Angels and Apostles

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘You eat. I’ll get it.’ Marge answered the phone. ‘Yeah, I’ll tell him.’

  Billy looked up from the spaghetti covered in so much Parmesan it looked like snowfall.

  ‘Stuart’s on his way.’

  Billy nodded and slurped the pasta.

  Stuart McFadden parked next to the fountain, a must-have for Marge the moment she saw the Trevi on a friend’s hen trip to Rome and fell in love. Walking across the gravel, Stuart eyed the marble mermaid surrounded by spouting water flumes from her sculptured rock and shook his head. He remembered the bloated monstrosity had been installed after the weekend break in Copenhagen.

  It was true what people said: money couldn’t buy class.

  He rang the bell and listened to something that would have given Big Ben a run for its money.

  ‘Come in Stuart. Do you want anything to eat?’ Marge asked.

  On a Thursday? Not bloody likely.

  ‘I’m fine thanks.’

  He followed her into the kitchen and pulled out a chair.

  ‘Don’t get comfy, I’m coming.’ Billy stood up, dropping the linen napkin on the table. ‘We’ll see you later Marge.’

  She walked over, kissed his cheek and told him: ‘Okay.’

  A minute later Billy had settled into the tan leather of the BMW Seven Series and stretched his legs as Stuart started her up.

  ‘Pussycats?’

  Billy Skinner nodded.

  Skinner had opened Pussycats, a lap dancing club, in the mid-nineties on an industrial estate on the outskirts of town. There had been the usual protests over the years, do-gooders demonstrating about the exploitation of women, but it was well run and the police were never called.

  Stuart pulled up outside and threw the keys to one of the doormen.

  Inside, the lights were as low as the bikini tops. Suits sat around tables, talking to the beachwear or watching even slinkier numbers glide up and down the pole.

  Stuart followed Billy across the blue carpet into the back office.

  ‘Anything?’ Billy looked at the manager, a forty something with no convictions, the Pussycats front man.

  ‘Councillor Elgin’s in.’

  He zoomed the CCTV onto the tall, dark haired, fifty-year-old with the looks, but not the wealth, of a 1950s movie idol. The navy suit, so shiny it looked polished, reflected the spinning stage lights; the grubby pink tie had been out of fashion so long it was a museum piece. Milk bottle white fingers squeezed the shoulders of the two girls sitting on his knees.

  Billy pulled out a chair. ‘Tell Zara and Chloe to look after him. I’ll sort their wages. Tell them to say it’s on the house.’

  ‘You’re the boss.’ Forty-something left the room.

  ‘Stuart, I want him videoed shagging them two. Nothing concentrates your mind more than being caught with a couple of young fillies, especially when you’re married to a battle-axe like he is. The woman’s scary.’

  ‘No bother. The Green Room’s all ready.’

  ‘Great. The boys will be here soon. I want to run through the figures.’ He walked over to the free-standing safe, opened it, and took out two £1000 bundles.

  ‘Give that to Zara and Chloe, and send a bottle of cheap fizz to their table. No point wasting the good stuff on Elgin.’

  Billy’s three sons walked in, Mathew, Mark, and Luke. People called them The Apostles, but only behind their backs. They were all short and squat, like their father, and each was wearing an expensive suit with an open necked white shirt.

  ‘All done?’ Billy asked.

  ‘All good,’ Mathew said, the oldest of the brothers and the one with a cigarette permanently sticking out of his lips. ‘Half a kilo dropped off at all of our establishments, all couriers safe, no thefts.’

  The couriers were young, female and drove non-descript family hatchbacks provided by Billy. Most importantly they were all of previous good character, their job being to collect and deliver the packages to the trusted managers of each establishment. The family had twenty pubs and clubs throughout the north east and the Skinners controlled the supply of cocaine within them.

  None of the delivery girls had ever met Billy Skinner. Each went to a public pay phone at a specified time, was told where to collect the packages and where to deliver them. The phone boxes continually changed, and the girls were given their location by text twenty minutes before the call. None of them had ever opened a package and were never told what they contained, although at £200 a drop they must have worked out they weren’t delivering bar snacks or bingo cards.

  The Skinners bought loyalty with two things: cash and the threat of violence. The price of disloyalty, on an escalating scale, was a limb rendered useless through to death itself. Billy had been the enforcer years ago, but his sons had taken over that role and Mathew, not the luckiest when the brain cells were being dished out, was darkly imaginative when it came to punishments. He revelled in striking fear into people, loved being called Iron Man. A cruel streak ran through his DNA like the hidden metal in reinforced concrete

  Billy opened a ledger. He didn’t trust computers; if hackers could slip inside the computers of NASA and the FBI, what chance did he have?

  ‘Takings seem to be down at ‘Scaramangers’. Why?’

  He loved James Bond, ‘The Man with the Golden Gun’ his favourite.

  ‘Sound the doormen out. See if trade’s dropped off the last few weeks. The bar’s down, the food’s down, and we haven’t had the return we should have had on the coke. Don’t go in all guns blazing, especially you Mat, but let’s make sure no one’s taking the piss.’

  Mathew looked at the floor. Being rebuked in front of his younger brothers was bad enough, but having that ingratiating Stuart there really nauseated him.

  ‘Harry Pullman’s been with me for years. I can’t believe he would skim but he’s hit the bottle big time since his wife died. Drink does funny things to men.’

  He closed the ledger. ‘After that and before you hit the clubs, go and see your mother.’

  He looked at each of them and smiled. ‘You never know, there might be some spaghetti left.’

  Everyone in the room laughed except Mathew. He was shooting daggers at Stuart McFadden.

  Who the fuck are you to laugh at my mother?

  ‘Right,’ Billy said, ‘Where’s Pixie?’

  ‘Cellar,’ Mat tried to hide his anger.

  Billy stood up. ‘Best go and see the little fucker then.’

  Peter ‘Pixie’ Carlton, slumped and tied to a wooden chair surrounded by kegs, raised his head when the metal door swung open, the draught from the corridor a small reprieve from the stale air that had built up over the three hours of his incarceration. His whole body was shivering, a combination of fear and nakedness.

  ‘Pixie. How are you?’ Billy, smiling, sounded as if he was greeting a welcome guest at a family wedding.

  Tears rolled down Pixie’s face. The nickname had stuck since his first day in secondary school when the older kids saw the gangly 6’ plus 11-year-old for the first time. He finally stopped growing when he reached 6’8” and the nickname had remained.

  ‘Please Mr. Skinner.’

  ‘Now now Pixie,’ Billy said, his voice light. ‘A bit late for please and thank you.’

  He walked behind Pixie and looked for an unmarked patch of skin on his back. There wasn’t any. Various red, long, linear marks in the early stages of bruising would eventually join together to form a solid black and blue mass. His sons had always been accurate with pick-axe handles. He’d taught them well.

  The Skinner sons and Stuart stood leaning back against the wall. Each would do whatever Billy asked.

  Billy grabbed Pixie’s blond hair, pulled his head backwards and spat on his face.

  ‘You are not here to supply coke to your estate agent mates and play the big-I-am.’

  He slapped Pixie around the back of the head, then walked around the chair and stood in front of him.

  ‘I trust you with the product wh
ich I expect you to sell and give the profits to me. You get yours for free, but obviously that’s not been enough.’

  He bent down. His face was inches from Pixie’s although his wasn’t shaking and decorated with a trembling blob of saliva. Billy put his hands in his trouser pockets, took out four sovereign rings, and put one on each finger of his right hand.

  ‘I’m sorry Mr. Skinner it won’t happen again,’ Pixie gasped, his wide eyes flashing between Billy and the others.

  ‘You’re right there Pixie. It won’t. In Saudi they chop off a thief’s right hand. Did you know that? Safest country in the world.’

  Billy Skinner had dished out plenty of punishment beatings, but he doubted he’d seen anybody’s eyes stretch as wide as Pixie’s were now.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘No seriously. In Saudi they chop your right hand off so you can never sit at anyone’s table. That’s because they’re very clean. Wipe their backsides only with their left hand. Nobody will eat with someone who uses their left hand at the table.’

  ‘Please Mr. Skinner.’

  A river was now flowing freely down his face.

  ‘Relax. I’m not chopping your hand off. Well not this time anyway. But you have to be punished. Can’t have people thinking I’m going soft. Where would that leave me?’

  ‘Please Mr. Skinner.’

  ‘If you don’t stop bleating on like a little girl I will cut your bloody hand off. Understand?’

  A nod.

  ‘Luke, Mark. Untie this piece of shit.’

  Seconds later Pixie was upright towering over both Skinners.

  Luke and Mark grabbed his arms, arms that had never seen a gym.

  ‘Now this can be as quick or as slow as you choose,’ Billy said. ‘I can take a bolt cropper to each finger on your right hand and snap them off neatly below the first knuckle.’

  Pixie struggled but was forced back into the chair by Luke and Mark.

  Billy Skinner punched him on the face, the sovereign rings slicing his skin quicker than a tin opener cutting through a can.

  ‘Or,’ Billy continued, his voice like a businessman chairing a meeting, ‘we can put your fingers in the doorframe and kick it shut.’

  Pixie spluttered blood, his voice childlike and desperate.

  ‘Please, I’ll pay it back.’

  Billy nodded. ‘You’ll pay it back anyway, just with fewer fingers than before. Count yourself lucky. If you had really upset me, you’d be a dead man. Instead you’ll be the walking reminder if you fuck with Billy Skinner, you get fucked.’

  Mat laughed. ‘You never know they might change your nickname from Pixie to Fingers.’

  Or Miles O’Toole he thought, staring at the 20 year old’s cock.

  Billy glared at his son, then turned back to Pixie.

  ‘So, hand in door and it’s over quickly or one at a time with the bolt croppers. You decide.’

  Pixie stared at the floor, said nothing.

  ‘Okay,’ Billy said. ‘We’ll try the door first. If you move your hand there is no second chance. It will be the bolt croppers and we’ll do your fingers one at a time…over the next twenty-four hours.’

  Billy moved away. ‘Take him to the door.’

  Chapter Three

  Friday 12th December

  Declan Doherty had one hand on the wheel, the other on a cigar. The road noise from the A1 northbound buffeted his ears, more to do with the driver’s window being open than the twin-axle caravan being towed behind the big Mercedes.

  He had a couple of hundred King Edwards in his van. Each wedding guest would get one, at least the ones he knew.

  He gripped his with his teeth, fiddled with the in-car computer: average speed, average fuel consumption and distance travelled. The miles were clocking up, every minute putting Newark another mile behind him. That’s why he liked driving at night. Much easier; roads clearer, less police.

  His wife, daughter and two granddaughters were asleep in the van. He thought that might be illegal, but since when did that bother Travellers like him. It was more important that his girls got a good night’s sleep. Besides what was the difference between sleeping on the road and sleeping in those posh trains?

  The sting of the smoke was blinding him.

  ‘Bollocks,’ he muttered. He took the cigar from his mouth and threw it out of the window then rubbed his stinging eyes while he steered with his knees.

  He contemplated where to exit the A1 to get to Seaton St George. There were so many choices. At 2am it didn’t matter whether he drove past Middlesbrough, Darlington or Hartlepool. He wouldn’t get stuck in traffic, unlike a couple of days ago when he’d driven up with a few of the lads.

  Suddenly he leaned so far forward his nose almost touched the windscreen. He rubbed his eyes again but this time there was no smoke. Ahead in the quickly closing distance he saw a naked man walking along the roadside, the Mercedes’ powerful beams leaving no room for illusion or a trick of the hard-shoulder shadows.

  These fucking stag parties.

  Declan braked, pulled into a lay-by, and waited for the man to catch up.

  As he got nearer, Declan could see the man’s back was stooped and he had his right hand stuffed in his left armpit as if it was seeking warmth and protection.

  ‘Jesus,’ Declan said, as the naked stranger collapsed on the verge. Declan saw the bruising on his back, the missing fingertips on his right hand.

  He rushed into the caravan and woke the girls and together they helped the man inside.

  Declan saw his granddaughters’ wide-eyed shock. Whether that was down to the stranger’s injuries or the size of his private parts, Declan wasn’t sure.

  Sam Parker pulled up the fur hood of her military-style coat as she walked across the forecourt of the disused garage. The uniform PC, his breath visible in the cold night air, nodded at her as he lifted the blue tape to allow her and Ed Whelan to duck underneath, writing their names in the scene log as they walked towards the doors and the Senior Scenes of Crime Officer.

  ‘What have we got Julie?’ Sam asked, burying her hands in her coat pockets.

  Julie Trescothick pulled down her paper mouth mask. She was wearing a white paper suit and white paper overshoes.

  ‘Come in and see for yourself. The plates are already down.’

  She bent and picked up two clear plastic bags - a white suit and a pair of overshoes in each - and handed them to Sam and Ed.

  ‘Extra large I hope,’ Ed said. He hated fighting to get into the Teletubby suits when they were too tight but at least this time there was no crowd to watch him struggle.

  Suits zipped they followed Julie into the garage, the interior lit by freestanding floodlights powered by a noisy diesel generator.

  ‘Evening boss,’ the two other SOCOs said in unison.

  Evening? It’s bloody two am.

  ‘Info from a druggie, Curtis something or other. He’s down the nick with uniform. Came to shoot up, saw this and rang us,’ Julie said.

  The charred figure was on the floor of the inspection pit, feet near an oil drum, burnt pieces of rope close by, one piece on his left wrist. His jaw was clenched shut, his fingers curled like claws, his crisp blackened skin stretched tighter than fresh cling-film.

  The smell was like putting your head into a coal fire after it had gone out.

  ‘Male or female?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Male,’ Julie said.

  ‘Enough to put you off barbecues for life,’ Ed said, trying to do what was humanly impossible; breathe out without breathing in.

  ‘You don’t improve with age,’ Sam smiled and pointed at the oil drum. ‘Looks like he’s been tied up. Fell forward when the ropes burnt through.’

  She paused, looked at what was in front of her, and remembered Albert Szent-Gyorgyi’s words – “discovery consists of seeing what everybody has seen and thinking what nobody has thought.” ‘There’s a couple of pieces behind the oil drum,’ Sam said.

  Ed put the domestic that had broken out
when the call-out came to the back of his mind...another argument about work, another slanging-match about how he spent more time with Sam Parker than he did with his wife, another torrent of abuse culminating in their latest hot topic. Ed resisting retirement, especially after a stabbing that meant six months’ sick leave and almost cost him his life, had given Sue Whelan a shiny new stick when she wanted to give him a verbal beating.

  ‘There’s a strong smell of petrol in the pit, broken glass, and an oily rag,’ Julie said.

  ‘As in petrol-bombed?’ Sam said.

  ‘Possibly. Do you want the lab out?’

  ‘Yes.’ Constrained budget or not, the scientists were a necessity. ‘Any ID?’ Sam asked.

  ‘There’s a wallet. Over there on the floor.’ Julie nodded towards it. ‘His driving licence is in there. Jeremy Scott, providing it’s his.’

  Sam wiggled her toes. ‘It’s a start, but the only way he’s getting identified to the Coroner’s satisfaction is by dental records.’

  They want us to know who it is, Sam was thinking.

  Why? Giving us a starter for ten. He’s not been burnt to hide his ID.

  ‘The driving licence would make him 78,’ Julie said.

  Sam looked at Ed. ‘Name mean anything to you?’

  ‘Not right now, but I’ve only been awake about forty minutes and my brain’s too busy fighting the smell to concentrate on a name… If the druggie had the where-with-all to ring us that suggests he hadn’t started main-lining and he’s not so skint he’s had to exchange his mobile for drugs.’

  ‘How did he get here?’ Sam said.

  ‘Don’t know,’ Julie told her. ‘He’d gone before I arrived.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have walked out here would he?’ Sam said, stamping her feet. ‘Not at this time. More likely he scored his gear and got dropped off here.’

  ‘Could have bought his drugs here,’ Ed said. ‘Or he was dealing from here.’

  ‘Possibly.’ Sam looked at the charred body again. ‘What sort of people set fire to someone?’

  ‘Over the ages, plenty,’ the well-educated voice boomed out.