‘His usefulness is over. He’s nothing but a liability now. Make sure the cops can’t get to him. Ever.’
His blood had run cold. Fear held him for some time before he managed to put his feet in reverse and he backed outside and out of view.
Then he’d ran.
It was pitch black and something went clattering as pain shot through his right shin, but he’d stayed on his feet. He’d heard a shout from behind and the sound of fast moving feet. His body had felt weak and it had taken every effort to keep going. Fear had consumed him.
They were going to kill him.
He’d run between buildings across an uneven surface that was being reclaimed by nature, weeds pushing up through bulging tarmac in an attempt to bring him down. He’d made out the outline of a fence up ahead and managed to scramble up the side of it enough to grasp the top. Barbed wire had cut into his fingers and he cried out as the barbs sank deeper into his flesh as he pulled himself up.
He’d gone over and a new pain hammered into his ankles as he landed. He ran into the bushes and trees. Thorn filled branches clawed him and he raised his arms to protect his face. He heard his pursuers crash into the chain link as he broke free of the branches. He pulled at the undergrowth, hauling himself up a steep bank. At the top he could hear a car as it sped past, unseen, somewhere down to his left. He was on an overgrown embankment. He’d ran along it as far as he dared, estimating their progress up the hill after him, then he’d dropped into the scrub, worming his way into it, willing himself down into the cold, wet earth where he stayed, stock still, not even daring to look up for them.
One had come close, but with almost no light they would have had to literally stumble onto him to find him. Rawlins was crying into the sod when the chopper had appeared. His pursuers had legged it back over the fence as soon as it drifted out of sight. It had kept its distance, like it was on some other pursuit, but they weren’t taking chances. They had been right not too. Rawlins was crawling out of the scrub when the sirens started converging on him. Within minutes it was bedlam out there and the helicopter was hanging right over him, Rawlins under his rock. He’d stayed there until the focus had returned to the buildings and he was back in the black.
He had crawled back up onto the embankment where he could see what was going down. He’d watched the paramedics wheel out a couple of people on stretchers. It was all fucked up. The nightmare was never going to end. The filth would be even more pissed at him than they were already.
Now he watched as the ambulances left and some of the cars started to follow. He got ready to do likewise with no thought as to where he was going to go. His only thought was to get away from here. The filth would be going over the whole place with a fine toothcomb come first light but they would be back after him before then. He was slap bang in the middle of whatever shit was going down out there. Running was his only option.
He backed away to the other side of the embankment and scrambled down to the road. It was an unlit section of dual carriageway and headlights were coming at him. Without thinking he ran onto the blacktop and stood waving his arms above his head. He had to get out of there now.
A car was almost on him and swerved. The pull on the steering wheel was hard and the car was travelling fast. It slammed into the central reservation, the barrier stopping it dead, the momentum lifting the back of the car and propelling it up and over causing it to somersault along the road, the sound of crunching, breaking metal filling the air. Then it was silent again.
Another set of headlights appeared and Rawlins ran to the wreckage, waving at the new car. When it pulled up a man got out.
‘Help,’ said Rawlins. The man ran towards him and bent down to look into the upturned vehicle.
‘Jesus,’ was all he managed before throwing up.
Rawlins ran for the idling car. It should have been easy: door open, keys in the ignition, engine already running, but he hadn’t driven a car since his teens. He’d never had a lesson, never passed a test, never owned a car. He’d only driven what his mates had stolen. He stuck it in first, let the clutch out - and it stalled. He glanced up to see matey looking at him. He was kneeling in the road drooling sick with a look of disbelief on his mush at this new turn of events. Then the whole road came alight and the blokes clothes started flapping about. The grass embankment came alive. A deafening roar penetrated the car. Rawlins instinctively looked up, towards the noise but quickly turned away, wincing at the effect of the nitesun searchlight beaming down from the helicopter above. It was back.
How long could those fuckers stay up there?
A metallic voice barked orders at him. They were shouting at him from the sky. Rawlins didn’t have to hear them. He got the general idea. He turned the key and floored it.
He kangarooed his way through the gears, the revs bouncing the needle in and out of red, the car constantly in the spotlight. The gears crunched as he fought to find fifth, then his foot stamped the pedal back down and he was pushed back into his seat as the car roared through the hundred mark.
Most cars ahead had seen the glare in their mirrors and moved aside. He sped past them and weaved between the other dozy fuckers still pootling along in the middle lane. The chopper didn’t budge. It was right up his arse. The road came at him like a Playstation game. He started crying.
This was supposed to be his day. Freedom he’d waited a year for and dreamt of every single night and every single day. He was supposed to be down the pub, shitfaced, after getting a bunk-up and teaching that bitch a lesson for getting him sent down in the first place. Now he had the police and some right nasty bastards after him.
It was all that bitches fault.
If she wasn’t already dead he would have killed her. He thought of her body. Of the needles stuck in it.
‘That stupid bitch!’
What had she got him in to? Now he was next on their list and he couldn’t even go to the cops.
The cops.
They could appear on the ground, after him, any second. He took the next exit and put some distance between him and the motorway, turning this way and that, no clue where he was headed. He was well out in the sticks before he realised that the only light was directly in front of him. His own beams. There were no streetlights – and no helicopter light.
He nearly went into a tree on a bend trying to search the skies. He ducked into a side road and pulled into a bridle path. Prised his fingers from the wheel. Outside the air bit into his face and lungs. There was no sight or sound of the helicopter. Result. He had been beginning to think that it could stay up there all week.
He got back in the car and stared into the northern night. He remembered that guy on the run that had got cornered out in the sticks. It hadn’t ended well. About how the chopper was gone but every cop on the streets would be looking for him and this car. He could see the city lights in the distance.
He hid the car as best he could, clambered over a style and started walking back to town. Each step his feet were sucked into the field up to the ankles.
‘Fucking bitch.’
NINE
‘I’ve never seen so much filth. We’ve been well stitched, bro.’
He was scared. His heart was pounding so fast and so loud he was sure that Casper must hear it, even with all this rain. He took a peak. Casper was in a world of his own, working a spray can. The tag looked good. So did they. They both had hoodies on beneath thick new puffer jackets. Skinny jeans. New trainers on their feet. When Casper glanced over at him he forced a grin. Casper grinned back and he thought it looked as forced as his own but the fact that he looked just as scared didn’t help him any. He was warm in his gear and they had shelter but he was starting to shake. When Casper grabbed his arm he nearly shat in his pants.
It was time.
His friend moved off and it was Casper’s turn to start when he pulled him back.
‘What the fuck are you doing, Blu, you chickenshit?’ he attempted to cover his fear. ‘Don’t bottle on me. You’
re a dead man if you bottle on me, you hear? They’ll fucking kill you. I’ll fucking kill you.’
A reply wouldn’t come and Casper punched him on the arm, hard, causing him to wrap his hand round it, massaging the pain.
‘Chickensh-’
The place lit up and they both flattened themselves into the recess. Another police car sped by.
‘See.’
Casper nodded. ‘Good call.’
Casper rubber necked and watched it go. It was dark again. They remained where they were. What the fuck was going down out here tonight? They were in a sea of filth. Another passed by five minutes later. Maybe it was the same one, circling, looking for somebody.
‘Lets go,’ said Casper. For a moment Blu thought Casper was crying off, thank fuck, but after Casper had shouldered his bag he jogged off towards the target. Blu started counting elephants. When he hit the right number he picked up his own bag and moved.
It wasn’t rocket science.
His hand went into the bag and the first brick flew. The sound of glass shattering was deadened by the storm. Not so the alarm that kicked in. His heart did the impossible and upped a beat. He dipped back into the bag, repeating the advice he had been given, over and over in his head: nobody gives a shit about an alarm, they just turn the telly up and curse the bastard who isn’t switching it off. And it ain’t linked to nothing. No one’s going to come running. It’s just a noise.
The noise was scaring the shit out of him.
And Blu didn’t think there would be many watching telly at this hour. They would be getting woken up and coming to look. Calling the feds.
He began to work faster.
He went back into the bag. He set a bottle alight and it sailed through the bottom window producing a burst of heat and light when it exploded inside, the contents spreading across the floor, the flame following it and growing as it found new combustible material.
He lobbed another three and then chucked what was left of his gear into the now roaring fire before having it on his toes.
He met up with Casper in the next street. They had run the best part of a mile, neither looking back, not even once, before they let up and began walking through the rain lashed streets and alleys, not caring how wet they were.
A figure lurched towards them.
‘Got a light?’ Casper asked it.
The man fumbled through his clothing. Produced a bic. The bloke was three sheets to the wind.
‘Here, you shouldn’t be smoking,’ he slurred. ‘And you shouldn’t be up at this time of night, neither, never mind outside on a night like this one.’
‘Keep your syrup on, granddad, you don’t want to be getting too excited, you’ll fill your diapers, you old fart.’ Casper waved the bic at him as they sucked on their tabs and started jogging down the road, laughing, leaving the man swaying in the wind. His own unlit cigarette fell from his lips as they moved.
‘Bloody kids.’
TEN
‘I've been asking around about you, North.’ The Chief had a face like thunder. ‘I've been painting a picture and let me tell you that it's pretty black.’
He’d spent way too much time spouting rhetoric at meetings and cameras, feeling important, that he just didn’t know when to stop. North stared straight ahead. It was still pretty black on the other side of the window too. North admired his own reflection. He’d spammed his hair back and looked the kind of biz the Chief responded to in a crisp, pressed suit and open collar shirt. Every little helped, right?
‘Everyone voiced some concern except your superior in the Met and I would tend to think that he's fucking with me, glad to be shot of you, even if it is only temporarily. Your past record may contradict everything that I’ve seen personally, but let me tell you, Detective Inspector North, that the only record I'm concerned about is your record here and that, that is of some concern to me and don't think for one second that the irony of your recent commendation is not lost on me,’ he finally breathed in new air. Superintendant Egan was sat beside him. They were on the other side of the meeting table in the Chief’s office.
‘You went against orders, you were told to wait for back-up, didn’t, and nearly got yourself killed. You put yourself and others at risk but the general consensus was that it puts us all in a good light when an officer is brave and self-sacrificing, not so good when they are subject to reckless endangerment, so you are honoured before the cream of the community and what do you go and do? You insult them. It all stops now!’ he shouted the final word while slamming the desk.
These guys were all ego. The Chief just loved asserting his authority. North wore the mask. Let him have his moment. Stayed blank, kept calm, processed information. Tried to work out where the Chief was coming from. He could appreciate that he'd had a dig at the ceremony last night, fair enough, but nothing that warranted the volume of heated air coming his way. He had also made a valid point or two. And for the last six weeks he had been shackled to a desk where no one had said jack to him about shit. What concerns? The Chief was on one and it had him talking out his arse. Best let him vent.
‘What on earth goes on in your head?’
Just let him vent.
‘And don't think I don't know about your misspent youth and if there's one thing I know after thirty-five years of policing is that a leopard cannot change its spots.’
North wouldn’t have minded diverting the course of the conversation by embarking upon an evolutionary debate on the subject. The Chief had a point though. North could have been on the other side of the law. The wrong side. Still had connections. Friends. The Chief had been digging deep. Maybe he had been a good cop once but now he was a bad manager.
The Chief placed a couple of newspapers on the table and turned them round for North's benefit. The morning’s local daily, The Journal, lay next to a copy of that middle class mouthpiece, the Daily Mail. Terry Rawlins stared out of the Journal, Denise Lumsden joined him on the front of the Mail. The Mail had all the gory details. Miss Marple hadn’t wasted any time taking up his advice.
‘So, what do we know?’ the Chief said with a knowing look.
‘All we have are questions. It's–’
‘Well you better start providing answers!’ the Chief cut in. ‘Like how this is all over a national tabloid.’
North’s face was blank. He reached for the paper. Skimmed the now familiar story. It blamed a lenient, failing system. Broken Britain. It went on to paint a bleak picture of the estate where Denise Lumsden had lived, a place where pensioners had been abandoned by the state, easy prey for drug addicts looking to feed their habits through burgling and mugging. There was a promise of an exclusive on Miss Marple’s own story, a story that had fallen on deaf ears at the local police station, at the local council offices, her MP, a story to be serialised on the centre pages. She’d done well.
‘She’s a tough old bird. Been complaining about the drugs and consequences down there without anyone listening. Looks like she found a friendly ear at last.’
The Chief Super’s head went red. His chair banged into the wall behind him as he shot out of it.
‘A dead, drug addicted, drug pedalling whore has gotten this entire force all this negative national media attention. How did this happen?’ He was obviously saving up all of his PC for the cameras.
‘I gave her the talk but papers are begging their readers for stories. They have the contact details on every other page and everyone wants to be a celebrity these days, even grannies.’
‘I don’t want any more of your shenanigans. You do not talk to the media. Not ever! Not even a ‘No comment’, do you understand?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘And this case is not yours. You are back on light duties forthwith. Someone else will head this one up until DCI Mason is back on his feet.’
‘But –’
‘The only butt in here is the one residing about your shoulders, North. Things were bad enough when we spoke last night but now we also have an innocent victim on life support and a bunch
of bullshit stories all over the media. The national media!’ he reiterated. He just couldn’t get past it. North felt bad about the car driver, but he couldn’t personally be held to account for that - or much, if any, of the rest of it.
‘But you’d have nothing if I hadn’t gone after Rawlins. What if forensics draws a blank? He'd probably be in a hole in the ground by now and we would never have had a chance of getting hold of him and finding out who did this because its odds on Rawlins didn’t kill Denise Lumsden.’
The Chief sat back down. Looked at the three inch headlines proclaiming he did.
‘Odds on since when?’
‘Since I saw the body. The blood had been making its way south for some time. He was still banged-up.’
The Chief went red again.
‘And yet you lay the blame on the judiciary for letting him out to kill her in front of the whole city last night - including the press.’
‘The local press,’ he distanced himself from the Miss Marple saga. ‘and no one is to know that I was manipulating it to have a pop. All anyone reading that will remember is the judge letting him out, regardless of any later story announcing that he didn't kill her. They've listed what he did to get sent down in the first place and everyone will think he's a right scumbag and that they should have thrown away the key not let him walk free. After all the grief we’ve been getting lately over the gang trouble I took the opportunity to redirect the public's attention.’
‘Until they read the Mail and think we’ve abandoned old ladies in a no go ghetto.’
North decided to move things along. Get the whole newspaper thing behind them.
‘Look, Lumsden was probably killed while Rawlins was still inside. He goes home, finds her and for some reason he does a runner. Initially I’m just thinking he panics. He’s just got out after a year on remand for beating the crap out of her and the last thing he needs is to be found there. He knows he’s going to be first in the frame for it. He wasn’t to know he already had the perfect alibi. I decide to pop into the only place we can connect him to, his local, the Pond House pub, where the manager and clientele are uncooperative, there’s a ‘Welcome Home Terry’ message scrawled across the darts chalkboard and I can feel it in the air - he’s still there. But we need a warrant and so I make the request but it’s going to take some time. Then it all starts to go pear shaped.
Force Of Habit v5 Page 6
