by Nick Oldham
It wasn’t as though the debt was with a respectable clearing bank, either. Not the Bank of Santander, not Telebanco.
But the Cosa Nostra. They were his financiers.
Lopez knew that interest payments were already overdue and no one, not even someone of Mendoza’s stature, would be allowed to welch.
Mendoza had already received a polite phone call from a ‘business partner’ in Sicily, enquiring as to how the deal was progressing and looking forward to the first instalment.
It was a call that Mendoza had reacted to with horror, making him recognize that, as big as he was in the world of organized crime, he was nowhere near the players who lounged around in the sun in Palermo. All he was, was another fairly minor cog in their engine and they had the power to change gear whenever they wanted.
The illegal-immigration side of Mendoza’s business was going well, but even the profits from that were not as great as the media claimed. So many people were involved in the chain of events who needed paying, that by the time Mendoza received his cut, whilst considerable, it was not as great as people imagined and nowhere near enough to clear his debts to the Mafia.
In short, Mendoza was in a critical condition and if he wanted to save himself, he needed to act swiftly, decisively and ruthlessly.
Which was why Lopez was at the airport.
He chuckled to himself as he stood there
The passengers from the Rotterdam flight filtered peacefully through the airport until there was just a dribble left.
Lopez grinned as the man he was waiting for appeared. They glanced at each other, nodded almost imperceptibly. Lopez turned and walked out ahead of him, stepping into the oppressive heat of the day, crossing the road and making for the multi-storey car park where he had parked the car he had arrived in, an unspectacular-looking Seat. A driver sat in it, waiting patiently. Lopez paused at the car and waited to greet the man who had discreetly followed him.
His face broke into a wide smile as they shook hands, embraced, and indulged in a lot of hearty back-patting. ‘Ramon, my friend, it is good to see you. Very good.’
‘And you, and you,’ Ramon responded ebulliently. ‘Como esta?’
‘Muy bien . . . come, we need to get out of this heat . . . you sit in the front next to Miguel . . .’ He opened the door for Ramon, the guy who headed Mendoza’s operations at Zeebrugge. The chill from the air-conditioning system whipped up.
Ramon hesitated, almost stepped backwards. His smile dropped and he eyed Lopez suspiciously. ‘What is this?’
Lopez laughed, sensing quickly what Ramon was worried about. ‘Ahh, the front seat,’ he said knowingly. ‘The death seat . . . the bullet in the back of the head seat . . . do not worry, my friend . . . it is nothing like that.’
Ramon was not convinced. He knew of too many people who had been foolish enough to be suckered into climbing into front passenger seats of cars for innocent journeys, only to have their brains blown out or their throats slit, or to be strangled with piano wire.
‘Are you sure?’
Lopez smiled, but was irritated. ‘Of course. We have urgent business . . . but I have a laptop in the back seat, and papers which I need to work on. Come, my friend, have you heard of anyone being beaten to death by a laptop computer? No, I think not . . . please . . .’
Spinks was the name of the big man operating on the Rochdale side of Manchester. He owned pubs and clubs, controlled all the town-centre drugs trade via his bouncers on the doors. Control the doors, control the drugs. That was the saying. He lived a flash lifestyle with good cars, clothes and good-looking women. He was brazen and open and did not mind who knew just how wealthy he was, which was partly his downfall. The other ‘partly’ was that he had once called Rufus Sweetman a ‘no-good shit’ and threatened that one day he would ‘take everything he owned away from him’.
In those terms, Spinks was a good starting point for Sweetman.
Teddy Bear Jackman and Tony Cromer did not take long to latch on to Spinks. They cruised the streets of Rochdale for a while, wondering where best to find him, racking their brains for inspiration, when suddenly Jackman blurted, ‘Vic and Tom’s!’
Cromer smiled wickedly. ‘You’re bloody right.’ He was driving and executed a wild u-turn without warning or signals and accelerated in the direction of the town centre. He abandoned the car on double yellows outside the high-class hair salon known as ‘Vic and Tom’s’ on a crowded side street close to the location of the world’s first ever Co-op.
Side by side they muscled into the busy salon, a place frequented by the area’s richest and swankiest women, the side of the business run by Victoria. All eyes swivelled and watched the progress of the two heavies across the shop floor and out the other side through Wild-West-type saloon swing doors into Tom’s. This was a gent’s hair stylist designed to resemble a Victorian barber’s shop, all tiles and leather chairs. It was busy in here, too, a customer on every chair, several waiting, reading magazines.
Cromer and Jackman continued their relentless march towards the office at the far end of the salon, until one of the braver members of staff, tiny scissors in hand, stepped in front of them.
‘Can I help you gents? It’s appointment only, you know?’ he challenged nervously, eyes taking in the sheer bulk and animalism of the two men . . . and rather liking what he saw.
‘We’ve come to see Tom,’ Cromer said.
The hairdresser shook his head. ‘Not in. Sorry. Can I take a message?’
‘Fuck off!’ Jackman growled.
The scissors wavered in the air. All eyes were now focused on the incident.
‘I’m sorry, he’s not in, honestly.’ His voice sounded weedy.
‘I’ll just check that out, if you don’t mind,’ Cromer said, leaning towards the young man, ‘by going in there’ – he pointed to the office – ‘and having a look.’
‘Staff only,’ he squeaked.
Cromer’s hands closed around the scissors and he eased them gently off the hairdresser’s thumb and finger. He held them like a knife. ‘Like my friend said – fuck off.’
Meekly the hairdresser stepped aside, slim shoulders drooping, his body deflated. Cromer and Jackman walked past as though nothing had happened. They barged into the office.
Tom looked up in surprise, as did his newest sixteen-year-old male employee, who was kneeling down in front of Tom.
‘Jesus Christ, I told you lot to . . .’ Tom began, knocking the young man away with a slap and attempting to do up his trousers. ‘What the . . .?’ he continued when he saw who was interrupting him, hopping around. ‘What do you want?’
‘Just a little word,’ Cromer smiled cruelly. He clicked the scissors. ‘You – out,’ he told the young lad, who scuttled out of the office, trying to rise from his knees as he went, leaving his boss to face two very evil-looking men.
The MIR at Rawtenstall police station was quiet when Henry arrived back from the revisit to the murder scene. The only person in was Jane Roscoe, who was deep in a review of actions taken and pending. All other officers were out, just as it should be, Henry thought. Out digging, overturning rocks, annoying the bugs which lived under them. One other person, though, should have been in the office.
Henry strolled across to Roscoe, his eyes taking in everything which had been plastered on the walls. Known details about the victim, the location, speculation about motives, timelines, photos of the scene and all manner of other items from the intelligence cell Henry had established, including where to buy the best sandwich in town.
Roscoe did not notice Henry’s approach. She looked up, startled, to see him hovering next to her.
‘Where’s my chum, Carradine?’
‘Lunch,’ Roscoe said shortly. ‘Gone with . . .’ She checked herself abruptly.
‘With who?’ Henry asked.
Roscoe looked away, averting her eyes.
‘With who?’ Henry probed again, wondering why he even wanted to know, because he could not really care less who Ca
rradine lunched with. It was just that Roscoe’s reaction had made him curious.
‘Mr Anger.’
‘Oh, right . . . good mates, are they?’
‘Served in Merseyside together.’ Roscoe peered at Henry as he juggled this bit of information in his brain and could not stop from letting his face do the talking. So Carradine and Anger were old mates. Carradine had started his career in Liverpool, later transferring to Lancashire. That had been a good few years ago. Anger had served in Merseyside too, before his own, more recent, transfer across the border to the head of the SIO team. Shit. Old buddies. Anger promises he’ll look after Carradine, get him a job on the SIO team and instead gets lumbered with Henry Christie whom he cannot seem to offload. Henry was in the way of Anger doing Carradine a good turn. That explained Carradine’s behaviour and attitude towards Henry.
He allowed himself a short, mirthless laugh, and gave Roscoe a knowing look.
‘Anything new I need to know about?’ Henry inquired, bringing the whole thing back to a more professional footing. ‘DNA back? Firearms?’ She shook her head to both. ‘Chase ’em up, will you?’ Henry veered away and left the MIR, now understanding that he had obstructed a promised move. A rather wicked grin appeared on his face. Knowing that made him even more resolved to stick in there and show the bastards.
‘Don’t get me wrong, Ted, but I quite enjoyed that.’ Cromer made a snipping gesture with the first two fingers of his right hand. Both men erupted in laughter.
‘Which bit – getting hold of Tom’s knob?’
‘No – snipping off that little bit of foreskin.’
‘He screamed a bit, though.’
‘Yeah – but at least he told us where to find Spinksy.’
‘Should’ve told us when we first asked.’
‘Should’ve,’ agreed Cromer.
‘There was a lot of blood wasn’t there . . .? I mean, for such a small cut.’
‘Gallons . . . wouldn’t stop flowing.’
‘Bet it’s gonna sting.’
They were walking side by side across the moor-top golf course at Whitworth, a cold, damp, windswept course which had wonderful sweeping views away towards Rochdale and Manchester beyond. They had seen Spinks’s Bentley in the car park, so they knew he was here and the information passed so painfully by Tom through screams, gasps and penile blood flow was correct. He had told them that Spinks was at Whitworth Golf Club with his girlfriend, but if he wasn’t, he would be shagging her at his house.
Cromer and Jackman warned Tom not to contact Spinks, otherwise they would return and cut his dick off. He had promised them he would comply with that reasonable request as he dabbed at his bleeding genitalia with one of the salon’s towels.
Even though the day was pleasant, the wind was whipping around the moors. The sheep and cattle which roamed unchecked over the course, leaving their droppings and hoof prints all over the tees and greens, looked cold and miserable.
There were few players on the course. The pair easily spotted Spinks and his lady on the eighth, approaching the green, very concentrated on their game. They did not clock the two men until both balls were on the green and within putting distance of the hole. They were laughing and joking with each other in an intimate way.
Cromer and Jackman took up a position on the edge of the green, side by side, hands clasped around their backs, watching as though they were golf aficionados.
Spinks was lining up for a long putt, head down, taking a few practice swings. It was his girlfriend who saw the deadly duo first.
‘Johnny,’ she said, looking worriedly past Spinks.
‘Shh, I’m gonna hole this, babe.’
‘Johnny.’ Her voice became a little more urgent.
His head swivelled impatiently towards her, about to deliver short shrift for interrupting his concentration. He saw her expression, stood upright from his unplayed shot and turned in the direction of her stare.
Cromer gave him a friendly wave. ‘Go on, it’s OK, play your shot,’ he called pleasantly. ‘Don’t let us interrupt you.’
The steamy basement underneath the bar reeked of beer, cigarettes and rotting vegetables. But at that moment, the only thing Ramon’s sense of smell could distinguish was that of his own blood . . . and that was difficult enough as his nose had been virtually obliterated, broken by an iron bar, smashed to a pulp. Both his eyes were blackened and swollen, huge now, puffed-up and closing a little more all the time. Not that he could see much anyway because his left eyeball had burst, was oozing blood and puss down his cheek. Below his flattened and bloody nose, his mouth was a mess. Lips split wide open, teeth missing or loose, although before the teeth had gone he had bitten part way through his tongue. His lower jaw was hanging loose, too. Again, a blow from the iron bar, rather like a double-handed tennis shot which, whilst breaking the jaw just below the joint, had sent powerful shock waves coursing through his cranium – almost, only almost, knocking him unconscious.
His head lolled forwards into his chest and nothing seemed to make sense any more. Pain seared through his torso following the beating he had received. His fingers had been broken one at a time, snapped back like twigs, making Ramon howl with screams he never knew he could voice. His kneecaps had also been the focus of a lot of attention from the iron bar, both having been smashed.
Snot and blood bubbled out of his distorted nose.
But the screaming was over. Although his body was in the most extreme agony, he did not have the reserves to even moan anymore. Every last bit of juice had been beaten out of him remorselessly.
All he wanted now was release. He either wanted to be allowed to die, or to be taken to a hospital and pumped full of morphine.
His head was yanked upright.
‘Can you hear me, Ramon?’ came the whisper in his ear.
Blood dribbled out of his mouth. He did not have the strength to respond.
‘Can you hear me?’
From somewhere, a muffled gasp escaped from his broken lips.
‘Tell us the truth, my friend. Tell us the names of the people you conspired with, the people you allowed to steal our property. Just tell us.’
His head was held upright.
‘Tell us the truth. You betrayed us, didn’t you? You sold us out, didn’t you?’
‘No,’ he managed to say.
‘Liar.’ His head was dropped, chin bouncing, the pain from the broken jaw arcing through his head like a million volts of electricity.
Lopez stood upright. He was stripped naked to the waist, sweat glistening on his pale, muscular body. ‘He’s a tough one,’ he said to Mendoza, wiping himself down with a towel, ‘which is why we recruited him in the first place.’ Mendoza was sitting astride a chair, leaning on it, watching the proceedings in a detached way. ‘One of his good traits,’ Lopez said.
‘He’s admitted nothing,’ Mendoza observed. He lit a cigarillo, blew lazy smoke rings.
‘I never expected him to,’ Lopez explained.
Mendoza regarded his second in command suspiciously for a long moment. A nerve twitched on Lopez’s face. Then he gave a nod, stood up and said, ‘Kill him – and then if we have to go on killing to get it back, so be it.’
He walked out of the basement, leaving Lopez and Ramon alone.
‘With pleasure,’ Lopez said under his breath. He picked up a 9mm pistol from the top of a nearby beer keg and placed the muzzle against Ramon’s temple. Something in the injured man made him stir, made him realize what was about to happen. He raised his head and twisted agonizingly to look through his blood-encrusted eyes at Lopez.
‘What?’ Lopez said. He leaned forwards so he was close to Ramon’s face.
‘You,’ the victim said, once, and managed to gob into Lopez’s face, a horrible, thick mixture of liquids. Lopez recoiled, wiping his face angrily. Then, without further hesitation, he shoved the gun into Ramon’s left ear and pulled the trigger twice in quick succession, blowing away the opposite side of Ramon’s face as the bullets spun out
of his skull.
Spinks never made the putt. If he had not been interrupted he would probably have knocked the ball into the hole, which would have made it a par on the eighth. Instead, when he saw the two men by the green and his brain registered who they were, he ran.
Unfortunately for Spinks, his lavish lifestyle did not include fitness training. Consequently he was overweight – not grossly so by any stretch of the imagination – but enough to ensure he did not have the speed or the stamina to outrun the interlopers.
Jackman’s lifestyle, as Cromer’s did, consisted of regular exercise. They trained daily at an exclusive gym in the heart of Manchester, meeting at six thirty a.m. for a three-quarter-hour’s workout, including aerobic and strength training. Each man was extremely fit, as they knew they had to be in their line of work. It kept them one step ahead of their competitors, who, more often than not, were about as fit as . . . well, Spinks.
Spinks panicked. He threw down his putter and legged it.
Jackman, the faster of the pair, got to him as he leapt into the first bunker. For fun, he rugby tackled Spinks, driving into him like a steamroller, forcing all the breath out of him and landing on him in the sand, pushing Spinks’s face down into the neatly raked surface and making him eat a mouthful of it.
The girlfriend watched the proceedings in complete silence.
Cromer dealt with her. A few quiet words and she slotted her putter into her golf bag and walked away without even a backward glance.
Jackman dragged the disarrayed Spinks to his feet and, whilst holding him up by the scruff of the neck, brushed him down.
‘You fucking twats . . .!’ Spinks started to yell, gasping for breath.
Jackman punched him hard in the lower belly and let go of the collar at the same time, letting Spinks double over on to his knees, every bit of air expelled from him.
When he had almost recovered, Jackman hit him twice more then he and Cromer led him towards the clubhouse car park, meek and mild, not an ounce of fight left in him.
‘That’s a good fella,’ Cromer cooed patronizingly as they eased him into the back seat of his Bentley. ‘Let’s have a nice ride.’