by Bill Kitson
He walked over to a corner and took a lighter from his pocket. He set fire to the edge of a straw bale and watched the flames grow and flicker. As the polythene covering the bales took hold, the fire began to roar and Billy’s arousal became unbearable. He went back and stood for a second, looking down at the girl’s naked form, before flinging himself on her. He began to thrust, harder and harder, deeper and faster.
The smoke was all round them now, writhing, curling and choking. The roaring in Billy’s ears was part excitement and part the engulfing sound of the barn crumbling to destruction. Barely a minute later, Billy ejaculated. As he lay panting, something hot and heavy dropped close by. He staggered to his feet and stumbled outside, before collapsing on the ground. He turned to look back. A huge display of sparks flew up, as the roof timbers collapsed on the unconscious girl.
Despite exhaustive enquiries, the cause of the blaze and the reason for her presence in the barn were never discovered. Billy realized he’d been lucky. After that he became more careful.
Now Billy could pay girls to pretend to enjoy doing it with him. He also learned to be more selective about where and when to practise his love of fire.
Today he was excited, because he’d been asked to indulge his second passion. What was even better, he was going to be paid for it. That would mean he’d be able to afford Trudy. She was his favourite, but she cost more than the others. He’d been promised enough money to be able to visit her a few times. The job wasn’t even difficult. A caravan’s an easy target. The confined space, the single exit and the gas cylinders would make it easy. After all, he was an expert.
The caravan and its occupants shouldn’t be there. Danny told him that. They didn’t belong there. They didn’t belong anywhere. ‘They’re not like us, Billy,’ Danny explained. ‘They’re gippos and we don’t want gippos round here. They don’t contribute anything. They cost us money. They don’t pay tax, they don’t work. All they do is steal and beg. They’re sub-human parasites living in filthy squalor just like rats.’
Billy had no idea what sub-human parasites meant. But he did know rats. Knew them and detested them. ‘They need driving out, Billy. They’re just like rats.’ Danny was Billy’s hero. Although he was only three years Billy’s senior, Danny was like a god to the impressionable youth. Danny had a gun. Billy knew that. He’d seen it. What’s more, Danny had used it. Billy knew that too. More than once, Billy reckoned. If Danny said something was right, Billy would never argue.
Billy might have rushed the job, but that wasn’t the way it had to be. Danny had left him in no doubt. ‘You must make sure nobody suspects us, Billy.’
Billy took his brother’s words for gospel. ‘Plan it carefully. Take your time. We need to scare the lot of them off for good, just like rats.’
As Billy watched the caravan, making his plans, he had no doubt he was doing the right thing; a good thing. He muttered the mantra over and over. ‘Just like rats. Just like rats. Just like rats.’
Chapter four
Drugs had been a problem on the Westlea for years. Getting hold of them, that is. Recently this had changed. The improvement was due to Ricky Smart. Ricky ensured they got what they needed. All he demanded in return was prompt payment. For some, this presented a problem, usually solved with a little opportunist crime. Nobody argued with Ricky. He’d been shrewd enough to seek protection. Smart had approached Danny Floyd. The move was a tactical triumph. His predecessors had gone it alone. Offering Danny a cut of the proceeds made Smart the dealer of choice. Competitors got a rough ride. Smart’s trade flourished as did Danny’s share.
Now they’d a unique proposition to consider. When Danny put the idea forward he believed it originated from Jake Fletcher. He couldn’t have guessed the true origin.
Smart was initially appalled. ‘Free gear for your lot this summer?’
‘Free to them,’ Danny reassured him. ‘But the stuff will be paid for.’
‘It’ll cost an arm and a leg. Who’s going to shell out?’
‘Some geezer wants the Juniors to do some stuff. Quite heavy stuff too.’
‘Must be real heavy if he’s stumping up that sort of cash.’
‘You’re better off not knowing. Believe me. Make sure you’ve plenty of gear when it’s needed. I don’t mean next week promises. I mean there and then. The Juniors won’t be happy if they’re kept waiting. Not when they’ve been promised. And you know what they’re capable of.’
‘Will it be cash up front? That’s a heavy layout.’
‘It’ll be cash on delivery. Just you see you’ve plenty of stock.’
‘That won’t be a problem.’
‘I’ve a meeting this afternoon,’ Nash told Clara.
‘What is it this time?’
‘The new deputy chief constable’s discussing staffing levels.’
‘Sounds like fun.’
‘You’ve a weird notion of enjoyment.’
‘What’s he like? Being from the lower ranks, I haven’t met him.’
‘You’ve not missed much. DCC King is a career policeman. He won’t have noticed the likes of you. His eyes are fixed on higher things. I’m sure he regards this posting as a backward step.’
‘Sounds a real berk. Mind you, he should get on with Creepy.’
‘DS Mironova, you shouldn’t speak of your superiors in that way. Inspector Crawley is one of our most respected and able officers – in his opinion, at least.’
‘That’s the only opinion Creepy values.’
Nash sighed. ‘Whatever happened to good old-fashioned values, like catching criminals and protecting the public?’
‘They got buried under red tape.’
‘The job’s turning you into a cynic.’
Clara grinned. ‘Talking of old-fashioned values, have you remembered your girlfriend’s name yet?’
Nash winced. ‘What made you bring that up? Was there a specific reason or was it sadism pure and simple?’
‘Being from the lower ranks, I have to get my pleasure where I can.’
‘For your cheek you can make the coffee. And bring some salt and vinegar.’
‘What for?’
‘The chip on your shoulder.’
‘I’ll be glad when Viv’s back off leave.’
‘So will I. Not only does Pearce make better coffee, he’s far more respectful.’
Tom Pratt managed a word with Nash before the meeting. ‘Try not to antagonize King. We know it’ll be bad news.’
‘I’ll let Creepy do the talking.’
Pratt laughed. ‘Much good that’ll do.’
Nash remained calm whilst the DCC outlined his plans. It was an effort.
‘I intend to initiate a review that will point the way to the most effective and cost-efficient service.’ King looked hard at Nash. ‘I shall be paying close attention to the smaller units and asking some pertinent questions regarding their viability.’
‘I’d have thought recent events might have shown that Helmsdale can’t be policed effectively from Netherdale,’ Nash objected mildly.
‘I shall approach this review with an open mind,’ King told him sharply. ‘However, I remain to be convinced that the community wouldn’t be better served by concentrating our resources where we can make an effective difference, rather than squandering them on small units covering areas with low levels of unsolved crime. I see a strong case for centring operations at Netherdale. That can be achieved either with the existing personnel,’ King’s stare grew colder, ‘or by replacing officers who don’t fit in with the new order.’
Nash ignored the implicit threat. ‘Could the low level of unsolved crime be because of an effective presence?’ he suggested.
King shook his head. ‘I’ll examine the logistics of ensuring an equally effective service from Netherdale. Given the will, and the right officers, it can be done. Nothing will be decided until I’ve completed my review.’
‘And that will be conducted with a completely open mind?’ Nash suggested, putting a l
ittle stress on the word ‘open’.
As they were leaving, King detained Crawley. ‘I’d like a word.’
‘What do you think that’s about?’ Pratt jerked a thumb backwards as he and Nash walked down the corridor.
‘Probably asking Creepy to do his dirty work. They’re two of a kind. I’m just glad one of them isn’t female.’
‘Why?’
‘The thought of an offspring from that union is too horrible. I wonder what God makes of King. Do you know?’
‘God hasn’t confided in me. Anyway, you should know. You’re her blue-eyed boy. I reckon she looks on you as the son she never had.’
Their chief constable’s nickname was obvious, not only from her rank but her initials. Gloria O’Donnell did indeed have a soft spot for Nash. ‘I wouldn’t have thought any mother would refer to her son as she speaks about me,’ Nash objected.
‘Alright,’ Pratt confessed, ‘so she calls you “that randy bastard at Helmsdale”. You can’t tell me that isn’t a term of affection?’
‘Hardly matronly.’
‘Whatever, I think you’re right about Creepy.’
Had they remained in the meeting room, Pratt would have been able to congratulate Mike on the accuracy of his guess.
‘I’ve been reading the files of the officers under my command and I believe you’re the ideal candidate to assist me. I intend to build a team that’s second to none. There will be a considerable number of changes, in strategy, working practices and personnel.
‘There will be no room for lone-wolf operators. Procedures will not be ignored or bypassed. The chain of command will operate at all levels, with strict attention to correct reporting.
‘Every officer will have a clearly defined role. They will know exactly what’s expected. I intend to ensure this area is free from old, bad practices. There will be no prima donnas.’
‘I’ll do whatever I can to assist.’ Crawley’s eagerness was pathetic.
‘We’ll go into detail when I’ve established the parameters. In the meantime, tell me about Nash. I understand he has an active social life?’
‘He’s never short of female company,’ Crawley agreed.
‘I’m no prude, but I prefer my officers to have settled domestic arrangements.’
‘There have certainly been a lot of women.’ Crawley leaned forward confidentially. ‘There was even a rumour concerning Nash and DS Mironova, although that’s unconfirmed.’
‘That’s something I won’t tolerate. Romantic entanglements between officers inevitably cause problems. It impairs the efficiency of those concerned and others who work alongside them. There’s only one way of ending such an unsatisfactory situation and that’s by separating the parties. We must pay close attention to this.’
Nash’s mobile bleeped during his drive to Helmsdale. On reaching his flat, he checked the inbox. ‘Michael. Have to go to New York. Will call you. X.’ He groaned. Why didn’t the wretched girl sign her text? If he couldn’t remember her name, he’d be in real bother.
He noticed the message alert flashing on his landline. He’d to replay the message before the significance struck home. ‘Michael,’ a man’s voice said. ‘We need to talk about my sister.’
Nash stared down at the phone in helpless frustration. A fault had developed, which rendered every voice, male or female, totally unrecognizable. It was as if all messages were being delivered by a ten-year-old Jimmy Osmond. Now her brother wanted to see him. He couldn’t identify the brother’s voice any more than he could remember the girl’s name. As if things weren’t bad enough.
Reporters often have to wait a long time for a story. Tucker sat outside Gemma Fletcher’s flat each evening until he was sure she’d gone to bed. The following morning he was there before she left. He watched her as many hours as he could, given that he’d his weekly column to write.
He’d submitted this to his editor on Wednesday lunchtime and that afternoon had his first slice of luck. Gemma left work early. Tucker followed her as she drove west out of Helmsdale and headed deep into the countryside. His curiosity was roused: Gemma didn’t strike him as a nature lover. So where was she bound?
When she reached a remote moorland road, Tucker eased off the accelerator and maintained a discreet distance. Had he been fifty yards further back he’d have missed her turn off. He drove past the end of the rutted, unmade lane until he reached the brow of a hill and parked on the grass verge. It was an excellent vantage point. Tucker reached into the glove compartment for his binoculars.
Twenty minutes later, he saw another vehicle turn onto the track. As it pulled to a stop, Tucker saw Gemma leap from her car and dash to meet the other driver.
He saw their passionate embrace before the couple dived hurriedly into the man’s vehicle. What Tucker was anxious to discover was the identity of Gemma’s lover. Any doubt as to the status of the relationship was dispelled by the gentle rocking of the vehicle and the steamed-up windows.
‘Way to go, Gemma,’ Tucker murmured approvingly as he noted the car’s registration number. ‘Where would reporters be without a bit of good old-fashioned adultery?’
‘What news have you got?’ Appleyard began.
Jake Fletcher stared across the desk. ‘Everything’s ready. You don’t want to know the details. You should hear something today or tomorrow. With the right incentives, other incidents will follow.’
Appleyard passed him an envelope. ‘The first instalment; I hope the results will be worth it.’
‘You needn’t worry. When will you start?’
‘There’s a meeting next Friday. Normally they’re only attended by three men and a dog, but I want to ensure there’s a full house.’
‘What’s the meeting?’
‘Westlea Residents’ Association.’
Jake nodded approval. ‘You’ll be preaching to the converted there. How can I help?’
‘Make sure we get a good attendance.’
‘It could be tricky getting folk from in front of their TVs. Those that aren’t in the pub, that is. I’ll ask Ronnie to try a little persuasion. Anything else?’
‘I might arouse some strong emotions. It would be sensible to have a few people about.’
‘Danny and the Juniors will do that. I’ll be on hand with Ronnie to supervise them.’ Jake grinned. ‘Most of them have suffered at the hands of bouncers. It’ll appeal to them to act the part.’
At one end of the Westlea, planners had included a set of lock up garages. Most had been unused from the date of their completion. Many had fallen or been pushed into disrepair. Neglect and vandalism had reduced many to doorless shells. Not that they were unused. During the daytime they formed goalmouths for children playing football. When the weather intervened, the interior provided a welcome refuge. Detritus littered the crumbling concrete floors in the form of lager cans, cider bottles, cigarette ends and other smoking products even less healthy.
More sinister was the presence of used needles and syringes, aerosols and plastic bags for those who needed extra stimulation. After dark the garages were in regular use by a wide variety of occupants. Amorous encounters, between mixed-sex and same-sex couples. Many a girl from the estate enjoyed her first experience of true love in the garages.
One of the garages had long been the meeting place for teenagers from the Westlea. The gang had certain membership criteria. One of the most rigid was ethnicity. It probably hadn’t been a group member who daubed the racial slogans on one of the walls, but the sentiment met with their wholehearted approval.
Not that they were racist. They hated everyone with equal ferocity. Age was another qualification for joining the group. This rule was less tightly applied but it was generally held that anyone over the age of eighteen or under the age of twelve was excluded. Danny Floyd and his brother were exceptions, but then they had other excellent credentials. These took the form of one of the core values, a capacity for violence, preferably with a proven track record.
‘Shut it!’ Glazed eyes
turned in the general direction of the voice. As they attempted to focus on the speaker, one or two mutters continued. ‘I said, shut it.’ The half-light made it difficult to focus. The fact that they were stoned didn’t help.
‘We all know there’s too many Immigrunts on the Westlea.’
A growl of anger emphasized their agreement.
‘Now we’ve chance to get shut of them.’
‘How we gunna do that, Dan? There’s hundreds of ’em.’
‘Shut up and listen. Then you’ll find out, won’t you? Here’s the job. We make life so fucking miserable for them they’ll be queuing up to get the first bus out.’
‘How, Dan?’
‘Never mind how. Are you up for it?’
‘Too right.’
‘The best bit is, there’s others think like us. We’ll even get re-fucking-warded.’
‘What you mean?’
‘We’re going to get free gear. Good shit too. All we’ve to do is earn it.’
‘What! By getting shut of the Immigrunts?’
‘You got it.’
‘I’d do it for nowt.’
‘I’m in if there’s free stuff.’
‘Me too.’
‘And me.’
‘I’m in.’ A dozen voices chimed their agreement.
‘When’s this going down?’
‘We wait for a sign. Billy’s going to torch a gippovan. We start after that.’
Chapter five
Billy waited patiently. He was ready. As soon as the caravan was in darkness and quiet, that was his cue.
His hold on reality had always been precarious. A good psychiatrist might have saved him. But Billy had never been treated. That wasn’t the way things happened. No one realized how close he was to being psychotic; the thin dividing line between normality and a psychopath. It needed only a small push to send Billy over the edge. Setting the caravan fire took Billy to the brink. As he lay in the hedge-back watching it burn, watching the gas bottles exploding high into the night sky, he teetered on that edge.
