Brick

by Conrad Jones

  Within a week, several NCA witnesses disappeared and another was found dead in suspicious circumstances, an apparent overdose despite the victim having no record of drug abuse. The Essex case was disintegrating before their eyes as one witness after another recanted their statements. A tidal wave of fear washed over Essex and left silence in its wake. Braddick knew that they would come for Karin. She was now the key witness who could put some of their senior hierarchy at the scene of two high profile murders. She was taken into witness protection but Braddick knew that there was at least one rat in the team. He didn’t trust anyone and as their relationship intensified and the gangsters drew ever nearer, Braddick made her vanish.

  They had hidden their relationship well enough for suspicion not to land on him. He moved her north and put her into an apartment at the edge of Keswick in the Lakes, a friend’s holiday home. Convinced that she would be far enough away to be safe, he insisted that she cut all contact with anyone until things settled down. He promised that he would protect her and keep her safe but they found her. They found her, and they injected her with a lethal speedball, heroin, cocaine and Ketamine in one injection, set her on fire and left her for dead. The killers were clever. They had arranged candles around the room and made the fire look accidental, a junkie fallen foul of her recklessness. He knew that they had murdered her but the Essex case collapsed and there was nothing Braddick could do about it.

  When they found her body, there was no way of identifying her and Marcus Braddick left it that way. The guilt crippled him. She was cremated as Jane Doe, another junkie who succumbed to her habit. He didn’t know how they had found her and probably never would and it haunted him daily. His nights were full of dark dreams, images of her struggling in her last lucid moments and his days were laden with the guilt. On more than one occasion he had contemplated going to his boss, coming clean and taking the consequences but he backed out each time. He knew that if he stayed in the job, he would find them one day. It was his overriding motivation to avenge her death. It was what kept him going. The lyrics to her song echoed around his head with painful frequency.

  You see her when you close your eyes,

  Maybe one day you’ll understand why,

  Everything you touch surely dies,

  His guilt was compounded by the fact that he hadn’t taken her calls on the last day of her life. He was working on trying to salvage the case, interviewing potential new witnesses and didn’t check his phone until much later, by which time, she was already dead. Did she know they had found her? Was she calling for help? Her voicemails were vague and increasingly more panicked; her voice more desperate, sobbing. Her sobbing still resonated in his dreams many months after he had deleted the voicemails from his phone. He couldn’t delete them from his memory. They would remain there for the rest of his days.

  A blaring horn disturbed his thoughts and headlights dazzled him in the rear-view mirror. He looked up and realised that he was stopped at a green light, waving an apology he pulled away and checked the Sat-Nav. The property was less than a mile away, a steep climb up Frodsham Hill and he steered the Evoque along the narrow lanes until he reached a set of ornate metal gates set into a high wall. He pulled in front of them and looked around. The lights of the chemical factories along the Mersey twinkled brightly, looking like small cities in the darkness. The Wirral peninsula spread out to the left of the river and beyond that, the dark shadows of the Welsh hills loomed against the night sky, the odd yellow twinkle indicated their height and how sparsely populated they were. It was a nice view and Braddick knew that it came at a price. The house was worth a fortune. He lowered the driver’s window and reached out, pressing the intercom button. After a few seconds, it crackled to life.

  “What?” an irritated voice snapped.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Braddick and I’d like to talk to you about Anthony.”

  “Have you got your ID?” the voice snapped.

  Braddick flashed his badge at the camera above the gate. The gates whirred and opened slowly, revealing a narrow twisting driveway overhung with trees. As he approached the house, the front door opened and Braddick recognised Edward Farrell Junior, Anthony’s younger brother.

  Braddick parked up and took his time climbing out and locking it. He glanced around at the landscaped lawns and sculptured hedgerows as he walked towards the door. Eddie Farrell was smart. He laundered his money through his legitimate businesses so the law couldn’t touch the proceeds of crime.

  As Braddick approached, the security lights above the porch blinded him and silhouetted Farrell. He was squat and muscular beyond what natural bodybuilding could achieve.

  “You must be Edward Junior,” he said extending his hand. The distaste in Farrell’s eyes told Braddick that he had either a problem with policemen or black men, probably both. “DI Braddick.”

  “Have we met?” Farrell asked abruptly, ignoring the handshake.

  “No, but I checked your file before I came over, so I recognised you.”

  “Clever boy, what do you want, a medal?”

  “No,” Braddick smiled coldly, his hackles rankled. “That won’t be necessary. Have you got a problem with me?”

  “You’ve turned up at my house, on your own, unannounced,” Farrell said suspiciously. He folded his thick tattooed arms. “What do you want, money?”

  “Shall we go inside and I’ll explain,” Braddick said politely trying to keep his cool.

  “I hope you’re not after money because if you are, you can fuck off back to wherever you came from,” Farrell said pointing his finger angrily. “We know plenty of bent coppers and we don’t need any more.”

  Braddick kept calm. Stepping forward, he said, “I need to ask you some questions about Anthony. I’m trying to understand what happened, that’s all.”

  “You’ve got five minutes.” Farrell stepped back and opened the door to allow him in, closing it behind him. The porch opened up into a wide slate tiled hallway divided in the centre by a wooden staircase that was topped with a chrome and glass balustrade. Tall Picasso prints adorned the walls, lit from above by at least a dozen spotlights. From the floor space, Braddick reckoned there were five or six bedrooms upstairs. Farrell folded his arms across his chest and glowered at him. His skin was tattooed from wrist to shoulder. “Right, now let’s not pretend to like each other, what do you want?”

  “Did you know that Paul Williams is in intensive care?”

  “Of course I do,” Farrell replied in a bored tone. “Like I said, we know a lot of bent coppers. What has that sad fuck got to do with anything?”

  “He was with your brother when he was killed.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Anthony attacked a kid called Bryn Evans and I wondered if you know why?”

  “I assume you’ve asked the little scumbag that hit him across the head with a brick?”

  “Yes, of course. He doesn’t know why he was attacked,” Braddick nodded and kept eye contact. “I spoke to Paulie briefly when we arrested him but he wasn’t much help.”

  “Then you know about the same as me don’t you.”

  “Have you ever heard of Bryn Evans before?”

  “No.”

  Braddick looked around and smiled. “Nice place, business must be good.” he nodded, a sarcastic grin on his face. “Your father is in Thailand I believe.”

  “Yes, he’s on his way back.”

  “That would mean that you’re in charge of things here then?” Farrell shrugged; a narrow smile on his lips. “Are you in charge?”

  “Let’s not fuck about. What exactly do you want?”

  Braddick stepped closer, his face a few feet from Farrell’s. “Someone sent Mrs Evans a wreath this afternoon,” he lowered his voice. “She’s old and she’s sick and she’s very frightened.”

  “Who would do something like that?” Farrell snorted. He raised his eyebrows and sneered. “That’s a crying shame.”

  Braddick smiled coldly. “Isn’t it,”
he said. “Look, I’m not a hundred percent sure exactly what happened in that park but I do know that this kid’s family are innocent. I want whoever sent that wreath to make sure that nothing like that happens again and I think that you can ensure that, can’t you?”

  Farrell inhaled, expanding his considerable frame to its maximum size. He stepped forward, nose to nose with Braddick. “Your five minutes are up, Sambo.” He stabbed Braddick’s chest with his forefinger. “Now I suggest you fuck off out of my house and you can go and tell the scumbag who killed my brother that he’ll wish his mother never opened her legs,” he hissed his face a mask of hatred. He poked Braddick again. “Get out before you get hurt...”

  Braddick grabbed at the outstretched finger and bent it back hard until it snapped, simultaneously reaching down between Farrell’s legs with his right hand. He grabbed Farrell’s genitals, squeezing and twisting at the same time. Farrell’s eyes almost popped out of his head, his mouth was wide open, a mewing sound coming out. Braddick slammed him backwards against the wall, squeezing as hard as he could. “You’ve just assaulted a detective inspector. I could nick you right now but you’re not worth the hassle.” He squeezed harder. “Do you know what I hate?” Farrell shook his head, tears streaming from his eyes. He couldn’t catch his breath. “I’ll tell you.” Braddick put his head to Farrell’s ear and squeezed harder still. “I fucking hate bullies; can’t stand them.” He twisted his hand bringing the pain in his balls to a whole new level. “Now listen to me,” another twist brought more tears and gasps. “You’re just as vulnerable as that kid and his family and if anything happens to any one of them, I’ll come back and rip your bollocks off and stuff them down your throat.” Another twist and Farrell’s legs couldn’t support his weight. He started to buckle. “Do you understand me?” Farrell nodded furiously, tears streaming from his eyes. Braddick released his grip and let him fall to the slate tiles. “And another thing that you need to think about,” Braddick said landing a heavy kick to Farrell’s midriff making breathing even more difficult. “The brick that one of your cronies tossed through the hospital window hit Jacob Graff in the face,” the name registered with Farrell but he couldn’t move, doubled up in agony. “I don’t think he’s going to be best pleased and some of his clients make you lot look like boy scouts.” He grabbed a handful of Farrell’s hair and lifted his head off the floor. “Now I know that you’re angry and you’re not thinking clearly but you’ve made some silly mistakes today. If you make another one I’ll make sure that it’s your last.” He pushed his head against the tiles with a loud crack. “Leave the Evans family alone.”

  Braddick turned around and walked to the door, opening it. “You’re the one who’s made a mistake, you fucking pig,” Farrell gasped his words hardly audible. “You’re as good as dead.”

  “Listen to me, Eddie. I do things a little differently. Don’t make me come back to see you or you’ll be seeing your brother sooner than you think,” Braddick pointed two fingers at him, a pretend gun and pulled the trigger. He closed the door and walked back to the Range Rover, thinking that he had bought the Evans family a little bit of time until Eddie senior arrived back in the country. Then the real storm would begin.

  16

  The house was in darkness when he arrived. The Evans family were still at the hospital. He looked around the parked cars to check if there were any paparazzi lurking in their vehicles, waiting for a ghoulish snap of the family of a teenage murderer. The press would swing one way or the other on this one. They would either hail Evans as a hero, forced to defend his dog and his life, or he would be just another council estate failure, a product of broken Britain.

  He couldn’t see anyone else around; the street was quiet. The lights were burning in the house next door and he saw the curtain twitch. He turned off the engine and opened the door just as the heavens opened and hailstones began to bounce off the road; a cacophony of metallic pings came from the parked vehicles. Tiny balls of ice stung his skin and he pulled his coat over his head, locked the door and jogged up the path towards the lights. The front door opened as he reached it.

  “Mr Dale,” he said puffing. “I’m the detective that called earlier. What about this bloody weather, eh?”

  “Bad timing, come in for a moment until it goes off,” Mr Dale said trying to keep a Staffordshire Bull Terrier inside with his leg. “Get in Alice! I’m dog-sitting.”

  “You’ve got your hands full there.”

  “She’s a good dog, lovely temperament,” Mr Dale digressed. “They’re a very misunderstood breed, you know. I blame the owners...”

  “Sorry, Mr Dale but I’m in a bit of a rush. Have you heard from the hospital?” he interrupted him, the hailstones stinging his exposed hands.

  “I am sorry, I do go on sometimes. Young Mark called about an hour ago and asked if I could have Alice for a few days,” Mr Dale said with a shake of the head. “I don’t think they’re coming home for a while. It’s a terrible business, isn’t it?”

  “It is. I want to have a good look around the house and make sure it’s secure. As I said on the telephone earlier, we’re expecting a bit of a backlash and we want to be on the safe side.”

  “Of course you do,” Mr Dale took a set of keys from a hook near the door. “I said I’ll close the curtains at night and move the post from the door in the morning so it looks like someone is in. You have to help your neighbours out at a time like this don’t you.”

  “Of course you do and it’s much appreciated, Mr Dale,” he said taking the keys. He turned and ran down the path. “I’ll have these back with you in ten minutes. I’ll drop them through the letterbox when I’m finished.”

  “Right you are,” Mr Dale said, with a wave and a smile, closing the door and heading back to his armchair with the excited staffie getting under his feet.

  Next door, he fumbled for the right key, found it and pushed the door open. He paused in the darkness and waited for a sound, a movement, anything that would give away the presence of a member of the family. “Anyone home?” he called as a double check. The smell of stale cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air, mingled with a pine scented plug-in air freshener that was doing its best to mask the stink but was failing miserably. He switched on the hall light and closed the door behind him, leaning against it, he looked around. He walked into the living room and switched on the lights, the smell of cigarettes became stronger. Everything looked to be where it belonged. There was no sign of any disturbance. He walked through the living room into the kitchen and checked that the windows were secure. The backdoor was locked with the key left in it. He turned the key and unlocked it. Opening the door, he stepped outside and looked around the garden. The recycling bin was next to the door and he lifted the lid and glanced inside. It was full to the brim with lager cans and vodka bottles. He stepped back into the kitchen and closed the door, locking it behind him, removing the key from the lock for safety.

  He opened the cupboards and scanned the contents and then moved slowly through the other cupboards. A thorough search of the kitchen drawers gave up bank and credit card statements, utility bills and phone records. He photographed them with his phone and put them back before moving into the living room once more. Some boxing trophies in the sideboard cabinet revealed which gym the sons trained at and Mrs Evans’s address book was particularly helpful. He photographed her Christmas card list, the addresses gold dust. Ten minutes later when he slid the keys back through Mr Dale’s door he had everything that Eddie Farrell wanted. He checked his watch. It was late and Kelly’s Gym was on his route home. He was in no rush to go home so he thought he might call there on the way.

  Liam Johnson hobbled along the canal bank until he was comfortable that he was far enough away for it to be safe to rejoin the roads. The Karpovs would be out there searching for him somewhere and he couldn’t afford to stumble into them by walking along the roads. He needed to find transport quickly. His ankle was twisted, swollen and painful to walk on, although the bandage str
apping helped. The canal was raised above the road at that point and when he reached an intersection that he recognised, he decided to climb down. He slid down an embankment on his backside and slipped through some railings onto a main road that joined Warrington to Manchester. There was a phone box nearby and he hobbled over to it, fumbling for change with numb fingers. He picked up the handset and put it to his ear, hearing nothing but static. Calling home was his priority. He slammed the receiver down angrily and kicked the door open. The traffic was light but every pair of headlights was a threat. As each vehicle approached he imagined it to be full of Karpov’s men. He pulled up his collar to hide his face and waited for a taxi with the ‘for hire’ light on. He shifted his weight from his injured ankle, the minutes feeling like days. Eventually, he crossed the road to flag down a black cab as it came into view. It stopped and the heavens opened and hailstones bounced off the cab roof, stinging his face. He struggled inside and sat heavily on the back seat, feeling damp, cold, miserable and frightened. It was a thirty minute journey to the house he shared with his long term partner and her son from a previous marriage. The driver tried to engage him in conversation but soon got the message that he wasn’t feeling talkative. He had visions of his family being held at knifepoint by men in balaclavas, Ray being shot in the back of the head over a shallow grave. His guts churned with panic and anxiety, fear and regret. He had chosen this life, stealing for a living, always on the edge waiting to be arrested or shot. Thinking back, it was only a matter of time before they stole the wrong lorry and crossed the wrong person. Danger had the ability to highlight the mistakes he had made, the mistakes that his cousins had made, mistakes he was paying for now. The world they lived in was a lucrative one but when things went wrong, it was a lonely place to be and the usual rules didn’t apply. He couldn’t protect Ray and he couldn’t protect Katelyn and her boy and he couldn’t ask for help from the state. The police were as much his enemy as the Karpovs. His mind raced as he wished he could make it all go away.