‘Good, because Mr Frankie, Frank Armitage to you and me, is a stickler for timekeeping and I’ve already had a finger wagging off him in the last few days. Don’t want another.’
‘It’s about last Saturday night. You were behind the bar at the Starlight.’
‘Yeah,’ McAndrew said, moving to the mirror over the tiny sink to comb his hair. ‘It’s hell on earth there on Saturdays. The boss really should get a second barman. It gets so busy I hardly have time to wipe my nose or any other part of my anatomy, if you get my drift.’
‘Have you read about the murders that happened at Ravensfield this week? Two men battered to death.’
‘Yeah, well sort of. I didn’t actually read about it but heard a bit on the radio and one of the guys at the crem was talking about “them nasty murders on our doorstep”. Sounds horrendous.’
‘Well, I suspect you served the victims on Saturday night,’
McAndrew froze, his comb poised over his quiff. ‘You’re kidding!’
Snow shook his head and produced the two photographs of Wilkinson and Johnson. ‘These are the two men. Recognise them?’
Gingerly McAndrew took hold of the photographs and scrutinised them. ‘He doesn’t look well, does he,’ he said pointed at the photograph of Johnson. ‘Was it taken on the slab?’
Snow nodded. ‘Do you know them?’
‘Well, yes, I reckon I do recognise them. Especially this chap.’ He held up Wilkinson’s picture.
‘What can you tell me about him? His name is Matt Wilkinson.’
Sandy McAndrew screwed up his face in thought for a few moments. ‘Well, not a lot really. You don’t get much time to chat with the punters, business is so brisk. He was a ginger ale man, I seem to recall. He was pretty regular on a Saturday night. Had a charming way with him, I suppose. He seemed a nice bloke to me. He appeared to score pretty regularly. You know it is a gay club I suppose.’
Snow nodded again.
‘Not that I’m gay. But… well I reckon that’s why Mr Rawlins gave me the job. He didn’t want me flirting with customers from behind the bar, if you know what I mean. Be brisk and use a deep voice.’ He smiled at his own observation.
‘Did you see him score on Saturday night?’ He held up the photograph of Wilkinson.
McAndrew revived the face screwing routine again. ‘There was one chap with him for most of the night, I seem to remember. They did a lot of chatting and buying each other drinks.’
‘What did he look like, this other chap?’
‘Heck, I don’t know. I can’t remember really.’
‘Think. Give it a go.’
McAndrew stared at the ceiling for a few seconds. ‘Tallish. Thinnish. Long nose. Almost aristocratic,’ He said at length. ‘Looked a bit like Peter Sellers without the glasses.’
‘Would you recognise him again?’
‘I think so. Maybe. I’m really not sure. My God, you don’t think he…’
‘It’s a possibility. Anything else you remember about this man or Saturday night in particular.’
‘Not really. Ah… wait a minute… I did see him, this Peter Sellers bloke, talking to another man whenever the Wilkinson bloke went to the bog.’
‘And what did he look like?’
‘That I can’t say. It was beyond the lights of the bar. All I can say was it was a white man of a normal build… with glasses. I thought he looked a bit out of place.’
In what way?’
‘I never saw him dancing or talking to anyone – apart from the Peter Sellers guy. It was probably his first time. You get to recognise the behaviour.’
There was nothing more that young Sandy McAndrew could tell Snow. It was just crumbs. But, thought the policeman, gather enough crumbs and you make a loaf.
Snow left the young lad to finish his preparations for his stint at Frankie’s burger bar and drove home. He lived in an Edwardian terraced house situated in a quiet street near Greenhead Park. It was furnished in a very Spartan style, not in any way to be fashionable or chic, but simply because Snow did not acquire possessions. They weren’t important to him. In all manner of ways he travelled light. He had no really close friends, no hobbies or passions to fill up his time away from the job and because of the dangers, no romantic involvements. Sometimes, wryly, he thought of himself as a kind of modern urban monk.
He sipped a can of lager while he waited for the microwave to ping telling him his meal for one was red hot and ready to burn his mouth.
As he ate, he thought about the case and prayed for a swift straightforward conclusion.
TWENTY-THREE
‘I know I shouldn’t be talking to you. I know what we agreed. But these are bloody exceptional circumstances. I’ve been putting this call off all day. It’s been doing my head in. I mean we can’t just do nothing. We can’t sit tight and hope the bastard dies.’ Alex’s voice on the phone was almost hysterical.
Russell didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to think. Like Alex his mind had been transformed into mincemeat since he had heard the news about Ronnie Fraser.
It was close to midnight and he was sitting at his desk in the downstairs room which he had converted into an office, a single desk lamp throwing a narrow beam down on to the telephone. Upstairs his wife and unborn child were sleeping soundly. He had been in a quandary all day as to whether he should break the rule and contact the others, but now Alex had beaten him to it.
‘If he wakes up, comes round, he could land us right in the shit.’ Alex’s voice rose an octave.
‘And what do you suggest we do?’ asked Russell softly, lobbing the ball back.
There was a pause. Both men knew what the other was thinking – the options were few – but neither had the courage to voice their thoughts. After a while it was Alex who spoke. ‘Well,’ he said hesitantly, ‘I suppose we’d better get in touch with Laurence. He’ll know what to do.’
As usual it was Russell who contacted Laurence, their bond being the stronger and more intimate than Alex’s.
Initially Laurence was irritated that Russell had broken their rule. He had told them clearly that they should remain incommunicado for twelve months. Of course, he had not reckoned on the way things had turned out. How could he have been so stupid not to check that all three of them were dead? Really dead. However, his initial response to the unpleasant news that one of the men had survived their attack was just to lie low. It would all pass. Surely even if this fellow was able to talk to the police about the event, there was nothing definite that he could say that would link the killings to the Brotherhood. But now Russell’s call had begun to sow seeds of doubt in his mind. Maybe he was fooling himself. The coppers would be looking for a motive and as robbery was not involved it would be suggested to them that the attacks on Wilkinson and cronies had been carried out as some form of revenge. The crime was too vicious and calculated to be random. This line of thinking surely would lead them to seek out Wilkinson’s victims, one of whom was Alex. Once that had been established, the coppers had their link, the link to all of them. And although Alex and Russell had been balaclava-ed up on the night, he had not. OK, he had been in disguise but this was simply a camp persona and a long-haired wig. Window-dressing. Certainly not an iron clad protection against identification. Slowly, uncomfortably Laurence also began to get pangs of concern. It was a feeling alien to him and he didn’t like it.
‘Look, allow me a little time to give this some thought and I’ll ring you in the morning. Early before you set off for school. Say around 7.30. And for God’s sake tell Alex to remain cool.’
Russell said he would, knowing that it would be a futile gesture, and replaced the receiver. As he did so, he sensed another presence in the room. He turned sharply and saw Sandra standing in the open doorway.
‘What was that all about?’ she said softly. There was no edge or tone to her voice to indicate to Russell whether this was a vague enquiry or that she had heard most of the conversation.
‘Are you OK, my love?
The baby...?’
She shook her head sleepily. ‘Yes, I’m OK. Baby’s fine. Who were you talking to?’
Suddenly Russell felt very weary. It was all going wrong. Things were spiralling out of control. He was starting to build lie upon lie. What had been his pleasant dark secret now seemed a ridiculous and dangerous burden. It should never have brought them this close to discovery. For a fleeting moment he wished it were all over. Everything. He just wanted to rest in the dark and never be troubled again.
His brain worked sluggishly as Sandra stood waiting for his response. ‘It’s… it’s an old school friend. He’s got some health issues. Cancer.’ He paused, gathering up further strands of the lie. ‘He’s not got much time left and he’s been getting touch with people he knew. A final chat… you know.’
Lame as a three-legged dog, thought Russell, bringing to mind one of Laurence’s pithy expressions.
‘At this time of night?’
‘He can’t sleep, poor devil. He’s not thinking straight.’
In the dim light he couldn’t tell whether Sandra believed him or not.
He rose swiftly, crossed to her and placed his arm around her shoulder. ‘Come on love, let’s go back to bed. We’ve work in the morning.’ After a moment she responded and moulded herself into him. ‘Thank God we’ve got our health and sanity,’ he murmured, leading her back to their bedroom. A tag line he hoped would to add a touch of credibility to his lie.
Sandra did not reply.
Laurence, his sleep interrupted by Russell’s phone call, sat up in bed smoking and thinking. His bedroom was illuminated solely by a tiny bedside lamp and as though in a trance he watched the tendrils of smoke spiral away beyond the spill of light up into the darkness above. He felt that he was caught in a mental maze. Each time he tried to think his way out of the dilemma, he ended up in the same spot. The same conclusion, the same resolution. It would not go away. It would not go away because it was the only practical and sensible thing to do. He knew that he was trying to avoid the obvious for the obvious meant more planning, more effort, more danger and enhanced the possibility of exposure and capture.
He swore gently under his breath. It was a gesture of defeat.
‘Oh, ma wee boy, it looks like you’ll have tae grasp the nettle,’ he murmured in a comic Scottish accent and allowed himself a faint smile at his enforced whimsy. Fate, it seemed, was now leading him by the hand, taking him off any planned route and down a doubtful side road. He had no choice in the matter. He just couldn’t resist it.
With a sigh of resignation, he stubbed out the cigarette, clicked off the bedside lamp and slid beneath the covers and lay on his back, fully aware that sleep would not visit him that night.
Alex was also having a sleepless night. His mind was a riot of thoughts, but at the heart of his cerebral turmoil was one idea which, like Laurence’s, would not be shifted. It was logical, inevitable. It was, he believed, necessary. He would have to kill Ronnie Fraser. The bastard had to die before he regained consciousness and blabbed. Of course, he may well have regained consciousness already. If so the three of them were going to hell in a handcart.
Whatever, he had to find out and act accordingly. It was, he reasoned, his fault that his friends were in this mess and so it was up to him, and him alone, to try and get them out of it. If he failed, he would be the only one to suffer.
What a pillock he had been to get involved with Matt Wilkinson in the first place. He had allowed his dick to rule his brain and his common sense. And then he was a pathetic twat running to his mates with his sob story, wanting them to punish the naughty man for hurting him. If he’d kept his bloody mouth shut and suffered in silence they wouldn’t be in this precarious position now. So, quite rightly, he had to resolve it.
First thing in the morning, he’d be up to the hospital…
He prayed he wouldn’t be too late.
It was just after seven o’clock in the morning when the telephone rang in Russell’s house.
‘Not your sick friend again,’ observed Sandra with too much irony for Russell’s comfort.
He shrugged. ‘I’m not telepathic.’ It came out nastily and not as light-hearted banter as he’d intended.
Sandra frowned.
‘I’ll take it in my office.’ Russell left the kitchen in a hurry, desperate to silence incessant ringing.
He shut the door of the little room and lifted the receiver and recited the appropriate mantra. ‘Hello, this is Russell Blake. Can I help you?’ That told Laurence that indeed it was Russell answering the telephone and that he was free to speak openly.
Good morning, squire,’ said Laurence.
‘Bloody hell, man, I thought you said you’d ring me at seven thirty. It’s only just after seven. I wasn’t ready for you. Now the bloody wife is getting suspicious.’ It came out in torrent of anger, the voice a harsh whisper, the face strained with mixture of frustration and annoyance.
‘Sorry, my friend, but I have to leave shortly to catch a train. A train up to Huddersfield.’
‘What?’’
‘Huddersfield. I’m coming up to complete this job. I’m going to silence our surviving friend. On my own, I hasten to add.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Oh, Russell, you know what I’m talking about. You know as well as I do the only way to knock this matter on the head is to silence this Ronnie character for good.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Good. Glad we’re agreed on that. And I’m the fellow to do it. With all due respect, I reckon you two guys might cock it up. Alex is too emotionally involved and therefore unstable. As for you… well, my old mate, you can’t suddenly set off to Huddersfield without explanation to the wife, the headmaster and those snotty, spotty morons you teach just to pull the plug on some toe rag in the Huddersfield Infirmary. The last thing you want to do is draw attention to yourself. Act out of character. The situation is so delicate, any suspicious move on your part or Alex’s might make things a whole lot worse. So let Uncle Laurence sort it out. A white coat, a false moustache, glasses and one on my nice wigs and I’ll be in and out of that intensive ward before you can say Christiaan Barnard. A quick click of the switch of the magic contraption that’s keeping the bugger alive or whatever else is appropriate to stop him breathing and all our troubles will be over.’
Russell couldn’t help but smile and not for the first time he felt a hot wave of love for Laurence crash over him. ‘You’re like bloody Superman coming to the rescue.’
‘That’s me, that’s what I’m here for. I’ll just nip into the nearest phone, change my underpants and zoom off to Yorkshire. It’s in all our interests. We’re brothers after all.’
‘Sure. But you take care, Laurence.’
‘I always do, mon ami,’ he answered in the comic French accent he used to adopt when they were at college and for a brief moment Russell was transported back to Alf’s pub, the dusty light filtering in through the tall windows, the grumpy old men in the corner staring into space and his eighteen-year-old self was sitting holding a pint and laughing at something Laurence had just said. The memory brought an ache to his heart. It welled with sadness. He had been so happy then, so content. If only he could go back. But life isn’t like that.
‘One thing I’d like you to do,’ Laurence was saying. ‘Let Alex know what I’m up to. Put his mind at ease and tell him to carry on as normal. I worry about him sometimes. He comes very close to flipping his lid these days. Since the little incident with Wilkinson, he’s not the same steady fellow he used to be with a reliable firm hand on the tiller.’
‘Sure, I’ll ring him now.’
‘Good man. Don’t contact me again until the appointed time. You’ll read the results of my actions in the paper or on the telly. Ciao.’
The line went dead.
Russell stood for sometime just holding the receiver, staring into space, the ache was still there. With a sigh he replaced it and dialled Alex’s number.
TWENTY-FOUR
He had not expected to find a policeman sitting in the corridor outside Ronnie Fraser’s room by the Intensive Care Ward at the Huddersfield Infirmary. On guard no doubt to prevent any unauthorised person entering the room and on hand to take down any information that Ronnie might provide should he regain consciousness. Of course Alex should have known if he had been thinking clearly, but his thoughts had been mangled ever since he’d learned that the Fraser creep was still in the land of the living.
Alex had arrived at the hospital just before five in the morning. Unable to sleep or to wait until daylight, he had made his way there at this early hour reckoning that the place would be quiet and that he would find it relatively easy to gain access to Fraser. He was existing in a strange dream world where his actions were somehow not a part of him. Perhaps at any moment he would wake up and find that it was some kind of night-time hallucination.
And then, perhaps not.
He parked a few streets away and jogged to his destination. The sky was still grey with only the faintest promise of dawn as he pushed through the swing doors and entered the hospital. The building was eerily quiet, like a ghost hospital with an empty foyer and deserted corridors. Illness, it seemed, had been put on hold until the dawn chorus. He felt vulnerable, the solitary stranger wandering along the empty corridors. It would have been so much easier if he could have blended in with a throng of patients, nurses and visitors, but he did not have the luxury of time to wait until the place became busy. What he had to do, he had to do as soon as possible.
He did encounter the odd nurse who wandered by him in a preoccupied manner, but no one questioned his presence or took any interest in him at all. He had dressed smartly but wore a flat cap which he’d pulled as far down as he could without looking ridiculous in order to shade his face.
Following the copious signs on the walls, he had found his way via the lift up to the third floor where the Intensive Care Ward was situated. The enquiry desk was dark. No one was on duty. That was a real bonus. He scurried past but then he hit the buffers in the shape of a bulky policeman. Although, far from looking alert, the constable, slumped in a chair outside Fraser’s room engrossed in a paperback novel, was a real problem. Casually, Alex strolled past the copper who did not raise his eyes from the printed page as he did so.
Brothers in Blood Page 13
