Midnight's Door

by Robert F Barker

  As they drove off the car park, Charnley turned to me, a wide but insincere smile creasing his weather-tanned features. He’s another golfer.

  ‘Long-time no-see, Captain. What brings you here?’

  ‘You tell me. I heard you were in the other night. I assumed you were looking for me so I thought I’d drop in while I was passing.’ Caught off-guard, I could almost hear the cogs whirring as he thought about what excuse to dream up.

  ‘The other night.. er, you mean Saturday?’ I nodded. He cast his gaze about his office. ‘That was just- I was, er-’ He pinched the top of his nose. Something came to him. ‘That’s right. I just wanted to check if you’d heard anymore about what’s happening with this new licensing authority thing?’

  Months before, the Government had announced yet another review of the Security Industry Licensing arrangements. This time it was in light of some Sunday newspaper-led exposé about companies getting round the licensing regulations and employing illegal immigrants as security at sports stadiums. Since the original announcement it had gone quiet, but when I’d looked at it at the time it was obvious that any changes would impact more on the industry's big players rather than small-fry like us. Charnley would have done the same and come to the same conclusion. Nevertheless I played along, letting him have my thoughts while he feigned interest. For a few minutes it was a real double-act between us. Eventually Charnley had had enough and changed the subject.

  ‘It’s a bloody bad situation over these girls. I hear this last one was from Midnight’s?’ I nodded, glumly, no longer acting. Then he said, ‘Any thoughts?’ and I saw my chance.

  ‘A few, but first, what does someone have to do to get offered a brew round here?’

  Happy he'd managed to divert me away from the subject of his sabotaging visit, Charnley snapped into action. ‘I was just going to ask. He grabbed at the two mugs on the desk near to where his two most recent visitors had been sitting. ‘Still the same?’

  I nodded. ‘Black. No sugar.’

  As he disappeared through the door into the kitchen, he called back. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

  Along the wall where I’d been leaning was a bank of four grey steel filing cabinets, just like the ones in our office. And like ours they'd seen better days. I was pretty sure that if I checked out their contents I would find they would be pretty much the same as well. One cabinet would contain staff files, another folders relating to sites, clients and contracts. The third would be jammed with all the regulatory crap security firms have to comply with these days and the fourth would be full of ‘miscellaneous’. There’re only so many ways you can run a security business. A set of keys hung from the lock in the top right-hand corner of the fourth cabinet, the one nearest Charnley’s desk. I reached into my inside jacket pocket and fished for the package I'd 'reclaimed' on my way to Vicki's.

  When Charnley returned with the coffees, I was in one of the chairs vacated by his visitors. I’d checked my watch a few seconds before and knew it was close to four thirty. For no other reason than to fill time I said. ‘Who were the suits?’ and nodded in the direction where his visitors had disappeared. Charnley must have thought about it while making the coffees because he barely hesitated. 'They're a couple of Poles. They're looking at taking over a pub in Salford but want someone from outside the area to run the door.’

  I nodded. It was plausible, just. ‘Which one?’

  Charnley looked blank. ‘Which one what?’

  ‘Which pub? You said they're taking one over.’

  ‘Oh, it was, er-’ He became flustered again. Dave was never a good liar. ‘They didn’t actually say. It’s all a bit sensitive until the deal’s done apparently.’

  I nodded like I believed him. But you don’t talk door-security business, even in principle, without knowing the location.

  ‘So what about these murders?’ he said, eager it seemed for inside dope. ‘What’re the police saying?’

  I shrugged as I downed my coffee. ‘Not much. In fact I don’t think they have much. They’re checking everyone out of course, but so far they seem to be fishing in the dark.’ I gave it a few seconds. ‘You heard anything?’

  His looked up, sharply. ‘Me? Why should I hear anything?’

  ‘You’ve got doors. I assume your guys hear the same goss as mine.’

  He relaxed again. ‘I guess so. But no, no one’s come up with anything worth passing on that I’ve heard.’

  ‘Me neither.’ Outside I heard a car pulling onto the car park. I checked my watch again. Bang on four thirty. I finished my coffee and stood up. ‘I’d better be going.’ Outside, two car doors banged. Charnley craned to look through the window for sight of who it was. ‘Nice seeing you again, Dave.’ I lingered in the doorway. Two men in jeans and casual jackets were heading for the door having parked their nondescript Nissan next to mine. I turned back to Charnley. ‘By the way.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Next time you want to call in on one of my sites, ask me first.’

  He pulled a smart-ass face. ‘I’ll try to remember that, Danny.’

  I gave him a blank look back. ‘Oh, I think you’ll remember it alright. Dave.’ I followed it up by looking, pointedly, at the fourth filing cabinet. The keys were now out of the lock and resting on top. His eyes narrowed as he spotted them, but before he could say anything, I stepped out to let in the pair from the Nissan. I didn’t let on other than to nod as I stepped round them. ‘’Afternoon gents.’ They both nodded back and went into the office.

  I hung back long enough to hear one of them say, ‘Dave Charnley?’

  ‘Who are you?’ Charnley said.

  ‘I’m DS Pritchard and this is DC Walker. We’re with the Drug Squad.’

  I imagined Dave’s face losing some of its colour. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘This is a Search Warrant under the Misuse of Drugs. To search your offices.’

  ‘WHAT?’

  I turned and leaned out so that I could see back into the office and Charnley could see me. He was staring at Jasper and Gary, mouth hanging slightly open. I waited long enough for him to see me then threw him a wink and a nod. He stared at me. I heard the cogs starting up again. He looked at the filing cabinet. The penny dropped just as one of the officers said to him, ‘Are there any illegal substances on the premises?'

  Torn between giving Jasper his attention and throwing me a look of pure hate and anger, his face was a picture. At this point it was time I went, so I headed for my truck.

  Just about to shut the door, a shout erupted from Charnley’s office.

  ‘I’LL FUCKING HAVE YOU, NORTON, YOU BASTARD.’

  CHAPTER 16

  Monday evening

  It was past seven in the evening and I was making my way to the Brig for my Monday session when I got the call I'd been waiting on since coming away from Charnley's.

  'Hellfire, Jasper, you've taken your time. Was there a problem?'

  'Not really. He just had a lot to say for himself and we had to listen. I think it's fair to say he'll think twice before trying to set up one of your team again.'

  The thought of Charnley trying - desperately, I liked to think - to negotiate his way out of a possession charge, brought the first smile I'd managed in over twenty four hours. 'So what happened?'

  'We put him on police bail to come back in a month. We'll wait a while before cancelling it. Just to keep him on his toes.'

  I allowed myself a self-satisfied nod. 'Serve the sneaky bastard right. By the way, did you manage to check out what was in the bag?'

  'We did, and it's good quality stuff. Any idea where it came from?'

  'My guess would be the Russian, but to be fair, it could have come from anywhere. Charnley knows as many people as I do.'

  'Let me know if you hear anymore. If someone's got easy access to stuff this good then we need to know about it.'

  'Will do.'

  'And Danny?'

  'What?'

  'He's really got it in for you now. You'd
better watch your back.'

  After he hung up I was in two minds. On the one hand, I was glad to have got one back on Charnley. On the other, I was mindful of Jasper's warning. The way things were going, I was going to have to start walking backwards.

  Apart from the ‘regulars’ – which includes myself and a disparate gang of ne’er-do-wells I hesitate to call mates – Monday nights at the Brigadoon are usually pretty quiet. Which was why as I pulled into the car park shortly after nine that evening I had no trouble clocking the white transit van with the tinted windows. It was in the middle of the single line of cars that were parked up against the low chains that separate the car park from the pavement at the front of the pub. Even as I passed in front to take the spot at the end, I glimpsed movement behind the windscreen, as if someone – or more than one - had just woken up. By the time I parked up and walked back along the line, heading for the pub’s front door, all was quiet again. But a quick glance confirmed my first impressions. Behind the darkened glass two motionless figures were following my progress. I had an impression of at least one other in the back, leaning between the gap to see what I looked like. From what I could make out, they were wearing dark clothing and woollen hats, probably the balaclava-type that pull down to hide the face.

  Inside, I headed over to the pool table where a group of four, one of which was Harry the builder, were quaffing pints and chalking cues.

  As I approached, it came as no surprise to me when someone chimed, ‘Aye up, here’s Romeo now.’ It was followed quickly by, ‘It's Danny Norton, the man who moves women…’ completed, in excellent timing, by, ‘-to fucking tears.’ Cue raucous laughter. Harry hadn’t let me down.

  Wading through them towards the bar, I snatched the cue out of young Pete Williams’ grasp and brandished it, growling, ‘If there’s anyone else thinks he’s a fucking comedian then let’s see if he’s as funny with this up his arse.’

  It drew further quips and smart comments, though I thought it best not to rise to any of it.

  For the next hour or so I managed to push the events of the past forty-eight hours to the back of my mind as the conventions of a Monday evening – mutual piss taking and putting the world to rights - took over. I was glad when their early interest in Agnes's murder waned as they realised there was little insider knowledge that I was able or willing to share, and talk returned to the quality of the ale, football, and occasionally, musings on my love-life. Despite what had happened the other night between Vicki and me, I was desperate not to start any rumours flowing. Now and again I checked the car park through the window. The white transit never moved. Near to finishing the second of my regulation two pints, I turned to Pete Williams. Pete's a motor mechanic and the youngest of our Monday-nighters.

  ‘Is that your Astra out front?’

  ‘Yeah, why?’

  ‘Do me a favour. Whizz out and get something from your glovebox. While you’re there check out the white transit parked next to it then come back and tell me what you see.’

  Pete gave me a puzzled look but didn’t ask questions. ‘Okay.’

  A couple of minutes later he returned. ‘There’re a couple of guys in the front trying to make like they’re not there. I thought I heard more in the back but when I went to mess about in my boot it all went quiet. What’s the score Danny?’

  ‘Not sure yet, but thanks.’ I put my cue in the rack and downed what was left of my pint.

  ‘That’s me done guys. See you later.’

  Harry checked his watch, made a show of being surprised. ‘It’s not half-ten yet.’

  ‘Yeah but he’s on a promise don’t forget.’ This from Paul Cosgrove, another old school-mate.

  I made a point of ignoring them and left to the inevitable chorus of, ‘We-know-where-you’re-go-ing.’

  I didn’t look at the van as I returned to my truck, but as I started the engine I noticed it give a little rock, as if someone in the back was settling back into their seats. I pulled off and turned right towards the car park entrance but as I passed the transit’s bonnet I stamped on the brake and jumped out. I was figuring that the last thing they would be expecting would be a confrontation outside the pub so I went for the surprise element. As I headed for the driver’s door I saw the shocked looks in the faces of the two in front. I reached for the door handle but the driver reacted just in time to press down the ‘lock’ button. For a couple of seconds I stood at the side of the van, giving the driver my best, What-the-fuck-are-you-up-to? stare, while he stared back, mouth half open, trying to work out what their best play was. My betting was their instructions were to wait until I was somewhere isolated before making their move. A pub car park in the middle of town didn’t fit. Too much CCTV.

  I returned to my truck on the passenger side, rummaged behind the seat where the toolbox was and found what I was looking for. Closing the door I came back round the front of my truck, heading for the van driver’s window. But he must have seen the wheel brace in my hand and realised what I was going to do as the engine suddenly sparked into life. I managed another two steps before it took off backwards, bursting through the chains slung between the fence posts and bouncing first onto the pavement, then down onto the roadway. A red Toyota heading for Stockton Heath just managed to swerve out of the way in time and let off a searing horn-blast. I stood and watched, wheel brace dangling from my hand as the driver floored the accelerator and took off back towards the town centre. The last I saw of them was the driver’s raised middle finger which I read as, ‘Until next time.’

  As the van disappeared from view, I rang Eric.

  ‘I’m at the Brig. I’ve just been staked out by some guys in a white transit. They may belong to the Russian.’

  ‘Did they try anything?’

  ‘Not this time, but I need you to give the team a heads up, just in case they’re working to a list.’

  ‘Will do. Do you need any back-up?’

  ‘Nah. They skipped when they realised they’d been clocked. I don’t think they’ll be back, not for me at any rate, which is why the others need to know.'

  ‘Gotcha.’

  I rang off and headed home.

  The last noteworthy event of the day occurred as I was slouched on the sofa doing some late night channel surfing while nursing a JD and telling myself I should listen to the voice in my head telling me it was bedtime. A click from my mobile announced the arrival of a text. It was from Vicki and read, ‘Settled in nicely. Thanks for everything. x.’ I spent ten minutes pondering on what, ‘everything’, covered and the significance, if any, of the ‘x’. I then spent another quarter of an hour trying to dream up a casual-seeming reply that would also make clear I was open to further contact, if that was what she wanted, but without sounding desperate. Eventually I realised my writing skills weren’t up to the task so I settled for a simple, ‘No probs,’ then agonised another couple of minutes over whether to return her, ‘x’. I decided against, imagining I was playing hard to get.

  As I climbed the stairs I remembered to take with me the pick-axe handle that I’d dug out of the under-stairs cupboard when I'd arrived home, and where I keep all the stuff that doesn’t have a natural home. I leaned it against the bedside cabinet while I got undressed and as I switched off the light, thoughts already drifting to Vicki, I reached out and touched it, just to make sure it was in easy reach.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Man Who Likes To Watch is doing so again. But instead of live action he is doing so now through the medium of video, blue-toothed from the camera direct onto the big screen TV in front of which he spends so much of his time. As he watches, he is amazed how well the piece of equipment he bought recently for less than a hundred pounds off Amazon has captured the event, particularly considering how dark it was. He thinks back over all the jerky footage he has downloaded in his time. Considering that much of it was produced by so-called 'professionals', a good proportion of it is barely watchable. But here, seeing the way the device has performed, the way it has captured he
r movements, her facial expressions, he thinks his work must bear favourable comparison with a good many of the sort of hand-held camera productions that are currently popular and which the younger generation flock to cinemas to see.

  He has reached the part where she is in the final stages of her performance, before he moved in to bring things to their climax, as it were. And he is acutely aware of the dissatisfaction that has been growing as he has watched. A feeling that something is lacking somewhere. He thinks he knows what it is.

  In the end she was even more different to the others than he'd anticipated. Looking back, he isn't sure now if she understood what was happening to her, more to the point what was about to happen. Right from the start she had shown none of the resistance the others showed to his requests, even going so far as to ask questions such as , 'Like this? Is this alright?' It had annoyed him, slightly, at the time. It was annoying him even more now. If it was conversation he was after, he'd have rung a fucking chat line.

  For the first time he realises how important the fear factor is to his projects. That without it the whole thing loses its edge, like a champagne bottle left open and from which all the bubbles have escaped. Sure, she was a great mover, possibly the best he has had. But without her awareness of what was looming, he may just as well have been watching one of those soft porn flicks some satellite channels show late at night.

  Where's the fucking bite?

  His enjoyment ruined by the sudden realisation of the recording's inadequacy, he picks up the device and switches it off. Immediately he is frustrated that he has not been able to relive the pleasure of the event the way he has done previously - even if his mobile phone video capability was not a patch on his new device. That ability is vitally important. It is what sustains him during those periods when the intensity of police activity dictates that he curtails his activities and bides his time while he seeks out new talent. Periods like right now. In the past they have stretched as long as several weeks. How will he manage so long when the product of his latest venture is not up to the task? True, he still has the records of his past achievements. But good as they are - Naomi was particularly memorable and well worth the occasional reminder - he knows they can only go so far in providing the regular dose of satisfaction that now seems to lie at the heart of his addiction. When all said and done, it is the NEW that drives him. Like a cocaine addict, the next hit is always the one that will do it for him. After that he will think about how to wean himself off. But if the latest 'new' is not up to the task, where does that leave him? Even if he had another already fixed in his sights - which he does not - he wouldn't dare to contemplate another performance so soon. It would go against all his principles about careful planning and not rushing things. It could, he knows, be disastrous. But with his latest venture proving such a dud - he is already thinking that he will probably never now watch it again - how will he manage over the coming weeks? Where will he find what he needs to feed his addiction while he lays the groundwork for his next project - a process that can sometimes takes weeks?