Angels and Apostles

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘Point being?’ Sam said.

  ‘There might not be a point,’ Ed turned on the fog lights. ‘But the makes were different when I had a look at the burn out. One was a genuine Ford headlight, the other a cheaper copy.’

  ‘Good spot,’ Sam was impressed.

  Ed smiled, remembering the countless hours he had spent bringing his 1972 VW Camper van ‘Doris’ lovingly back to life.

  ‘When you’ve been involved in restoring a vehicle you notice these things,’ he told Sam. ‘We can check with the owner. See if he damaged the vehicle and whether he replaced the nearside headlight. If he didn’t, the gorillas did and they’ll have had to buy it somewhere, hopefully locally.’

  Sam was about to respond but Ed turned the radio up as the anchor announced a live update for Newcastle United.

  Another goal and now 4-1 down at the Emirates to Arsenal, Santi Carzola riling the partisan commentator with a piss-take ‘panenka’ penalty, dinking the ball over the Newcastle goalkeeper in the 88th minute.

  Ed hit the off button and grimaced.

  Bloody football, as someone once said.

  Ed’s phone call to the registered keeper of the Ford Transit told him what he needed to know…it wasn’t damaged when it was stolen; both headlights should be originals.

  ‘So our killers have probably damaged the van and then replaced the headlight,’ Sam said, looking up from her computer. ‘Unusual.’

  Maybe they didn’t want to steal another van, didn’t want to risk getting pulled by uniform for having a light out, Ed told her.

  ‘Not that there’s enough cops on the street these days to pull anyone.’

  Sam wondered again how Ed could keep his anger-level so high and for so long.

  ‘Any reports of Transits being involved in an RTC?’ she asked, reaching into her handbag and taking out an oat bar.

  Ed crossed his legs, leaned back, and eyed the snack with a mixture of hostility and suspicion.

  ‘Always been good old-fashioned RTAs to me,’ defiance in his voice. ‘Road Traffic Accidents. No need to change it.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Sam gave him a weary smile. ‘They’re Road Traffic Collisions on the system so…?’

  ‘Nothing there,’ Ed told her, suddenly heading for the door. ‘But give me a couple of minutes. I’ve just had a thought.’

  Five minutes later he was back, carrying two mugs of coffee and speaking on the move.

  ‘I remembered a message on the overnight log from this morning,’ he said. ‘Two sets of temporary traffic lights and two roadwork signs were stolen from a compound. The gates had been knocked off their hinges and there were glass fragments scattered on the ground.’

  He put one coffee in front of Sam and sat down holding the other.

  ‘So what’s on your mind?’ she asked.

  Ed slurped the coffee and muttered ‘bollocks,’ the drink so hot it blistered his tongue.

  ‘We believe the van belongs to the killers,’ Ed said. ‘That’s purely and simply because there’s a new gorilla mask next to it, still in its original packaging.’

  Sam was silent, watching and listening.

  ‘We can compare the glass fragments left at the depot to the glass in the original headlight and hopefully get a match.’

  Sam stared over the rim of her mug, blowing on the coffee so she didn’t repeat Ed’s mistake, and asked if the glass had been recovered.

  ‘It’s getting sorted now,’ Ed told her. ‘If it is the same glass, why bother replacing a headlight if you’re going to burn out the vehicle? Doesn’t make sense.’

  Sam stood and paced the office.

  ‘If they’ve replaced the light they could have only done that this morning once the shops were open.’

  Ed nodded and took a hesitant sip from his mug.

  ‘So why within hours are they burning it out? What’s happened that’s made them alter their plan?’

  Sam drank while she walked, working it through.

  ‘If they replaced the light, that suggests they still needed the van,’ the pieces falling into place. ‘They had to burn it out so now they need to steal another! Get onto Control Room. Tell them we want to know about all stolen vans.’

  Ed picked up the phone, said he was on it.

  Sam leaned her back against the wall, thinking aloud again.

  ‘What else have they got planned? What the hell are they going to do with the traffic lights?’

  Ed had just replaced the receiver when the desk phone rang, Sam signaling she would take the call.

  Ed stood up but she motioned for him to sit back down.

  ‘Can I send an officer to see you,’ Sam was saying. ‘Okayyy…’

  Ed picked up on the way Sam stretched out the word.

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  Sam looked at Ed, raised her eyebrows.

  ‘See you then.’ She put the phone on the cradle and grinned at Ed. ‘Fancy a trip to Hampshire tomorrow?’

  The short and sensible answer, Ed knew, was ‘no.’

  An away day to the other end of the country would go down like a £5 prostitute once Sue found out. Make the trip on a Sunday and he’d be in a full blown shit storm.

  ‘Why?’ he asked, dreading the answer.

  ‘That was the headmaster from St Augustine, Jeremy Scott’s old school,’ Sam said. ‘Wants to talk but he’ll only talk to me. He has some information about Scott.’

  Ed dropped deeper into the chair, the situation sinking in.

  Whatever he said, tomorrow he was going to Hampshire.

  How to the hell do I break that little zinger?

  ‘More likely wants to keep the school out of it,’ he grumbled, an air of resignation descending like smog.

  ‘But we’d have gone to the school at some point,’ Sam was button bright, a long road trip hands down better than another day solo in the ice palace. ‘May as well get it done.’

  Ed sighed loudly, more for Sam’s benefit than his.

  The head had asked for Sam personally. If Ed was a betting man he’d take odds on he had something worthwhile to say.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ed was driving through a downpour, windscreen wipers working overtime.

  The destination was ciggie-break central.

  ‘Thought you weren’t bothered about smoking in the office on a Saturday?’

  He glanced at Sam as he stopped his VW Golf at a junction.

  ‘Bev’s out and about with Paul,’ Sam told him. ‘May as well catch up in the park and have a smoke at the same time. Besides, it’s Never Wright on duty today, and you know what that little shit’s like with his anti-smoking agenda.’

  Ed scowled, picturing Inspector Mick ‘Never’ Wright, a pedant with a nose so brown it looked varnished.

  ‘Still got his wife under house arrest?’ Ed moved off. ‘Or does he trust her again?’

  According to the in-house rumour-mill, Wright had discovered his wife had been having an affair.

  Sam’s grin was so wide the corners of her mouth almost met at the back of her neck. ‘Still under house arrest according to Bev.’

  ‘It’ll be killing him,’ Ed said. ‘Was she shagging in their house?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  Ed imagined Wright fitting covert cameras around his home, remote monitoring on his laptop and checking his wife’s mobile every chance he could get.

  ‘Most intelligence gathering he’ll have ever done,’ he told Sam, who sniggered like a schoolgirl. ‘Not that ‘intelligence’ and ‘Never’ belong in the same sentence.’

  Ed indicated and turned left into the car park.

  Paul Adams was huddled under a black Ping golf umbrella with Bev Summers, the hood of her Berghaus pulled over her head, cigarette poised.

  ‘Standing in the rain just for a tab,’ Ed said, shaking his head as he drew alongside.

  ‘How did you get on with the call to Elgin’s office?’ Sam asked, getting out of the car and popping the button of a retracting brolly she had grabbed from the
back seat.

  The bright red canopy barely covered her head.

  ‘And they say size doesn’t matter,’ Ed said, wiping rain off his shaved scalp.

  Sam stuck her tongue out at him.

  Bev blew smoke, said a check had confirmed Elgin’s account of the call.

  ‘Made from a phone box on the outskirts of town,’ Bev said. ‘No cameras for miles. Julie Trescothick’s arranged to get it fingerprinted, but, her words not mine, don’t hold your breath.’

  ‘Okay,’ Sam mentally ruled out usable prints. ‘Anything from the house-to-house around Hans’ place?’

  She took the pack of Marlboro from her pocket, balanced the tiny umbrella under her chin, and sparked-up the cigarette.

  Bev shook her head, rain filling the creases in her waterproof like miniature rock pools.

  Sam turned to Paul: ‘Does everybody know the score about the CCTV and the snatch on Julius?’

  ‘Nobody will say a word,’ Paul told her.

  Satisfied, Sam smoked for a moment in the silence, the only sound the rat-a-tat of rain on the umbrellas.

  ‘Me and Ed are going to the football pitches to see if the CCTV picked up Julius and this so-called friend,’ she said at last. ‘You two check how we’re doing with the number plates on the Transit, see if there are any more sightings on CCTV.’

  Harry tapped the stop/start button on the Jaguar XF, still marvelling at how the automatic gear knob dropped elegantly into the centre console.

  The caravan had raised decking, patio chairs and a table pulled close to the double white UVPC doors, the Northumberland coast less than a hundred metres away.

  Harry got out of the car and inhaled the fresh sea air.

  Seahouses was a place he’d visited often…a walk along the sandy beach, his favourite fish and chips in a polystyrene box, mushy peas, salt, and so much vinegar it made his eyes water.

  Head down he walked towards the door. Had it been daylight he would have seen beautiful Bamburgh Castle and Holy Island. Now all he saw was Mat’s Porsche.

  He looked at the number plate, the last three letters GBH, the same letters as his father’s BMW.

  Prick.

  Mat opened the door. Harry climbed the steps and walked into the caravan, Dean following.

  ‘Sorry about last night,’ Mat said, as Harry and Dean sat down on the sofa.

  The caravan smelt like a whisky vat.

  ‘You haven’t called us all the way up here to apologise,’ Harry told him straight out. ‘So cut the crap and say what you have to say.’

  ‘Drink?’ Mat asked, sitting in the armchair opposite, reaching for the bottle of Scotch on the glass-topped coffee table, hand shaking like a wedding groom about to make his reception speech. ‘Driving,’ Harry said, settling into the settee, ‘and he’s my insurance in case other people turn up, so he doesn’t want a drink either.’

  He nodded at Dean.

  Mat threw his head back and drained the newly poured shot in one.

  Harry took in the puffy eyes, the reddened cheeks. The hair-trigger aggression that normally surrounded Mat Skinner had gone, exposing him for what Harry thought he really was…all piss and wind surrounded now not by his father’s reputation but scatter cushions, tie back curtains, and two bronze Greek God table lamps with red shades.

  ‘I haven’t asked you here to fight,’ Mat said. ‘I know you were skimming…’

  Dean bolted upright, a sprinter a fraction ahead of the starting gun. ‘You cheeky twat!’

  Harry put his outstretched arm in front of him, said settle down, said let’s listen to the man.

  ‘Geoff’s dead,’ Mat said, voice flat, empty.

  Harry and Dean exchanged ‘what the…’ glances as Mat Skinner’s body suddenly shuddered.

  ‘Beaten half-to-death on the say-so of my father then thrown off a boat to finish him. Why? All because of what happened at your pub.’

  Harry stared at Mat, in no rush to speak. When he did, he spoke slowly and picked his words. ‘Whatever’s happened to Geoff Mekins, it’s not down to us.’

  Mat reached for the scotch and poured himself a shot that would have put an elephant on its back.

  ‘I know that and that’s not the reason you’re here,’ he said. ‘I’ll never forgive my dad for Geoff. Mark and Luke went along with it, didn’t fight my corner. They’re nearly as bad.’

  He drank long and slow.

  Harry crossed his outstretched legs, watched but said nothing. He had no idea where this was going and although he didn’t feel under threat, he knew better than to drop his guard.

  Mat drained the whisky, licked his lips, and said: ‘I’m looking for a partner.’

  He glanced at Dean then back at Harry.

  ‘Two partners I suppose. I’m taking over the Skinner empire.’

  There was a stunned three second pause before Harry burst out laughing.

  ‘You?’ He shook his head. ‘Taking over? How in the hell are you going to do that? Everybody knows the old man’s lined Luke up for that job.’

  Mat clenched his fist but that was the only movement.

  ‘Things change.’

  Harry leaned forward.

  ‘I will have that drink after all,’ he said. ‘Just a small one though, touch of water.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The manager of Shots and Saves had the squat muscular frame of a football full back; thirty something, sandy haired, and a former Premier League academy prospect who never made it beyond semi-pro.

  Sam was directly behind Charlie Grey as they walked along the narrow corridor and up the stairs. She glanced at his firm buttocks

  in the spray-on white shorts, her nose twitching at the smell of liniment seeping like invisible smoke from his tanned legs, a smell she’d loved ever since her father took her to watch the local pub team.

  His small office housed a desk, a black swivel chair, two green plastic guest chairs and a huge screen computer that looked as out of place as an abacus in a university mathematics faculty.

  Sam sat on one of the green chairs. Ed stood, fearing the flimsy looking plastic would collapse under his weight.

  ‘Julius and Hans hired three pitches every Friday night. Seemed sound blokes to me,’ Charlie said.

  Ed tried to hide his disdain. Firstly, the man was clearly no judge of character and secondly, nobody involved in football should wear green sweatshirts; they belonged to Brian Clough, his football management idol, and should have been retired with the legend.

  Sam looked at Charlie, a brief image of his chest with the green sweatshirt removed flashing through her head.

  ‘When people book pitches, what do they get?’ she asked him, her head back in investigative mode.

  ‘A seven-a-side all-weather pitch and a private dressing room with showers.’

  He looked directly into Sam’s eyes and smiled.

  Christ he knows what I’m thinking.

  ‘So, how many pitches do you have?’ she asked.

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘So twelve dressing rooms?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And the CCTV cameras cover everywhere?’

  ‘With the exception of the changing rooms,’ another smile, ‘for obvious reasons.’

  Grey had already been told in a phone call to get Friday night’s footage ready for the detectives.

  ‘It’s in another office,’ he said. ‘If you just wait here please.’

  Ed waited until he’d left. ‘Do you want to make it any more obvious?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What?’ Ed said. ‘Put your bloody tongue back in.’

  ‘You jealous?’ Sam teased him.

  Ed blushed, kicking himself he had made anything of it.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to see you get hurt that’s all.’

  ‘Why?’ Sam gave Ed a look. ‘Sometimes a girl has to fall down and pick herself up.’

  You could pick me up when I fall…

  The door opene
d before Ed could speak.

  ‘All sorted,’ Charlie said.

  ‘How many cameras do you have?’ Ed asked more sharply than he meant, following Grey out of the office to make sure Sam wasn’t directly behind him.

  He is jealous!

  ‘Two on this corridor, one at each end.’ Grey pointed them out, each positioned above the door.

  ‘So the corridor’s covered.’

  ‘Yeah, there’s a camera in the bar upstairs and that’s it.’

  Grey led them into a windowless space, more a cupboard than a room, too small even for chairs. He bent down towards the video machine, pressed play, and a small TV monitor flickered into life.

  Julius and the unknown man could be seen walking into the building. Julius was easily identified. The other man, head bowed and a baseball cap pulled down across his eyes, was not.

  ‘Any more?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Yeah, you see them leaving.’

  He fast-forwarded the tape but the result was the same - the mystery man kept his face hidden.

  ‘Did anyone speak to them?’ Sam asked, not looking away from the screen.

  ‘I did,’ Grey said. ‘They weren’t here long. Went onto the balcony I think, then left.’

  ‘What did you say to them?’ Sam pressed.

  ‘Just, ‘alright Julius’. His mate didn’t speak.’

  ‘What did he look like, his friend?’ Sam asked him.

  Grey squeezed his eyes closed and rubbed his nose.

  ‘I never took much notice of him,’ he said. ‘Taller than Julius, medium build.’

  He shrugged his shoulders and gave another smile.

  Ed stared at him until the smile disappeared.

  ‘Did the camera in the bar pick them up when they went onto the balcony?’ Ed said, the sharpness this time absolutely intended.

  Grey told them the camera had been broken for a couple of weeks, that they hadn’t got round to a repair.

  ‘Can we take the tape?’ Sam asked.

  Grey’s hesitation belonged to a man who didn’t know the answer, didn’t know whether he had the authority to say yes or no.