by Dan Laughey
Sant waited till Tony was below the crest of Quarry Hill before getting to his feet.
‘Holdsworth, wait here with the girl!’ he called back as he gave chase, the nausea tickling at his throat.
No time to retrace his steps back to the car. He glanced through the trees and saw Tony climbing into a black Audi.
Accost a vehicle from an unsuspecting motorist. That was the only option.
A lesson Sant had learnt from previous high-speed chases: small cars are better than big ones. So he let a Jeep and a Lexus pass by before waving down an aging VW Golf. He flashed his ID card halfheartedly, pulled the driver out, took to the wheel and slammed his foot down hard.
The car leapt forward as he pulled away. Then his heart sank. The lights ahead were on red and two lines of vehicles were queuing – none of them a black Audi. He kept his right palm on the horn and wedged the Golf between the two lines. Gradually the cars peeled aside like banana skins. He reached the lights at amber and didn’t wait around for green. His palm still on the horn, he raced under the viaduct and swerved violently onto the loop road, gambling on Tony taking the same route.
The gamble came off. As Sant took a red at the Leeds Bridge lights and ricked the steering as far as he dared, the Audi came into view. It was entering the arches under the station. A build-up of traffic in the dark recesses of the tunnel slowed the action, but Sant noticed how the jam was working in his favour. He was closing in and could even see Tony at the wheel, looking over his shoulder.
But the nearness was soon to pose a problem. As the two cars – separated by three vans and a motorcycle – followed the loop past the burnt-out Majestyk nightclub, Tony poked his head and his Glock out of the window. Two bullets zipped through the Golf’s windscreen, burying themselves in the leatherette upholstery of the nearside seat.
Sant’s brakes squealed as he slowed down, his view obscured by the shattered glass. And then the engine stalled. Fuck! He turned the key in the ignition, heard the roar of the exhaust. Using his left hand to steer, he jerked his right elbow forward to knock out the shards dangling in front of him. Once he’d caught his breath, he clocked the Audi dancing between lanes as it hit the crossroads by the town hall. As more lights turned red up ahead, he was forced to crouch double as a bullet flew through his glassless windscreen, inches over his head. Slowly, nervously, he lifted his eyeline above the dashboard. The lights had turned green. But no cars were moving, the deafening gunshots rendering their drivers motionless.
Sant peered forward. The Audi, jammed between vehicles, was reversing and veering sharp left to get clear of the lorry in front. Then the black saloon mounted the curb and the wheels spun as it shunted over the pavement, pedestrians scurrying for cover in shop doorways as the car sandwiched itself between a corner-shop and a traffic-light stantion, breaking off both wing-mirrors but somehow squeezing through.
Sant followed suit, sounding his horn and nosing his Golf through the gap paved by Tony. Then he rammed the accelerator pedal as far down as it would go, the Audi momentarily lost from sight. But he laid eyes on it again as he sped past Millennium Square and the Brotherton Wing of the infirmary, crunching the gears hard. The pursuit continued up Portland Street towards the universities. For a split second Sant got the strange impression that Tony was off to work to pontificate on Thatcherism and the politics of the right, but this was a Sunday after all. In any case, the historian was spinning a different yarn.
The black saloon took a sharp right off Woodhouse Lane onto a one-way street, lurched forward, then skidded to the right again before careering down a slip-road towards the inner ring-road. Shit! Tony! The man’s going the wrong way! Sant cried. That slip road is for traffic flowing off the ring-road, not onto it.
Sant heard the deafening thud before it reached him. As he edged his Golf gently down the slope, tracking the curve to avoid a potential accident of his own, he gradually came to a stop and fixed his vision on the mass of warped metal and rising smoke below.
He got out and ran to the bottom of the slip road, holding his nose to stem the fumes. Then he saw the overturned Audi, its front end crushed by a minibus that was still upright… just. Tony was hanging upside down in the driver’s seat, blood streaming from his spidery face onto white balloon. The airbag had saved his life.
Seeing Sant advancing, Tony called out through the open window: ‘Treat this as my confession, Inspector. I killed them all. Sheila Morrison, Vanessa Lee, that imbecile of a hit-man, that interfering sergeant and everyone else on the bus. And I only regret killing the ones who had nothing to do with this.’ He pulled the VHS cassette out of his pocket, kissed his prize trophy. ‘I’m following orders, Inspector. Which means neither you nor anyone else will ever see what this obsolete technology has to offer.’
Holding his Glock in one hand and the video in the other, he aimed fire. A spit of flame flashed horribly and fast became a stream of flame flowing from the petrol tank at the rear.
Sant retreated and took cover, hurdling a concrete barrier and ducking below road level, getting as much distance and defence between him and the blazing car as possible. Already the flames were leaping high into the cool air, the alight petrol coursing over the road like liquid fire.
He called 999 and watched powerlessly as the fire and heat grew more intense. At least the minibus driver had escaped and wouldn’t join the legion of luckless victims lying along Tony Gordon’s destructive path. But for Tony and the all-knowing cassette in his hand, there was no reprieve. Though the smoke from the burning wreckage blurred his view, Sant knew that everything inside the Audi would soon turn to dust.
‘I don’t suppose you made a copy of the video?’
Chloe shook her head and dried the tears glazing her dark eyes.
Sant sat back in his chair in the ill-lit temporary incident room of Bridewell Police Station, resigned to knowing he would never witness the film showing the murder and attempted murder of two police officers a generation ago.
‘Describe it,’ he said.
Over the next hour she told Sant and Holdsworth a story about Halloween 1984 that chimed with Rothwell’s naked-eye account of events. But unlike the professor, Chloe had had access to the film – and she knew, through Sheila, the identity of the gunman.
‘His rank at the time was sergeant,’ she said. ‘He was promoted to inspector six months later.’
‘You know your stuff.’
‘I know what’s worth knowing.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Your top man.’
The three words took a while to swallow – and a while longer to digest.
‘Lister?’ Sant said eventually, his eyes popping.
She nodded faintly, shuddering at the sound of the name.
‘You sure?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘But why Lister?’
Chloe took a deep breath before continuing: ‘That man has fascism running through his veins. He was a closet activist throughout the eighties and still supports fascist splinter groups today – morally and financially. He’s never expressed his bigoted beliefs in public, of course, because any officer known to be a member of a racist party faces dismissal – no matter how many strings they can pull. But privately he’s a big cheese in far right circles. He wields his influence from within and without. I’ve plenty of proof if you’d care to see it.’
‘Yes, I would,’ remarked Sant. ‘And judging by the great lengths you’ve gone to, I expect your evidence is sound.’
‘I’ve got Oliver to thank for a lot of it,’ she croaked, wiping away fresh tears. ‘He found out more than I ever could. And then there was Liam. I admit that my method of rewarding your colleague was unconventional, but hey, it worked.’ She smiled a little. ‘Liam dug up quite a bit about’ – she hesitated, reluctant to utter the name – ‘Lister. What he found triangulated with what Oliver and I had discovered.’
Sant shook his head. ‘I still don’t understand why Lister would go to such extreme
s to plot the murder of a fellow officer, even if PC Patel was an immigrant and even if he did piss off the National Front by testifying in court against one of its leaders.’
Chloe directed her moist eyes straight at him. ‘Then you don’t understand the fervent passion stirring inside Lister; the passion that compels him to revenge others who don’t share his racist outlook – who threaten it no less. And the cherry on top of this misguided passion is the lure of money. The NF was a well-funded party at the time. Lister and his pals were in its pay.’
‘Pals?’ probed Holdsworth.
‘Where do you want me to start?’ she said, her initial wariness gone.
Sant paused for thought and then asked: ‘Who was Lister’s accomplice? The man stood beside him when he shot Gray and Tanner?’
‘DCI Keith Lotherton,’ she said plainly.
‘The man who coordinated the investigation?’ Sant whistled with astonishment.
‘CC Waterford appointed him because he was party to the undercover operation to assassinate PC Patel. In other words, the whole investigation was a stitch up from day one. Eventually they laid the blame on a couple of crooks suitable enough to take the fall.’
‘Martin Humphreys and Alfred Shaw,’ Sant put in.
‘Hardly paragons of virtue,’ she nodded as she stroked her ponytail, ‘but they didn’t deserve to be scapegoated for other people’s crimes – the crimes of Nazi-loving policemen. So you see, the sad truth is that the top ranks of West Yorkshire Police were racist and fascist to the core. Maybe it’s not as bad today, but the rotten legacy lives on. It pains me to think of Lotherton dying in peace not so long ago. That thug never got the punishment he deserved.’
‘Why was Tony Gordon so devoted to the cause?’
‘Fascists of a feather flock together. He knew his stuff too. Maybe careless me helped him along the way, feeding him too many facts about the police shootings – and the video, I’m sad to say. But Tony soon caught on. He touched base with the main players at the time, Lister being one of them, and I suspect they paid him handsomely to act as their assassin. As if those thugs didn’t have enough hit men on their books. Mafia might be the right word, but then, mafia are usually outside the establishment; not running the entire show.’
Sant placed a hand on hers. ‘Chloe, Mia thinks Tanner’s memory has returned.’
‘She may be right.’
‘Did you tell Tanner it was Lister who shot him that day?’
Chloe tugged at strands of loose hair. ‘I – I can’t remember – actually, I’m sure I didn’t. I wanted him to reach his own conclusions. Steered him away from anything that might influence his recollection of events. No, what I imagine is that Mia’s ingenious techniques have helped him piece together the memories on his own.’
Sant grabbed his phone and hit the call button. ‘Capstick, have you located Tanner?’
‘No sign of him, sir. The firearms unit haven’t spotted him either.’
‘Keep up the search around the war memorial. Oh, and’ – he looked at his watch. It was nearly eleven o’clock; the eleventh hour; too late to cancel the service now – ‘it doesn’t matter.’
He rang off and, turning to Chloe, said meaningfully: ‘Let’s hope former PC Tanner doesn’t do the chief constable harm before we take proceedings against him – and inflict some damage of our own.’
No sooner had he put down his phone than it buzzed. Capstick again.
‘I think Tanner’s in my sights, sir. There’s a man near the front of the crowd looking frantic and feeling for something inside his coat. Except it’s not really a coat. It’s more like a robe.’
‘Good. Don’t let him escape, Capstick. And why’s it so quiet where you are?’
‘The two-minute silence is about to start, sir. I’m getting dirty looks already.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Sant looked across at Chloe, offered her a comforting smile, and left her to dwell on events – tragic events she’d brought to life in her cold pursuit of justice.
The fog that tumbled at dawn hugs every nook and cranny, the invisible sun yet to pierce murky grey. Even the grey people are infested with it, their smoky forms hovering here and there like ghosts of the underclass.
They come in droves. Ex-servicemen and ex-servicewomen, families and friends bereaving lost loved ones, paying their respects to the fallen, the never forgotten, saviours of our age.
Do they know who will fall today?
Standard bearers lead the procession of armed forces from the civic hall past the Catholic Cathedral to Victoria Gardens, a pipe band blowing to the tune of their march.
You feel the weight of the kukri inside your gown. It’s comforting. You like being armed. You must be armed. There is no other way.
The poppy wreaths are out in force, their deep scarlet pricking through the haze. These days they decorate cenotaphs every day of the year. And so it should be.
But today, on the day we remember, the poppies are everywhere. Big poppies, small poppies, red and white poppies alike.
And miniature wooden crosses too, lines upon lines of them, each with a poppy fixed to their centre, pitched in a pit of sand beside the Victoria Cross plaque – honouring holders of that ultimate badge of bravery.
You read. GEORGE FENWICK WILLIAMS – THIEPVAL THE SOMME – 3rd SEPTEMBER 1916 – AGED 23. JOHN HUDSON – WEST YORKS REGT – RIFLEMAN – 2/6/19. PAUL SHAW – ROYAL FIELD ARTILLERY 47th BDE – DIED 3/3/1917 SOMME. R. MUTTON – L. SGT. 868457 – HEAVY AA REGT – ROYAL ARTILLERY – KILLED IN ACTION MALTA 1942.
You read on. Tragic lives cut short in Iraq and Afghanistan, the Falklands and Bosnia. Humanity’s appetite for war unsated.
You feel sick. You can read no more.
Instead, you cast your eyes upon your prey. But where is he?
You see dignitaries of one sort or another. The Lord Mayor of Leeds in her red and white regalia, the Vice Lord Lieutenant of West Yorkshire, the High Sheriff, local MPs and councillors.
Further back stand representatives of the British Legion, St John Ambulance, West Yorkshire Fire and Rescue Service, faith leaders from the Jewish, Hindu, Sikh and Muslim communities.
What was that appalling news you heard on the radio yesterday? Four out of five Britons are ignorant of the allied role people of different races and faiths performed in past wars.
Heavens above! Half a million Muslims fought alongside British troops in the Great War alone!
You scan the dignitaries again. All ready and waiting.
But not him. Not the cretin who murdered your pal; who nearly murdered you.
The town hall clock is your guide. A quarter to eleven, ten to eleven, five. Soon the two-minute silence. A silence you will destroy with a flash of your sturdy blade.
Eleven o’clock.
TICK TOCK.
The clock strikes. The mourning begins.
Heads down. Your head is up.
The dignitaries are crossing the square, their wreaths like layers of cake held out in front of them.
At last, at the far end of the line, you spot him. Representative of West Yorkshire Police. An officer no less… soon to be no more.
Your view is obscured but the fog is lifting, the weak sun renewing its clout.
Who is this officer? The same vulture who laid the wreath last time?
The one the girl mentioned? One girl or two?
You must get closer. You shuffle through the crowd, trying not to knock anyone out of the way. But there’s no time to waste. Your window of opportunity is brief.
You clamber over a pathetic security railing and then you know, from the noises of folks gazing at you, that this is it.
Point of no return.
You break into a stride and reach into your gown for that cold metal touch. You glance to the left, then to the right. Security personnel are waking up to your presence.
Your malign presence.
They’ve got no chance. You’ve caught them napping.
And now yo
ur eyes are wide open, your radar fixed on a one-way course to the man who…
You pick up pace. You start to jog. The knife is out. The knife is poised. Aim for the heart; that rotten heart.
Your eyes lock on his. Is that a flicker of recognition? The final blank stare of a worried man, a guilty man, a dead man?
You keep on running, your blood pumping. Suddenly your heart skips a beat. Skips another beat. Why has it stopped beating? You were going through with it, that’s why, but now the pale sun is throwing you off line, its milky beams glinting off the medals pinned to the chests of heroes past and present.
Is he the man? Wrath gives way to confusion. Who is he? He looks different. Has a calendar year changed him so much? You’re no longer sure. Were you ever sure?
You don’t know who this officer is. What next?