Substantial Threat

by Nick Oldham

  Sure there were a few gaps in the map, but he intended to plug them in time and become the undisputed king of the north.

  And drug dealing wasn’t the whole picture. It was a vast part of his empire, but the running of illegal immigrants into the UK was becoming far more lucrative and far less dangerous.

  He intended to have a couple more years with the drugs, but to keep building on the people-movement side of the business for another four years on top of that, then he would retire, maybe with thirty million stashed away. That was the figure, he estimated, that would see him out. He would take his mother to Florida and live a lazy lifestyle down on the Keys. Nothing too flashy – that wasn’t his style – just live off the interest, want for nothing, and chill.

  He had been planning this since the age of sixteen.

  He checked his watch and frowned. It was getting late and not all the money had arrived.

  Marty and Crazy were sitting reading magazines by the front door, keeping a check on the CCTV monitor fixed discreetly over the front and rear doors of the premises. The street outside was deserted.

  ‘Haven’t heard from Dix, yet,’ Ray said. ‘He’s usually pretty good.’

  ‘Maybe he’s done a runner with the loot.’ Marty chuckled, not lifting his head from his magazine.

  Ray grabbed Marty’s face and squeezed it hard. ‘Not fuckin’ funny,’ he snarled.

  Marty jerked his head out of Ray’s fingers and glared at him.

  ‘Hey, hey, hey,’ cooed Crazy soothingly. It was apparent that both brothers were still up in the sky and agitated from the day’s events. Even Ray, despite having got laid, was still buzzing and could not stay still. On the way over from Blackpool he had relived the shooting time and time again for Crazy’s benefit. Crazy had listened calmly, wondering if he was the only one with a cool head, even though he was called Crazy. But he did realize that he was the only one of the three with no direct blood on his hands, so he could be chilled . . . to a degree.

  ‘He’ll be here soon. Dix is a good lad,’ Crazy said.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, Mart.’

  ‘Whatever.’ The younger man’s eyes returned to the magazine, but inside he was seething. Apart from the congratulation after the shooting, Ray had said nothing more to his half-sibling. It was as though Ray had done all the work, and yet hadn’t he, Marty, also wasted one of the miscreants? Marty’s teeth grated like sandpaper, but then he glanced up from his reading and became entranced by the sight of the wads of money being counted in the room. His breath shortened, his heart raced.

  An hour later all the money was counted, stacked and wrapped in thin bricks of a thousand, each wad put into a plastic wallet. Ray’s earlier estimate of a quarter of a million was about right. In fact there was just over that amount, all neatly piled up, ready to be packed into one large sports bag for the next stage of its journey. The women who had done the counting were paid off, warned to keep their mouths shut – a warning received every time they counted – and sent on their way. The only people left in the place were Marty, Crazy and Ray.

  And they were still short of the money that Dix should have collected and dropped off by now. Ray strutted angrily round the room. Marty and Crazy watched him nervously. He looked as though he was about to explode.

  ‘Where is the fuck?’ he demanded.

  ‘Ray, c’mon, cool it,’ said Crazy. ‘Gimme your phone.’ He waggled his fingers at Ray. ‘Let me call him.’

  ‘He shouldn’t need bloody calling. He should be here NOW!’ Ray jabbed his finger towards the floor. ‘Here.’

  ‘Phone,’ Crazy said. ‘Gimme.’

  Ray wrenched it out of his back pocket and tossed it over to Crazy. ‘Make sure you dial one four one first.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know.’ It was the first rule of making a phone call when you were a crim. Make sure your number doesn’t end up on anybody else’s phone. ‘He’ll be here,’ said Crazy confidently as he dialled. ‘He’s with Miller anyway, so there’ll be a good reason for being late . . . bet you.’ He put the phone to his ear and listened to it connect.

  Because Jane Roscoe had only been posted to Blackpool for a short time, she’d had little opportunity to get to know any of the town’s high spots. When she had been transferred there several months earlier – unwittingly taking Henry Christie’s position as DI – she had been immediately embroiled in the murder enquiry which had resulted in her kidnap, then had subsequently decided to take a career break. On her return to work she had been very fortunate to get straight back as a DI at Blackpool, because no guarantees were ever made to officers returning from such breaks that they would get their old jobs back.

  Henry, who had spent more years than he cared to remember trawling through the jungle that was Blackpool, knew all the best places, all the best people and he saw that evening as a bit of an educational opportunity for Roscoe.

  He was also on the lookout for one of his best-kept secrets – an unregistered informant by the name of Troy Costain who might be able to tell him one or two things if the price was right, or pressure was exerted where it hurt.

  With those things in mind, he dragged Jane on a whistle-stop tour of the less salubrious hostels in South Shore.

  Obviously Jane knew a lot of detectives, many of whom bathed in the afterglow of their reputations, real or imaginary, but Henry Christie was different from anyone else she knew because he really did have a reputation which preceded him like a fanfare, but seemed unaffected by it. She knew that he’d had to kill a man, that he had battled, and won, against the Mafia, a KGB hit man, dishonest cops and child killers, yet none of it seemed to affect the way that he was as a person. He remained quiet, unassuming and, on the face of it, very ordinary. Those were some of the qualities which attracted her to him. He was the main reason she had returned to work so quickly. There was just something about him and she had fallen in love with that ‘something’. She had thought about him constantly, and her desires often made her shudder at their implications.

  Now here she was, investigating a murder with him – and loving every moment.

  The first pub Henry took her to in South Shore was a huge double-fronted monstrosity, with a rock band pounding out some up to date guitar music. The place was heaving and Henry had to jostle his way through to the bar where he had to shout for two halves of lager.

  After he had been served, he and Roscoe seated themselves at the back of the room where there was a little space, but no chance of talking. The band was deafeningly loud.

  Henry seemed to be enjoying the music, but when Roscoe surreptitiously glanced at him, she saw he was actually scanning the bar area, inspecting every face, sometimes pausing as a thought struck him.

  She looked round, too, and noticed several people eyeing Henry with a mixture of suspicion and hate. They were no doubt some of his previous customers, she thought. It was as plain as day he was well known in these circles, and though this was sometimes a disadvantage and a danger, Roscoe felt safe and comfortable next to him even though some of the characters looked like they would have been happy to smash their beer glasses and grind them into his face. Henry did not seem unduly perturbed by their attention.

  ‘Seen anybody you know?’ she asked him, being forced to repeat the question an inch from his ear as the band cranked into the latest Oasis rocker.

  ‘Only fifty per cent of them.’ He laughed. ‘This is one of the big low-life hang outs, but there’s never really much trouble. A bit like a watering hole in the Masai Mara. Some are hunters, some are prey, but here there’s a kind of truce between them.’

  There was no doubt in Jane’s mind as to which category Henry fell into.

  ‘Here – hang on to this. Just need to pay a visit.’ He pushed his glass into her free hand. Before she could say anything, Henry had ducked into the crowd and was heading towards the toilets.

  He had seen someone he needed to talk to.

  ‘Ten minutes.’ Crazy hung up.

  ‘What the hell
has he been up to?’ Ray demanded.

  ‘Had a few probs.’ Crazy shrugged. ‘He’ll tell you when he gets here.’

  ‘Well I don’t know about you, but I’m effin’ starvin’,’ declared Marty with a stretch of his limbs. ‘I need some sustenance and I’m gonna get some chips. Anybody else want any?’ The other two shook their heads. ‘Suit yourselves.’ Marty stood up. ‘How’s about putting the kettle on anyway?’ He peered at Crazy and raised his eyebrows, hoping to galvanize him into some movement. Crazy did not move. ‘We’re gonna be here till Dix lands and then we’ve got to count the cash . . . yeah?’

  Crazy sighed and dragged himself out of his seat. ‘Okay – get me a fish, then.’

  ‘Ray?’ He looked at his half-brother. ‘Sure you don’t want owt?’

  Ray shook his head.

  ‘Buzz me out, then.’

  Marty went to the front door and waited while Ray pressed the buzzer release, allowing Marty to step out into the night.

  It was cold, a biting draught coming down from the steep hillside. Marty shivered and hunched down into his coat, digging his hands deep into his pockets as he moved away from the door and headed towards the town centre of Rawtenstall. He knew there was a fish and chip shop about five minutes away.

  Suddenly he felt very nervous, yet undeniably elated.

  The gents’ toilets were at the back of the pub. Henry followed his man into them, about fifteen seconds later. When Henry pushed the door open, he was not surprised that the other man was nowhere to be seen and that the toilets appeared to be empty. Henry had long since ceased wearing leather-soled shoes. They creaked and announced arrival. He preferred man made because they allowed him to sneak up on people.

  There was a low murmur of voices about halfway down the toilets, coming from one of the cubicles. Henry smiled and his heart moved up a gear. He loved times like these.

  The sound of voices remained indistinct, but grew slightly louder as Henry slid along from cubicle to cubicle, holding his breath. He reached the occupied cubicle just as the door swung open and a small man he did not recognize stepped out, then froze at the sight of the detective soaring over him.

  Henry smiled wickedly. In a hoarse whisper he rasped, ‘Police – scram!’ The little man paused uncertainly. Henry added, ‘Before I change my mind.’

  The man needed no further prompting.

  Henry swung into the cubicle, rammed his hand against Troy Costain’s chest and forced him down on to the grey, cracked toilet, the seat of which was not down, ensuring that Costain’s bottom hovered only inches above the surface of the water and whatever happened to be floating about in it.

  Costain struggled, but he was no contest for the six-foot-two Henry, who grabbed his denim jacket and said, ‘I’ll push your arse all the way down this bog if you don’t stop.’

  If was only then Costain actually realized who his assailant was.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ he breathed, ‘it’s you. I thought I was going to get hammered.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s me. I want to talk to you and if you don’t tell me what I want to know, you will get hammered.’

  ‘God, Henry – I can’t talk here,’ Costain pleaded. ‘Please, not here.’

  ‘Okay.’ Henry stood back. ‘Car park. Five minutes. And if you’re not there, I’ll be round knocking at the family home, letting the rest of your criminal tribe know what a helpful little soul you’ve been to me over the past ten years.’

  ‘Henry,’ Costain said seriously, ‘you’re a real twat.’

  Henry patted Costain’s cheek and gave him a winning smile. ‘I know.’

  Dix hated being late, but he also hated not doing his job properly and doing the job properly meant turning up with all the money that was owed to Ray Cragg, not just eighty per cent of it. He was fuming and not a little nervous as Miller, his driver, powered the car across the county.

  Ray would be angry because of his tardiness, but he would have been even angrier if all the money wasn’t there. At least Dix had good reason to be late – and maybe Ray would do something constructive about the reason now.

  Miller cooled it as he drove into Rawtenstall, past the magistrates’ court building on the left, then around the fire station roundabout, left into Bocholt Way past ASDA, the river Irwell running parallel to the road on their right.

  Miller wound his way through some terraced streets and stopped at the top of Balaclava Street to let Dix out to walk the last 100 metres. Ray did not like to see any cars coming down the cobbles. He preferred to see people approaching on foot.

  ‘Give me fifteen minutes,’ Dix said as he swung his legs out of the car.

  ‘Sure. I’ll go and juice up at ASDA.’

  He drove away and Dix, holdall in hand, trotted down towards the counting house.

  Miller yawned and rubbed his eyes as he drove away. It had been a long, tiring day and he was looking forward to getting back to Blackpool and hitting the sack with his girlfriend. Exhausted as he was, though, he still managed to glimpse the two cars parked at the end of a nearby street, containing two guys each.

  They looked out of place. The hairs on Miller’s neck crinkled as they rose.

  It was a low-walled car park just off the busy main road. It was poorly lit and over the years there had been many crimes committed in it, ranging from car theft to rape, from mugging to manslaughter. The proximity of the pub, people passing by on foot and in vehicles, did not prevent the commission of offences.

  Henry and Jane sat in Henry’s car, engine idling, heater blowing.

  ‘Now I don’t want you to tell on me,’ Henry said quietly, ‘but this guy is an unregistered informant.’

  ‘Tut tut.’ She grinned.

  ‘And last time I spoke to him was when you went AWOL.’

  ‘Was he any use?’

  ‘Naah,’ drawled Henry, ‘not much.’ He failed to mention that during that particular encounter, his frustration had so boiled over that he had splattered Costain in a heap on the road leading up to Blackpool zoo. The recollection did not make him smile.

  From where they were parked they had a view of the side door of the pub, but not the front. If Costain chose to be uncooperative he could easily have legged it without Henry knowing, but Henry firmly believed his informant would decide to have a cosy chat instead.

  Costain was one of several sons in a family of gypsies who had been settled for a couple of generations on the Shoreside estate in Blackpool. They terrorized the inhabitants and made their living mainly through intimidation and theft. Troy Costain had come to Henry’s notice over ten years earlier when he had arrested him for theft. On his arrival at the police station, Troy’s hard man image had cracked immediately and his fear of incarceration in a pokey cell was apparent when he begged Henry not to lock him up. He promised to tell Henry anything he wanted to know, which was music to a cop’s ears. A good informant on Shoreside was like gold dust. Most folk on the estate kept their mouths shut and told the police nothing.

  The side door opened. A blast of rock music shot out and the furtive figure of Troy Costain sneaked out.

  ‘Here he is,’ whispered Henry.

  Costain stood on the steps and peered out at the dark car park. Henry flashed his headlights once. Costain started to zigzag his way around the other parked vehicles.

  ‘It’s Troy Costain,’ Henry said to Jane before the informant reached them. The significance of the surname was not lost on her. Troy’s brother had been the victim of the killer who had kidnapped her. She shifted with discomfort. ‘But he won’t know who you are,’ Henry reassured her.

  As Costain reached the car, Henry opened his window. ‘In the back.’

  Costain slid in, shaking his head. ‘Fuck me, Henry, you don’t half put me in some shite positions,’ he moaned. ‘One day someone’ll find out about us and I’ll be a dead man.’ His voice was jittery. Only then did he notice Jane slumped low into the front passenger seat. ‘Oh fuck!’ he groaned. ‘Who the shit is this?’

  ‘No
one you need worry about.’ Henry adjusted his rearview mirror so he could observe his man without having to twist around. Costain closed his eyes and slammed his head back on to the seat. ‘The noose tightens,’ he said, blowing out long and hard.

  ‘So what were you doing in the bogs?’ Henry enquired.

  ‘I’m saying nowt.’ Costain’s lips went tight as piano wire.

  Henry shrugged. ‘Just want to know what I’m turning a blind eye to.’

  ‘Just some nicked property. Nothing really.’

  ‘You sure?’

  Costain paused. ‘Just put him on to a good shoplifter that’s all.’

  ‘Okay,’ Henry said accepting this. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘So why the hassle?’

  ‘I’ve hassled you, have I?’ Henry said, affronted. ‘Just run that one by me, Troy?’

  ‘You know what I mean. Turnin’ up at my waterin’ hole and puttin’ me in a . . . a situation which I’ve got to explain to some very nasty people.’

  ‘You’ll think of something,’ Henry said with certainty. ‘Go on, have a guess why I’m here.’

  ‘Doh – let me think about that one.’ Costain put a finger to his lips in a dumb gesture.

  ‘You don’t have to be the Brain of Britain to get it right, Troy.’ The car was beginning to steam up. Henry flicked the fan heater up a notch and readjusted the rear-view mirror for a better view of his informant.

  ‘Yeah, right . . . Rufus and his two cronies blasted to smithereens not too far down the road.’

  ‘Correct. One point.’

  ‘How much is this gonna be worth?’ Troy asked. ‘Because I’ll tell you now, whoever grasses on whoever pulled those triggers is gonna need some dosh to lie low, get out of the country or whatever. It’s not gonna be cheap information, Henry.’