Angels and Apostles

by Tony Hutchinson

  She fiddled with her wedding ring, muttering frustrations under her breath. Had she had more time to spare she might have savoured the smell of new leather as her Range Rover Sport idled behind the BMW, the first vehicle in the queue.

  She glanced across at her daughter singing along to something playing through the headphones attached to her iPhone.

  Always the bloody same. Never a workman in sight.

  She looked at the BMW’s number plate - 189 GBH - and shook her head. Years ago she dated a lad called Gary Henderson. He was the type of dick who’d have loved a plate like that.

  A blur of movement to her left broke her wander down memory lane.

  She jumped in her seat as two figures dressed in dark boiler suits and ski masks ran out of the hedge. They raced to the BMW, one smashing the front passenger window with a sledgehammer and yelling at the driver, the other swinging a similar hammer at the front of the car, the blows so hard the airbags exploded.

  Helen hit the remote locking button, frantically searching her handbag for her phone, Maisy rigid, wide-eyed, and screaming beside her.

  In the BMW, the driver had dived towards the glove-box but the hooded figure at the passenger window repeatedly punched him in the head…five, maybe six bone crunching blows, Helen couldn’t keep count.

  She watched the driver scramble backwards out of his seat.

  By the driver’s door, the second attacker spun him around, grabbed his collar and head-butted him with such force his nose exploded. A flurry of lightning fast blows with a cosh the figure was now carrying sent blood spraying in all directions.

  Helen Larney had seen enough. Gasping, she put the Range Rover in reverse and gunned the accelerator but she hadn’t been quick enough.

  She saw a white Ford Transit van tearing towards her, tyres squealing as it skidded to a halt, its back doors alongside her window.

  The two attackers were dragging the limp BMW driver by his arms towards the van as another masked figure jumped from behind the wheel, flung open the back doors, and held them as the victim was thrown inside. Within seconds all three masked men were back in the Transit and the van was roaring away, the back doors swinging wildly as Helen watched in her offside wing mirror.

  The whole attack had lasted less than two minutes.

  Wide-mouthed, stunned, and shaking, Helen Larney dialed 999. The driver of the BMW, who looked like he could fit in the pockets of his attackers, had never stood a chance.

  Chapter Thirty

  Bev Summers and Paul Adams rang the bell on the stone pillar, spoke to a woman on the intercom, and walked through the electronic gates as soon as they started opening. They smiled at the fountain and the mermaid as they approached the front door. Marge Skinner was waiting.

  ‘What’s happened? Has he been in an accident? They wouldn’t tell me anything on the phone, just that I had to wait for you.’

  ‘Can we come in?’ Bev asked.

  ‘Yes but tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘Let’s go and sit down,’ Bev said.

  They followed Marge into a large split-level room with a pool table on the upper level. Luke and Mark were leaning against it; both dressed in cream chinos, Luke wearing a white v-neck t-shirt, Mark with a pastel coloured cashmere jumper draped across his shoulders.

  Marge put a cigarette between her trembling lips and had to spark the lighter three times before her shaking hand got close enough to connect. ‘Please.’

  Bev and Paul, like everyone else in the silent room, remained standing.

  ‘About thirty minutes ago a man driving your husband’s car was attacked and abducted,’ Bev said.

  Marge’s hand shot to her mouth and she dropped onto the sofa. Luke and Mark jumped to attention, Mark demanding ‘where!’ just as Marge was crying ‘who by?’

  Now Luke stood relaxed against the pool table, legs outstretched, hands inside his pockets, annoyed that he had shown emotion by snapping into a rigid stance.

  ‘Mother, Mark,’ his tone controlled. ‘Let the detectives continue. Officers…’

  Bev sat next to Marge.

  ‘Were you expecting your husband to be driving his car this afternoon?’

  Marge nodded.

  ‘Do you know where he was going?’

  ‘No.’

  Paul was watching for any reaction from the sons. Their initial shock suggested they had no idea about the abduction.

  ‘There were flowers on the front passenger seat.’

  ‘Bastard!’ Marge shouted.

  ‘Mother,’ Luke said quietly. ‘Where he was going is irrelevant.’

  ‘Actually we think it is,’ Bev said. ‘This wasn’t a spur of the moment attack.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Marge asked, dabbing her eyes with a tissue she had taken from the sleeve of her blouse.

  ‘Whoever it was driving your husband’s car...’

  ‘It was dad.’ Luke hadn’t moved and his voice still had no trace of emotion. ‘They’ll find out anyway, so we may as well tell them.’

  Marge nodded.

  ‘Years ago dad had an affair,’ Luke said. ‘The woman died whilst they were still involved. It’s the anniversary of her death today. He never misses, hasn’t since…’

  ‘Alright Luke,’ Marge stopped him. ‘They don’t need to know the ins and outs about that cow.’

  ‘How long has she been dead?’ Bev asked, looking at Luke.

  ‘Twelve years,’ Luke thinking how fast that time had gone by. ‘He goes every year. Puts flowers on her grave at the exact time she died. Just before ten past three.’

  ‘Is that well known?’

  ‘I bloody hope not,’ Marge said, stubbing out the cigarette in the onyx ashtray. ‘I’m feeling a big enough fool sticking by him without the world and his wife knowing about it.’

  ‘Luke?’ Bev asked.

  ‘It wasn’t a secret and I see where you’re going,’ he told her. ‘Would people know where and when to ambush him? Yes I suppose they would. You know as well as I do, nothing’s secret in this world. So what happened?’

  Bev stood. It was bad enough the sons were on the raised area without her adding to their height advantage.

  ‘He stopped at traffic lights, temporary lights, and that was where he was attacked,’ she said. ‘He was driven away in a Ford Transit.’

  Luke plucked a fleck of lint from his chinos and glanced at his brother.

  ‘It wasn’t just good luck that the lights were there I take it?’ Luke said.

  Bev understood why all the police intelligence had Luke taking over once Billy Skinner stepped down…not only could he keep whatever emotions he was feeling in check, he was tack sharp.

  ‘The lights hadn’t been put there by any agencies,’ Bev confirmed. ‘We believe they were put there by his abductors.’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ Mark said.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Luke stared at his brother then turned back to Bev. ‘I presume by asking who was driving you haven’t found anybody yet.’

  Bev nodded. ‘Where’s your other brother?’

  ‘Why?’ Luke asked.

  ‘Well you’re both here and I know you don’t live at home.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ Luke interrupted. ‘Your sources are not as good as you think. Let’s hope they’re good enough to find my father.’

  ‘So where is Mat?’ Bev pressed.

  ‘God knows.’ Luke told her. ‘He’s a big boy and I’m not his keeper.’

  Marge was fumbling for another cigarette, hands still shaking.

  ‘I haven’t seen him and Geoff for…’

  ‘Mother!’ This time Luke’s voice was pulled tight, anger barely under the surface. ‘The detectives aren’t interested in Mat, they’re here about dad.’

  Bev moved on but she knew something was wrong.

  ‘Can you think of anybody who would want to kidnap your father?’

  ‘Are you fucking serious?’ Mark shouted.

  Bev watched Luke’s right leg tap his brother’
s shin.

  Only one person doing the talking…

  ‘I don’t know if we can help you officer,’ Luke again. ‘Any businessman makes enemies. My father was no different. Half the time you have no idea who those enemies are.’

  Bev upped the ante but not the level of her voice.

  ‘Most businessmen don’t tend to make the type of enemies who plan an ambush, smash the windows of your car and beat you senseless before dragging you…’

  Marge yelped like a tiny puppy accidentally trodden on.

  ‘…before dragging you into the back of a waiting van.’

  Bev let the statement hang in the air.

  ‘You might want to give my question some serious consideration. It might be the only way you see your father again.’

  When he came around Billy Skinner was lying face up on a metal workbench. Panic and adrenalin kicked in. He pushed his back against the cold surface, bucked upwards but couldn’t move.

  Freezing…

  The coldness confirmed his nakedness. Cable ties dug into his ankles and wrists, the nylon ropes around his legs, torso and neck were tight but not life threatening. Through puffy eyes he could just about make out the corrugated ceiling twenty feet above.

  ‘Fuckers!’ he shouted. ‘Cocksuckers!’

  His head was pounding in the silence.

  Skinner sensed more than heard movement behind, straining again against the bindings.

  A man’s voice, gentle as a therapist but without the

  empathy.

  ‘Good afternoon Mr. Skinner.’

  Skinner shouted again: ‘I have no idea who you bunch of cocksuckers are but you better untie me before your worst fucking nightmares come true.’

  ‘You’re going nowhere William,’ monotone man said calmly.

  Skinner pushed his back hard into the workbench but it was useless. His throat felt like it had been peeled and he could taste blood. His words were quieter this time.

  ‘What do you want? Money?’

  A small laugh; a polite stage cough.

  ‘You haven’t got enough money to get yourself out of this situation William.’

  The quiet voice was driving Skinner mad. He went back to shouting.

  ‘Be a fucking man,’ he yelled. ‘Show yourself you bottleless wanker and stop calling me William.’

  ‘Calm down, William,’ another laugh, more natural this time. ‘You’ll give yourself a heart attack.’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  ‘Nobody can hear you, that’s why we didn’t tape your arrogant mouth,’ the voice getting closer. ‘Besides we’ve got some of your product for you to try so we’ll be needing your nose and mouth.’

  Skinner thrashed against the table, foam at his mouth, white saliva running down his chin. His body, stiff with aggression, was still tied fast. Breathless he continued his tirade.

  ‘My lot…my lot will come after you…come with everything they’ve got.’

  The quiet, invisible voice seemed amused.

  ‘Really William? I’m shitting it. Your lot couldn’t win an arse kicking contest against a group of one-legged men.’

  A quicker movement now and monotone man appeared at Skinner’s side.

  Billy Skinner had never been easily shocked but now he gasped, eyes as wide as the swelling allowed.

  ‘You?’ he said, in disbelief. ‘Are you fucking insane? Do you expect me to talk?’

  Monotone man shook his head and smiled, recalling how Skinner loved James Bond, remembering the words of Auric Goldfinger.

  ‘No Mr. Skinner, I expect you to die.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ‘Jesus how many is Elgin shagging?’ Ed said, overtaking another lorry.

  Sam reached for the bag of toffees, unwrapped one for Ed, and then popped one in her mouth.

  She had decided to see Elgin the next day, tackle him about Jeremy Scott and Linda Pritchard.

  ‘He might say nothing but at least he’ll know we know,’ Sam said. ‘He’s not short of motives for all three murders.’

  They knew already two of the dead had abused Elgin’s grandson, the other his lover’s son. Now it looked as though Elgin himself had been a victim.

  ‘Why wait so long though?’ Ed said. ‘It was years ago.’

  Sam was unwrapping two more toffees.

  ‘Who knows?’ she passed one to Ed. ‘Maybe hearing about boys close to him being abused tipped the balance, maybe he didn’t have the connections before, maybe…and this is a possibility…maybe he didn’t know Jeremy Scott was in Seaton, maybe he just found out.’

  That’s an awful lot of ‘maybes’, Samantha

  Ed chewed on the toffee, recalling something Scott’s neighbor Debs Lescott had told him, how Scott was a serial complainer, forever on to the council or the local press.

  ‘Remember that big hoo-ha a while back about a planning application to open a pub on the Avenue,’ Ed said now. ‘It didn’t get the nod but it did go before the planning committee Elgin sits on and I’m sure I read in the Seaton Post the meeting was packed.’

  Sam gave it some thought.

  ‘Could be something as daft as Elgin finds himself in the same room as Scott and recognizes him,’ Sam said.

  Add a ‘could be’ to the ‘maybes’ whilst we’re at it…

  Her phone rang and she took it from the centre console, Bev Summers again. Sam leaned back into the headrest and listened then sat upright when it was her turn to speak, her words a stream of orders not conversation.

  ‘Fast Track Actions,’ she told Bev. ‘Witness statements, especially from this Helen Larney. Leave the daughter for now. Check the field where she saw orange smoke. CCTV on the roads back into town, see if we can pick up the Transit.’

  Ed glanced at Sam, eyebrows raised at the mention of a Ford Transit van.

  ‘Identify the traffic lights,’ Sam went on. ‘See if they were the ones stolen the other day. Who’s the Senior SOCO at the scene? Good. Get Julie to liaise with Firearms and make the gun safe. Anything else give me a call. Update me in an hour. Cheers.’

  Sam disconnected.

  ‘Billy Skinner’s been abducted.’

  ‘Fucking hell!’ Ed so surprised he let the car drift, the boom-boom-boom of the wheels over the hard shoulder cat’s eyes putting his attention back on the road.

  Sam gave him the details, told him there had been a gun in the BMW glove box but Skinner hadn’t had a chance to use it, that Skinner had been on his way to the cemetery when he was taken.

  ‘What’s the date?’ Ed had seemed lost in thought.

  ‘14th,’ Sam told him.

  Ed glanced at Sam and nodded towards the toffee bag between her feet.

  ‘I know why he was going to the cemetery,’ he told her. ‘It’s the anniversary of Irene’s death. He goes every year.’

  ‘Irene?’ Sam said, wondering how many more characters, dead or alive, would end up in play.

  ‘His mistress years back,’ Ed told her. ‘The love of his life some reckon. It’s no secret he takes flowers to the cemetery for her every year.’

  Sam shook her head. How do you know all this stuff?

  ‘So he’s on his way there,’ she said. ‘Stops at some temporary traffic lights…’

  ‘The ones that were stolen?’ Ed nipped in.

  ‘Probably,’ Sam remembered the toffees, reached down for the bag. ‘Fancy a quick cup of coffee?’

  Two minutes later Ed was pulling into the service station car park, plenty of spaces even near the entrance to the shops and cafes.

  ‘Who’s got the balls to take on Billy Skinner,’ Ed wondered aloud, switching off the engine.

  ‘Time will tell,’ Sam told him. ‘And Bev’s got it into her head that Mat Skinner’s missing as well.’

  Two men appeared either side of Billy Skinner, each with a half brick of cocaine in plastic bags, Skinner shouting ‘wait!’ as they ripped them open.

  An avalanche of white powder descended on his face while fingers gripped his nose. Sk
inner had two options…hold his breath or swallow the snow. The result would be the same either way.

  Marge Skinner was standing in the kitchen, a half-finished gin and tonic in one hand, cigarette in the other.

  ‘I’m really worried about our Mat,’ she gulped at the drink. ‘I can’t get hold of Geoff either. Both their mobiles go straight to answer phone.’

  Luke and Mark stared at their mother and said nothing.

  Marge began to wail as loudly as a lifetime of smoking would allow. ‘What if they’ve got Mat as well?’

  A coughing fit whose raspy origins lay somewhere in the bottom of her lungs sent her rushing to the sink, Luke and Mark looking away as she spat into the plughole.

  Flushed and still wheezing, Marge returned to her drink, picked up the bottle of Hendricks, and filled her glass to the brim.

  Fuck the tonic.

  She took a huge gulp. ‘Who’s behind this Luke?’

  ‘No idea,’ Luke shook his head. Best not to tell his mother he thought it was Mat.

  But who was helping him? Mat knew his father would be going to the cemetery, but stealing traffic lights? Making sure their father’s BMW was first in the queue? That was way beyond Mat’s planning capabilities. Wasn’t it?

  ‘I used to tell him that cow would be the death of him.’ Marge lit another cigarette. ‘But who’d go after your dad in broad daylight. And why wasn’t Stuart McFadden with him?’

  ‘Leave Stuart to me,’ Luke said, a plan already forming in his head.

  ‘We might get a phone call,’ Mark got their attention.

  Marge’s eyes, wide as flying saucer sherbet sweets, blazed at her middle son.

  ’Why would we?’ She loved all her boys equally but Mark wasn’t the sharpest, she knew that. ‘Nobody’s in the kidnap and ransom game. Did your father ever ask for a ransom? This is about taking us on. Us!’

  She hit the sink with the palm of her hand.

  ‘Who the fuck do they think they are?’ she shouted before gulping the gin, willing herself to calm down, the booze helping. ‘Your father played this game for years. Now someone’s doing it to us. But who?’

  Luke took a thick blue glass from a tall cupboard, walked to the sink, and used the cold water tap.