Big City Jacks

by Nick Oldham

  ‘I’m sure it is.’

  ‘I don’t mind killing a cop . . . they deserve it.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Henry said. ‘Look, can I put my arms down?’

  ‘No you fucking can’t.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Hey – you haven’t got this quite right, have you?’ The man held the gun out further, his forefinger fitted around the trigger. ‘I ask the questions around here, numbskull.’

  ‘Numbskull? Now there’s I word I haven’t heard in a long time. You’d better ask your questions then, because my arms are getting well pissed off.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Looking for Grace. I have something to tell her about her boyfriend,’ Henry said. He saw the man’s shoulders rise. ‘Something about Keith Snell.’

  ‘Tell her what?’

  ‘I need to know if Keith Snell is actually her boyfriend, for a start.’ Henry coughed. His mouth was quickly drying up, probably something connected with having a dangerous-looking gun pointed at him, held by someone who looked like an overweight soldier. Someone who actually reminded Henry of the young man who rampaged through the sleepy town of Hungerford in the 1980s, similarly dressed, probably similarly obsessed, killing everybody in his path.

  ‘You know her boyfriend is Keith.’

  ‘Not for sure, I don’t.’

  ‘Liar!’ The gun was thrust further forward. The hand holding it flexed, becoming tired. ‘Anyway – what about Keith?’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Answer my question or I’ll shoot you.’

  ‘OK,’ Henry relented. ‘I’m investigating his murder.’

  The gun wavered for the first time. ‘His what?’

  ‘You heard – murder. He got shot to death, probably by a gun similar to that one.’ Henry nodded at the weapon.

  ‘Well, I didn’t fuckin’ kill him – he’s my mate.’

  ‘In that case, I need to speak to you,’ Henry said evenly. ‘You might be able to help. Can I put my arms down?’

  ‘Who are you and where are you from?’

  ‘DCI Christie, from Lancashire Police.’

  ‘Lancashire . . . he said he was going to Blackpool,’ the man said, then pulled himself up. Had he said too much? ‘You’re not GMP then?’

  Henry shook his head.

  ‘ID?’

  ‘I need to reach for it.’

  The man nodded. ‘Go for it. Slowly, like.’

  Henry made big, deliberate moves. His left hand went to his left lapel, which he folded back to reveal the inside of his jacket; his right hand delved inside the inner pocket, emerging with his wallet, from which he extracted his warrant card and held it up for the camouflaged gunman to inspect . . . though Henry did not hold it too close, ensuring the gunman had to peer, using all his concentration to focus on the small lettering on the laminated card. This ensured he was distracted and allowed FB to step up close behind him, having crept in through the front door of the flat, then silently from room to room.

  The two cops moved in unison at a quick nod of the head from FB.

  FB’s right arm folded around the gunman’s throat, hard and crushing.

  Henry sidestepped like a dancer, went for the guy’s right arm, pirouetted back into him and snapped the forearm down on to his upcoming knee – twice. The grip on the gun was released immediately, the weapon clattering down on to the kitchen floor.

  FB yanked back on the man’s neck.

  Henry smashed his elbow back as hard as he could into the masked face and, with a gurgling sound, Mr Camouflage dropped like a sack of turnips.

  FB released his grip, allowing him to fall, then looked disdainfully at the lower-ranking officer, who stood there shaking visibly.

  ‘You are a trouble magnet, Henry.’

  Henry exhaled, expelling air from the far corners of his lungs.

  ‘Thanks, boss,’ he said.

  Both officers stared down at the moaning figure at their feet. With some degree of satisfaction, Henry saw that where the man’s nose had once protruded, pushed up against the inside of the balaclava, it was now flat and blood was seeping through the fabric. Henry rubbed his elbow thoughtfully, proud of how well aimed the blow had been.

  ‘How long before a name emerges?’ Mendoza put the question to Sweetman.

  ‘Can’t tell.’

  ‘You need results quickly.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  Mendoza considered this. He had no time to waste on this. He was desperate, but did not want Sweetman to pick up on this.

  ‘Give my men another twenty-four hours,’ Sweetman said. ‘They can start now, start with the remaining people, the ones they have yet to visit.’

  ‘How good are they?’

  ‘More than good.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe,’ Mendoza said, considering this.

  ‘I’ll send them back out now.’

  The Luger was not a replica as Henry had half-suspected, but a fully working, dangerous weapon. He had never actually handled a real Luger, but had known of them since he was a youngster. Not that he was seriously interested in guns as such, but he had made it his job as a kid to research the weapons used by his on-screen heroes. Hence he knew about James Bond’s gun, Harry Palmer’s gun, knew all about the six-shooters used by Rowdy Yates in Rawhide and that Napoleon Solo, the Man from Uncle, used a Luger.

  The magazine was full. There was a bullet in the breech. Henry made the gun safe and put it down on the mantelpiece.

  He looked at the man who was in army jungle fatigues, now holding his balaclava over a smashed and bloody nose.

  ‘Got taken from a German officer during Operation Market Garden,’ the man said, pulling the mask away from his nose so he could speak. ‘Good weapon, the Luger.’

  Henry raised his eyebrows.

  He and FB had dragged the man into the living room and dropped him as hard as possible on to the floor in front of the settee. FB took up a position by the door. Henry stood towering over the pseudo-soldier.

  ‘Got a licence for it?’ he inquired, knowing it was impossible to get one these days.

  The man put the mask back over his broken nose, said nothing.

  ‘Thought not. Big trouble number one,’ Henry said. The man’s watery eyes blinked. ‘Name?’

  ‘Colin, Colin Carruthers,’ he mumbled behind the material, which he then held away from his face and said proudly, ‘They call me Colin the Commando.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Henry asked ironically.

  ‘Why d’you fuckin’ think?’ He held out his arms wide, as if to say, Look!

  Henry blinked as though he was just waking up. ‘Oh, right. I get it!’

  ‘Piss-taker,’ said Carruthers angrily.

  ‘OK – fundamentals. Date of birth, address, soldier,’ Henry barked.

  Carruthers spouted the details as though he was a private in a prisoner-of-war camp. Henry recalled that he had read Carruthers’ name in Keith Snell’s Intel file.

  ‘What’s all this about, Colin?’ Henry said.

  ‘Protection.’

  ‘Protecting whom?’

  ‘Grace, Keith . . .’ Suddenly there was great fear in his eyes.

  ‘From what?’

  ‘Themselves.’

  Henry paused, aware that he should now be speaking to Carruthers in an atmosphere more conducive to the one they were presently in. A police station.

  ‘Why do they need protecting?’ FB threw in.

  Carruthers turned to look at the chief constable. ‘In deep . . . both of them.’

  ‘Were you protecting, or were you out to kill?’ FB said.

  ‘Maybe both, if necessary.’

  FB gave Henry a look and a nod.

  ‘I think we need to take this guy back to Lancs for a good long talk,’ Henry said.

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘But what about Grace?’

  ‘Come back for her,’ said FB.

  ‘Oi – I’m not under arrest,’
said Carruthers. ‘I need a doctor. You bastards assaulted me.’ He made to scramble to his feet. Henry helped him – grabbed him, yanked him up, spun him round and frog-marched him to the living-room wall, where, expertly, he pulled out his cuffs (an old pair of the chain-linked variety) and clipped them swiftly on a pair of chubby wrists, ratcheting them tight enough to make him squeal a little.

  ‘You are under arrest,’ Henry corrected him, speaking in his ear.

  ‘What for?’

  Henry shrugged. ‘All sorts of things . . . the gun . . . threatening me with it . . . no licence . . . but mainly on suspicion of murder.’

  ‘Oh yeah, right.’

  ‘Yeah – I always start close to home, then work away,’ Henry said. ‘And you can have a doctor for free. Are you a smackhead, too?’

  ‘No, I’m fucking not.’

  ‘Oh, OK. Probably could’ve got you a script on the house if you had been.’

  ‘I need to make this very clear,’ said Henry, shifting in the driver’s seat of the Mondeo and looking over his shoulder to inspect his prisoner. The cuffs were now on Carruthers’ lap, his hands bound in front of him instead of behind. He was holding a roll of kitchen towel, dabbing his dripping nose. ‘If you so much as try anything remotely stupid, Colin, I will continue the work I started on your nose and then will move on to other, even more delicate parts of your body. You sit there like a good bloke and do not move or anything, OK?’

  Carruthers nodded compliantly.

  ‘Good.’ Henry twisted forward, glanced at FB. ‘Ready to roll?’

  ‘Yep.’ In the footwell between FB’s feet lay the Luger and its ammunition, together with the other items they had found whilst searching the prisoner: a Bowie knife, a Kung Fu death star, a cigarette lighter which became a flick knife and a double-barrelled Derringer pistol.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  They had secured Grace’s flat as best they could and Henry expected an early return to it by his detectives.

  As he pulled off the estate, neither he nor FB saw the van parked some one hundred metres away, two men on board, sitting low in their seats, watching.

  ‘You’ve got a bit of a tale to tell us, then, haven’t you, Colin?’ FB said, tilting his head backwards.

  ‘I’ve got fuck all to tell the cops,’ he responded.

  ‘Not true, not true at all,’ Henry said gently.

  Tony Cromer and Teddy Bear Jackman received their briefing, much the same one as they had been given previously: go forth and cause grief and mayhem and get some answers; go and make blood flow, frighten people, hurt them, kill them if you have to – but come back with a name.

  ‘Boss,’ Cromer began, a pained expression in his voice and on his face, taking care to choose his words correctly. ‘I know we’ve only really spoken to a couple of the major players, and quite a few of the riff-raff, but there’s just nothing coming out of folk. Not a word, fuck all, just fuck all!’

  ‘Maybe you’re not trying hard enough,’ Sweetman said.

  Anyone else – anyone – and Cromer’s new expression would have been one of deep annoyance, but for Sweetman he kept a straight face, one designed not to anger or inflame. He nodded. ‘How long we got?’

  ‘A day.’

  Cromer did the sums. Eight more big boys to visit, three hours per person – if they could be located quickly – no rest for the wicked. ‘We’d better get going then.’

  ‘You will both be well rewarded,’ Sweetman promised.

  Colin Carruthers was not the type of person who could sit there and say nothing. He was no criminal in the darkest sense of the word, even though the offences he had committed in terms of the firearms and other offensive weapons were serious. Henry did not see them in the same way as offences committed by a tooled-up drug dealer. Colin was an army fantasist and hopefully a harmless one. Yes, he would have to have his weapons confiscated, but if he came up trumps for Henry then there was a good chance Henry could do a deal for him. But then again, Henry pondered as they hit the motorway out of Manchester, the fat little bastard had pointed a loaded gun at him. A sheen of nervous sweat suddenly covered Henry’s whole outer skin at that thought. Colin the Commando would have to provide some very good information to get out of that one.

  ‘Where we going?’ the prisoner called out.

  ‘Burnley.’

  ‘Why Burnley, for God’s sake?’

  ‘That’s where the custody office is.’

  Carruthers withdrew for a few moments, thinking.

  ‘You and Keith good mates?’ Henry tossed to him.

  ‘Hmph . . . were, stupid bastard. He always came to me when he was in trouble.’

  ‘Did he come to you recently?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Dunno . . . week ago?’ Carruthers fell silent, then suddenly added, ‘But you’d know that, wouldn’t you?’

  Henry adjusted the rear-view mirror so he could see Carruthers as he drove. ‘Why would I know that?’

  FB’s mobile interrupted the flow of the conversation, exasperating Henry. He did not let it show.

  Grant and Lopez sat together in the hotel bar, chuckling, smiling. Real bonhomie.

  ‘They’re floundering,’ Grant said.

  ‘Si.’

  ‘Haven’t got a clue.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When do we make our move?’

  ‘Twelve hours?’

  ‘Twelve hours sounds good.’

  They clinked glasses.

  The call was from his staff officer, something about meeting the Police Authority, and the conversation seemed to go on forever, Henry getting more and more frustrated with FB. Finally it ended and just as Henry opened his mouth to resume the unofficial interview, his own phone blared out – ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’. FB eyed him as he answered it, although at seventy mph on a pitch-black motorway was not the best of circumstances in which to chit-chat.

  ‘Henry? It’s me, Karen Donaldson.’

  ‘Hi – have you heard anything?’ Henry got in first.

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Oh, bloody hell. What does the Legat say?’

  ‘That they’ve heard nothing either – and now it’s official. He’s officially missing.’

  ‘Right, right . . . at least that’s a good thing. Means they’re taking it seriously. Putting some resources into it.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Karen sounded doubtful.

  ‘He’ll be fine, Karen. He’s a top man. He’ll just be doing something and won’t want to break cover. You know what he’s like.’

  ‘Suppose he’s been hurt – or worse. I keep calling him, just can’t get through.’ Henry could tell she was on the verge of tears. In the background the kids were crying.

  ‘When I get off duty tonight, whatever time it happens to be, I’ll call you. Is that all right?’

  Her ‘OK’ was very numb-sounding.

  ‘I promise,’ he said, ending the call. ‘Karen Donaldson,’ he said to FB, who groaned. He had known Karen whilst she was an officer in Lancashire and had crossed swords with her on numerous occasions. They had little affection for each other, just as FB had no time for Karl Donaldson either. He had also been at loggerheads with him. Henry decided not to say anything about the nature of the call.

  ‘OK, Colin . . . you were saying . . .’

  The motorway traffic was light at that time of day. Henry had pretty much claimed the outer lane and no one, so far, had pushed to overtake. He glanced into his door mirrors and saw that a vehicle was fast approaching, headlights blazing. The lights were high up and subconsciously Henry put it down as a van, or similar. But it was coming up fast. Henry automatically checked his speedo. It was now hovering around eighty-five mph. He had increased his own speed without realizing.

  Suddenly the van was tailgating.

  ‘Tosser!’ Henry uttered.

  FB glanced over, frowning. Carruthers looked too.

  Henry signalled to pull across into the middle
lane, but before he could manoeuvre, the van moved into that lane. Henry sniffed and assumed that he was now going to be overtaken on the inside. He clung to the outer lane and waited, but the van did not shift, hung there on Henry’s shoulder. He released some of the pressure on the gas pedal, losing speed slightly to encourage the van to pass.

  It stuck where it was, reducing its speed too.

  ‘What’s this guy playing at?’ Henry said aloud. There was the implication of a sigh in his voice. He pressed the accelerator and the Mondeo surged forward – as did the van, still in position like one of the Red Arrows. On the whole, Henry had little or no time for road rage. He always tried to see the foolhardy manoeuvres of other road users as ‘interesting’ but ultimately nothing to get wound up about. And he was basically a peace-loving individual who had no desire to get into pointless altercations with others. It was undignified.

  The van driver was starting to annoy him, however. Henry’s new intention was now to outspeed the van and put some distance between him and it.

  The speedo touched ninety.

  Still the van stayed where it was, as if attached by a rope, in Henry’s slipstream.

  ‘This fucker’s annoying me,’ FB said curtly.

  ‘And me,’ Carruthers piped up.

  ‘Shut it,’ both FB and Henry voiced unanimously. Carruthers cowered down, browbeaten.

  At a hundred mph Henry expected to be pulling away from the van. But there it remained, lodged to his tail pipe.

  Henry knew the Mondeo had little else to offer. It was not the fastest motor in the world.

  ‘We need to have words,’ FB said gruffly.

  ‘Serious ones,’ Henry agreed. He eased some pressure off the accelerator. Speed dropped and suddenly the two vehicles were alongside each other, moving parallel, speeds exactly the same.

  FB glared across at the driver.

  Henry clocked the actual make of the van now – a Citroën, black. He ducked his head, leaned over and peered across at the man at the wheel, who, for the first time, turned to face them, and for the first time they saw he was wearing a full-face clown mask.

  ‘Shit!’ breathed Carruthers.

  Then, in what seemed like slow motion, the masked driver deliberately turned the van into the side of the Mondeo. Henry squirmed in his seat, attempting to sit upright and respond, but at the moment of impact he was still half-leaning over FB and that was the last thing he remembered as the Mondeo swerved and hit the central reservation barriers and sparks flew as Henry tried desperately to control it.