The Hanging Club (DC Max Wolfe)

by Tony Parsons

  I was, I guess, a glass-half-full kind of guy. My friend Jackson was a glass-half-empty, smash-it-on-the-bar-and-wave-it-in-your-face kind of guy.

  I had seen his rage when we were young and trouble came calling. But it was different now, for now it was honed and polished.

  Now someone had trained him for murder.

  Stan came to greet us when we opened the door. The dog hated it when nobody was home and my eyes quickly scanned the loft for signs of the small puddles he sometimes deposited when he was anxious. But the floor seemed dry.

  Jackson looked at the dog and not at me. He got down on his knees to fuss over the small red Cavalier.

  ‘I was trying to help,’ Jackson said quietly. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘And you did help. In your own mad bastard way – you did.’

  ‘But you can’t be around this stuff.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And that means you can’t be around me.’

  We were silent for a long moment.

  He looked up at me and I nodded.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. I felt something fall away inside me, something that I knew I would never get back. ‘You’re too dangerous,’ I said.

  He nodded, as if it was all settled.

  ‘I’ll pack my stuff and ship out. Say goodbye to Scout for me, will you?’

  ‘Christ almighty, Jackson, you don’t have to go now.’

  He stood up and faced me.

  ‘Ah, but I think I do, Max.’

  We both looked down at Stan. The dog stared back at us, confusion in those perfectly round eyes, unable to read the mood. I wasn’t sure I could read it myself.

  ‘What are your plans?’ I said, and the sudden formality between us broke my heart.

  He shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll do what the army trained me to do,’ he said.

  ‘And what was that, Jackson?’ I said.

  He just gave me his gap-toothed smile.

  Stan padded behind him to his room.

  Jackson turned in the doorway.

  ‘Max?’

  I looked at him.

  ‘You think that little gangster will bother your friend any more?’

  ‘No.’

  He nodded, satisfied.

  ‘Me neither,’ he said.

  And then my oldest friend went into the guest room to pack his things.

  24

  It felt wrong from the start.

  I turned into Abu Din’s street and the only police presence I could see was one unmarked 3-series BMW parked outside the large council house and the same young black policeman standing guard at the end of the road.

  DCI Whitestone came out of the house with Edie and Billy Greene. Whitestone and Edie were in dark headscarves. I nodded to the two officers in the unmarked BMW as I went up to the front door.

  ‘This is it?’ I said. ‘Feels a bit light. We just gave the guy an Osman Warning. We just told him his life was in mortal danger and offered him police protection.’

  ‘The Chief Super considers it a proportionate response in this community,’ Whitestone said. She indicated the street. Several groups of bearded young men hung around, quietly conferring as they watched the detectives. A solitary woman struggled home from the shops with stuffed Tesco bags, her face and body covered by a full black burka. ‘That’s an Armed Response Vehicle outside the house,’ Whitestone continued. ‘CO19 are going to stick around until we’ve nicked these people. And there’ll be two of our team in the house for the next forty-eight hours. It’s not a bad idea to keep it semi-low-key around here, Max. We don’t need lots of uniforms on the street.’

  I nodded and watched her face beneath the headscarf, waiting for some sign that she knew what I had done last night with Jackson. Anger. Relief. Gratitude. Disbelief. I didn’t know what to expect.

  But DCI Whitestone just looked at her watch.

  ‘So you’re OK to take the first shift with Billy? Mr Din prefers having male officers in his house during the night.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Then Edie and I will see you in the morning,’ Whitestone said.

  Edie took off her headscarf. ‘Or by the end of the Dark Ages,’ she said. ‘Whatever comes first.’

  After they drove off Billy went back into the house while I stood there watching the sun go down over the rooftops of Wembley, the last rays of the day glinting on the great white arch of the stadium that looms above everything in that part of town. It was only eight in the evening but already the day was done and there was a chill in the air that hadn’t been there for months. Yes, summer was almost over now. I knew Scout felt as if it had gone on forever. But to me the season had passed in the blink of an eye.

  I walked down to the young copper at the end of the street.

  ‘PC Rocastle? I’ve got the graveyard shift. We’re going to be in the house.’

  ‘I’m on until midnight.’

  I watched him hesitate.

  ‘What’s on your mind, officer?’ I said.

  ‘You really think they might come back, sir?’ he said.

  I pointed at the unmarked ARV parked outside the big council house.

  ‘If they do,’ I said, ‘they better be ready to start shooting.’

  The street was emptying as I walked back to the house. A middle-aged white woman and man were walking their German Shepherd. I nodded to them. They ignored me. I smiled at the dog’s proud face and reached down to pet him.

  And the woman spat as we passed each other.

  A great glob of saliva glistened on the pavement between us. I stopped and stared at their backs. I saw tattoos on white flesh. And I saw their glances back – the man afraid, the woman more willing to show her contempt.

  They don’t get it, I thought. They have no clue what we do.

  Without fear or favour, we protect everyone.

  I had taken the watch in the living room at the front of the house and Billy was in the back garden. I stared beyond the net curtains as Abu Din reclined in his long grey robes and watched me.

  ‘Who are those men parked outside my home?’ he said.

  ‘They’re police officers who are trained in the use of firearms.’

  He laughed. When I turned to look at him, Abu Din gazed at me with great amusement.

  ‘You don’t seem very worried about the threat to your life, Mr Din.’

  ‘Because there is no threat to my life. It is not my time for shaheed. Hasn’t that been proved already?’

  ‘Shaheed means martyr, right?’

  ‘Literally shaheed means witness. But yes – shaheed is the tribute we pay to believers who die fulfilling their religious commitments. Their place in paradise is assured.’

  ‘Maybe you were just lucky.’

  He stopped smiling.

  ‘There’s no luck needed, alhamdulilah. All praise be to God. I have tawakul – reliance on God – so I do not fear shaytan.’

  ‘It must be nice to have such faith.’

  He looked at me coldly. ‘And it must be hell to live without it.’

  ‘One thing I don’t understand . . .’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I think there are many things a kuffar such as yourself doesn’t understand.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s true. But there’s one thing in particular that I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’m waiting.’

  ‘If you hate this country, sir – if you hate living with the kuffars – then why don’t you make hijrah?’

  ‘Hijrah? Migration? Are you asking me why I don’t leave this country?’

  I nodded. ‘Nobody’s going to stop you, are they?’

  He didn’t even look offended.

  ‘I don’t need to leave, alhamdulilah,’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because everywhere belongs to God.’

  And that was when they came.

  A white transit roared into the cul-de-sac and slammed on the brakes, as if suddenly clocking the ARV.

  ‘Billy!’

&
nbsp; The white transit reversed at speed out of the street. The ARV was going after it. I saw the pure terror flash on Abu Din’s face as I ran from the room. Billy Greene was right behind me.

  I went out the front door in time to see the white transit van pulling away with the ARV on its tail. At the end of the street I could see the crumpled figure of PC Rocastle half on the pavement and half in the street. The taillights of the ARV disappeared.

  ‘Call it in,’ I told Billy, and began running towards the unmoving body of PC Rocastle.

  And then another transit van – this one black – turned into the street and accelerated towards me.

  ‘We’ve been suckered,’ I said.

  Billy was halfway up the garden path as the back doors of the transit van opened. I waved my hand at him to tell him to keep going.

  ‘Get back in the house, Billy. Lock all the doors. And don’t leave his side.’

  I heard his footsteps on the garden path and then the front door slammed shut. I heard the door bolt and looked back to catch a glimpse of Abu Din’s petrified face beyond the net curtains. And then I turned away because three dark figures were getting out of the back of the van. No Albert Pierrepoint masks tonight. No friendly uncles now. Their faces were covered with ski masks. No, not ski masks. Tactical Nomex face masks.

  I clenched my fists as they came towards the house and swung a right at the first figure. And that was when my muscles went into involuntary spasm and I was suddenly down on my knees, a drool of saliva coming from the corner of my mouth. I vaguely understood that I had been shot with a taser or some other kind of electroshock CEW. My muscles were still twitching violently with shock and pain as strong hands lifted and loaded me into the back of the black transit van.

  Inside there was a smell I knew from somewhere but it felt like it was long ago and far away.

  Rank and sweet, like something good that had been left to rot.

  The doors slammed shut.

  My muscles flexed and trembled and now the pain began.

  The transit van started to move.

  And it was only then that I realised they had not come for Abu Din.

  They had come for me.

  25

  I sat on the bench of the transit van as docile as a lamb being led to slaughter, my mind feeling that it was separated from the rest of the world by thick soundproofed glass. I stared at the black Nomex face masks of the two figures sitting opposite me and they stared back, and for a while all I could think about was the way my muscles twitched and shuddered with a will of their own.

  Then I took a breath and tried to think, sucking up the pain and pushing it to one side, telling myself that it would keep on getting better, moment by moment, and telling myself that I could take it.

  Think.

  There was a smell I knew in the back of the van.

  Something foul that had once been sweet.

  Rotting fruit.

  Dead flowers.

  Sugar and human waste.

  Think.

  I took a breath and looked again at the two figures on the bench opposite me. The big one – the one who had filled my nerve endings with electricity, the one who had picked me up as if I weighed nothing – was sitting by my side. And there had to be one more man driving.

  Four of them. The full team. None of them were talking. None of them displayed any telltale tattoos or jewellery.

  They were good.

  But they were not cops.

  If they had been cops – and there had always been the unspoken suspicion that the Hanging Club just might be rogue cops – they wouldn’t simply have knocked the stuffing out of me with a cheap East European taser knock-off. A formal arrest will always be accompanied by physically taking control, was the first thing they taught you at Hendon. They hadn’t done it.

  They had merely flattened me with their pound-store taser and chucked me in the back of their van. Any cop would have done more. But I was not cuffed. I was not unconscious. And I would get stronger with every passing minute that I could stay alive.

  I looked at the masked faces, realising they had still not said one word.

  ‘So if you’re all here, then who was driving the white van?’ I asked.

  ‘Friends,’ murmured the large figure by my side.

  ‘Friends?’ I said. ‘I bet you’ve got lots of friends, right?’

  A fist pounded furiously on the back of the cab. The driver was sending a clear message.

  No talking!

  I glimpsed eyes wild with rage behind another black Nomex and I felt the three figures in the back of the van shift uncomfortably. So was that the leader behind the wheel?

  I laughed and half-turned to look at the man by my side.

  ‘You’re the big man in town, right? Cleaning up the mean streets—’

  I caught my breath as he placed the razor blade against the lid of my right eye.

  Very gently, almost lovingly, he drew the sharp edge of the razor blade across the thin layer of skin that covered my eye, demonstrating how very easy it would be to slice it open, how little would be the effort required on his part, how pathetically fragile I was.

  I thought of what had happened to Justin Whitestone and fought to control my breathing. My eyes, I thought, and my heart wanted to burst.

  And I thought that was the end of all conversation. But the black figure holding the razor blade pressed against my eyelid leaned in close so that only I could hear what he had to say.

  ‘And you protect the filth, little man, don’t you? And that is why you have no friends any more. You stand guard at the door while the Pakistani child groomers rape our children and you tug your forelock while rich men murder the innocent and you devote yourself to cleaning the shoes of the scum of the earth. More than any of them, little man, you are the one who deserves to hang.’

  And it was a voice I thought I knew from somewhere.

  Once upon a time. Long ago and far away. My muscles twitched with pain and my mind was foggy with shock.

  But I had heard that voice before.

  He pressed the blade against my eyeball and, as stray muscles in random parts of my body still spasmed with shock, I tried very hard to not move.

  Perhaps they’re cops after all, I thought.

  There was no change of vehicle. Perhaps they had learned their lesson with Abu Din. Perhaps the switch vehicle had been used to sucker the Armed Response Vehicle. And to sucker me, too. But there was no stopping this time.

  We drove.

  Fast but not that fast. There was little traffic around at this time of night, but the driver kept below the speed limit, like a good criminal should. Then we seemed to go slower and I thought we must be moving into town rather than driving out of it. There was no opening up on a motorway, only slowing down to an inner-city crawl.

  Then we were on rough terrain, bumping over uneven surfaces, and going down.

  The transit van stopped.

  We had reached our destination.

  The razor blade was drawn across my eyelid. I felt a sharp sting of pain and I cursed as a dribble of blood ran down my face like a teardrop.

  ‘Be a good little pig and you can die with both of your eyes,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to be on YouTube with your eyes hanging out, do you?’ He laughed. ‘Your daughter wouldn’t want to watch that for the rest of her life, would she?’

  The driver opened the back door. And then he didn’t speak any more.

  They helped me out into an abandoned underground car park. No, not abandoned. Unfinished. That was why there were no vehicles. This place was still being built.

  There were junk-food cartons and empty cans littered around, the refuse of builders working underground in the summer heat. I thought of Tara Jones and her belief that major building work was happening near to the kill site.

  Three masked faces stared at me for a moment and then turned away. The big one was behind me. A meaty hand shoved me in the back and I felt his breath as he walked behind me across the emp
ty car park.

  It was massive. Shopping mall? Office block? Luxury apartments? The three figures in front of me moved quickly and the big man behind gave me a casual crack across the back of my head whenever I seemed to slow my pace. He still held the razor blade between the thumb and index finger of his right hand and whenever he hit me, I felt the blade randomly slash through hair and skin.

  We came to a dimly lit staircase and started down. At the bottom – two storeys down? – we entered a broad, low-ceilinged tunnel. We were in total darkness now. But they knew where they were going. Then we were crossing uneven floor surfaces towards distant lights.

  Machinery. Noise. I caught a glimpse of it.

  It was a boiler room.

  We walked past it and came to a door. The door was unlocked and we passed inside. We went down some more steps and came to a short, strange corridor that was like something from a dream.

  We moved down it in slow single file.

  And I could not believe what I was seeing.

  The walls and ceiling came closer with every step.

  I tried to clear my head. I thought my nerve endings were still rattled from the CEW.

  But it was real.

  The corridor really did become smaller. The ceiling really did get lower. By the time we reached the end we had to press our hands against our sides and lower our heads.

  There was a room at the end of the corridor.

  And my heart fell away. For I knew this room.

  I saw the white tiles stained green and yellow by a century of weather and neglect. And choked down the sickness when I saw the kitchen step stool where they had stood Mahmud Irani, Hector Welles and Darren Donovan.

  The room radiated pure evil.

  The sharp red light of someone’s smart phone was aiming at my face. From behind me the big man took my hands and I heard the jangle of the handcuffs. Finally they were taking full physical control. He was about to secure my hands behind my back so that I would hang quietly.

  ‘Do you know why you have been brought to this place of execution?’ he asked me.

  And I fought for my life.

  I dragged the heel of my right shoe from his kneecap to his ankle, feeling the skin peel away beneath his trousers, hearing him shriek with sudden agony, the handcuffs clattering to the ground.