Right to Kill

by John Barlow

  His phone buzzed.

  A text, unrecognized number:

  I’ve got something to say.

  He looked at the number. It meant nothing to him. Who’d be texting him, apart from Sam? He went through his jacket pockets until he found the beer mat. Scribbled on it in Biro was the same number, plus: Text first.

  Karen Cullen.

  He replied:

  Where?

  McDonald’s, Junction 27, off M62.

  Half an hour?

  OK.

  Karen Cullen clearly wasn’t one for full sentences. Was it nerves? Or had she needed to be quick? He checked Google Maps. There were a couple of McDonald’s nearer to the Brown Cow in Batley. There must have been a dozen similar places as well. But there’s nowhere quite so anonymous as a Maccy D’s at a motorway junction, eh, Karen?

  He gulped down one last mouthful of coffee and stood up. He wanted to be there when she arrived.

  29

  He’d driven this way enough times, especially over the last few days, but he’d never stopped here. It hit you as soon as you dropped down off the motorway: a commercial sprawl that dominated the landscape like an enormous mound of gaudily lit Americana. On one side a massive cinema complex, on the other an equally huge Ikea. Around both were litters of smaller places, block-built piglets sucking on the neon teat, loud and electric, Argos, Costa, PC World…

  High street names, he told himself as he joined the slow-moving line of vehicles on the slip road. But these days you didn’t see the famous names on the high street. They were in shopping centres and ‘outlets’, in service stations, hotel lobbies. The towns were full of charity shops, nail salons and pound stores.

  Five o’clock on a bloody Sunday and the roads were packed. Since when was this prime going-out time? As he inched onto the roundabout he could see McDonald’s up ahead. It was heaving.

  Ten minutes later he was circling the car park and wondering whether he could stick his car in a disabled spot and use his police pass. The moral dilemma evaporated when a people carrier suddenly lit up ahead of him. A family of five arrived, piled in and were away.

  As he prepared to turn into the space, the car in front of him in the queue sounded its horn and reversed towards the spot. It came close to hitting Joe’s front bumper but stopped just in time, leaving it impossible for either car to park. Meanwhile, the driver was gesticulating, mouthing words into his mirror.

  ‘Twat-face challenge!’ Joe cried out, and had to stifle his laughter before the guy in front saw him.

  He and Andy had started playing twat-face challenge as soon as they got into plain clothes. The rules were simple: whenever a situation of boorish arrogance or general twattery arises involving a member of the public, you earn points based on how long you can let it go on without whipping out your warrant card. Deliberate provocation is not allowed; the officer merely has to be polite, tolerant or otherwise passive, preferably until the twat in question auto-explodes in a fit of disbelief.

  ‘Andy, where are you when I need you!’

  Holding his ground and playing innocent was the obvious way to go. So that’s what he did. It didn’t take long. After more sounding of the horn and some aggressive revving from the car in front, the driver’s door flew open and a young man in grey jogging pants came towards Joe, a jaunty spring in his step.

  Joe wound down his window.

  ‘Move the fuckin’ motor, fella,’ the gent said.

  He was in his early twenties, no visible tattoos, clean shaven, and had that strangely perceptible aura of someone who is having a lot of sex.

  What would Andy Mills say here? This was his absolute favourite kind of twat-face. Then again, Mr Mills had actually been known to cross the road just in case there was an argument worth having on the other side. He simply loved confrontation.

  ‘Pardon?’ Joe asked.

  He could already imagine himself telling Andy over a pint in Whitelock’s. I just said ‘pardon’!

  Grey pants tamped down his aggression. He was an edgy, jack-in-the-box type, the tasty fly-weight, the kind of guy who you could imagine working as a bouncer, the skinny one, and everybody thinks the same thing: why’s he working as a bouncer? But everybody knows why.

  ‘Just back up, will yer, mate? I’ve got mi kid with me, and she’s fuckin’ cryin’ we’ve been here so long. Back it up, fella.’

  He said it almost fraternally, the message now received and understood, the masculine order re-established. He returned to his vehicle, the same jaunty walk. Job done.

  Joe watched him go. How difficult would it have been to put a fist into that face? And if a fist, why not a pencil? In the right circumstances, why the hell not?

  ‘Right,’ he said, settling down in his seat, ‘maximum twat-face.’

  He turned on his indicator, folded his arms and sat back to watch the scene play out in front of him.

  The young man had got back into his car. But he was now twisting impatiently in his seat as he waited for Joe’s car to move. It didn’t. Then the door flew open again. This time he was more stompy than jaunty, and he came fast.

  ‘What’s yer problem? Back up or I’ll…’

  Something took Joe’s attention. The entrance to the car park was just ahead. A black BMW pulled up on the corner. He pressed the button and wound the window up as he watched Karen Cullen get out of the Beemer. Meanwhile, the shouting from outside became more agitated.

  He kept his eyes on her as she made her way up the short driveway. By the time Joe had got into reverse, the bloke outside was actually bawling at the window, the tendons on his neck strained, his whole body in an Incredible Hulk stance, as if he was about to lift the car up and hurl it out of the way.

  Joe backed up a couple of feet, all the time watching Karen Cullen, who walked quickly, her face pale and determined. Hulk was now storming back to his car.

  ‘The pencil is suddenly a very understandable option,’ he said as he waited for the car in front of him to reverse into the available space.

  By the time he’d found somewhere else to park, Karen Cullen was at a window table nursing a portion of chips and a Coke. The place was full. Mainly families, although on closer inspection most of the kids were with one parent, not two. And the parents themselves looked so disengaged with their children that it appeared that they were deliberately ignoring them. They’ll leave, he wanted to whisper in their ears. They’ll grow up, and one day they’ll just vanish from your life.

  Karen Cullen saw him as soon as he walked in. She watched as he made his way through the spontaneous kindergarten that took up much of the central area of the restaurant.

  ‘You beat me to it,’ he said, slipping into the seat opposite.

  ‘Had a bit of aggro in the car park?’ she said.

  Her eyes were slightly red, and she had lost what little colour there had been in her cheeks.

  ‘You saw that?’

  ‘I don’t miss much.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a good sign. What did you want to see me about?’

  ‘Lisa thinks her dad got Craig killed. She’s threatening to go to the, y’know, to you lot.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yeah. Danny was in the pub on Tuesday night. Behind the bar.’

  ‘Race Night?’

  ‘Yeah, he were there till closing time. There’s cameras inside and out.’

  ‘That goes for your husband’s associates too?’

  She screwed up her face, thought about it.

  ‘That posh fella came round. The Professor, they call him.’

  ‘Leo Turner? When was this?’

  ‘Today. I heard ’em talking. This is between you and me, right?’

  ‘This is a double murder. There might be more to come. You need to tell me everything you know.’

  ‘He said they’re gonna use the murders for publicity.’

  ‘Publicity?’

  ‘Y’know, if someone from th
e League is arrested for it, Danny gets himself on telly, kicks up a fuss, says the League is being blamed ’cos of the anti-drugs stuff and what-’ave-yer.’

  ‘That’s plausible. But it’s two murders we’re talking about. So far. Kind of high risk, don’t you think? All that vigilante stuff on the website? The League’s definitely gonna be under suspicion.’

  ‘Not Danny. All Tuesday he were in the pub.’

  ‘OK, let’s go back to Leo Turner. What did he say exactly?’

  ‘Soon as someone from the League gets taken in for questioning, Danny’s gonna do a press conference. Make it look like police harassment.’

  ‘Who does he think is likely to get brought in for questioning? Let me guess. Daz and Ranksy? Do they fit the bill?’

  ‘That’s what I want to tell you. They’ve been threatening Craig Shaw’s mum.’

  He paused, forced himself to remain calm. ‘Go on.’

  ‘All that stuff about only selling spliffs? He were doing coke and ket, an’all. Owt yer wanted, the cocky twat. Used to come down our estate. Taking the fuckin’ piss.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I phoned him a few times.’

  ‘How did you get his number?’

  She looked at Joe as if he was stupid.

  ‘He sells drugs. Half the bloody estate’s got his number. He told me to mind my own business.’

  ‘And your daughter?’

  ‘I tried to talk to her. But she’s an adult. I couldn’t go round there and drag her out, could I?’

  ‘So you threatened his mum?’

  She looked away.

  ‘I paid Daz and Ranksy to do it. Anonymous, no names. I thought his mum might get through to him.’

  ‘You scared her shitless. Made it look like a rival gang. Was that the idea? Stuff through the letterbox, the nasty phone calls? Was all of that you?’

  ‘I’m not proud. I didn’t know what else to do.’

  ‘Does Danny know?’

  ‘No. Didn’t think I needed to tell him. It worked, or I thought it had.’

  ‘The black Beemer disappeared, right?’

  She nodded.

  ‘But,’ he continued, ‘all he’d done was switch to his mum’s car.’

  ‘Didn’t take long to work that out. And then…’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Then he’s dead.’

  ‘Meanwhile, we’ve got Daz and Ranksy driving over to Leeds, telling his mum that they’re going to sort Craig out. And, by the way, you’re the second person to confirm that.’

  He looked at the parents around them, all safe in the knowledge that their kids were within easy reach. But what if one of them was in danger? Real danger? How far would they go?

  ‘I’ll just get a coffee. Why don’t you tell Lisa to park that big black car and come in? I need a word with her too.’

  Karen Cullen looked surprised.

  ‘I don’t miss much, either,’ he said.

  As he queued at the counter, he saw the guy from the car park over at a table in the far corner, watching his young daughter as she ate chips from her Happy Meal, making sure she didn’t get too much ketchup on each one, a paper serviette in his hand to wipe her mouth. It was almost impossible to believe that it was the same man.

  Joe gave Rita a call. She answered immediately, her voice hoarse, edged with exhaustion.

  ‘Hi, how’s it going? Saw you on the internet. Very sombre.’

  ‘Bollocks. We’re looking into Leo Turner now. Closely. We’ve got a big team on this. Getting’ bigger, an’all.’

  ‘I bet you are. I’ve got a bit more on him as it happens.’ He briefly explained the situation with Karen Cullen. ‘Shall I send ’em across to make statements?’

  ‘Sweet. Tell ’em to ask for me. I’ll be waiting. Cheers, Joe.’

  ‘No problem. By the way, what’s this about Beverage meeting a copper?’

  ‘Hold on, it’s here on the system. Peters or Peterson or something. That’s what the kid said. Beverage phoned him, said he was off to see a copper. We’ve got a DCI called Peters. Could be name-checking him. But there’s no obvious link. I’ve got somebody on it.’

  ‘No. He’s name-checking a Canadian psychologist.’

  ‘Explain!’

  But he’d already hung up.

  He texted Rita as he made his way back across the restaurant:

  Jordan Peterson. Author of 12 Rules for Life. The Lobster Book. There’s a copy in Turner’s house.

  ‘Hello, Lisa,’ he said, sliding back into the seat.

  Her expression was blank. There was none of the former attitude. She looked younger now, and smaller, her resilience stripped away until only the child remained. And she wasn’t pretending this time.

  ‘I assume your mum’s told you about what she did?’

  Karen nodded, answering for her daughter.

  ‘Lisa, you should know this. When Craig’s car was found, there was coke, fentanyl, e and ket in it. That’s what he was carrying when he was killed. Wrapped and ready to sell. Your mum was trying to protect you. I’d’ve done the same.’ He took a long breath, as a wave of emotion threatened to subsume him. ‘A parent’ll do almost anything to protect their kid. I hope you know that. It’s… it’s difficult to put into words.’

  Lisa looked right at him.

  ‘What do we do now? For Daz and Ranksy?’

  He wrote Rita’s details on a page from his notebook, tore it out, handed it over.

  ‘You drive over to Wakefield now, both of you. Make full statements. And I mean full. They’re expecting you. Lisa? You need to tell them everything you know.’

  Mother and daughter glanced at each other, and then, without a word, they got up.

  ‘Meanwhile,’ he told himself as he watched them leave, ‘I have another appointment.’

  He raised an arm and scratched the back of his head as he sniffed his armpit.

  ‘Shower first.’

  30

  The Greyhound pub sat a little way back from the single road that ran through Tong village. Its uneven stone walls were painted white, its windows were small and leaded, and the slate roof rose and sank very slightly, like the graceful droop of an elderly gentleman’s shoulders. The tarmacked car parks on either side were a little less than idyllic, yet the larger of these backed onto a cricket field, complete with a small clubhouse worthy of its own chocolate box, and a pitch roller bearing a velvety patina of rust. The addition of a hay wain might have been excessive. But only just.

  ‘Don’t talk about the case,’ he told himself as he got out of the taxi. ‘Don’t talk about your divorce. Don’t talk about how much you’re missing your bloody son.’

  Repeating these notes-to-self a few times, he walked towards the pub. Then it struck him: what on earth was he going to talk about?

  The main bar had a stone floor, and a collection of Toby jugs hanging above the counter. There were various hand-pulled ales on offer, horse brasses on the walls, a large bell to call time… In fact, it had everything that made a pub worth drinking in. It also had Sky Sports, high up in the far corner on a screen the size of a small bed, but even that seemed fitting, Mr Murdoch having now taken his rightful place in the most cherished of English shrines.

  He stood at the bar and let his hands run along its thick polished wood edge. How many pissed Yorkshiremen had slumped against its comforting bulk? Two centuries’ worth, give or take. All the arguments that had been settled here, swilled down with Best and Mild and pints of half ’n’ half, the bullshit talked, opinions given, received, discarded like empty crisp packets.

  He inhaled the lightly acidic smell of beer swills as if it were the lingering presence of candle wax in a church an hour after mass. He could have stayed here forever. Then he saw her. She was propped up at the bar in the corner, her back to him, watching rugby league on the TV screen. She was in black jeans and a loose white shirt. Very casual. Then again, this was technically a background interview, nothing more than that. What was she supposed to wear, a
cocktail dress?

  For a while he stayed where he was and looked at her. She was slim, about his height, and had the poise and angularity of someone in good physical shape. Naturally attractive, there was a kind of understated sensuality to her. Even now he could see that she had the air of a woman slightly beyond his reach. The idea of any sort of mutual attraction seemed implausible, the whole thing a joke at his expense. He’d had plenty of time to indulge in this kind of self-doubt since moving back from France. Dating had never been his thing, but now, in middle age, it felt utterly alien. So, with that huge vote of confidence in himself, he made his way over to her.

  She turned on her stool as he arrived, a large glass of white wine in her hand. At the same moment, a young, heavy-set barman on the other side of the counter appeared.

  ‘What can I get you?’ the barman asked.

  Joe looked at him, then at Chris.

  ‘Hi Joe!’ she said, jumping into the awkward moment. ‘Let me get this!’

  ‘Pint of Mild, please,’ he asked the barman.

  ‘Mild?’

  ‘Mild. Tetley’s Mild?’

  ‘Never heard of it, mate.’ There was just a hint of derision in his voice. ‘Is it non-alchy? It’ll be in a bottle if we have it.’

  ‘No, Tetley’s Mild. On draught?’

  ‘What, here?’

  ‘Everywhere. Used to be. Wishful thinking, I guess.’

  ‘You’re losing me now, mate.’

  It was the second ‘mate’ that did it. The perfect twat-face challenge, a young kid trying to be clever. He even had a beard, which only made things worse. Andy would have been well into it by now, winding the lad up with a mixture of faux-naïvety and implied mockery.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Joe said. ‘Just stuff from the Olden Days.’

  ‘Penny-farthings and coal mines, eh?’

  ‘Something like that. Let’s see if you can pull me a pint of Bitter.’

  As the young man wandered off down the bar, Chris was doing her best not to laugh out loud.