Blackpool Airport. At the lights he turned left on to Clifton Drive and went south, passing the demolished holiday camp in which Wayne Oxford had been arrested.

  Jake had looked slyly at Morton a few times, slowly building up courage to ask about the custody record.

  At the exact moment he chose to accuse him, the comms operator – who happened to be Jackie Powers – urgently called up all patrols.

  From that point on, the lives of several people, including Jake and Anna Niven, Wayne Oxford and Fraser Worthington, and Dave Morton and Henry Christie, would never be the same again.

  Some would die; others would be forever affected by the events of the next hour.

  TEN

  ‘How are we doing, boys?’ Fraser Worthington glanced at the three young men in the car – the driver and two back seat passengers – who were all dressed in black overalls, trainers and black belts. On their laps each had a black ski-mask and a firearm. But not the firearms that Worthington had planned to be using that morning. Instead, they were ones sourced from another dealer he’d had to rouse in Manchester in the early hours.

  The men nodded, each one ready for action. They knew their jobs, loved what they did and the wealth it brought, and were eagerly anticipating carrying out the first robbery in a series of four which were going to take place over the next week. This one would be easy: just to get the team back into the rhythm of robbery. Bread and butter stuff – in, cause havoc, threaten, terrify, overwhelm, assault, steal, then leave.

  Two minutes tops.

  Worthington smiled. These guys were the best crew he’d ever worked with, and he was looking forward to this job and the next ones, then getting back to his villa in northern Cyprus and his very voluptuous lady friend.

  He faced front again, his eyes narrowing momentarily. There was just that unsettling speck of doubt in his mind, caused by last night’s shenanigans. He was ultra-cautious and always trusted his instincts.

  He had arranged to pick up the firearms at Oxford’s flat at nine p.m., hence the reason for him ditching the Alfa and replacing it with the motorbike and the other safety measures he’d put in place – such as having the Alfa returned to Skem just to put the police off the scent. If, indeed, they had been on it in the first place.

  He had killed some time with an old girlfriend in the Cottam area of Preston after the vehicle/clothing swap at ASDA, and she had been well briefed to provide him with an alibi if necessary. After that he had checked with his gang, who were staying in a safe house in Fulwood, prepping. Then he had gone to pick up the guns.

  As he had done a slow drive along the promenade past Oxford’s flat, he thought he caught sight of some movement in the shadows in a car parked up on the prom, but could not be certain even on the second drive past – but the van definitely did catch his eye.

  Outwardly, it appeared to be nothing, just a beat up old Tranny van.

  It just did not feel right to him, and if it didn’t feel right, it wasn’t right.

  A shadow in a car; a van on the street.

  He could not call Oxford on his mobile. That was a no-no, a definite giveaway if the cops had been watching him, and he was always highly suspicious of using mobile phones when jobs were in the offing, anyway.

  All in all, the situation just did not feel good.

  So, just for the sheer hell of it, he pumped three rounds into the side of the van and tore away on the bike. Not long after, having travelled back to Cottam on country roads, he was at his old girlfriend’s place. It was from here, using her phone, he discovered that Oxford had been arrested for a murder, and there was always the possibility he had blabbed about the guns which they would have found in his possession.

  So his instinct had been correct. Even if the cops were not waiting for him to show up, it would have been foolish to knock on Oxford’s door.

  Fraser Worthington took no chances.

  He then had sex with the girlfriend, so that if he had to prove his whereabouts there would be DNA evidence to back him up, after which, using her car, he went to Manchester and picked up guns f
rom another dealer, which he delivered to his waiting crew in Fulwood, then returned to his girlfriend’s house for some sleep.

  The four men were now sitting on the car park of the McDonald’s restaurant at Dock Bridge on Lytham Road, maybe a couple of miles from their intended target in Lytham itself.

  They had been through the drive-thru, and each had ordered a breakfast, obviously hiding their hoods and weapons from the server on the way through. They paid with cash and ate their meals at the far end of the car park.

  Then they were ready to roll.

  Wayne Oxford had been led from the custody complex in the basement floor of Blackpool nick through the connecting corridor to the holding area beneath Blackpool Magistrates’ Court, adjacent to the police station. Just a short walk with his hands cuffed in front of him, eased on his way by the hand of one of the private security guards who now did the escort job that had once been the preserve of police officers.

  Oxford was one of half a dozen prisoners making the journey straight from police cells on that day: bail refused, straight to court, do not pass go. The underground holding area was busy with the other five prisoners who had just arrived from the remand centre for their hearings. Oxford, however, was the only one up on a murder charge, so he was placed in a cell by himself to await what would probably be a very short appearance before the bench. Just a case of confirming his ID, then, with no arguments from his solicitor about bail, the bench would send him back into police custody for three days.

  Henry Christie rose from his office chair, stretching creakily. He went to one of the narrow windows overlooking Bonny Street, peering north towards the tower, much of which was encased in scaffolding and mist. He was reasonably certain he had got a grip on the complexities and the route through the day ahead.

  Wayne Oxford would be back in police cells after his court appearance, and a small team of detectives were now being briefed by Rik Dean to deal with him.