by Nick Oldham
The door to the convenience store they were watching opened and a customer came out.
Luke held back his response to Charlie. He knew the other two would not be happy. They didn’t know anything was going to change. They were both eager to resume the lifestyle they’d led before Charlie had been sent down. The last two years had been horribly boring for them, mostly, and they needed Charlie’s leadership to motivate them out of the lethargy that had seeped into them. And they were desperate for some money. Benefits, and a bit of dope dealing and some petty thieving, didn’t bring in much.
Luke kept his mouth shut. Instead he said confidently, ‘He’ll have counted up by now. It’ll all be bagged up, a full week’s takings. Then he’ll give it to his daughter who works for him in the shop.’
‘Good.’ Charlie’s eyes were glued to the shop as his fingertips stroked the shotgun.
Rain began to splatter heavily on the windscreen, big blobs. It looked as though the promised bad weather had begun.
‘Think we need to mask up,’ Luke said, and for the second time that day he pulled a surgical mask over his nose and mouth and swivelled his baseball cap around one-eighty degrees so the peak faced backwards.
Charlie did the same.
Then the shop door opened and a girl in her late teens stepped out.
‘That’s the daughter,’ Luke said.
She had a small rucksack slung loosely over her right shoulder.
‘And she’s carrying the money,’ he added as he slammed the car into gear, flashed his headlights at the Nissan parked further down the road in which Johnny and Jake were sitting, waiting. They flashed back. Luke jabbed his foot on to the accelerator and the vehicle lurched forwards at the same time as the Nissan.
They screeched in on the girl just as she reached the car she would be using, which was parked in one of the customer bays in front of the store.
The two vehicles stopped at sharp angles and all four men leapt out. Jake and Johnny were wearing clothing, masks and hats identical to those of the brothers, but they were brandishing baseball bats, whereas Charlie had the shotgun held across his stomach, parallel to the ground, and Luke’s hands were free. He was the snatch man.
The girl twisted, her face horror-struck as she immediately realized what was happening. She screamed for her father and started to run back to the safety of the shop, but did not move fast enough. Luke ran up to her and smashed his fist into her face, instantly breaking her cheek bone and felling her, her brain imploding and her knees giving way. As she dropped, Luke took a step back and kicked her in the side of the head, as hard as if he was kicking a soccer ball from the penalty spot. Luke grinned; his toecap felt the distinct break of bone – it could have been her jaw – as the kick lifted her and sent her slim body sprawling across the ground.
As he was doing this, the other three fanned out in a semicircle to defend him.
Luke bent over and grabbed the rucksack, having to prise it off her shoulders.
Incredibly, and more by instinct than anything, though almost unconscious, she held blindly on to the bag.
Luke tore it from her and flat-footed her in the chest.
Then the shop door opened and a man ran furiously out – the girl’s father and shop owner – screaming loudly. He was also armed with a baseball bat, which was raised high above his head as he hurtled towards Luke.
Charlie spun at a crouch, bringing the shotgun around at waist level.
Without hesitation he pulled back both triggers.
The sound of the blast was deafening and the force of the discharge when it hit the man stopped him in his tracks as if he had crashed into an invisible wall – which he bounced off – and threw him backwards off his feet. The shot from the cartridges inflicted a terrible wound in his chest, causing him to spin back and drop face down, releasing the bat as he fell. It clattered on the ground and rolled away.
Luke screamed, ‘Come on.’
All four jumped back into their cars and were gone.
And the rain began to pound down.
‘How much did you say?’ Charlie demanded. ‘Fifteen grand?’ He picked up the handful of bank notes and waved them angrily in front of Luke’s face. ‘You said fifteen,’ he snarled, his rage building. ‘If there’s two here I’ll show my arse in Burton’s window.’ He hurled the cash down with disgust.
They were back at Johnny’s sister’s house on Wallbank estate.
The clothing they had worn for the robbery and the vehicles used had been disposed of, all items set on fire and incinerated. They had changed back into their own stuff which could not be forensically linked to the robbery.
Charlie shook his head, trying to contain his growing rage. ‘I told you I needed good money to pay Hassan tonight.’
Luke blinked, thinking, but not daring to say, Actually you didn’t.
They were in the dining room at the rear of the house, gathered around the table on which the stolen money had now been dumped into an untidy pile. Not an excessively big pile.
Charlie had watched whilst Jake had slowly counted and stacked the money, disbelief growing on his face as he realized the amount was nowhere near what he needed as a down payment for Hassan.
There was £1,850 exactly.
He needed £15,000 for Hassan tonight – and that had been the point at which he’d snatched up the money, then thrown it back down.
‘I don’t believe it … freakin’ imbeciles, you lot … couldn’t organize a …’ He found himself lost for words.
‘We’ll do another job,’ Luke said reasonably. ‘We’ve others in mind.’
‘I’ll just have to hope this is enough for Hassan for the time being,’ Charlie said, as if he hadn’t heard Luke.
Jake frowned as his eyes scanned the scattered cash. ‘Do you mean all this?’
Charlie leaned forward and stuck his face an inch away from Jake’s. ‘Yes, I mean all this.’
‘What about our cut?’ he mumbled. Jake was a fairly simple lad from an abused background on a tough Rochdale council estate, not too sharp, and all he wanted from life was a bit of excitement and some extra money on top of his state handouts so he could get bladdered every so often. Much like the others, he lacked the motivation or initiative to act independently and the last two years had been hard for him, living off the dole and shoplifting to survive, without Charlie’s guidance. He’d wanted Charlie back, and getting all the stuff Charlie wanted done by today sorted out with Johnny had breathed a bit of life back into him.
‘You don’t get a cut,’ Charlie said.
Jake’s face screwed up. ‘Eh? Wha—?’
‘I think you’d better explain it, Chas,’ Johnny cut in. ‘We’re in the dark here. Who the fuck’s Hassan, why do you need all the money … y’know, what’s going on? Me ’n’ Jake fixed up all the transport for today, and the gun, but we don’t know why. Just tell us,’ he pleaded.
Johnny was a tough, good-looking young man, physically stronger than Charlie; if he’d had the courage, he might have taken him on and won. But it was Charlie who had the charisma and leadership skills – and the propensity for violence, as he had so effectively demonstrated twice that day already, although neither Jake nor Johnny knew yet what had happened in Preston. Charlie was the scary psycho and Johnny knew he was taking a bit of a chance by demanding any explanation from him. Charlie answered to no one.
Charlie looked hard at him, then the others, all silent, scared. Not even a two-grand job, possibly a dead man involved, possibly a badly assaulted female, and not getting a share of it.
‘Right … right, OK,’ Charlie relented. ‘Things are going to change around here, with us.’ He made a circle with his finger to indicate the gang.
‘Think you need to tell us, man,’ Johnny said.
‘Really? Do I?’ Charlie walked around the table and squared up to Johnny.
‘Hey, guys,’ Luke said. ‘No need for this.’
Charlie’s nostrils dilated as he glared at Johnny, who had never been his favourite
person. Their personalities had never quite gelled.
But he stepped away – and the prospect of a physical encounter diminished, much to everyone’s relief.
Charlie glanced at Luke. ‘Have we got the party stuff up at the farm?’
‘Everything’s up there – food, booze, Xbox, dope.’
‘In that case, let’s go and get rat-arsed,’ Charlie decreed. ‘Let’s celebrate my release and a future of money and women—’ he shot a look at Johnny – ‘and all will be revealed.’
They jumped into two cars outside the house, an old Range Rover and the battered Chevette, and drove off the estate. They were headed for an old farm on the moors that had belonged to Charlie and Luke’s grandparents way back, had been inherited by their father who had run it down and wasted all the assets before dying of a drug overdose and leaving it to the brothers, who lived in it from time to time when it suited. The twenty-year-old Range Rover had come with the inheritance.
They drove on to a road leading up to the moors, but were stunned by the sight of a police checkpoint ahead of them.
Charlie, at the wheel of the Range Rover, swore disbelief.
Luke, next to him, seemed to shrivel up in his seat.
‘Can’t be on to us, surely,’ Charlie said. He knew if he did something ridiculous in the tight road, slammed on and reversed away, he would draw unnecessary attention to himself, besides which Jake and Johnny were right up behind them in the Chevette. They had to brazen it out and if necessary take out the rain-sodden, miserable looking cop who stood round-shouldered at the police cordon tape strung across the road.
Charlie was aware that the shotgun he had used on the robbery was in the back of the car, behind his seat, hidden under a plastic bag but just within reach. A shimmer of anticipation skittered through him. The prospect of murdering a cop was quite exciting.
He drew to a halt and the cop came to his window, which he opened a crack.
‘I’m sorry,’ the officer said, rain dripping off his nose like a snotty kid, ‘but there’s an ongoing incident at a farm just ahead and we can’t let anyone through until it’s safe to do so.’
‘Right,’ Charlie said, his insides seeming to be very, very empty, ‘but I – we – live up there.’
‘I’m sorry sir, it’s a very dangerous situation.’ The officer nodded conspiratorially. ‘Firearms involved.’
Luke leaned across. ‘At old Kirkman’s place?’
‘Not at liberty to say,’ the officer said, suddenly becoming discreet. ‘But I’m afraid I have to insist that you turn around. Is there another way up to your home?’
‘Yes, there is,’ Charlie said. ‘We can go another way.’
The cop pointed to the Chevette. ‘Is that car with you?’
Luke cut in to answer. ‘Yes – I’ll tell him to back off.’ He jumped out and ran back to the others, hunched against the rain.
Moments later the Chevette began to reverse slowly, followed by the Range Rover, a confrontation with the police avoided.
Victor Toleman’s days in prison stuck rigidly to the regime. He wasn’t out to upset anyone, just to lead his life, get fed, watch TV, go to various educational classes (he sat there, stared blankly and didn’t cause problems like some of the other inmates), get fed again, smoke a few roll-ups. Prison was his life now. As soon as he was released he would go to the bail hostel or probation hostel or whatever short-term accommodation the judicial authorities had lined up for him. He would then spend whatever money he had on whiskey and cider, get paralytic, probably steal something as ridiculous as a charity box, get drunk again, allow the unpleasant side of his personality to emerge and then get rearrested for breaking a shop window or beating up another of the city centre drunks. Then he would be back in the system, which was his life. A repeat offender, relatively harmless, who depended on the security of living behind bars, like many other middle-aged alcoholics who could be found in prison cells right across the UK.
Almost as soon as his cell-sharer Charlie Wilder had been released that morning, he had been replaced by another inmate in a cell shuffle. This one (‘unpleasant fucker’, as Victor described him) demanded that Victor vacate the top bunk immediately or he would kill him.
Victor didn’t care where he slept and acceded to the order without rancour. All he wanted was a bed, didn’t mind if it was top or bottom bunk or a camp bed.
After breakfast that morning, Victor shuffled around the prison, passing his time pleasantly enough watching daytime TV and playing chess with a fellow drunk who always cheated, but Victor didn’t care. It amused him.
It was just before lunch when Victor noticed one or two unusual things occurring. A couple of prison officers dashing quickly upstairs, some having huddled discussions. Lots of shocked, serious faces, intense conversations.
Something had happened, clearly, but it was impossible to say what.
Victor watched the activity for a while, then lost interest. Whatever was going on didn’t seem to be having any effect on prison life.
A little later, he presumed the news – or whatever it was – had spread to the inmates and there was a mirror image of conversations between groups of them, but with one major difference.
Whereas the officers’ conversations had been deadly serious, the prisoners were laughing and jubilant. Some even danced and punched the sky.
Still, Victor could not quite work out what was going on. No one told him and he wasn’t motivated to ask. Knowing stuff often led to problems.
It was whilst he was having a mid-afternoon mug of tea that he found out. He was sitting in the TV room, sipping a heavily sugared brew, when one of his ‘friends’ settled in alongside him. The term ‘friend’ was used advisedly. Victor didn’t really have friends, just a few prisoners he talked to more than others. This was a man called Tony the Prick, an alcoholic from Blackburn who led a very similar life to Victor, relying on the state to provide him with bed and board because he could not survive outside. His nickname came about because he had realized that one of the quickest routes to prison was to expose himself to young girls outside schools although he strenuously denied the ‘pervert’ tag.
‘You heard?’ Tony asked.
Victor finished his sip of tea and squinted at Tony. ‘Heard what?’
‘About that screw. That Dawson fucker?’
‘Tony Dawson?’
‘Yeah, that un.’
‘No?’ Victor said, a question in the word. ‘What about him?’ Victor’s brow was knitted together, thinking he hadn’t seen PO Dawson since mid-morning.
‘Been murdered.’
These two words stunned Victor. Not because he had any sort of feelings for Dawson. He hated the bastard of a bully that he was and avoided him at all costs. It was just the thought of someone he knew being killed. It felt odd and unsettling.
‘Murdered? What happened?’
‘Well,’ Tony the Prick leaned in close, ‘apparently some guy in a big truck chased him down a street, Fishergate I hear, and ran him over, splat!’ On the last word, Tony’s hands and arms suddenly imitated an explosion, making Victor jump and spill his tea. ‘Then … then,’ Tony went on enthusiastically, ‘guy reversed back over him and squashed his head like a, like a … dunno, something horrible … pavement were covered like someone’d jumped on a bag of tomatoes and fish paste. Had his arm ripped off, too.’
Victor looked horrified. ‘Who told you this?’
‘Smelly Man. He hears everything,’ Tony said, referring to another inmate who actually did not smell. That nickname came about due to his ability to sniff out information. For the moment, Smelly Man was very much the eyes and ears of the inmates – until his release.
‘Smelly Man.’ Victor pouted, impressed. He wasn’t usually wrong, though he did have a tendency to exaggerate news.
‘Just thought I’d let you know,’ Tony said, and gave a wink before rising from his seat, leaving Victor shocked and staring unfocused at the TV.
From that moment on, Victor
felt uncomfortable. He would’ve liked to have said that being mown down in the street couldn’t have happened to a nicer man but, other than under the influence of alcohol, Victor was a placid man who wished no harm or hurt to anyone. Even Tony Dawson, maybe one of the worst, most bombastic men he had ever met.
The news did spread through the whole of the prison after that and although the exact details of Dawson’s demise were not known, it did seem he had been deliberately run down and killed.
Something which preyed heavily on Victor’s mind.
In the middle of that afternoon he found he needed to speak to someone and approached a prison officer on one of the landings.
‘Sir, can I talk to you for a moment?’
The officer nodded. ‘Sure, Victor.’
‘Er,’ he started doubtfully, ‘is it true about PO Dawson?’
‘What have you heard?’
‘Run over and killed.’
‘It’s true – why?’
Victor’s face became a mass of twitches and nervous tics.
FOUR
Henry Christie’s face twitched as, once again, the image of a horrific death flashed through his mind’s eye and he thought about how fate had brought him to witness such a brutal end to a man’s life.
Obviously as a detective superintendent and senior investigating officer – SIO – on the Force Major Investigation Team, he accepted that death was his business, but mostly Henry attended scenes where people were already dead. It was less common for him to be there ‘at the death’, and when he was, it shook him to the core.
At least this time it had done.
His proximity to the act, its spectacular but ghastly end and its amazing speed had made a deep impact on him.
Although it had been quick, and the weather had been dark and appalling and visibility poor, each frame of this particular death was imprinted on his brain cells and could be slowed right down, almost frozen in time to the exact moment the man’s head had been blown off his shoulders.
Henry’s right eye twitched this time and a terrible judder scythed through his soul. He lifted the single Jack Daniel’s, no ice, to his mouth, sniffed the smoky aroma, then downed it in one and brought the heavy-based glass back on to the bar top with a crack, turning peoples’ heads.