Red is the Colour

by Mark L. Fowler

  ‘So I understand. Ever heard of Kieran Blake?’

  ‘Should I have?’

  ‘He lives in Salford.’

  ‘And there’s a connection to Hillman?’

  ‘It seems so. He’s been used as an enforcer before. Well, CID up there are playing a blinder. They’ve been watching the man for some time. Remember the drive-by shooting over that way? Well, there was another shooting in Rusholme, you probably heard about it. Drugs-related, but not gang-related, the way it was setup to look like, that’s the thinking. There’s definitely a connection to Hillman, I can smell it. And I’m not the only one. Kieran Blake could be the man.’

  ‘Perhaps I’m on my way to meet him right now.’

  ‘No need. He’s just arriving on your patch.’

  On cue Tyler saw Dammers fail to take the motorway slip-road, instead circling back in the direction of Stoke. He thought of Berkins, and accusations of goose chases.

  ‘If this Blake is in the vicinity, do you think we should roll out the red-carpet?’

  ‘I don’t understand your protocols, but I think it would be rude not to have some kind of a welcoming party. What’s happening, Jim?’

  ‘Maybe Dammers realised he’d come out without his wallet.’

  ‘Giving the tail the run-around?’

  ‘I’m hanging back. If there’s a tail on Blake I don’t want to risk blowing it.’

  ‘There’s a tail, alright. They’re on him 24/7 and I’ve never know liaison as good as this.’

  ‘Perhaps we’re finally learning to play together nicely,’ said Tyler.

  ‘Well, you never know. It would be about time.’

  ‘Let’s re-write the book,’ said Tyler, letting Dammers’ tail-lights grow smaller in the distance.

  It was a short time later when Tyler’s phone rang again.

  ‘Looks like someone’s rumbled somebody else. Dammers is back home making himself a milky drink with the kitchen curtains open, while Blake is heading back to Salford. If I were you, Jim, I would call it a night.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘Doesn’t bode well, does it?’

  Tyler couldn’t sleep. He lay in his bed, in the early-hours darkness, counting the scumbags from his past, and watching each and every one transform into the image of Martin Hillman. If he could nail that one, perhaps he could leave the rest hanging on the same cross.

  He wanted a drink.

  Needed it.

  Jim Tyler’s hands were shaking, his throat hard and dry. He got out of bed. The moment of his life was arriving, to and from which all roads converged. Putting on his running gear, he strapped the phone to his arm and hit the streets.

  There was no such thing as silence in a city any more, whatever the hour; and yet a strange serenity could pick into the raging heart of the solitary runner as he clocked up the miles, wasting the energy that would otherwise consume him.

  Without consciously planning any route, he found himself running back towards the place where Alan Dale had been found; and once there, climbing the broad sweep up towards Hartshill.

  Tyler was halfway up the bank when he felt the phone vibrating against his arm. He stopped to check it. Julie Hammond was awake too, and with the same things on her mind: Hillman, Dammers, hired killers and justice. She was about to leave a message when Tyler answered.

  Kieran Blake had slipped his tail.

  Tyler was a mile away from where Dammers lived, and he could feel the adrenalin surging. He carried on up the bank, entering Hartshill.

  Danny Mills was out of bed and hastily getting dressed. Hammond had messaged him. If something was cracking off, he was going to pitch in. It would likely amount to nothing, but he wanted to be close-by in case he was needed.

  Mills hadn’t been asleep. He’d spent an unpleasant evening arguing with his wife over whether it was time to change schools and be done with. Whether they would be subjecting their children to the bullying they were suffering, if they had been content to stay put. They’d gone around in circles before finally hitting the sack, only to lie in their separate silences a million miles from sleep.

  The message had come as a relief to Danny Mills: a reason to get out of bed and begin the day, and gain some distance on everything.

  He drove out towards the city.

  Tyler moved discreetly, passing the cul de sac where Dammers lived. Surprised not to see any signs of surveillance. He jogged on, staying close, circling; uncertain of what exactly he was doing there.

  He had reached the top of The Avenue when he noticed the Astra moving purposefully up to the top of the rise, passing him. The man driving – Kieran Blake. He knew it; recognised the eyes of a vulture, clocking him, registering his presence, and processing whether this man out running in the early hours of morning had to be taken into consideration.

  Every rule stated that you shouldn’t leap to conclusions.

  And every instinct screamed that those same rules belonged only in the museums of the dead.

  Once the car had moved on out of sight, Tyler began to back-track.

  Mills was entering the city, with a few miles to go before he reached Hartshill. He thought about what he was doing. Whether he ought to ring Tyler.

  But what was he doing, beyond going for a late-night drive? Blake had slipped the tail, but that didn’t mean he was going to see Dammers. And if he was, that didn’t necessarily amount to anything.

  He pressed on, without urgency, wondering what the night would bring, doubting that it would bring anything at all. How long before this sorry saga was finally brought to an end, and the case closed in every last respect? Not long, he knew that. The ice was thin and getting thinner.

  Tyler had trailed back but there was no sign of the Astra in or near the cul de sac. He kept moving. Either he had got it all completely wrong, or else something was on and Blake was taking no chances.

  He heard the car coming towards the small recreation area behind the Co-op, dotted with trees and bushes and benches, rarely deserted during the summer months, but empty now. Tyler darted for cover and waited.

  The Astra came into view slowly, its driver casing the corners and parked vehicles. It had to be Blake. And by the look of it, this was no social call.

  The car moved past but Tyler didn’t budge. Five minutes later and it came around again, from the same direction. The driver knew the territory, and he knew how to circle and what he was looking out for.

  At last the Astra entered the cul de sac.

  Tyler messaged Hammond. It was good work, and her team would take it from there. Tyler said to stay back; he would be the eyes and ears and give the signal once and if.

  Paul Dammers was at the front door and the driver of the Astra was sitting behind the wheel. Then Dammers walked out towards the vehicle, carrying a small attaché case. He was opening the boot of the Astra and sliding the case inside, walking back now towards the house. As he passed the driver’s window, something changed hands.

  The engine of the Astra started up and Tyler signalled through to Hammond. Out of nowhere two vehicles descended on the scene, blocking the Astra’s escape.

  Tyler saw Dammers hurl an object across the neighbours’ fence and dart inside his own property, while the driver of the Astra jumped from the car and began to run for it.

  The officers split into two groups, three sprinting towards Dammers’ house, and another three in pursuit of Blake. The man was fast, and Tyler wasn’t in the mood to play the spectator. Blake was running back towards The Avenue, and already Tyler had outstripped Hammond’s team for pace.

  Mills drove up through Basford and was entering Albany Road, adjacent to The Avenue. He was about to pull over and liaise with Hammond before getting any closer to where Dammers lived.

  In the distance he could make out two figures running at speed. It seemed a little late in the evening, he thought, to be out trying to break records.

  As he cleared the brow of the hill to begin the long descent down The Avenue, Danny Mills blinked i
n disbelief.

  And then he gunned the car down the hill.

  Tyler was on the man, who turned and swung the first punch, catching Tyler across the jaw. The DCI rocked backwards but wouldn’t go down. The man looked about to capitalise on the punch when he saw the car barrelling down the road towards them, and three officers trailing.

  The distraction was enough for Tyler to launch himself again, taking the man down to the ground, catching another heavy blow as he did so. Tyler, dazed, managed to make a fist and aim it in the direction of the distorted features beneath him. He felt something give, a cracking sound, and wondered if it was teeth or knuckles.

  Mills screeched to a halt and leaped out to assist, cuffing Blake as the cavalry descended.

  Berkins sat across the desk from Tyler looking proud indeed. It had been an ‘unprecedented, exemplary example of what can be achieved with hard work, determination and tenacity’ and a ‘textbook template in cross-border policing that will, undoubtedly, be used for years to come both on the page and in the classroom’.

  The drugs, the cash, none of it was linking directly to Hillman, though. There were too many layers separating the man from what happened at street level, and Hillman had been careful to tie off any loose connections that might lead back to him. That’s what the likes of Paul Dammers were for.

  Kieran Blake’s DNA showed, beyond a shadow of doubt, that he was Steven Jenkins’ killer.

  All eyes were on Dammers.

  How far could loyalty stretch? How many years inside staring you in the face before the alternatives could be seriously considered?

  The knock on the door came as Berkins was approaching the final crescendo of his finest speech.

  Mills came into the room a little less apologetically than Tyler might have expected.

  There had been a development.

  Dammers was ready to talk.

  35

  Tyler was dreaming of the perfect murder as the first light of morning crept into his room. He had travelled across country to be in the home of the hybrid man he had spent his life wanting to kill.

  Except that everything had turned upside down. This man, this once-feared and fearsome creature, had shrunk to a withered, pitiful thing. Looking into the eyes of the teacher/headmaster/playground bully/neighbourhood thug – not to mention Greenslade – the rolled-up memory, clear as a bell and at the same time distorted by the prism of years – this thing that he had so wanted to destroy – a new emotion took control and Jim Tyler began laughing. And as he laughed, long and hard into the face of his old adversary, he watched it shrink and wither further; and the longer Tyler laughed at it, the more the devil thinned, until it occurred that if he kept on laughing, in the end the creature would die.

  Death by laughter.

  Tyler couldn’t stop. He went outside, laughing as he walked down the road and all the way out of town, his face and belly aching with it; laughing so long and so loud that finally he woke up …

  Sitting up in bed, the dream had started to recede, already a distant, half-remembered series of shimmering images that might have only seconds left to live out in the solid world. Other images, too, were clamouring for space; and Tyler realised that for the first time in years he had dreamed of a woman who was not Kim.

  Mills was sitting in his car watching the school playground. He could see Harry at the far end, playing with boys from his class. Jessica was closer, talking with two girls. Both of his children looked absorbed in what they were doing. Both looked happy.

  The window was down and Mills could hear the barrage of sound from the playground, though no individual voices. Then something cut through, the loud and unmistakable imitation of a police siren. Two boys close to Harry, running around making the noise. At first Mills thought that he had been spotted, despite the anonymity of the unmarked car, his plain clothes and sunglasses.

  Danny Mills was out of the car, trying to get an angle on the playground game.

  Was Harry crying?

  Mills moved quickly to the perimeter fence.

  As he recognised that his son was laughing, he heard a voice shout, ‘Harry, look, it’s your dad!’

  One of the teachers was looking over. His cover was blown. Harry came running over. ‘What do you want, Dad?’ He was looking over his shoulder, back at his mates, embarrassed by his father’s impromptu visit.

  ‘You okay, son?’

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘No problems?’

  ‘No, but there will be if you keep turning up here.’

  Mills had to say something. ‘I’m thinking of getting tickets for next season.’

  It was done. There was no way back.

  ‘Wow, great, Dad.’

  And then Harry was gone, back towards the group of boys, to tell them his news.

  Before he turned to leave, Mills caught Jessica’s eye, and she nodded, discreetly.

  It was time to go.

  Tyler drove up to Penkhull in his running gear. He parked up at the top of The Stumps and zig-zagged around the nooks and crannies of the village for a good five miles. He finished off with a single circuit of the park, and by the time he got back to the car his mind was made up.

  At the station Mills greeted his arrival with a mug of tea and the news that Howard Wood was on long-term sick, and enlisting the support of a staff counsellor. There were rumours that he was thinking of calling it a day.

  ‘Should be struck off,’ said Tyler.

  ‘They do that with teachers?’ asked Mills.

  ‘I meant the counsellor – for listening.’

  The two men looked at each other and then Tyler said, ‘Okay, what is it?’

  ‘It’s just, well, my wife was asking – she’d like you to come to our house for a meal.’

  Tyler smiled. ‘Tell your wife that I would be delighted.’

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ said Mills. ‘She said to ask what kind of food you like.’

  Tyler shrugged. ‘Tell her not to worry. I’m an easy man to please.’

  Later Tyler took a call from Maggie Calleer. ‘The newspapers are making interesting reading these days,’ she told him. ‘It seems that if I want to catch up on how my old charges are doing, I only need to consult the tabloids. Did Martin Hillman really kill Steven Jenkins?’

  The question was so blunt that Tyler found himself at a loss for a suitable response.

  ‘It surprises you, then?’ he said.

  ‘Of course it surprises me. It surprises me that one human being would ever wish to kill another. Doesn’t that surprise you?’

  Now that was a question, he thought.

  ‘So Hillman did kill him?’ Calleer laughed, bitter sarcasm dripping down the wire. ‘What am I thinking? I will re-phrase the question: so, did Martin Hillman have Steven Jenkins killed?’

  Tyler could have given her the bureaucratic brush off that all good boys and girls of ambition learn at an early stage in their careers. Instead he said, ‘Someone once told me that the person you mention would never get his hands dirty. I believe that person was right. Some bullies are like that, and it becomes a habit. It takes a keen eye to see the one making the bullets for others to fire, so to speak.’

  ‘And my eye wasn’t keen enough to see the real Martin Hillman?’

  ‘Forty kids is a lot to keep your eye on. The quiet ones are easily overlooked. Also, I think he was … exceptional.’

  ‘Thank you for your kind diplomacy. Though I’m not sure it’s enough to get me to sleep at night.’

  ‘I imagine there will be a lot of people having difficulty sleeping,’ he said.

  Before the call ended, Calleer said, ‘Miss Hayburn spoke to me last night. She appreciates that you must be very busy, but that if you can find a spare minute – apparently there’s a question of yours that she left unanswered.’

  The man with the moustache was taking a holiday, the first in quite a while. And before he set off he wanted to formally congratulate Tyler on the way he had handled ‘this singular ep
isode in the annals of crime in the City of Stoke-upon-Trent.’ It demanded – and it received – possibly the firmest handshake that Tyler had ever received, even from the moustached man. And it came with a buffet lunch.

  Funny the way things turn out, thought Tyler. Someone even higher up the food chain had liked the way ‘things had turned out’ and didn’t need to hear about the methods and misunderstandings along the way. They might become the stuff of legend, but more likely they would be allowed to sink without trace.

  He thought of an old maths teacher who once said that the person marking your paper was assessing the working-out along the way every bit as much as the final answer. But in real life, a multitude of sins could be allowed and forgiven so long as the thing worked out satisfactorily in the end.

  Careers and pensions safe.

  The machinery and the bureaucracy clunking on.

  A satisfactory outcome?

  Five adolescent boys had grown into men with a grim, disgusting secret to keep them company along the paths they were to take in life. Jenkins was dead, Marley was dead, Dammers was looking at serious jail time, which might yet be negotiable if he helped to land the bigger fish, and Swanson was in pieces. Hillman might still survive it, that all depended on the priorities of a loyal right-hand man, though his political ambitions were, for the moment at least, in tatters; and even his business empire might never thrive at the same level again.

  Who could tell?

  But he was still a long way from justice.

  It all depended on what you called satisfactory.

  For the city fathers it made good press: A city on the rise, smashing down the old and rebuilding. A thirty-year-old mystery solved and the ‘alleged monster’ didn’t even live here, flying the nest to be corrupted out in the wider world.

  It was a lousy and a dangerous sub-text, though a convenient one.

  Berkins was making heavy-weather of it. ‘We try not to make a habit of initiating our detectives with cases like this,’ he told Tyler, one hand on his moustache as he fumbled yet again for the closing, climactic line. ‘I’m not saying that life around these parts can’t be a challenge; but I do think that this ‘episode’ has been, shall we say, extraordinary.