by Nicky Black
The reporter’s wince was audible when Peach took him by the upper arm, his fingers digging through the un-ironed cotton shirt and into Ben’s skin in a way that was meant to hurt. He pulled him out the door, led him down the station steps, releasing his arm only when they’d reached the bottom.
He towered over the ratty little shit. ‘I’ll tell you my side of the story all right,’ he said, ‘there’s people out there shoving their sordid lifestyles in our faces, in our bairns’ faces.’ He dug into his trouser pocket and pulled out the photograph of Sally he’d torn from her wardrobe door. He shoved it in the reporter’s face, too close for him to focus on it. ‘We’ve been shat on up here, my lad. We’ve had our industries ripped out from under our feet. But they’ll have our youngsters over my dead body.’
‘Quite the Socialist,’ said Ben.
‘This isn’t about politics, moron,’ said Peach. ‘How about you write about a whole generation of brains wrecked by a drug we know nothing about.’
‘We know quite a lot about it, actually,’ said Ben, pushing Peach’s hand from his face.
Peach’s brow puckered, looking from one of Ben’s eyes to the other, but the reporter looked right back at him, unflinching and conceited.
‘What evidence is there that ecstasy’s any more dangerous than paracetamol?’ Ben asked. ‘They say you’re more likely to die falling off a horse.’
Peach pushed him backwards, people on the street starting to take an interest. ‘Oh, I’ve got evidence,’ he snarled. ‘I’ve got a sixteen-year-old who doesn’t know what day it is because decent kids can’t go out without getting drugs shoved in their faces.’ He held the photograph up again. ‘It’s evidence I’d rather not have.’
Ben gathered himself, dusting down the arms of his shirt. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘when she comes round—’
‘When she comes round?’ Peach pushed Ben again, his back hitting a parked car with a thud, his shoulder bag falling to the pavement. ‘If she comes around. If she’s got any brain left.’
Unease bristled on the reporter’s forehead, and Peach waited for the next inept claim, but Ben Stone seemed to have nothing more to say as he looked around at the small crowd of curious onlookers.
Peach took a step back to allow the reporter to pick up his bag and walk away.
Ben Stone could crawl right back under the rock he came from.
No story in bloody paracetamol.
TOMMY
Floodlights illuminated the parched greyhound track despite the blinding sun. Tommy shielded his eyes and searched, and as he made his way through the crowds of gamblers, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched. He felt exposed, eyes of condemnation all around him. Mug. They burnt into the back of his head as he tried to pick out Paul Smart.
He soon spotted him at the fence that bordered the race track, towering above the other gamblers with the poise of a prince. Paul was surrounded by his associates, grizzly men employed to guard his integrity as well as his body. Tucker was one of them, his sharp eyes weighing up the various huddles of men around the stadium, all in the same formation: one main man in love with his own villainy and a collection of thugs.
Tommy approached with caution. A few feet away from Paul, he stopped and hesitated. Paul had his back to him, an angry, red spot on the back of his neck interfering with the outline tattoo of a dove in flight.
On Tucker’s nod, Paul half turned, his eyes not meeting Tommy’s. He turned back to the track and stood taller, straightening his shoulders as the names of the dogs came over the loudspeaker:
‘Number six, Peach Surprise.’
Paul rocked from his heels to his patent leather toes, dressed in an ivory-coloured suit, the short jacket wide at the shoulders and tapered into his slim waist. Tucker moved to one side when Tommy tapped him on the shoulder, allowing him access to the pack.
‘Got your message,’ said Tommy irritated at how apprehensive he sounded.
‘Shhhh!’ Paul held a pair of small binoculars to his eyes. ‘Got three grand on number six to win.’
Tommy felt the discomfort of Tucker’s stare, and he found himself moving a little closer to Paul as if this would offer some protection against Tucker’s pointed teeth. Tucker had found his niche now. Paul Smart was far too well dressed to get blood on his hands, and Tucker was just what was needed, someone who’d get their hands dirty and sod the consequences. Perhaps Tucker hadn’t been lying about the Scouse gangsters after all.
The claxon sounded, and the gates swung open in the distance, Paul’s tiny, blue eyes narrowing as Peach Surprise was last out of the stalls. Tommy could see the villains further down the fence sniggering as the dog started to lag further and further behind, her faltering limp slowing her to a lurching gait.
Paul’s voice remained frostily calm. ‘Get on there and get that fucking dog off,’ he said.
Tommy and Tucker glanced at each other, not sure who Paul was talking to.
‘Now!’
Tucker was taking no chances. He vaulted over the barrier and sprinted onto the track as the dogs flew past, taking hold of Peach Surprise and carrying her under his arm to the other side. Tommy looked on in astonishment as Tucker leapt over the barrier with the stealth of a ninja and ran across the yellowing grass towards the far side of the track.
Paul turned to one of his associates. ‘Pick up the stake, Geordie, race invalidated.’
The crowd began to jeer as Geordie meandered his way through the masses, and Paul put an arm around Tommy’s shoulders, leading him away from his men. He stopped and faced Tommy, holding out a folded piece of paper between two fingers.
‘Middle of nowhere,’ he said. ‘Farmer’s been paid to take a little holiday.’
Tommy looked down at it uneasily. He wasn’t so sure now he stood face to face with someone who could make him or break his legs. He reached for the paper tentatively, but Paul snapped it away.
‘Can’t hack it? Know some lads from Sunderland who’d be well up for it.’
Tommy breathed out heavily, not wanting his unease to show. If he was going to take Paul Smart’s money, he couldn’t show weakness.
Paul lowered his arm again and Tommy took the slip of paper. He unfolded it: a hand-drawn map and directions to a Groat Hall Farm in Northumberland, just south of Hexham. Tommy had never heard of the farm, had never been out of Newcastle apart from the delayed honeymoon in Ibiza Denise had paid for less than a year ago, back in the days when she was a bit more flash with the cash, and only on the understanding that she could come too. He’d taken some persuading, Sam insisting that her mother was an early-to-bed/early-riser, which meant she could babysit and they could party like they did before Ashleigh was born. He’d relented, not wanting to disappoint, and, as it turned out, they’d had the time of their lives for a couple of nights before he started shitting green water. Ashleigh, just a couple of months old, was as good as gold, her grandmother a miserable, demanding cow as always.
‘Listen,’ said Paul, the tone a little more reassuring as if he could sense Tommy’s apprehension. ‘It’s a business deal. I put up the cash, you organise the rave, we split the profit.’
Tommy nodded. ‘And then we’re done?’
Paul grunted, cynically. ‘Once you get a sniff of money, laddie, you’re never done.’
‘It’s a one-off, Smartie, that’s the deal. And you leave my mates alone.’
Paul put a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, eyes locked on his. ‘You’ll get forty-grand in your pocket, more if you do a good job, then you can piss off and do whatever you want.’
Forty-grand? Tommy blinked rapidly.
‘Five thousand people, twenty quid entry, take off the costs. You don’t have to be a mastermind.’ Paul peered around him before taking a wad of cash from his trouser pocket. He peeled off some notes, thinking carefully as he counted it, then held it out.
Tommy looked down at it. Forty-grand. It was life-changing money. His club, his future, his freedom.
He bit the bull
et, and took the money from Paul’s fingers, flicking through it quickly – about two thousand. ‘I’ll need more than this,’ he said.
Paul snapped one of the twenty-pound notes back and folded it into the rest of cash, shoving it into his trouser pocket where it bulged like a hard-on. ‘Let’s see how you get on first, eh?’
Tommy slid the money into his own pocket before he spoke again. ‘When?’ he asked.
‘This Saturday.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Like I say—’
‘Nar, nar, I can do it,’ Tommy asserted. Five days. Fucking hell.
‘Here you go, Mr Smart.’ Geordie was back, holding out another wad of cash. ‘They’re talking about an inquiry.’
Taking the money, Paul sniffed. ‘I very much doubt that,’ he said with a wink at Tommy.
Geordie, offering a little bow of courtesy, turned away and Paul made to follow him.
‘One condition,’ Tommy said.
Paul turned back, eyebrow cocked.
‘No dealers.’
Paul’s brow knitted together as he took a step back towards Tommy. ‘Are you negotiating with me?’
‘No dealers,’ Tommy repeated. ‘The cops aren’t interested in the raves, they’re interested in the drugs. No drugs, no trail, no police.’ His mind was all over it already. The best DJs, the best sound system, professional dancers. ‘And I want my own security,’ he added.
‘But the police aren’t going to find out where it is,’ Paul stated in a tell-me-I’m-right sort of way.
‘As long as they’re not trailing drug dealers, no,’ said Tommy. ‘They know who they are, and if they get a whiff of something big, we’re fucked.’ We? It nearly made him gag.
Paul sucked in his cheeks, flicked his jaw from side to side as he pondered. ‘Whatever you say,’ he said.
A flurry of victory brought a faint smile to Tommy’s face. It was bitter sweet; his and Jed’s families would be safe, he’d make his money, he’d buy the lease to his club, have a life. But he couldn’t help thinking that Paul Smart would be back for more.
Paul turned away from him, a backward wave of his hand dismissing Tommy as he blended back into his men, the group closing around him like liquid.
Tommy stood for a while as the next race got underway, the cheers of the crowds rising in parallel with his growing anticipation. A farm in Northumberland would be a lot easier to keep hush-hush than the warehouses they were using now. No complaining nimbies, the nearest police station at least twenty miles away.
As he made his way through the crowds and left the stadium, his feet felt heavy beneath him, but as he reached the main road and headed for the bus stop, the ground seemed to turn to air and he felt he might take off.
Five days. He could do it.
TUESDAY
PEACH
Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, DCI Peach watched a long line of vehicles bleed black and blue uniforms onto the pavement and into the school yard. The girls linked arms, their strides synchronised like troopers, the boys pushing and slapping each other, dishevelled and ungainly. With Sally unable to communicate, he needed answers. He needed this Selina’s address, so she could verify that Tommy Collins was dishing out the drugs. It would bring him the resources he needed. Armed robbery and drug dealing. That was a nice long stretch right there.
Switching off the engine and stepping out of the car, he surveyed the low wall and high railings that surrounded the school yard. The place felt foreign to him, and he checked the sign above the plinth of the school gate. The ensign was familiar enough: a root and branch tree flanked by the Northumbrian flag and the city’s three turreted castle, the same logo that adorned Sally’s blazer pocket.
Inside, the reception was milling with teenagers, the smell of meat pie wafting through the corridors. Sally’s year had finished their exams and were free to do as they pleased, but the lower grades still had to wait another few weeks for their much-awaited freedom.
‘Can I help you?’ came a voice from his right. A tiny woman approaching sixty with a belly bigger than her breasts stood at the reception window, her face riddled with self-importance.
Ignoring her, he turned to a dense-looking boy and asked him where the head teacher’s office was. The boy pointed up the stairs, and he ran towards them. A chewing girl with a shock of black hair at the top of the stairs pointed down a corridor to his left when asked the same question. He legged it before the receptionist could reach him, stopping at a door sporting a “Headmistress” sign, underneath it, her name: “Miss C. Lindsay, BA(Hons), PGCE, MEd, MPQH.”
He opened the door without knocking.
‘Oh!’ Miss Lindsay had a china tea cup halfway to her mouth. He’d never seen her before, and he guessed she was one of those so-called leaders who kept themselves locked away, liking to remain enigmatic to give the impression of control. She wasn’t what he’d expected – some sort of Mrs Pepperpot with a grey bun and spectacles on a chain. Instead, she was relatively young, with thick, hay-coloured curly hair, brushed into waves that swamped her head like Crystal Tips.
He was holding up his ID when the receptionist appeared at the door, breathless and giddy to the point of choking, asking if everything was all right and should she call the police. Judging by the melodramatic look on her face, she would have liked nothing better.
‘No, thank you, Connie.’ Miss Lindsay put her tea cup on its saucer.
‘More tea, miss?’ The nosey cow didn’t want to miss a minute of it.
Miss Lindsay looked at Peach with mild curiosity then back towards the door. ‘No, Connie, that won’t be necessary.’
Peach turned to the receptionist. ‘Strong, two sugars,’ he said.
With the receptionist’s disappointment hanging in the air, Miss Lindsay pulled her chair closer to her desk. Everything about her was abrupt and stiff. ‘I’m very busy,’ she said, ‘so please be quick.’
‘It’ll take as long as it takes,’ Peach replied, putting his hands in his Mac pockets and pulling the coat around his hips as he sat down opposite her.
Miss Lindsay huffed a little. ‘About three minutes would be nice. I’ve got a meeting.’ She glanced up at the clock on the wall. ‘Now, how can I help you, officer …?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector,’ he said.
‘Gosh,’ said Miss Lindsay with a mocking smile. ‘What an honour.’ She was trying to be clever, and he felt his hackles rise.
He got straight to the point. ‘One of your students is sick. We think she may have been given something.’
Miss Lindsay frowned. ‘I’m not aware—’
‘Her name is Sally Peach,’ he interrupted. ‘Do you have a drug problem at this school, Miss Lindsay?’
‘Certainly not!’ Like a cat on the defence, her hackles were up too, her tail all puffed out. ‘If Sally Peach has been dabbling in drugs – which, by the way, wouldn’t surprise me – she most certainly didn’t get them here.’
Peach paused, squinting. ‘What do you mean?’ The words came out like a growl, low and challenging.
‘I mean, we have strict policies—’
‘I was talking about Sally Peach.’
The headmistress lifted one shoulder, then another, an automated movement that seemed designed to relieve stress or rebut anger. ‘She was a troubled girl,’ she said. ‘And troublesome, if I remember rightly.’
Peach stiffened. Sally?
‘In what way, troublesome?’ he asked.
‘Stealing, fighting, bullying. You name it.’
She was confusing Sally with someone else.
‘Oh, no.’ The reply was confident. ‘No confusion. I know who Sally Peach is.’
She was assessing him now with her eyes, questioning his motives. Women like this got his goat, always trying to read your thoughts, always ready with an answer, looking at you as if your whole life was already known to them. It was no wonder the woman was still a spinster.
‘So, what has she done now?’ Miss Lindsay asked w
ith a sigh.
‘She’s in a coma,’ Peach said. It caught her off guard, just as he wanted, and the shoulders twitched again.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Miss Lindsay said. ‘Must be hard. I believe her mother passed away in difficult circumstances.’
Difficult didn’t even come close.
The door opened, and Connie arrived with the tea, half of it lapping at the sides of the saucer. Miss Lindsay’s eyes flicked up to the clock again, and they both waited for Connie to creep away and close the door.
Peach took a sip of his tea and winced. Like Miss Lindsay, it was cold and a bit too milky for his liking.
He put the cup and saucer on the desk. ‘If she was causing so much trouble, why wasn’t I—?’
‘The father couldn’t give two hoots,’ said Miss Lindsay.
Peach felt himself flounder, and he realised she had no idea who he was. The name on his ID had been too small for her to see when he’d held it up. He wavered. He should tell her, but something stopped him; he wanted her to be honest, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear any more.
Miss Lindsay’s gaze was steady on his. ‘I’m very sorry, Inspector. I’m sorry she’s sick and I hope she pulls through. But since she’s no longer a pupil at this school, the responsibility isn’t ours. We have plenty other students to think about.’
Peach sat forward, confusion drawing his brow into deep lines. Sally was coming back to do her A levels: French, art, English Literature. He’d signed the forms.
He grasped the desk with iron fingers. ‘What do you mean, no longer a pupil?’
‘I mean, she left the school.’ Another glance up at the clock.
‘Listen to me, lady …’ he said.
The head teacher visibly bristled. ‘Sally Peach decided not to come back to school after the Easter break, she didn’t want to take her GCSEs—’
Peach held up a hand to stop her, his heart rate notching up a pace. But Miss Lindsay didn’t take kindly to the patriarchal interruption.
