by David Carter
‘The pub in the town?’ said Jenny.
Haley nodded.
‘Thanks, if he comes back tell him to contact us straight away.’
‘Okay,’ she said, closing the door and returning to the zombie picture, though she couldn’t concentrate. What had the old man been up to? Her mind zipped into overdrive to places she didn’t wish to visit.
Jenny drove the short distance to the Claw in quick time as Martin checked in with Walter, telling him where they were heading.
Half an hour before, Ciaran Webb had walked round the corner in his jaunty style, passing the empty shop, crossing the road and going into the Claw. It was busy inside, which suited Ciaran’s needs. Easy to circulate and become anonymous in a crowd, not attracting any attention from the Licensee. Ideal to service his regular customers, as money changed hands, the transactions zapped into his smartphone, joining hundreds of others.
Greg kept his head down, but observed. How many of those borrowers would struggle to repay? How much interest were they being stung for? And how much money was Webb making from desperate people? He was the right man for the Brotherhood treatment, and no mistake.
He finished his drink, set the glass down, grabbed his bag, made his way outside, and crossed the road and slunk into the same shop doorway. It was a great lookout place, and he didn’t intend staying long. He glanced up and down the road and wondered how long it would be before Webb came out.
He didn’t have to wait long. Webb appeared five minutes later, looking pleased with himself. Greg watched two other guys coming out, acting as if they were with Ciaran. They stood about chatting for a couple of minutes, maybe negotiating another financial deal. That reasoning seemed sound because more money changed hands. The details were zapped into Ciaran’s phone, and then Greg had a stroke of luck.
The two guys said their goodnights and headed down the road to the left. Ciaran bobbed his head, slipped his phone in his trouser pocket, and lolloped away to the right. Greg gave him a twenty yard start, picked up his bag and followed.
The dark Ford came into the road from the left end. Martin and Jenny saw the Claw lit up with several people coming out, and a couple heading in.
Martin said, ‘I’ll see if Morrell’s in there.’
‘Okay,’ Jenny said, ‘Don’t be long.’
Martin jumped out, but as he did, Jenny peered down the road and saw a man walking away, carrying a bag. She buzzed down the window. Martin was ten yards away.
‘Pssst!’ she hissed through the night air.
He stopped and turned and looked.
She pointed ahead. Martin saw the guy and the bag.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s follow on foot in case he disappears up some narrow alley.’
Jenny didn’t like leaving the car but jumped out anyway, and they set off, fast to begin with, to close the gap, slowing as they went round the corner.
‘Where’s he going?’ whispered Jenny.
‘God knows, but I think he’s following someone.’
Jenny peered ahead, beyond Greg Morrell, and there was another guy there, alone and swaying along, cocky like, clear as day under the decent streetlight.
The lead man crossed a main road, took a right up a short narrow lane, and headed into a residential area. There was lots of newbuild property there, including expensive three-story townhouses, and hundreds of new apartments. The city’s insatiable appetite for them had never dimmed.
On they walked. The lolloping character, the bag carrying man suspected of murder, and two officers who should have been tired after a long day. But adrenalin had kicked in and woken them up.
They continued past more three-story red brick flats on either side of the road, and on to another similar block. The street-lighting wasn’t as good there. The lead guy took a sharp right. He left the road, heading for one of the blocks.
‘He’s going home,’ whispered Jenny.
‘Maybe. Either that or he’s got some business, or perhaps he’s visiting someone, a girlfriend, maybe.’
The bag carrier closed on the lead character. He turned right too, following the lolloper. Martin and Jenny took to their toes, specialising in running on silent; and closed right up.
They paused at the end of a high privet hedge and peered round the side. Kersey House, the block announced itself, perhaps ten years old. Floodlit frontage, big white letters over the white PVC entrance hall. Red brick building, three stories, eighteen flats, white windows, most curtains drawn, some lights on, many in darkness, a decent enough place to live, and certainly not cheap.
They heard Greg Morrell call out, ‘Hey mate, wait a sec!’
The slim guy at the front paused and turned round ten yards from the main door. On the still night air Martin and Jenny heard him say, ‘Do we know each other?’ as the two guys stood five yards apart, the lolloper going to his pocket where the short, sharp knife was sleeping as protection.
‘I saw you in the Claw,’ said Morrell. ‘I need some cash. I’m good for it. You’ll get paid.’
The guy shook his head and muttered, ‘Sorry, I don’t deal with strangers, only with people I know.’
‘I’m desperate,’ pleaded Greg, edging closer. ‘Wedding anniversary tomorrow. I’m expecting a big cash receipt in two days. You’ll get your money. No problem with that. Shane Fellday recommended you. He said to mention his name.’
‘You knew Shane?’
‘Yeah, so sad to hear what happened.’
‘Yeah, well, sometimes life’s a bitch,’ said Ciaran, thinking about it, but still uneasy. ‘Come down the side of the block,’ he whispered, ‘I don’t like doing business in public,’ and Ciaran ambled along the path at the side of the building, with Greg following. A low-powered light above them went on, triggered by movement.
To the right of the flats, mid way from the road to the building, set on hard-standing, was a new timber built bin store. It was crammed with wheelie bins. There had been complaints about bins and boxes being left scattered about. Two coloured bins per flat, three different coloured boxes per flat amounted to ninety plus items, and that was before the big garden waste fellows stuck their oar in.
A big rat ran fast from left to right and disappeared into the privet, busy over something.
Jenny saw it and shivered. Martin grinned, and they both crouched and ran towards the store, seeking cover. The storage area was made of thin pine, spindly and cheap, and wouldn’t last five years. On the fourth plank along from the left end, Martin spotted an obvious knot in the wood, highlighted by the moonlight and the little electric light coming from the street and security lights.
He pressed his thumb against it, added force, and the inch wide knot popped out like a Champagne cork, falling softly on the grass beyond. Through the hole he could see the two men talking in the shadows at the side of the block, closer together, looking more relaxed.
Jenny whispered, ‘What are they doing? Drug deal, you think?’
‘Could be.’
Jenny listened hard. She heard the lolloper say, ‘How much do you want?’
‘Three hundred.’
‘That’s way too much for a first time deal,’ said the guy, shaking his head. ‘You’re asking a lot. I don’t know you. That’s my problem.’
‘I’m good for it.’
‘So you keep saying, but I need more than that. Give me your phone.’
Greg took out his mobile and passed it over.
‘Access code?’ demanded the guy.
‘6962.’
The code worked. Ciaran Webb was an ace user of all mobile phones. He used them constantly and knew where to look for confidential information. Check email, look at texts, study pictures, monitor the browsing history, social media postings and photos, the lot.
‘You Gregory Morrell?’
‘Of course.’
‘Is Haley Morrell your daughter?’
‘Yes, how did you know?’ not liking the turn the conversation had taken.
‘Shane told me
about her. No offence meant, but he said she was a pushover.’
‘That’s in the past. Do I get the money or not?’
Ciaran took a tiny, shiny blue torch from his pocket. It was freshly batteried up and strong in beam-power. He shone it in Morrell’s face. Greg blinked and turned away.
‘Look at the torch!’
Greg squinted into the light. Ciaran used his own phone to take two pictures of the guy and said, ‘Okay, this is the deal. No negotiation. You’ll get your three hundred quid, but I want six hundred back on Saturday night.’
Greg gasped and said, ‘That’s ridiculous!’
‘Suit yourself! You need the money. I supply the cash. You’re a complete stranger. Don’t waste my time. Take it or leave it.’
Greg nodded and said, ‘Let’s do it.’
‘As for repayment, I’ll be in the Claw on Saturday night from eight till ten. It’s my usual collection time. You’ll be there with the whole six hundred. If you’re not, Haley Morrell gets the acid, understand?’
Greg bobbed his head. It didn’t matter what threats the prick made, because they would all be rendered useless.
Ciaran said, ‘Don’t watch me!’ before turning his back for a second to slip out his wad of money. He never liked punters seeing how much cash he carried. In the half-light he peeled off fifteen twenties.
Greg saw his chance. He stooped and flipped the bag open and grabbed the new claw hammer, stood tall, and swung it back over his right shoulder. The money-lending charlatan from the Bear’s Claw would get the claw, and how!
Seconds before, behind the timber, Martin muttered, ‘I think it’s all going off,’ as he stood tall and yelled, ‘Stop! Police! Look out!’
The hollering alerted the lolloper, giving him a split second to react. He turned and swayed to his left. Jenny dashed from the bin store and headed for the fight, Martin in pursuit. A combination of movement and time meant the hammer missed its target of Ciaran’s skull. But it found human flesh and shoulder bone, crushing it like flattening a clove of garlic.
Ciaran Webb screamed and didn’t once stop yelling. He fell to the ground. Blood gushed from the wound. He went into shock, moaning and groaning and writhing about on the stone path. Greg Morrell turned to face the onrushing officers. He threw the claw hammer hard at the big guy. It revolved over and over in flight, whistling as it went through the cooling night air.
Martin saw it coming, homing in on his face. His whole life flashed before him.
Jenny yelled, ‘Marty! Look Out!’
He threw himself to the ground. The hammer missed by a millimetre. Martin felt the draft as it rushed past his head and embedded in the timber store with a heavy clunk. Greg Morrell dropped the bag and turned and ran fast down the side of the block, into the darkness, across the manicured back lawns. Ahead of him was a high wooden fence. The officers rushed to the injured moneylender. They stooped and stared and didn’t like what they saw.
Martin said, ‘You stay here, look after him, call an ambo, ring Walter, I’ll go after Morrell,’ and without waiting for an answer he set off in pursuit, in time to see the dark shadowy image of Morrell leaping and vaulting over the far fence. It was new and sturdy and high and it shuddered hard and moaned at being disturbed.
Jenny thought: Why did the man always get the fun bit? Why couldn’t he have stayed and looked after the guy while she enjoyed the pursuit? But in the darkness she glimpsed Martin vaulting the tall fence as if it was a kid’s obstacle, and there was the answer. It would have taken her ages to get over.
He found himself in a kid’s playground, maybe twenty-five yards across. On the left were swings, playing in the wind as if ridden by ghosts, and a tall slide, its bright colours dimmed by the darkness. On the right side, a roundabout, standing still, and a see-saw, looking shaky in the moonlight. In the centre was a four-seater rocking horse, handles jutting out from the sides of its grotesque head, swaying back and forth in the light breeze, glaring at Martin like some kind of Viking sentinel.
The sturdy black fence on the far side was made of painted iron, eight feet tall, lots of vertical poles, each with a blunted arrowhead on the top, the poles secured by a horizontal metal beam top and bottom. Expensive, built by the council, paid for by everyone.
Greg Morrell, puffing and blowing, was struggling to conquer the far fence, one leg dangling on either side of the railings. Martin dashed between the play apparatus, exchanging a nod with the crazy horse, and fifteen seconds later he was climbing up and over cold metal. It reminded him of his teenage years, scaling identical fencing with his pals, desperate to use the pristine playing fields of the swanky school, before being chased off by fractious groundsmen.
On the other side was a vast cemetery. He knew the place well. His granddad slept there every night. Before he’d died, he’d joked about spending an eternity in the dead centre of Chester. The deeper Martin went into the site, the less light there was. In the darkness, he couldn’t see Morrell at all. The fleeing guy was faced with two choices. He could push on as fast as possible, aiming to put as much ground between him and his pursuer, or he could find somewhere to hide, maybe behind the biggest gravestone, hunker down and hope Martin would rush by.
Martin paused a second and wondered what he would do if he was the quarry. He would keep running. Every time. He was right too, because a scrambling noise came from the far side of the graveyard, straight ahead. Morrell was attempting to scale an even bigger solid fence, and by the sound of things was having difficulty getting over.
Martin jumped off with renewed vigour, rushing down a centre pathway between the gravestones, every monument unique. There was a dank and mouldy smell there. Hard to believe there were hundreds of dead people lying beneath, sleeping the big sleep, six feet under, unable to move, unable to think or see or feel or call out, including some of his close family. Hundreds of individuals who once dashed round the city, laughing and joking and smiling and crying, work to do, people to see, a house to buy, pleasure to seek, food to find, and children to create. Once they lived in the town, now gone forever.
Two fat cats sat atop the biggest Celtic Cross and watched him sprinting through. Thirty seconds later, he arrived at the next fence. Somehow Greg had scrambled up and over. It was a tall building site fence, and it was still shaking and humming after being woken.
The law insists all building sites must be fenced. There are good reasons for that. Lots of people are killed and injured on UK building sites, some workers, some visitors, and some trespassers, and that includes at least three infant deaths every year. No builder would want that on their conscience, hence the high and comprehensive fencing, regardless of the hefty cost.
Away in the distance, faint beams of yellow electric light streaked between the buildings bordering the main road. A little light flowed up and over the top of the fence, emphasising how black and high the structure was, standing like a fortress, barring his way like an oncoming night-time black tsunami. But it was all good for Martin.
It reminded him of his army days. Barely a week went by without being invited to cross an obstacle course of some description, usually higher and tougher and harder than the last, sometimes wearing full kit, carrying a heavy rifle, even at the dead of a pitch-black night, often with icy rain falling in sheets. In comparison, the fence in front of him was kid’s play.
He accelerated towards the barrier. At the last second, he lifted his preferred right foot high in the air, and jumped and launched himself at the fence, defying gravity, kicking himself upward, stretching out high, until he could reach up and grab the top. He made it with millimetres to spare. The fence was high and strong, made of reclaimed timber, but narrow gauge, and rough-edged on the top, enough to cut across both palms. But he made it first time, up and over.
There was more light there, streetlight seeping between the gaps in the Victorian or Edwardian buildings. Older three-story blocks with ramshackle mismatched extensions jammed on the rear, some internal lights on, most lights of
f.
On the building site they were constructing another apartment block, maybe Kersey House Mark II. It sure looked the right size, though they’d only recently started laying down the foundation, one big solid floor area for the building to spring from.
There was good news. He could see Greg Morrell below, maybe twenty yards from the fence, but he’d not gone far, and that was a surprise. Maybe he was running out of steam. Perhaps he wasn’t in great shape, as he strode across the rectangular foundation, his stride slowing. Martin leapt down from the fence. He went to follow the guy, but something told him to stop. Maybe it was the fresh footprints in the foundation.
They were deeper the more Morrell had moved away. The concrete hadn’t dried. It had been laid that day. Maybe they didn’t finish till well after six. Morrell was stumbling on, walking as if in deep mud. It reminded Martin of thundery military days on Salisbury Plain, trying to walk through soft muddy fields, carrying full kit. Sometimes it was so bad no one made it across. A Chinook helicopter was stuck there once, sinking up to its wheels in clinging muck.
Martin heard Morrell puffing and blowing. Struggling to pull his filthy trainers from the cement, and each time he set a foot down, it sank a little deeper into the grey mire. The builders ended the job with the last section going in on the far side, closest to the road, the territory Morrell was struggling to reach.
Martin dashed to the right. Came to the end of the proposed building, turned left, ran to the far end and turned left again. He was on the main road side of the newbuild. He glanced across at Morrell. The guy was almost across, maybe three strides from pulling himself from soft concrete and onto dry land. He ran to cut him off. Morrell saw him coming. One last effort, and two strides from freedom. He set his foot down in the last piece of work the builders did. It went into the wet surface, deeper than before. He tried to yank it out, but it was stuck.
The big copper stood two yards in front of him, breathing hard. Martin glared at Morrell and said, ‘I’m arresting you for the murder of Shane Fellday, and for the attempted murder of that guy,’ yanking his thumb back toward Kersey House and the damaged lender.
