She was a very misguided young woman and he hoped, one day, she might see the error of her ways, but that would be for someone else to witness, not him, who she was sure to get over soon enough.
Baz would be of no use either. In point of fact, he would possibly kill Sam if he should ever found out what had happened. After all, Deano McCullough was his brother and even though a racist, violent and abusive individual, in Baz’s eyes he could do no wrong.
Fortunately, however, neither Baz nor Flea had any clue as to Sam’s true identity and only knew him as the skinhead, John Robinson - ‘Robbo’ - and no such person actually existed.
Indeed, it was now time for him to bury that persona for good and severe any ties he had established whilst inhabiting it; his brief life as a skinhead thankfully over at last.
That being the case, the most obvious people to turn to for help were his real friends, Vasily and Miriam. They had stuck with him through thick and thin and would hopefully understand his motives for everything once he had properly explained.
Furthermore, Miriam, with all her medical expertise, was easily capable of tending his wounds, but Sam could not go to her at the hospital as it was just too risky.
He racked his brains, trying to think what to do, feeling weaker by the minute.
As he walked the deserted streets, keeping to the shadows, he came across a phone box and decided to call Vas, hoping that he would pick him up and take him to Miri’s place where they would wait together for her to get home from the hospital. Then she could stop the bleeding.
But Vas did not answer, the phone just kept ringing and all the time Sam was getting weaker.
With nothing else for it, he then decided to make his way to Miri’s place by himself. After all, he knew the building in which she now lived, just not her actual flat number. Nevertheless, he would wait outside until she got back from work, then go in with her.
Somewhat dazed and feeling weary and broken, he managed to make it about half way when he suddenly felt incredibly light-headed, as if he was about to pass out.
He was on a dark, lonely street, with no one else around, so stumbled as quickly as he could to the safety of a shop porch way where he slumped down onto the floor, concealed by the shadows, telling himself that he just needed a few minutes rest before setting off again.
However, almost immediately he slipped into unconsciousness and only awoke some time later when he heard the click, click, click of shoes on the cobbles as someone passed by.
Sam looked up and was certain that he saw Miriam. He called out but his voice did not come. He tried again but still nothing. He was just too weak and his throat completely dry.
As the sound of her footsteps faded, Sam scrambled painfully to his feet and set off after her as quickly as his tired body would allow.
But he could not keep up. Indeed, Miri, herself, started to walk much faster and Sam was certain that he had unintentionally scared her, although he had to concede that his current appearance might be considered quite terrifying.
Soon she had disappeared altogether. However, with renewed impetus, Sam pressed onwards and arrived at the large Edwardian house in which his friend now lived shortly after she got home.
Fortunately he was just in time to see her closing the curtains, giving him a clue as to which flat was hers.
The rest was relatively easy.
Hanging out with Baz had taught him many things, most notably how to break into a house. Indeed, Baz was skilled in the art and had turned it into something of a lucrative sideline - a couple of spells in borstal in his youth notwithstanding.
Nevertheless, Sam considered it a useful skill to have and Baz had taken great delight in teaching him.
So getting into Miriam’s flat did not present too much of a problem.
His memory of events after that, however, were all a bit vague.
He remembered waking Miri and having a brief conversation with her, but then the light-headedness returned and the room began to spin violently. In fact, he was in such a weakened state that his body just seemed to surrender once he had reached the sanctuary of her bedsit; his legs no longer strong enough to support him.
Yet he did remember something from the moments immediately before he passed out.
Or, more accurately, is was what he did not remember that he found quite startling.
For he could not remember for the life of him quite why he had never noticed before how truly beautiful Miriam was.
***
Miriam sat at her little table next morning eating a slice of toast watching Sam sleeping in her bed, still unable to properly believe that he was actually there - or how totally different he looked.
However, he looked so much better now than he did a few hours earlier.
Immediately after he passed out, she had staunched the bleeding from his stab wound. She then cleaned it thoroughly before stitching and dressing it. The cut was deep but it would heal well enough in time.
Next, without the benefit of either an X-ray or anaesthetic, she reset Sam’s fractured arm and applied a splint. Miri would have much preferred to do things the conventional way, at the hospital, with all its facilities at hand, but guessed Sam would not. There was clearly a good reason for him coming to her in the first place - no doubt related to his rather menacing appearance.
As it was, he cried out only once, whilst still unconscious, as she reset his arm, but then slumped back into oblivion without so much as another peep.
It was probably just as well because after dealing with his arm, Miri then reset Sam’s broken nose, which was another painful, albeit brief, procedure.
Once she had properly realigned it, she applied a couple of stitches to the nasty gash on the bridge of his nose where the skin had split, then taped on a gauze pad and finished by packing his nostrils with cotton wool.
After tending to his other cuts and bruises, Miri then stripped off his clothes, carefully washed him clean and put him to bed.
She wished she could have remained objective and professional about the task but it had proved impossible and her eyes had lingered far longer than necessary on his supremely toned body. She had, however, allowed him the dignity of keeping his boxer shorts on, although was greatly intrigued by the impressive bulge within them and sorely tempted to inspect it further.
Yet, using a great deal of self control, she managed to refrain; forcibly keeping some semblance of professionalism even though it was possibly too little too late.
Although she did have the decency to sleep on the couch, which was a decision she rather proudly commended herself on.
However, as the morning light shone into her top floor window, she studied Sam again.
He looked so out of character with a shaven head, even though it rather suited him. The tattoos, too, seemed so unlike him, but they definitely added a certain something to his overall appeal and she was keen to know the story behind them. Indeed, she could not wait to hear the whole story of where he had been and what he had been doing for the past six months.
But she let him sleep. He had clearly been through a major ordeal and now he needed to rest.
Miriam finished her toast and downed a very quick cup of coffee as she wrote Sam a note explaining that she had to go to work and would not be back until that night. She advised him to stay in bed and do as little as possible. There was food in the fridge and whatever she had was his to enjoy.
She then placed the note on the pillow beside him along with the T.V. remote before kissing him lightly on the forehead and slipping out the door.
However, as she walked to the hospital, there was a spring in her step and a little tune playing in her head.
Sam had come back at last.
***
Sam did not wake up until midday and when he finally did, he found that everything ached. Furthermore, for a moment he could not th
ink where he was; the freshly laundered sheets and the spotlessly clean bedsit in complete contrast to the squalid flat he had rented to promote his skinhead persona or, indeed, Flea’s place which had been little more than a drugs den.
Nonetheless, he soon remembered he was at Miriam’s, but with the exception of noting how attractive she was, his recollection of events once he arrived there were little more than a blur.
He was pleased to see, however, that she had attended to his injuries; his broken arm bandaged and in a sling, the knife wound stitched and his nose evidently reset.
But he was well aware of just how fortunate he had been. Indeed, even though wisely undergoing some fight training back in New Hampshire, he now knew it to have been wholly inadequate.
Furthermore, he had been unprepared for the sheer frenzy in which Merton, in particular, had attacked and considered himself incredibly lucky to have survived at all. What is more, he knew if he was ever to find the four remaining men and take them on, he was going to have to seriously raise his game.
He had been brought up in a pampered, privileged environment with anger, violence and aggression almost alien concepts, whereas the men he was pitting himself against were undoubtedly hardened, violent individuals, well-used to an altogether tougher existence. If Sam was going to face them on equal terms then he needed to drastically alter his mindset.
Yet, for the moment, he was just grateful he had made it to the safety of Miriam’s bedsit.
As a result, and barring the aches and pains associated with his wounds, he generally felt much better.
Although he was a little perturbed by the fact that he now appeared to be almost naked - yet he could not help but smile at the thought of Miri undressing him.
When he found her message on the pillow beside him he smiled again. She really was a good friend.
Suddenly starving, Sam gingerly slid out of bed and crossed to the refrigerator where he found bacon, eggs and sausages.
A few minutes later they were all frying nicely in the pan and a large mug of coffee was steaming on the worktop.
When everything was ready, he loaded up a tray and headed back to bed where he switched on the T.V. using the remote Miri had left him.
Then, as he devoured his breakfast, he watched the Lunchtime News, which was reporting that the bodies of two murdered skinheads had been found in an alleyway in Cambridge.
Yet it did not spoil Sam’s appetite.
In fact, all he could think of, as he watched the report, was of what Deano McCullough had told him about the man, Roger Finch, and how soon it might be before he could pay him a visit in Pemberton Woods.
Chapter Fifteen
After sixteen months of marriage, Emma Coyle no longer felt the need to get up with her husband or make his packed lunch to prove herself to be a good wife.
Indeed, she had decided that she could be of much better use plotting Roper’s next promotion from the comfort of her bed - ideally whilst still asleep.
So Roper did not even bother to disturb her in the mornings when he left for work; no kiss, no cuddle, no ‘see you later’ and certainly no sexual activity, which had once been such a vital part of their relationship but was now reserved exclusively for Sunday mornings and special occasions.
Yet on this particular Sunday morning, it was still way too early for any of that as Roper snatched up his buzzing mobile phone, bleary eyed and still half asleep, yet managing to see the words ‘Jeff Grainy’ displayed on the tiny L.E.D. screen of his Nokia.
“Hello Guv?” He croaked, noting from his alarm clock that it was just before 4am. “Everything okay?” His voice nothing but a whisper so as not to wake his sleeping wife.
“Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday, Rope,” said Jeff Grainy, not sounding sorry at all, “but there’s been a double murder - couple of skinheads. And I need you down here, ASAP.”
Roper was immediately alert. Another murder case - only the second since his arrival in Cambridge.
Whilst violent crime was generally on the rise, murder was, thankfully, still comparatively rare in the university town - which made it all the more galling that Roper’s first ever case as a Detective Sergeant still remained unsolved.
Yet now there had been another murder - this time a double - and Roper could only hope he and Grainy would have more luck with this one.
“Sure, Guv,” he replied. “Give me the address and I’ll get there soon as I can.”
Grainy quickly related the details then added, “Twenty minutes, Wonder Boy - I need your big brain on this one.”
Roper smiled at the compliment. He and Grainy had made a good team over the last couple of years; the older, more jaded D.I. coming to trust the natural policeman’s instincts of his much younger sergeant which had served them both well in the time they had worked together.
The singular exception to this, where their combined skills had come to exactly nought, was the murder of the poor, butchered girl in the glade on Roper’s first day on the job.
Grainy had done all he could to forget the incident but it still haunted Coyle. Indeed, it was a constant source of frustration that he had not brought Claudette’s killers to justice. Yet he had not given up hope. Someone, somewhere knew something, it was just a matter of being patient.
But for the time being, that case would have to wait as another was about to demand all of his attention.
“Okay, Guv. On my way,” Coyle said as he slipped out of bed and headed to the bathroom.
***
It was still dark when Coyle arrived but there was a bustle of activity everywhere.
He parked his Ford Escort in the middle of the main street amongst a jam of police vehicles just before the outer cordon of blue and white tape.
He flashed his warrant card at a uniformed officer and asked the whereabouts of D.C.I. Grainy as he shrugged on his overalls and slipped on a set of paper shoe coverings.
When suitably attired and with his query answered, he ducked under the tape and entered the alleyway which had now become a major crime scene.
He found his boss at the end of the alley, standing over a couple of bodies and talking to a member of the forensics team beyond the inner cordon. Again, Roper ducked under yet more tape and approached. Noticing his arrival, Grainy finished his conversation with the technician and gestured for Coyle to join him.
“What have we got, Guv?” Roper asked, being careful where he placed his feet so as not to disturb the scene.
“Reckon someone’s done the world a favour with these two,” said Grainy. “But take a look for yourself. Tell me if you recognise anyone.”
Roper snapped on a pair of blue latex gloves as he moved closer to the two bodies on the ground.
There was a lot of blood; the sodden concrete surrounding them painted red with it.
Both men were skinheads, as Grainy had already suggested, but they were not dressed in a style that Roper would have expected. Indeed, they were both wearing black combat fatigues, black, zip-up bomber jackets and military-style boots - a uniform of sorts, as if members of some para-military organisation.
The bodies lay one on top of the other. The first had a terrible injury to his eye socket which Roper guessed was the most probable cause of death; a knife wound he suspected, possibly having pierced the brain.
There was also a mass of blood around the victim’s groin with great rivers of it having run down his legs, too. Coyle winced involuntarily and looked at Grainy. “Stabbed in the bollocks?” He queried, a pained expression on his face.
“Mmm hmm. Looks like it,” replied Grainy. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer bloke.”
Roper noted the sarcasm as he carried on with his inspection. The victim had the number ‘617’ tattooed behind his right ear and ‘skins’ tattooed on the knuckles of his right hand. The word ‘hate’ was inked on the knuckles of his left.
&n
bsp; “Six one seven, what’s that mean?” Roper asked. “Any ideas?”
“You need to brush up on your history, Wonder Boy,” smiled Grainy, pleased to know something his underling did not. “617 Squadron - they were The Dambusters - heroes of the Second World War - didn’t they teach you about ‘em in school?”
“Yeah, maybe, but what’s the connection with—”
“The 617 Club is also a known skinhead hangout,” interrupted Grainy, “They named it in tribute to The Dambusters - a symbol of what it means to be British or some such nonsense I suppose - but it’s more like a bloody insult if you ask me.”
“I’ve never heard of it. Is it in Cambridge?”
“No. On the outskirts. It’s just an old cricket pavilion that they’ve taken over - stuck out in the middle of nowhere. But a particularly nasty bunch operate out of there - call themselves ‘The Bomber Squadron’ and they get their jollies from beating up Pakistanis and West Indians. A proper organised crew they are - led by that fella there with the pierced taters. Or it was once at least.”
“I don’t recognise him,” said Coyle. “Should I?”
“No. He was before your time. Last I heard he’d signed up as some sort of mercenary - went off to Africa somewhere killing for pleasure and getting paid for it. But it looks like he came back.”
“Who is he?”
“Real vicious bastard by the name of Deano McCullough. Got a history of violence that goes way back; beatings, stabbings - all manner of hate crimes - he’s even been in the frame for a few rapes but nothing’s ever stuck.
“Sounds like he got what he deserved,” offered Coyle.
“Yep. I’d say you’re about right.” Agreed Grainy before directing his sergeant to the other victim.
“What do you make of that one?” He nodded.
Roper leaned in closer to the man underneath McCullough and recognised him immediately as the person he and Grainy thought might have been connected to the killing of Claudette Sekibo.
“Jesus - it’s Billy Merton!” He exclaimed, the harelip and ghoulish face of the second victim absolutely unmistakable. His eyes were fixed open, only the whites visible to make his death mask truly grotesque.
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