Screen of Deceit

by Nick Oldham

  ‘I live on Shoreside, not down here,’ Mark said as they drove straight past the junction with Squires Gate Lane which would have taken them in the direction of the estate.

  ‘I know. As I said, I want to chat.’

  ‘This is child abduction!’

  Christie gave him a sidelong squint. ‘Shut the hell up, sit the hell back and chill,’ he instructed.

  With his nostrils flaring angrily, Mark did the first two.

  Thirteen

  Christie drove down to St Anne’s, the more genteel resort just to the south of Blackpool, on to the sea front and stopped at the white café on the beach, set amidst the sand dunes.

  ‘Probably safe enough to talk here,’ the detective murmured. ‘Come on.’ He led the unwilling Mark inside and bought him a Coke and ice cream, which tasted wonderful. Christie had a bottle of water which he sipped. They sat at a corner table with Christie taking the seat tucked into the angle so he could see all the comings and goings. ‘So, how you doing?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Mark eyed him suspiciously.

  ‘Coping, you know? Since Bethany died. I know it’s only early days.’

  Mark shrugged manfully. ‘Doin’ OK.’

  Christie scratched his head, opened his mouth to say something, hesitated, closed his mouth and started again. ‘You’re a good lad, aren’t you?’

  ‘So-so.’

  ‘Keep your nose clean, don’t you?’

  ‘Up to a point.’

  ‘Do you do drugs?’

  ‘No way.’ Mark was horrified at the question.

  ‘Know lads and lasses who do?’

  ‘I know one who died,’ Mark responded, a sudden lump in his throat.

  ‘Yeah, true. Must be really, really hard.’

  ‘Yeah, in a way you don’t know,’ the youngster snapped, but because of the strange dark shadow that crossed Christie’s face, Mark gulped and wished he hadn’t said it.

  ‘Whatever,’ Christie said, with a tinge of sadness, then his expression became businesslike again.

  Mark licked his ice cream, looked out across the sand dunes to the Irish Sea.

  ‘I got the results back from the forensic lab.’

  ‘What results?’

  ‘I told you I’d be fast-tracking the samples taken from Bethany’s body, remember? I was wrong about the heroin being dirty.’ Mark waited. ‘But she took a concoction of drugs that were simply too much for her – a mix of heroin, amphetamines, ecstasy and crack …’

  ‘Hell.’ Something moved inside Mark, suddenly making him nauseous. Mark scanned the sand dunes again. His whole body was quaking, giving way.

  ‘She died one horrible death.’ Christie had leaned forward on to his elbows and whispered these words hoarsely to Mark.

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ Mark demanded, very close to the edge, tears welling in his eyes.

  ‘So you know everything.’

  ‘Why, though? Why do I need to know?’

  Christie sat back, regarding Mark critically, but saying nothing.

  Mark visualized Bethany’s body lying grotesquely on the kitchen floor. He began to try and conceive of what hell she must have been through. From injecting something she thought was going to give her pleasure and taking all that other stuff, too, and possibly then realizing she had actually taken something that would kill her, like letting a venomous snake bite you. What agony had she endured? A pain unknown to anyone other than the person foolish enough to take the damned drugs. Did she scream? Did she call for help? Or did she just writhe and squirm and accept her fate?

  ‘It’s unlikely she would have taken that mix of drugs willingly,’ Christie said. ‘It’s more than likely she was fed them until she died.’

  ‘So she was murdered?’

  ‘Looks very much that way,’ the detective confirmed.

  Mark shot to his feet, knocking the table. His coke tipped over. Christie held on to his bottle of water.

  ‘Need the bog,’ Mark uttered and staggered like a drunk between the tables, bouncing off them, drawing curious glances from other customers. The thought that she was killed whilst he, Mark, was asleep upstairs in the same house hit him like a body blow.

  ‘Who’s this “Crackman” you’re on about?’

  Mark had returned from the toilet, pale, drained, ill-looking. Christie had mopped up the coke and bought a new one, which Mark used to wash away the taste of his vomit.

  ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You mentioned him, not me.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said sourly.

  ‘Who is he?’ Christie persisted.

  ‘No idea,’ Mark said.

  ‘Where does Jonny Sparks fit in?’

  Mark jerked his shoulders noncommittally.

  Christie shuffled with growing irritation, Mark saw with satisfaction.

  ‘Did you love your sister?’ Christie said brutally, out of the blue.

  ‘What sort of question is that?’

  ‘Did you?’

  Mark looked down at his hands, his fingers intertwining nervously. He nodded.

  ‘Do you want to find out who supplied her with these drugs – and who therefore murdered her?’

  ‘You know I do.’

  ‘Hurray, well that’s a start … So do I, Mark, and not just because she was your sister, but because whoever did this has also killed at least one other person and if we don’t stop him, or her, more people will die. Do you see that?’

  ‘Yeah … and?’ he asked helplessly.

  ‘You think Jonny Sparks did it, don’t you?’

  ‘Stands to reason. He’s a dealer, he was going out with Beth, she was a druggie … y’know … two plus two and all that.’

  ‘I think he did it, too,’ Christie declared.

  ‘What? Well, he’s locked up, isn’t he? Has he been charged?’

  Christie shook his head and glanced at his watch, frowning. ‘He’ll be getting out just about now, I guess. He’ll be back on the streets soon, after having admitted nothing in interview.’

  ‘Why?’ Mark demanded, as though Christie was stupid.

  ‘Because there’s a difference between suspecting something and knowing it and proving it. There’s no evidence against him as regards Beth.’

  ‘What about dealing on the streets?’

  ‘He’s caught bang-to-rights, there, but because we have to have the powder found on him analyzed, which takes time, and because he’s a juvenile, he gets released. He’ll get reported and be at court sometime in the future, who knows when?’

  ‘So he just carries on like before?’ Mark said, aghast. ‘Then he goes to court and gets a slap on the wrist?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Christie agreed blandly. He was watching Mark intently, weighing him up, judging him. ‘Unless …’ he added mysteriously.

  ‘Unless what?’ Mark asked uncomfortably.

  Christie rotated his jaw, squinted thoughtfully, then asked, ‘Who’s the Crackman?’

  ‘Like I said, I don’t know. Look, you’re talking in riddles – what the fuck do you want with me?’ he hissed.

  Christie ignored him. ‘If you don’t actually know who this Crackman is, who do you suspect he is?’

  Mark sighed. His body deflated and, as though he was reciting something boring for a teacher, said, ‘I don’t know who the Crackman is, OK? All I know is that it’s some mysterious guy, some big-time drugs dealer who controls all the drugs sold on Shoreside, and maybe other places, dunno. He’s got a network of people who sell for him and as far as I know, none of them even know who he is. That’s it, OK?’

  ‘But no name?’

  Mark shook his head. ‘Could be Troy Costain, possibly,’ he ruminated. Costain was one of Shoreside’s biggest criminals, one Christie knew well. ‘He’s a dealer – and everything else, thief, handler …’

  Christie nodded sagely. ‘And you think Jonny Sparks is one of this Crackman’s dealers, whoever he might turn out to be?’

  ‘Pretty su
re. Look, come clean with me, eh? I basically know nothing. I don’t do drugs, don’t go anywhere near them, I don’t mix with people who do. I don’t steal – well, with the exception of sandwiches – and I go to school every day. Eventually I want to get out of this town, get a decent job somewhere, maybe like Jack … and that’s me. Beth got involved with the wrong crowd and paid the price. It happens. I hardly ever see Mum, who sleeps with just about every guy who gives her a wink, and I’m me. I try to be good. I try my best.’

  ‘Yeah, I really think you do.’

  Mark slurped his Coke, stunned he had revealed so much about himself so quickly to a complete stranger – and a cop at that! Must be going soft in the head, he chided himself, although it actually felt quite good to get that off his chest.

  ‘All right, Mark, you’ve been open with me, so it’s time for me to tell you where I’m coming from.’

  ‘This should be fun.’

  ‘Shut it, smart arse,’ Christie said with a grin. ‘The Crackman exists,’ he began after a breath. ‘I don’t know who he is or where he operates from, though I have some suspicions. It could be Costain, but then again it might not be. Whoever it is, we’ve been after him for about two years now. He plays his cards very close to his chest, is very careful. He never meets his dealers face to face. As far as I know he operates by dropping off and picking up drugs and cash through various secret locations, like spies used to do with hard copy information and payments in the old days.’

  ‘Dead letterboxes, you mean?’

  ‘Exactly – how do you know about them?’

  ‘I’ve read John Le Carré.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘Don’t be – carry on.’

  ‘One dealer who tried to unmask him came a cropper … six months down the line he’s still recovering, but says he doesn’t know who the Crackman is – or won’t tell. You want to deal with the Crackman, you do it on his terms and don’t step out of line – apparently.’

  ‘So nobody knows who he is?’

  ‘Some people do, obviously. And there’s some talk of a turf war bubbling. You know what a turf war is?’

  ‘Oh, please!’

  ‘Some dealers are stepping on each other’s toes, and the Crackman is involved – but our intel isn’t good.’ Christie took a sip of the coffee he’d acquired while Mark was in the bathroom and grimaced. ‘I know Sparks, had a few run-ins with the little runt, and I’m pretty sure he is one of the Crackman’s dealers, too.’

  ‘And?’ Mark waited.

  ‘Ultimately the Crackman is the person who is responsible for Beth’s death.’

  ‘Even I worked that one out,’ Mark said stonily.

  ‘And I’ve worked out that you want to find out who killed her, hence the little fisticuffs with Sparks. Am I right?’ Mark said nothing, but kept his eyes firmly on Christie. ‘Not the ideal way of getting a result, if you ask me.’

  ‘No one is.’

  ‘You,’ Christie said with a sharp jab of the finger, ‘are the closest I’ve come to nailing the Crackman, which must tell you something.’

  ‘That you’re crap at your job?’

  Christie scowled, but did not rise to the jibe. ‘No, what it says is that he is very difficult to nail.’

  ‘But I don’t know him.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘So what are you getting at?’ Mark demanded angrily. ‘Stop piss-balling me about and tell me.’ He had pretty much reached the end of his tether with the cops, and this one in particular. It was about time he came to the point of this conversation, at which moment Mark would tell him where to get off and stick it where the sun don’t shine.

  Christie clasped his hands on the table in front of him.

  ‘We both want the same thing. You for personal reasons; me for professional. You want justice for Bethany; I want justice to hammer down on the Crackman. The two desires are closely interlinked.’ He raised his clasped hands, fingers intertwined with each other. ‘Like this.’

  ‘You’re wrong, actually. I don’t want justice, I want revenge.’ Mark glowered coldly at the DCI.

  ‘Here’ll do.’

  Christie stopped the car on the road that circled Shoreside. Mark had no wish to be seen being dropped off by the police outside his house, even if it was a plain car. Everybody knew cop cars on the estate, marked or unmarked. He opened the passenger door and swung out his legs. Christie clamped a hand on his shoulder. Mark looked back.

  ‘Think about it. I’ll get your bike dropped off,’ he said.

  Mark gave a quick nod. Christie removed his hand and the young man climbed out and began walking away, no backward glance at the copper, nothing to show he was remotely interested in the proposal which had just been made to him. He just knew that Christie’s hard-edged eyes were burning two holes in his shoulder blades.

  With a fixed expression, Mark strode home in five minutes.

  Home: the empty house. The rooms echoed.

  He entered the kitchen. It was back to normal now, after he and Jack had cleaned it up. He gulped, cleared his mind, crossed the floor where Beth’s body had lain and, realizing he was now famished beyond belief, heated up a big can of spag bol and put four slices of slightly stale bread through the toaster. With a glass of Vimto, he retreated with his feast up to his room and scoffed until he felt he was bursting. Then, belly full like a lazy lion, he lay on his bed and thought about Henry Christie and their conversation …

  ‘I can’t talk in great detail until I know you’re up for it and can be trusted,’ Christie had explained.

  ‘Up for what?’ Mark said guardedly.

  ‘Playing a part … setting a scene … pulling a scam, sort of …’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘OK … I think you’ve been deeply affected by your sister’s death—’

  ‘Yeah, so what?’ Mark snapped irritably. ‘I think we’ve covered that, don’t you?’

  They were on the beach, walking side by side, out of earshot of anyone.

  ‘Hear me out … you are so devastated that you start going downhill. The clean-livin’, good citizen Mark Carter goes right off the rails, which you might already have started to do’ – Mark opened his mouth to protest. Christie held up a silencing hand – ‘Shush … you’ve stolen from a shop, you’ve publicly assaulted someone, you’ve been arrested, you’re on bail … and these are things that I think should continue. You need to get arrested a couple more times to secure your street credentials, you need to alienate your mates – for a while, anyway – you need to become someone who has lost it, y’know. Become vulnerable and ready to be manipulated … and then you need to gain the confidence of somebody you hate; you need to worm your way into them and use them to discover the true identity of the person who killed Bethany.’

  Mark soaked it in. ‘You mean go under cover and set up Jonny?’

  ‘I mean exactly that. Play it right with him and he’ll lead you to the Crackman … not directly, because we know Jonny doesn’t actually know who he is … but he has ways of contacting him, as we’ve discussed, and that leaves a trail. Contact is always a weakness.’

  ‘What about his mobile phone?’ Mark asked. ‘Didn’t he have that on him when he got arrested? That would’ve had the Crackman’s number on it, wouldn’t it? That would have been a start for you.’

  ‘Good thinking – except Jonny didn’t have a phone on him,’ Christie told him. ‘He’s pretty savvy like that. He doesn’t deal with a phone on him – and neither did Sam or Eric.’

  Mark sneered. ‘So are you asking me to be an undercover cop?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘And a grass?’

  ‘Depends on your perspective. Are you a grass or someone out for revenge?’

  Laid out on his bed, Mark ran it all through his head repeatedly. It was scary on one hand, exciting on the other. If Mark had two more hands he would have said it repelled him on the third hand and lured him on the fourth.

  The thought of helping the
police did nothing for him. He had avoided them all of his life and though he didn’t dislike them like other kids did, he always knew they were trouble.

  But the thought, the possibility, of bringing down Jonny Sparks and the Crackman … well, how challenging was that?

  But so very horrendously dangerous.

  ‘Yeah, it is dangerous territory,’ Christie had admitted when Mark put that to him.

  ‘If Jonny Sparks ever found out I was grassing on him, he’d kill me,’ Mark said simply, but with a terrifying casual reality. ‘That’s if I ever even got as far as getting him to trust me. One slip, I’d be dead meat.’

  ‘Always a possibility, which is why you’d have to do things very carefully.’

  ‘And then the Crackman! Jeez! Even if I got past Jonny, then I slipped up, I’d be sold as burger meat down on the prom.’

  ‘I’d protect you all the way,’ Christie promised. ‘I can’t go into detail as to how, but you’d always be covered and this operation wouldn’t go on for ever. It’d be time-bound. A few weeks at most. I couldn’t ask you to do any longer … less, if possible.’

  Very bloody dangerous, Mark thought, lying on his bed, his mind twisting and turning like a rollercoaster on Blackpool’s Pleasure Beach. One foot wrong and he’d be hammered at best, or at worse, dead meat, as he’d said, sold between two halves of a sesame seed bap.

  ‘Thing is,’ Christie had said as they headed off the beach towards his car, reading Mark’s mind, ‘you cannot tell anyone you’ve had this conversation, because this conversation hasn’t happened. If you want to think about what I’ve said, the only person you can run it past is yourself. You can’t have a chat about it to your brother or your mum or mates, because if you do the whole thing will crumble and I’ll just deny it. Even if you decide to help, you still can’t tell anyone. You have to understand that.’

  Mark thought carefully. ‘How legal is this?’

  ‘Which bit?’