by Nick Oldham
The car stopped momentarily.
Transfixed and slack-jawed, Henry watched the car. It was nothing special. A normal, mid-range saloon. Henry thought it was probably Japanese.
Then he saw something poke out of the front passenger window.
Something like a pipe, or a broomstick handle.
Something like the barrel of a gun.
Henry started to move, a roar on his lips. Reprisal time’s here, he thought.
The car suddenly surged forward from a standstill.
Henry ran into the centre of the road, screaming at the people outside the house to get down, waving his arms desperately. No one took any notice of him.
The car’s speed increased.
The second salvo in a drugs war, the first one having been fired in Blackburn.
Henry was fifty metres short of the house when the car, hurtling in his direction, drew level with the house.
Over the scream of the engine, Henry heard gunfire. He counted. Six shots, quick succession, as the car shot past the house and then bore down on him.
Part of him was aware of the screams from the partygoers. The images of some of them simply watching the car drive by, mouths open, uncomprehending. Others throwing themselves to the ground, at least one person in his view catching a bullet and spinning backwards like a corkscrew.
And the car coming towards him.
Only metres away. Two seconds at most before impact.
He knew it would strike him about knee level. He half imagined the joints being snapped backwards and the rest of his body smashing onto and splaying across the bonnet, maybe his face hitting the windscreen and then the whole of his body being flipped up and cartwheeled over the car.
He was incredulous at himself for thinking he could have prevented a shooting with a combination of the sheer force of his personality and by waving his hands about. It was never going to work.
He moved — with incredible speed. He vaulted sideways out of the path of the car onto the grass verge, executing a graceless double roll and coming up onto his knees in the starting position. As the car shot past he whipped his head sideways, hoping to focus his eyes on the driver. Just give me that one second, he prayed, just imprint the profile of that man into my brain.
His eyes locked on. They were still good and sharp. But it didn’t matter, even though the driver turned and looked directly at him.
He was wearing a balaclava with eye holes. And he had the audacity to flip his middle finger at Henry.
Henry would be able to describe that to a T to a police artist.
He said ‘Shit’ again but then his eyes zoomed onto the rear number plate. He memorized the registration instantly, even though the car’s lights were out. He continued to watch the back of the car and also the PC, who had been waiting around the corner, drawn out by the sound of shooting and general mayhem. Henry hoped he wouldn’t be as foolhardy as Henry himself and jump in front of the car, but, wisely, the officer, in a sort of dynamic pose, watched the car flash by and disappear around the next corner.
Henry shouted into his PR, ‘Shots fired Fairview Road outside the Costains’. A drive-by shooting, one vehicle, two male occupants, a Nissan saloon, registered number PK05. .’ He reeled the number off and gave the direction of travel the car had taken. ‘Possible gunshot injuries at the house,’ he went on, ‘just going to check.’
Henry’s hunting instinct was to run back to his car and give chase, but that would only enrage the comms room operators and probably end up being classified as a non-authorized pursuit. It might all go wrong, and if it did, he wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. All vehicle pursuits were carefully controlled and monitored by the radio operators, and the FIM and vehicles involved were supposed to be liveried and driven by trained pursuit drivers — and despite his driving qualifications, Henry wasn’t one. Such regulations hadn’t stopped him in the past. . but with age came a bit of discretion.
Based on the fact it was now the early hours of Boxing Day and there were almost no cops on duty on the ground, he kissed bye-bye to the Nissan — literally puckering his lips as he ran across the road to the house, telling comms he wanted an ambulance turned out and insisting they rouse the police helicopter.
Next thing on his mind was the possibility of this getting out of hand as a public order incident. A matter like this could easily escalate into a riot and with no cops to quell it, that was not a happy prospect.
A group of drunks gathered around the writhing body on the front lawn. Henry shouldered his way through them, smelling alcohol and weed. He knelt down next to a youth of about nineteen he didn’t recognize. The lad was wearing what had been a white T-shirt and had clearly taken a bullet in the right shoulder, his top now soaked red. He writhed and moaned, unable to comprehend what had just happened to him. The people surrounding him were doing nothing to help. They were all drunk or drugged, some of the girls becoming hysterical, and it must have been very weird for them, some sort of psychedelic nightmare.
Henry glanced briefly at their faces.
A girl burst through the circle, the one Henry had seen on the stairs a few moments earlier with a lad’s hand down her knickers. Her hands flew to her face and she screamed, ‘Donny, Donny, oh my God!’ Then she fell backwards in a faint and hit the back of her head on the front doorstep.
‘Hey — what the fuck did you do that for?’ a young lad demanded of Henry.
‘Do what?’
‘Push her over, you pig-twat.’
‘Fuck off,’ Henry said and turned his attention to the wounded boy, who was shaking uncontrollably.
‘Fuck you too,’ the lad shouted. He kicked out at Henry, who saw the foot coming. Though he was squatting he managed to catch it at the heel and twist, flipping the drunk off balance. He gave a push, let go, and the lad staggered backwards. The can of beer he was holding flew away and he landed diagonally across the girl who’d fainted.
Henry felt a shimmer of apprehension.
The mood he’d picked up a few seconds before had suddenly gone a few shades darker, was now almost black. Confusion, alcohol, a cop, a crowd, a violent incident. Not a good combination.
Once, many years ago, when he’d been a young PC on mobile patrol, he’d been surrounded by a gang outside a chip shop and they had refused to let him drive away. Two lads were at the front of the car, two at the back, and with about ten others they had started to rock the car, building up enough momentum to roll it over — with him inside. That had been pretty scary; he’d been in lots of similar situations since and had learned that in such cases cops should be in and out as quickly as possible, unless they outnumbered the crowd. Situations were easily inflamed.
He stood up, knowing he wouldn’t be allowed to help the injured lad. A can of beer was thrown at him, glancing off his arm. Then about ten people circled him, venom in their eyes.
‘You stand back,’ he said evenly, firmly, without any fear in his voice. ‘This lad needs treatment — and so does she.’
The girl who’d toppled over was sitting up, staring in puzzlement at the palm of her hand, which was covered in blood from the ugly gash at the back of her skull.
Another can hit him, thrown from behind the people around him. Hyenas on a wildebeest.
Out of the corner of his eye, Henry saw the police car that had been parked near his Audi emerging with blue lights flashing. It screamed up and stopped outside, the PC getting out, his extendable baton drawn.
A hail of beer bottles and cans, like weapons from a medieval battle scene, arced at him. Using his baton like a baseball bat, he smashed a couple away with amazing accuracy.
Somewhere in the distance there was the wail of a siren.
Still Henry was surrounded.
‘You shot him,’ one shouted. ‘The cop shot him.’
If he’d had the time, Henry would have exhaled a pissed-off sigh and answered back.
‘Yeah, you must’ve,’ another one chorused.
The constable shouldered hi
s way roughly through and stood his ground next to Henry. His face showed fear, but he wasn’t going to back down. He held the baton across his chest, ready for use.
‘We’re here to help,’ Henry said forcefully. ‘This lad needs sorting, so you guys back off and let me look at his wound.’
‘You heard — get back,’ the PC echoed.
Two cops had a slightly sobering effect. Overwhelming one was easy. Two made it harder, though not impossible.
The sirens grew louder. Two types — ambulance and police — like a mismatched stereo.
Henry glanced at the boy. He was still now — not dead, but probably going into shock. There was a lot of blood from the wound.
Henry said, ‘Is Runcie here?’ It was a question thrown to everyone. No one replied. ‘I said, is Runcie here?’ he demanded again. ‘Runcie Costain?’
Suddenly the music from inside, the boom-boom, was turned off. ‘I’m here,’ a voice bellowed from the door.
As one, the kids turned, and there he was at the threshold of the front door — all five two of him, but built like a pillbox, with eyes to match, oblong slits, and a flat head of closely cropped hair.
Henry had crossed his path only a few times. He was a much more cautious operator than the previous heads of the family and had streamlined the business with layers that made him almost untouchable. Until now.
Henry shouted, ‘You know me, Runcie — so get this lot to back off. This lad needs attention and I can’t help him if they’re in the way.’
‘You heard, get back you lot,’ Runcie ordered them.
‘He fuckin’ did it,’ one of them growled, just loud enough.
Another beer can was tossed half-heartedly at Henry.
‘He’s a cop, dick-brain,’ Runcie said to whoever. ‘Back off.’
Muttering angrily, the little crowd slowly stepped back a few paces, but not with any enthusiasm, staying within striking distance.
‘Oh God,’ the prostrate youth moaned.
‘My head, my friggin’ head,’ the fainting girl said, now with both hands covered in blood. She swooned again and dropped back, hitting the step with her head in exactly the same place, deepening the wound.
‘See to her,’ Henry told the PC. ‘Towels,’ he said to Runcie, who nodded and disappeared into the house.
He did not re-emerge, nor did any towels.
A very long minute later an ambulance and a police van arrived at the scene. Police numbers increased by one. And the music from inside the house went up to full volume.
The plug dangled in Henry’s hand. Silence resonated around the living room. Henry’s ears rang, there was still a drum beat in his head.
‘I said, where’s Runcie?’
The four teenagers sprawled on the settee sneered at him, hate in their eyes. The ones standing around with glasses or smokes in their hands did the same.
Runcie had done a runner, that much was obvious. Henry assumed he’d done the sums, realized that the visit by his boys into Cromer territory hadn’t gone well, hence the drive-by, and had either gone ‘to the blankets’, to coin an old Mafia saying — gone into hiding — or had gone to tool up for more retaliation. Although Runcie hadn’t been officially informed that two of his relatives had ended up on mortuary slabs, Henry was under no illusions that he probably now knew that the worst had happened in Blackburn.
Henry had scoured the downstairs of the house, now he was going to have a look upstairs.
Having ripped the plug for the music system out of the wall, he took the lead in his left hand, the plug in his right and tore the wire out of the plug so there was no chance of the noise restarting.
‘Party’s over,’ he announced, trying to hide his glee. It was one of the best feelings a cop could have. This was something he’d done a time or two in his long career and it always gave satisfaction: spoil a good party.
‘What! You can’t do that.’ This was from the lad who had kicked out at him and whom Henry had upended.
He glared at the young man. ‘Just watch me.’
He dropped plug and wire onto the floor. ‘Where’s Runcie?’ It was the third time of asking.
‘Don’t know no Runcie.’
‘All right — time to clear out,’ he announced.
A few more cops had appeared on the scene and the partygoers were more subdued and compliant now, but still vociferous.
Both the boy who’d been winged and the girl who’d cracked her head open had been taken to hospital, and now Henry was pretty much in control.
The force helicopter was up, the registered number of the Nissan had been circulated and a few road checkpoints established, and he had informed everyone necessary.
He was hoping to have a little quality time to take stock of things, get a proper plan put together. . but he didn’t want to miss the chance of grabbing Runcie, hopefully before both factions met up and more blood was spilled.
Runcie had gone, probably straight out of the back door.
Henry went upstairs.
He found a couple of naked teenagers in a back bedroom, busy with each other underneath a duvet, oblivious to what was going on. They stopped in mid-thrust.
‘Out!’ Henry said, jerking his thumb. ‘Now!’
The small box room was empty and there was a main bedroom at the front, the door closed. For politeness’ sake, he knocked and entered a nicely furnished room with a king-size bed and subdued lighting.
Henry turned the light switch and brought proper illumination to the proceedings.
Unless Runcie was hidden underneath the bed, he wasn’t there.
But there was a woman in the bed, on the floor around which were several empty bottles of champagne, paper plates with scraps of half-eaten food and overflowing ashtrays. And not only cigarette stubs.
The woman’s long black hair was dishevelled, make-up skewiff. She propped herself up and blinked at Henry, unperturbed.
Cherry was Runcie’s long-time lady friend and she was a stunner. Henry had met her a few times in passing. Because he made it his business to know about the Costains, he knew she had been a stripper, lap dancer and hooker, not necessarily in that order, and sometimes a combination of all three. She had only recently retired from these ‘games’ to become a lady of leisure at Runcie’s side after having spent a couple of years on his payroll. She’d been promoted to his bed, official eye candy.
She rubbed her panda eyes. ‘Ungh — you,’ she said. The duvet slid down and Henry averted his eyes like a gent. ‘Whazzappenin’?’ she mumbled thickly. She scratched her left breast, which was completely exposed.
‘Where’s Runcie?’
‘Fuck shoulda know? He were here.’ She exhaled like a horse and reached for a packet of cigarettes on the bedside. ‘D’ya wan’ ’im for?’
‘He’s done a runner. I need to speak to him urgently.’
Henry watched her pick up the cigarette packet next to an ashtray overflowing with ciggie ends, spliffs and two used condoms.
‘Where is he?’
She placed a cigarette between her lipstick-smeared lips, her eyes bleary. ‘No idea.’
‘Tell me your best guess, Cherry, or I’ll bust you.’
She screwed up her nose and hoisted the duvet back over her boob. ‘F’ what?’
Henry pointed at the ashtray. ‘Mary Jane’s still illegal, I believe. And are those traces of coke I see on the dressing table top?’
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘Would.’
‘Bastard.’
‘Just tell me.’
‘Uh. . prob’ly gone to that club on Withnell Street, I dunno.’
Henry only knew of one club on that road in South Shore. ‘John Rider’s old place?’
‘Yuh, that’s the one. . he’s just bought it.’
‘Right.’ Henry turned to leave.
‘Hey!’ Cherry called.
He turned back. ‘What?’
She flung back the duvet, revealing her completely naked and completely hairless bo
dy, which to Henry looked very fine indeed. She rotated and opened her legs wide, allowing Henry to see her very finely shaved pubic area. ‘Jig-a-jig? You — me? I’ll fuck your brains out for Christmas for free.’
‘I’ll pass.’ Henry raised a hand. Just at the moment Henry’s brain was screwed up enough.
ELEVEN
Henry knew the club on Withnell Street too intimately for comfort, but was under the impression it had been virtually abandoned and allowed to fall into disrepair, untouched for years. The previous owner, John Rider, had harboured big ideas for the place, a former casino, with visions of turning it into a lap dancing club. Those visions had come to a very bloody end when one of Rider’s rivals had declared his own plans for the club and Rider had been killed in the crossfire. Henry had been deeply involved in the situation — it had almost cost him his life — and returning to the club for the first time in years unearthed a lot of unpleasant memories.
That said, he wasn’t surprised someone had taken it over for something. He guessed that the licence for the place would have been kept current by whoever had owned it — Rider’s executioners, he assumed. Once a liquor licence lapsed it was hard work to resurrect, as the application process would have to begin from scratch. And any premises with a drinks licence in Blackpool could be a gold mine.
He hurried back to his car, still in one piece after his close encounter with Cherry, and set off towards South Shore. Much of that area of town was quite pleasant, but the two hundred metre wide strip from the Pleasure Beach complex as far north as Central Pier was not the most salubrious of localities. Many of the terraced houses, once proud and clean bed and breakfast establishments, had been turned into rabbit-warren flats, financed by the Department of Social Security, run by seedy landlords and inhabited by the unfortunate and the criminal. Henry disliked to stereotype, but many of the people he came across were lazy third-generation scroungers, living off benefits embedded in their psyche, existing hand to mouth, stealing, taking drugs. Many he didn’t come across were decent folk living in harsh times. But the truth of the matter was that South Shore did have a high rate of crime, drug use was rife, and a lot of kids didn’t know their fathers.
