Open Grave

  Mustering up all the energy he could, he raised his arms towards the clown’s eyes, forcing his thumbs into the darkened gaps. Within seconds, the bloke fell back, a guttural roar escaping his throat. Jack tried to force himself up, but fell back, seemingly paralysed. Across the way the intruder’s left hand went to his boot and pulled.

  The small flash of the blade brought Jack back to life. One giant effort later, he managed to scramble to his feet. The clown moved forward, but Jack was too fast. He lunged, grabbing him before hurtling to the right, sending them both over the bannister.

  The clown grunted as they made impact, splintered wood landing around them like fallen leaves.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jack could see the knife lying at the bottom of his feet. He made a grab for it, before a heavy boot kicked it out of the way. The giant attacker steadied himself once more before picking the blade up.

  ‘I was just gonna deliver a message,’ he grunted. ‘But now you’ve really pissed me off.’

  Jack couldn’t place the voice due to it being muffled by the mask; definitely local though. ‘A message from who?’

  The sound of approaching sirens grew to a crescendo. The clown snapped his head towards the door. Jack could almost see the cogs turning in his mind.

  ‘Next time,’ he growled.

  ‘What message?’ Jack shouted, feeling nausea rise up in his throat.

  ‘Next time,’ he repeated, before turning and making a limping exit.

  The last thing he could remember before passing out was the shrill wailing of multiple police cars, followed by the screams of his next-door neighbour.

  * * *

  There was a vague sense of pain, clouded by a warm, fuzzy feeling blanketing his entire body. Voices cascaded around him in alarm, their pitch and tone slurring as if drunk. He blinked, his vision fading like an Etch a Sketch, before total darkness overcame him once more.

  ‘Detective Lambert? Can you hear me?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘You’re in the hospital. You’ve suffered some injuries due to an attack. Don’t be alarmed, everything will be okay.’

  His head rolled, lips smacking in dehydration. Moments later, a straw arrived at his mouth.

  ‘There, take small sips.’

  Cool liquid coursed down his throat. He coughed, having taken in too much at once.

  ‘Can you understand me?’ the doctor asked, shining a light into his eyes.

  ‘Y-yes,’ Jack forced out, his voice barely a whisper.

  ‘Let me through!’ a familiar voice shouted from the distance.

  Edwards appeared to his right alongside a red-faced nurse.

  ‘It’s okay,’ the doctor sighed.

  The stout woman gave a grunt before leaving, her shoes slapping against the linoleum flooring.

  ‘If I didn’t know any better, Doctor, I’d say I was high.’

  The tall, stooped figure of his carer smiled, glasses perched on a long, crooked nose. He was dressed in green scrubs, a shower cap on his head.

  ‘You’re on a morphine drip,’ he told him. ‘It was either that or complete agony; you’ve got two cracked ribs and a swollen hand, not to mention some heavy bruising to that cheek of yours.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound too bad.’

  ‘Just wait till you get home, my old boy. Then the fun will really begin. You were lucky,’ he continued. ‘We thought he’d crushed your larynx.’

  ‘Swings and roundabouts,’ Jack rasped.

  ‘Yes... well, I’ll leave you to it for now.’ He turned to Edwards. ‘I’ll give you a few minutes, but we really need him to rest.’

  Edwards pulled up a chair alongside him. ‘What’s this about, then?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Jack replied, his throat constricting.

  ‘I don’t like this one bit.’

  Nor did he. ‘I can’t believe somebody broke into my house.’

  ‘Who could it have been?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he lied.

  ‘You’ll have to vacate the premises until it blows over. I can’t have my DCI getting murdered in his own home. You can come stay with me – it’ll help keep the missus off my back.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Jack said, the thought of living with Edwards sending shivers through his battered body.

  ‘Well you bloody well can’t stay there! You’ll need to rest up.’

  As if to end the conversation, he closed his eyes and feigned sleep. After a few, quiet moments, he heard the DSI sigh, before making a tired exit. He’d be sure to get his rest. But, despite his weariness, the mystery of who had broken into his house refused to leave his mind. Sure, over the years, he’d built up his fair share of enemies, but this had a very particular set of fingerprints all over it. There was only one man who would be brash enough to hire a goon to send a ‘message’. For years now, they’d had an understanding. Jack didn’t pry too far, and Dorian McGuinness didn’t push too far. Maybe McGuinness knew he’d been watching him. Maybe he was getting too close to the truth about Liam Reed. He flexed his fist and winced. Back in the day he’d been a pretty handy amateur boxer. As far as Jack was concerned now, the gloves were off.

  21

  ‘Guv, seriously, if Edwards sees you he’ll blow a fuse,’ the desk sergeant pleaded.

  He moved past the reception desk. ‘Tough.’

  In just three days Jack’s boredom had reached heights that he didn’t know existed. There were only so many times he could listen to Black Sabbath records and do his four mundane stretches as prescribed by the physio.

  The desk sergeant ran after him. ‘He’s got you on two weeks’ sick leave and says we aren’t to let you in.’

  ‘If anybody asks, just say I threatened you.’

  His entire body was aching, and his neck had taken on a purple, Picasso-like hue, but he’d be damned if he was going to sit in the house watching dull TV quiz shows for six hours a day. As far as he was concerned, he had work to do.

  ‘Jack?’ Watkins squeaked, jumping out of his chair.

  ‘Would you jump in my grave as quickly, Watkins?’ Jack asked, wincing at his poor choice of words.

  ‘I was... just... keeping it warm and that,’ he spluttered.

  Watkins had already made a mess of the entire surface, cartons of fast food and coffee cups strewn everywhere. The place stank.

  ‘Well it’s plenty warm now,’ he said. ‘Now clear this mess up. Honestly, I’m gone a matter of days and look what happens.’

  Jack wiped his brow with his good hand, his other being currently mummified. To make matters worse, his headaches had now switched from regular to permanent. His body might be screaming out for bed, but his mind was firmly planted on work.

  ‘The Bulldog has been on a rampage since Edwards put her in temporary charge.’

  Jack wasn’t surprised. ‘Anything else?’ he asked, his gaze falling on the whiteboard.

  ‘Bugger all.’

  ‘There must be something?’

  ‘No further forward. We’ve been trying to contact Pritchard but he appears to have gone AWOL.’

  How odd, he thought. If Pritchard was anything, it was reliable in a crisis.

  A loud bang on the door interrupted their talk. Jack recognised the brand.

  ‘Detective Lambert, my office, five minutes.’

  He was there in three. He paused at the doorway, trying to make out his reflection in the frosted glass. It was no use. Taking a deep breath, he knocked and entered.

  ‘Just what exactly do you think you’re doing at work today?’ the DSI asked, his giant body threatening to split his suit in half.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Jack,’ he sighed. ‘You were assaulted in your own home and spent three days in hospital.’

  ‘Actually it was two,’ he interrupted, casting his mind back to storming out of the hospital against the doctor’s orders.

  ‘Anyway, my point is, you look like shit.’

  ‘It looks worse than it feels.’

  Edw
ards shook his head, brought a biro to his mouth and began chewing on the lid. Jack couldn’t help but notice the heavy bags underneath his eyes. It seemed he wasn’t the only one having a rough time.

  ‘I’ve tightened up security. There’ll be somebody watching your house on a continual basis for the short term.’

  Jack shifted, the pain in his hand flaring up. He winced, hoping Edwards hadn’t noticed. ‘It’s not necessary.’

  The DSI let out a guttural roar. ‘Don’t you think I know that? The bloke who did this would have to be stupid to go back there and try again. Still, I can’t take the risk. So, while we are already down on staff, I’m going to have to spend more resources taking care of you.’

  ‘I’m not going to just sit around doing nothing, guv.’

  His boss’s jaw tightened. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Like you already said, we’re short staffed. You need me.’

  Edwards closed his eyes and pressed a thumb to his temple, a giant white welt appearing in the process. ‘Okay, but if you die, it’s your own fault. Also, you’ll have to lighten your load.’

  Jack made to speak.

  ‘No, it’s final,’ Edwards barked, raising a hand. ‘Now, this could be any number of people trying to exact revenge on you, but I don’t believe in bullshit like that. You’ve got someone spooked.’

  ‘I have a fair idea of who it might be.’

  ‘McGuinness?’

  An image of the abandoned factory flitted back into Jack’s memory.

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Jane will fill in for you on the open grave case for a short time until you’re in a more fit state. If you could bring her up to speed on any key details that she may not already have, that would be just dandy. Meanwhile, I want this Nell Stevens things sorted as a priority. Get digging into that for a week or so and then we shall see.’

  Jack tensed. ‘I’m not answering to Jane Russell.’

  ‘Yes, but you do answer to me, so I suggest you get on with it before I change my mind and leave you pushing paper instead.’

  ‘What about Liam Reed?’

  Edwards glared at him. ‘Until we can wrap our heads around who came after you, I want you nowhere near that case.’

  It was pointless arguing.

  He closed the door a little too firmly on the way out. He’d do as Edwards asked and would focus on Nell Stevens, but first he had to undertake one small task.

  ‘Christensen, how do you fancy coming on a trip?’ Jack approached the squat detective in the canteen.

  The Boris Johnson-lookalike looked up, brown sauce dripping down his mouth from a half-eaten bacon butty. ‘No problem, boss.’

  He motioned for the DS to follow him and they exited the canteen, heading for the car park. Jack set a quick pace, keen to get out of the station.

  ‘You look a little on edge, boss,’ Christensen said.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Jack lied. ‘But... needless to say, Christensen, this is...’

  He eyed him. ‘Off the record? Say no more.’

  He motioned for Christensen to get in the passenger seat and started up the engine to his old Volvo. It reeked of stale food. He surveyed the empty coffee cups and fast food boxes strewn across the back seat.

  They pulled out of the car park and began the short journey into Newcastle’s city centre. The traffic started off okay but thickened into an annoyance by the time they went past Central Station, a variety of businessmen in cheap suits and university students carting masses of luggage around.

  ‘If you don’t mind my asking, guv,’ Christensen asked, his eyes fixed on the road. ‘Where exactly are we going?’

  ‘I was attacked in my home the other day, Christensen.’

  The DS nodded, eyes flitting to Jack’s neck.

  He shifted, pulling his collar up. ‘I have a fair idea of who it was.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘One of McGuinness’s boys. He doesn’t like to get his hands dirty but I’ve no doubt he will have passed the order on.’

  ‘We paying a visit to the shop?’ Christensen asked.

  Jack shook his head and pulled the car into a side street. After parking up in between a battered Toyota and a gleaming Suzuki Swift, the two officers stepped out into the cold Newcastle air. ‘No, not today.’

  ‘Guv?’

  Jack opened the boot and pulled out the steel pipe he’d brought with him, sunlight rebounding off its shiny surface.

  ‘Can I trust you, Christensen? Because, if not, you can go now.’

  The policeman straightened up and shrugged. ‘No problem, guv. Way I see it, whatever goes down is self-defence. Whatever you need.’

  Jack smiled. ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’

  They entered Friar Tuck’s, a local underground hangout of the McGuinness crew. The first thing Jack noted was the stench of stale urine. The second thing he noticed was one of McGuinness’s local goons. Behind the bar, the manager stood, leaning over to talk to a middle-aged woman with a blonde perm. He clocked them, eyes narrowing as they approached. He straightened up, gold rings clicking against the wooden bar. A large, V-neck shirt made him look like a darts player.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ he asked them, his voice thick with mucus.

  Jack got Christensen to order two cokes while he found a table at the back of the bar, ensuring he had his face to the room.

  ‘See anybody?’ Christensen said, sipping on his drink.

  ‘Two o’clock.’ Jack motioned. ‘Don’t look though, he hasn’t noticed us.’

  There were a handful of customers in the pub, most of whom were propping the bar up with their pints of ale and tabloid newspapers. Jack noticed Nell Stevens’ million dollar smile on the front page of one.

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  Jack diverted his attention to the two men sitting by the window, pints in hand, laughing. The one with his back to their position was Henry Stafford, a relatively unknown local bouncer. However, having had multiple dealings with McGuinness and his boys, Jack knew him perfectly well. He also knew him as somebody who liked to get his hands dirty, for a price. He had a history of violence and drug peddling. He certainly had a little man complex, which had only seemed to grow stronger as he’d hit forty. Jack supped his drink, allowing himself a wry smile. Back in the day, Henry Stafford had had a George Michael hairdo but, once he came out as gay, Henry had wasted no time in shaving his own quiff off. The back of his cranium now revealed numerous battle scars. That wasn’t what was catching Jack’s attention, though.

  He was much more interested in the fresh-looking cuts on the back of his trunk-like arms.

  * * *

  After two pints of coke and a packet of cheese and onion crisps for Jack, Henry finally got up to use the bathroom. He and his companion had polished off three pints in that time.

  ‘Stay here,’ Jack said. ‘Keep an eye on Tweedle-dee.’

  Christensen nodded.

  Blinking away the stale smell of piss, Jack sidled up behind Henry, who was swaying in front of the urinal, whistling an old Thin Lizzy tune.

  ‘Hello, Henry.’

  ‘What the...’

  The hired heavy made to turn but Jack was quicker, planting his head against the tiled wall. Blood smeared the surface, before he made a heavy fall to the floor.

  ‘The fuck you want?’ Stafford groaned.

  Jack pounced, placing his right forearm across his throat, left hand bringing the pipe out so he could see it.

  ‘Firstly, I want you to stop swearing, Henry.’

  ‘Fuck you, pig!’

  Jack applied further pressure to his neck as blood began pouring from a wound in the centre of Stafford’s forehead. That drove the message home.

  ‘You see this,’ Jack said, turning his neck to reveal the deep purple bruising.

  Stafford nodded.

  ‘Someone broke into my house and saw fit to try and kick the shit out of me. You know anything about that?’

  The bouncer shook his head.

 
Jack slammed the pipe on the floor next to his head. Stafford, whilst just about as hard as they came, flinched. ‘Where’d you get those cuts on your arms?’

  ‘None of your fucking business!’

  Jack planted a fist down over his wound, eliciting a grunt. ‘What did I say about swearing, Henry?’

  ‘Alright,’ he groaned. ‘I was bouncing at the Bigg Market when a fight broke out,’ he said, smiling. ‘You should see the other guy.’

  ‘Still working for McGuinness?’

  ‘Here and there.’

  Jack leaned in close, Stafford’s stale breath hot on his face. ‘I don’t appreciate being lied to, Henry. Where were you on Friday night?’

  ‘Bouncing.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Crown and Anchor.’

  One of Newcastle’s finest.

  ‘You better not be lying to me.’

  ‘You don’t believe me, give them a ring.’

  ‘I will. Now, you listen good, if I even get so much as a whiff of anybody coming anywhere near me or anybody close to me, I’m going to come for all of you. You got that?’

  Stafford shrugged, his face a bloody mess. ‘Seems to me you must have pissed somebody off real bad, Detective.’

  ‘Is that why McGuinness sent somebody after me?’

  Stafford laughed, spittle gurgling from his mouth. ‘Now why would Dorian do that, Lambert? I thought you two were good friends. From what I hear, maybe more than that?’

  Jack added a couple of extra pounds of pressure. ‘And what exactly did you hear?’

  ‘Fuck sake,’ he gurgled. ‘Nothing, alright!’

  ‘Tell me, Henry… is somebody encroaching on McGuinness’s patch?’

  The bouncer grinned. ‘I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.’

  ‘What about Liam Reed?’

  ‘What about him? He knew the business he was in.’

  ‘And what exactly was that?’

  Stafford laughed, wincing with the effort. ‘Selling fish, aye?’