by Conrad Jones
“Why do you think we’re too late?”
“Alfie Lesner has just spilled his guts to the Major Investigation Team detectives.” Grace brought up an LCD screen built into the centre console, and a series of communiqués from the Cheshire police began to scroll down. “He’s admitted being an intermediary between Jack Howarth and a Moroccan mafia family headed by Hajj Achmed.”
“Where did he take the twins?”
“The uniformed division has dispatched a chopper and three armed response teams to a farm near Delamere Forest. Lesner claims that the twins were taken away in a horsebox: they’ve issued an all-ports bulletin to find it. Every uniformed officer in the country will be looking for it.”
“It should just be a matter of time before they find them then,” Tank said.
“It might be time for us to step back and leave the police to their investigation.” Grace glanced sideways to catch his reaction.
“Does the Major know?” Tank asked, ignoring her last remark.
“Yes, he’s patched into everything.”
“How are Karl and Hayley holding up?”
“Not good, she’s thrown him out.”
“Oops. Not good, but not completely unexpected.” Tank looked out of the window as they drove over the main West Coast railway line. A soap factory towered above the tracks, ten thousand lights making it look like a metropolis illuminated in the darkness.
“What’s next then?”
“I want to talk to Alfie Lesner myself.” Tank was adamant that he wasn’t going to walk away from the investigation yet. “He’s just small potatoes in this, but he can tell me where Hajj Achmed is. Achmed and his employers are responsible for this; I’m going to make sure that they don’t do it again.”
“The police will be all over them by now,” Grace said.
“I don’t think a man like Achmed will be that easy to find, especially if he knows the police are on to him.”
“If he’s dealing arms to gangs in the city then the chances are that he has informers in the force.” Grace carried on the thread.
“Exactly, in which case he’ll be on the run already, but Lesner will know how he travels in and out of the country.” The Shogun turned left on a ninety-degree bend in the road. Bank Quay railway station was on the right, and the aging Victorian police station was on the left. It was a three-storey redbrick building with a turret built on every corner of the roof. The station was built to act as a fortress in the event of civil unrest, and the ornate turrets were in effect gun towers. The rear of the building was surrounded by a high brick wall, which was topped with razor wire. There was not a single police car in the pound at the rear. It was obvious that the bulk of the force had been deployed to secure the stable block at Delamere Forest.
“It looks like no one’s home.” Grace commented as she pulled the Shogun around the front of the building. There were parking bays marked out along the front and the right hand side of the police station. Private vehicles that belonged to on-duty officers filled every parking bay. A public car park across the road was empty and Grace headed into it.
“They’re on a wild goose chase in Delamere Forest,” Tank laughed as he spoke.
“You think Achmed will be long gone by now?”
“Don’t you?”
Grace was about to answer him when two cars parked in front of the police station exploded.
Chapter Twenty-two
Woolton Village
Patrick Lesner woke up with a start. It was pitch dark, which told him that it was the middle of the night. He rarely woke before dawn, even though he was getting old. His prostate cancer was under control now, and he didn’t need to pee every half an hour. The doctor had diagnosed him eighteen months earlier, and he and his wife Margaret had decided not to tell their children about his illness, to save them from the worry. Something had dragged him from his sleep, but he couldn’t work out what it was. He decided to get up and check that the house was secure, just for his peace of mind.
Patrick and Margaret lived in a gardener’s lodge at the entrance to Reynolds’s Park, in Woolton Village. The park had once been part of a large estate owned by a rich merchant’s family, but was now part of the city’s portfolio of public parks. The park was twenty acres of sloping grassed areas and plush gardens surrounded by a high sandstone wall, with the gardener’s lodges guarding the entrances. Patrick loved the park, and the village that it was situated in, so when the park’s buildings came up for private ownership they’d used their savings to buy the lodge. It was a dream home for them, and their grown-up children visited them frequently. Christmas was a special time for them and they had to add chairs to the family table every year to accommodate their growing number of grandchildren. All of their children had kids now – all of them except Alfie. Alfie was always too busy ‘chasing tail’, as he so eloquently put it, to settle down with one woman. “I’m still playing the field, Dad,” he used to say whenever he was goaded about his philandering ways. Alfie was very different from the rest of his children, but Patrick loved him all the same. He worried sometimes about where his money came from, but he’d decided a long time ago that it was better not to ask.
Patrick swung his creaking legs out of bed and wriggled his feet into a pair of red slippers. Although he had thin blue cotton pyjamas on there was a chill in the air. He could hear rain pattering on the roof too, which made him feel colder still. Patrick reached for a thick woollen cardigan that was on a wicker armchair next to the bed, and he pulled it on. He yawned as he headed for the bedroom door, trying not to wake his elderly wife.
“What are you doing?” She muttered as he opened the door.
“I’m sorry to wake you darling, something disturbed me so I’m going to get a quick drink,” Patrick lied.
“You’re going to check the locks more like,” Margaret chuckled. She always teased him about his obsession with security. He was continually checking that the windows and doors were locked tight. The problem was that age was dulling his mind and he couldn’t remember if he had locked the doors or not, and so he’d have to check them all again.
“Better safe than sorry, you go back to sleep,” he said as he walked out of the bedroom.
“Silly old fool,” she called after him. She loved him dearly, but she could see his faculties fading fast. Arthritis was rotting his joints, and he couldn’t walk far without a stick. The cancer treatment that he’d endured had stripped the muscle mass from his frame, leaving him frail. They had been together since school and it broke her heart to see the love of her life wasting away before her eyes.
Patrick was glad the lodge was all on one level: stairs would be a trauma for him to navigate nowadays. His walking stick was leaning against an ornate telephone table in the hallway, and he decided to use it while he did the rounds of locks and latches. He wasn’t absolutely sure, but he thought that he’d felt a breeze on his face as he walked down the hallway. A creaking sound in the kitchen stopped him in his tracks. The lodge was hundreds of years old and creaking noises were not uncommon as the ancient timbers expanded and contracted. The chances of there being an intruder in his home were slim, but he had to check. Many years ago he would have taken his chances with any would-be burglars that invaded his home and threatened the safety of his wife and children. Now though he was not as confident, age and illness having taken their toll on his body. He listened intently for any sound, but everything was still. Patrick gripped the walking stick like a cricket bat and walked towards the kitchen door. It was closed too. He placed his ear flat against the cold wood and listened for any intruders. There was nothing but silence.
“Maybe I am a silly old fool,” he whispered under his breath, but it didn’t stop a chill running through him. Did he feel a draft on his skin again, or was it all in his imagination? He turned the handle and twisted it slowly. The hinges creaked as the door opened an inch at a time. Patrick peered into the darkness and gripped his cane tightly with his left hand. His right hand fumbled along the w
all for the light switch. A blast of cold night air hit him, and he could hear the rain as if it were around him. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled as he realised there must be a door or a window open somewhere. He scrambled for the light in a panic and found it at last. The economy bulb flickered and then illuminated the kitchen with a dull glow.
Directly in front of him was the back door, and it was open wide to the elements. Rain blew into the kitchen at an angle and a puddle was growing across the red tiled floor. There was a wood-burning stove in a stone fireplace to the left. The mantelpiece was shoulder high to a man of average height, and there were deep recesses behind the stove where a man could hide. He looked into them, but they were empty. On the right was a long pine table surrounded by eight chairs, and next to it were the sink and a wet area for a washing machine and a dishwasher. He couldn’t see a burglar or a bogeyman anywhere. All he could see was the back door flapping in the wind and the rain pouring in because a silly old man forgot to lock it. Patrick stepped into the kitchen to close the door. If he was honest, he couldn’t remember for sure if he’d locked it or not. Patrick lowered his walking stick and shook his head. He scolded himself for growing old and senile. He was a few steps in when he realised that he hadn’t checked behind the door in case someone was hiding there. Patrick had realised too late.
Chapter Twenty-three
Warrington General Hospital
Constable Davis was gutted. He’d been a member of the armed response unit for nearly two years and he lived for the adrenalin rush that he got from combat situations. Three armed units had been despatched to a farm in Delamere Forest, tasked with rounding up a dangerous Moroccan Mafioso, and he’d been left at the hospital to babysit a scumbag paedophile. Davis had pleaded with his senior officer to be included in the operation, but he had denied his request. They had never seen eye to eye, and the Constable felt that he’d been discriminated against on numerous occasions. He could find no reason for it except that he was overweight. His senior officer had gone so far as to actually call him fat on his last performance review, and listed significant weight loss as his number one goal if he wanted to keep his place in the armed unit. Davis couldn’t believe the effrontery of the man. Prior to his annual review, he was convinced that he was in line for promotion, and yet his superior was telling him that he was too fat to remain in the unit. Tonight was the biggest operation to be launched for years and he was sitting outside an operating theatre while a pervert had his testicles re-stitched. There didn’t seem to be any justice.
His thoughts were disturbed as the theatre door opened and Jack Howarth was wheeled out. An orderly pushed the bed towards the room that he’d been in previously.
“You still here, Constable?” Jack asked sarcastically. His stitches had been replaced under a local anaesthetic, and although it had numbed the pain in his nether regions, it had done nothing to dull his wit.
“Don’t push your luck, Howarth, I’m not in the mood for your nonsense,” the Constable said grumpily. He checked that Jack’s handcuffs were secure as the gurney was pushed past him.
“Have you arrested Alfie Lesner yet?” Jack chuckled as he was wheeled into his ward.
“Shut up, Howarth,” Davis said wearily. His heart was not in the task that faced him, not one bit. His colleagues had been buzzing with excitement and nervous anticipation, summoned to join the response teams. There was talk of heavily armed opposition, allegedly responsible for the kidnap of the Kelly twins, drug running and international arms deals. In comparison, he had to cope with the cutting jibes of an aging nonce. Initially there had been two rookie constables guarding Howarth, until it became clear that he was somehow involved in the kidnapping and then it was decided that he needed an armed officer, just in case. Rumours of Jack Howarth’s previous record were being passed around the nursing staff like Chinese Whispers, and random employees were walking up and down the corridor trying to get a peek at the ‘child taker’ through his window. He had turned into the hospital freak show.
Constable Davis was parched and he wanted a drink. His colleagues hadn’t even left him with a flask of weak tea to get him through his shift, as all thoughts had been of the imminent operation. He eyed a dark-haired nurse who was doing her rounds further down the corridor, and decided to kill two birds with one stone, as it were. Number one he could try to coax a much needed cup of coffee out of her, and number two he could try to alleviate the excruciating boredom by chatting up a sexy young nurse. It seemed like a good plan. He closed the door to Jack’s room and checked the corridor for strangers. A couple of orderlies dressed in mint green uniforms peered through the round viewing window in the door.
“He looks like a paedophile.” One of the men commented to the other. They laughed as they carried on about their business. The Constable waited outside the room that the brunette nurse had entered. He checked his reflection in the glass, and sucked in his belly. It didn’t make a great deal of difference; he still looked like a beer drinker squashed into a bulletproof riot vest. Perhaps his superior officer was right, and he should lose some weight. The door opened and the nurse walked out briskly. She was nearly past him before he’d composed himself enough to speak to her.
“Hi there,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind me asking you, but I’ve been placed on personal protection duties alone. There’s not many of us qualified to work alone, you see, but I’m parched.”
“Oh dear.” She turned her head briefly as she walked. “I think you’re getting me confused with the vending machine on the first floor.”
“I didn’t mean any offence; it’s just that I can’t leave my post you see. I’m gasping!” He joked, but she was entering the next room before he’d finished speaking.
“Sorry, too busy,” she called as she closed the door behind her.
“Just my luck,” he muttered. He felt inside his combat pants for loose change, and he counted the grand total of forty-seven pence. A quick rummage through his other pockets netted him another two pence. He walked back to Jack’s room and checked him through the window. Jack appeared to be sleeping, eyes closed and his chest rising and falling rhythmically.
Constable Davis headed for the elevator and the smell of disinfectant intensified his thirst. He pressed the call button and jiggled the coins in his hand as he waited for the lift to arrive. The voices of two nurses passing the other end of the landing drew his attention, and he watched them walking towards the stairs, their starched uniforms clinging to all the right places. They were obviously taking the stairs because it would burn calories and keep their figures trim. The sound of their footsteps echoed up the stairwell as they descended. He thought about following their example, but the lift beeped and the doors opened, and another opportunity to burn excess fat was missed. Two dark-skinned ambulance men exited the car, leaving it empty, and Constable Davis stepped into it and pressed the button for the first floor. The ambulance men turned right as they exited and headed for the stairwell. The doors closed and he felt the motors whirring into life, lowering him towards refreshment. The lift approached the second floor and slowed before stopping completely. Constable Davis straightened up and breathed in again as the doors opened, in anticipation of a gaggle of firm young nurses rushing through the doors. His imaginary scenario was shattered when a plump Asian doctor stepped into the lift. There was a stethoscope hung around his neck and a collection of ballpoint pens in his top pocket. He brought the smell of coriander and spices with him; they lingered on him from his meal break. Constable Davis breathed out and returned his body to its natural slouched position.
The doors opened at the first floor and the fat police officer found himself confronted by a bank of vending machines dispensing Coke, chocolate, crisps, biscuits and fruit. The constable made a mental note to avoid the fruit. There were half a dozen battered metal chairs with ripped seat backs next to them, which acted as a chill-out area for worried friends and relatives. The hot drinks machine was on the far left and a young couple dressed
in hooded tracksuits were banging the coin slot and cursing at it.
“Hey, pack that in!” Davis shouted to them as he approached. The young man turned aggressively and was about to unleash a torrent of abuse when he realised that the police officer was twice his size, and armed.
“The machine’s swallowed my fucking money,” the man said in his defence. Constable Davis could see from the size of his pupils that he was wired on some kind of narcotic, possibly ecstasy but probably heroin.
“Smacking it will not fix the problem, mate, so leave it alone.”
“Yes, well we’re going outside for a fag anyway,” the female hoody sneered. They both giggled, but their demeanour was malevolent. Constable Davis had seen enough smack heads in his time to know that they were unpredictable and often violent if they were provoked. It didn’t matter that one of them was female, because they could be just as violent when they were under the influence of drugs. The duo seemed to be waiting for a reason to attack or retreat. The heroin was slowing the speed of their choice between fight and flight. The male laughed and kicked the vending machine hard before running off down the corridor, and his girlfriend tipped over a chair before following in his tracks.
“Who ate all the pies? Who ate all the pies? You fat bastard, you fat bastard, you ate all the pies,” the duo sang in unison as they ran away.
“Everyone’s a comedian today,” Davis muttered. He ran his fingers over the selection buttons, until he found white tea with sugar. The price required was sixty pence, eleven pence more than he was carrying in his sticky palm.
“Shit. I do not believe this is happening to me today.” He kicked the vending machine in frustration and a handful of coins clattered into the reject slot. The police officer looked up and down the corridor before retrieving the rejected monies from the machine. He chuckled to himself as he counted his winnings. There was enough for tea and crisps, and a chocolate bar too. Happy days.