[DI Braddick 01.0] Brick

by Conrad Jones

  “What do you mean?”

  “The twat in the Volvo put the barbed wire across the path,” he struggled to get his words out. He wasn’t sure that the man had put the wire there but he felt that he had. It made sense in his mind. “I’m fucking sure he did.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I saw him,” Mark grunted. “Twat.”

  “Keep kicking,” Simon said smiling inside. Mark was still strong enough to abuse someone. It meant that they could reach the shore. The wind and the tide took them swiftly along the coastline and they steered their float into the first cove that was shallow enough for them to climb out of.

  “We’ll be alright now,” Simon said as his feet touched the bottom. Mark looked grey with exposure. Simon put Mark’s arm over his shoulder and took his weight. They stumbled up the sand and scrambled across the rocks onto the grassy headland behind the cottage. Simon wanted to get his mobile from the headland but it would have to wait until Mark was safely in an ambulance and he had warmed up. His fingers and thumbs were numb with the cold. The wind blew making him colder still and then he noticed the black smoke and orange flames that were coming from behind the wall. The cottage was ablaze.

  53

  Jacob Graff couldn’t get an answer but Bryn didn’t have any time to spare. He watched as the doctors struggled to restart his heart. A female doctor was applying chest compressions while another pumped air into his lungs. A third doctor injected adrenalin as a fourth prepared to zap him. He called for everyone to stand clear and applied the paddles to his chest. Bryn bucked, his back leaving the bed but there was no response. After being hit three times with the defibrillator paddles he finally responded but his condition was still critical.

  “Have you got permission?” the consultant called over to him. His face was stern and demanding. There was only one answer.

  “They want you to do whatever you need to do to save his life,” Jacob said with confidence in his lie. He was certain that was what his parents would have said had he managed to ask them. Simon had been desperate for information on Bryn’s condition yet he hadn’t answered his calls. He couldn’t help but wonder if the Farrells had found out where they were.

  Mark and Simon stumbled through the grass towards the back gate of the cottage. Black smoke spiralled skywards and the air was acrid with fumes. They looked in horror as the back door burned furiously. Orange flames licked at the roof tiles, jumping and flickering, setting alight the soffits and guttering. The bedroom window cracked loudly and then shattered into a hundred pieces.

  “We can’t get through there!” Simon shouted, pulling Mark with him. “We’ll have to go around.” Mark hobbled alongside him as they half ran half stumbled around the garden wall to the front of the cottage. They reached the gate and stopped. The front door was open, thick smoke billowed out of it. The curtains in the front room were ablaze and glowing embers floated skyward on the wind.

  “I’ve called the fire brigade!” a man’s voice came from behind them. They turned around to speak to him.

  “How long will they be?” Simon asked in a panic.

  “That’s the twat in the Volvo!” Mark said astounded. Simon looked again but didn’t hear what Mark had said.

  “Wait here,” he shouted to Mark as he turned and ran towards the house. Mark glared at the Volvo driver and then tried to run after Simon but his leg gave way beneath him and he fell to the floor scraping his hands on the pavement. He could only watch as Simon disappeared into the smoke filled doorway.

  “I hope your mum and dad are okay,” the Volvo driver, Harry Bedford, called as he drove away. Mark felt his blood boiling with frustration. He felt like screaming but he didn’t have the energy. The sound of the front window splintering beneath the heat made him flinch. He had just about managed to get to his feet as the first fire engine arrived.

  Epilogue

  A month later

  Barbara and Robert Evans were sitting in the visiting room at HMP Altcourse in the Reynoldstown unit. Bryn was still fragile but on the mend. His parents were beginning to relax after their traumatic experiences. Being pulled from their bed by Simon had saved their lives. The three of them had made it as far as the hallway before being overcome by the choking fumes. Firemen with breathing apparatus had finally pulled them out of the inferno. As each day without incident came and went, the family became less afraid. There had been no further contact or threats from the Farrell family since the fire. Detective Braddick had indicated that Farrell may have gone abroad to live following a disagreement with a Russian mob. It gave them some satisfaction to find out that their persecutor had been so frightened that he had left the country. When he found out, Robert had lifted a glass to karma. In fact he had lifted a few when no one was watching.

  “Jacob reckons that you’ll be out by the end of the week!” Barbara said smiling. “The CPS have decided not to press charges.”

  “They don’t do anything quickly do they?” his dad said.

  “It will be so good to have you home although your bedroom has been tidier than it ever has.”

  “Thanks, mum, I’m glad you’ve missed me! I’m looking forward to seeing Alice,” Bryn said without thinking.

  “The bloody dog is the first thing that you mention. Well thank you very much!” Robert joked. “You do know that when they drilled a hole into your head all they found was sawdust.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that,” Bryn laughed. “Is Mark still staying at ours?”

  “Yes and he’s a pain in the arse,” Robert said lowering his voice. “Six weeks he has to keep the weight off that leg. Six bloody weeks! I’m glad there’s only two weeks left,” he shook his head and winked. “I’ve told Simon that the next time he falls into the sea he needs to throw him something that doesn’t float.” He winked again. “Like a brick, eh?”

  “Robert Evans!” Barbara elbowed him in the ribs.

  “What?” Robert said genuinely unaware of what he had said. “What did I say?”

  “If you don’t know then you’re stupider than I thought,” she frowned and shook her head. “Silly man.”

  “What did I say?” he complained to Bryn.

  “Don’t worry about it, Dad,” Bryn smiled, although the slip had not been lost on him. They couldn’t spend the rest of their lives never saying the word, ‘brick’. Things would get back to normal eventually although he knew that he would always be the kid who killed someone with a brick. Maybe in time people would forget. He would take one day at a time.

  Ade Burns was sitting in a pub on the dock road. The Navigation was one of his favourite haunts. He checked his watch and took a long drink from his third pint of bitter. His contact was over an hour late. He thought about leaving but didn’t want to miss him. This was vitally important. He looked out of the window and saw a Volvo parking across the road. The side door opened and Harry Bedford peered around it. He caught sight of Ade and waved as he made his way to the bar. Ade signalled that he didn’t want another pint just yet. Harry made his way through the busy bar and sat down opposite him slipping his car keys into his jacket pocket.

  “Sergeant Burns,” he said sarcastically. “How are things, still fighting the forces of evil?”

  “Daily, Harry.”

  “You’re fighting a losing battle.”

  “It feels like that sometimes, I can tell you.”

  “Well I might have some news that will cheer you up.”

  “Come on,” Ade felt butterflies in his stomach. “Don’t fuck me about. What have you heard?”

  “The Karpovs have moved onto Eddie’s turf, lock, stock, and fucking barrels. They have taken over the lot. No one has seen or heard a whisper from him or Junior,” Harry leaned closer and whispered. “Word has it that the Karpovs did the lot of them in, the Tuckers and the Farrells.”

  “And who started this rumour?” Ade asked calmly. He didn’t want to get excited just yet.

  “This isn’t just any rumour. From what I’ve hea
rd, the Karpovs have cemented all Eddie’s assets into their operation. Anyone that kicked up a fuss isn’t around anymore. You remember Aussie Dave, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. I sent him down for a five stretch.”

  “He’s disappeared off the face of the planet. Apparently he told Nikolai Karpov that he could go and fuck himself. He said that he wasn’t working for them on the door at the Revolution Bar and that if he wasn’t working for Eddie Farrell anymore then he was taking control of the door himself. He didn’t turn up for work the next night and three fucking big Russians are controlling Revolution and two other bars next to it. They are quite openly admitting that they work for the Karpovs. No one has seen him since, just the same as Eddie Farrell.” He nudged Ade and leaned closer again. “Word has it that the Russians are not denying taking Farrell and the Tuckers out of the game. One of their men told me that they were fish food.”

  “He told you himself?”

  “Scout’s honour he did.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think that if he was alive then we would have heard from the cunt.”

  “That is what I am thinking.”

  “Not a week went by without him calling me to sort out one mess or another. I was getting sick of doing his dirty work. I’m glad the Karpovs have killed the cunt. I can get on with my life now and so can you.” Harry Bedford stood and finished his beer. “I don’t know what he had on you and I don’t care, sergeant but I’ll bet you’ll join me for a pint to celebrate.”

  “I don’t mind if I do,” Ade said with a wry smile. His ten year old gambling debt was finally paid off. The Karpovs had done what he had wanted to do for years. He felt as if a massive weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Detective Sergeant Adrian Burns was enjoying work once more, the monkey on his back gone for good.

  Marcus Braddick followed Boris Petrov from the City Gate bar and stayed behind him as he walked through an unlit car park and climbed the Roman Walls at the Eastgate entrance. Chester Cathedral towered in the darkness, its silhouette gigantic against the glowing streetlights behind it. Petrov turned right towards Phoenix tower and looked over his shoulder. Braddick ducked behind the stone steps and waited for him to walk on. Petrov was drunk, staggering from one side of the parapet to the other. Braddick had watched him drink himself into a stupor, patiently waiting for the opportunity to talk to him alone. When Cookie had died, it sparked an idea in his mind. He had traced the evidence box found with Karin and sure enough there had been a syringe in her belongings. It wasn’t the one that they found in her arm; that had been destroyed in the fire. He had the syringe sent to him and signed off a forensic inspection under the guise of a case that they were working. Sure enough a partial print was found and a name had come back. Boris Petrov. He may have befriended her and they may have used drugs together but he intended to find out.

  When he looked into Petrov he found that he had a record and had served time for manslaughter. His records showed that during his time inside, he acquired a tattoo, a knife inside a pair of shackles. It was a badge of honour for someone who had killed whilst in prison on the order of their organisation. It marked Petrov as an assassin. That information, along with his print on the syringe found near Karin Range, told Braddick all he needed to know. Karin Range was a witness against a firm connected to the Karpovs. The fact that a known Russian assassin had left a print at her home couldn’t be a coincidence in any way. He was a murderer and Karin had been murdered.

  Braddick tiptoed up the steps and walked quietly behind Petrov. He was fifty metres behind him when Petrov entered an unlit stretch of wall before Phoenix Tower. Braddick began to jog, picking up the pace as he neared him. Petrov continued to stagger onwards unaware that he was being stalked. The wall was at its highest point when Braddick ran behind him; the canal and towpath some fifty feet below. Petrov heard him and turned to face him. He staggered backwards as Braddick approached him at speed. Petrov didn’t know what the black man wanted but he didn’t want to hang around to find out either. He steadied himself on the wall and then turned and ran as fast as his legs would carry him. Braddick was surprised by his turn of pace and he tripped and fell, ripping his jeans at the knee.

  “Petrov!” Braddick shouted after him but he was away, his footsteps fading into the distance. He was much faster than he looked. Braddick got to his feet and ran after him. The Russian was drunk, weaving left and right but he made it to the Northgate steps which led down to the main road. He took the steps three at a time and reached the road as Braddick reached the top. Petrov looked up at his pursuer and grinned and then bolted across the road beneath the Northgate arch that led into the walled city. The driver of the Scania truck that hit him had no chance of stopping. Petrov’s head burst open as it impacted the front of the truck, spraying the windscreen with pinkish grey goo. His body dropped beneath the wheels being further damaged beneath the crushing weight of the articulated lorry. His abdomen split spilling his intestines in the gutter. Braddick watched as the brake lights came on and the truck squealed to a stop. He looked at the Russian, a thin smile on his lips and then turned and walked back into the night.

  The End.

  Also now available:

  Shadows - The thrilling follow up to Brick

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  Also Now Available

  Shadows - The thrilling follow up to Brick

  Buy now on Amazon