by John Dean
‘Control reckons one of the residents saw it arrive twenty minutes ago. It certainly matches the description of the flat-bed seen near St Luke’s.’
‘I don’t suppose this Good Samaritan gave a name?’
‘What do you think?’ said Robertshaw.
Canham nodded; they both knew that many of the decent people had long been driven out of The Spur and that those who remained lived in fear, too afraid to speak out against the drug dealers, petty criminals and alcoholics who were now their neighbours. Everyone knew what had happened here several years before. No one would ever forget it. Robertshaw had been one of the first officers onto the estate the night it happened and recalled the terrible events every time he ventured back onto the estate. All the officers in Hafton felt the same: it was what made The Spur unique.
Canham looked round at the scattering of dilapidated cars parked round the edges of the quadrangle: one of them was burnt out, another had its rear wheels missing and none of them had tax discs.
‘I think this is a set up,’ he said, a fresh urgency in his voice as he gestured with his hand. ‘I mean, where is the truck, Bri? I can’t see it.’
‘No,’ replied Robertshaw, lips pursed. ‘Neither can I.’
A movement caught Canham’s eye over to the left. Peering closer, the constable thought he could just make out a figure retreating into the darkness. Even though the figure vanished as rapidly as it had appeared, instinct told the young officer that The Spur was not the place to be.
‘Time to leave,’ said Canham.
‘We can’t,’ replied Robertshaw firmly as he stepped into the stairwell, his voice echoing back out of the darkness. ‘We have a job to do.’
Canham did not move. After a few seconds, Robertshaw reappeared.
‘You coming?’ he asked.
‘Sorry,’ said Canham, starting to walk back towards the patrol car. ‘I’m not going to get my head stoved in for the sake of a bit of lead nicked from a church roof. Let the day shift sort it.’
Robertshaw tried to assume an authoritative air as he eyed the young officer. ‘Now listen here, son, it’s our job to…’
‘Just like it was Kenny’s?’ said Canham sharply.
Robertshaw said nothing, the comment having stilled the words in his throat. Standing there in the stillness of the night, he recalled the fresh-faced young officer murdered on the estate several years previously. Called to investigate a report of a burglary, the PC had become separated from his colleague and had been set upon by a gang of youths. In the melee that followed, a knife had flashed in the darkness and Kenny Jarvis had fallen. Images of his ready smile danced before Robertshaw’s eyes, and the sergeant felt the tears starting in his eyes as always when he thought of that night.
The image of the body sprawled on the stairs, the blood seeping through his uniform, was followed by the thought of the sergeant’s two teenaged daughters asleep in their beds, safe and peaceful in the knowledge that their father would be there when they awoke in the morning, bustling around in the kitchen, having just come off shift. ‘Sleep tight, see you for breakfast,’ he always said when he left the house for a night shift. But since the death of Kenny Jarvis, the thought that one day he would not see them for breakfast had loomed larger. It was what made retirement an increasingly attractive option. With a slight nod of the head, Robertshaw walked over to join his colleague at the car.
Canham was watching him uneasily.
‘I was out order, Sarge,’ he said. ‘You’re right, we have got a job to do…’
‘No, lad, you’re the one who’s right. Nothing is worth that. Let’s get out of here.’
‘Good man,’ said Canham, his relief showing. ‘I mean, we can always argue that the inspector told us to go careful. It was the last thing he said at briefing, remember.’
‘It was,’ said Robertshaw, looking at his colleague over the top of the vehicle. ‘Not that it feels right, mind. We’ve been treating this lot with kid gloves for too long.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Canham, clambering into the driver’s seat. ‘Tell the chief, it’s his memo.’
Robertshaw gave a snort. All the officers at Abbey Road had read with disgust the chief constable’s edict the week before that Western Division officers should treat The Spur with what he had described as ‘extreme sensitivity’. The order had been issued following a series of late-night incidents in which the arrival on the estate of police officers had met with ferocious resistance and provoked disorder lasting several hours on one occasion.
The incident that had prompted the memo had happened the week previously when a team of uniformed officers seeking to execute a warrant had smashed their way into a flat only to discover that they had the wrong address. The elderly lady who lived there had suffered a heart attack and had been in hospital ever since. It was not known if she would live. The evening newspaper had seized on the story, suggesting that the police had caused the violence by acting in a heavy-handed manner because, on two previous occasions, vans containing a dozen officers had arrived to make what should have been straightforward arrests. Ever sensitive to the media, the chief constable had sought to defuse the situation and had given an interview in which he revealed that he had instructed that all such future operations on The Spur be more carefully planned. His officers had hated the decision: the villains on The Spur had loved it and had lost no time in taunting the police whenever the opportunity arose. And, as every police officer knew, villains with a sense of invulnerability were dangerous animals indeed.
‘Come on, get in, Bri,’ said Canham from inside the car, reaching down to start the engine.
Robertshaw gave a final glance to his right, over to the entrance to the quadrangle where the blocks looped round to come within ten metres of each other and create a dark tunnel through which anyone wishing to leave the estate needed to travel. He lowered himself into the passenger seat and the car started to move. Robertshaw looked out of the passenger side window and saw figures running along one of the upper landings. More appeared at ground level in front of them, emerging from the shadows and starting to advance on the vehicle. Swivelling round to peer through the back window, he could see a small knot of people blocking off their escape route through the tunnel. Some appeared to be clutching baseball bats.
‘Ambush,’ hissed Robertshaw.
Canham slammed his foot on the accelerator and swung the car round to face the tunnel before driving, with tyres screeching, towards the exit, scattering the assembled youths. As the car shot past, the officers heard a series of heavy thuds from the clubs slamming into its bodywork. With the gang’s curses ringing in their ears, but the way ahead clear, both officers nevertheless tensed as the vehicle approached the tunnel: not even the welcome sight of the street lights of the main road beyond could ease their concerns as the blocks of flats loomed large ahead of them, their sides steep and sheer like a canyon. Canham hit the accelerator hard, glancing in his rear-view mirror at the gang of men running across the square, their numbers swelling with every passing second as figures swarmed out of the darkness. Returning his attention to the way ahead, he saw another group appear from the shadows to their left and there was the sound of stones clattering off the side of the car. One cracked a window.
‘Still want to stay?’ said Canham, gripping tight onto the steering wheel.
‘Just get us out of here.’
‘Your wish,’ said Canham and gunned the engine.
As the car plunged into the blackness of the tunnel, a metal dustbin plummeted from one of the upper floors and struck the ground just in front of the vehicle with a loud clang, its looming form briefly illuminated by the headlights as it bounced towards the car.
‘Jesus!’ yelled Canham, yanking on the steering wheel so that the car veered round the bin, scraping the vehicle’s paintwork along the wall. The officers heard loud cheers from the mob behind them.
‘That was close,’ gasped Canham as the tunnel spat the car out of the far end.
/> Neither officer saw the concrete block falling silently through the air.
Chapter two
‘It gives me great pleasure to welcome you all this afternoon,’ said the mayor, a balding man with a belly hardly contained by his red robes.
A smattering of applause rippled through the crowd of men, women and restless children crammed into the sweltering heat of the refurbished Tenby Street Railway Station. Those at the far end of the main platform, spilling out through the large double doors into the bright summer sunshine, strained to hear the mayor’s words above the sound of the carnival that had been set up in the car park to celebrate the opening of the new railway museum. A fairground organ competed with the mayor for their attention.
‘It has special significance for me,’ continued the mayor, ‘because I was myself a train driver.’
‘I’m surprised he was able to fit into a cab,’ murmured Detective Chief Inspector John Blizzard, who was standing at the front of the crowd. He glanced at his girlfriend and winked.
‘Behave,’ said Fee Ellis, pinching his arm.
‘It gives me great personal pleasure to see so many young people here,’ said the mayor, giving the children what he assumed to be a reassuring smile. ‘It is so important that our younger generation takes an interest in Hafton’s railway heritage. Before I perform the opening ceremony, I would like to ask John Blizzard to say a few words. Don’t worry, he’s not here to arrest anyone.’
The councillor paused for laughter – he had even scribbled the word ‘laughter’ on the speech – but none came, so with a slightly sheepish look, he glanced back down at his notes.
‘Chief Inspector Blizzard,’ he said, ‘as many of you may know, is part of the team responsible for the renovation of this truly wonderful machine.’
The councillor gestured behind him to the stretch of track that ran through the station, out through the double doors and round the edge of the museum’s field. Everyone stared at the steam locomotive, steaming gently, her green livery and polished metal gleaming in the shafts of sunshine filtering through the skylights in the station roof. There was a ripple of applause and Blizzard nodded his appreciation: for weeks, he had been saying that this moment meant more than all his judges’ commendations. No one at Abbey Road could remember having seen Blizzard so enthusiastic about anything. Even to those who had known him for years, his relentless cheeriness had proved a wearing experience and they had started wishing for the return of the grumpier version. You knew where you were with the grumpier version.
* * *
Less than two hundred metres away, a young woman and her golden retriever left their home and walked to the end of the terraced street. Following their daily ritual, they turned left at the last house and walked out onto the brick-strewn wasteland. Megan Rees paused, struck as ever by the contrast as they left the neatly-kept former railwaymen’s houses and confronted the desolate scene before them. The council had demolished ten 19th century back-to-back streets the year before to make way for a supermarket but there had been no sign of the development promised by the city fathers. With a little shake of the head, Megan Rees set off across the wasteland, broken glass crunching beneath her calf-length black boots.
At the far side of the wasteland, owner and dog clambered up the grassy embankment and dropped down onto the old railway siding. Thirty years previously, the line had served the city’s giant railway works, but the tracks had been removed after the plant closed down, and for three decades the signal box had kept a silent vigil for locomotives that would never come. Over the years, the trackbed had returned to nature, and these days the majority of people using it were dog walkers enjoying the solitude of the rough track as it wound its way unheralded past terraced streets and run-down factories, a welcome splash of greenery in the grey heart of the city.
Megan Rees liked being there and she reached down to release the catch on the dog’s lead, smiling as she watched the animal rooting in among the rotting sleepers and rusting barrels. She turned her attention to the myriad of wildflowers that poked through the scrub and admired the butterflies flitting from bloom to bloom as the sun warmed the earth. Something about their colours appealed to the artistic side of her nature and she produced a small notepad from her rucksack. For a couple of minutes, she sketched one of the insects as it fluttered between the flowers. She slipped the pad back into her bag, resolving that it would be her next project at night class. She mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ as the butterfly passed close to her face, so near that she could almost reach out and touch it. The insect’s ragged wings reminded Megan Rees that butterflies were brutal creatures when it came to their own.
Taking notice for the first time of the hubbub coming from the carnival at the nearby railway museum, Megan peered to her right and glimpsed, a hundred metres away through the high wire fence and the belt of trees, people milling about in the grounds of the refurbished station. She resolved to pop along later. It sounded fun. Her father would have enjoyed it, she thought. A railman through and through, Denny Rees would have appreciated the way the city was finally acknowledging the legacy of a once-great industry. Too many people had ignored the city’s railway heritage for too long, that’s what he would have said. Her face clouded over: if only he had been there to see it. Megan instinctively wiped a hand across moist eyes, the memory of his death still hurting more than a decade later. There was also anger at the manner of his passing. It was an anger that never left her: if anything, it grew stronger with each passing year.
Thought of her father returned Megan’s focus onto what she had come to do. She walked over to the old signal box, took a deep breath and climbed the stairs, stepping carefully as the rotting timbers creaked and shifted beneath her feet. She wanted to savour the moment. At the top of the steps, she let her gaze roam around the control room. Time had not been kind to the box: its controls had long since been ripped out and sold for scrap metal, all its windows had been smashed and the walls were defaced with graffiti. But there was another thing that caught her attention, something she was expecting to see, and she walked over to the shape lying in the far corner, her boots reverberating on the wooden floor. She stared down at the body then tapped it with her foot.
‘Hello, Billy,’ she said quietly. ‘Welcome home.’
Megan walked over to the window and stared down into the siding, giving a slight intake of breath as she saw a young couple walking below, hand in hand. The young man glanced up and saw Megan staring at him. For a moment, they looked at each other then he returned his attention to his girlfriend and the young couple walked on. At the end of the siding, the young man glanced back to see Megan Rees still watching him from her vantage point at the window. When the couple had gone, Megan fished her mobile phone out of her pocket and dialled 999.
* * *
Detective Sergeant David Colley sat in the CID room at Abbey Road police station and bleakly surveyed the pile of reports on the desk. As duty weekend sergeant, he had been hoping for a quiet Saturday to catch up on some work. Some hope, he thought darkly. Western Division did not do quiet Saturdays – did not do quiet anything – and the incident reports had arrived in a steady stream throughout the morning. Burglaries, car thefts, assaults, the daily fare of life in the division, piled up in front of him, provoking a growing sense of helplessness in the sergeant.
Feeling suddenly weary, Colley tipped his chair backwards and placed his feet on the desk, moving aside some of the files to make room. His eyes flickered then closed: ever since the birth of his baby daughter some weeks before, the sergeant had been experiencing a fatigue he had not thought possible. How he had scoffed when colleagues had tried to warn him in the weeks leading up to her arrival that he would feel more tired than he had ever known. ‘I’ve done night shifts,’ he had said with unaccustomed pomposity, ‘I think I can handle a bit-babby.’ Long nights endlessly pacing the floor with Laura in his arms, or sitting watching second-rate American cop shows at three in the morning, not daring to move
lest he disturb his daughter as she slept on his lap, had made him realise the folly of those words.
He realised it again now as, slipping into slumber, he threatened to overbalance. Snapping open his eyes and giving a cry of alarm as he threw out a hand to steady himself against the wall, the sergeant gingerly lowered the chair back to the floor, sighed and reached out for a file. After a few moments, he cursed and hurled it back onto the desk, having read the same line four times without taking in any of the meaning. There was a knock on the door and in walked a slim, tall man with short-cropped brown hair, an angular face, a prominent nose and a thin mouth. Detective Inspector Chris Ramsey, smartly dressed as ever in a dark suit, glanced round the empty room.
‘Where are the others?’ he asked.
‘Out on jobs. I sent Danny to the Castleview. I thought we ought to get something moving on the distraction burglaries asap – one of the victims is ninety-six and the newspaper has already been onto him. Turns out he’s a war veteran. “I died at Dunkirk for the likes of them as robbed me,” that kind of thing. Thought a swift response might make for a bit of good PR.’
‘Indeed,’ said Ramsey approvingly. ‘Although most of the paper’s time seems to be taken up with what happened on The Spur.’
‘Any word?’
‘I have just been in with the uniform inspector,’ said Ramsey, easing himself into a chair. ‘She’s furious.’
‘The concrete block landed on the bonnet, didn’t it?’
‘Yeah, but it flipped off to one side. It doesn’t bear thinking about what would have happened if it had kept going.’
‘Gazza still in hospital?’
‘Yeah,’ said Ramsey. ‘Turns out that he fractured his shoulder trying to control the car – God knows how he managed to drive back to the station. He must have been in agony.’
‘He would have been. I did that playing rugby. How’s Bri?’
‘Cuts and bruises but he’s really shaken up. Some of the lads reckon he might put in for early retirement.’