Dead Heat

by Nick Oldham

  He pushed the door open. The corridor was empty. The first on the right was the ladies. He entered without hesitation. Inside it smelled awful, a concoction of urine, shit, stale dope and cheap perfume. The walls were scrawled with obscene graffiti, the likes of which he had never seen in a men’s toilet. His nose turned. He reluctantly stepped fully inside and did a quick recce. They were empty.

  Back out and down the corridor, he twisted next right into the gents. It had all the smells of the female toilets minus the perfume, plus an overflowing toilet bowl which had flooded the tiled floor. Again it was empty.

  They had gone out on to the car park to conduct whatever their business was.

  Henry approached the exit door, which opened outward. He pushed and found it would not move. Slightly puzzled, he applied more pressure, but it still refused to open. He realized it had been wedged, a favourite trick of a dealer to prevent or at least telegraph unwanted interruptions.

  Henry reared back and flat-footed the door. It gave an inch. He repeated the size 11 method of opening doors. It rocked open and he was through, out on to the concrete slope leading down to the car park, noticing the wooden wedge on the floor.

  The two men and the girl were like rabbits caught in headlights.

  The younger of the two men bristled and stood upright. The other two stepped back guiltily.

  ‘Troy,’ Henry called, ‘need a word, pal.’

  The younger man was obviously the minder. He glanced nervously over his shoulder, then back at Henry. ‘What do you want me to do, Troy?’

  ‘Knife the fucker,’ came the response Henry did not really want to hear.

  ‘Who is he?’ the minder asked, not realizing that minders should ask questions later.

  ‘A cop. Knife him, you cunt.’

  There was the flash of a blade under fluorescent light. Henry saw it glint. A long, thin knife. Blood pounded in his ears. The side of his chest called out, reminding him how much a knife can hurt, even if it doesn’t go right in.

  ‘Put it down, son,’ he said coolly, ‘or I’ll put you down.’ Henry knew what sort of a character he was dealing with. This was no Verner. This was just a street kid. He took a step towards the knife-wielding minder, who, more scared than he was, stepped a pace back. ‘Drop it, or you’re fucked. I mean it.’

  ‘Do him,’ Troy called bravely from behind the girl. ‘Fuckin’ do him, Ashey.’

  Henry opened his hands, exposing his unprotected torso.

  ‘C’mon Ashey,’ he dared him, ‘come on lad. You either drop it or you go for me. No half measures, sonny. This is a big boy’s game you’re playing. Got the bottle?’ he taunted.

  ‘T . . . Troy?’ he uttered nervously. The knife shook in his hands.

  Behind him, the girl broke cover and did a runner. Henry did not care about her. It was Troy he wanted.

  ‘Is this your first test, Ashey?’ Henry asked him, taking another threatening step. ‘Bottle? You need it, y’know?’

  ‘You come any nearer me and I’ll fuckin’ gut you,’ he warned Henry, taking a firmer grip on the knife.

  ‘You sound like a fishwife.’ Henry took that fateful step.

  Ashey, minder to a major drug dealer, shrieked with fear. His hands flew up into the air, the knife disappeared into the darkness somewhere and never clattered down. Ashey turned tail and legged it.

  ‘Ashey, you fuckin’ twat, get back here, get back here!’ Troy howled, but Ashey, his protection, had gone into the night. Troy looked nervously at Henry.

  ‘Not much cop, was he?’

  ‘Fuck you, Henry.’

  ‘You gonna leg it too?’

  ‘Might.’

  ‘Go on then. I fancy chasing you.’

  Troy took up the offer, spun quickly and went for it. Before he had gone five metres, Henry’s big hands slapped down on his shoulders, followed by Henry’s bulk. Troy staggered to his knees with Henry on top, forcing him face down into the tarmac which covered the car park. Henry placed his right knee at the mid-point between Troy’s shoulder blades and dropped all his weight on to that point, almost crushing his lungs and heart. An agonized gasp escaped from Troy.

  ‘You’re hurting me.’

  ‘Good,’ said Henry. ‘You’re a little twat and I don’t like you and now, to cap it all, you’re dealing, Troy, and I don’t like that very much.’

  ‘Just a few Es is all,’ he pleaded defensively.

  ‘Oh, is that all?’ Henry increased the pressure on his knee. ‘That’s OK then.’

  ‘Aaargh!’ The breath went out of Troy. ‘Jesus!’

  Henry eased off, stood up and dragged the doll-like figure up to his feet with both hands, frog-marched him to a car and deposited him face down on the bonnet. ‘Now let’s see. Empty your pockets.’

  ‘I can’t, not from here,’ he whined, his cheek rammed down on the cold metal, his hands trapped underneath himself. He had a point, but Henry was unrelenting. His own face came down to within an inch of Troy’s.

  ‘Do your best,’ he breathed into his nostrils. Henry did ease back slightly to allow him access to his pockets. ‘Put it all on the car.’ A selection of items slowly appeared.

  ‘That’s it,’ Costain said. ‘That’s everything.’

  Henry yanked him off the bonnet and drove him towards the high wall at the back of the car park and pinned him against it while he ran his hands over Troy’s clothing, including a good root around the crotch area where good things often get concealed and cops are just too nicey-nice to search people properly. All Henry found was meat and two veg.

  He spun Troy around and said, ‘Let’s have a look at you.’

  Troy Costain was a member of the wide-ranging Costain clan that inhabited the Shoreside Estate in Blackpool, a notorious, run-down area, almost a no-go area for the cops, but not quite. The Costains pretty much ruled the roost by burglary, theft, cheat and general intimidation. They were feared by many people and often held at arms’ length by the police. Troy, however, had fallen into Henry’s grubby hands over ten years earlier when, as a spotty teenager, Henry had arrested him for some minor offence. Once in custody, thrown into a cell, Troy had crumbled. He was severely claustrophobic and had pleaded desperately with Henry for release and that he would do anything, admit anything, just to get out. Henry remembered smiling like a devil at Troy’s pathetic whimpering. The upshot was that since then Troy had become one of Henry’s best local informants ever. He had provided Henry with information which had tripled his arrest and conviction numbers. The pay-off was that Troy had been allowed to get away with some things he shouldn’t, but that was the price of a good-class source.

  Over the years Troy had become more reluctant to part with information and Henry had sometimes resorted to using brutal methods to obtain it. If necessary.

  A return to the cells was probably long overdue, Henry thought.

  ‘Well, well, well, my little informant, Troy Costain,’ Henry beamed cruelly. His hand continued to search inside and under Troy’s jacket. His fingers touched something cold tucked into his waistband. Their eyes met. Henry glared ferociously at him and extracted a two-inch-barrelled revolver. ‘Troy, you carry a piece,’ said Henry in disbelief, holding the offending weapon between finger and thumb.

  Troy was caught and desperate. ‘Just a frightener, Henry, I wouldn’t fuckin’ use it, you know that.’

  ‘Is it loaded?’

  Troy nodded.

  ‘You stupid, stupid bastard.’ Henry grabbed hold of Troy’s shirt with his left hand and dragged him across the car park back to the car on which his possessions were displayed. ‘What’s here?’ He kept hold of Troy whilst using the gun to sift through the items. A fat wallet, packed with money. ‘How much in here?’

  ‘Dunno . . . fifteen hundred?’

  A bag of tablets. ‘E?’

  Troy nodded.

  ‘How much do you make a week?’

  ‘Two grand-ish . . . enough.’

  Henry wanted to hit him very hard indeed.
‘Got a motor nearby?’

  ‘This one.’ Troy nodded at the car he had been almost plastered all over. It was a BMW, white, tinted windows, alloys, spoilers, ‘G’ registered.

  Henry chuckled despite himself. ‘You fuckin’ stereotype. Let’s go for a little ride.’

  ‘You are in very big trouble, Troy: carrying, dealing, fuck me. This is very big shit indeed. The way the courts are backing us up now, I’d say this is worth six to eight . . . years, that is.’

  Troy was driving, keeping his face firmly forward. Henry saw Troy’s Adam’s apple rise and fall. He knew he was sitting next to a very frightened man.

  The gun and the drugs were in the footwell at Henry’s feet.

  ‘Eight years in a cell . . . OK, let’s be generous – five years for good behaviour and all that . . . five years being buggered daily whilst performing oral sex at the other end. That would be you, wouldn’t it, because you’d have no clout at all in the nick. You’d be bottom of the ladder, pal. And your fear of confined spaces. Banged up every night in a cell with a couple of other guys, all of whom will fuck you in turns. Way to go, Troy!’ Henry was remorseless. ‘Why the hell are you carrying a gun, Troy? Why?’

  ‘Protection.’

  ‘Oh, good one. Always goes down well in court, that one. Not.’

  ‘I’m in a dangerous business.’

  ‘You’re in an illegal business,’ Henry corrected him. ‘Pull in here and let’s have a one-to-one, a bit of a cuddle.’

  Henry had directed him up along the promenade and then on to the public car park next to the Blackpool central police station.

  ‘Take a look at the nick, Troy. With this gun and those drugs you wouldn’t walk out of there again. In fact, the next time you stepped out of a door would be when they release you from Wymott Prison in, say, 2010, give or take a year or two.’

  Troy looked ill.

  ‘I would ensure that all bail applications are refused,’ said Henry, really rubbing it in. He smiled at Troy. ‘So while you were waiting to go to court you’d be in custody all the way.’

  ‘Bastard.’

  ‘That’s me. Love it to bits.’

  ‘OK, you’ve made your point. What do I have to do? That’s obviously what all this is about. You come looking for me, threaten me and I give you some gen . . . which is?’

  ‘The deal is this: you do what I want to my complete and utter satisfaction and I’ll consider giving you a verbal warning for the gun and the drugs. Obviously they’ll have to be destroyed, but that’s a small price to pay for getting some information to me and staying a free man, wouldn’t you say?’

  Troy shrugged like he could take it or leave it. The hard man.

  ‘Ever heard of Andy Turner?’ Troy nodded. ‘I want to know where he is. I want to know within twenty-four hours.’

  Troy shook his head sadly. ‘That might be difficult.’

  ‘Why, because he’s legged it?’

  ‘No – because he’s dead.’

  Henry fell silent as his brain chewed that over. ‘Dead?’

  ‘Word is he got whacked a couple of years back.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Find out.’

  A guffaw shook Troy. ‘Easier said than done.’

  Henry pointed down between his knees. ‘This is easier done than said. Eight years in the slammer. Very easy for me, love . . . Now find out the truth, OK? I also want a list of addresses for Turner and his friends and associates, business partners.’

  ‘All in a day? You’re nuts.’

  Henry looked at his watch. ‘Less than a day now.’

  ‘Twat.’

  ‘Am I! Let’s drive back down south.’

  ‘I don’t know where to start, man,’ Troy whined.

  Henry knew the Costain family had a string of nefarious contacts right across Lancashire and down into Greater Manchester. He therefore knew Troy was lying.

  ‘Fibber,’ he said.

  Ten

  Armed with a revolver and a bag of drugs, Henry Christie felt very peculiar indeed. He had made Troy drop him off two streets away from where the Astra was parked, then watched his source drive away before trudging to his car, gun in one pocket, drugs in another. He hid the items in the hollow where the spare wheel should have been, hoping that Troy didn’t have the brains to blob him in and call the cops anonymously. If Henry was found in possession of a gun and drugs, he’d have a hard time explaining it and could easily end up going down for it, rather as he had described to Troy, maybe for longer.

  He drove back to town. It was 10.45 p.m.

  As instructed, he parked around the corner from the youth club and sauntered back to stand across the road in a shop doorway where he could watch the club entrance. A few kids were hanging round the door. They were giggly and high spirited, but not in the same way as the youths he’d watched congregating around the shops in South Shore. These seemed much nicer, stepping out of the way for other pedestrians, and were polite too.

  The youth club door opened. There was a blast of coloured lights and loud dance music from the disco inside. A couple of youngsters came out, one went back in and the door slammed shut.

  Henry saw that one of the ones who came out was Charlotte Wickson. She was staggering about drunkenly, falling against the walls and the window of the charity shop next door. Henry’s mouth went dry. Drunk? Drugged? She fell back against the window again and shouted an obscenity. The other kids laughed at her and suddenly the little gang seemed much darker and less friendly.

  He started to wish that Leanne would come out, so he could take her back to the safety of home.

  From around a corner a youth appeared on a mountain bike.

  Henry gasped.

  The same one who had dealt drugs to the gang down on South Shore. His name was Kevin Long and he had been dealing for a couple of years around Blackpool. Henry had never had any direct contact with him, but he knew Long well enough. His MO was to deal on the hoof from his bike and to evade capture by using his extensive knowledge of the backstreets and short cuts around town.

  Long cruised up to the group outside the youth club door and stopped.

  Charlotte Wickson pushed herself up from the wall and staggered up to him. He handed her a package and she shoved something in his fist. Then he was away around the corner.

  Bursting with anger, Henry moved. He ran hard across the road.

  Long saw him coming. He was always switched on for the surprise appearance of the cops. He clicked up a few gears, rose high on the pedals and tried to get some speed up.

  Henry was almost on him.

  Long pushed down – and his right foot slipped off the pedal. Before he could recover, Henry got him and drove him off the bike, smashing him bodily into the building line, against a clothes shop. He was easy meat, being all bone and no weight. Henry punched him hard in the lower gut. Long gasped and fell forwards, clutching his abdomen. Henry then swiped him hard across the face with the open palm of his right hand, sending the dealer spinning down to his knees. Henry flat-footed his ribcage and Long sprawled out, hurt and wheezing.

  Henry, who found he had more strength than he could have imagined, dragged Long back up to his feet and put him face up to the wall again. He started going through his pockets, hoping like hell there wasn’t a needle in one of them. Instead he found numerous wraps of drugs, a bundle of five pound notes and two pockets crammed with pound coins. Henry pulled these pockets inside out, scattering all the coins.

  ‘Hey, man . . . fucker!’ said Long.

  Henry placed the palm of his hand against the back of Long’s head and with a quick thrust, smashed his face into the wall with a very satisfying crunch.

  ‘Jesus . . .’

  Henry did it again for good measure, then he let go, as gurgling with the blood from his now shattered nose, Long sank to the floor. Henry went to a drain by the kerb and stuffed the drugs and money down it.

  He crossed back to Long and placed a foot
on his neck.

  He was in a rage like he had never known. Blood pounded through him.

  ‘If I ever catch you dealing around here again, I will kill you. Do I make myself clear? This is my patch and I don’t want scum like you on it. Do you hear me?’ Henry pushed his foot down hard. The way he felt now, he could easily have murdered him.

  He raised his foot, stepped back.

  ‘Go.’

  Long scrambled to his feet, collected his bike and disappeared into the night.

  Henry stood there for a good long time, controlling his breathing, wondering what he had become in that moment. A vigilante? Or just a father out to protect his daughter from the scum of the earth.

  The moment was over. He had acted rashly, but now it was gone.

  He decided there and then there would be no post-mortems on the incident. He took a deep breath and walked back around the corner to pick up Leanne.

  The disco was over. The doors were open, the music finished, and the kids were disgorging untidily. Parents’ cars were lined up outside, rather like school collection time. Henry stood near to the door, keeping his eyes peeled for Leanne, Charlotte and Tara Wickson.

  Leanne emerged from a sea of sweaty kids, looking hyper and excited.

  ‘Hi, kid,’ he greeted her.

  ‘Dad,’ she said and gave him a hug.

  ‘Good time?’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Take any drugs?’

  She came upright and looked at him, a deeply troubled expression on her pretty face. ‘No. What was that supposed to be about?’

  Henry was still uptight. He got a grip of himself and forced himself to come back down to planet earth. ‘Sorry, nothing. You ready to roll?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Leanne hooked up to him. They walked arm in arm.

  Behind them was the shriek of a girl.

  Even before he turned, Henry knew it was Charlotte Wickson. She was being manhandled into the big fat Bentley by Jake Coulton, her father’s security man. He had grabbed her bodily, his big arms wrapped around her in a bear hug. Her feet were lifted off the ground and she was kicking like mad, writhing and trying to break free.