Angels and Apostles

by Tony Hutchinson

  Gas flames danced around the coal effect fire, the only light from the small table lamp and the curved TV.

  He sat next to her. ‘Anything good on?’

  ‘Nothing special, just channel hopping,’ Jill sounding uneasy. ‘Look I’m sorry about yesterday. It was just…it was the shock.’

  She picked up the half full glass of red wine that was on the carpet. ‘To think I took him there. No wonder he went off the rails.’

  Elgin took hold of her hand, told her to stop blaming herself, that Scott had all the blame on his back.

  His eyes glanced at the TV, the news, what looked like a car wreck.

  ‘Turn that up,’ he said.

  On the screen was a damaged BMW, windows out, airbags inflated.

  Elgin realised it must be a recording not live - it was still daylight.

  ‘What is it?’ Jill said.

  ‘Shhh’

  The voice of the reporter filled the room.

  ‘The police have made no statement as yet but we understand that as the car,’ the camera zoomed in on the BMW, ‘stopped at these lights,’ the traffic lights came on the screen, ‘masked men launched a violent attack and abducted the driver, making off in a Ford Transit van.’

  The item over, Elgin muted the TV and drank from the Porter like a man finding a standpipe in the Sahara.

  ‘What is it?’ Jill asked.

  ‘I think that was Billy Skinner’s car.’

  Elgin slouched into the settee and closed his eyes. Harry had been as cool as the proverbial cucumber this morning. Was this what he’d meant by ‘wheels in motion’, a mobile abduction? He took another pull on the Porter, eyes still shut.

  Out of the frying pan John, out of the frying pan.

  But as long as Harry kept his word and got the tape…

  ‘You alright,’ Jill’s voice jolted him. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  Elgin forced a smile: ‘I’m fine…just you don’t expect people getting kidnapped in broad daylight. Not in Seaton St George anyway.’

  Jill got up and headed for the kitchen, speaking over her shoulder on the way.

  ‘Play with fire you get burnt,’ she said. ‘And Billy Skinner’s played around fires all his life.’

  Elgin closed his eyes again and wondered where the flames were heading next.

  Stuart McFadden had seen the news bulletin, but unlike Elgin, he wasted no time sitting around. He took a coke from the mini-bar and drank it as he walked to reception.

  He was just another faceless guest but if he was on the in-house CCTV, he had a cover story…hotels and prostitutes not exactly an unknown mix.

  She had left immediately by the fire escape stairs, glad of the money but wondering if she had done something wrong.

  Timing was everything now, Stuart knew.

  Mat Skinner hadn’t been seen since Geoff Mekins was tied up and beaten.

  Luke would be holding it together, trying to work it all out, to find out where Mat was, what he was doing. Mark would be Nero, watching as their empire burned, and Marge, genuinely grieving, would be seeking solace from the bottle.

  No doubt Mekins was fish food now but Mat would be like a rabid dog. And everybody knew the best way to deal with that kind of animal.

  Stuart jumped into his car. Plenty were likely to think Mat was behind the snatch on Billy Skinner and now was the time to strike.

  Game on.

  He headed north out of Seaton St George. He knew exactly where he would find Mat. As Skinner’s most trusted employee, the man Billy paid to be his in-house gatherer of intelligence, there was very little he didn’t know.

  But that didn’t mean he shared everything.

  Some gold was best held in reserve; only reveal the nuggets when maximum impact was anticipated.

  It had been months ago when Geoff Mekins, crying because Mat had his eyes on a new cock, needed a listening ear. Stuart had built his life on being a listener.

  Mekins droned on for about half an hour, sobbing, shaking his head, declaring his love for Mat, even though Mat had spent the previous night chatting up some young blond guy.

  Stuart’s grandmother had always told him good things came to the ones who waited and now his wait had proved worthwhile.

  Mekins told him how hard he’d worked to make the caravan special, a place to escape. He’d even chosen the selection of paperbacks.

  It only needed Stuart to be sympathetic, nod in the right places, before Mekins disclosed the caravan’s location.

  Stuart found it in the early hours one morning when he suspected they were there, just to make sure of Mekins’ story. Mat’s car provided the confirmation.

  Now as he drove north up the A1 his thoughts weren’t consumed by how he would kill Mat. That was easy. One bullet, two tops. His mind was preoccupied with getting rid of the body after it was done.

  A sea disposal had long been the Skinner family’s preferred choice but Stuart didn’t have access to a boat, and while Mekins told him once they had an inflatable with an outboard motor for fishing trips, he didn’t fancy lugging the body into one of those unstable things.

  An empty mineshaft would have been ideal, but as far as he knew there were none left. All of the old mines had been landscaped, the headstock wheels born during the Industrial Revolution airbrushed off the horizon.

  What he couldn’t do was leave the body with a bullet in the head to be found by the police or the Skinners. After he’d killed Mat he would vanish, but only temporarily. He’d make some calls and prepare for a takeover. He knew he could count on Harry Pullman and his nephew Dean. The Skinners were on borrowed time and he had no intention of being caught on the wrong side of a gunfight.

  Parking on the outskirts of Seahouses he took a rucksack from the boot, and put on his walking boots and waterproofs. What was more natural than a hiker in Northumberland, rucksack and tent on his back?

  He didn’t know if there were any CCTV cameras, but keeping your head and face obscured wasn’t a problem.

  The handgun in his waistband was a risk but how many cops would be up here on a Sunday night?

  He made his way up the hill overlooking the site, lay down on the wet grass and took out the binoculars from his bag. They weren’t brilliant in the dark, but they were better than nothing.

  He scanned the site and found Mat’s silver Porsche parked away from the caravan. There were no lights on in the caravan, but there were no lights on in any of them. He didn’t even know if the site was open.

  He pressed the binoculars tight against his eyes.

  Well I’ll go to the foot of our stairs.

  He grinned. Maybe he didn’t need the gun. Maybe he didn’t need to dispose of the body.

  The caravans were in darkness, but Lady Luck was shining. He smiled, focused on the entrance gate and watched the two-staggers-forward-one-stagger-sideways progress of someone pissed-up.

  Mat Skinner, chest pointing at the ground, was weaving across the site like Bambi on ice. He swayed as he put one outstretched arm against the caravan door. Three times he tried to put the key in the lock, finally opening the door on the fourth attempt.

  Stuart McFadden knew from experience that Mat would be in a coma in ten minutes but it was best to wait. He figured two hours should mean everything was quiet. McFadden popped the headphones into one ear, climbed into his sleeping bag and put his phone on shuffle.

  Golden Slumber, the Elbow cover-version, filled his head.

  He smiled at the night sky.

  Mat Skinner’s slumber would be permanent.

  Monday 15th December

  Ed gripped the door handle as he swayed: drink, lack of food and lack of sleep, a dangerous combination.

  Outside the taxi driver tapped his horn.

  Sam moved unsteadily past him towards the front door.

  Ed grabbed her wrist, pulled her towards him. Their mouths locked on each other’s before their eyes reacted to what was going on.

  In the end McFadden gave it three
hours before he made his move, darting across the site head kept low, each stride taking him closer to the caravan. Standing outside he could hear deep snoring. He climbed the few steps onto the decking.

  McFadden took his rucksack off his back, fished inside and found what he was looking for, a small screwdriver and a yellow duster.

  He wrapped the duster around the blade - no point leaving striation marks for the forensic team - and forced open the patio doors.

  The police would never establish how long the doors had been damaged, even if they were still capable of being examined. Both owners would be dead and nobody else, to McFadden’s knowledge, knew the caravan even existed let alone made visits.

  He stepped inside, smiled at the snoring and turned on his head-torch. He saw scatter cushions, statues of Greek Gods with lampshades on the top of them. He crept towards the open plan kitchen and turned on every gas ring on the cooker.

  The snoring was rattling around the caravan.

  Dead to the world and you soon will be.

  He closed the patio doors behind him, not tight but tight enough, and walked away.

  Mat wouldn’t die of carbon monoxide poisoning, not with LPG gas, but he was a creature of habit, Stuart knew. As soon as he woke he would reach for his cigarettes like every other certified chain smoker and then…BOOM!

  Mat dead, problem solved.

  The police would establish the pub he had been in, find a witness or two who recalled how pissed he was, possibly find the hob in the debris and discover the gas rings turned on.

  The presumption? A drunk who forgot to switch them off and blew himself up when he sparked a cigarette.

  No tears shed by the police.

  Job jobbed

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Sam turned on the car radio, glanced in the mirror and shuddered. She looked as bad as she felt; pale eyes like the proverbial piss-holes-in-the-snow, cramps in her stomach. The price of too little sleep, too many cigarettes, and too much wine. She was furious with herself for putting the washing machine on when she was half-cut. The new red t-shirt had ruined the whites, delivering a garish collection of pinks when she went to unload.

  A dodgy washing moment she could handle. But that kiss? She was furious with herself. It was passionate, electric, and exactly what she didn’t need. Not while Ed was still married, still living in the marital home, still with Sue. Thank God he’d got in the taxi.

  She changed down to first gear and swore under her breath. She hadn’t got out of second for the last mile, the roundabout a never-nearing mirage on the horizon. Another day, another miserable rush hour and every prospect of an awkward silence with Ed at journey’s end.

  Maybe get a take-away tonight, Sam thought, mentally changing topic. She imagined a Chinese or something fiery from the new Indian she had been waiting to try. She could already smell the spices as she turned up the radio.

  Police in Seahouses are investigating an explosion on a caravan park. An eyewitness described hearing a huge explosion at around 7am this morning and rushed outside to see the remains of a holiday home on fire.

  It appears that one caravan has been totally destroyed and those nearby damaged. It is not yet known if anybody has been injured.

  Police and the fire brigade are on the scene and we understand that the few visitors on the site have been evacuated as a precaution.

  There will be more on this breaking story in our next bulletin.

  And now the weather…

  Sam turned the radio off. She already had enough on her plate.

  Harry Pullman was shaving in front of the bathroom mirror, luminous blue blobs of fallen gel bright against the grubbiness of his white sleeveless vest.

  His feet stopped tapping as Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Go Your Own Way’ ended and his head jerked towards the radio, the blunt razor nicking his top lip.

  Police in Seahouses…

  The white towel matched his vest in terms of colour. He pressed it against his lip and dashed into the bedroom, pulling on a shirt and jeans before working again at the trickle of blood.

  All he could think about was Mat and his caravan. Was it Mat’s? If it was, who was behind it? Luke? Someone else?

  He sat on the edge of the bed, lit a cigarette, and put the packet and lighter next to his Samsung Galaxy on the bedside table. He needed to think and was still sitting like some Rodin mickey-take when his mobile danced a Northern Soul slide across the MDF.

  He glanced at the screen. Number not recognised.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘That you Harry?’

  McFadden.

  ‘Yeah,’ Harry said.

  ‘You heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’ Harry believed in playing dumb. It always served him well.

  ‘Billy’s been snatched. Mekins is gone and now Mat’s been killed.’

  ‘Where are you?’ Harry said.

  ‘Phone box just outside Berwick.’

  Berwick? North of Seahouses. What’s your game?

  Harry didn’t respond, inhaled on his cigarette.

  ‘We need to talk, Harry.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘What happens next.’

  ‘What’s happened to Mat?’ Harry said, trying to work out where this was going.

  ‘Caravan explosion. You not heard it on the news?’

  ‘The news never mentioned anyone being dead.’

  ‘They will.’

  ‘When do you want to talk? Harry said. ‘And where?’

  A pause, the noise of traffic and a distant siren on the line.

  ‘Soon as but away from Seaton. How about Berwick?’

  ‘You must be joking,’ Harry almost laughed. ‘If Mat’s dead in a caravan in Seahouses…how do you know he’s got a van up there anyway? First I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘Long story,’ McFadden swatted the question away.

  Harry said he was happy right where he was; no way was he going further north than his front door.

  ‘Meet me here in the pub,’ he said. ‘Nothing suspicious about that.’

  Stuart McFadden wasn’t sure.

  ‘Think about it Stuart,’ Harry said, rummaging under the bed for a pair of socks. ‘You’re up in Berwick for whatever reason. If Mat’s in that caravan it’ll look a lot more iffy if you’re in that neck of the woods rather than down here. Why are you up there anyway?’

  Harry already knew the answer.

  There was only one way Stuart McFadden could know Mat was dead and it wasn’t that he’d heard it on the grapevine. The Marvin Gayes of Seaton St George wouldn’t be up yet let alone singing.

  ‘Harry, the Skinners are finished,’ McFadden beginning his move. ‘Billy snatched and that’s down to Mat. Revenge for Mekins.’

  ‘Mekins?’ Harry said. ‘What’s happened to him?’

  ‘Billy ordered it after the shit Mat and Mekins pulled at your gaffe,’ McFadden told him. ‘Mark’s like a rabbit in the headlights. Luke won’t be able to pull this together. Either somebody in Seaton takes over or outsiders come in.’

  Harry said McFadden was jumping to a lot of conclusions but yeah, they should meet, he would listen to whatever was on his mind.

  Harry checked the time. 8am. ‘See you about eleven then?’

  Stuart McFadden said he was on his way.

  Harry pulled on his socks. He needed to make a few calls.

  ‘Do you want to explain that?’ Sam said, throwing a photograph at Elgin, the embrace with Linda Pritchard not lacking in passion.

  They had brought him to Seaton police station and after some huff and puff he came quietly. Whatever reception Ed had faced at home last night, or whatever had happened this morning, it hadn’t affected his mood. When they had met at the nick that morning the silence Sam feared had never happened. Ed had spoken straight out.

  ‘Listen,’ he had said as soon as Sam shut the passenger door, turning to face her from the driver’s seat. ‘Last night. It was what I wanted, it’s just with Sue…’

  Sam had
found a smile, said she understood, and that wasn’t drink the devil’s own work.

  And that was it, at least for now, their world one second out of kilter and next spinning on its old familiar axis. Sam would later acknowledge her relief was shaded in disappointment.

  Now in the interview room, John Elgin’s adam’s apple moved around his throat like a golf ball spinning in a cup. ‘How dare you spy on me!’

  Typical politician, Sam thought. Back to the wall so go straight on the attack.

  ‘No-one’s been spying on you Mr. Elgin, at least nobody from the police, but now this has come into our possession it is quite interesting don’t you think?’ Sam with a light touch, polite even.

  Small blisters of sweat spread across Elgin’s brow.

  ‘Please tell me you haven’t dragged me here to talk about an innocent little cuddle…’

  ‘Mr. Elgin,’ Sam interrupted, leaning towards him, voice a little sharper now. ‘I’m not interested in whether it was an innocent little cuddle or not. What interests me is that the woman you’re cuddling is the wife of one of your grandson’s abusers.’

  Elgin’s tongue ran around the inside of his mouth.

  Sam sat back. ‘How long have you been on cuddling terms with Linda Pritchard?’

  ‘It’s not what you think?’

  ‘What is it then?’

  Elgin rubbed his eyes and sighed.

  ‘That poor woman was trapped in a loveless marriage. She knew what her husband was… his words trailed off.

  ‘Yet did nothing to stop it,’ Sam said, not a question but a fact.

  Elgin threw his shoulders back and raised his voice, happy to be back on the attack.

  ‘What could she do? Report it to your lot! That would have got her a long way. You only became interested in her husband once he was dead. We all know what happens to uncorroborated allegations of sexual abuse and besides, nobody had made a complaint to my knowledge.’

  Sam wanted background, wanted Elgin to calm down and talk and maybe let his guard down.