Dead Lock

by Damien Boyd

  ALSO BY DAMIEN BOYD

  As the Crow Flies

  Head in the Sand

  Kickback

  Swansong

  Dead Level

  Death Sentence

  Heads or Tails

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Damien Boyd

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542047029

  ISBN-10: 1542047021

  Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com

  For Peter

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Coal smoke. It was a familiar smell – comforting somehow – swirling in the fog of his dreams every morning when the crows dragged him back to his senses, even before he opened his eyes. Was it the same bloody lot following him along the cut these past several weeks? Sitting on the cabin roof every morning, squawking for all they were worth.

  Mutton headed coveys.

  He glanced across at Jack, fast asleep in his bunk. He was never up before dawn. It must be the grog. He reached over, picked up the jar and took a swig. Just the dregs. He grimaced.

  Disgusting.

  Tam’s bunk was empty, as usual when they reached Combe Hay. Selling coal to the lock keeper’s wife, no doubt. And more besides.

  He slid his feet out from under Sikes, the smelly brindle Lurcher who kept them in rabbits in return for the scraps, and yawned.

  Time to sort out Bess. Poor Bess. She comes first.

  He slipped his feet into his boots and crept out of the cabin, finding the horse where he had left her last night, tethered to a tree along the towpath eating the wet grass, as far from the water’s edge as he could get her. She’d been in the canal again last week, but then it was Tam’s proven remedy for a buckled shoulder.

  ‘Works every time,’ he always said. ‘Get her in the water and let her swim it off. It’ll soon pop back in.’

  It was happening more and more often these days. Poor old Bess. The old nag was starting to struggle to get the barge moving when it was full of coal.

  All twenty ton of it.

  He filled her nosebag with the last of the oats from the barrel and slipped it over her head. They should get to Paulton today and he’d make sure he filled it up good and proper for the return trip.

  He left Bess eating her breakfast in the half light of the dawn and wandered back along the towpath towards the barge. He slid back the tarpaulin and dropped down into the empty hold as quietly as he could. It was either that or wake up Jack and get another basting for his trouble.

  He picked up the last few bits of coal. The dregs.

  Again.

  One day he’d have his own boat – it was the life of a bargee for him – then there’d be no more dregs. For him, or Bess.

  He tiptoed along the gunwale to the back cabin, trying not to rock the boat. Smoke billowed out of the stove when he opened the door, which explained why everything – and everyone – was covered in a thin layer of black dust. Coal safely in, he gave it a prod with the poker, closed the door and then placed the kettle gingerly on the top. Jack didn’t mind the whistle of the kettle if it was followed by a nice cup of ‘Rosie’, as he called it. And the stronger the better to mask the taste of the coal.

  ‘Nat, are you in there?’

  He poked his head out of the back cabin to find Tam running along the towpath, doing up his belt as he ran.

  ‘Get Bess harnessed up, then get up to the next lock. It’s against us.’ Tam was banging on the side of the cabin with his fist. ‘Get up, Jack. We need to get moving. I’ll meet you at the top of the flight.’

  Then he watched Tam disappear through a gap in the hedge and sprint off across the field.

  Lock keeper on your tail again, is it?

  Here we go again, Bess.

  Nosebag off, harness on. Then he ran along the towpath to the next lock. They had stopped for the night in the middle of the flight so it was only a short dash. He closed the top gate and then ran back to the bottom gate to open the paddles, emptying the water from the lock.

  First the nearside, then across the top of the gate to the offside. With both paddles open the lock would empty twice as fast.

  He looked back to the barge. Jack was already getting Bess moving. Easier for the old girl today, with no cargo on board.

  He glanced down at the top of the gate as he cranked the windlass lifting the nearside paddle, the water swirling as it roared out through the opening. The gate was crumbling and split where it had been rammed by barges coming into the lock too fast over the years, the splintered wood just visible through the piles of wet leaves lying along the top.

  He could step over them.

  It’d be no bother.

  Chapter One

  Skylarks; seagulls in the distance; a blackbird somewhere behind him – he was sure he could hear a blackbird; and a flock of crows on the roof, giving it large. Much more of that and he’d switch the siren on, that’d sort the buggers out. A murder, that was it, a murder of crows; it had come up at the pub quiz the week before. Louise had got it – she’d been good at collective nouns – but couldn’t explain why it was a ‘murder’. Now he knew, though, and he’d cheerfully shoot the bloody lot if he had a shotgun.

  He reached up and banged on the underside of the roof. Then settled back to listen to the patter of the rain on the windscreen.

  And the crackle of the radio.

  ‘QPR three-ten from Control. Over.’

  It was not the dawn chorus he had been hoping for.

  ‘QPR three-ten, this is Control. Over.’

  He rubbed his eyes – sleeping with his contact lenses in again – he must get some more eye dr
ops. And he winced when he tried to lift his head – an inflatable neck pillow would be good too. No matter how far you wind the seat back, sleeping in a car is still bloody uncomfortable.

  ‘QPR three-ten from Control. For God’s sake, Nigel, wake up! Over.’

  He sat up and fumbled for the radio with his left hand, still rubbing his eyes with his right.

  ‘Bugger,’ he muttered, as he dropped the handset into the passenger footwell. He opened his eyes, blinking furiously, and peered out into the fog – or were the windows steamed up? ‘Control, this is QPR three-ten. Go ahead. Over.’

  ‘We’ve received a report of a missing child. Alesha Daniels. One-zero years of age. Repeat, one-zero years of age. Father’s name is Ryan Daniels. Address three-three Tyler Way, Highbridge. Over.’

  ‘Control, received. Three-three Tyler Way. Will report back when we arrive. Over.’

  ‘He has a record of violence. Over.’

  It just gets better and better.

  ‘Received, record of violence. Over.’

  Police Constable Nigel Cole dropped the handset into the lap of PC Sandra MacIntyre, who had managed to sleep through the entire radio exchange as well as the squawking of the crows.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, stifling a yawn.

  ‘Missing girl.’ Cole started the engine and switched the fans to full blast.

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘How much longer have we got left?’ MacIntyre was sitting up now, cranking her seat forward with her left hand.

  ‘Two hours.’

  ‘It’s six o’clock?’

  ‘Nearly.’

  Cole began wiping the inside of the windscreen with a handful of tissues. ‘Here, do your side,’ he said, passing the packet to MacIntyre.

  He jabbed the buttons on the driver’s door, opening both his window and MacIntyre’s.

  ‘Shut that, Nige, for God’s sake.’ She was leaning forward in her seat, trying to reach the bottom of the windscreen with the tissues. ‘It’s bloody freezing.’

  Cole shut the windows, relieved to see that the rubber seal had cleared the condensation from both anyway. Another minute or so and the rear demist would have done its job too. He adjusted the fans to blow on the windscreen.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked MacIntyre, throwing the sodden tissues into the footwell.

  ‘Alesha Daniels.’

  ‘Not Ryan’s kid?’

  Cole was putting on his seatbelt. ‘Ryan Daniels. Thirty-three Tyler Way. D’you know him?’

  ‘He’s moved house if it’s him. Bit free with his fists. Worse when he’s been on the lager. His partner – shit, what was her name?’ MacIntyre shook her head. ‘She must’ve had us over there three times.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Worston Lane. It was a flat down the Burnham end. Can’t remember the number. She never pursued it though.’ MacIntyre shrugged her shoulders. ‘Usual story.’

  ‘Control said he had a record?’

  ‘GBH. He headbutted an old bloke who cut him up at a roundabout. Broke his nose.’

  ‘Grievous bodily on an elderly man? Sounds like a nasty piece of work.’

  ‘First thing I did when I got there was breathalyse him. Nicked the tosser for drink driving too.’ MacIntyre grinned. ‘He was sent down for two years and got a five year ban. I’m sure his daughter’s name was Alesha. Social Services were all over them.’

  Cole waited for her to put her seatbelt on, then turned out of the gravel car park behind the River Huntspill on to the narrow country lane, craning his neck to watch the drainage ditches on either side of the cattle grid.

  ‘Clear this side,’ said MacIntyre. ‘Nice spot, that one. Off the beaten track.’

  ‘You have to watch it when the fishing season opens. The pumping station is only a mile or so that way.’ Cole was pointing out of the back of the patrol car with his thumb. ‘You’re likely to wake up to find some bloody fisherman’s tweeted a photo of you.’

  ‘It doesn’t help that you sleep with your mouth open.’ MacIntyre smiled. ‘You’d go viral in a jiffy.’

  Cole looked up at the red brick terrace – three storey with dormer windows, steps up to the front door, thin brown streaks running down the flaking white paint from the rusting screws that held the numbers on, loosely by the looks of things. There were four sets of two – 33, 34, 35, 36 – and none were on straight.

  Three of the letterbox covers on the wall were missing, but the Entryphone system looked new.

  ‘I remember this when it was a derelict factory and scrubland.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Ten years ago. More probably.’ The door flew open and a figure appeared, leaning over the wobbly railings at the top of the steps.

  ‘Is that him?’ Cole wrenched on the handbrake.

  MacIntyre looked up and sighed. ‘’Fraid so. Looks like he’s had a few too.’

  ‘Will he remember you?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Better let me do the talking then,’ said Cole, switching off the engine.

  MacIntyre picked up the radio. ‘Control, this is QPR three-ten on scene. The father appears drunk. Over.’

  ‘QPR three-ten, he rang again and was very agitated. Proceed with caution. Over.’

  ‘What time was she first reported missing? Over.’

  ‘Zero-five-four-two. Over.’

  MacIntyre replaced the handset. ‘That’s not bad,’ she said, turning to Cole. ‘It’s only just gone six now.’

  ‘Tell him that.’

  Ryan Daniels was hanging over the railings, waving his arms and shouting. Several days of stubble, food down his T-shirt, jogging bottoms and bare feet; he was jabbing his TV remote control at the patrol car.

  ‘And why’d he wait until the morning to report her missing?’ continued Cole.

  ‘Pisshead probably fell asleep,’ muttered MacIntyre. She frowned. ‘He’s had a few more tattoos by the looks of it.’

  ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  ‘I love your optimism.’

  Cole climbed out of the driver’s seat. ‘Mr Daniels, is it?’

  ‘Yes, it bloody well is. What time d’you call this? How long does it take, for fuck’s sake? My daughter’s out there somewhere, you useless—!’

  MacIntyre slammed the passenger door. ‘Let’s take this inside, Ryan,’ she said, stepping forward.

  ‘It’s Mr Daniels to you. He can come in, but you can fuck off.’

  ‘Calm down, Ryan.’

  ‘I’ll deal with it, Sandra.’ Cole’s eyes widened. ‘You wait here. All right?’

  Cole squeezed past a bicycle chained to a radiator in the narrow hallway and followed Daniels, flicking a light switch on the wall at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Bulb’s gone,’ said Daniels. ‘You’d better watch out for the bottles.’

  Two plastic crates filled with empties and unopened post, then another on the bottom step; Cole stepped over them and followed Daniels up the stairs, relying on light that was streaming in through a door at the top.

  ‘I hadn’t realised these were flats,’ he said, admiring the stack of washing up in the kitchen sink.

  ‘Rented,’ replied Daniels. ‘I’ve been here two years, since me and Tanya split up.’ He cracked open a can of cheap lager with a label Cole didn’t recognise and leaned back against the sink, sending the pile of plates crashing across the draining board.

  ‘May I?’ asked Cole, gesturing to a small table.

  Daniels nodded, can to mouth.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Alesha?’

  ‘She stayed last weekend, as usual, and left on Sunday. She comes here every Saturday night, goes home Sunday. And I had to fight for that.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘In court.’ Daniels was lighting a cigarette. ‘I had to get a Child Arrangements Order or whatever the fuck they call it.’ He blew the smoke out through his nose. ‘To see my own bloody kid.’

  ‘When was tha
t?’

  ‘A year or so ago.’

  ‘And she’s ten?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Lives with her mother then. Is that Tanya?’

  ‘Yes. She’s got a flat in Worston Lane.’

  ‘Tanya who?’

  ‘Stevens.’

  ‘Does she live alone?’

  ‘There’s a boyfriend who stays. Kevin Sailes.’ Daniels sneered. ‘Wanker. You’ll find them both on your database.’

  Cole raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Yes, and me.’ Daniels took another swig of beer.

  ‘How does Alesha get here?’ Cole cleared a space on the table in front of him, piling up several empty foil trays, and opened his notebook.

  ‘She cycles from Tanya’s.’

  ‘It was raining last night.’

  ‘That doesn’t bother her. She loves her bike, she does. She’s always out on it.’

  ‘Whose is this?’ Cole picked up a wine glass and turned the red lipstick on it towards Daniels.

  ‘Monica’s. What’s that got to do with Alesha?’

  ‘Where’s Monica now?’

  ‘She went home about midnight.’ Cole flicked his ash into the sink. ‘She drove me over to Tanya’s about eleven thirty, dropped me back here and then went home.’

  ‘How much had she had to drink?’ Cole looked up.

  ‘My daughter’s missing and you’re asking me how much my girlfriend had to drink? You must be fucking kidding me?’ Daniels slammed the can down on the worktop, sending two plates and associated cutlery crashing on to the floor. The can followed, the dregs dribbling on to the lino.

  ‘What time was Alesha due here?’ asked Cole, changing the subject.

  ‘Six.’ Daniels sighed. ‘She comes at six every Saturday evening.’

  ‘So, why wait nearly twelve hours to report her missing?’

  ‘Look, it may have been a bit later when Monica went home.’

  ‘What difference does that make?’

  ‘You work it out.’

  Cole glanced into the foil tray on top of the stack on the table in front of him. Several cigarette butts, soaked in sauce, were in amongst the noodles, two of them hand rolled with a small roll of cardboard in the end.

  Daniels lunged forward, snatched the trays off the table and dropped them in the bin. ‘We thought . . . I thought . . . she’d gone to a friend or something. She’s done it before and forgotten to tell anyone.’