KILL ME GOODBYE

by A K Reynolds

  I was now parallel with the row of terraced houses. A series of fences separated their front gardens from one another. The fences were low and made of vertical posts with pairs of horizontal slats nailed to them. I drove forwards, the Jag making short work of the fences and churning up the lawns and flowerbeds in its wake. The part of me that will be forever socialist regretted the economic destruction I was inflicting on people who were not well off. The part of me that was a potential torture victim fleeing from a gang of sadistic thugs would have done the same again ten times over if it had increased her chances of saving her skin.

  To my right I was vaguely aware of the Audi driver stopping and reversing.

  A four-year-old boy wearing a green snowsuit and red wellingtons ran onto a threadbare lawn in front of me, carrying a plastic bucket and spade as if he was on Brighton beach. I jammed my foot on the brake and anxiously looked around. Behind me the woman with the buzz-cut had emerged from her house and was charging at me waving a baseball bat around her head. Scary though she was, she was the least of my problems.

  I turned right onto a narrow street as the Audi drew level with me, clipping its rear with a crunch of metal and sending it into a tailspin. I turned left then right past the Polish Shop Slonko, and was heading for the traffic lights on Moston road. Hench was behind me and the Audi was directly behind him. I pressed my foot down hard on the accelerator and the Jag shot forwards like a bullet from an AK47. It sped through the lights barely missing a bright orange truck full of ready-mix concrete. Half a second later I heard two almighty bangs as Hench and the Audi collided with it.

  There was no way they’d catch me now, so I slowed to a legal speed and considered my next move.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I followed Rochdale road into the city centre and parked on Deansgate outside a charity shop. Then I removed the sim cards from the mobile phones I’d taken from Longford and Doyle. In the interests of decency, I buttoned up my shirt before climbing from the jag.

  When I entered the charity shop the smell of the dead people whose houses had been cleared to stock it assaulted my nostrils. A female pensioner behind the counter stared at me while I browsed the merchandise on the clothes rails. For a moment I wondered why, then I caught sight of myself in a mirror on a wall. It reminded me that my left eye was black, the scar on my face was vividly red, and covered in spots of dried blood. My shirt and trousers told much the same story of pain and woe.

  I turned to her. ‘I’ve been in an accident. I’m fresh out of hospital and I need some new clothes.’

  I selected a pair of faded jeans, a yellow I love New York sweatshirt, a leather flying jacket and a pair of snakeskin boots. In mitigation the boots were the only footwear in the shop that fit me. The changing room was a cubbyhole screened off from the retail area by means of a tatty bit of curtain on a length of springy wire. Hidden behind the curtain, I changed into my new ensemble and checked myself out in a mirror. I looked like a cross between Hannie Caulder and a world war two fighter ace, but desperate times call for desperate measures and I didn’t want to risk drawing attention to myself in a high-street clothing outlet. I gave my cast-off clothes to the old lady to put in her waste bin and paid her £135 in contactless transactions using Longford’s debit card and his two credit cards. Then I handed over a further fifty pounds in cash from his wallet.

  ‘You’ve given me too much. That lot only comes to £150,’ she said, giving me a quizzical look with her rheumy eyes.

  ‘Consider the excess my contribution to your good cause. You can have a couple of mobile phones, too.’ I handed her the shonky mobiles I’d taken from Longford and Doyle. ‘You might get a good price for them. Have you a toilet I could use?’

  ‘It’s only meant for staff, but being as you’ve been so generous, I’ll let you.’ She pointed with a quivering finger to a back room. ‘It’s through that door marked “staff only”. Don’t be long.’

  Scurrying through the door, I found myself in a toilet which had no more than a square yard of floor space, much of it taken up by the toilet itself. A tiny wash-hand basin was attached to the wall on ancient cast-iron brackets. It had only one tap. I did my best to clean the blood off myself in it, using a dry bar of green soap with extravagant fissures, and a couple of pints of cold water from the tap.

  When I emerged, I looked slightly less ravaged than I had done when I went in. I waved goodbye to the shopkeeper and made my exit. She grinned at me, sending a million wrinkles into overdrive.

  When I returned to my car it had a ticket stuck to the windscreen. That was something for Longford to deal with, if he was still capable, which I very much doubted. I tore it off and hurled it with contempt into a modernist litter bin at the edge of the pavement, climbed into the Jag, and drove to my next port of call. Namely, the Tesco Superstore on Market street. It had everything I needed: an egg-and-cress sandwich, a bottle of diet coke, two pay-as-you go mobile phones, clean underwear and socks, a black beanie hat with a neb, a black scarf, a packet of paracetamol, and a copy of the Manchester Daily News. I paid for them with cash.

  When I left Tesco I sat in my car (or rather, Longford’s car) in the car park and called Sarina. My heart beat a little faster as I dialled her number. Her mobile rang a few times before going to voicemail.

  ‘Sarina, it’s me,’ I said stupidly. ‘Jo, that is. Call me back. Leave a message if I don’t answer to let me know how you’re doing. I pray to God you’re okay. Speak soon. Love you.’

  It occurred to me I ought to call my parents but I didn’t have the stomach for it. There are some things in life you can’t do right away, you have to build up to them. Talking to my parents about Tara’s death was one of those things. I switched the mobile off. No point in giving the cops a means of getting a handle on my whereabouts. Then I turned my attentions to my sandwich, which I quickly scoffed while reading the newspaper.

  The front page was headed: Young Woman Found Dead. Beneath the headline was a profile shot of my sister. God knows where they’d dug that up from. Presumably, it had been provided by a work colleague or friend of hers. There was a photo of Sarina, underlined: the police are eager to speak to Ms Sarina Finnegan (nee Scarpina-Perez) to help with their enquiries. So far it has proved impossible to contact her. They have let it be known that if any member of the public knows her whereabouts, he or she should come forward with details as soon as possible. The circumstances surrounding Tara’s death were described as ‘suspicious’, but the word ‘murder’ wasn’t used. That was some comfort to me, but not much. I tried to read more but struggled because my eyes were desperate to close. It was only thanks to the caffeine in the bottle of diet coke that I was able to keep them open.

  With my belly full and my energy restored by the coke, I used another of my mobile phones to call the Greater Manchester Police.

  ‘How can I help?’ It was the voice of a young woman.

  ‘I’d like to speak to someone in AC7.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ She sounded puzzled.

  ‘I’d like to speak to one of your policemen in your anti-corruption unit seven, please.’

  ‘I’m afraid we don’t have any such unit.’

  ‘What about Paul Longford?’

  I wanted to drop Longford deep in the smelly stuff, by letting his colleagues know he was a very rotten apple contaminating their barrel.

  ‘We don’t have anyone called Paul Longford in the Greater Manchester Police.’

  ‘What? Not in any of your branches, or stations, or whatever you call them?’

  The line went quiet for a moment. Then she said, ‘No, we don’t.’

  The penny dropped with a clang that could’ve put Big Ben to shame. Paul Longford wasn’t a bent copper. He was a hoodlum who knew I’d been picked up by the police, and who’d found an excuse to hang around in reception waiting for me to be let out. His credentials were as bogus as his tale about belonging to AC7.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Sorry to ha
ve troubled you.’

  Next came the hardest phone call of all: the one to Sean and Clodagh Finnegan, my parents. It took everything I had in the way of resolve to dial their number. When I did, my dad picked up right away.

  ‘Hello.’ His voice sounded hoarse.

  ‘Dad, it’s me, Jo.’

  ‘Jo, thank God. Me and your mum have been worried sick about you. Where have you been?’

  I should’ve anticipated that question and thought about my answer before calling him. I certainly didn’t feel I could burden him with the truth – which was that, so soon after having lost his youngest daughter, he was in danger of losing his eldest, who was being stalked by a group of ruthless killers.

  ‘I was detained by the police and I didn’t have the chance to call you until now, dad. Sorry.’

  ‘The police called us and told us about Tara.’ He stopped talking. A silence ensued, which stretched out in all directions and enveloped us both. I was the one who broke it.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, dad. I was the one who found her.’

  My eyes were welling up.

  ‘And the police took you in for questioning?’

  ‘They were only doing their job.’

  ‘How are you, Jo?’

  ‘Terrible, to be perfectly honest. How about you and mum?’

  ‘Same as you. We can’t believe it. We’re gutted about things. How’s Sarina?’

  ‘She’s disappeared. I’m really worried about her.’

  There was another silence. Then, ‘What do you think’s happened to her?’

  ‘I don’t know. What did the police tell you about Tara’s death?’

  ‘They said they can’t tell us how she died until they get their lab reports.’

  ‘That’s what they told me. How’s mum?’

  ‘She’s in bed. I’d put her on, but it’s probably best to leave her where she is for now.’

  ‘I understand. Look, dad, I’m sorry, I’ve got to go. I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Of course, Jo. You get some sleep.’

  Abandoning the Jag in the Tesco car park, not without regrets, I walked to the Travelodge on Blackfriars street and after a wary backward glance went in, clutching a bag containing my things. Ahead of me, a middle-aged black man with greying hair and a youthful face was standing behind a cheap plywood reception desk. His pencil moustache gave him the air of a bon-vivant from a bygone age, reminding me of the photo of Archie Moore I’d seen so recently, in less-than-ideal circumstances. He looked up from a pile of documents.

  ‘Can I help you?’ His melodic tones brought to mind a beach bar in the Caribbean I’d once spent a glorious afternoon getting trolleyed in.

  ‘I’d like a room for the night please.’

  ‘It’s thirty-five pounds for a single room, but if you book online it’s ten per cent less. You can do it on your mobile before you check in if you want the discount.’

  ‘That’s very kind, but it won’t be necessary. I’ll just pay the full price.’

  I took the cash from Longford’s wallet and placed it on the counter. Paul Longford was proving to be the most generous acquaintance I’d ever made. Mind you, I didn’t doubt that Travers Doyle would prove just as generous when I got around to opening his wallet.

  I signed in is as Ms Becky Sykes. Never having been called upon to sign my name as Becky Sykes before, I wrote it out painfully rather than with a practised flourish. The concierge watched me do it with raised eyebrows, then gave me a bland smile, selected a plastic card from an array on the wall behind him and handed it to me.

  ‘Room 312, third floor.’

  I took another fifty pounds from Longford’s wallet, placed it on the counter, and pushed it towards him.

  ‘If anyone asks, you don’t know anyone of my description taking a room in this place.’

  He pushed it back towards me.

  ‘You don’t need to pay me to keep your secrets. I never talk out of school.’

  I pushed it back towards him.

  ‘I believe you, but for being discreet you deserve a drink on me.’

  He picked up the notes and tucked them in his inside jacket pocket, then patted it.

  ‘If you insist.’

  ‘I do insist.’

  I took the lift to the third floor. The doors opened and after a short walk along a carpeted corridor with grey walls I reached my room. It had magnolia walls, a navy carpet, a television, tea and coffee making facilities, an en suite shower room, and, most importantly, a bed.

  I stripped and had a much needed shower. My mouth was throbbing so I swallowed down two paracetamol with some water, then, leaving my pay-as-you-go mobile plugged into a charger, collapsed into bed.

  I was fed up of running away and not knowing what I was running from. It was time to turn the tables.

  I shut my eyes knowing that when I opened them, I would go on the attack.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THURSDAY

  When I awoke every bit of me was aching. Tumbling out of bed like a arthritic pensioner, I swallowed a couple more paracetamol. Feeling half human I got dressed and checked my mobile. There had been no messages, no missed calls, and no emails from Sarina. That was a big disappointment. I made myself a coffee and sat on the bed scrutinising the newspaper I’d bought in Tesco. There was only one report I was interested in.

  Murray Jenrack, 17, from Moston, was killed in a hit and run incident off Houldsworth street in Manchester’s Northern Quarter late yesterday evening. He was with two friends: Kieran Rockwell of Harpurhey, and Jarrad Stronach of New Moston, both sixteen, and both seriously injured by the driver of the car that collided with them. Police have requested the driver to come forward and assist with their enquiries. They have also asked for any members of the public who were in the area at the time to contact them.

  A quick check of the internet told me that neither Rockwell nor Stronach were listed on any people finder type websites. Both had Facebook profiles featuring photographs of themselves holding handguns in the company of sinister looking friends. Stronach had recently posted a picture of himself on crutches with his left leg in plaster. He was pictured having let go one of his crutches, balancing precariously while pointing a handgun at the camera with his right hand. The gun was turned side-on, gangster style. He’d captioned the photo: Bastard who did this to me is a dead man walking. Presumably he didn’t want to admit that it was a woman who’d given him his comeuppance.

  Nothing in either of their Facebook profiles told me where Rockwell and Stronach lived. But thanks to the Manchester Daily News, I knew the area they both lived in. I now needed a full street address for at least one of them.

  By the time I’d finished reading the newspaper and making my enquiries online, it was time to go. As I checked out of the hotel the concierge gave me a concerned look.

  ‘Someone came asking after you, Ms Sykes.’

  ‘Please call me Becky. When?’

  ‘About an hour ago.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘He was a big man with a ponytail.’

  Hench. No doubt his men or the police had found Longford’s Jag in the car park fronting Tesco and tipped him off. Now he and his men were checking out all the places in the area where I might be holed up. I’d have to watch my step.

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  He smiled. ‘Nothing, like we agreed. I just said I hadn’t seen you.’

  ‘Thank you. Here’s a bonus.’

  I slipped him another fifty pounds. Longford’s wallet was looking seriously depleted.

  I glanced at my watch. It was 9.30 a.m.

  After a brief inspection to make sure the coast was clear, I ventured out. The sky was grey, the air cold, and a chill Manchester wind was gusting up Blackfriars street, sending a discarded drink container under the wheel of a passing car. I pulled my beanie hat so far down my head that the neb was le
vel with my eyebrows, then I pulled my scarf over my mouth. These manoeuvres made me look like I’d wrapped myself up in response to the inclement weather, but my apparel served a different purpose altogether. It concealed my face, especially when I walked with my head down. Even so, I had reservations about being out in the open like that. It would only take the wrong person to recognise me and my number would be up. Fortunately, I got to the bus stop without incident and within minutes I was on board the number ninety-eight bus.

  One of the perks, if you could call it that, of being a barrister operating in the field of defending criminals, is that you come into contact with a lot of interesting people you wouldn’t normally meet. And normally I wouldn’t care to meet them. But these were not normal times. I was going to hook up with one of those interesting people now.

  ‘Shrewsbury road, Prestwich please,’ I said to the bus driver.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  When the bus pulled up at my destination I climbed out and walked to a little-known cul-de-sac called Bryant Place. Number ten was an ordinary looking detached house built of red brick with a red tiled roof. The garden was overgrown and neglected compared to those of its neighbours. I rang the bell. A camera above the door made a whirring noise and turned in my direction. The lens telescoped in and out, focusing on my face. Then a voice came at me from a hidden speaker.

  ‘Who is it?’

  After first removing my hat and scarf I tilted my head to give the camera an optimal view of my face.

  ‘An old acquaintance,’ I said.

  There was the briefest of hesitations before the reply, ‘Unlocking now.’

  A buzzing noise told me I could enter. Pushing the door open, I stepped inside, closing the door shut behind me, before entering the front room, which resembled mission control at Houston.