Dead Heat

by Nick Oldham

  ‘OK, sweetie?’

  She nodded reluctantly.

  ‘You up for this?’ Newman went on.

  She shrugged. ‘Yeah, whatever.’

  ‘This is Andy.’ Newman indicated Turner. Denise gave him a crooked smile. From somewhere on her person she produced a hand-rolled cigarette, lit it and blew grey smoke into the car.

  ‘Hundred quid. No negotiation,’ she said as a lungful of acrid smoke left her nostrils and mouth.

  ‘Fine,’ Turner said. ‘You do the job, you get the dosh.’

  ‘Up front.’

  Newman and Turner exchanged glances. Turner shrugged and dug into a pocket, pulling out a wodge of twenties. He peeled five off and held them out to her. Her eyes suddenly became alive again, focusing on them hungrily. She did not try to take it. Too many people had teased her with money, only to play snatchey-snatchey with her.

  ‘You get the door open, get out of the way. That’s all you have to do,’ Turner said. ‘Dead simple. Money for old rope.’

  ‘I know.’

  He tossed the money on to her lap. She took it and eased it into the back pocket of her jeans.

  ‘What you gonna do?’

  ‘That,’ Turner said, ‘you don’t need to know.’

  She shrugged. She did not give a shit, even though she had enough imagination to guess. The pairs of disposable latex gloves each man was easing on to his hands were a bit of a giveaway.

  ‘What is it with you and Al?’ Dale O’Brien asked Jo innocently enough, but she could see he was burning with curiosity.

  They were sitting in a Little Chef, not far away from Manchester Prison, more famously known as Strangeways, drinking exorbitantly priced cups of tea – which would be claimed back on expenses at the end of the month.

  Jo took a sip of hers, savouring its expense. ‘Just crap,’ she said.

  ‘You been having an affair?’ O’Brien asked directly.

  Jo spluttered on the tea, placed the cup down and wiped her mouth. ‘Bit to the bloody point, that, Dale!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Well, anyway, yeah . . . you could say that. We were an item.’ She tweaked her fingers on the word ‘item’. She sounded wistful. ‘But it didn’t work out.’ She finished her tea and said, ‘Let’s move.’

  ‘Once she’s in, give her half a minute,’ Newman said, looking into his rear-view mirror. He watched the girl walk towards the front door of the flats, and press a button on the intercom. She leaned on the wall and talked into the speaker, then stood upright for a moment before pushing the door open.

  ‘She’s in,’ Turner said. He was contorted round in his seat, also observing Denise’s progress. He spun around and picked up the baseball bat, which he concealed underneath his jacket when he got out of the car.

  He and Newman crossed the road and walked side by side down the pavement to the door.

  ‘What a good girl,’ Turner said. As promised, Denise had wedged the door open with one of her trainers. Turner muscled his way in, followed by Newman. They stopped at the foot of the stairs leading up to the first-floor landing. Turner motioned Newman to complete silence by touching his lips with a finger and withdrew the baseball bat from its place of concealment. He positioned a foot on the first step.

  The sound of the girl’s voice filtered down to them.

  ‘Yeah, I know I’m early, Goldy, but I’m fuckin’ desperate. I need it now and I’ve got the cash . . . look.’ It was obvious she was talking through the steel door to the dealer, who was all nice and snug and safe in his little fortress.

  There was a muffled response from Goldman which could not be made out down at ground level.

  ‘Yeah, thank fuck for that, Goldy,’ Denise said.

  What could be heard on the ground floor was the unmistakable sound of bolts being drawn back and a key in the lock.

  ‘Come on,’ Turner whispered, dashing quickly up the stairs, bounding on to the landing and dropping into a crouch in a corner. Newman came up behind him, digital camera at the ready. Denise was down the narrow corridor, standing outside the first door. She did not even glance in their direction, but stepped back a yard (with the trainer missing from her left foot) from the door. She dropped her lighted cigarette and stooped to pick it up, overbalancing slightly, making more room for Turner and Newman to move in.

  Drug dealers have a very finely honed sense of self-preservation. If they don’t have, they don’t stay in business for long.

  When Goldman peered with one eye through his spy hole in response to the persistent knocking on his door and saw the distorted figure of Denise through the fish-eye lens, his brow creased with puzzlement. She was one of his regulars, a good payer either in cash or blowjobs, but usually he dealt with her in another location, out in the streets. She had been to his flat occasionally, but it was only yesterday he had supplied her with a quarter gram of heroin. He did not expect to see her so soon – and certainly not at his abode.

  His hands hesitated on the numerous locks and bolts which secured his steel-backed door. Something did not feel quite right. ‘I only saw you yesterday, girl. Our next meet is tomorrow. You know that. I don’t deal from here.’

  ‘I know man, I know,’ she’d pleaded convincingly. ‘I’m desperate, had a really bad night, really withdrawing, shaking like mad.’

  Goldman knew what that was like, for he, too, was an addict. Aches, tremors, sweating and freezing, sneezing and yawning. Any combination of these effects. He felt for her.

  ‘You got cash?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Show me,’ he insisted through the door.

  ‘Oh, fuckin’ hell, Goldy,’ she whined.

  ‘Look, you’re a day early and I’m a nervous guy.’

  ‘Yeah, I know I’m early Goldy, but I’m fuckin’ desperate. I need it now and I’ve got the cash . . . look.’

  Goldy saw her wave a handful of notes up to the spy hole.

  ‘OK, OK, hang on.’

  ‘Yeah, thank fuck for that, Goldy,’ she said and stepped away from the door as he unlocked it.

  The heavy door swung open, its hinges well oiled and maintained. Goldman appeared on the threshold and looked down at Denise as she wobbled and reached for the burning cigarette on the worn floor. He immediately noticed her missing trainer.

  She caught his eye as she glanced up and in that split second Goldman knew he had been set up by one of his best customers.

  He was already moving backwards into his flat when Turner leapt up from his crouch and swung the baseball bat in a wide arc at Goldman’s head.

  It connected with a hollow smack, right across the bridge of his nose, which crumbled instantly, sending him staggering backwards down the short hallway, into the living room, pursued by the vengeful forms of Turner and Newman, coming after him like a pair of devils.

  Goldman’s nose had broken marvellously, blood gushing everywhere down the front of his T-shirt, which originally had been white.

  As Turner roared from the hallway into the living room, he wielded the bat again, this time whacking it sideways across Goldman’s temple, knocking him to the ground, senseless. Behind Turner, Newman ducked and weaved to get the best angles he could in order to record the terrible assault on camera. He got one great shot of Goldman as he pitched floorwards, then another, as on the way down, Turner managed to get another blow in on the back of the drug dealer’s skull.

  Goldman lay between his furniture, writhing slowly and moaning piteously face down in the pool of blood spreading underneath his face, bubbles foaming as he laboured to breathe.

  Turner’s chest rose and fell from his short burst of exertion. There was a large smile on his face, one of victory.

  ‘Here – get one of this,’ he instructed Newman. Turner bestrode Goldman’s prostrate form, rested the tip of the bat in the middle of the injured man’s back, between the shoulder blades, and placed his hands one on top of the other on the tip of the bat, as though he was a great white hunter astride a kill.

&
nbsp; Newman fired away.

  ‘Now this.’ Turner reached down and grabbed Goldman’s ponytail. He heaved his head up and held his blood-drenched face to the camera. ‘Get this,’ he told Newman.

  ‘Got it!’

  Turner dropped Goldman’s face back on to the carpet. It smashed into the puddle with a squelch. Now he was not moving at all.

  ‘Think he’s dead?’ Newman asked.

  ‘No, he’s still breathing . . . I think.’

  More often than not, surveillance operations are very specific in that the location of the target is usually known and he or she is picked up from that point and followed by the team until the operation is either called off or the cops move in and make an arrest. The surveillance team is never used for this latter purpose. Occasionally some ops are run on an ad hoc basis by putting a team into an area which the target is known to frequent, hoping there is a sighting from which the team would then pick up the target and slot themselves into place.

  As was the case that afternoon and evening.

  But this type of op can be frustrating, especially when the target does not put in an appearance.

  The team had gravitated to the Rusholme area of Manchester, a location well known for the high number of Asian restaurants along the main street. Andy Turner was known to do quite a lot of his business in this part of the city. He was suspected of trading with Asians, who made up a large proportion of the local community in Rusholme. Much of the heroin which found its way on to these streets originated in Pakistan, coming in from the north-west frontier, through Turkey and some of the former Soviet republics and across Europe.

  Jo Coniston and Dale O’Brien were sitting in their car on a side street, facing towards the main road through Rusholme, becoming very bored with the way the afternoon was progressing into evening. They had exhausted ‘I spy’ and medleys of Beatles songs and were sitting in glum silence, listening to sporadic radio transmissions between other team members, aware that the radios were still not working properly. They had a tendency to pack up half-way through a conversation. Very annoying.

  ‘I’m going for a stroll,’ O’Brien announced.

  Jo sank down in her seat and reclined it. ‘Don’t blame you,’ she said. ‘This is just so bloody wishy-washy . . . needle-in-a-haystack job. He’s never gonna turn up, y’know.’

  ‘I know.’ O’Brien climbed out and walked down to the main road, turned out of sight. She closed her eyes after locking the car doors, this being the sort of area where anything could happen, especially to a lone woman in a car. She exhaled a long, fed-up sigh.

  Goldman was not dead, but he was not well. Blood continued to cascade out of his nose, indicating that his heart was still beating, and the blows to his head had knocked him unconscious for a few seconds. He came round with massive brain pain.

  Newman hoisted him up off the floor, avoiding getting any blood on his own clothes, whilst Turner scoured the flat. He returned from the kitchen, shaking his head in wonderment.

  ‘A right little drug dealer’s set-up,’ he said. In the kitchen he had found an array of mobile phones and pagers, neatly piled up bank statements, coded lists of contacts; wraps, bags, weighing scales, crushed paracetamol tablets, bicarbonate of soda and four microwave ovens. ‘Ready for a delivery, I’d say. Isn’t that right Goldy, you Jewish twat?’

  He tapped Goldman on the crown of his head with his bat. The dealer, now seated on a chair, swooned and dropped his bloodied face into his blood-covered hands. He did not respond to Turner’s question, nor his derogatory racial remark.

  ‘I asked you a question.’

  Goldman mumbled something and held his head, which felt as though it had been smashed like an egg.

  Turner positioned himself on the arm of a chair. ‘Now then, you little shit, a little budgie’s told me that you’ve been dealing on my patch without my say so. Very rude thing to do, that. Don’t like it.’

  Goldman slavered out a gobful of blood down between his legs.

  ‘It’s got to stop. Where do you keep your cash, boyo?’

  ‘What cash?’ he managed to reply.

  ‘Don’t mess – any cash you have in this house, I want it. So where is it? Pay up and stop dealing on my streets and I’ll call it quits.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Wrong answer.’

  Turner slid what could have been a friendly arm around Goldman’s shoulders and gave him a hug. He beamed at Newman. ‘Photo opportunity.’

  Newman caught the tender moment on the digital camera.

  Turner punched Goldie hard on the side of his head, twice, so hard he hurt his knuckles.

  Goldman’s brain felt like it had been dislodged. He dragged himself slowly up from the floor, clinging to the furniture.

  ‘You know who I am, don’t you?’ Turner said.

  Goldman gasped a yes.

  ‘Then you know I have a reputation to maintain, don’t you?’ It was not a question, it was an explanation. ‘So you have a choice about this, don’t you?’ Once again, it was not a question. This time it was a statement of facts. ‘Accept you made a mistake, hold your hands up, say sorry, pay up – and live! Then I might even think about letting you deal for me.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ Goldman spat out a mouthful of blood at Turner which splattered obscenely across his T-shirt.

  Turner looked down at the mess and said, ‘Oh,’ with disappointment.

  They took five steady minutes over the beating which followed, taking Goldy to within a whisper of his life.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Turner said, holding Newman back. Both men stepped away. Goldman was curled up in a foetal ball in a corner of the room, his face mashed to an unrecognizable pulp, his jaw twisted and broken; his hands had been hammered by Turner’s baseball bat, the bones smashed and broken. Both assailants had jumped on his chest, stomping down on his ribs, breaking many of them and almost killing him in the process.

  Turner knew when to back off. He had beaten many people senseless in his time and prided himself on his judgement. He did not want Goldman dead because he actually might be of some use once he had recovered. It looked like he had a pretty good set-up here and Turner thought he might be able to take advantage of it.

  ‘Let’s find the dosh now,’ Turner said. He was breathing heavily with exertion, sweating profusely, as was Newman.

  They turned Goldman’s drum upside down. Carpets were ripped up, cupboards emptied, as they searched hard for the money which they knew must be somewhere in the flat. They went to all the well-known hiding places and the ones which were not so well known. Eventually they found it by taking off the plastic cover protecting the electrical shower in the bathroom. The money was in a waterproof plastic wallet. Four thousand pounds, all in twenties.

  Turner counted it and peeled off two hundred for Newman. ‘On account,’ he said.

  In the living room, Goldman had somehow managed to get himself into a sitting position, jammed into the corner of the room to prevent himself from falling over. He could only open one eye – and that one only just. The other, his right, had already swollen to the size of a cricket ball and was much the same colour. His wheezed as he breathed, his chest sounding like metal scraping over sandstone. As he inhaled and exhaled, he moaned painfully.

  ‘Found it,’ Turner said gleefully, wafting the money in front of Goldman’s face. Just for spite, he placed his foot on Goldman’s shoulder and pushed him back down on to the floor. Goldman could not stop himself from sliding, his useless broken hands unable to hold him. Turner stood on Goldman’s outstretched left palm and pirouetted on the heel of his trainer, making Goldman scream in agony. He left the drug dealer still shrieking as he and Newman left, slamming the reinforced outer door behind him, ensuring the screams became muffled and inconsequential.

  At 9 p.m., Newman dropped Turner off at the Star of India restaurant in Rusholme. Turner had changed, having disposed of his blood-splattered gear from the assault on Goldman. The clothing had been left with Newman to dis
pose of by fire.

  On alighting from the car, Turner kept his head bowed down and walked swiftly across the pavement to the restaurant.

  Inside it was fairly quiet. Just a few customers eating their curries, mainly white people.

  Turner stood by the till as a little Pakistani waiter greeted him and took him to a table at the far end of the dining room where he could sit with his back against the wall and face the door, with the option of a quick getaway through a side door should the need arise.

  ‘Not seen you recently, sir,’ the Pakistani said.

  ‘Busy guy, Ali, busy guy.’ Turner sat down and was offered the menu. He shook his head. ‘Usual.’

  ‘OK, sir.

  ‘And be quick.’

  ‘Yessir.’

  Turner settled back, feeling buoyant. The Goldman incident had made him feel fresh and alive. Hurting others gave him a great deal of satisfaction, that and making a living out of other people’s misery. He loved preying on the weaknesses of others. It was very, very pleasurable. He also believed that the ‘Goldman incident’, as he liked to now call it, would be a very good indication of his management skills to someone he would be meeting later, someone very influential.

  A waiter deposited a pint of very cold lager on Turner’s table. He took a long, slow swig of it, feeling it flow all the way down his neck and into his empty stomach.

  A few minutes later his Chicken Vindaloo arrived. He tucked into it with relish. Beating the living shit out of people gave him a healthy appetite.

  It was a long sigh, followed by a deep stretch, brought about by boredom and several hours spent in a car, watching and waiting. Jo Coniston eyeballed her partner.

  O’Brien’s chin dropped on to his chest, then jerked up quickly as he fought sleep. ‘Christ,’ he mumbled, ‘nearly went there.’

  ‘Nearly?’ she quipped, ‘you’ve been snoring for ten minutes.’

  ‘Haven’t!’

  ‘This is just shit,’ Jo griped. ‘Needle in a bloody haystack. Why?’ she demanded. ‘Why, why, why?’

  O’Brien yawned. ‘Could be worse. Could have to work for a living.’