‘We need to protect our assets,’ he said as the glass filled. ‘If mum’s right this is only the start. Whoever’s behind it knows we’ll come after them so they’ll be ready. I’ll increase all of the security at our clubs and I’ll have two lads in here.’
Marge eyed the remaining two fingers of gin in her glass and the Hendricks bottle close by.
‘I don’t want anybody here,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been involved in your father’s business.’
She lit another cigarette.
‘You’re involved because you’re his wife,’ Luke said, all patience gone. ‘Let’s just do it for a couple of days and see what happens.’
Mark’s mind was on Stuart McFadden, hating him more than normal, the smart arse forever in their home, eating their food.
‘If McFadden’s involved I want him sorting Luke,’ Mark said. ‘Sorting slowly.’
Luke was watching his mother, concern struggling to break through his emotional dead space.
His mother wanted Stuart dead. She’d thank him for sorting that.
But she was already so worried about Mat she was vulnerable. If Mat got to her first, she’d believe anything and everything he told her.
It was a very big if…
Harry Pullman wiped his hands on a grubby bar-towel and pulled a pint for the man on the stool.
‘Quiet today,’ the customer said. ‘Seen more life in a tramp’s vest.’
Lone drinkers were scattered around the place, some reading tabloids, others staring into their pint glasses, nobody saying a word.
An old man with long fingernails the colour of coal was engrossed in a paperback that looked like it had spent a long, battered life being read down a mine.
Harry sometimes felt like a librarian with an on-licence.
‘Definite touch of the Moon Bar about it,’ the customer was saying now.
He responded to Harry’s quizzical look. ‘No atmosphere.’
Dean Silvers burst through the door. Some jumped at the interruption; everybody looked at the cause of it.
Dean, head wet with rain, was as excited as a toddler in a ball-pool and just as breathless.
‘He’s only gone and done him,’ he shouted.
‘Who?’ Harry said, ‘and keep your voice down. Done what?’
The drinkers went back to their pints, newspapers and books. No one needed reminding who owned this pub. They knew better than to get involved.
Dean hurried behind the bar, his voice quiet but still fast with adrenaline.
‘Billy Skinner. He’s only gone and done him.’
‘What are you on about?’ Harry said.
‘The filth’s everywhere…’
‘Watch your mouth boy,’ the man on the stool cut in.
Silvers turned, his face reddening quicker than a gas fire.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘No offence Mr. Reynolds.’
Ray Reynolds took a mouthful of beer and wiped his mouth. ‘Apology accepted. Now continue. Sounds interesting.’
Dean looked at his uncle. Harry nodded.
‘The car’s near the cemetery, Billy’s BMW,’ Dean told them. ‘Right next to some traffic lights that weren’t there when I went past earlier. Cops everywhere…armed cops, cops in those white suits. The doors of the car are open, the passenger window’s broken, and the airbags have gone off.’
‘You seem to know a lot,’ Ray said.
Silvers tapped his head: ‘Photographic memory.’
‘Surprised the police let you get close enough to take a photograph,’ Reynolds grunted.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Silvers bridling, ex cop or not.
‘Nothing. Continue.’
‘That’s it,’ Silvers said. ‘They’ve obviously done Billy.’
‘Who has?’ Reynolds said.
‘Somebody,’ Silvers suddenly wary, reluctant.
Reynolds still had his pint in his hand but now he put it back on the bar without taking a drink.
‘When you came in you said ‘he’s only gone and done him’ not ‘somebody’. So who’s the he?’
‘Come on Ray,’ Harry said, sensing the danger. ‘You’re retired.’
Reynolds kept his eyes on Dean.
‘Just professional curiosity, Harry. We tried for years to nail that bastard. So who exactly is this he?’
Dean Silvers looked like a man who had already said too much.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sam was driving now, the wheels running down the miles on the A1, the home stretch.
Ed’s lungs felt like he’d inhaled every drag of Sam’s cigarettes and his clothes stunk of tobacco, but she could blow smoke over him all day if he could just get his 6’5” body out of the car. His backside was numb and his legs were as rigid as speed camera poles.
‘So run past me again what Bev said in the last service station,’ Ed said.
He’d missed the phone call, racing to the loo then telling Sam the tuna sandwich had gone through him ‘like a Porsche.’
Sam hadn’t laughed. Sometimes, Ed knew, he just got things wrong.
Now she repeated Bev’s update, the traffic lights had been identified as the ones stolen from the Highways Depot.
‘Got to admire the planning,’ Ed said.
Sam reached forward and closed her air vent.
‘No sign of the van on CCTV,’ she said. ‘A spent marine distress flare was found in a field. Looks like that was used as the signal to activate the lights.’
‘How easy are they to get hold of?’ Ed wouldn’t have known where to start.
‘Any chandler will sell them.’
‘Any what?’ Ed looked at Sam as if she had switched to Swahili.
She sighed, explained it was a shop that sold things for boats.
‘You can buy them off the internet as well,’ she went. ‘Before you ask they have a shelf life of about four years and orange smoke is the daylight flare.’
A Black Rat zoomed past, blue lights flashing, the Roads Policing Unit driver, hands positioned on the wheel in the classic ten to two, concentrating on the road ahead.
‘Another one late for the card game,’ Ed deadpanned.
Sam watched the rear end of the BMW opening up an ever increasing gap.
‘We might be able to trace whoever sold the flare but it’s probably a long shot and certainly there are no prints on it. Julie reckons it’s been wiped clean.’
Ed wiggled his toes, a futile effort to ease the stiffness in his legs. ‘If you go to the extent of stealing traffic lights you’re not going to be daft enough to leave prints.’
‘Exactly,’ Sam agreed. ‘So who do you think is behind this?’
Ed unwrapped two toffees, passed one to Sam, and slipped the other into his mouth.
‘If you’re asking do I think any of the local crews would take Billy Skinner on, no chance, not without outside help,’ Ed said. ‘But if Skinner’s upset someone from Newcastle, Leeds, wherever, anything’s possible.’
Ed stopped and shook his head, nostrils twitching and throat tightening despite the toffee he was still working on.
Only Sam Parker could suck on a sweet and a cigarette at the same time.
‘But why would he do that?’ Ed got back to Skinner. ‘He’s never done it before, he’s not exactly struggling, and if he wanted to expand he’d have done it when he was younger.’
Ed couldn’t put it together, the pieces not matching the picture.
‘What about his sons?’ Sam said, blowing out more smoke. ‘Maybe one of them has rubbed up the wrong people.’
Ed knew The Apostles brought different talents to the party, although plodder Mark’s was hazy at best, absolute loyalty Ed’s best guess. Luke was ruthless, Ed had no doubt, but calm and smart when it mattered, more difficult to read. Mat was the open book, the hothead who did first, thought later. If someone had lit a fire for the Skinners, Mat would be odds on the one with the matches.
Ed shook his head.
‘It just doesn’t make
sense, unless…’
He stopped, closed his eyes, and let the new thought take shape in the silence before it vanished as quickly as it had arrived. ‘Unless what?’ Sam brought him back.
‘Unless it’s somebody in their own group.’
Sam’s expression told him she would need convincing.
‘It would have been inconceivable ten years ago, even five years ago, that somebody would take Billy Skinner on, someone local at least,’ Ed working through it as he spoke. ‘But he’s getting older and as you so often like to remind me, nothing stops for progress. If the enemy’s from within, someone close, even the sons, they’ll have been hiding in plain sight.’
Sam was still struggling to picture Billy Skinner letting it happen, dropping the guard that had kept him where he was for so long.
‘Why are you so surprised?’ Ed watching her. ‘Remember Aisha?’
Ed instinctively stroked the scar on his neck, the memory of the knife attack that almost killed him running like an ice river down his spine. ‘Just because it’s family doesn’t mean it can be ruled out.’
They drove without speaking, tiredness and the noise of the tyres on the road lulling them both.
They reached Ferrybridge, the end finally in sight and the carriageway now three lanes, the outside closed to the HGVs.
Sam waited for Ed to make some comment but he stayed silent as she accelerated, powered down her window, and flicked her latest cigarette away.
‘We’ve had no intelligence about a potential gang war have we?’ Sam said, glancing Ed’s way again.
‘No,’ the reply slow, the voice dry. ‘And thanks, I was asleep there.’
Sam said oops, sorry and, well, what did he think; why was the grapevine so quiet?
‘If it was to settle a score or even a proper outside takeover you’d expect to get a whisper at least,’ Ed stretched the best he could in the confines of his seat. ‘But if it’s all inside Skinner’s own set up…’
They both knew an inside job was fraught with danger for the one looking to take the head of their own snake. The element of surprise was inevitably their trump card; that relied on lips staying sealed.
‘So if it’s the sons…and this just stays between us two…are we thinking all of them?’ Sam kept their kite flying. ‘Luke stepping out of his dad’s shadow or Mat taking him on?’
Ed was only sure Mark could be ruled out for any solo coup.
‘He can probably find his mouth with his fork if the light’s on but you wouldn’t send him to the corner shop with a note.’
Sam smiled. ‘Not leadership material then?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Ed kept his face straight. ‘He would probably fit nicely in our wonderful corridors of power. They could all go to the corner shop together. Make sure they made it back safe.’
Mathew Skinner was an altogether different beast, moved by impulses he seemed unable or unwilling to control, the wild man charging around in his own red mist.
‘Feels he should be the one to step up when Skinner retires,’ Ed said. ‘But the craic has Billy handing over to Luke come the day.’
But could Mat plot a successful take over; plan something like the traffic lights grab from the compound and a precision job like the ambush?
Ed couldn’t see it: ‘If Mat’s involved he’s getting help.’
A team effort by all three brothers was something neither Sam nor Ed were happy to rule out.
John Elgin pushed open his black metal garden gate and walked past his postage stamp sized Astroturf lawn; they’d lived in this house, a council house, for thirty-odd years.
He preferred to live amongst those he represented, show he hadn’t forgotten his roots unlike some pompous clowns on the council.
His socialist principles notwithstanding, he bought the house under the Right to Buy Scheme, using some of the discount to have a new kitchen fitted. Was that really twenty years ago?
At least Tara made him feel young again, if only for a few hours, and he felt a warm glow even now just thinking about her.
After pulling himself round in Scaramangers he’d taken a long walk by the sea, a chance to clear his head and prepare to face the music.
His own personal she-devil had been in bed when he got home last night, snoring like a bull elephant with bronchitis, the room reeking of booze and body odour. He couldn’t sleep in the same bed. Not that he wanted to, especially after Tara.
He’d gone to the spare room and was already up and out before his wife woke, or more accurately to Elgin, came round.
Now his warm glow thawed faster than an ice cream in a microwave as he crossed the threshold.
Her voice, loud enough to wake the dead, boomed from the sitting room like biblical thunder.
‘Where’ve you been you arsehole and what fucking time did you get in last night?’
He heard her grunt and wheeze, pictured her heaving herself up on bingo wing arms, his sympathies with the long suffering settee.
Her bulk filled the door.
‘Come on then,’ the walls shaking, cider fumes almost visible around her like an aura. ‘Where the fuck have you been? Another one of your little slappers?’
Elgin muttered ‘out’ and backed towards the front door.
She charged at him, deceptively quick over the short length of the hallway.
‘What do they call this one?’ shouting on the move, the distance closing.
He grabbed her podgy wrist as she threw a windmill right hander, the motion half turning him round.
‘Another one of your slappers?’
She was swinging her wrist from side to side trying to break free, saliva flying from her wet lips.
‘What time did you get in?’ she screamed.
Elgin pushed her away, wiped something moist from his cheek, and said ‘fuck this’ before he turned and walked out.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Most of the lights in Police HQ were out but they were burning in the HOLMES room.
Ed got out of the car, bent over and rubbed his thighs. His knees were aching, the side of his neck on fire.
‘You alright you old crock?’ Sam said. ‘I keep telling you to take it easy.’
Sam flicked open a packet, lit a Marlboro, and leaned against the bonnet. ‘Wonder how they’re getting on with Skinner?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Ed said, now standing straight, raising his right knee to his chest.
‘Camping in that van of yours looks well and truly over,’ Sam watched him stretching. ‘You better think about cashing it in.’
Ed looked hurt.
‘Sell Doris? Be like selling a child.’
Selling the wife… now there’s a thought.
Bev walked towards them, head down as she lit a cigarette.
‘No sign of Skinner,’ she told them. ‘Media are all over it, as you’d expect. Never seen so many out on a Sunday. So much for you seeing me tomorrow.’
‘He’s dead,’ Ed raised his left knee to his chest and winced. ‘It’s just a case of waiting until his body turns up.’
Bev looked at Sam. ‘Who’s rattled Mr. Aerobics’ cage?’
Sam smiled. ‘He’s done nothing but whinge for the last hour about how stiff he is.’
‘A bit stiff are we Ed?’ Bev said with a smile. ‘Need a hand with anything?’
‘I’ll let you know,’ he said. ‘Nice to see the PC Brigade haven’t infiltrated the entire police force…yet.’
‘Service,’ Sam corrected him.
‘Yeah right.’
Sam inhaled the cigarette.
‘Not much we can do tonight,’ she said. ‘Skinner could be anywhere. Any sign of Mat?’
‘No,’ Bev said, flicking ash onto the car park.
Ed planted his heels on the ground and started rocking back and forth on them. ‘Could be with his father.’
‘What the two of them snatched?’ Bev said.
‘Or Mat’s the one who snatched Billy,’ Ed said, still rocking.
‘Look we’ll regroup tomorrow,’ Sam said now. ‘Get everybody away home Bev but keep the school thing to yourself. We’ll tell everybody in the morning.’
Bev turned and walked away, a teasing ‘night night stiffy’ to Ed over her shoulder.
He looked beat, Sam thought, and not just physically.
You should be coming home with me.
‘What sort of reception will you get?’ she asked him.
Ed shook his head and puffed out his cheeks, knowing nothing good would be waiting.
‘Probably a two-sandwich buffet,’ a weary grin at Sam’s puzzled expression. ‘Cold-shoulder and tongue. Just a question of which will be first.’
Shoulders slumped he turned and walked away.
‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Ed,’ Sam hesitated. ‘Fancy a drink?’
Ed stopped and turned around and thrust his hands in his pocket. ‘You know what, I do.’
At another house on another street he pressed the bell on the front door, hoping for a different reception.
Jill Brown wasn’t wearing her short skirt and heels but she didn’t try to punch him.
‘I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon,’ she smiled. ‘Trouble with you know who?’
She stepped aside.
‘The usual,’ Elgin walked into the kitchen. ‘The only time she’s not drinking is when she’s in a coma.’
Jill Brown felt for him but her sympathy was tempered. She had been telling him for years to leave, that people would understand, that he was the only one who could make it happen.
Easier said than done was Elgin’s usual response.
‘You got any beer in the fridge?’ he asked now.
She brought him a bottle of Flag Porter, a favourite from the small Darwin Brewery in Sunderland, worried it was too cold.
Elgin told her the beer would be just fine.
He took the small bottle with the galleon on the label and followed her into the sitting room, Jill muting the TV and sitting down.
Angels and Apostles Page 20