Angels and Apostles

by Tony Hutchinson

  He sheepishly looked at the vomit. ‘Sorry about that.’

  Ed smiled. ‘At least we won’t have to recover it now we know it’s yours, and judging by the consistency, you need to eat breakfast young man. You can’t be viewing dead shitbags on an empty stomach, even if we all praise the Lord for their passing.’

  Everyone smiled. One sentence and Tommy Evans’ embarrassment was gone.

  ‘We may as well wait for SOCO and the pathologist,’ Sam said. ‘You sure it’s Billy Skinner, Tom?’

  ‘It’s him. I don’t know if this is connected, it might have nothing to do with him, maybe it’s just been left by a kid…’

  ‘Spit it out Tommy?’ Ed said.

  ‘On the floor, near the metal workbench he’s tied to. There’s a gorilla mask.’

  Five against two was not good odds, odds that were significantly lengthened when the two suits handed out the iron bars.

  Mat and a suit rushed McFadden.

  Luke and the other stormed Harry.

  Harry and McFadden were both knocked off balance by the suits.

  As Harry stumbled back into the wall, Luke raised the cosh and struck a crushing blow against the back of his head. Harry dropped to the floor, already semi-conscious, blood seeping from a gaping wound.

  McFadden regained his balance much quicker than a man of his age should have. He sprung back onto his feet, planted his heels against the concrete floor and adopted the stance of a boxer. But nobody in the ring ever had to defend an iron bar being swung in a vicious arc towards his jaw.

  McFadden tried to jerk his head backwards away from the blow. Blocking it with his forearm wasn’t an option; it would have broken any bone with ease. For McFadden it happened to be his cheek. He stumbled forward, blood rushing from his nose, and screamed as Mat smashed the bar against his collarbone, snapping it clean.

  Mat hit him three times across the back each blow harder than the last, each blow forcing McFadden finally to the floor.

  ‘You tried to fucking blow me up,’ Mat was breathless, his eyes wild.

  He took two steps back, ran forward and kicked McFadden in the stomach.

  Harry was on the floor, groaning and trying to crawl away. Luke bent down and pulled his head up.

  ‘So you thought you’d take over did you?’

  Harry’s response was barely audible. ‘It was your big brother’s idea.’

  Luke stood up and dropped the bar, breathing heavily.

  ‘He was hurting about Geoff, but he’s still family,’ Luke said. ‘Came to his senses when fuck-dust there tried to kill him.’

  McFadden lay motionless.

  Luke turned to the suits. ‘Clear the pub. Send the barmaid home. Give her a hundred quid for lost wages and seeing nothing and bring two chairs down and tie these fuckers up.’

  Harry whispered: ‘If our Dean comes here...’

  ‘He won’t,’ Luke said, moving towards the door. ‘Unless he swims better than he runs, he won’t be coming anywhere.’

  Luke walked back, bent down, and thrust a mobile into Harry’s face.

  The screen showed Dean Silvers slumped against the blue wheelhouse.

  Luke used his thumb and forefinger to zoom in on Dean’s face, puffed, bloody and eyes wide with terror.

  ‘You bastard,’ Harry pushed himself up onto all fours.

  Luke walked away but then turned, ran and kicked him in the stomach so hard Harry’s body jerked upwards, breath flying out of him faster than a kite caught in a gale.

  The suits returned with two chairs and blue nylon rope.

  ‘Pub cleared?’ Luke asked.

  ‘The lassie’s doing that. It’ll be clear in a few minutes.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  John Elgin sat in the Jolly Roger nursing a pint of cooking and a Bell’s whisky. Visits to Jill Brown and Linda Pritchard after his meltdown in the police interview had left him drained.

  Why was Scaramangers shut? He needed to talk to Harry Pullman. His car had been in the car park together with a large 4x4 and a BMW. He didn’t recognise them but neither looked like it belonged to a brewery rep.

  What a life. Married to a battleaxe, mixed up with gangsters, and one sex tape from ruin.

  Rot in hell, Granddad

  He stared at his pint glass and reflected on the day.

  Jill Brown hadn’t been happy that he had told the police about Curtis. She seemed more bothered about what Ed Whelan thought than how the chain of abuse had affected him. It was all about her and her toffee-nosed attitude.

  What will people think? How could I bring up another man’s baby pretending it was my husband’s?

  Then he’d met Linda Pritchard in a lay-by on the outskirts of town. She’d told her paedophile-rearing mother-in-law, her heartfelt description, she needed to get out for an hour. Even without make-up Linda looked stunning.

  He replayed the meeting in his head, how he had told her about the police, the photograph in the park.

  ‘So what?’ she had said. ‘It makes no odds now.’

  He was dumbfounded to discover she had set up the park scene herself.

  ‘I wanted to show the bastard men still wanted me even if he didn’t.’

  Elgin had been gutted, felt used and foolish.

  ‘So I was just a pawn?’ he’d asked.

  ‘You were never just a pawn John,’ Linda had said, and kissed him.

  When he asked how she knew Ray Reynolds it all came out.

  Reynolds had given her the name of a retired cop with a good camera and she had done the rest.

  Elgin swallowed the whisky.

  He doubted Julius Pritchard even knew the photograph existed, Linda probably waiting to bring it into play when she thought the time was right. Her husband would know she was getting it elsewhere and, Elgin believed, men like Julius Pritchard hated that thought.

  With Julius dead Linda would now own the house and receive whatever policies were in place.

  Elgin picked up the lager, gulped a couple of mouthfuls, and wiped the foam from his mouth

  Women really are the root of all evil...

  Thinking about it, Elgin conceded he wasn’t being fair. It was his own weakness for women; that was the root of his problems.

  Linda, Jill, Tara, Zara and Chloe... lumped together they sounded like that 60’s pop group who sang Legend of Xanadu.

  Elgin closed his eyes, took himself back to school, and hummed the song.

  The smell of liver and onions, carried by a young waiter, snapped him back before he could mimic Dave Dee’s cracking whip.

  Whatever place he was in right now, it was neither idyllic nor magnificent.

  He was a long way from Xanadu. He had been most of his life.

  Harry Pullman was dazed and disorientated, the gash in his head still bleeding. Strapped to the chair, head slumped forward, he realised he should have told Luke about his meeting with Mat as soon as it happened.

  He had never wanted to work with Mat. Christ it was Mat who smashed up the pub.

  He should never have believed McFadden either.

  He feigned ignorance about the caravan because he thought Mat was dead. He had no doubt McFadden had blown up the caravan and Mat must have ran straight to Luke scared shitless and confessed all.

  He had totally underplayed the brotherly bond. Either that or Luke didn’t have Billy’s ruthlessness. Harry knew Billy would have killed Mat. And who had snatched Billy?

  Mat? Luke? Stuart?

  Not Mark. He couldn’t snatch a box of cereal in a supermarket trolley dash.

  Harry was snapped from his thoughts by the suits carrying a desk. McFadden was untied and pulled to his feet. He tried to fight but one good arm against ten was useless.

  He was pushed face down onto the desk, wrists tied to the front two legs, thighs to the back ones.

  Luke ripped off McFadden’s shirt.

  Harry knew what was coming next. So did McFadden who was bucking like a bronco.

  ‘Where’s my fat
her?’ Luke said.

  ‘Luke, listen to me,’ McFadden told him. ‘I have no idea where your father is. You should be asking Harry.’

  ‘You tried to take Mat out last night,’ Luke said. ‘He saw your car so he pretended to be pissed, stayed awake and heard you come in. Then he followed you out and watched you leave. He blew the caravan up, not you, you daft fucker. So I’ll ask you again. Where’s dad?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ McFadden screamed.

  Mat bent down and pushed a plug into an extension box he had trailed from a wall socket. The iron heated quickly, sizzling when Mat spat droplets of saliva onto the steel.

  ‘Iron Man is back,’ he laughed at his own joke.

  The suits pushed down on McFadden’s legs while Luke and Mark pushed down on his shoulders.

  Mat pressed the button, watched the steam fly, and drove the iron into the small of McFadden’s back.

  ‘Don’t you ever laugh at my mother’s cooking you piece of shit,’ the smell of singeing flesh filling the cellar.

  When the shrieking stopped Mat put his mouth against McFadden’s ear. ‘Now where’s dad?’

  McFadden was pleading. ‘Luke I swear I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Luke said, ‘he’s asking the questions.’

  He pressed hard on McFadden’s collarbone, then stepped back to give Mat room.

  ‘Watch your hands little brothers,’ Mat said. ‘Shoulders now.’

  McFadden was unconscious before Mat completed the second, slow, swipe.

  White suits donned, Ed and Sam followed Jim Melia into Spikers factory.

  One of the Crime Scene Investigators was videoing the scene, careful not to step off the metal plates and destroy any forensic evidence that might be on the floor.

  Jim stared at the thick neck, the white powder covering the face. ‘Looks like a yeti in an avalanche,’ the pathologist joked.

  Sam smiled. She had never been keen on hairy men. Billy Skinner had grown a grey coat over his lifetime.

  ‘Snuffed out by his own drugs presumably,’ Jim was saying now. ‘I can’t imagine anyone buying that amount just to kill. Just hit him over the head. Hell of a lot cheaper.’

  ‘But not as dramatic Jim,’ Sam said, Skinner’s execution almost theatrical. ‘He’s been running the drugs trade in this town for decades.’

  She stared at the body, convinced this hadn’t been a gangland hit, that no cartel would waste so much money.

  ‘This is somebody with a grudge against him, against the products he supplies,’ Sam said.

  Jim stood: ‘A bereaved parent perhaps?’

  ‘They wouldn’t get near him,’ Ed said, looking into Skinner’s lifeless eyes. ‘His snatch was professional, well thought out. He was brought here. Three people, presumably men…and where would a parent get this amount of coke or the bottle to break in and steal traffic lights?’

  Someone’s done a good number on you Billy Skinner, Ed thought, still looking into the eyes. Payback time.

  ‘Was he a grandfather?’ Sam asked, nodding towards Skinner.

  ‘Who cares,’ Ed said, ‘He dealt in misery all his life. Not many will be mourning and some, as Mick and David would say, will be dancing in the streets.’

  Jim looked quizzically at Ed.

  ‘Jagger and Bowie.’

  Jim nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Now someone else will fill the vacuum,’ Sam said, wondering if Skinner’s sons or outsiders would soon be the new lords of the jungle.

  Sam made to leave but suddenly stopped and turned. ‘The gorilla mask,’ she said. ‘The only reason they’ve left it is to show us they’re the same people who did Pritchard and van Dijk. So we need to find out who or what links two murdered paedophiles with Billy Skinner.’

  ‘And who is going to so much trouble,’ Ed said.

  The boat had just left its mooring lines when Luke’s mobile rang. ‘Hello,’ he shouted, straining to hear above the chugging of the diesel engine.

  It was his mother, distraught and crying so hard she was difficult to understand but Luke got enough.

  The police had found a body they believed to be his father.

  ‘Sit tight mum,’ Luke told her. ‘Me and Mark will be there in a couple of hours. Don’t say anything to the cops. Let me deal with them.’

  Luke put the mobile in his pocket, rested his hands on the back of the boat and stared at the trailing wake. It was one of the few things visible.

  He was in charge now. He had to follow his father’s cunning and ruthlessness if he was to protect the business; protect his mother. He knew what needed to be done.

  He edged unsteadily to the bow, one hand always gripping something. He never suffered from seasickness but he couldn’t walk about a boat like a true sailor.

  McFadden, barely conscious, was curled and shivering in the foredeck, groaning low every time salt spray hit his raw, naked back.

  Harry sat alongside McFadden, legs tucked under his chin, hands, bound with blue nylon rope, resting on his knees. Eyes down he stared at the deck swaying under the motion of the sea, using his ears to plot the whereabouts of the three brothers and the heavies. He knew he had no real chance of escape but he had to do something. The boat was outside the harbour now, pushing out to sea. Once they had weighed him down, he would be lost to the depths. If he threw himself overboard before the chains went on, his body could be washed up and the police might investigate. At least they’d know he was dead.

  ‘They’ve found dad,’ Luke said, Harry listening.

  ‘Where?’ Mat asked.

  ‘I thought you might be able to tell us,’ Luke said, his voice acid.

  Mat sounded caught off guard. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘One or both of those fuckers might have had something to do with it, but just because you came crawling back, doesn’t mean I don’t think you were involved.’

  Harry knew this might be his only chance.

  ‘Involved,’ he shouted with everything he had left. ‘He was the fucking ringleader.’

  Mat inched towards Harry. ‘You lying twat.’

  ‘Back off Mat,’ Luke shouted. ‘Let him speak. Call it last requests of the condemned man.’

  ‘It was all his idea,’ Harry said, spitting a loose tooth onto the deck. ‘I went to his caravan with our Dean. This lying bastard contacted me. I know I should have told you.’

  Harry shuffled on his backside.

  ‘I was never going into business with him, not against you but that’s what he wanted. He told me not to worry about your father. He’d sort him. Well he’s done that by the sounds of things.’

  Mat was shaking his head.

  ‘Luke you’ve got to believe me. I had nothing to do with dad.’

  Luke adjusted the hood and shoved his hands into the hand warmer pockets of his red Musto Offshore jacket. He didn’t look angry but sad.

  ‘Your problem Mat is your brains were always in your cock.’

  Mat stepped towards the side of the boat and sat on the portside edge, his back to the sea.

  ‘Look I was pissed off about Geoff,’ he said. ‘Yeah I might have let my mouth run away with me, but I didn’t have anything to do with dad and I’m not likely to go into business with Harry fucking Pullman am I? It was me and Geoff who smashed up his pub to teach him a lesson.’

  ‘Despite dad telling us all to take it easy with him,’ Luke said. ‘The way I see it, we’ll never know for sure, but what I do know is that one, two or all three of you carries the can.

  And throw that fucker over the side now.’ Luke nodded at McFadden. ‘His crying like a girl is getting on my tits.’

  As the heavies moved towards McFadden, Harry rocked forwards on his toes, sprang upwards and charged at Mat Skinner.

  ‘Bastard!’ Harry screamed, ducking his shoulder like a prop-forward and smashing him below the chin, his momentum driving both of them overboard into the freezing dark waters.

  Harry surfaced first, retching and snatching breaths. He
knew hypothermia would get him, but at least now he had a chance.

  Mat had none. He couldn’t swim.

  Harry spun onto his back and started kicking towards the shore. He had less than ten minutes, probably less than five, but at least he would die in his own way. Fish food perhaps, but fish food that had put up a fight.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ Mark shouted. ‘Turn the boat around.’

  Luke banged the front of the wheel-house.

  ‘Straight ahead,’ he shouted at the skipper.

  ‘No!’ Mark staggering forwards.

  Luke grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket, shouted into his face.

  ‘This is already a big enough fuck up,’ he said. ‘Let’s get McFadden overboard and get the hell out of here. Mum needs us or have you forgotten about her.’

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Sam called it a night after the post mortem. Billy Skinner had head and facial injuries consistent with Helen Larney’s account of the abduction but his death was down to the drugs not the beating.

  She had pulled on to her drive 30 minutes later, the electric timers allowing the hall lamp to give some pretence of a warm welcome.

  Now changed into electric blue velour sweat pants and top, a Les Clos Chablis was already opened and poured. Mineral and laser sharp, it masked the taste of death that always hung around after a visit to the mortuary. Sam sat on the settee, tucking her legs beneath her.

  She had the TV muted, whatever was on the screen just a comforting background, and was flicking through the Royal Yachting Association Day Skipper Introduction to Navigation book. It had been a few years since she qualified as a Day Skipper, passing both the theory and practical exams first time.

  Leafing through the book she realised how much she’d forgotten but the more she read, the more she remembered.

  Perhaps it really was time to put Tris behind her. Nothing would bring him back and she wouldn’t forget him, but putting her enjoyment of life on hold was cheating nobody but herself. For the first time in as long as she could remember Sam felt excited about something other than work.