Angels and Apostles

by Tony Hutchinson

  They stood in silence like gunfighters ready to draw, the moment stretching.

  ‘There’ll be no need for that,’ Doherty turned around and shouted to a tall, wiry man with curly brown hair leaning against a caravan. ‘John. Come here a minute.’

  The man ambled over, hands in the pockets of his oily jeans, sleeveless vest covered in oily finger marks. He kept his eyes on Sam as he walked, licked his lips. The cold didn’t seem to bother him.

  ‘This is Sergeant Whelan. He wants to know who owns the vehicles. Don’t argue. I’ve said it’s okay.’

  ‘Alright.’

  Ed looked at him. ‘Full name.’

  ‘John Smith.’

  It was Ed’s turn to roll his eyes. ‘Date of birth?’

  ‘1st January.’

  ‘What year?’

  ‘Every year.’

  ‘Ah the campsite comedian,’ Ed sighed. ‘What year were you born?’

  ‘Can’t say sir,’ the hint of a grin. ‘My mother was never much good with numbers.’

  He stared at Sam, looked her up and down.

  ‘Who owns the pick-ups?’ Ed pointed towards them.

  ‘That black one’s John’s. That red one’s John’s, that...’

  ‘Are you saying they’re all owned by the same person?’

  ‘No,’ the man enjoying himself. ‘Different people, just all called John.’

  ‘All John Smith?’

  ‘You’re good at this officer,’ the grin wide and insolent as he looked into Sam’s eyes and licked his lips again. ‘I’m good at other things too.’

  Sam took two quick steps forward, her shoulders stiff, her stance aggressive. She ignored the whisky on his breath.

  ‘You might be the World Wanking Champion for all I care, but if you want to be a smart arse we can continue this conversation down the nick.’

  John Smith blushed but not with embarrassment. Anger was belching out of him like smoke from a power station.

  ‘And who owns the army truck?’ Ed said, unable to hide his smile.

  ‘Jo...’

  Doherty stepped in front of him.

  ‘What army truck?’ he said. ‘You never mentioned any army truck. Tricking people? Not what we expect from our police.’

  John Smith seethed. Sam and her put down had snapped his concentration.

  ‘We’ll be on our way Declan,’ Ed said. ‘Have a good weekend. We’ll see you later.’

  Doherty the genial host was back, although the warmth never quite made it to his eyes.

  ‘We’ll be moving come Sunday so don’t wait too long,’ he said. ‘Might see you Saturday if you find out where and want to pop by. It’ll be a free bar. You and your Irish ancestry and all that.’

  Ed thanked him for the offer, said he’d think about it.

  Sam turned to John Smith. ‘Your mother might have been shit with numbers but she wouldn’t have fallen for that three card trick. Stick with the script in future. No one likes a clever twat.’

  Sam walked away, Ed following, the silent stares like lasers on their backs.

  ‘So where do you think the army truck is?’ Sam said, as she slid behind the wheel. ‘Burnt out?’

  Ed shook his head, said they wouldn’t burn out a useful vehicle unless they had no choice.

  ‘They’ve not had time to get it on a ferry so my guess, it’ll be in a unit somewhere,’ he told Sam. ‘Any damage will be getting repaired.’

  Just like the Transit, Sam thought.

  ‘Doherty was quick to jump in when you asked that tosser about it,’ Sam said.

  ‘John, or whatever his name is, was too busy trying to play you,’ Ed told her. ‘That’s why Declan jumped in. But we got the confirmation we needed. They’ve got a truck.’

  Sam turned the car around, Jayne Culley the next name on their call list.

  ‘Stop the car!’ Ed shouted. ’Look.’

  Two boys aged about ten were chasing a group of girls. Both were wearing gorilla masks.

  Ed jumped out of the car. Sam followed.

  ‘Alright lads,’ Ed called to them. ‘Nice masks. Where did you get them?

  The youngsters had frozen but Doherty was watching, for the first time a darkness on his face.

  ‘Calm down, they’re only fucking masks,’ he said, walking towards the children.

  ‘Where did they get them from?’ Ed holding his own temper in check.

  ‘How should I know?’

  Sam stepped closer to Doherty. ‘It might be important. Do you know?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Okay thanks,’ Sam said, a plan flashing bright in her head. ‘Look, can I buy them off the children?’

  Doherty hesitated then said: ‘Everything’s got a price.’

  Five minutes later Sam and Ed were back in the car, masks now on the back seat, purchased for £5 each.

  ‘No point in seizing them and giving ourselves a load of grief,’ Sam said. ‘A tenner’s better than needing loads of uniforms to restore order.’

  Sam drove off, the Audi pitching and rolling over the track.

  ‘And now we can see if forensics can link them to any of our scenes or victims.’

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Luke and Mark Skinner were patched up in A and E.

  An x-ray showed Luke’s left arm was badly bruised but not broken, the piece of metal was pulled with some difficulty and plenty of pain from his left thigh and the wound was cleaned and closed with 10 stitches.

  Mark had concussion, whiplash and eyes that were already blackening from the impact of the air bag.

  Both discharged themselves against medical advice.

  Marge jumped from a plastic seat in reception and ran towards them when they emerged from the swinging double doors.

  ‘Not here mum,’ Luke said, turning to protect the sling on his left arm.

  Marge stopped then head bowed she followed her sons.

  Luke looked around, checking the other people in reception, and stuck two fingers up at the CCTV camera.

  No one spoke until they got into the small hatchback, Marge’s choice instead of the showy beasts her Billy had wanted her to drive.

  Her hands, shaking like an alcoholic’s before their first drink, struggled to get the key in the ignition.

  ‘Calm down mum,’ Luke shouted from the back seat. He may be leader in waiting, but like children the world over, as the youngest he sat in the rear. ‘We need to get home sometime today.’

  Marge wiped her eye and forced the key into the ignition. ‘How can I calm down?’ she shouted. ‘What’s going on?’

  The car lurched forward, chugged and stalled. Marge dropped her head, eyes closed and white-knuckled hands squeezing the wheel.

  Luke pressed his nose against the window and sighed. ‘Just get us home mum.’

  The journey was completed in silence until Marge pulled up alongside the fountain.

  She couldn’t wait any longer.

  ‘Will somebody tell me what the fuck’s going on?’ she screamed. Luke and Mark jumped at the sudden explosion, whipped back to boyhood for a split second, ready for a tongue lashing or worse.

  Mark touched his mother’s arm, told her they would talk inside.

  ‘So what’s this all about?’ Marge said, as soon as the front door was closed. ‘First the pubs are set on fire, then you two get rammed off the road and before you ask, there were plenty of bizzies at the hospital. Most of the bastards were just there to gloat.’

  She threw her woollen coat over the kitchen table.

  Luke stiffened and adjusted his sling. ‘The truth is we don’t know who’s behind it.’

  Marge ran and pushed him against the sink. He screamed out in pain.

  ‘You said it was sorted,’ she shouted, taking a step backwards. ‘So it can’t be Harry or his nephew or McFadden this time, can it?’

  She yanked open one of the wall units, took out a bottle of Poetic Licence gin, and poured a large measure.

  The fridge light threw the lines on
her face into sharp focus as she grabbed the tonic. Ice and lime added she sat down with the drink.

  ‘So who is it?’ Marge said, voice tired but back under control. ‘Unless it’s our Mat, come back to burn down the family jewels and crash into you two. Attempted murder the police reckon.’

  ‘There’s no attempt murder,’ Luke said. ‘We’ll not be cooperating. If the police want to crack on investigating it, fine, but they’ll get nothing from us.’

  ‘Are you stupid?’ Marge glared before taking two large mouthfuls. ‘Your dad’s been murdered. They’ve had a go at you and Mark. Two of our places have been burnt down. The police won’t just walk away. So you will cooperate.’

  She drained the glass, the gin hit making her dizzy.

  ‘So what are you going to do now?’ the words a challenge. ‘The pair of you need to get a fucking grip here and sharpish.’

  Mark sat next to his mother.

  ‘We need to see John Elgin.’

  Her laugh was short and a stranger to humour.

  ‘John Elgin!’ Marge shouted. ‘He’s the least of your worries.’

  She stood up, stormed across the kitchen, and refilled the tumbler.

  Marge took a deep drink as she returned to the kitchen chair.

  ‘I know all about the planning applications but you need to sort this first. Your dad never took his eye off the ball. It’s why he lasted so long.’

  She looked down at the table, lost in the moment. When she looked up at Luke her burning eyes cut through him like a grinder attacking metal; the sparks might not be visible, but they were there.

  ‘If you’ve sorted your dad’s killers, they must have had help and the help is still out there,’ Marge said. ‘So I’ll ask again. Who?’

  ‘The answer’s still the same mum,’ Luke told her. ‘We don’t know.’

  He walked to the table and sat down.

  ‘Well I suggest you find out quick,’ Marge said. ‘Otherwise everything your dad built up is going down the pan.’

  She suddenly started to sob.

  ‘I can’t even give him a funeral yet,’ snuggling into Mark when he put his arm around her. ‘The police are keeping him until they’ve done all their tests.’

  Luke thought better of telling her about the threat to burn her alive. Violence and retaliation was the world he lived in, but this was different. The rules of the game no longer applied. His mother had been threatened and he had no idea who was behind it. He was fighting ghosts and he didn’t know where they would attack next.

  Maybe they could all live the lie he had made up about Mat, sell and move to Spain, move anywhere where there was sun and safety. Money wouldn’t be an issue.

  Linda Pritchard had hidden behind the curtains in the caravan when she saw Ed Whelan. The whisper that police were on the site had moved at light speed, only taxi drivers matching travellers for the best intelligence systems in the country.

  She had watched Whelan talk with her father, watched them wander off with that policewoman. She had made her excuses and left when her father returned and the police were gone.

  In the public toilets on the promenade she changed back into Linda Pritchard.

  John Elgin was waiting for her on the pier. It was 6.05. She was five minutes late.

  ‘How did it go?’ he asked, the two of them walking further out to sea.

  ‘Alright with mum and dad,’ Linda told him. ‘Better than I expected. But Whelan showed up.’

  ‘Did he see you?’

  Linda said no but a few minutes earlier and he couldn’t have missed her.

  ‘I liked the outfit you just had on,’ Elgin brought the image into his mind. ‘Very…’

  ‘Slutty?’

  ‘Your words not mine,’ Elgin said with something unpleasant in his smile.

  Linda told him to forget it, there were more important things in play. ‘Firstly, two of the Skinner boys were rammed off the road.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Elgin asked her.

  ‘Dad told me.’

  ‘They’ll be bricking it,’ Elgin said. ‘The pub and club burnt down. Then the demolition derby.’

  He saw her quizzical look.

  ‘I’m showing my age,’ Elgin said. ‘Stock car racing back in the day. Always ended in a demolition derby. Last car standing.’

  He watched a shadow of impatience or irritation move over her face and felt foolish.

  ‘Whatever it was, the Skinners must be running scared,’ Linda said. ‘But you’re sorted. No tape to upset your lovely wife and your abuser burnt to a crisp.’

  Elgin stopped and turned to face her, taking in the hair, the clothes, the makeup. Nothing sleazy from the street now.

  ‘You haven’t done so bad yourself,’ he said. ‘Paedo husband dead, nice house now in your name, and I’m sure there’ll be a decent pension in the pipeline.’

  ‘A husband who also abused your grandson,’ Linda threw in.

  Elgin gave that a nod in recognition.

  ‘And let’s not forget, the gangster who dumped you has also met his maker.’

  ‘We’d make pretty good suspects if they linked all of it together,’ Linda said. ‘Just as well Ray Reynolds is retired.’

  She leaned against the railings, staring out to sea, and smiled at the memory. Ray Reynolds, her knight in shining armour all those years ago. She was a gypsy runaway when he found her and helped her forge a new life as Linda Avery only for her to run into the arms of a gangster. She had started delivering drugs in a car Billy Skinner provided but was soon enough living rent free in one of his flats. Flat? Who was she kidding? It was just a shag-on-demand pad, Skinner liking to keep her close.

  When he’d finished with her after a couple of years she was turfed out to make way for the next one.

  She was bitter, angry and apologised to Ray Reynolds, knew she had let him down. She did try to help him with bits of information on the Skinner empire but it never came to anything. Skinner was too smart. He was surveillance conscious, a master at covering his back, and always had at least 20 SIM cards for his phone, all of them pay-as-you-go.

  But now he was dead and his arsehole sons were running scared. That much she had picked up in the caravan.

  ‘So what happens now?’ Linda asked, turning her head towards Elgin.

  ‘What do you want to happen?’

  ‘I’m too old for games John,’ she told him, meaning it. ‘I spent too long on my back after that twat dumped me on the street.’

  Elgin put his arm around her, pulled her into him.

  ‘I think it’s time I was honest,’ he said. ‘I’ll take whatever shit comes my way but I want to be with you.’

  She kissed his cheek and stepped away. ‘You’ve only known me a few months and what about Jill?’

  Elgin was surprising himself, something about the moment, the beat of the water, the way Linda was looking at him.

  ‘A few months is long enough to know what I want,’ he told her. ‘I could tell you Jill was just about sex but I loved her, loved her for years.’

  He stopped and wiped his eyes.

  ‘But I could never be with her after what she did, all the years never knowing I had a son. I would have stood by her if she’d told me but she wanted to save face more than let the two of us be together.’

  Linda saw his hurt and hugged him, said she liked that they had a future but they would have to wait while she played the grieving widow.

  ‘People will talk if we’re together too quick,’ she said. ‘And Ed Whelan is nobody’s fool.’

  They walked up the path. Ed knocked.

  The hall light came on and Jayne Culley opened the door, glassy eyes blank, devoid of recognition.

  Ed smiled. ‘Hello Jayne, it’s me, Ed Whelan.’

  No response, Jayne leaning heavily on her black walking stick, looking lost.

  ‘The policeman,’ Ed said gently.

  Suddenly the empty face lit up.

  ‘The policeman!’ Jayne remembered. ‘Come
in Mr. Whelan, come in.’

  Jayne had still been confused, still walked slowly, but Ed was happy to see she wore matching slippers this time.

  Dignity seemed way down any political agenda, he thought.

  They followed her into the kitchen. ‘Do you want tea?’

  ‘Yes please,’ Ed said.

  ‘And your wife?’ Jayne looked at Sam.

  Sam and Ed glanced at each other and smiled. ‘Yes she would love some tea Jayne.’

  Ed watched Jayne struggle with three cups and three teabags, his shoulders slumping out of pity and anger.

  It was outrageous in modern Britain, one of the planet’s wealthiest countries, a woman who no doubt had played by the rules all her life was now left to God and providence.

  Jayne’s shaking hand passed Sam a cup.

  Sam smiled and thanked her. Like Ed she’d seen Jayne forget to boil the kettle.

  ‘It’s not too hot for you dear?’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ Sam said.

  Jayne smiled.

  Ed spoke. ‘What did you want to show me Jayne?’

  ‘Do you want cake? I’ve got a nice sponge cake.’

  ‘No thank you Jayne,’ Sam said.

  ‘You had something to show me,’ Ed said again.

  ‘I did. What was it?’

  ‘Was it about the man who knocked on Jeremy’s door?’

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ she sailed across the kitchen. ‘He was on the TV last night and in the paper.’

  She took the Seaton Post from the bench and held it up. ‘There.’

  She pointed to a picture of a suited man.

  ‘It was him,’ the paper waving in an imaginary breeze. ‘I told you he was a military sort of man. Take a close look at him.’

  They didn’t need to.

  They knew who it was.

  Ray Reynolds. Detective Superintendent. Retired.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  ‘What do you make of that?’ Sam said, when they were back in the car.

  Ed was sure Jayne Culley believed she had seen Ray Reynolds. Whether she had or not was a different matter.

  ‘We’ve both seen witnesses describe the same event in totally different ways,’ he said. ‘People recall different things, not always correctly, and Jayne is...’