Big City Jacks

by Nick Oldham

  Ali reacted immediately. He made a mad rush towards his sports car.

  But then he had a moment of hesitation.

  Was his car the best place to be? Or should he turn and leg it back to the lift? Or the stairs? Or maybe he should play hide and seek amongst the parked vehicles? Try to get up on to the street and disappear on foot?

  His early-morning brain did its best to prioritize these options, but unfortunately they all got horribly clogged up, mangled and twisted. In the end the analysis led him to paralysis. He dropped his arms uselessly and stood there as the car screeched to a halt in front of him. Jackman and Cromer piled out of the car, unable to believe their good fortune.

  Ali raised his hands and braced himself for the inevitable punch.

  Find out how they lived, find out how they died. So very, very true, thought Henry once again, as he, Jane Roscoe and the chief constable raked through everything that was suddenly pouring in about Keith Arthur Snell. And there was a lot of it.

  It would have been interesting to have worked their detailed way forwards from Snell’s birth in 1978 to the present day, but that was something the intelligence cell could pull together. What Henry needed was a pen picture of the man, his known associates, any next of kin and how he had lived his life most recently.

  Henry had already pinned up an A4 photo of the dead man on the wall of the MIR, blown up from a fairly recent mugshot, adjacent to the CSI shots from the crime scene. Henry, Roscoe and FB – whose detective instincts had been revitalized and who would not piss off in spite of Henry’s subtle suggestions – had read and reread everything that had been sent through to them from the intelligence department. The SIO – Henry – now wanted to pull it together, to get the snapshot of Snell.

  ‘OK, so what’ve we got?’ Henry said, wanting to move on this. ‘Keith Snell, twenty-six years old, born Cheetham Hill 1978. In and out of various institutions all his life. From a broken home, no family to speak of, no one particularly interested in him. Been thieving since he was eight, string of convictions for shoplifting and burglary. In and out of youth offender institutes, then prison since twenty-one. Chuck in lots of fines, probation orders, community service orders.’

  ‘Pretty much a pain in the arse,’ FB offered. ‘Not bright, not Mr Big, probably not a full shilling.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ Henry agreed. He looked down at his scribbled notes. ‘Moved into drugs in his mid-teens. Cannabis busts, coke, then becomes a registered heroin addict by the age of nineteen.’

  ‘So he’s part of the Manchester drugs scene in some way, shape or form,’ Roscoe said. ‘Even if he’s only one of its victims.’

  Henry nodded, glancing through the long list of Snell’s previous convictions from PNC. ‘These all start off pretty tame . . . smacks of crime being committed to pay for drugs – shoplifting, snatch thefts . . .’

  ‘But it escalates,’ FB pointed out, ‘probably as his addiction intensifies.’

  ‘Yep. Snatch thefts lead to street robbery . . . more and more desperate,’ Roscoe said. ‘Then on to armed robbery.’

  The details of the offences downloaded from the PNC were sketchy. In order to fill in the blanks, a visit to Greater Manchester Police was necessary.

  ‘What are we looking at here?’ Henry asked, although he had reached his own conclusion.

  ‘Drug debts,’ FB suggested. Roscoe nodded.

  Henry nodded. ‘Could be. The thick plottens,’ he added and took a pause. ‘OK, we need a place of abode, next of kin, known associates . . . I feel a cross-border visit coming on and a good long look in GMP’s intelligence files.’

  FB murmured something inaudibly and thoughtfully. He was reading through the details of all the arrests of Snell. Then he spoke up. ‘He was arrested about a week ago and lodged in the cells at the Arena police station . . . according to this he wasn’t charged with anything . . . Interesting . . .’ He glanced at Henry, a gleam in his eye. ‘You know it’s my policy for high-ranking officers, including myself, to get out and about with the plebs . . . sorry, operational staff.’ He grinned at Roscoe. ‘So, on that basis I think I might just come along to Manchester with you, just to see how things are at the pointy end these days.’

  Henry frowned. ‘Who said I was going to Manchester?’

  ‘I did.’

  The gigantic claw-like grab descended from the sky. Its talons settled almost gently around the body of the Porsche. There was the briefest of pauses – a moment when it seemed as though this was just a huge joke – and then, with a powerful jerk, the claw tightened its grip and sank its talons into the gleaming bodywork of the £70,000 car.

  ‘Jesus, you fucking idiots,’ wailed Rafiq Ali. But he was helpless and anyway, Jackman and Cromer just laughed as the grab took good hold and the crane lifted the sports car high into the air. Ali’s bloodshot eyes rose with it, disbelief changing to devastation. ‘Bastards.’

  ‘I thought you were a Muslim?’ Cromer said. ‘Shouldn’t you say “Allah!”’

  ‘Fuck you!’ Ali spat, his eyes still transfixed by the upward journey of his beautiful thoroughbred. ‘I’ll kill you for this.’

  ‘Oooh!’ Cromer said. ‘These top crims are really sensitive about their cars, aren’t they?’

  ‘You guys are dead,’ Ali snarled, but there was nothing he could personally do at this moment. His hands were pinned behind him, tied at the wrists with plastic handcuffs, the figures of Cromer and Jackman on either side, making him powerless.

  The Porsche swung overhead. The crane operator gleefully following the instructions given to him. Through an arc of 180 degrees it travelled, then came to a halt swaying gently in the air as though pushed by the breeze. The operator looked down for the nod.

  Which was given to him by Cromer.

  The four claws opened simultaneously. The Porsche dropped from the sky – right into the open, expectant jaws of the vehicle crusher below. For a few moments nothing happened. There was silence across the scrapyard. Then a motor started up, a powerful, throbbing one, building up the pressure in the massive pistons which were used to force the crusher shut.

  The jaws wrapped around the Porsche, slowly, ponderously, starting to crush the car with a horrible crumpling sound.

  ‘You fuckers!’ wailed Ali. ‘My car.’

  Teddy Bear Jackman punched Ali very hard in the lower gut – one of his favourite blows. His fat, bunched fist rammed expertly into the soft underbelly of the gangster, doubling him up and sending him to his knees, then on to his face. For good measure, Jackman kicked him in the head, then bent down and dragged him back up to his feet, where he managed to retain a staggering balance. Jackman then took hold of Ali’s elbow and steered him across the scrapyard towards a tower of scrap vehicle shells, stacked precariously on top of each other. Cromer followed, petrol can in hand.

  Two huge tractor tyres, one on top of the other, lay by the foot of the dead car tower.

  ‘Climb in there.’ Jackman pushed Ali towards the tyres. The Asian looked quizzical. ‘In,’ Jackman explained. ‘Leg over, get in, yeah?’

  Puzzled, still reeling from the punch and blow to the head, Ali clambered over the tyres and dropped into the rubber circle.

  ‘Stand up.’

  ‘Look, guys, what the shit’s going on, man?’

  ‘You have something belonging to our boss,’ Cromer declared confidently.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Cocaine. Lots of it. You robbed it from him on Birch Services.’

  ‘I did hell. You are wrong there.’

  ‘Here – stick this over your head,’ Cromer said.

  ‘What . . . why . . .?’

  Jackman looped a worn motorcycle tyre over Ali’s head and shoulders. The tyre settled around him, pulling his arms tight into his side. Jackman quickly dropped a further two similar tyres around him, straightjacketing him

  Ali’s eyes were wide with fear. ‘What’re you going to do?’

  ‘They used to do this in South Africa, didn’t
they – to the blacks . . .? Jeez, I can’t remember what they call it,’ Jackman said, annoyed he could not bring it to mind.

  Ali began to struggle like a wild man, started to scream.

  Cromer stood up on the tractor tyres and splashed petrol over their captive. Ali ducked, tried to avoid it, but could not. Within moments he was well doused, fumes starting to rise.

  ‘Four-star, this,’ Cromer said. ‘You can’t just get it anywhere, these days.’

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ Ali dared them.

  Cromer gave him a wan smile. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a box of matches, lit one, held it in the air. The breeze extinguished it almost immediately. Cromer shook his head. ‘I still can’t remember what they called it.’

  ‘Murder, I think,’ Jackman suggested with a titter.

  Cromer laughed.

  Ali sank to his knees, trapped by the tyres, soaked by the petrol. ‘I don’t know anything,’ he sobbed. ‘I don’t fucking know.’

  Cromer lit another match, again allowing it to blow out in the breeze.

  Jackman’s mobile rang. He fumbled in his pockets for it.

  ‘Best be careful with that,’ Cromer warned him. ‘They don’t let you use them on petrol station forecourts, you know. Risk of sparks, apparently.’

  Jackman shrugged and answered it anyway.

  Cromer shuffled another match out of the box. He held its red tip to the striking side of the box, waited for Jackman to finish the call, which, after a few muffled responses, he did, then looked at his partner.

  ‘OK,’ Cromer said to Ali. ‘I let those last two matches go out on purpose. This one, I won’t, so, care to start talking, Ali Bongo, old mate?’

  Devastated by terror, Ali was now speechless. All he could do was kneel there and shake his head and cry.

  ‘They burn people when they’re dead where you come from, don’t they? Then float them down the Ganges,’ Cromer said, laughing harshly. ‘Oops, but I forget . . . you come from Bradford, don’t you? Anyway, the best we can do for you is set you on fire while you’re still alive, then maybe dump your body in the River Irwell. Not exactly the holy river, but it’ll have to do.’

  ‘We need to go,’ Jackman hissed quietly to Cromer. ‘Boss needs us to make it to Manchester airport.’

  Cromer nodded. To Ali, he said, ‘One last chance, pal.’

  Ali raised his head, then shook it, no sound coming from his mouth.

  ‘OK then.’ Cromer lit the match. It flared up. He flicked it across to Ali, who screamed as it tumbled towards him. Then it touched him and went out with a damp Phtt noise.

  ‘Ever tried to light diesel with a match?’ shrugged Cromer. ‘Virtually fucking impossible. C’mon, pal,’ he said to Jackman.

  The obscene screams from Rafiq Ali which accompanied their departure only served to make the partners in crime howl with hysterical laughter.

  Fifteen

  Henry Christie had worked in, been in, many CID offices over the years. No matter where they were, there were always certain similarities between them as, after all, an office is an office: desks, chairs, computers, paperwork, baskets, coffee cups and mugs.

  But yet, each office has its own tangible atmosphere, its own way of speaking, telling you how well the people in it were doing their work, how they interacted, whether they achieved or not. It did not depend on tidiness. Even the most untidy offices could be places where the staff delivered a consistently high quality of work. Nor did it depend on the age of the furniture, or whether there were posters on the walls declaring how fantastic it was to have a positive attitude. The people made the atmosphere, whether they were sitting at their desks or not. And Henry thought he could tell when he was entering a good CID office . . . or not.

  Sitting in the CID office of the Arena police station just on the outskirts of Manchester city centre, he was trying to get a feel for this particular room and its denizens. But he could not quite get a handle on it.

  It seemed tidy enough, the few people in the large, wide-open room had their heads down, beavering away; a coffee machine gurgled in the corner, a nice aroma filtering through the air. Yet something unsettled him slightly, making a knitting pattern of his furrowed brow. He felt strangely uncomfortable. As his eyes criss-crossed the room, they paused briefly on what was obviously a home-produced poster which said simply, Invincibles! Nothing else, just that word in striking red letters. His eyes moved on.

  He exhaled, looked out of the window. Not far away was the Manchester Arena, where he had recently been to see the Rolling Stones on their world tour. Behind that was Victoria railway station and beyond that was the city itself, Deansgate, the Arndale Centre, etc. In the other direction was Manchester Prison, formerly Strangeways, and wonderfully, nearby, was Boddington’s Brewery, which made one of the few bitter beers Henry could drink to excess. He was more of a lager man.

  He and FB had travelled together to Manchester. During their journey from Rawtenstall, the chief had revealed why he did not want to miss the opportunity.

  ‘The nick we’re going to . . .?’ he began.

  Henry nodded. He was driving.

  ‘It’s the one where the detective superintendent is based who I’m – we’re – going to be investigating. The one involved in the cock-up trial at Lancaster.’

  ‘I thought there’d be an ulterior motive. It wasn’t just that you’d been missing the cut and thrust of being a detective at the sharp end, was it?’

  ‘That as well . . . a bit . . . but it just seemed to be a good chance to get a sneak preview of the bastards, when they’re not expecting us. Always an eye-opener to drop in on folk when they’ve just got off the toilet, if you know what I mean.’

  Henry knew. Good tactic.

  ‘The whole Sweetman investigation was conducted from there.’

  ‘Supposing he isn’t in?’

  FB shrugged. ‘In that case, I’ll just have a nosy round with you.’

  ‘I take it that you have a bit of a plan in your head.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ FB tapped his slightly bulbous nose, which Henry thought was getting slowly fatter and redder . . . probably because of the wine. ‘I speak to the superintendent whilst you chat to the troops – ostensibly about Keith Snell – but if you can also manage to drop a few innocent but loaded questions about Sweetman and get some reactions, that would be good.’

  Henry did not respond to this half-baked approach. He had no great desire to get involved in the Sweetman job until the Snell murder was out of the way. The fact that the two inquiries had some common ground only muddied the water for him. He would have liked to keep them separate and he hoped there was no true connection, but he also knew he would have to keep his antenna tuned in for any.

  And now, after what seemed like the millionth journey during his life down the M61, he was sitting in a CID office whilst FB was chinwagging with the detective superintendent (who was in). He speculated on a few things while waiting, his mind butterflying over the walls in his mind.

  Keith Snell – low life – murdered. Why?

  Tara Wickson, lovely, lovely, lovely body . . . even sat there, Henry could still feel her fingers. He crossed his legs.

  Kate Christie, ex-wife, to whom he wanted to remain faithful; he seemed to have a button in his brain more destructive than the US president’s nuclear one.

  And Karl Donaldson – what the hell was he up to, buggering off to Spain?

  Henry shook his head and ran his hand over his short-cropped hair. Waited, watched, thought, worried.

  His mobile phone blurted out that Stones riff, the one that had annoyed FB. The one he would therefore be keeping. The display told him it was from Karl Donaldson’s home number. Ahh, he thought, the coincidence of life.

  ‘Hi, Karl, back already?’

  There was a faltering silence on the line, then, ‘No, Henry, it’s me, Karen.’

  ‘Karen . . . hi,’ he said warily, responding to the tone of voice of Karl Donaldson’s wife. She sounded upset. Henry
knew her well. She had once been a police officer in Lancashire, where Donaldson had met her. They had fallen in love, married, had kids, all that palaver. Karen had transferred to the Metropolitan Police and now headed their training centre at Hendon. Once, Henry had severely disliked her, but now they were good friends. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s Karl,’ she said.

  Immediately, Henry’s insides went empty. This sounded like bad news. ‘What about him?’

  ‘I just haven’t heard from him. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘I spoke to him last night . . . he said he was in Spain . . .’

  ‘Spain?’ she exclaimed. ‘What do you mean, Spain?’

  ‘Spain . . . y’know, the country, Spain. He said he was there regarding you know who.’ Henry did not want to say the name Mendoza, but also felt rather silly saying, ‘You know who.’ He stood up and crossed to the window, feeling he would be less likely to be overheard there.

  ‘He told me he was going to see you,’ Karen said accusingly.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So do you know where he really is?’ she demanded, obviously thinking Henry was trying to pull the wool over her eyes.

  ‘No. I spoke to him on the phone last night and he said he was in Spain. Are you saying he hasn’t told you?’

  ‘No,’ she whispered.

  ‘Have you spoken to anyone at the Legat in the American Embassy?’

  ‘Yes. Nobody knows where he is.’

  Henry felt a kind of creeping-crawling sensation cover his skin, contracting it tight. Could it be that Karl was on a non-authorized job? And what was worse, had it gone wrong somehow? He coughed mentally in order to make his next words sound upbeat. ‘I wouldn’t be worried, Karen. He’s probably trying to find a phone charger right now.’

  ‘But he always phones. He always tells me where he is, where he’s going. But not this time. I thought something was wrong with him. He hasn’t been acting normal, really distracted, really not with it. His mind somewhere else. Jesus . . . do you think he’s having an affair?’