by Conrad Jones
“I want you to know that I am not coming for you, Dean,” Jinx lowered his voice. “Get in, let’s talk.”
“No, thanks.” Dean kept his distance. “I was never coming for you. I said No, so say what you have to say and fuck off.”
Jinx eyed Dean coolly. “If your kids weren’t sick, you would already be dead. I saw you arguing with Leon. If you want a way out of this, we need to talk.”
“What, like the chat you had with Jackson and Monkey?” Dean bent down to make eye contact. “I don’t think so, do you?”
“Monkey?” Jinx frowned. “Who the fuck is Monkey?”
“Someone whacked him in the bogs at Mac’s on Queens Drive, but then I think you know all about that.” Dean looked for a reaction from Jinx but none came. He looked genuinely confused.
“I don’t know the guy,” Jinx shrugged.
“Bollocks, I don’t have time to chitchat,” Dean tutted. “What do you want?” A fat woman with a trolley full of shopping walked between them. Her black leggings were so tight that her cellulite looked like dimples in the material. She hurled a string of four letter words at her three fat children, oblivious to the conversation she was interrupting. They waited patiently for the tirade to subside as she carried on her way. “I need to get off, Jinx.”
“Okay, I’ll give it to you straight.” Jinx looked around to make sure that no one was in earshot. “Leon is too close to the Turks. Let’s just say that certain parties want him out of business. Tell me where his shipment is coming in, and I will guarantee you are left alone.”
Dean looked confused and spat on the floor. He had been loyal to Leon for years, but he needed to leave this life behind. “You guarantee it?” Dean’s biggest fear was the safety of his family. If they recovered from their illness, the chances were that they would need months of aftercare, and that meant he had to stay in the city. “How do I know that I can trust you, Jinx?”
“You don’t know me well, Dean but you know of me. I helped your sister out once, didn’t I?”
“Yes.” Dean wanted a passport to another life. This was it.
“I have no beef with you, Dean,” Jinx said. “There’s a tracking device under your rear wheel arch, left hand side.”
Dean hesitated for a moment and then walked to the back of his car. He knelt down and looked underneath the wheel arch. “Fuck me!” Dean hissed. “How long has that been there?”
“Long enough,” Jinx winked.
Dean swallowed hard and checked his watch. He had a decision to make, and he needed to make it quickly. “The shipment is coming into Bootle docks today. It’s a Dutch cargo ship. He has the port security in his pocket, so the parcel will leave the docks without any bother. They meet at the old Dockers’ Clock, do you know it?”
“The transport café?” Jinx looked surprised.
“Yes, that’s it. It’ll be a simple exchange, nothing heavy.”
“Take it easy, Dean,” Jinx nodded and put the window up as he pulled the Mercedes away. “I hope your kids make it,” he called through the window as he drove away. He grabbed for his mobile and redialled the number for Gus Rickman.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Shankly Way
Jack heard the police leaving the house in a rush. Loud shouts accompanied the sound of heavy boots stomping across the aging floorboards. It sounded like everything was going according to plan. The bomb had done what he had designed it to do, which would give him the time he needed to get away. He waited half an hour to make sure that it wasn’t a ploy to lure him out of hiding, and then he dropped through a hatch onto the attic floorboards and moved quickly through the attic spaces until he reached the house next door to his. He listened intently. The building was silent apart from the odd creak or groan from the ancient roof trusses. He lifted the hatch in the bathroom ceiling and then dropped down into the house. He had a ladder hidden there, which he had used to drag the boy up into the loft, but he chose not to use it now. Time was against him. The bomb squad must have cleared the area when they realised what they were dealing with. Jack had the idea from Nate Bradley. He had planned to rig an incendiary device to his lockup, so that in the event of his capture, he could destroy the evidence of drugs and money remotely. Jack had liked the idea and built a much bigger device over a period of months. It wasn’t rocket science, although the detonator was yet to be tested. He was confident that it would explode if he dialled the correct number with his mobile. Jack used another mobile phone to provide the spark required to ignite one of the drums. If one drum went up, it would be a matter of seconds before the others ignited.
He made his way down the stairs to the ground floor cautiously. The police had smashed the front door in, and he could see out onto the empty street. There was no sign of them outside. He crept as close to the door as he dared and peered out into the grey daylight. A radio buzzed with garbled messages somewhere out of his field of vision. He could see the shadow of the bomb squad transporter, but he couldn’t see the vehicle. It was too far down the road. He placed his back against the damp wall and moved away from the door into the darkness. The floorboards in the long hallway creaked loudly as he crept to the cellar door. He was less than twenty-five yards from an open manhole cover. It led into the Victorian sewers, which carried human waste and rainwater under the city to the river. A drum full of Chlordane covered his escape route. He knew that the bomb squad wouldn’t risk more than one officer at a time, and they would be occupied disconnecting the decoy-timing device. Jack had rigged it with four separate power sources and connected it to the main electricity supply. He guessed that they would disconnect the electricity supply first and then concentrate on the others before confirming their suspicions that the timer was a decoy. By that time, he would be safely in the sewer system, miles away. He was so close that he could smell freedom. He could taste it. Patrick Lloyd was dead and gone, and Jack Howarth was back in business. The cellar door creaked as he opened it. In the silence of the empty house, it sounded deafening. He stepped onto the staircase and closed the door behind himself. The steps were slippery, and he took each one carefully. It was impossible to put weight on the rotting wood without it making a noise. He listened intently for any sound from the cellar next door, but he couldn’t hear anything. If there was a bomb technician working there, then he couldn’t hear them. He could hear his own breathing as he crept down the stairs. His heart beat quickly, and he could feel the blood rushing through the veins in his temples as he reached the drums. He stepped between them until he reached the furthest one away, and then he knelt down and used them as cover whilst he pressed his shoulder against it. The drum shuddered, and he could hear the liquid inside sloshing around as it moved slightly. There was a squeal as metal scraped on metal, and he froze in the darkness. There shouldn’t be any metal there. He had removed the manhole cover months before. He felt down with his hand, but felt only stone. Using a torch here was out of the question. Any flicker of light would give away his presence. There was a waterproof flashlight stashed in the sewer along with a wetsuit and a loaded Glock. He waited a few long seconds and then heaved the drum again. It stuck fast and then slid slowly across the floor. He reached for the open manhole but touched cold metal. His breathe stuck in his throat and his heart missed several beats. Someone had put the lid back in place.
Lights blinded him, and their suddenness made him catch his breath. He cried out like a wounded animal caught in a trap. “Are you looking for a way out, you piece of shit?” Alec Ramsay said from the stairs. “Armed police, show me your hands!” DS Eales shouted at the top of his voice as he came through the hole in the wall, followed by two of his unit. “Do it now, show me your hands, or I will shoot.”
Jack Howarth looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car. His eyes were wide open and glassy and there was no comprehension of what was happening in them. He put his hands above his head but didn’t move. “Stand up, do it now!” A second armed officer screamed. Jack flinched visibly and stood up on shak
y legs. His knees wouldn’t lock out, and he felt like they were pipe cleaners that couldn’t hold his weight.
“Jack Howarth, I am arresting you for the murder of Louise Parker. That will do for a start. You do not have to say anything, but whatever you do say may be given in evidence.” Alec stepped aside as the armed officers dragged him from between the drums. DS Eales grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back painfully. He slammed his face into the wall, splitting his lip and cracking a tooth. Jack gave a muffled shout, but a powerful blow to the kidneys silenced him. They frisk-searched him and then slapped solid handcuffs onto his wrists. “Get the bastard out of my sight,” Alec sighed. He reached for his radio. “Captain Riley?”
“Yes, Superintendent,” the radio crackled.
“Send your men in; we have the suspect in custody.” Alec walked up the cellar stairs and ignored the fact that his suspect’s head seemed to be thumping into each one individually. Jack cried like a baby, and it sounded good. “Smithy,” Alec clicked the transmit button again.
“Yes, Guv.” Smithy sounded hypo. “You got the bastard!” Alec cringed at the use of profanity over the police band, but he didn’t think anyone would mind this time around.
“We did.” Alec felt flat despite the result. “Has the cordon been moved back?”
“All done and dusted, Guv,” Smithy replied. It had taken over an hour to move the police lines back and evacuate an area a thousand yards square.
“Good. I want everyone back at the station in an hour,” Alec ordered. “Hand the scene over to uniform until the bomb squad is finished. This isn’t over yet.”
Chapter Seventy
Bootle Docks
Leon drove the Lexus down the dock road away from the city. Prestige car showrooms had replaced derelict warehouses which had stood empty for decades, and a new passenger terminal gobbled up acres of the old port. Liverpool was now on the cruise ship tourist map, and liners from all over the world docked directly beneath the iconic Liver Buildings. Few reminders of Liverpool’s dark history as the centre of the world’s slave trade remained on the riverbank. Fashionable restaurants now occupied the waterfront where galleys had once docked, and a huge cargo and container port operated closer to the Irish Sea near the northern suburb of Bootle. “Are we doing this on our own?” Gareth asked nervously. “I can’t believe they shot Monkey, Leon. What am I going to tell his family?”
“We’ll tell them what we know, which is fuck all, Gar,” Leon growled. He reached for his silver tobacco tin and opened the lid with his left hand. He placed it on his knee and spooned some of the white powder onto the back of his hand. He sniffed it and then repeated the process. “Monkey had a lot of enemies, mate. You know that.”
“I suppose so, but I’ve known his family all my life. Are you sure it’s nothing to do with today?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I’ll find out.” Leon looked at him to reinforce his words. “We’ll get whoever did that, I swear down that we will, motherfuckers!”
Gareth looked in the wing mirror and then turned around to look out of the back window. “That fucker has been following us for miles.” He pointed out of the window.
“The guys on the motorbike?”
“Yes.” Gareth looked concerned.
“I know, Gar.” Leon smiled. “They‘re our backup, mate. They‘re hardcore mercenaries.”
“You could’ve told me,” Gareth grumbled and turned back toward the front. “I almost shit my pants then after seeing Monkey shot dead.”
Leon chortled and punched his associate in the arm. Gareth laughed it off, but the heavy blow would bruise later. A high security fence stretched for miles to their left hand side, and containers of every shade and colour were stacked high as far as the eye could see. Cranes worked tirelessly, lifting cargo from container ships from all over the globe. The port was enjoying a new lease of life, and the increased number of international ships docking brought opportunities for the criminal fraternity, too. Checking every crate and pallet was physically impossible. HM Customs worked flat out to police imported goods, which meant they tendered out the port’s boundary security to private security companies. They were at the mercy of the integrity of their employees.
“We’re here,” Leon said smiling. He indicated and turned the Lexus off the dock road, away from the container terminal. A plot of land designated for development was utilised as a temporary car park, servicing a busy Sunday market nearby. It was desolate wasteland pitted with potholes full of rainwater. Bricks poked out of the compacted earth, causing havoc to tyre treads and wheel balance. There were a few parked cars on it and a scattering of vans dotted about. The only building remaining was an old pub called the Dockers’ Clock, which the owners had converted into a truckers’ cafe. It flourished by offering greasy breakfasts twenty-four hours a day to hungry heavy goods drivers. “Our suppliers should be in there stuffing their faces with bacon and eggs.”
“I haven’t been down here for donkey’s years,” Gareth said, looking around. “I used to get all my snide gear from that market when I was a kid.”
“Me too, Gar,” Leon laughed. “No more snide gear for you after today, mate. You can go to town and buyy as much Armani as you want.”
They watched the motorbike slowing on the road behind them, but it didn’t pull onto the waste ground. It stayed on the road and drove nearer to the cafe entrance. The pillion rider dismounted and removed his helmet. Griff Collins glanced at Leon, waiting for a signal. Leon put a thumb up. Griff lit a cigarette and walked toward the cafe. The driver stayed on the bike and waited. “Grab the bag from the boot, Gar,” Leon ordered.
Leon pressed the release switch and Gareth climbed out of the car. He walked around the back of the vehicle to open the boot lid. Leon kept his eyes on the pillion rider as he stubbed out his smoke and entered the cafe. The boot lid opened, and he felt Gareth reaching in to remove the bag. He could hear him muttering something, but he couldn’t understand it. The car rocked as he clumsily fished around in the boot. He heard Gareth swearing under his breath and wondered how difficult getting a holdall could be. Leon’s mobile buzzed and he fumbled around in his pocket for it. “I’m here,” the voice said. “Do you want a brew?”
“Yes, I’ll be two minutes.” Leon ended the call. The pillion rider confirmed that the suppliers were in the cafe waiting for them. “We‘re on, Gar!” He laughed as he opened his door and struggled to lift his huge frame out of the vehicle. “Gareth, move it!” He locked the doors and looked at the boot. The lid was up, blocking his view. “Gareth?” Leon took three steps to the rear of the car and the colour drained from his face.
Chapter Seventy-One
MIT
Alec was sitting at his desk opposite Will and Chief Carlton. The coffee jug on the desk was half-full, or half-empty, depending on how you looked at things. Today it was definitely half-full. He rubbed his tired eyes and tried to digest everything they had uncovered in the last few days. “So you‘re convinced that this guy, Nate Bradley, is Howarth’s accomplice?” He asked, taking a sip of the strong black brew.
“Yes, it makes sense from what we know so far.” Will slurped coffee and nodded his head.
“And CTU gave you this information?” The chief raised his eyebrows.
“No, the Taskforce,” Will corrected him. “Look at Bradley’s profile and what happened to his family. It all adds up.”
“Maybe it does,” Alec mused, “but what evidence do we actually have that connects him to anything?”
“Nothing yet, but if we arrest him and search his property, we may be able to connect him to the missing college kids through his laptop.” Will was racing ahead with his theory. “If we can connect him to the missing lads, we may be able to connect him to the Benjamin murder?”
“Not a chance, Will.” Alec shook his head vehemently. “It’s all circumstantial evidence. I can see how it fits, but we have no hard evidence on him.”
“What about these two killings?” Will picked
up an update that the chief had brought with him from the uniformed division. “David Lorimar, shot and set alight outside the hospital, and then Mickey Grieves shot three times in McDonalds?” He put the update in front of Alec. “Come on, Guv. Someone is systematically assassinating drug dealers. He’s moving up the chain.”
“I don’t agree.” Alec was adamant. “We have no information to connect Lorimar to drug dealing. We know he’s associated with Jinx Cotton, but he’s a moneylender, not a drug dealer. Uniform arrested him in a firearms case, but the judge threw it out of court. As for Grieves, I’ve never heard of him, do we know he’s a dealer?”
“The drug squad says he’s linked loosely to Leon Tanner, but he was a small time dealer at best,” the chief added. “We’ll find him and bring him in. Don’t we need to concentrate on the case against Howarth for now?”
“We do, but until the doctors have assessed his mental state, we can’t go near him. I think he’ll be transferred straight to Ashworth Secure Unit or the Cat-A nit in Manchester tomorrow morning. When we get around to interviewing him, I think it will be at Ashworth.” Alec drank some more coffee and topped up his cup from the jug.
“He’ll be in good company there,” Will scoffed. “Is Brady still in there?”
“Ian Brady, one of the infamous Moor’s Murderers. Now that is a blast from the past. I had just joined the force when they caught them,” the chief reminisced. “He spent most of his life in there. He’s being force-fed through a tube now. It’s less than, what, six miles as the crow flies from here, Alec?”
“I think so,” Alec nodded. “Wherever Howarth ends up, he won’t be getting out until he’s in a box, that’s for sure.”
“Sooner the better for me,” Will added.
“We still have to focus on his accomplice. If Will is correct in his assumption, then Nate Bradley is out there, knocking over drug dealers and their associates until one of them kills him or we stop him,” Alec shrugged. “Either way, we need to make his arrest a priority. I think we should use the press coverage of the Howarth arrest to find Bradley.”