by Conrad Jones
“What’s up?” Griff asked.
“Someone is calling for a progress report, no doubt,” David replied. He was slightly embarrassed that only one of the three men on the contract was dead. He had stipulated to Jinx that he would take out all three men within thirty-six hours. His reputation was important to him. He decided not to return the calls until he had dealt with Dean. At least then, he would be able to report that Leon was the only target remaining. As he debated the issue, he spotted Dean Hines approaching his vehicle on the hospital car park. David Lorimar started the engine and engaged reverse gear. It was time to go to work. There was a tap on the window, and he jumped in his seat.
“Fucking hell!” Dava hissed. A tall dark figure leaned down to his window and tapped again. He reached for the window winder and then remembered that it didn’t work. “What the fuck are you doing here, Jinx?” He exclaimed through the glass. He reached for the door handle.
“I need to talk to you,” Jinx said through the glass. He stepped back from the car.
“You shouldn’t be here,” David Lorimar growled. He was about to open the door when Griff Collins put a sawn-off shot gun against the back of his head and squeezed both triggers. The twelve-gauge blew Dava’s head in half as the lead shot ripped through his skull, spraying blood and grey matter all over the windscreen and interior of the car. His left eyeball and three front teeth were stuck to the driver’s window and they dribbled down the glass slowly held fast by grey matter.
Chapter Forty-Four
John Tankersley
Tank scrolled through his inbox and checked the information once again. He rubbed his shaven head and thought about the next move. He needed the go-ahead from Major Stanley Timms before he could do anything. His chair squeaked as his huge muscular frame moved. He stood up and walked toward the major’s office.
“Major,” he nodded as he opened the door. His biceps strained at the sleeve of his shirt, threatening to snap the elastic. “Can I have a word?”
“Come in, John.” The major looked perplexed. Something was on his mind. “I was just coming to see you.”
“Major?” Tank frowned. His icy blue eyes narrowed slightly.
“I have some interesting information,” the major placed his hands under his chin as he looked at his computer screen.
“Jack Howarth?” Tank smiled. It would seem that the major had placed a flag on him, too.
“Exactly.” The major didn’t seem too surprised that Tank already knew. “I think you should look into it.”
“Yes, Major,” Tank replied.
“Unofficially, of course,” the major added. “You are owed some leave, aren’t you?”
“Yes, unofficially, of course,” Tank smiled and closed the door behind him. “How much do you know, Major?”
“Just that his name has flagged up in a recent murder,” the major raised his eyebrows. “What do you know so far?”
“I put a flag on his DNA when he escaped from the hospital.” Tank sat down at the chair facing his superior. “As soon as his name cropped up I checked which force had found it. It turns out it was the boys downstairs, so I contacted Graham Libby as soon as the information came up.”
“What did he say?”
“He said the information was brought to light during the investigation into the murder of a young woman. I need to speak to the doctor, but I wanted to let you know what I was doing first.”
“Of course you did.” The major sat forward and placed his chin on his hands. “What have you found out?”
“I accessed the Major Investigation Team’s database to see how far the investigation was progressed. There was no doubt about it. Jack Howarth had left his DNA at a murder scene and he was living here under the guise of one Patrick Lloyd.”
“I always wondered how he got out of the country,” the major sat back and tapped the desk.
“He didn’t go far, Major. He knew every exit was covered, so he did the next best thing.”
“So uniform are going after him for murder?”
“More than one, from what I can see,” Tank answered with a nod. “There was another murder scene involving his name. The murder of a drug dealer by the name of Benjamin, but by the time the match had been made, Jack Howarth, alias Patrick Lloyd, had been released due to a lack of evidence. Now he’s linked to at least four murders.”
“Let’s not rely on the police to take him out of circulation, John,” the major said solemnly. “Howarth slipped through the net last time they crossed swords. I don’t want the bastard to get away again.”
“Anyone who will cut his own thumb off to slip out of his cuffs is a tough man to hold on to,” Tank smiled. “I’ll follow it and make sure they take him out. If they don’t, I will.”
When Jack Howarth had escaped, Tank had left the marker on the system in case he ever raised his head again. It wasn’t strictly taskforce protocol to track people traffickers, but the smuggling routes they used were also used to smuggle all sorts of nasty stuff, terrorists and explosives included. Those were taskforce protocol.
Chapter Forty-Five
44 Shankly Way, Kensington
“How are we looking?” Alec asked the uniformed officer next to him.
“Four armed units consisting of six police officers in each are in position around the property. We have two units at the front of the house and two covering the rear.”
Alec Ramsay and his team were the second line on this operation until the armed officers assured them that there was no danger to them from an armed suspect. Detective Superintendent Eales raised a megaphone to his lips and called out.
“Patrick Lloyd,” he shouted. They would use his alias name for now. “You are surrounded by armed police officers. Come out with your hands held above your head.”
“Have we tried the landline at the property?” Alec asked.
“Yes, no answer.”
The curtains remained closed and still. They had cordoned the street off at both ends, and despite the fact that the remaining houses were derelict and ready for demolition, crowds were gathering at both ends to watch the drama unfold.
“There is nothing like a few patrol cars to attract a crowd. We have an audience already,” Alec said looking at the cordons.
“What do you think?” DS Eales asked Alec.
“I think that if Kisha is in there and he is not responding, then we go in regardless,” Alec replied. “The man is a psychopath, let’s not hang around.”
“What are the chances of the boy being in there too?”
“Slim, to be honest.”
“I’ll send them in.”
“Do it.”
“All units go! Go! Go!” Eales said over the radio.
Nate Bradley, once codenamed Gecko, watched from behind a crowd of onlookers as the ARU demolished the front door with a battering ram. He had wanted to silence Patrick Lloyd, but the police had arrived before him. The armed officers moved in unison with practiced ease as they entered the old terraced house. Nate didn’t think that they would find Patrick Lloyd in there. He wished he had taken Patrick out himself when he had had the chance at the hotel, but what was done was done. It looked like Patrick was in the wind and the further away he was the better for Nate. He wanted to hit Leon Tanner and his Turkish suppliers where it hurt by stealing his crack shipment and his money. Then he would kill him, if his suppliers didn’t kill him first. Patrick Lloyd was out of his reach. There were police everywhere. Locals were milling about the police lines looking for a good vantage point. Press photographers snapped as the action unfolded, but one of the photographers wasn’t capturing the action at the house. He was discretely taking pictures of the crowd. He pointed his camera at Gecko just long enough to capture his face. John Tankersley clicked off three frames of the crowd who were watching the police raid because he recognised Nate’s face in it. He wasn’t sure where he had seen him before, but he knew he had, and he knew that he had been a covert intelligence agent once upon a time.
&nbs
p; Chapter Forty-Six
The Child Taker
Jack Howarth felt naked and afraid. He had spent years living as Patrick Lloyd, and now that his cover was blown, he felt like a close friend had died. He had become so deeply wrapped up in being Patrick that he had forgotten where Jack was. He felt that he had woken from a deep sleep and the lights were blinding him. Patrick had been a force field around him, a suit of armour and a cloaking device all in one. Now that he had gone, he felt vulnerable. Jack Howarth was back, and he wasn’t happy. In fact, he was furious.
“What was that fucking idiot thinking?” Jack whispered. He was incredulous. “How could he have been so fucking careless?”
“What are you talking about, Paedophile? Don’t you blame me, you sick fuck.”
“Don’t call me that, you fucking imbecile. There are half a dozen bodies behind you, you stupid cunt!” The words spat from his mouth. Spittle sprayed from his mouth as he hissed the words.
“Paedophile, paedophile, paedophile!”
“Stop calling me that! How dare you?” Jack snarled.
“That is what you are, you sicko.”
“Careless! Useless! Fucking idiot!” He punched the cold brick wall in front of him. “How could you be so stupid?”
“You loved every minute of it!”
“I always did enjoy it, fuckwit!” Jack snarled. “But I tidied up after myself and never got caught, fucking idiot.”
“I could have got rid of them sooner but you wanted me to go back so that you could have some more fun, didn’t you, Jack. It was you that wanted me to go back every time.”
“I never left bodies everywhere. Fuckwit!”
“You made me go back to them, Jack! You could not let me stop. It was you and your perverted mind that made the mistakes. You have no one to blame but yourself.”
“You went too far, you made too many mistakes because you couldn’t control yourself,” Jack hissed. “I never left clues. You fucking imbecile!”
“You can’t talk, you fucking Paedophile,” Jack answered himself. “I couldn’t control you, Jack. It was you that I couldn’t control; you are the sick one. It was your idea to be me, remember?”
“I remember, I slit your throat and watched you bleed to death. I should have left you dead, fucking idiot.”
“Exactly, you took my life and my money and I hope you rot in hell,” a part of his brain echoed with the voice of Patrick Lloyd. “Rot in hell, Jack Howarth. Can you hear me, Jack? I hope you rot in hell.”
“Fuck you!” Jack shouted. He sat up and looked around him. His body was soaked with sweat. It was dark and his eyes took a while to adjust. The sun had gone down hours ago, but Jack couldn’t sleep. They made sure he couldn’t sleep. Stomp, stomp, stomp, for hours. How long could it take to search a house? One hour? Two hours? Oh no, six hours the bastards had been there already. Stomping up the stairs and down the stairs and up again and down again. At one point, he had nearly given himself up, but that had been Patrick talking. He was dead and gone, the spineless, careless little shit. How could he ever have trusted him? The noises went on and on for hours and hours and the light faded to pitch darkness. Now he could hear them digging in the cellar and pulling up floorboards in the house. They would rip the place apart looking for the evidence that Patrick Lloyd had left behind. The fucking idiot had left evidence everywhere.
The woman had woken up once, but he had put her back out with chloroform and she had stayed quiet. He had tied her up next to the kid. He could only take one of them. One of them would have to stay. The boy was lighter, but the woman would be more fun. She was stronger than the boy was and would last longer. Eventually, he had drifted into a troubled sleep but that bastard Patrick Lloyd was waiting there for him, goading him. The fool had caused the police to find him. It was his fault. He needed to move and escape from the house, but he had to wait for the cover of darkness. They would be thinning out now. Not so many of them around, and the armed officers safely tucked up in bed by now. He would chill for a while and then move. The cordons would be closer to the house now, and that would leave the ends of the terrace unwatched.
Jack listened for any noise on his side of the wall, but it was silent. The house next door was empty for a while, but they came back and he could hear them tearing up floorboards and knocking through walls. It wasn’t long before they came down into the cellar. He could hear them talking; they were planning to dig. He reached out into the blackness and touched a plastic bottle. He picked up the water and twisted the top off. The liquid felt cold and refreshing as he swallowed it. It made his senses tingle, and as sleep faded away, he felt very alive, more alive than he had for years, and it felt good. It was like he had been in a dream, and now he was awake with a bang. He had to think things through properly. Patrick Lloyd had left him in deep shit. He would escape this rattrap and then begin again. It was time to reinvent Jack Howarth again. This time, he would make all the decisions, and there would be no mistakes. Jack Howarth needed to get out of the cellar and away from Shankly Way. The police were swarming all over the house, but he was safe for now.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Jinx stepped back from the blood-spattered car, his face frozen in shock. One minute David Lorimar had been talking to him, the next his head had disappeared in a red cloud, his eyes and teeth dribbling down the window. Jinx wiped his face and looked at his hands. There was grey matter clinging to his fingertips. He tried to fathom what had happened. A chunk of the driver’s window had been blown away and the visceral matter had been blown out at him in an explosion of sticky spray. The passenger door opened and the shooter climbed out of the car. He broke the sawn off and spilled the spent cartridges onto the floor. He pushed two new shells into the empty barrels and pointed the weapon at Jinx over the roof.
“Are you a hero?” Griff asked. He was smiling, but sweat was running down his forehead.
“I‘m no hero.” Jinx had no idea who Griff Collins was. They made eye contact and stared at each other for a few long seconds.
“Good answer. I like your style,” Griff repeated his favourite saying. The shooter took a clear plastic bottle from inside his overalls and removed the top. He sprinkled the contents over the remains of David Lorimar and the passenger seat and then he smiled at Jinx as he lit a match and threw it into the car. There was a whooshing sound as the petrol ignited and the interior of the car turned into a raging inferno.
“Got to go, that’s my lift.” A motorbike roared up to the pavement and Griff Collins ran to it. The rider handed him a full-face helmet and he pulled it on as he climbed onto the pillion seat. He took one last look into Jinx’s eyes as the bike sped away into the distance.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Tank sat in his Shogun, watching the crowds from a distance. There were fifty or so onlookers at the cordon nearest to him. The armed units were packing up their gear and the forensic teams and detectives were moving into the building. He dialled the major and waited for the call to connect.
“John,” the major answered. “How is the holiday?”
“Interesting so far,” he replied. “I’ve uploaded a familiar face to our system. I need to know who he is.”
“Let me pull it up.” The major looked at his e-mail and opened the attachment. “I’ve saved the photograph and sent it to the Biometrics Identifications Unit. Who do you think it is?”
“I know his face, Major,” Tank explained. “I can’t place where I know him from, but I’m sure he was one of us.”
“Counter Terrorists Unit?”
“Not an agent, Major, but one of us.” Tank just couldn’t place him. He banged the steering wheel with his fist.
“Where did you see him?”
“In the crowd at the address Howarth was using. It’s a shithole near the edge of town. Most of the houses are empty and waiting to be demolished.”
“Have you got any idea who he is?”
“I know he was on our side once, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
/> “Did the police have any joy at the address?”
“Nothing so far.” Tank scanned the crowd again but the familiar face was gone. The man had disappeared. “The armed units have done their foray into the property and come out empty handed. Howarth is a ghost.”
“I’ve got a name,” the major said as the results came back to his computer. “Nate Bradley, he was intelligence core, codenamed Gecko.”
“I know him.” Tank looked up and down the road but he was nowhere to be seen. “He was an interrogator, right?”
“Right,” the major confirmed. “His codename was Gecko. He has quite an illustrious career file here.”
“I remember him from some of the rendition flights from the Gulf.”
“That’s him. It fits with his record.”
“What is he doing on a derelict housing estate in Anfield? Why would he be interested in a raid on Jack Howarth’s home?” Tank rubbed his shaven head with his palm. “Is he still working for the government?”
“No, definitely not,” the major replied. “He was debriefed and pensioned off with a medium security risk marker against his name.”
“That makes sense,” Tank said. “If he had started writing his memoirs, he would have had to be silenced.”
“His file has stayed clear since he left. There has been no cause for concern. Do you think he’s connected to Howarth?” The major sounded uncertain.
“I don’t know,” Tank said thoughtfully. “It just seemed strange that he was there. Maybe he wasn’t connected to Howarth. Maybe he was connected to Patrick Lloyd.”
“Do you want me to do some digging?” The major asked.
“I’m on it, Major,” Tank answered. “I have his civilian file up here on my laptop. It looks like the police have had an issue with him. Leave it with me and I’ll keep you posted.”