“Get out!”
Kennedy did as he was told. He was scared, confused, and in a great deal of pain. Dawson led him to the rear of the vehicle. Hart was standing there, illuminated by the red brake lights.
“Get in here. In case we get stopped by police.”
“What?” Kennedy looked petrified.
“Stop being a dick, just get in. If the police catch you, you’re going down for a ten stretch. We’re trying to help you, you butt-plug.”
“Ten-stretch?” Kennedy was holding his head. It was streaming with blood where the baseball bat had connected.
“JUST GET IN!” Snapped Wilson. He was conscious of the fact that a car could come along at any minute and illuminate the three men, and Kennedy’s blood-soaked head, and the suitcase.
Curtis Kennedy did as he was told, and curled up into a ball as he struggled to fit into the suitcase. Wilson snapped the lid shut, and he and Hart lifted it back into the boot.
“Now stay silent!” said Wilson as he slammed the boot shut.
The two men got back into the Range Rover, and pulled off, continuing towards Yorkshire. As they reached the first bend, another car came towards them from the opposite direction and illuminated the two occupants faces.
“That was close!” said Hart.
There was a long, tense silence as Wilson continued driving.
Eventually, Wilson spoke. “I’m going to have to ring Marco.”
Hart was looking out of the back window.
“Chopper’s up!”
“Fuck.”
Hart was right. In the distance behind them was the unmistakable sight of the police helicopter. It had its gigantic torch on, the glow looked like a huge white floodlight, and the thick white beam of light that it generated was strobing around the town.
Wilson dialled Marco.
“Whassup?”
“Aw Marco, it’s all going tits up. Someone’s chased the kid, he’s had his head twatted in.”
There was a silence. It was intimidating, and it lasted way too long.
“Marco?”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard you. Where’s the kid?”
“In the suitcase, in the boot.”
“Where are you?”
“On the tops, going over the Snake Pass.”
“Right…”
“The chopper’s up in Glossop. Just seen it.”
“Fucks sake. Right, you need to lose the suitcase. Somewhere it won’t be found.”
Now the silence was in the car. Neither Wilson or Hart spoke. This was suddenly becoming a lot darker than the original plan, which was to gather a bit of intelligence from outside a house.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes.” Said Wilson, though he sounded extremely unhappy as he said it.
“Find a river or summat, check for one on Google maps. As soon as you find one, chuck him in.”
There was another uncomfortable silence.
“Inside the case?”
“Yes. Then stay the fuck away from me until further notice. Text me when you’ve finished.” Marco hung up.
“What the…” said Hart.
“Shut up. Right, open Google maps on there. Find a river.” Wilson passed his phone to Hart.
Hart started scanning the local area on the map. They were coming towards several reservoirs, just a few miles up the
road. But Hart couldn’t bring himself to point them out.
“Got summat?” asked Wilson after a minute or two.
Hart showed him the phone, and the huge areas of water that the blue dot of their vehicle was moving towards on the map.
A heavy silence hung, as the blue dot continued to move slowly towards the vast expanse of water which the road seemed to go through the middle of.
“It’s Ladybower Res. That’s perfect. They’ll never find him in there.” Said Wilson.
“This is fucked up.” Said Hart. He felt sick. This wasn’t his cup-of-tea at all.
“Shut up Dan. We’ve had our orders. Deal with it.”
Hart began to think that Wilson was getting something of a perverse buzz out of all this.
Soon, the blue dot was in the centre of the water on the map. There was nowhere to pull over, and there was a constant flow of traffic coming in the opposite direction, and from the junction which was controlled by traffic lights. It felt like a very vulnerable spot, and a very risky place to throw a suitcase into the reservoir, over the side of a dry-stone wall.
“We can’t do it here. It’s on top.” Said Wilson. “Look for a river. We’ll get spotted here.”
“We, what’s all this fucking we shit? I’m having jack-shit to do with this.”
“I don’t think Marco will buzz off that Dan. You’ll be working in his factory if he hears you saying shit like that.”
“This is messed up. He hasn’t done owt wrong.”
“Marco’s orders.”
There was another frosty silence.
The car continued to hurtle towards Sheffield. Soon, they’d reached a stream on the map.
“This’ll do, look, its at the top of that hill.” Wilson was pointing to a blue line on the map which was running parallel to the road, about half a mile up the hill to their left. “We’ll chuck him in there, then carry on to Sheffield, and we’re home and dry.
Hart just stared at the road ahead. He remained silent.
“Don’t start taking your ball home now. We’ve got no choice, it’s us or him.”
“We don’t need to fucking kill him. Jesus.”
“Seriously Dan, you need to have a chat with yourself. Ask yourself why the chopper was up so quick? Ask yourself why that guy came running after the kid. They obviously know the score. We can’t drive around with him in the boot. We’ll be getting sent down ourselves mate. Marco’s right. We need to lose the suitcase.”
Hart remained silent. It had never been his intention to get this heavily involved. All he wanted was to make some easy money, punch a few bad people, dish out a few punishments. But not this. This was going way too far.
“Right. Come on.” Wilson pulled the car into the car park of a derelict old church. “Come on!” He raised his voice slightly the second time.
Both men pulled the suitcase out of the Range Rover. Wilson was fidgeting around in the small compartment in the boot of the car. He pulled out some bungee straps.
“Here, wrap these around it.” Wilson started fastening the straps around the suitcase, pulling them as tense as he could before coupling the two hooks together.
“Nah mate. I’m not doing fuck all.”
This comment made Wilson snap at the younger man. “Dan, you better fucking grow a pair. I can’t be doing with you pussying about.”
“Let me out now, I can’t breathe,” shouted Kennedy from inside the suitcase.
Wilson crouched down. “Shut up, you. We’ll let you out in a minute.”
“Better had do!” was Kennedy’s reply.
“Fucking hell, I’m completely surrounded by bell-ends,” muttered Wilson as he attached the final bungee strap around the case. Two minutes later, the pair had tipped the case over a dry-stone wall, and were clambering over it. Kennedy was crying loudly inside the suitcase.
“You go on that side, drag that handle.” Ordered Wilson.
The two men pulled the retro old suitcase up the field in the pitch black, as cars continued to drive along the A57 just beneath them at the bottom of the hill. As well as the cars, they could hear cows mooing, owls hooting, alongside the constant flow of water in the distance, and Kennedy’s muffled pleas for help from inside the case.
Wilson was checking the map on his phone. “There’s a bridge just up here. We’ll chuck the case in there, then get the fuck out of here.”
As Wilson said it, Hart tripped over. He hit the ground with a thud.
“Get up you fucking Dime bar.”
“Shut up, I’ve done my ankle in,” snapped Hart. He was wincing in pain.
“Oh, fuck you Dan.
You’re acting like a baby.”
Wilson left Hart in a heap on the ground, and pulled the suitcase along the grass, continuing up the slope with the crying youth inside the well-sealed luggage container. Eventually he reached a stone bridge that went over the stream. He hoisted the suitcase up onto the wall.
“Let me out!” shouted Kennedy from inside. He must have sensed that something wasn’t right. At that moment, Wilson shoved the suitcase off the wall, and it crashed into the water and rocks below with a loud splash. He clicked on the torch function on his phone, and checked that the suitcase was fully submerged in the flowing water. It was. Bubbles were coming up from the orange plastic object.
“Right.” He said as he started walking briskly, back down towards where he had left Hart.
There was no sign of his colleague as he reached the spot where they had split up.
“Dan!” he shouted. “Dan! Dan!”
But there was no reply. Hart had cleared off.
Wilson continued down the hill, back towards the eerie, abandoned church. As he reached the Range Rover, he saw that Hart was standing by the passenger door.
“Get in,” was all he said as he unlocked the vehicle. “I need a shit.”
Hart got into the car, and he saw Wilson disappear into a bush near the back of the church, the headlights of a passing car had illuminated him as he disappeared into the foliage.
Hart felt as though he was about to have a heart-attack. Wilson was gone for about a minute, but it felt like an hour. As each second passed, the tighter his chest became. He couldn’t breathe all the way in, he could only take shallow, panting breaths.
Hart was snapped out of his anxiety attack by Wilson opening his door and jumping in.
“That’s better. Always need a shit when I kill someone.”
Wilson started the engine and seconds later the Range Rover was back in motion on the road, hurtling towards Sheffield at 70mph.
Nothing was said until ten minutes later, when Wilson spotted a police car, and a police officer gesturing him to stop. The thought crossed his mind to step a little harder on the gas, and zoom through the road-block. But he quickly came to his senses and slowed down. He said “fuck” under his breath as he started rolling the window down.
“Hi,”
“Hello,” said the policeman. “Where have you come from?”
“Oh, er, Manchester.”
“And where are you heading?”
“Sheffield, Sir.”
“Do you mind if I ask why you are travelling tonight?”
“Oh, er, just going to pick the daughter up, she’s at Uni.”
The policeman was making notes in his pocketbook.
“Is this your vehicle?”
“Yes.”
“And your name and address please Sir?”
“Listen, what’s all this about? I’ve never had anything like this?”
“We’re checking all vehicles coming over the tops, in relation to an incident that has taken place in Manchester.”
“Oh right, well, er my name is Simon Wilson, my address is four-one-one Hyde Road, Gorton, Manchester.”
Another set of car headlights pulled up behind Wilson’s car, and the policeman gestured the driver to stay put.
“Do you have any form of identification with you this evening, Sir?”
Wilson pulled the visor flap down from above his head, and pulled out his driving license photo-card.
“Thanks, and what’s your name Sir?” asked the officer of Hart.
“Daniel Hart, fifty-nine Whitehead Road, Gorton.” Hart flashed his own driving license from his wallet.
“Thank you, and what’s your business in Sheffield?”
“Oh, er, nowt, just come along for the drive.”
“Okay. I just need to check your vehicle. Can you step out please?” The policeman was talking to Wilson. Hart was relieved, he was covered in mud, from where he’d fallen in the field.
“Open the rear door please Sir,” said the policeman. Wilson did as instructed and the officer shone his torch into the car. Wilson was praying that the beam of the torch didn’t hit the blood stains on the head-rest. He seemed satisfied. “Can I look in your boot please?”
“Of course officer, no problem.” Wilson walked around to the rear of the vehicle and opened the boot. It was empty. The policeman then pulled up the flap where the tool compartment sits. It was also empty.
“Okay, sorry for your trouble. Have a safe journey.”
“Yeah, yeah, no worries officer.”
Wilson got back into the car and started the ignition as the policeman wandered on to the car which was waiting behind.
“See? Marco was right.” Said Wilson as he drove away. Hart said nothing.
In fact, nothing else was said for much of the one hour and fifteen-minute journey back to Manchester, via Barnsley and the Woodhead Pass. As Wilson’s Range Rover approached Hyde, Hart realised that he had to try and offer some kind of olive branch to the other man, if only for his own preservation.
“Sorry, I freaked out back there. You’re right, it was the best thing to do.” Hart made it sound genuine. At the back of his mind was the prospect of Marco punishing him for dissent.
“Was that your first one?” asked Wilson, coldly.
“Yeah. Yeah, soz. I know it was the right thing to do, just freaked me out. That’s all.”
“Don’t worry about it Dan. First ones are the hardest. You’ve just got to remember, it’s us or them. It’s a doggy dog world. You’ll be alright in the morning.”
“Yeah, no, I mean, I’m alright now. Just thought it was a bit tight, but we’d be banged up ourselves now if we’d not done it. I’m cool.”
“Nice one, good. I’m glad you understand.”
“Listen, you won’t say out to Marco will you, about me panicking?”
“Nah man, will I fuck. Jesus, it’ll be you next if he heard about that. Trust me mate, I won’t say a word.”
“Cheers. No, I appreciate that. I owe you one.”
Not long after the two men had made their peace, Wilson pulled up outside Hart’s house.
“Right, go and get your head down. See you later. And seriously, don’t worry about Marco. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him, yeah?”
“Yeah. Thanks again.” Hart got out and closed the car door. Wilson pulled away immediately.
What followed was the longest night of Daniel Hart’s life. He tried to sleep, tried desperately to erase the vision of Curtis Kennedy curling up in a ball in that suitcase under the red glow of the rear lights. The mental vision of Kennedy curled up in that enclosed space, as the water started rushing into the suitcase haunted him.
As though this wasn’t torturing him enough, he was also plagued by images of Marco coming after him, sending the Cole brothers, or some other heavies to take him out of the picture. Would Simon Wilson keep his word, or was he headed straight over to Marco’s, to tell him about Hart’s reaction to the bosses order? These thoughts torturing Daniel Hart all night, and continued to do so throughout the following day.
But as each long hour drew to a close, Daniel Hart began to think that Simon Wilson had kept his word. Marco wasn’t aware of the tantrum, if he had of been, he would have made it known by now. But even with this relative peace-of-mind, Hart couldn’t erase the mental imagery that he had conjured up, the visions of the freezing cold water filling that hard, bound-up suitcase, and the absolute terror of Kennedy’s final moments of life.
In one sense, Hart was glad when he heard the police smashing his front door open. It was over.
Part Five
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Rudovsky, Kenyon and Miller listened quietly, somewhat sympathetically to Daniel Hart’s story. He wasn’t a nice man, that much was clear. But at the same time, he wasn’t a cold-blooded killer, that much was becoming obvious as he retraced his steps on that bizarre, unplanned night. He kept breaking down, lots of tears and soggy handkerchiefs followed. The detectives se
nsed that the tears weren’t just for him. He seemed genuinely gutted about what had happened to Curtis Kennedy.
Once the story was told, Miller had a few questions about a number of matters which didn’t quite stack up.
“You seemed to imply that this was a freak occurrence, and that Kennedy was killed in the spur of the moment?”
“Yeah, he was.”
“So why then was Simon Wilson carrying an enormous plastic suitcase in his boot?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know, or you don’t want me to know?”
“Swear down, I have no idea.”
“Do you not think that’s a pretty random item to have in one’s boot?”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know.”
“I think that it was planned all along, and I think you bottled it, and came up with this story to cover your arse.”
“I didn’t.”
“Did you not ask him why he had a massive suitcase, big enough for a body, in his boot?”
“No.”
“But you do admit that it’s a pretty amazing coincidence, that Wilson just so happened to have this item at the precise moment that he needed to dispose of a person?”
“Listen, right, I’ve told you what happened. I don’t fucking know why he had the suitcase. He never mentioned it, and I’ve never looked in his boot before. He might have had it in there for years.”
“Okay, well I’ll have to take your word for it. On another matter, who carried out the attacks on the DWP workers?”
Hart didn’t hesitate in answering. “It’s a guy called Miggy. He’s one of Marco’s psycho boys. He carries out random attacks, two-grand a pop.”
“Miggy?” Miller had an eye-brow raised.
“His real name is Jamie Miggins. Miggy for short, but he’s known to you lot, he’s in and out of Strangeways.”
“And so this Miggins character just attacked the DWP staff on Marco’s orders, and then what?”
“And then he gets his money.”
“Two grand?”
“In twenty-pound notes, as soon as it’s been mentioned on police radio, we go and deliver payment. Me and Simon were the ones who dropped it off for him.”
The Final Cut Page 32
