‘Cop killer,’ he said. ‘We don’t like cop killers.’
I received another dig in the ribs with the end of the truncheon as he stood before me, his body heaving. I hurt, but I kept my gaze on his bleary eyes. The truncheon dug hard into the meat of my stomach and I doubled up with a loud oomph.
‘Don’t look at me, you insolent piece of shit.’
He paced the cell, slapping the truncheon against his fat palm, his breathing labored, each intake rasping. I stood, but he approached from my rear, pushing his groin against my arse, with his hot breath in my ear.
‘Cop killers don’t get court time, so confess now and we might go easy on you.’
He shoved me onto the bench and grabbed the small stool to place beneath his arse. His face glowed red hot. He brushed perspiration from his brow and flicked the moisture at the floor. Both hands used the remaining sweat to brush the thin strands of fair hair back from his brow. He leant forward.
I leant close and smiled. ‘What would you like me to confess to?’
‘That’s the spirit.’ He turned to the girl. ‘It’s easy, this job. These types have simple needs and a bed, a feed and to be out of the cold means everything. We help them, they help us.’
He looked back at me with a smug, satisfied grin. The lads from the Projects faced the wall, but I felt their attention focusing on my answer. My hands sat cuffed in my lap. If I looped them over the back of his neck and rammed his face into my knee, the grin might not be so smug.
A fueled missile hit the station and exploded, a bright flash of flame covering the window. We jumped apart and the opportunity to hurt the sergeant vanished.
‘I want you to confess to the murder of the body in the allotment. We have you at the scene, an eye witness and a motive.’
‘What’s my motive?’
‘Jealousy, lust and hate,’ the copper said. ‘It’s all there wrapped up in one murder. You hate him for taking your girl. For years you have fostered the hate for the man for marrying your girlfriend and you took revenge in the allotments when he came to you seeking forgiveness. We haven’t found it yet, but there’s a rumor you took property belonging to the deceased.’
He leant forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped before me with the large digits wriggling in the clench. I looked at the sheer ugly bulk and smiled. He wanted me to be nice and I could understand his reasoning. Crimes needed to be solved and villains jailed. Homeless people needed warmth and sustenance and should be grateful for any charity offered by the law. Alas, I didn’t do nice.
Although smashing my forehead into his fat nose might work, I needed to wait for Harry and his concept of help. In the meantime I could ask for my free call and get Tommy to organize an alibi.
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I’d very much like a warm bed and regular meals. It gets cold at nights and smoking dog-ends isn’t good for my health. On all these points I concur. You are right. But—and it’s a big but, sir.’
He leant closer expecting a confession. The sergeant pictured the empty In-tray and a commendation with a cushy job in Old London Town. Together we shuffled forward in our seats and our eyes widened in anticipation.
‘I didn’t do it.’
I wanted to add you fat fuck, but I didn’t want him hitting me again.
He stood, his breathing static as rage brewed and threw the stool against the wall. The metal gate slammed shut, the keys thrown at the girl and he stomped into the corridor leading to the back offices, cussing my existence and questioning my parentage.
The girl, jingling the large key ring, approached, scuffing her boots with each step. She smiled as she turned the key. The blue jacket of the forces complimented a short black skirt. Her tights sported a rip the length of her right thigh and large black lace-up boots completed the uniform. I knew this girl, but didn’t know her as a copper.
‘You the girl who hangs about with a wolf?’ She nodded and performed a small curtsy. ‘Cheers for the other night.’ She nodded and performed a deeper curtsy.
I rummaged through my pockets and found my tattered list of phone numbers. Tommy’s number sat above my mother’s mobile and a pager number for the Projects. ‘Can you call someone for me? I don’t think the sergeant will offer me a phone call or a solicitor.’
She shook her head. ‘The Man got rid of legal aid. And the phone calls.’
She spoke with a gentle whisper. I handed over my telephone numbers and smiled. ‘The top number is for a bloke called Tommy. He can give me an alibi for the night Marvin scrapped with the wrong bloke. He won’t answer, but leave him a message. Say who you are. We call you Wolf Girl, okay. Tell him to get over here and bail me out. Tell him if he needs cash to be searching under the seat the hound likes best. Okay? I mean, is that cool?’
She remained at the cell, shaking the keys in her hand. ‘Are the bags safe?’
‘Marvin’s bag?’ She nodded, an earnest frown highlighting her concern. ‘Jesus, you want it too?’
She shook her head. ‘No, but I don’t want the Black Hats getting their hands on what’s inside the bag. That’s not the outcome Cecil wanted.’
‘You know Cecil?’
‘I know everyone. He was Marvin’s dad. He told me he would leave the bags with Marvin, but they got to him first. I helped Marvin get the bags back. But Marvin was never the man to take care of the bags. His uncle, Cooper, would never let him keep the merchandise, so I suggested he talked with you.’
‘So they killed Marvin’s dad. This man, Cooper, killed his own brother for two bags?’
‘That’s not a definite.’ She nodded and smiled. I liked her smile. A little crooked, but it cheered me. ‘I’ve got to go. I’m not meant to fraternize with you criminal types.’
The two lads from the Projects turned from the wall and stepped up to the cell bars. ‘You from the Projects?’ they said together.
‘Was,’ she snarled at them. I stepped back, not wanting to be included in her ire.
‘Yeah, but we’re all on the same side,’ the lad with the gloves suggested. ‘We’re all against the Man. We’re all fighting for what’s right and all.’
‘I remember you at the Projects,’ I said. I pulled back my sleeve to reveal the red branding of the Dragon tattoo. She pulled her dark jacket sleeve back to show me the black branding of her own tattoo. The lads stepped back in awe and I bowed in deference to her status. A year in the Projects didn’t get you the black coloring.
She tiptoed back to her desk and busied herself with the phone as the sergeant lumbered back into view. He rattled the bars. ‘You got legal counsel.’
I looked at the girl. She had the phone to her ear, but shook her head and mouthed no.
‘No, thank you,’ I said.
‘Get up. You don’t get a choice.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
In what world is that Legal
‘Who got me legal?’
‘Never you mind,’ he said as he unlocked the gate. ‘Few convicts get this key turned when they’re in the shit you’re in.’
He grabbed me by the cuffs, the metal cutting at my wrists and dragged me toward the rear end of the corridor. With my face squashed against a door, its glossy surface scratched and worn, my jailer knocked and peered through the reinforced glass. I fell forward when a tall thin man opened the door and accepted the seat he offered at an old wooden table.
‘You want me to stay, Mr. Cooper?’
‘We’ll be fine.’ Soft and calming, I thought. ‘Take the cuffs off.’
The door closed and the key turned in the lock. ‘Ben, is it?’
He eased into the seat opposite me, removed his black hat, his fingers molding the wide brim. He brushed a piece of fluff from its crown before placing the hat on the table. I rubbed at my wrists, massaging the red welts left by the cuffs. We were in a kitchen. A fridge, hot plate and sink sat on the opposite wall. A warped shelf held a coffee tin, a motley collection of mugs and a battered sugar tin. To my solicitor’s back a large f
rosted window glowed orange from the outside street light. Cobwebs massed in both top corners.
We locked eyes, his pale grey orbs causing me to shiver. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes showed no humor. He waited for me to blink, to drop my gaze and show subservience. No way, not ever.
With a slight shifting of my feet my knives leant against my calves. I straightened my back, the gun pulling at the left side of my coat. I’d seen this man in the square with Marvin. He, Cooper, was the man who slapped the thug bullying the child. Marvin ran at the sight of the Black Hats, but never a word about him being family. I couldn’t see a family resemblance.
A fly buzzed against the frosted window. A rock hit the glass, splintering the pane and the fly took off, its fat black body circling Cooper’s head. He twitched and backhanded the fly without blinking. The fly banged into the overhead light and fell to the table, kicking and buzzing and spinning. He didn’t like the fly on the table. Again the damn thing buzzed and spun and Cooper’s hand slammed on the fat black fly. It kept buzzing, the hand muting the sound. He continued to stare at me, but with a pained expression to his face. The fly’s noise became weaker.
When the fly stopped buzzing he turned his hand and flicked the black fat arsed fly at my head. He missed, but I’d blinked and flinched and his sneer made me sick.
‘Today,’ he said. ‘You will do everyone a favor. You don’t know it yet, but you will.’
A smile followed the subtle threat. He stepped to the sink pulling a neat white handkerchief from his breast pocket. Long, elegant fingers, the nails short and manicured, set the water in motion. Rusty water spat, gurgled and groaned before running clear. He inspected the grubby sliver of soap, searching for a section not soiled by use and abuse. With the nailbrush in hand he scrubbed at the soap, rinsing and washing until the bar of soap gleamed. Two hands worked the soap into a thick lather, his head cocked left, then right, the intensity of his work pronounced. He placed the soap on the sink as fingers caressed and massaged the suds back and front. The nails scrubbed with vigor against his palms and a good long minute of rinsing ensued. For a moment he stood with his hands pointing at the ceiling, allowing the stagnant air to dry them. I pulled a bloodied rag from my pocket and offered it to him, but the pursed lips and the steely glare accompanied a light shake of the head. He picked up his handkerchief from the sink and dried his hands.
‘Today,’ he continued. He placed his sparkling hand on the back of my seat, breathing a light scent of lemon lozenge on my cheek. His mouth pressed against my ear. I couldn’t watch without turning, but one simple turn meant we’d be lip to lip. ‘Today, you will give up that bag.’
I reached to scratch my leg, allowing him to back off and withdrew my rusted cutthroat, keeping it out of sight beneath the table. He paced the room, adjusting his blood-red tie. He smoothed the gelled crown on his head and returned to my seat, again with the hand resting on the back of my chair.
‘Who are you guys in your stupid bloody hats and black suits?’ I gave up trying to watch his actions. He thought standing behind me intimidated me and gave him an advantage. Good luck with that pal. To my right a calendar showed a young lady on a sunny day, five years back according to the bold type. A red circle highlighted the day of the backpack bombings. A sad day for many, but also the day my school team elected me sports captain and a school day I’d be happy to relive.
‘A legal representative, you’re not.’
More damn pacing, turning at the end walls with military precision, his patent leather shoes shining in the bright light. The heels clicked with each step. His clothing didn’t come from any shops in Ostere. The shiny red tie contrasted with the crisp white shirt. Flamboyant, gold cuff links glittered and shouted wanker. I looked at the worn, weary boots covering my feet and smiled at the multitude of stains decorating my trousers. I picked at my nails with the knife, keeping my actions hidden beneath the table.
‘Ben, let me put your mind at rest here,’ he said, returning to my back. I hid the knife as he rested his hand on the backrest and leaned in close. ‘I don’t care about what happened to Marvin or the coppers and I don’t wish to see you in trouble. And I’m more than happy to forget about the soldiers we’ve lost because we accept you were protecting your patch. If I’m to be honest, they got what they deserved. I can forgive all and get you released from here easy. That is in my power. But you need to tell me where the bag is because it belongs to us.
‘The goods inside that bag are my property and the theft still hurts me deeply.’
He stopped behind me, his head leaning into my space, his sweet breath causing my nose to twitch. I fingered the knife knowing a simple turn allowed me to bury the blade deep in his side and end my ordeal. The rear exit sat at the end of the corridor and I’d be back out on the street within a minute.
‘Marvin’s father?’ I said. ‘Your brother?’
‘Very good, Ben. Yes, my brother. Cecil. Never really cut out of our father’s cloth, was Cecil.’
‘And the father of you both ran a big time betting syndicate in the Old East End when dinosaurs clomped and chomped the planet earth.’
‘Yes, very clever. You’ve got our family tree down pat.’
‘I don’t know where your damn bag is. Marvin didn’t share the story about its existence with me, so you’ve got the wrong man.’
‘You’re the only man left standing and we’re not prepared to accept you don’t know where the bag is located.’
I could think of three, maybe four players still in the hunt for the bag. There was the man with the limp. Linda for sure must know something. Little Billy Two Guns, Pete the Nose and the main Feral Man saw Marvin in the allotments the night he died. Pete and Billy had access in the square the night Marvin left the bag beneath the seat, so a gaggle of suspects remained. And let’s not forget the vicar and his unhealthy obsession with his leaking roof. The vicar had enough thugs in cloaks to get dirty work done.
I held my tongue. I could tell the silence unnerved him. Cooper expected folk to talk when he asked the questions. But I didn’t need to talk as a rusty blade and a gun told me I held enough cards to out play any hand he produced.
But he matched my silence. He stepped back from my chair. I heard him sniff. He sniffed hard with a sharp quick intake. Two shorter snorts followed, then another quick sharp snort with smaller snuffles. I kept looking at the stupid calendar, but his actions unnerved me.
‘What you doing?’
‘Snuff, Ben,’ he said. ‘You want some?’
‘S’no,’ I replied. I had no idea what snuff was and I’d sampled most of the drugs being bartered on the streets.
He yanked my chair, scraping it against the concrete floor and pushed it against the wall so we faced each other. He patted his suit, pulled at his cuffs before leaning forward so our faces sat close. I rolled my shoulders and breathed deep, allowing the air to exhale with a quiet hiss. The knife cut into my wrist, hidden but ready to strike.
He placed his left hand on the back of my chair, the other hand flat on the table and tried to smile, but managed a lopsided sneer. He wanted answers and lacked ideas for finding the correct questions. By now he envisaged me on my back, wanting him to rub my tummy, not questioning his authority. I wondered if he wanted to offer any thoughts on the knife I planned to bury in his gut.
He shook my chair in anger, attempting to intimidate and force me to look at him. I kept my eyes focused on my hands, feeling the knife, controlling my breathing and ignoring the challenge. For a period he waited, then straightened and stepped back.
He struck with his right hand. He hoped to surprise me, but I’d seen the telltale sign, the backward movement to build momentum. As his fist neared my face, I deflected the power with my left palm on the inside of his strike. I stood as his fist brushed past my shoulder and thumped the wall behind me. The wall didn’t move and his bellow of pain rattled my bones and a cup jumped off the shelf above the sink. His damaged hand hung out
in the air, limp and reddened.
Whilst he fretted over his manicure I brought my knee up into his crotch with a subtle twist off my hips. He groaned and fell forward and I gripped his damaged hand and twisted, shoving it hard up his back, pushing him forward over the fallen chair. His face kissed the wall and my knife found the edge of his jaw and caressed the white smooth skin.
‘You’re not listening to me. No one listens to me. I don’t know where your damn bag is.’
He struggled, trying to wriggle free, but I had him hard against the rough concrete, his face mashed into the wall and my knife drawing blood. I’d had a knife pushed against the underside of my jaw and it isn’t pleasant. You do what you’re told.
‘Now we’re going to leave the room.’ I pulled him away from the wall and we waddled to the door.
‘You can knock with your head or your foot. I’m easy.’
He kicked at the door until footsteps approached. As the door swung open, I released my grip, lowered the knife and smiled as Cooper fell against the sergeant.
‘He’s no solicitor.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
A wolf can be man’s best Friend
‘He has a fuckin’ knife on him,’ Cooper said. ‘How can you put a murderer into your cells with a bloody knife?’
The desk sergeant looked confused by Cooper’s question. I pushed the rusted blade at his fat hand, hoping to cut him, but he jerked out of reach.
‘You didn’t ask,’ I said. ‘I still don’t want to talk to him. He isn’t a solicitor and he doesn’t have my interests at heart. He’s a nasty man who tried to punch me.’
The sergeant took the knife and motioned for me to walk. I resumed my seat in the cell and Cooper shadowed the sergeant, stopping him next to the Wolf Girl’s desk. A trickle of blood ran down Cooper’s throat, staining his fancy shirt. He mopped at the blood, pulled his cuffs free, readjusted his jacket and slapped the sergeant hard across the face. The crack of his hand hitting the fat cheek stunned the small room. A fat-fingered hand reached for the red welt as the sergeant stepped back from further assaults. Cooper followed him and slapped him again.
No More Heroes-#1 Dystopian Thriller Heroes Series Page 17
