by Hayden, Mark
His money was also buying access to the beautiful Victorian buildings, small class sizes, fast track to Oxbridge (could his daughter really go to Oxford?) and the habit of mixing with girls whose parents would never otherwise have anything to do with him.
‘I haven’t seen Pandora round the house since your birthday,’ he said to Elizabeth. Fran gave him a sharp look and Lizzie looked down at the parquet floor.
‘Have you had a falling-out or something?’
‘I don’t think they ever had a falling-in,’ said Fran, coming to her daughter’s rescue.
‘Mom’s right,’ said Lizzie. ‘She more-or-less invited herself to the party when she heard that I was getting the Twilight DVD.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Patrick. ‘Ever since then she’s been embarrassed to have known you.’
Lizzie’s face turned crimson, and Fran gave her husband a sharp dig in the ribs. Patrick leaned down and whispered to his daughter. ‘She’s a stuck-up bitch, that one. You’re worth ten times what she is. Now, let’s see the appointments list.’
He was rewarded with a half smile from his daughter, and he was pleased to see that her eyes were dry. He would be very worried if she cried over someone like Pandora Nechells. He scanned the list of appointments with Lizzie’s teachers.
‘Now aren’t you the smart one?’ he said.
‘What d’you mean, Dad?’
‘We start with PE, Scripture and ICT, and then move swiftly through maths, science and technology before the humanities … and then art, Latin and English to finish. Now would that be the exact order of your place in class, by any chance? Bottom in PE and top in English?’
‘It’s a fair cop.’
‘What have I told you? If you want to be a chip off the old block, never confess to anything unless there’s a deal on the table.’
‘I think she’s aiming a bit higher than being a chip off the old block,’ said Fran stiffly.
‘Right. Where’s the dreaded Miss Jackson? In the gym?’
Shortly later, Lizzie was trying to explain to her mother about not getting on with Mrs Soames the science teacher, but Patrick wasn’t listening. Miss John, the head of maths, had tugged at his sleeve following a perfectly satisfactory report delivered in front of Fran and Lizzie. She had told Patrick that she believed Lizzie to have great potential in maths, but that she was refusing to show it.
‘None of her friends are mathematicians, I think, and she’s just not willing to show them up,’ Miss John had concluded.
He was still mulling this over when his pocket vibrated. He never turned his phone off on principle, especially if it were a school rule. He glanced at the display then took the call.
‘Make it quick, Dermot. I’m at St Mod’s.’
‘There’s been a cock-up. The shipment’s already here, and I haven’t told Blackpool. They’re on their way down but it will be a couple of hours. We need Griff onside. When will you be free?’
‘I can’t. This goes on for another two hours at least, and then I have to get back to Earlsbury. You can handle it, son. I’ll sort Griff out. Let me know how you get on.’
He had been given a mobile number. He wasn’t allowed to call it, just text. From the entrance to the science labs, Fran and Lizzie were giving him evil looks, and Patrick put the phone back in his pocket. He didn’t get a chance to text the number until the queue for the history teacher gave him a chance to slip away.
Red Hand had assured him that if he texted the time and place of the handover to that number, the person on the other end would ensure that DS Griffin turned up to keep an eye on things.
The first thing that Ian Hooper had done when Angela Lindow cleared her desk was to find himself a new chair. Occupational Health had provided her with something suitable for a heavily pregnant woman and they had beaten him into the office on Monday morning to take it back; Ian had to make do with a cast-off from the civilians. He filled out a request for his own chair and emailed it to Resources.
The second thing he did was start to work through her bulging in-tray.
By Wednesday evening he was bushed. Ceri was preparing something for school which involved witches hats (Halloween, apparently), and all he wanted to do was watch the football on TV.
‘Will it disturb you?’ he asked.
‘I’d rather you watched it here than go down the pub. At least I can keep an eye on you that way.’
Ian raised an eyebrow at her and settled down for the warm up. Ten minutes later she passed him a roll of Sellotape and some scissors. Manchester United had taken an early lead against some Turkish team, and Ian found the problem of turning square paper into conical hats to be more interesting than the game. While he was getting another beer, his mobile rang. It was Griff.
‘Ian, can you get in now?’
‘What’s up, Sarge?’
‘Can you come in? There’s something on.’
‘Yeah, sure. I’ll be there in ten.’
‘Make it five.’
He gave Ceri a kiss and picked up his coat. Their flat was less than ten minutes’ walk from the police station, and Ian jogged most of it. Griff was waiting by the main entrance. Ian could smell the drink on his breath from several feet away; knowing Griff, he’d probably been watching the same match as Ian.
‘Are you okay to drive?’ asked Griffin.
Ian nodded, and Griff jerked his head towards the back of the station. In the car park, he handed over the keys to his private car (a very nice BMW). Ian hesitated for a second. ‘You haven’t brought me out to give you a lift home, have you?’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Griffin. ‘Something’s come up. Get in and drive us to Sharrow Road.’
Definitely not home, then. Sharrow Road was a mixture of old houses and half demolished factories out towards Dudley – under the M5. Neither spoke until Ian had turned off the main road.
‘I’ve had a tip-off that something might be happening in the old goods yard. We’re going to do a spot of surveillance.’
Ian pulled up the car. ‘Do you mean the Great Western Yard? That’s over the other side, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, and it’s huge. There’s nowhere we can observe from over there so we’re going to watch from this side. You can go down Raleigh Street. It’s on the right.’
The terraced houses gave way to a couple of small factories and then a gap where one unit had been pulled down. Just after that, the last streetlight was broken, and before the road disappeared into a dead end, there was a small turning on the right between two blank faced structures. Ian turned into the opening and drove down at walking pace. After two hundred yards, the street ended at a small lane running cross ways. On the other side of the lane was a stout metal fence with razor wire on top.
‘Lights off,’ said Griffin. ‘I’m going to go in and see what’s happening.’
‘Where do you want me?’
‘Here. You can’t be too careful these days – it’s my car you’re driving, and I don’t want some tosser coming along and breaking in.’
Ian looked around the deserted street. The chance of anyone else coming here was remote in the extreme.
‘Pop the boot, will you?’ said Griffin. ‘It’s a handle just by your right calf. The big one.’
Ian felt down and there were two levers by his leg. He pulled the bigger one and there was a subdued thunk from behind. Griff got out of the car and went round the back. The fresh air blew away some of the beer fumes, and Ian realised how cold it was outside. He fiddled with the controls until he could lower the driver’s window. There was a louder slam as Griff closed the boot and came back with something wrapped in a blanket.
‘Are you sure there’s backup for this?’ Ian asked.
‘Already in place. I’m just there for observation. You look after the car, and I won’t forget this. I’ll owe you one, big time’
Griff pulled up the hood on his waterproof coat and crossed the lane to the fence. He peered through the gaps in the metal and then went along to
his right. Ian’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and he saw a gate set into the fence.
They were at the back end of the old Great Western Railway Goods Yard. The trains had stopped running there before Ian was born (except for the through line to Stourbridge), and the site had become first a warehouse, then a distribution depot, and finally a white elephant. The railway goods depot had been squeezed into a gap between the tracks and the canal. The main entrance required waggons to cross a hump-back bridge. When lorry weights exceeded thirty-two tonnes, the bridge had been declared unsafe, and the haulage company moved to somewhere more accessible. The site was now awaiting redevelopment (when someone paid for a new bridge).
He looked back over his shoulder. There was a clump of terraced houses that were seemingly built at random, like many of the houses in the Black Country. All over the area, houses had been built to serve coal mines, small furnaces and other centres of employment. Often, town centres like Earlsbury had seen little growth during the Victorian period because the action was elsewhere, near the mines and foundaries. These houses, off Sharrow Road, had been built by the Great Western Railway, giving the workers their own entrance to the goods yard. It was only when you dug deeper that a pattern emerged. It had been his special project for A level geography – growth and development in South Staffordshire.
By the time Ian had finished recalling his geography project, Griff had disappeared through the gate. Very carefully, Ian got out of the car and went up to the fence.
He could see nothing inside except a long shed with another to its left, end-on. Griff had already disappeared. A small plop of rain hit his face, and a gust of wind blew down the lane. Ian shrugged and returned to the car.
When the rain started sluicing down the windscreen, he became completely isolated. With nothing else to do, he fiddled with his new toy – an iPhone 4. According to the BBC, there had been no further score at Old Trafford. One day, he supposed, you would be able to watch live games on your phone. But not yet.
He was about to send a text message to Ceri when he saw lights to his right. Another vehicle was coming along the lane behind the factories and approaching the gate into the goods yard. He had parked Griff’s car quite a bit back from the road end, and the oncoming vehicle stopped short. They hadn’t seen him. Ian left the car and ducked over to the corner. Peering round, he saw the lights go off and the engine died. A man got out and tried the gate, clearly expecting it to be locked. When it opened easily, the man went back to the car and lifted the boot.
An automatic light came on and shone into the man’s face. Ian recognised Robert King, bending down to find something; Robert stood up and stood back. In his left hand was a gun.
King closed the boot and was gone through the gate while Ian was still taking it in. His boss was inside the compound, and behind him was a man with a gun. Ian knew that whatever was going on tonight was unofficial. No police officer goes on a surveillance operation without a radio and without telling Control where he is. The problem for Ian was deciding just how unofficial the action was. It could be unauthorised unofficial – police business without police procedures. Or it could be illegal unofficial – something that Griff was doing all on his own.
It took Ian about five seconds to decide that calling for backup was going to get both of them in trouble and get him in trouble with Griff. He also decided not to ring Griff – if his boss was in a concealed position, giving away his location could be fatal. Ian had picked up his baton from the hallway at home and dropped it on the back seat of the car. He went back to collect it then followed Griff and Robert King through the gate.
He cut round the corner of a shed and along its short side. It was darker here, and he could only just make out the end. He edged along and crouched down to peer round the corner. There was a short space and then a gap in the buildings: from inside that gap he could see lights but could hear nothing because of the rain.
A shape separated itself from the darkness and went out of sight into the gap. It was Robert King. Ian started to cross towards the building, then he heard voices shouting. Out of the light came a figure he didn’t recognise: a man in a green coat, hood up, running for his life.
Ian snapped open his baton and caught the man on his shins, sending him flying into some long grass. Ian landed on top and whispered into his ear.
‘Police. What’s going on in there?’
‘Some fucker’s gone mental with a gun.’
He had his baton and his warrant card, but Ian didn’t have the other equipment he was accustomed to carrying on the beat. No radio, of course, and no handcuffs or taser. He didn’t recognise the man under the Manchester United hat, but surely, if there was something nasty happening, then the guy must have a criminal record.
‘Take cover but don’t go very far,’ he said, and took his weight off the man’s back.
Ian started to move along the wall and then he saw Griff reveal himself.
When his boss emerged into the light, Ian could see him holding up his baton with his coat wrapped round the handle. It looked a bit like a gun, he supposed. Ian took two steps closer to the corner, and he could see the side of a white van with its lights on. Robert King was standing in front of it, pointing his gun at someone else, off to the right.
‘Armed police! Drop your weapon.’ shouted Griffin.
Whether King thought the baton was a gun or whether he just panicked, Ian didn’t know. Either way, the result was the same. Rob turned on his heel and shot straight at Griff. One round in the body. His boss collapsed.
King turned back towards the gap. While he had been shooting at Griff, whoever he’d previously been pointing the gun at had disappeared. He looked wildly around and realised he was trapped between the van and the warehouse, fully illuminated by the headlamps. Ian could see panic twisting his face.
‘Put your gun down, Son,’ came a voice from beyond the van. It was not Tactical Seven.
Robert King ducked and ran round the van and started to head towards Ian. Should he try to trip him like he tripped the other bloke? Rugby tackle? No, if Robert was going to shoot him, he wanted it to be a deliberate act. Ian stepped out of the shadows.
‘Robbie! It’s me, Ian Hooper.’
King stopped in his tracks and stared, but he didn’t shoot. From round the corner of the van came a stocky man in a balaclava. He took one look at them and raised a rifle with a curving magazine. Just before he opened fire, Ian recognised it as an AK47.
‘Robbie. Duck!’ he shouted and started to dive away to his left, but it was too late. Robbie pitched forwards, and Ian felt like he’d been kicked in the guts by a prop forward.
He tried to breathe, but all was pain. Pain in his chest, pain in his legs, but above all, pain in his guts. He curled up and it got a little easier, and he dragged in a breath. Then another. He knew his biology. He knew that endorphins were doing their best, but they wouldn’t last long. He had a few moments to get help before shock and pain took over, and his brain shut down to deal with the trauma. He reached into his pocket for his phone and tried to swipe it into action. All of a sudden, his fingers were swollen like black puddings, and the icons on the screen meant nothing.
And then a hand reached down and took it off him. More hands rolled him on to his back and lifted his coat. Something was pressed into his stomach.
‘Can you hear me, Son?’ It was the same voice as before, the one that told Robbie to put down the gun. Ian groaned.
‘Don’t go to sleep on me now, will you? Are you there?’
‘Shit,’ was all Ian could manage.
‘Good. We’ll call an ambulance for you when we’ve gone, but you need to know something. Wake up.’
‘Oh shit, shit, shit.’
‘Better. Now listen here, PC Hooper. We know where you live. We know which school your wee girlie teaches at and we know your mother’s phone number. So if you live, you’re going to have a terrible memory. Terrible. You remember nothing. Got that? You especially don’t remembe
r that twat Robert King.’
The message got through to Ian all right. So did the man’s Irish accent. To reinforce the message, the Irishman slapped him hard on the face.
‘Let’s hear you. Do you understand?’
‘I understand. Now get lost and call me an ambulance.’
‘Good.’
Ian felt the Irishman take his hand. He tried to pull away from the grip but his strength was going. The man guided Ian’s hand to where the pain was worst. He could feel fabric.
‘Press down, son. Press down as hard as you can and you might make it.’
Ian rolled to his left and pressed on the fabric, trying to hold himself together.
In the background, engines started, and then it went dark. He focused on the pain. If he could think about the pain it would give him strength enough to hold on. Hold on to the compress and hold on to life. He gripped himself and that made it hurt worse. He gripped tighter.
The parents’ evening had gone very well in the end. When Patrick was Lizzie’s age, no one at his school was fighting to get him in their O Level groups. The school and Patrick had both known that he’d be leaving at the age of fifteen, and they put him on the General Course in fourth form.
It was called Year 10 now, and everyone did GCSEs. There wasn’t a lot of choice in the matter, but the geography, history and Latin teachers were all fighting to have his daughter in their class. The English teacher had almost purred with pleasure and predicted great things for her.
He was worried about the maths, though. On the way back to Earlsbury, Fran and Elizabeth had chatted about a trip to Birmingham they were planning for next weekend, and Patrick had mulled over the fact that his daughter would rather do just okay at maths than be seen to leave her friends behind. He was also thinking about Dermot.