by Nick Oldham
For the moment, Jake wanted to keep a lid on it because it was all so complicated. And he wasn’t completely certain of Kirsten’s intentions. Sometimes she hinted about the future; other times she just laughed it all off.
‘What?’ Jake had heard Dave Morton whisper something that had interrupted his train of thought.
Morton’s head hung over his meal. He was speaking downwards into his food, making it hard to hear. ‘I said, unwritten rule … You’re breaking it, pal.’
A chill replaced the heat generated by the food in Jake’s guts. ‘What are you on about?’ he asked Morton.
‘You got careless.’
Jake waited.
‘It was like following a fucking three year old.’
‘What the fuck …?’ Jake hissed.
‘I saw you go in, saw you come out.’ Morton’s head turned with agonizing slowness, like a demon. His eyes locked malevolently on Jake’s. ‘This morning. Some debrief, huh?’
‘You sick fucker.’
The expression on Morton’s face remained constant. ‘You drop her now, or I’ll blow the whistle long and hard – and it will end in tears.’
Jake’s grip tightened on his cutlery. He was about to respond, possibly by plunging his fork into Morton’s eye. Instead, he looked sharply away and placed the implements across his plate, which he picked up and put back on his tray. He took it to the self-stack station and stalked out of the room.
Fraser Aldous Worthington peeked through the gap in the curtain. From what little he could see, there was nothing untoward, but that did not necessarily mean the cops weren’t there. He knew they had got a lot better – more subtle, more sneaky – at surveillance than ever, so the fact he couldn’t see them did not make him relax. He always assumed they would be there because that was the only attitude he could take – especially on the brink of pulling a job.
He let the drape fall back into place and turned and nodded to the woman sitting near to the TV. She nodded back, and he dropped a fifty-pound note on to her lap, pecked her cheek and stepped out of the first-floor walkway outside her flat, closing the door behind him.
He paused here, too, inhaling the air of the early evening.
Again, nothing seemed problematic, so he trotted down the outer staircase and went to the crumpled but very clean Alfa 164 parked at the end of the cul-de-sac, still seeing nothing out of place.
He slid into the car and fired up the engine, which ran sweetly, then reversed out of the parking space, trying to work out the logistics a surveillance team might be up against in this location, and where such a team might be hiding and watching from.
If they were there, they would be struggling to secrete themselves in the immediate vicinity because they would stand out and be rumbled by the locals, who were skilled at identifying cops, even hidden ones.
Skelmersdale, Lancashire’s newest town, situated on the Merseyside border, designed and built in the 1960s, was an exciting social experiment, but had become a law-abiding citizen’s nightmare. Its geography and structure, on paper so very appealing, with its low rise housing, cul-de-sacs, underpasses and dead ends, was hard enough to police just on a day-by-day basis and was virtually impossible for any form of surveillance: anything remotely out of place was spotted almost instantly, word spread, and sometimes violence was used on interlopers.
But no word had spread, nothing had made its way to Worthington’s ears – and he had paid good brass to half a dozen kids to keep their eyes open for him. He had to assume, therefore, that if the watchers were there, they were off the plot and waiting for him to make a move.
Such was life.
He drove slowly out of the cul-de-sac on Digmoor council estate and headed along the A577 through Up Holland, taking his time, hoping to draw out and expose any followers. He saw nothing nor anyone to arouse his suspicions. He drove across the M6 bridge at Orrell, then swung a left to take him to the motorway junction, where he looped right around and picked up the northbound carriageway of the motorway.
The Alfa, which belonged to his mother, was a good, unspectacular workhorse, a throwaway car he did not give a shit about. It responded well enough to his foot on the accelerator as he peeled on to the motorway. He took the vehicle up to seventy-five mph and cruised, constantly checking his mirrors, then started to do a bit of lane-skipping, cutting across and back from the slow lane to the fast, accelerating and slowing down. But not dangerously because the last thing he wanted was to cause or get involved in an accident. He watched the changing pattern of vehicles behind him and those overtaking him, concentrating hard to ID a vehicle or series of vehicles manoeuvring behind or passing and following from the front.
He was unable to spot anything.
As he approached the Junction 28 exit he was in the outside lane as he passed the 300-metre marker. This was the Leyland turn-off, and he was travelling at seventy-five mph. After a quick check of his mirrors, he veered across to his left over three lanes and rattled over the hatch markings at the top of the exit slip-road, which he tore down towards the traffic lights where the road met the B5256 Leyland Way. Turning left would have taken him towards Leyland. The lights were on red, and he stopped in the outer lane, knowing that if he went right, then immediately dog-legged left, he would be on the entry slip-road for the M6 North again.
This is what he did, but as he turned on to the slip road, he stopped on the hard shoulder, flicked on the hazard warning-lights and climbed out of the car, pulling the bonnet release catch as he did. He edged to the front of the car, raised the bonnet and stood there, apparently gazing at the engine. In reality he was watching every car that came past him.
It was just another very basic anti-surveillance tactic. He knew if he was being followed, a good team would not be thrown by this, but at least it would screw them about. If they were not so good, the chances were that they’d still be on the motorway, banging their heads on the steering wheels, or maybe stopping and pretending to have broken down, in which case they would be very spottable. Whatever the result, this simple ruse would cock them up no end.
He slammed the bonnet down, jumped back in and set off back on to the motorway.
He saw no sign of followers … so possibly they were not there after all.
But he would never let down his guard.
Less than ten minutes later he pulled off the M6 at Junction 31A, the signpost on the gantry pointing to Longridge and Preston North. On the exit slip-road, he filtered into the right lane to follow the Preston signs, dropping down first on to Longsands Lane and then on to Eastway, the B6241, a road that circled the outer rim of Preston itself. He travelled east, then cut up to the ASDA superstore, where he stopped in the car park as near to the entrance as possible and sat for a patient ten minutes to watch all traffic coming in.
A fully liveried police car did drive on, a youngish female officer at the wheel. Nothing for Worthington to concern himself with.
Although never completely satisfied, Worthington pulled a black, fur lined trapper hat on to his head that covered his ears, got out of the Alfa, leaving the ignition key tucked under the driver’s seat, and strolled into the supermarket, picking up a hand basket. He sauntered around doing a form of window shopping, no intention of buying anything.
Several times he passed a young man doing much the same, mooching up and down the aisles: a man dressed in a motorcycle outfit with full leathers and carrying a full face helmet over his arm. They never looked directly at each other.
Ten minutes after entering the shop, Worthington went into the gents toilets close to the store exit. As he entered, a cubicle door opened and the man who had been previously kitted out as a motorcyclist emerged, now dressed in clothing similar to Worthington’s.
Without a word they slid past each other – Worthington into the cubicle, the man out of it. Worthington took off his trapper hat and gave it to the man, who pulled it on and left the toilets as Worthington closed the door.
In the cubicle, neatly stacked,
were the motorcycle leathers the man had been wearing, including boots and the helmet. A few minutes later Worthington was in the outfit. He packed his trainers and jeans into a plastic bag, then eased up the zip of the jacket and his transformation was virtually complete.
When he came out of the toilets he was already fitting the helmet whilst walking out of the store. He made his way to the motorcycle parking area and mounted a Yamaha 650cc, firing it up with the key that had been left in the leather jacket for him. He stuffed the bag containing his trainers and jeans into one of the panniers, easing the bike off its stand. He drove slowly out of the car park, and as he did so, he glanced at the place where he had left the Alfa. It was gone.
He smirked.
It was on its way back to Skelmersdale, with someone who looked very similar to him at the wheel.
It was just another undercurrent, almost nothing. Another minor bit of teeth-grating, but suddenly Jake realized he wasn’t remotely keen on Kirsten smoking. She was one of the few officers on the team who did. Not to excess, though. She enjoyed a ciggy after a meal and after sex, something Jake had initially found endearing – and they’d laughed once or twice at the old joke about smoking after sex – but it soon got to be another irritant, especially as Jake loved to keep fit and healthy and smoking went against his grain.
Now he did not like it at all.
He and Kirsten were standing by the outer wall of the firing range, overlooking the training-centre sports pitches.
Jake paced like a wild cat, almost growling as he walked up and down.
Kirsten leaned casually against the breeze-block wall, one leg drawn up, observing Jake’s reaction whilst emitting smoke into the cool evening air.
‘Bastard actually followed me – can you believe it?’ Jake demanded. He shot another look at her, and she took another drag. ‘Followed me to your pad.’ Seeing the smoke come out of her mouth and nostrils was the moment he realized he did not like the smoking at all.
‘Ever thought he might be jealous?’
Jake shook his head forcefully. ‘Nah – he keeps mithering about the unwritten rule.’
‘What? The unwritten rule that says two people can’t fall in love?’
That stopped Jake in his tracks. He was about to respond because the word ‘love’ had never really been used by her before.
Before he could say anything, though, she went on quickly, ‘Or the unwritten rule that he’s the only one allowed to do it?’
‘What do you mean?’ Jake frowned, feeling a bit simple, but then feeling something else, something physical: a tightening of his gut, a fire raging in his chest.
‘He tried it on with me.’
The blood drained from Jake’s face. ‘What happened?’ His voice was ice cold.
‘Oh nothing, nothing.’ Her eyes avoided his. She took a last drag of the cigarette, flicked it down and crushed it whilst exhaling.
‘I said, what happened, Kirst? What happened?’
Her nostrils flared, and she looked up to the sky. ‘He followed me home after that robbery op in Preston. You were on your sniper course. We were all pretty hyped up, buzzing because we’d had to draw weapons. I had to fend him off … I’m not saying anything more.’
‘Did he touch you?’
‘I got free.’
‘So he held you? Bastard.’ Jake thumped the side of his fist on the wall.
‘And he warned me not to say anything if I wanted to stay on the team.’
Jake stared incredulously at her. ‘He what?’
‘You know the score. He’s a big influence on the team. The old lag,’ she said witheringly. ‘He could easily turn everyone against me, even though he’s only a PC. He’s got the sarge in the palm of his hand.’
‘I’m not having that,’ Jake declared, spinning away.
Kirsten grabbed his arm. ‘No! Do nothing, otherwise it’ll mess us up, too.’ She clutched his biceps, would not release him. ‘Do nothing,’ she pleaded, ‘or we’re screwed, and it’ll all blow up in our faces. You know what they’re like. He’s bitter and vindictive, and he’d love to split us up.’
The rage inside Jake slammed from side to side across his chest, but as he stood there, with Kirsten still gripping his arm, it began to ebb. He breathed steadily again as he looked into her eyes, thinking how beautiful she was, even in her overalls, her hair pulled back in a bun, no make-up, no jewellery, ready for action as a firearms team member.
‘You … you,’ he said croakily, ‘mentioned love.’
‘Oh that,’ she said with a dismissive wave, instantly deflating him. She let go of his arm. ‘Don’t take that too seriously. We both know it’s about screwing, don’t we?’
‘Do we?’ he began, but was interrupted by another team member poking his head around the corner of the building and calling:
‘Come on, guys. Some sort of game on.’
Henry walked back into the classroom at the firing range in which sat Jake, Kirsten, Dave Morton and PC Rob Brown, the latter being the firearms officer who was Kirsten’s partner on the team. These were the only team members to have been summoned back.
Henry sat, surveyed the officers quickly. ‘Thanks for coming back; sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said, noticing a strangely pissed-off look on the female cop’s face. ‘I promise you, we won’t be much longer now.’
‘What’s happening, boss?’ Jake asked.
‘What’s happening is that the surveillance team picked up Fraser Worthington in Skem, then followed him north on the M6, where they promptly lost him.’
The officers gave a collective groan.
‘I know,’ Henry acknowledged, ‘but these things happen. He pulled a nifty move at the Leyland junction and caught them napping.’ He shrugged, but they could all see he was not pleased.
‘So he’s up to something?’ Dave Morton suggested.
‘Maybe, or else doing anti-surveillance manoeuvres is something he does as a matter of course. However …’ He smiled thinly at the four cops. ‘I’d still like to nab him, and as much as it’s not ideal, we do have the information that he’s due to pick up those guns I mentioned from Wayne Oxford’s flat in St Annes. That is assuming he hasn’t been tipped off. I’m hoping he’ll resurface, knock on the door, and we can arrest him on a “conspiracy to rob” charge … or something that will at least prevent him from carrying out anything he might have planned.’
‘So what’s our job?’ Kirsten asked.
‘We’re going on a stake-out,’ Henry revealed, rubbing his hands gleefully together.
SEVEN
Henry Christie knew for certain he should not be here. He should be retired, drawing his hefty pension and investing a chunk of his big lump-sum pay-out into the Tawny Owl pub, country hotel and restaurant in which he now lived with his wife-to-be, Alison Marsh.
He should not be sitting in a decrepit, bloodstained flat, wearing a bulletproof vest, an earpiece screwed uncomfortably into his jagged left ear, and kitted out with an extendable baton, rigid handcuffs, CS spray and a baseball cap with a chequered band, awaiting the possible arrival of a dangerous individual who enjoyed robbing and hurting people.
Henry knew he should be pulling pints and being ‘mine host’ with a nose that was becoming bulbous with booze and a waistline spreading from too many frequent visits to the kitchens, while really beginning to understand what the whole business of living was all about.
If things had gone to plan, that is what would have happened, where he would have been – if the previous chief constable, Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, FB, had not died.
Almost three months ago now, on a quiet Saturday morning – three days after FB had been buried, almost two weeks after he had died so tragically on a hillside in East Lancashire – Henry had been summoned to the office of the man who was acting chief, Bernard Ellison. He was a man Henry did not know particularly well because Ellison had been transferred in from another force to become deputy chief constable, and had then stepped up to the mark to stand in as chief
until a new one was appointed. If he played his cards right, Ellison could well become that man.
Though Henry did not know him well, he seemed a decent enough guy, though clearly driven and ambitious, no doubt with a ruthless streak running through him – traits that Henry lacked somewhat in terms of his career, but not when hunting murderers. He might have reached the heady rank of superintendent, but he always knew it was more by luck than judgement.
Ellison had even greeted Henry at the door of his office, which overlooked the sports fields at the front of the main Headquarters building, and graciously welcomed him in.
‘Sit, sit, Henry. Coffee?’
Henry sat on the leather Chesterfield sofa – the one that had been a feature of the chief’s office for as long as Henry could remember. ‘Coffee would be good. Just milk, thanks.’
Ellison poured two mugs from the filter machine on the bureau, added milk and handed one to Henry, sitting alongside him on the sofa like a chum.
‘How are you?’ Ellison asked.
‘OK-ish,’ Henry said.
‘It was a dreadful experience.’ Ellison had been there when the chief’s body had been recovered from an old mineshaft by a mountain-rescue team.
‘Yup.’ Henry nodded, sipped his coffee. The experience had sent Henry hurtling after the person responsible for the death, who he’d ferociously attacked. He’d had to be dragged off him before he killed him – and Henry knew he would have killed him, too.