Chapter Six
I’d spent the rest of my day after meeting with Simon Jones in the briefing office of the category C squad. I knew I’d have to show my face at some point and I picked up a number of files that I estimated they wouldn’t need back anytime soon. After that I went back to my office to find that Harris had left; leaving a disgruntled note on the desk that he had been forced to leave the office to get his own lunch and might have picked up a cold in doing so. He had however printed off a number of pages and had placed them in a folder for me. There was also a USB stick on top of the tablet that was in turn on top of the folder on my desk. For all of his complaining, he was a useful and dedicated worker when his mind was turned to it.
I stayed in my office reading through the information he had gathered for me till past ten o’clock. My back ached from the sitting in my chair and even after reading on the couch for a good hour I was sore enough to want to go home. Even though I had not done anything specific on the Morrison case, I felt that the framework I had given myself would provide me with a better chance of making some headway the next day. Before I left the office though I stopped at Harris’s desk and placed a takeaway menu and a ten pound note on his keyboard with a scrawled piece of paper stating that I would not be in the office the next day.
Waking early, I went on my usual five mile run and returned to my house. It was nothing special but I owned it outright and had spent the first month of my retirement improving it after buying it cheap and rundown. The main factor in my procurement of the building was the fact that it had an ample garage. I was happy that the street was relatively safe from car theft, although it was in an overly student area of Manchester which meant that there were occasions that I would be woken by drunken youths. Unfortunately for them that meant getting a visit from me banging on their doors early in the morning everyday during their exam weeks; I was petty that way but I think they had learnt a valuable lesson.
The garage was needed since I didn’t want my Jaguar on the street and had bought two other cars for my new job. One of them was an old Honda Civic I’d bought from a pal who owned a second hand dealership who promised me I was getting a deal. It ran well and was quick, but the best part was that it didn’t stand out so was ideal for tailing and day-to-day business that required me out of the town.
Once I was back from the run, which had helped clear my mind and settled some of the facts about where I was going in my mind, I prepared for the day ahead. Dressing in jeans, an old shirt that could no longer withstand the rigours of being worn with my suits and a pair of soft leather ankle high boots, I packed my car and set off for Liverpool.
Considering I was usually at my desk or still asleep at that hour, I was annoyed to be greeted by bumper-to-bumper traffic. After a slight detour, I headed down the East Lancashire Road listening to Motown classics till my CD ran out of songs so I put on the radio. The local news was all about the double murder the night before in Elsworth I shook my head and banged my hand on the steering wheel, annoyed with myself that I was behind. I was also very annoyed that things had escalated so badly. It would make things a lot more difficult for me, but at least I knew that Thomas Morrison, the full name of my client, couldn’t have committed those murders as well so I was one up on my last case.
There were only the bare facts in the bulletin but it appeared that it was a direct retaliation for the murder of Joey Boulton by the gang he belonged to. The number of shots fired and the increase in the number of victims suggested a heightened sense of violence. Things had just got a lot more dangerous in this investigation.
I wouldn’t say I was a brave man, often in my past I’ve been involved in situations that put my life in jeopardy, but I don’t actively seek them. Going into what was a gang warzone did not interest me one bit; in fact, I’ll admit that for a moment, I nearly turned around the car at the nearest set of lights. It was only a sense of duty to my debt held by the late James McNeal that stopped me.
That urge to turn around was only heightened when I saw the sign for Hollingswood on my journey. Too much had happened there recently and it still turned my stomach sour at the prospect of going back. My fault; I should’ve stuck to the motorway. It did however provide a not so unwelcome distraction from my thoughts as I made my way to the outskirts of Liverpool, and the scene of the first shooting.
Chapter Seven
There was a strange atmosphere on the street when I arrived in Elsworth. In the space of two weeks there had been three bodies dropped in the suburb. It was surprising the level of violence and more so that it was located all on one area. The gunmen from Rakspeath had crossed the divide during increased police patrols and had killed two men in vengeance, which made no one safe in Elsworth. Considering that act of territorial war I would not be surprised if there would be a similar retaliation in Rakspeath soon; an opinion no doubt shared by the police in Merseyside estimated by the number of official vehicles I passed on my way in.
My sat nav took me on a random long diversion through Rakspeath to get to Elsworth and I was surprised that I was not asked to pull over and have my car searched. Once through the police roadblocks, I arrived at the location of the shooting with little problem. I had passed the rest of the constabulary and the press in general on my way as they had gone to the new crime scene. That was of no concern to me whilst I tried to clear the name of Tommy Morrison.
I parked my car away from the park, on a side street that offered me a view of where the shooting took place, but away from prying eyes. Harris, as much as I slate him for his general laziness, had been good to me when it came to research. I picked up the tablet and folder that had been on the passenger seat and went over an aerial view of the area. I wanted to familiarise myself once more with my surroundings.
Feeling more secure about my knowledge I put the tablet and the folder under my seat and out of sight before stepping out of the car and locking it. It may be a stereotype but that area was full of thieves, even with a mass of police nearby, so I set the alarm and was extra vigilant when it came to my car. I walked over to the park with some pictures from the folder still in my hand.
There were markings on the floor that indicated where the body had fallen after the shooting and I walked forward imagining Joey Boulton shooting. I did my best not to raise my hand as if pointing a gun, so as not to arise suspicion from anyone watching. From the reports in the papers and from some eyewitness accounts that had been posted online I had learnt that Boulton had fired a number of shots at three men. I wanted to know where those bullets had gone and the shot that had killed Boulton, since I was surprised that nowhere in the information I had been given did it state the calibre of the murder weapon.
Of course the bullets could travel a long distance undisturbed but the park was a collection of amusement apparatus for children. A large swing set, a number of slides and a climbing frame which all showed signs of neglect. The ground around the equipment was that spongy black stuff that gave you an extra bounce in your step as you walked on it. Taking out my keys I pressed on the small laser pen that was attached to the keyring, which I must admit was overburdened with gadgets; another vice of mine. I shone it at roughly the right height as the boy’s head trying to trace the bullet’s flight path.
Harris had somehow obtained a picture that showed the bullet wound with entry and exit; in this case Boulton’s face was a distorted mess. It had seemed to go straight through, so with a pistol it must have been close range, it being rare that the shooter would have some sort of marksmanship ability. I followed the path the light had shown me but there were no bullet holes in the metal structure that housed a number of slides and a pole. I raise the angle a little; maybe the shooter had been shorter than Boulton. Yet again I walked the scene and once more I found no trace of the killing bullet. I’d found other signs of damage but yet again none on the flight path I had managed to work out.
I knew where the body dropped and I had a number of good reference points to indicate where the bullet
would have ended up. There was even a backstop for the projectile in the form of a raised mound of the protective sponge surface. I knew that the scene of crime unit would have done their job especially thoroughly on such a case and that a ricochet could happen but there surely would be some indication of calibre in some of the literature.
Once again I walked back to the where the body had fallen; aware now that I was being watched and this time rang Harris. The young man answered in his usual laconic way, “Sup?”
“Morning Harris, I’ve got some questions for you.”
He yawned long and loud into the phone receiver, “Can’t this wait till you get in?”
“I doubt I’ll be coming into the office, so just answer the questions I’ve got.”
“Sure, sure whatever boss.”
“You read a lot of stuff on that shooting. Did any of them say how close the shooter was to Boulton when he fired the kill shot?”
“I put them all in your folder but I’d say just about half said that the shooter went up close and offed him with a shot straight to the noggin. A couple of others said that the shooter was close and one or two said they didn’t see the gunman. To be honest they are the ones I’m more likely to believe, all residents and older. All of the execution stuff was young lads, and far too many to have actually seen what happened.”
I rubbed my beard thinking at that; there would always be people who lied about seeing an event; no matter how trivial it was someone would think it made them interesting to fabricate a story about an occurrence. What interested me though, was that there were people who said they didn’t see the shooter; something that I in my naivety had not thought. Gang shootings in general, were usually carried out by pistol or shotgun, rarely anything larger than a submachine gun. To be accurate and not seen the shooter was either a marksman, which would narrow down the list of suspects or had used a rifle. If the person had used a rifle then that too would change my investigation and would effectively rule out Tom for the killing.
All of that went through my head as I walked forward going on the basis the shot may have travelled downwards. I carried on, “Harris, have we had any more work since I left?”
“No.”
“Maybe we would if you went to the office,” I hung up and hoped I had confused Harris enough to get him to go to work. Harris would have most definitely thanked me for the lunch money and then complained I hadn’t given him enough. He knew I kept money in a wall safe that I had specifically installed in the office and always whinged that he needed more expenses. If it weren’t for the fact that it was a very old style tumbler lock safe, I never would have left any money with him anyway.
Standing at where I thought the bullet would have possibly travelled I noticed an indentation in the soft ground. Something had been gouged out of the protective surface and had not been done in a delicate way. Squatting down I was about to put my fingers to the hole when the natural light behind me dimmed and I became very aware that I was no longer alone.
Chapter Eight
Turning slowly I kept my hands noticeably open and away from my body, not wishing to provoke any sort of action. Before me were two young men, wearing dark coloured tracksuits and menacing looks that set me on edge. Months ago I would have flashed my badge and told them to piss off and to be honest I nearly did that anyway but decided against it. I instead but on my best impression of scared ad answered, “I-i-i-i don’t want any trouble, guys.”
Neither man looked like they could start shaving and I began rounding down their ages the more I looked at them. The shorter of the two, an oily looking olive skinned teenager with black bogbrush consistency to his hair spoke first, “What you doin’ down there? You some sort of nonce?”
“Yeah, you some sort of kiddy fiddler?” his sidekick continued. This one was a good three inches taller than my own six foot two stature and was carrying a bit of extra weight. He had a baseball cap on and a hood over that, which cast a shadow over his very pale features.
“No, I’m a journalist,” I replied as demurely as possible.
“If you’re a journo, what doing over here? You should be over at Antwhiler Street where Brad and Stevie bought it last night,” the larger one questioned. He had a good point but I had a good answer.
“I’m doing some research on the first shooting. Trying to get the full story since I don’t think it has been reported properly.”
“Damn right; those papers print outright lies. Not that you get one of them in the newsies around here, we don’t buy the scum,” the shorter one said with a strong vehemence in his voice.
I knew all too well that some shops refused to stock a certain newspaper in Liverpool after allegations that were proven to be complete fabrication by lazy and inept police officers and journalists at the Hillsborough football disaster. So I nodded and answered, “I don’t work for them, I work freelance and someone I know at a rather famous magazine wants a story on the gangs of Liverpool. Since I live close by and they were offering good money I thought I’d come down and do a piece.”
The two of them looked at each other and I realised that maybe I was being too subtle with them, especially since I wasn’t willing to give up any names. I decided to carry on, to try and convince them of my lie, “I was going to go to Toxteth or Croxteth and speak to one of the dangerous gangs but since there had been a shooting around here I thought I would come here first.”
“What do you mean dangerous gangs? The Warriors are harder than anyone,” the shorter one asked bitterly.
“Yeah, we’re just as deadly as the Nogsy or Crocky lot. Just look at the news, you don’t see them dropping any bodies do ya? We’re the lot you need to speak to,” Tall Boy proudly exclaimed.
“So you’re saying that you two are in the Elsworth Warriors?” I continued my questioning in the role of journalist.
They looked at each other but turned to me, Shorty deciding it best to speak for the two of them, “Could be.”
I hid a smile at their excellent subterfuge, “Well gentlemen, would you mind giving me a statement or two.”
“We aint givin’ you ah names mate, no way,” Tall Boy quickly stated putting his hand up.
“No, you don’t to give your names just a few details on what life is like on the streets and what happened here.”
Once again they looked at each other and this time the taller one answered, “And what’s in it for us?”
“You would gain my eternal gratitude and put the Elsworth Warriors on the map of course,” neither one budged at that so I sweetened the deal, “and how about fifty quid and a cut of any royalties I get from reprints.”
Chapter Nine
The two gang members haggled their way to forty pounds each; which I begrudgingly paid because I didn’t really want to get beaten up for money and I could always bill it to expenses. To that end they took a strange delight in signing a receipt for me and surprisingly not writing down lewd or ridiculous names. In fact the delicate and much pained way in which they wrote led me to the conclusions that the names may have been real and the education system in England was failing miserably.
Once paid they proceeded to tell me all about how ‘hard’ they were and what the gang was into, which was a rather repetitive twenty minutes. The repeated stories got more grandiose and the tales of gunfights sounded more likely to occur in the Wild West. Still, there would be kernels of truth in whatever they said. I discerned that they sold drugs and that getting hold of a gun wasn’t difficult for them. Much like any job they had their bosses but only referred to them by the first names of Josh and Kai which made further investigation a little more difficult. In a lot of the stories however the same name kept cropping up of Big Saul.
This Saul fellow seemed to be something of a kingpin and idol to these people; his early exploits sounding preposterous but said with the conviction of a story that had passed into urban legend. I however wasn’t interested in any of that since it didn’t really pertain to Tom Morrison in any way I could discern.
I wrote the name down though, in case it became useful later and decided I might as well have Harris do some work tracking him down for me.
Finally they got around to talking about the shootings. The tall one who had revealed his name to be Dom was speaking as we sat on one of the park benches, “Brad and Stevie were good lads they didn’t deserve to get punked like that.”
“What about the Boulton lad?”
“Bastard deserved it,” Alex the other gang member said, “you don’t come onto ah patch and try and play us like that. He got what was coming to him.”
“No doubt,” Dom reiterated slapping his friend’s hand.
For the umpteenth time during the conversation I did my best not to roll my eyes, “So this Morrison kid did a good thing then, shooting him like that?”
Alex puffed out his rather scrawny chest, “He did what any Warrior would do. We can’t have people moving on ah turf.”
I just nodded along with them, “Morrison must have been a pretty decent shot to kill him like that. Were you two here that night?”
“We got here soon after the shots but we scarpered before the busies arrived. They’d lock up any of us and try and pin it on ya,” Dom said, their distrust of the police a running theme during the discussion.
“What did you see?”
They went through their usual routine of looking at each other before answering certain questions that pertained to the gang. I noticed the slight nod between them before Alex answered, “We didn’t see much just the Rakspeath scumbag on the floor. We heard the shots and got down here to help out Frankie. He was the one that Boulton shot and was in a pretty bad way when we got here. There was a lot of blood and we tried to get it sorted out for him but we couldn’t get the usual guy to work on it. Luckily we found someone who was willing to stitch him up.”
A Shot In The Night (John Harper Series Book 2) Page 3