A Long Way Down

by Ken McCoy

  ‘I wouldn’t have put it quite so bluntly as that, but I believe she was involved with him in some way.’

  ‘I thought the same myself. She certainly looked like Charlie’s type, but she wasn’t.’

  ‘So you met her?’

  ‘Yes, I saw her in his office one day. He told me she was purely a client of his new business venture and I believed him. We had no secrets from each other. Had she been a girlfriend, he’d have told me. I have a few gentleman friends of my own.’

  ‘This new business venture – would that have been Snowball?’

  ‘It was, yes. That seems to have died a death, along with Charles. No one seems to know anything about it, apart from the two backward lads. I couldn’t get much sense out of them, so I gave up. There was a bit of money in the Snowball bank account which I’ve managed to get my hands on. I’m happy to let it die a death, to be honest.’

  ‘By backward lads, you mean Simeon Piper whom we believe to have a social anxiety disorder, or some such condition?’ said Sep, reprovingly.

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘His brother’s not backward, quite the opposite in fact.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Do you have an address for Mrs Hardacre?’

  ‘Well, not an address as such.’

  ‘As such? What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I mean I know what car she drives. It’s a gold Lexus with the number plate OH 100 … flash bugger! I imagine you can get her address from that.’

  ‘I can indeed, Mrs Santiago. Tell me, is Charlie’s computer systems company still in business?’

  ‘You mean Santiago TechSys? Oh yes. I’m actually running it myself, better than he ever ran it. I have an honours degree in Accounting and Finance which I’ve never used.’

  ‘Have you really? That’s interesting?’

  ‘Why would it be interesting – because I’m a mere woman, running a man’s business? I was always a better businessman than Charlie. He didn’t even get a maths O level.’

  ‘No. I didn’t mean that at all. Winnie here can lose me on a computer, so can you, I don’t doubt. The only degree I’ve got is in English, which has nothing to do with computers – or business for that matter.’

  ‘A copper with an arts degree? Now that really is interesting,’ said Mrs Santiago, looking at Winnie, who gave her a conspiratorial smile, in an effort to enlist her on their side.

  ‘Touché,’ grinned Sep. ‘Right, so Mrs Hardacre drives a gold Lexus, registration OH 100. Do you know anything else about her … about her husband for example?’

  ‘Ah, I see where you’re coming from. Did her husband kill Charlie because he didn’t like being cuckolded? Who knows? I don’t. Never seen the man. I suppose I could have killed her for the same reason, but it never occurred to me. Maybe I’m just not one of life’s criminals.’

  ‘Or maybe Charlie wasn’t worth you doing life for,’ put in Winnie.

  ‘No, he definitely wasn’t. He was good looking and a good breadwinner and he didn’t knock me about, but that’s about all. Well-respected as a businessman, but as a life companion he’d bore the balls off a buffalo.’

  Winnie smiled and memorized that one.

  Sep threw his crutches in the back, sat on the passenger seat and heaved his right leg inside, Winnie, sitting in the driver’s seat, asked, ‘What was so interesting about her having a degree?’

  Sep considered this as he got settled in his seat.

  ‘It wasn’t so much the degree, it was that she knew enough to take over the business. Which means she’d be able to run Snowball with no help from Charlie, albeit while pretending that it’s dormant.’

  ‘Who would know?’ said Winnie.

  ‘Companies House would know,’ said Sep,‘and she could be the one that Redman was trying to muscle in on. That’s why I asked if she knew him.’

  ‘If that’s the case, she should be really grateful to you that he’s dead.’

  ‘If she is grateful, she never let on,’ said Sep.

  ‘Maybe she’s just a good liar,’ said Winnie. ‘Some women are, you know.’

  ‘It seems to me that no one wants to own up to the truth in this case.’

  ‘The truth often gets you into trouble, I’ve found.’

  ‘Winnie, in the long run, it’s lies that get you into the most trouble.’

  ‘Oh dear, listen who’s talking? She also told you she’s not one of life’s criminals.’

  ‘That woman’s made me suspicious of her and she might well come to regret it.’

  ‘Ain’t that the truth,’ said Winnie.

  Tracey Briggs knew exactly where her brother was as she took the lift up to level two of Scarborough Hospital. A police constable was sitting in a chair at the entrance to a one bed ward. He was reading a book which he put down when he saw her approaching.

  ‘Which bed is Roscoe Briggs in? I need to speak to him.’

  He looked at her carrier bag. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A very good friend of his. You need to search my bag. He’s in there on his own is he?’

  ‘He is. It’s a one bed ward for security reasons and I will need to search you.’

  ‘I know the drill. I’ve visited the silly sod in hospital before. Do you want me to take my coat off?’

  Being disparaging about whom she was visiting often had the coppers dropping their guard. This one searched her bag and found only cigarettes and two large bars of chocolate. Tracey held out her arms and said, ‘I know you need to pat me down but don’t make a meal of it like most of you lot do or there’ll be a complaint and I know exactly who to go to.’

  ‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary.’

  It was a decision that would earn the officer a severe reprimand and curtail his progress up the promotion ladder. She opened the door, turned towards Roscoe and said, ‘Hiya, Ross.’

  She spoke in a low voice as the policeman on the door had left it ajar.

  ‘Hiya, Trace. Didn’t think yer’d come all the way out here. Have yer got wheels?’

  ‘Yeah, an old van. What’s it this time?’

  ‘Oh, got tangled up with Redman in some scam he had runnin’.’

  ‘What’re yer likely ter go down for?’

  ‘Normally it’d be a life job but if I turn grass I could be out in five or six.’

  ‘Who told yer that?’

  ‘Black.’

  ‘And yer trust that lyin’ bastard do yer? From what I’ve heard of him yer can’t trust a fuckin’ word he says.’

  ‘Trace – it’s either trust him or I’m due a life stretch.’

  Her voice was now down to a whisper. ‘Fuck that! Believe me, Ross, the only way yer’ll escape a life stretch is by gerrin’ yerself out of here.’

  ‘How do I do that? There’s a copper on the door.’

  ‘Yer can use what I’ve got up me armpit.’

  She wore a coat with voluminous sleeves. The height of current fashion and also handy for concealing small handguns. With her free hand she took out a small gun from a shoulder holster and slid it under his bedclothes.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a Taurus P 111. It’s a small gun but it’s as good as a Smith & Wesson any day. I bought it fer me own protection when I’m workin’ the streets. It carries thirteen 9-mills and it’s fully loaded. No one can trace it ter me, by the way, so yer don’t have to worry about that – as if yer would.’

  ‘Have yer used it on anyone who might have reported it?’

  ‘Just once. I were down in the Smoke sleepin’ rough when this geezer thought he’d have a go at rapin’ me. I stuck it in his gob and was gonna shoot the filthy bastard when he pulled himself away. He saved both his life and me a shedload of trouble. Anyway he ran away and I shot ’im up the arse. That slowed him down a bit – speeded me up as well. I shot out of there like shit off a shovel!’

  ‘He’s prob’ly gorra wife who dunt understand him,’ said Roscoe.

  ‘I bet she didn’t understand how he
got a bullet up his arse, either. Anyway yer tell that scuffer on the door yer need ter go fer a shit and need yer cuffs off.’

  ‘Not sure he’ll do that.’

  ‘Well, yer can tell him it’s contrary to the European Human Rights Act to expect a man ter shit while he’s wearin’ handcuffs. It’s called an affront ter yer human dignity.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yeah, I read it in the paper.’ She whispered a few further instructions to him under her breath. He nodded that he understood.

  With that, she turned and left. With the gun still under the bedclothes, Roscoe unclipped the magazine and checked for bullets – thirteen, plus one in the chamber, no doubt – that should be more than plenty. All he had to do was get past the copper on the door and get out of the hospital before the alarm was raised. Tracey had outlined a plan to him that seemed workable.

  In his bedside cupboard was a bag of his clothes. Maybe if he could get dressed surreptitiously and walk out at visiting time. No, it’d be better if he could get himself and his clothes to the gents public toilet where he could get properly dressed. There was a dressing gown in the cupboard. He could roll up his trousers so that he looked to be bare legged with no shoes or socks, put the dressing gown on and tell the copper he was going to the toilet, as he had many times before. Mostly the copper would accompany him and stand outside the door. So if he came out properly dressed in street clothes, maybe the copper wouldn’t know it was him, especially if he took the bandages off his bald head. Worth a try, that. In any case, he had a loaded gun to handle the copper with, if things got tricky. Christ! After what Tracey had just told him, things couldn’t get much trickier. He was looking at a life sentence.

  He opened his bedside cupboard and took out the bag. Ten minutes later, despite the difficulty presented by having one hand cuffed, underneath his dressing gown, he was wearing trousers and one sleeve of a shirt and jacket. The other sleeve of each hung loose over his shoulder. He stuck a shoe in each of his jacket pockets and likewise his socks, then swung his legs out of bed, rolled up his trousers and stood up. The gun was in his dressing gown pocket which also had a loose-hanging sleeve—only to be expected. He needed to keep the gun handy. His head was swathed in bandages and he looked for all the world like a patient taking a walk around the ward. He went to the door, which was just within reach of his handcuff chain and popped his head around.

  ‘I need the bog, mate.’

  He had always used such familiarity with whatever policeman was on the door, as it threw them off their guard a bit.

  The policeman gave his request a moment’s consideration and got to his feet. ‘OK, no funny business,’ he said, putting his book down on his chair. He accompanied Roscoe down the corridor to the patients’ toilet which had a notice on the door saying: OUT OF ORDER PLEASE USE PUBLIC TOILET and an arrow pointing the way. Roscoe smiled as he recognized this as his sister’s handiwork.

  ‘Public toilet it is then,’ said the policeman. ‘Will you manage in there?’

  ‘I’ll have to.’

  At the door to the public toilets Roscoe stopped and said, ‘I, erm, I need a crap. Could yer take the cuff off, please?’ He was ready to spout the European Court of Human Rights ruling but it wasn’t necessary. The policeman uncuffed him without a word of protest. Another black mark on his record.

  ‘This might take me a few minutes,’ Roscoe told him, ‘I’d prefer it if you waited out here.’

  The policeman went inside the toilets and checked that there was no other way out. Inside were three cubicles, three wash basins and no other door.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I’ll wait out here. Don’t take too long.’

  It was a decision that saved him serious injury, if not his life, but it earned him a future bollocking, which he would consider to be a fair exchange when he later learned that his prisoner was carrying a gun. Roscoe went inside a cubicle and unwound the bandage from his head, revealing a bald head which the policeman had never seen. There was a stitched-up wound just above his right ear, but his head was completely hairless. He removed his dressing gown, rolled down his trouser legs and put on his shoes and socks. There was a plaster on his hand that was covering a wound to his palm that could be easily hidden from view. He then waited for someone else to come in and use another cubicle. With the patients’ toilet being out of order he knew this wouldn’t take long and he was correct. It mattered not whether it was a patient or a member of the public, all he wanted was for one of the cubicles to be showing an ‘engaged’ sign and it wasn’t a long wait. As soon as he heard another cubicle door open and close, he came out of his own cubicle, stood in front of the mirror, took the plaster off his hand and covered his head wound with it. Fully clad in his day clothes, he looked like any other hospital visitor. When the now impatient policeman came through the door he paid no attention to the bald man standing in front of the mirror, whose face obscured by the hands that were washing it. He just studied which of the three cubicles was engaged. Roscoe was leaving when the policeman tapped on the engaged cubicle door and asked, ‘Will you be long?’

  Roscoe didn’t wait to hear the answer. He was walking away as swiftly as he could without arousing suspicion. At the end of the corridor two people were entering a waiting lift. He picked up speed and just got in behind them. Two minutes later, as the constable was now panicking about the disappearance of his prisoner, Roscoe was walking out of the hospital main door. A taxi had drawn up to pick up a passenger who’d booked him. Roscoe tapped on his window.

  ‘What name are you for?’

  ‘Robinson.’

  ‘That’s me, thanks. Train station, please.’

  Roscoe sat behind the driver until they pulled into a station parking area, then he put his arm around the driver’s neck, displaying the gun.

  ‘Put every penny you’ve got on the passenger seat or I’ll blow yer fuckin’ head off!’

  ‘OK, OK.’

  The driver produced an expansive money bag and put it on the front passenger seat.

  ‘Good man. Now turn left and keep drivin’ till I tell yer ter stop.’

  He had the driver take him to a place almost devoid traffic and pedestrians; a place where help wouldn’t be immediately available. Then Roscoe leaned forward, grabbed the taxi’s intercom and pulled until it disconnected.

  ‘Gimme yer mobile phone!’ he snapped.

  The driver took out a mobile phone and handed it over his shoulder. ‘Now get out of the car.’

  It was the instruction the driver had been waiting for. He was out of the car in seconds and walking quickly away, looking for a phone box. Roscoe climbed over to the front and drove away. He stopped half a mile up the road and checked the contents of the purse – fifty-three pounds and change. It was enough to keep him going for a while, but he knew a place where he had access to much more. He dialled a number on the phone.

  ‘Tracey, it’s Ross. I’m on me toes. Where are yer?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Ross! I’m in the van. On me way back ter Leeds. I’m just going through Seamer. Have yer nicked wheels?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s a marked taxi and I need ter ditch it.’

  ‘Look, I’m on the A64 just passing a big pub called the Londesborough Arms. I’ll wait fer yer in the car park.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  Sep was at home when the phone rang. Winnie was cooking him a meal, his first home-cooked meal for some time. The screen told him it was Fiona.

  ‘Hi, Fiona.’

  He’d often thought of using the greeting ‘Hi, Fi’ but that might be a bit too familiar.

  ‘Roscoe Briggs has escaped from the hospital.’

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘Apparently he went to a public toilet and just disappeared. A constable was waiting outside the door and when he got fed up of waiting and went inside. Roscoe wasn’t there.’

  ‘That copper needs a bloody good roasting. He shouldn’t have let Roscoe out of his sight.’

  ‘Sep, Briggs di
dn’t go in just for a pee.’

  ‘I know, he went in to change his appearance. He’ll have walked out past the copper at some stage. I’d have gone in with him and handcuffed his chain to the door handle. I bet there were some clothes left in one of the bogs.’

  ‘Just a dressing gown and some bandages, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s enough. I bet he unbandaged his bald head to make himself less recognizable and walked out wearing the street clothes he had on under his dressing gown.’

  ‘I don’t know what he did.’

  ‘Couldn’t be anything else, Fiona. We’ve got to be one step ahead of these people all the time. Going to the bog is an obvious time to make an escape. We need to give police guards proper training for things such as this.’

  ‘There’s something else, sir.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A taxi driver was robbed after picking up a fare from the hospital around the time Roscoe escaped. He fits Briggs’s description and he had a gun.’

  ‘He’s got a gun? Where did he get that?’

  ‘A woman came to visit him. She must have given him it.’

  ‘Surely she was searched.’

  ‘Not properly, obviously.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Fiona! Somebody wants sacking here!’

  ‘Could be he comes after you, sir.’

  ‘Don’t I bloody know it!’

  Sep looked at Winnie, who was standing at the kitchen door, having worked out that Roscoe Briggs had escaped and that he had a gun. She didn’t need telling who Briggs would be after next.

  ‘Briggs has escaped?’ she guessed.

  ‘He has. Looks like he didn’t believe me when I said I could get him a reduced sentence.’

  ‘What’re you gonna do?’ she asked, after Sep had put the phone down.

  ‘I don’t know, Winnie. Briggs’ll definitely have it in for me after I lied about his sentence … and now he’s on the loose, well, who knows?’

  ‘You think he’ll come after you?’

  ‘Probably. Who knows what goes on in these people’s minds? I think he will, yes. I need to be on my guard … again.’

  ‘Sep, in your life, will there always be another Roscoe Briggs?’

  ‘It would seem so, Winnie.’