Angels and Apostles

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘Mat Skinner smashed the place up. I don’t know who the other one was.’

  ‘Geoff Mekins,’ Tara said. ‘Another dick.’

  Elgin looked at her. ‘You never told me how you knew Mat.’

  Tara glanced at the barmaid.

  ‘I’d tell him fuck all,’ she said, pouring another shot for Tara.

  ‘Me and a few girls deliver packages for them,’ Tara shrugged. ‘It’s how I know Harry.’

  The door opened and Billy Skinner walked in. Luke was behind. ‘What the fuck just happened here?’

  Silence.

  John Elgin broke it. ‘Your Mat.’

  ‘So the word was right,’ Skinner’s eyes moved around the devastation. ‘An associate from the old days rang me. Did our Mat say anything?’

  ‘Ask her,’ Elgin said, pointing at the barmaid. ‘We weren’t here.’

  Skinner looked instead at Tara then turned back to Elgin, shaking his head.

  ‘You must have a cock like a teenager.’

  Skinner moved his gaze to the barmaid. ‘Well?’

  ‘He never said a word. Just walked in, came behind the bar and smashed it up with a baseball bat or something. His mate stood at the door.’

  ‘Who was he with?’ Skinner’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘We think it was Geoff Mekins,’ Elgin told him.

  Skinner said nothing, the uneasy silence stretching until he spoke again.

  ‘Give Harry my apologies. Our Mat wasn’t doing this under my instructions.’

  Skinner took out a roll of twenties and threw them on the bar.

  ‘That should replace the stock and pay for the damages and leave a little left over. Tell Harry I’ll deal with it.’

  The Skinners walked out.

  ‘Are you two in a rush to get away?’ the barmaid asked once the three of them were alone. ‘I’ve had enough of this.’

  Elgin looked at Tara. ‘We can wait until Harry gets back can’t we love? We’ve got two glasses and a bottle.’

  ‘And a load of cash,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ Elgin was serious. ‘Billy Skinner will know exactly how much is in that stash.’

  He turned to the barmaid. ‘Yeah you get yourself away sweetheart. We’ll wait for Harry.’

  ‘What the fuck?’ Julius said. ‘You!’

  He had barely got the words out before Adam karate kicked Hans in the ribs, taking his breath in a rush, Hans’ face twisted in pain.

  ‘That’s for asking me to watch kiddie porn and wank,’ Adam yelled.

  Hans whimpered like a wounded dog as the rope swung back and forth.

  Julius’ voice was quiet, trembling: ‘Adam. For God’s sake, what’s happening here?’

  ‘A kiddie fiddler’s court, that’s what happening.’

  Two metres away Hans was swinging more slowly.

  ‘I told you not to trust him,’ the whimper now a wild growl. ‘I fucking told you.’

  Adam kicked him again. A crack, like a popgun at the fair, echoed around the abattoir. ‘Shut the fuck up.’

  Hans had no alternative. He couldn’t breathe let alone speak. At least one rib had gone.

  Adam bent down and looked into Julius’ upside down eyes. ‘You see Julius, someone I know and like...’

  ‘Please stop this Adam.’ He started to sob. ‘I’ve got a family…they’ll be worried…they’ll report me missing.’

  Adam slapped him across the face. ‘You should have thought about your family before you started interfering with other people’s.’

  Adam straightened up. ‘Now where was I? That’s right. So it transpires that my friend knows you had a 12-year-old perform a sex act on you.’

  Adam pointed at Hans who was groaning quietly. ‘Him as well.’

  He returned his eyes to Julius, now hanging limp and silent.

  ‘Nothing can put right what you’ve done,’ Adam told him. ‘My friend couldn’t possibly let animals like you just walk away. What would people think?’

  A gorilla handed Adam a cigarette.

  ‘You know my friend has always had a thing about religion. Not the actual beliefs themselves, more why men follow them, die for them even.’

  He started pacing back and forward in between the captives.

  ‘What made young noblemen leave England and all their privilege for the Crusades? What makes a Jihadist strap a bomb to their chest and blow themselves up?’

  He stopped next to Julius. ‘Funny thing religion.’

  He gave him a gentle push and started pacing again.

  ‘Anyway, about my friend,’ Adam said. ‘You might say he is firm but fair. Even though he knew what you two were, he insisted as always on proof.’

  Adam shoved Hans as he passed, both bound men moving now almost gracefully like pendulums in an obscene clock.

  ‘My job was to get that proof.’

  Hans finally spoke, his words shaking between shallow breaths.

  ‘You’ve got your proof,’ he said slowly. ‘What happens now? This has already gone too far.’

  ‘Patience Hans,’ Adam told him, and pushed both men gently again.

  ‘Getting the proof was easy. I knew who you were, Julius. The boy pointed you out. I just sat in the park and hoped you’d approach me.’

  ‘Idiot,’ Hans grunted.

  ‘And the bonus was you introduced me to Hans, a perfect match for his other attacker, right down to those ridiculous red trousers.’

  He flicked away the cigarette.

  ‘My name’s not even Adam and I can’t play tennis to save my life.’

  He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, a simple plan perfectly executed.

  ‘So about religion,’ he stood before them. ‘The police will get a tip-off. They’ll come to this place and they will find you, find you prepared Halal so to speak.’

  Adam took out a knife, grabbed Hans’ scalp and slit his throat.

  He turned as Julius began to scream.

  ‘Someone had to go first.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Saturday 13th December

  ‘I’m getting too old for this,’ the taller of the two said, snipping the wire fence surrounding the compound, ‘and my hands are bloody freezing.’

  They’d chosen 4am specifically. Patrolling cops were hopefully having a cup of tea somewhere warm, preferably the station five miles away, and the mobile security guard had done his last drive-past ten minutes ago.

  Dark clothing, ski masks and gloves helped them blend into the blackness of the open field, the sky heavy with low cloud above them. The problems would start on the other side of the fence with the floodlights blazing.

  ‘We need to run like we are twenty again, confuse anyone watching the CCTV tomorrow,’ the tall one said, pulling at the newly-cut hole in the mesh fence. ‘On three…’

  They sprinted towards the storage unit, pressed their backs against the yellow roller-shutters, and dropped their hands to their knees, bending forward to gulp in air.

  It was all about speed now. The bolt croppers snapped the padlocks but in the adrenaline rush they pushed too hard on the roller-shutter door, the corrugated steel flying upwards and rattling against the top of the frame.

  They froze and had listened to seconds of blissful silence before their ears were blasted by an explosion of noise.

  The siren was directly above them, the piercing screech so loud it was physical.

  They dashed inside, gave themselves moments to adjust to the darkness and settled on what they needed.

  One pressed ‘send’ on his mobile and a pre-prepared text pinged into cyberspace.

  The high-pitched whine of a Ford Transit engine at its limit came seconds later, then the smash and crash of metal against metal as the van rammed its way through the seven feet high gates, sending them clattering onto the concrete.

  Alongside the open shutter the van’s front end nose-dived, tyres squealing and smoking, and the gearbox crunched into reverse. The van raced backwards into the
storage unit, the driver out of the cab and flinging open the back doors before the rubber of the back wheels had stopped smoking.

  ‘Move it,’ he shouted, glancing at his watch as he ran back to the driver’s seat.

  Four items were placed in the back, the two black-clad figures jumped in, and the van roared off, back doors swinging against their hinges before they were slammed shut.

  It was less than four minutes since the fence had been cut. They raced away into the open countryside, slowing down and stopping at a pre-selected lay-by on a quiet country lane, the driver out in an instant to remove the false plates.

  ‘So you’ve got him identified then?’ Sue said, bent down, loading the washing machine.

  Ed wiped toast crumbs from his chin and picked up a mug of lukewarm tea from the kitchen bench. ‘Yeah we have.’

  Ed didn’t know which hurt the most. His head from lack of sleep or the stab wound scar on his neck.

  Sue turned the dial, pressed ‘on’, and stood up to face him.

  ‘Motive?’

  Ed shook his head.

  Jesus, let me pull myself together woman.

  Ever since he’d involved her in the investigation into the missing Asian girl she’d thought she was the new Clarice Starling. She had even started reading true crime books.

  Water flowed into the washing machine.

  ‘As we’ll tell the media we’re following a number of lines of inquiry.’

  Ed took his suit jacket from the back of the chair, put it on and straightened his tie.

  ‘Which is code for you don’t know who’s done it,’ Sue told him.

  ‘Just like every murder inquiry in the beginning,’ Ed headed for the door. ‘This one’s no different. I’ll see you tonight.’

  ‘I’ll make a chicken curry. It’ll be in the pan if you’re late.’

  On the plus side, involving her in the investigation had at least given her an insight into his world and she had been slightly less aggressive towards his long hours. Slightly. It still didn’t stop her being moody and short-tempered, especially if she got Sam into her head.

  He walked to the door, hoping the ‘S’ word didn’t come up.

  If Sue discovered Sam had chosen the multi-coloured Paul Smith scarf she’d likely tie it around his neck and throttle him. To throw her off the scent, he would wrap it himself. It would be the usual dog’s dinner but Sue would recognize his hopeless handiwork. She might just be convinced the scarf was his idea.

  Driving to HQ he turned his mind to Curtis’ video. He may have shot it but that didn’t mean he wasn’t involved. Ed thought it was a little too coincidental. Curtis just happened to be at the garage when his abuser was brought there to be executed. That said, any interview with Curtis about the abuse would have to be sensitive.

  ‘Morning,’ Ed said, walking into the HOLMES room. ‘Anything new?’

  ‘Not really,’ Bev answered, looking up from her computer. ‘Usual shit through the night. Few drunks locked up, the usual once a year Christmas party idiots. Oh and a strange one, highways depot turned over, two road signs and a couple of portable traffic lights stolen.’

  ‘Strange is right,’ Ed said, as he walked to the kettle.

  Bev answered the desk phone a minute later, put her hand over the receiver, and called to Ed.

  Ed took the phone. ‘Ed Whelan.’

  ‘It’s Jill Brown. Sorry to bother you but Curtis has shown up. He’s in a state. Can you pop over?’

  ‘Give me an hour Jill.’

  He handed the receiver back to Bev.

  Bev looked at him, all sarcastic smile and wide eyes. ‘So who’s Jill? Didn’t want to give me her name.’

  ‘Nobody you need to worry about.’

  Bev opened her mouth to respond, but the door burst open and Sam stormed in.

  ‘Grab your coat Ed, two more bodies.’

  Everybody looked up from their desks.

  ‘Anonymous call,’ Sam said. ‘Bev, get hold of Peter Hunt and cancel the press conference. Then get all staff back here on stand-by.’

  Bev nodded.

  Ed put on his long overcoat.

  ‘I’ll update you as soon as I know what we’ve got Bev,’ Sam told her. ‘Get onto the control room. Speak to the call taker who took the phone call. I want one of ours to take a statement off them. If there’s any problem with the control room Inspector let me know.’

  ‘Where to?’ said Ed, walking towards her.

  ‘The old abattoir.’

  Dean Silvers pulled up outside Scaramangers, slammed the van door and walked across the car park.

  Harry Pullman was in the cellar watching the CCTV recording.

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ Silvers said, wearing nothing but jeans and t-shirt despite the snow flurries.

  Harry hit play.

  Silvers watched Mat Skinner march across the car park, Mekins with him, then studied the images from the car park and inside the pub.

  ‘I’d have sent him back with that bat rammed up his arse if I’d been here,’ Silvers finally took his eyes from the screen. ‘You spoke to Billy?’

  ‘He came round last night when I was still out and rang this morning. Full of apologies. He reckoned Mat did it all off his own bat, pardon the pun. I’m not sure Mat would make that call without Billy’s say-so.’

  ‘Either way something has to be done now,’ Silvers said. ‘You put the call into the police?’

  ‘All done,’ Harry told him. ‘We’ll make a move but not yet.’

  ‘How’s John?’ Silvers asked.

  ‘Upstairs in the flat with Tara. Been there all night.’

  Silvers smirked.

  ‘Will you go and restock?’ Harry asked him.

  He counted out £400 from the stack of £20 pound notes Billy Skinner had left. ‘That should keep you going.’

  ‘Why would they smash their own stock?’

  ‘Simple,’ Harry told him. ‘Shows they can do what they like. We’re next if Mat gets his way.’

  ‘Like fuck. No point waiting for them. We’ll hit them first.’

  They heard the door open and walked upstairs to the bar, the barmaid not due for another half hour.

  ‘A pint if you please landlord.’

  ‘As I live and breathe, Detective Superintendent Reynolds.’

  ‘Retired.’

  Harry looked at his watch.

  ‘Bit early, even for you Ray. Not even eleven yet. How’s tricks?’

  The two men shook.

  ‘You know, plenty of time on my hands,’ Reynolds said. ‘Just thought I’d grab a pint. None of that lager shite. Pint of hand-pull. Preferably a milk stout saying as it’s winter. That’s if you’ve got anything. You seem short on the optics.’

  ‘This is my nephew Dean,’ Harry told him. ‘He’s just going out to restock.’

  Silvers nodded at Ray.

  ‘The last time I saw you, you were riding a three-wheeler.’

  ‘People grow up Mr. Reynolds,’ Silvers started to walk out. ‘Nice to see you.’

  ‘So what happened?’ Reynolds was sat on a bar stool, bent forward, and sipping at the creamy white head of his stout.

  ‘Mat Skinner smashed the place up, fucking idiot.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Cos he can. His dad’s apologised, said Mat was acting off the reservation so to speak but…’

  ‘Nobody moves without Billy’s say-so,’ Reynolds finished for him.

  ‘That’s about the size of it. Much planned for Christmas?’

  Reynolds eyes lost a little focus.

  ‘Not really. It’s a time for family and I haven’t really got one. Wife dead, almost two years now, and no kids more’s the pity. I’ll just have a quiet day.’

  Harry dried his hands on a white cloth. ‘What about your sister?’

  ‘Lorraine? She’s invited me to stay. Lives in York now but she’s married to an arsehole who grates on me and their young ones aren’t much better. Rather stay here and fly solo.’

 
; ‘Well we’re open for a couple of hours on the lunchtime if you fancy it.’

  ‘I might just do that.’

  Ray Reynolds turned his head as the door opened and saw the look of shock on the new customer’s face. ‘Bloody hell John.’

  John Elgin approached the bar. ‘Alright Ray.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’ Ray said.

  ‘Tara, Ray. Ray, Tara.’

  ‘Do you fancy a drink love?’ Ray asked.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ Tara said. ‘Arranged to meet my study group later this afternoon, but thanks anyway.’

  ‘Mine’s a Peroni,’ Elgin said.

  Tara walked out.

  ‘Still like them young then?’ Ray said.

  ‘Man needs a bit of fun sometimes, no harm in that.’

  ‘No harm at all as long as your missus doesn’t find out.’

  ‘Anyway what you doing here?’ Elgin said.

  ‘Catching up with an old mate.’

  ‘Didn’t know you had any.’ He looked at Harry, nodded at the bar devoid of stock. ‘All sorted?’

  ‘I was telling Ray. Billy said it was nothing to do with him. Mat was acting off-piste.’

  ‘A likely story,’ Elgin said and raised the glass to his lips. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Are you totally off your head?’ Billy Skinner shouted, standing behind his desk in Pussycats, hands on the leather inlay and leaning towards Mat who was stood to attention before him.

  ‘Were you coked up?’ Billy’s face was crimson. ‘Snorting with your faggot mate?’

  The office door crashed open. Mat jumped and looked over his shoulder.

  Mark and Luke each gripped a handle of a wheelchair, Stuart McFadden behind them with a pick-axe handle pointing at the ceiling.

  Slumped forward in the rolling chair, held in place by a makeshift seatbelt of nylon rope tied around his chest, was Geoff Mekins. His face was pulped and caked in dried blood, his wrists bound to the arms of the chair.

  ‘My God,’ Mat shouted, raw emotion contorting his face as he spun around and stepped forwards.

  ‘Don’t you fucking move,’ Billy hissed, a sovereign-ringed finger pointing at Mat. ‘If you weren’t my son you’d be in a chair next to him but rest assured your stupidity has cost this puff his life. Thank your mother it hasn’t cost you yours.’