by Ken McCoy
He parked his hired Mondeo at the gate and looked through the steel mesh fence to see if he could see the black, wooden hut, but all he could see were the rusting framework of huge buildings spreading out over many acres. He had with him a lump hammer with which he struck several heavy blows at the padlock until it broke. He pushed one half of the double gate open just enough for him to get in and closed it behind him so as not to alert any passing police car. He was bare-headed, wearing a waterproof jacket and now wishing he’d put a hat on, but Sep had never been a hat-wearer. He walked along a muddy and cracked concrete roadway that led in between a threatening mass of dark steel columns and beams that had once been the skeleton of foundry. He walked past a derelict Thames Trader truck which had been decorated with the words MAGGY THATCHA JOB SNATCHA written in blood red, an indication of the political leanings of the workers who had no doubt lost their jobs due to the then prime minister closing down loss-making nationalized industries, many of which had been engaged in steel production and manufacture.
Above him, steel steps led to a rusting and brutal framework of steel columns, rolled steel joists and gantries, occupying three levels. On these upper levels were a number of huge steel tanks that had once held hundreds of gallons of fuel oil to help fire the furnaces and heat the workshops, offices and storage units. On this dismal and rain-sodden afternoon, it looked to Sep to have been a grim place to work. There was a smell of rust and rotting vegetation in the damp air and smoke from somewhere but he couldn’t tell where. He turned up his collar against the constant drizzle. Then he checked his right-hand pocket for the Smith. The five-shot revolver was pretty accurate up to fifty yards and had an effective range of twice that in the right hands; after that it was pot luck what it hit. He’d often scoffed at the gunmen in Wild West films who brought down men a hundred yards away by shooting from the hip with a .45 Colt. No way would he ever shoot from the hip unless his target was within ten yards of him. However, the Smith & Wesson .357 was a gun that would put him on level terms with anyone else with a handgun. He knew that Roscoe was armed with the gun he’d threatened the taxi driver with, but he didn’t have the benefit of Sep’s army weapons training, nor had he ever worn on his sleeve the crossed rifles badge of a British Army marksman, as had Sep, who had supreme confidence in his fighting ability, with or without weapons.
To his left was the canal which had once transported by barge manufactured goods east and west across the north of England, but right now it was empty of all water traffic, not even a passing duck deigned to enliven its still, grey murk, animated only by splashing rain. All in all it was not a good day for a man to be putting his life at risk in the hope of hunting down an armed killer; especially a hunter with a gammy leg. He thought about Winnie and how he hadn’t followed up on his proposal and how he would feel if she left him for another man. ‘Gutted’ was the word. With all this in mind it occurred to him to turn and go back to her and tell her that they should get married as soon as possible and to hell with Roscoe Briggs. All he had to do was tell Hawkins where Roscoe might be and the troops would descend on this place and smoke the man out. So why was he doing this himself? Because the moment was right and he was Sep bloody Black, that’s why.
High above him, Roscoe had spotted Sep. He figured he had a range of about a hundred yards – too far for certainty. He knew little about effective gun ranges but he knew his own capability. He looked back towards the gate. It could be that Black was being backed up by an armed-response unit, but he saw no sign of that. Black was on his own, as Wolf said he would be. Good. He had a fully loaded twelve-round magazine in his semi-automatic pistol and, if he played it right, most would end up in Black’s body. That’d teach the bastard! Then off to Canada with the twenty-two grand Tracey had stashed away for him. Good girl, Tracey; a sister he could trust. Pity Redman was dead; working for him had been fairly profitable. He’d had a fake passport made and that had cost two grand because of the new digital passports that had come in a few years ago. He’d tried it once on a trip to Spain and it had worked a treat. No problem there then. Come on, Black. What the fuck have yer stopped for? Bad leg giving yer some stick, is it? Well, I’ll be giving yer some stick when yer get walkin’ again.
He trained his weapon on Sep’s body and gave pulling the trigger a lot of thought. The two bullets he’d taken back at the cottage had both been removed, but the wounds were giving him too much pain for him to concentrate properly. If he missed, he knew that Sep would find cover in an instant, despite his limp. There was plenty of cover about and that would make the job ten times harder. Just think, Roscoe, think. Be patient and wait for a definite killing shot.
Sep lit a cigarette to calm his thoughts. The rain showed no sign of abating and was dripping down his face and inside his coat. He pulled his collar close to his neck to make himself more waterproof. Rain was hitting his cigarette and his leg was beginning to play up now, perhaps exacerbated by the damp weather. He threw away his cigarette, sat down on a low wall and bent his injured leg at the knee and straightened it a few times, then got to his feet to give it a try. Bloody painful. Wherever he went now he’d be limping. This is no doubt why Jane Hawkins had insisted on him taking a week’s sick leave. He smiled to himself. Some sick leave this. God! He’d be in some trouble if Hawkins could see him now. He’d be in trouble if Winnie could see him now. He hadn’t told her of his plan to capture Roscoe Briggs, only to find out where he might be from Stanley Butterbowl.
OK, off we go, DI Black. He’d taken exactly twenty steps when Roscoe lost patience and pulled the trigger from a distance of over a hundred yards. The thug had aimed for the central mass of Sep’s body but hadn’t allowed for the slight downward curve in trajectory as the bullet lost speed, nor for the pain in his wounded, gun arm. All the same, Sep went down. He rolled over several times towards a break in the low wall. Roscoe kept firing and kept missing but not by much. The range was too great for accurate shooting with a handgun. His bullets kicked up concrete splinters from the road, which hit Sep like shrapnel, bruising him but not penetrating his skin. He managed to get the low wall between him and the shooter whom he assumed would be Roscoe.
He looked down at the bullet wound in his right leg; it was the same leg that had been previously damaged. Well, that’s not such a bad thing. At least he’d have one undamaged leg to get about on. Using his hands and arms he dragged himself along the ground, hidden from view by the wall until he’d reached a spot where he figured Roscoe wouldn’t expect him to be – and one that brought him within shooting range of where he thought Roscoe was. He now took out his revolver and checked that there was a bullet already in the chamber.
He positioned himself behind the step in the wall and risked half of his head to take a look at where Roscoe might be. Two more shots rang out, both hitting the wall twenty yards away, where he’d first gone down and, more importantly, showing him exactly where Roscoe was. He took sight along the short barrel, rested it on his left forearm and trained the revolver on the dark, moving shape. Like Roscoe, he knew he must make this first shot count. The one thing Sep knew about this .357 Smith was the muzzle velocity. The bullet would leave the gun at a speed of 1,500 feet per second, which meant it would arrive at its target in around a tenth of a second with almost no loss of trajectory; all he had to do was set it off in the right direction. Roscoe got to his feet and looked over the walkway handrail to get a better view of where he thought Sep might be. Could be, Roscoe thought, that Sep was dead already. In that case he’d need to go down and check. Very dangerous in view of what a sly bastard that copper was. He was leaning on the handrail when Sep exhaled and, before inhaling, with his body completely motionless, he took the shot. The shot was good and the bullet would have hit Roscoe had it not pinged off the handrail. Eaten away by rust, the bracket that fastened it to a steel column sprang loose with the sudden vibration and the handrail gave way. Roscoe, shocked by this unexpected turn of events and unbalanced by the sudden pain in his wounded side, was
teetering on the very edge of the walkway, now with no handrail for protection. He dropped his gun as he windmilled his arms to try to regain his balance, but he was beyond the point of no return.
He plunged to the ground, thirty feet below and landed with a sickening thud on the concrete road. Sep had watched the whole fall and had noted that Roscoe had landed head first, no doubt ending his life.
Sep now knew that even if he himself survived this, he’d be in serious trouble for killing a man with an unauthorized weapon. He put the gun back in his pocket and took out his mobile phone to summon help. Then he cursed himself yet again.
‘Oohh, No! Shit, shit, shit bloody shit! You idiot! You are a dead man!’
In his hurry to get going, he hadn’t checked the charge on his phone battery. His battery was stone-cold dead, as he would be if he didn’t get help. The gate was a quarter of a mile away and even if he managed to drag himself there, he probably wouldn’t find anyone out there to help him. Distant thunder rolled and the rain began to pour down as he lay in a miserable lump, alone with his thoughts. Just thoughts, no ideas. What he needed was help and there was none available. He hadn’t told anyone where he was going or why and he’d brought with him no means of communication. Jesus! What an idiot! The pain in his leg was bad now and he was losing a lot of blood. The bullet had probably broken his femur, as that’s where the pain was. He was also aware that a wounded thigh could lead to terminal blood loss, if it wasn’t treated quickly; something to do with a femoral artery. The light was beginning to fade and, with it, Sep’s hopes of surviving this bloody awful night.
He rolled over and lay on his stomach in the mud, mainly to keep the rain from hitting his face. In his confused mind he also thought the mud might act as some sort of poultice and stem the flow of blood from his leg. He turned his coat collar up as much as he could and resigned himself to whatever fate had in store for him. The rain had soaked through every layer of clothing he had on him and he began to shiver. Then he felt something else: a warm snuffling near his ankle. He rolled over and was immediately face to face with a Rottweiler. He cursed for the hundredth time. It had to be a bloody Rottweiler, not a friendly dog like Lassie which might go and seek help for this wounded man. He was saddled with an ugly bloody Rottweiler who could taste his blood in the air and wanted more. He pulled himself back before the dog could do more than growl and kicked at it with his good leg which was his left leg. He caught it at the side of its head and made it back off with bared teeth now; eyes staring angrily, snarling with menace. Jesus! He’d just aggravated a hungry Rottweiler that had come to eat him. He took the gun out of his pocket.
The dog came at him once again. Sep shot it in the head, causing it to drop dead on his wounded leg. The pain was agonizing. He managed to shuffle out from under it, which only worsened the pain. As he lay there he heard what sounded like an ice-cream van, and wondered what the hell was an ice-cream van doing in this godforsaken place and in this weather? Was he hallucinating? Had he gone mad? He knew that severe blood loss affected the brain, so was there really a dead dog at his feet and an ice cream van nearby? He looked down at the dog once again. The music had stopped but the dog was still there. Maybe he was only half mad.
He began to shiver again and wondered which would come first: death from hypothermia or death from exsanguination? Which would be preferable? Either would be a miserable way to go out. Maybe he should just lie there and go to sleep as his life blood drained out of him.
TWENTY-NINE
‘Fiona, is Sep with you?’
‘No, he’s not … why?’
‘Because … well, to be honest, I think he’s gone after Roscoe Briggs and I don’t think he’s in any state to be doing that on his own. He said he was just going to find out where he is, but I doubt if Sep’ll stop at that, once he finds him.’
‘No, nor me. What makes you think he’s gone after Briggs?’
‘He went to Jimmy’s to see Stanley Butterbowl and ask him if he knew where Roscoe Briggs was, but he’s been gone a while. I’ve just rung Jimmy’s and they say Sep left over an hour ago. He should have been back here ages ago.’
‘I hope he hasn’t been impulsive in going after Briggs, who may well be armed and Sep won’t be.’
‘Would he be in trouble if he was armed?’
‘He would, yes,’ said Fiona. ‘He’d need to follow a proper procedure and apply to take an authorized weapon with him and to discharge it and I doubt if he’s been authorized to do that. Not by Superintendent Hawkins anyway. Are you saying he’s taken a gun with him?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll ring you back.’
Two minutes later Winnie rang back. ‘I think he might have taken a gun with him.’
‘Has he now? Well, he’s just rung me this second and he’s in trouble. He’s in a disused foundry in Hunslet. He never mentioned a gun but he sounded in a bad way. What sort of gun has he got?’
‘It’s a revolver that he, er, found at a crime scene.’
‘Any idea what kind?’
‘I think he said it was .357 Smith & Wesson.’
‘Shit! That’s a serious gun. Winnie, why would he even go after Briggs?’
‘Peace of mind’s what he told me. He thinks Briggs won’t rest until he kills Sep, so the only way is to catch Briggs and get him locked up.’
‘I suppose that makes some sort of weird sense.’
‘Actually, it makes a lot of sense to me, Fiona. And you know where he is, do you?’
The rain was hammering against the windscreen as they pulled up behind Sep’s hired Mondeo.
‘This is definitely where he is,’ said Winnie. ‘I don’t suppose you have an umbrella, have you?’
‘Yeah, there’s one in the boot.’
A minute later Winnie and Fiona were huddled under a spacious golf umbrella, looking at the broken lock, then through the bars of the gate at the grim frame of the South Leeds Foundry.
‘It’s huge,’ said Fiona. ‘How are we going to find him in here?’
‘By shouting,’ suggested Winnie, ‘and hoping he shouts back.’
‘Supposing Roscoe Briggs hears us first?’
‘I suppose it’s a gamble we’ll have to take.’
‘That’s exactly what Sep would have said.’
‘And that’s exactly what he’d have done.’
‘True.’
They pushed the creaking gate open and made their way along the concrete road. ‘I reckon he was going by guesswork,’ said Fiona, ‘so I reckon this is the way he’ll have walked.’
‘Pity we couldn’t get the car through the gate.’
‘Yeah, too narrow. In any case, we might miss him in the car.’
‘We could have hooted the horn a few times.’
Darkness was falling. Fiona took a powerful torch from her pocket and shone it into the falling rain, which reflected most of its light back to her. She didn’t switch it off; the light it afforded was better than nothing.
‘Sep!’ shouted Winnie. Fiona joined in and they repeated the shout several times but got no reply.
‘It’s this damned rain,’ said Fiona. ‘He won’t be able to hear us for the rain. We’ll stick to this roadway and keep a lookout either side. It’s pretty much all we can do.’
‘You could call for support,’ suggested Winnie.
‘I know, but Sep’s breaking all the bloody rules doing this on his own, especially if he’s got a dodgy gun with him. I’d rather us find him. Let’s give it fifteen minutes and if we don’t find him I’ll ring Hawkins and tell her what’s happening.’
Winnie looked at her watch and noted the time. ‘Fair enough,’ she said.
They continued their trek along the cracked concrete road, passing the truck and its uncomplimentary Maggie Thatcher slogan, then coming to the low wall, behind which, Sep had taken cover from Roscoe. The rain eased off, allowing the torch beam to properly illuminate fifty yards ahead.
‘Oh God, what’s that?’
‘It looks
like a body,’ said Fiona. They both stopped as the torchlight played on the prone figure lying on the concrete road, neither of them keen to go any nearer lest they identify it as Sep.
‘It could be him, Fiona.’
‘I know.’
Fiona took a deep breath and said, ‘OK, let’s take a proper look.’
As they approached, Winnie exclaimed, ‘Fiona, I think there’s two of them!’
‘Oh God! I think you’re right.’
A sudden rush of dread enveloped Winnie as she looked at the two prone bodies, knowing that one of them might be Sep; in fact knowing that one of them would be Sep. What she didn’t know was if he was alive or dead. For him to be dead was something she wasn’t ready for, nor would she ever be. The big lump was the light of her life, a man she was deeply in love with and a man whose dead body she didn’t want to find. As Fiona walked forward, Winnie remained glued to the spot.
Fiona half turned, saying, ‘Coming?’
‘I – I can’t, Fiona.’
Fiona also paused in her step; she also wasn’t looking forward to finding Sep dead. She took a deep breath, knowing it was someone’s duty to take a look and she was the copper, not Winnie. Her torch shone first on Roscoe who was the nearest. She ascertained he was definitely dead, with a broken neck if nothing else. He’d no doubt fallen to his death. His body had exploded somewhat with the fall and his intestines were protruding from his stomach and being washed by the rain. Then she shone her torch forward onto the body whose head was hidden beneath a fisherman’s hat. She removed the hat. It was Sep. The very fact that it was definitely him set her heart racing. She also had affection for him, albeit not of the romantic kind. She could see lots of blood on his trouser leg but nowhere else. However he’d arrived there, it wasn’t from above, thank God! Still breathing deeply to steady her nerves and watched by Winnie from a distance, she knelt down beside her boss and put her head close to listen for breathing. She called out to Winnie.