‘Happily?’ There was a hint of mischief in the chief’s smile.
‘Yes.’
‘No hesitation. I like that.’
‘And you, sir?’
‘Same, I’m happy to say. Twenty-two years — she’s a good woman.’
‘Then you did well to keep hold of her.’
‘Keep hold of her? I knocked her up! What choice did she have?’
George smiled. ‘Ah, I see. I used a similar technique. And then did it again, just recently.’
‘Recently?’
‘The wife’s pregnant.’
‘Really?’ The chief seemed genuinely delighted. ‘How pregnant?’
‘Very. We’re getting very close now, boss.’
‘Well, that is good news.’
The two men sat in silence.
‘Can you put us on the right radio channel for the area, George? So we can monitor the local patrols. Then you can show me the sights.’
George found the police radio neatly concealed in the armrest and powered it up. They listened to a random update about a drunk found lying in the middle of a town centre road, and both rolled their eyes.
They arrived at the place where the “Welcome to Epping Hill” sign had once stood. This had been free of graffiti for as long as it had taken the workmen to install it. It had remained in situ for almost a year, which was quite an achievement, albeit doctored to read “Welcome to Effing Hell.” It had made George smile on his almost daily trips over the estate’s threshold. Now the sign was gone, leaving two metal poles jutting out, possibly a more fitting emblem.
After the absent sign, the road became one way, leading downhill towards the seafront, where Peto Court was situated. The car park was on the far side of the building, making it necessary to circle round the building before stopping the car. All signs marking “Peto Court” were long gone.
They stared at the square, drab exterior with its endless identical windows sporting dirty net curtains or towels hung against the filthy glass.
The chief turned to George. ‘This is Peto Court?’
‘How did you guess?’
‘It’s pretty standard. We had a lot of places like this in Manchester. They were much bigger though. What is there, a couple of hundred flats in here?’
‘Bedsits mainly. The top floor is all flats. There’s actually only a hundred or so packed in there with three-quarters occupied. Although most of them aren’t fit for humans to live in. No one complains. Most probably don’t notice.’
‘Are we stopping?’
George looked at Cottage. ‘Do you want to?’
‘Can we get in? Have a walk through, maybe?’
‘I’ve got a fob for the main door.’
George slid the shiny Jaguar into an empty space between a Ford Escort with four flat tyres and a battered-looking Transit van. As they got out, George was suddenly aware that Cottage was dressed very much like a police officer — white shirt with epaulettes, black clip-on tie and black trousers with patrol boots. He began to feel a little nervous. Just then, a window, one floor from the top, slid open and a dark, square object flew out of it.
There was no time for a reaction, George emitted a noise that was meant to be a warning and the chief reacted by looking over to him just as the object smashed into the rear window of the polished Jaguar. The window gave with a deafening pop, and glass cascaded over both sides of the boot.
‘We should leave.’
‘Yeah we should, before they throw something that does some real damage.’
George peered up at the window, there was no movement, the chief was already tugging open the passenger door. George hurriedly checked the damage. The foreign object that was now part of the parcel shelf was in fact a microwave oven, and he was satisfied that it was stuck firmly enough to be transported back without any interference. He got back in the car and drove away from the building. Neither of them mentioned the sudden increase in traffic noise and the drop in temperature caused by the new vent in the rear window.
As the police station came into view, Cottage suddenly emitted a noise that sounded to George a lot like laughter.
‘Are you laughing, sir?’
‘I just realised that you’ve got to tell my driver about the window!’
‘Why am I telling him, sir?’
‘Because he gave you the keys.’
* * *
Helen Webb stood over George, who was sitting back at his desk. ‘Who threw it?’
‘Threw what?’
‘That!’ Helen pointed at the solid-looking eighties model microwave, freshly sealed in a see-through evidence bag tied off with a blue tag.
‘Ah, that. To be honest, ma’am, I really couldn’t tell you.’
‘We have some idea, though? And forensics might be able to help?’
‘We know that it was someone from Peto Court, or at least someone that was in Peto Court and who doesn’t appear to like the police. I’ll get it run through for prints, but if there is a match we still have to prove who threw it.’
Helen stood with her hands on her hips. ‘Why didn’t you call it in? We could have sent the tactical team in.’
‘Ma’am, from what I know of Peto Court, most people would be so out of their face they would have no idea who threw it, and anyone that might have seen would certainly not be telling us about it. It would have been a waste of time.’
Helen huffed. ‘That may well be, George, but the chief constable has been attacked on our patch, and we did nothing about it. That’s not acceptable!’
‘Nonsense!’ the chief broke in.
Helen turned around, along with George and everyone else.
‘Sir, I was just—’
Chief Constable Cottage raised his hand. ‘No need, Helen. I asked George here to show me the sights, to give me an idea of what the Epping Hill Estate was like, and that’s exactly what he did. Sure, we got attacked by a microwave oven, but I should know better than to park outside a place like Peto Court wearing this uniform.’
The chief beamed and for George at least the penny dropped. Cottage had once been a very active street copper where he would have enjoyed the banter with the criminals on the street as well as with colleagues. Being the chief constable made all that largely impossible and, for just a short time, the chief constable had got back in touch with just plain Constable Cottage, and he had loved every second.
Chapter 21
The first days of December had brought with them a noticeable drop in temperature. On his way into work, George passed three members of the uniform night shift who offered tired nods and grunts as they departed. Judging by the thick frost, they had suffered a cold night.
Paul and Sam arrived at the same time, but there was no time to talk to them as Helen Webb had followed them in and called out to George immediately. She sounded stern, and George wondered what he had done wrong.
‘Morning, ma’am.’
‘Where’s your phone?’
Taken aback, George patted his pockets. ‘I’m not actually sure.’
‘Your wife has been trying to get hold of you. She’s at the hospital. You need to go now. There’s a car waiting for you in the yard.’
His face broke into a smile, but Helen remained serious.
‘George, I’m afraid there are complications. You need to go now.’
* * *
George left the station at a jog and slid into the rear seat of a marked police car with two uniform officers in the front. It pulled away immediately. The lights and sirens fired up. The two men in the front had been told nothing more than to get their colleague to the hospital as soon as possible, and so the twelve-minute, white-knuckle journey passed in silence.
Helen had called ahead. A woman in green scrubs was shivering in the cold outside the A&E entrance. She flagged down the car and led George into the hospital. The walk beneath the neon strip-lights seemed to go on forever. The nurse was vague about why George had been called in.
‘Your wife started
having pains. We’ve done some scans and it appears there are complications.’
‘Complications?’
‘I’ll ask the doctor to come out and explain.’
‘Explain what?’
George was no wiser as he was led into a small room, empty, save for a coffee machine and five chairs lined up against the wall. He could feel his heart racing.
‘Can I see my wife?’
‘Soon, Mr Elms. I’ll let the doctor know you are here.’
George was pacing the room when Dr Bondhi, a thirty-something doctor, entered. He spoke softly. ‘Mr Elms, your wife was admitted to hospital this morning complaining of abdominal pains. We quickly realised that there was a problem with the unborn child. We could not find a heartbeat.’
George stared back, waiting for him to continue.
‘Mr Elms, we performed an emergency caesarean. I’m very sorry. We were not able to revive the child.’
And there it was.
George slumped onto the chair. The woman in the green scrubs had come back and was hovering just inside the door. The motor clicked on inside the drinks machine, its hum the only sound in the room.
‘Mr Elms, I know this is a shock for you. Is there anything I can get you?’
‘What was it?’ He shuddered at the word “it.” ‘I mean, a boy or a girl?’
‘A girl.’
George almost smiled at the irony of it. ‘A girl, ha. The things I said . . . the things I said about if it was a girl. I said if it was a girl it was no use to me . . . it was a joke. How could I?’
George was suddenly aware of the nurse kneeling beside his chair. ‘You were joking, George, messing about. Men always joke about wanting a rugby player or a football player. It doesn’t mean anything. Don’t worry about it.’
George looked up at the doctor. ‘How’s Sarah?’
‘Your wife’s okay physically. She will need to stay in for a little while, we need to be sure there are no further issues, but she should be just fine.’
The nurse placed her hand on his arm. ‘Shall we go through and see Sarah?’
‘What do I say? I can’t make this better, can I?’
‘Just seeing you, just having you hold her hand, that will do more than anyone else in the world can do right now.’
Sarah lay staring at the wall. Her eyes flickered to George as he entered. He walked over to her and held her hand. She managed an exhausted smile. George sat on the edge of the bed, leaned over and held his wife. After a while, he pulled away and looked at her face. Her eyes were empty, there was not even sadness left in them.
Sarah sat up. ‘You would have been outnumbered,’ she said with a tremulous smile.
‘All girls? I wouldn’t have minded at all.’ He forced a smile, even as his chest tightened. ‘We’ll be all right, you know. Just the three of us for now, but we’ll be stronger than ever.’
‘I know.’
‘I’ll spend less time at work, I promise. I don’t think I realise sometimes just how wonderful a family I’ve got. We should all be together more.’
Sarah nodded, tears running down her cheeks. ‘Charley would love that. She adores you.’
‘I adore her,’ George said. ‘I adore both of you.’ And they held each other, quietly sobbing together.
Chapter 22
Haden Skinner stepped out of the dimly lit gym, and squinted in the winter sunlight. Behind him, his brother Liam was fiddling with a large bunch of keys. He locked the door of the warehouse containing their armoury of weights, benches and mirrors. They were closing early.
Haden pointed a stubby finger at the brand-new, highly polished, four-wheel-drive vehicle sitting outside. ‘VW Tow rag! What a name.’
‘It’s Touareg!’ said Liam, missing the joke. Haden’s T-shirt was taut across his biceps as he lifted his sports bag and dropped it into the carpeted boot. Liam started the vehicle, and the four-litre, turbo-charged engine stirred into life with a low growl. ‘This sure do make you look perty,’ he said in an atrocious approximation of a Texan drawl.
‘Fuck you, bro. This is a fucking beast.’ Haden rubbed the tops of his arms and glanced at his reflection in the side mirror. ‘My arms are fucking burning, bruv, I hammered ’em today.’ He flexed a bicep. The brothers were both into weightlifting, as well as the steroids that came with it.
Liam slid a mobile phone into the cradle on the dash and the Touareg moved forward.
‘So, a Volkswagen?’ Haden said.
‘The lease people, they ain’t doing the Q5s anymore. This is all right though, trust me.’
Haden looked round the interior, and stroked the leather. ‘I would have demanded the Audi. I reckon they’re playing you, bruv. They would have sourced one if you’d made enough noise.’
‘Last thing I want to be doing is making noise.’ Liam was peering at something behind them.
‘Is it the usual?’ Haden leaned forward to check the wing mirror. He saw a grey BMW following them at a distance.
Liam nodded. ‘Yeah, same car too. It’s like they ain’t even trying anymore.’
‘They want us to know they’re there. The cops can do better than that if they want to.’
Liam glanced at his brother. ‘So what do we do?’
‘What we always do, bruv. Give ’em a bit of a run around, then head on out.’ Haden pushed his feet out and sighed.
Liam took a number of left turns, and soon they were back where they started, with the BMW still on their tail. Haden leaned forward again to check on its progress. It was caught behind another car, unable to pull out. He waved a hand and gave a thumbs-up. The Touareg pulled away and the BMW dropped out of sight.
‘You think we pissed ’em off?’
‘Nope. Bored ’em, more like. Stick to the back roads though, Liam. We only got rid of the scum we were supposed to see.’
‘We’re nearly there.’
Haden peered out of the window. ‘So we are.’ He watched as the town of Langthorne merged into the Epping Hill Estate.
* * *
In the house the Skinners were heading for, the atmosphere crackled with tension. Ian Wells was pacing, increasing the irritation of his two companions. He stopped to light yet another cigarette, narrowing his eyes as he blew out smoke into a room already cloudy with it. Matty Cross sat on the sofa, fiddling with a baseball bat that he was trying to conceal underneath his jacket. Matty was squat, unlike the tall, lean, pacing man. He was to be at the frontline of the attack. The third man of the team was Deepak Hadhi, of Indian descent but born in Coventry, known as Dee. His long hair was tucked behind his ears and a gold chain with a boxing glove pendant swung as he sat forward. Dee had chosen a kitchen knife with a six-inch blade. He let it drop and it stuck upright in the exposed floorboards. Ian’s floor was now criss-crossed with stab marks.
The sound of a diesel four-by-four heralded the arrival of the Skinner brothers.
* * *
Haden got out of the Touareg and stretched. He checked a chunky gold timepiece on his arm. Almost 2 p.m. They were right on time. ‘Happy, bro?’ he called out.
‘Yes, mate.’
‘Then let’s get this done.’
Haden led the way to the house, lifting the gate which had fallen off its hinges. The path cut through a grassy expanse, littered with bits of bike, a partly deflated paddling pool filled with brown liquid, an upturned dustbin, and a square patch of brown, flattened grass. Haden thumped hard on the door. Liam looked back down the street to see if they had attracted any attention. Getting no response to his knock, Haden started kicking, until the door shook.
‘Just a sec! Jesus!’ Ian’s voice called out, and the brothers could hear keys rattling on the other side of the door.
‘What you fucking doing in there? Two o’clock, we said,’ Haden shouted. The door swung wide, revealing a blinking Ian, who stepped back.
Haden’s bulk blocked out the light. ‘Ian, what the fuck?’
‘Problems with the locks, mate.’
&nbs
p; Haden grimaced. ‘Whatever. We’re here to get paid. We’re already running late, so I ain’t fucking about. Where is it?’
‘There isn’t any.’
‘What do you mean, “there isn’t any?”’ Haden stared at Ian, then moved towards Dee who slid out a knife from behind his back. It hung from his hand as he stared back at Haden. Haden turned to Matty, who lifted the bat and tapped it against the palm of his other hand. Ian was now clutching a second baseball bat.
Haden held out an arm to stop his brother, who was trying to push past him.
Liam couldn’t see what was happening inside. ‘What did he say? There ain’t none?’
No one answered.
Haden smiled slowly at Ian. ‘It’s like that, is it?’ Ian made no reply. ‘Cos there’s still time to get the money, so we don’t go down this road.’
Ian’s voice was steady. ‘There’s no money.’
Haden nodded. He looked at each man in turn. ‘Then I guess we’re done.’
He turned on his heels and left, pulling the door shut behind him.
* * *
Ian let out a long breath, then twisted the keys hanging in the door to lock it. He pulled them out, placed them on the windowsill and stood to one side at the window, peering out. He saw the Skinners’ VW pull away, and expelled the breath he’d been holding. ‘They’re gone. Just like I said.’
‘You think that’s it? They ain’t coming back?’ Dee’s eyes were wide.
‘Like I said to you, innit, these boys are a front, see, they’re big boys and that intimidates people. Not us, though, not no more! Things are changing round here. If Smith’s out of it, we’ve got to move ourselves up the line. Ain’t no one going to do it for us.’ Ian reached for a packet of cigarettes and offered them round.
* * *
Out of sight of the house, the Skinner brothers parked up. Haden spat. ‘We go for the fucking Paki first, the cunt with the knife. He’s sitting down — be on the left as we go in, so let me have him. We get him hard and fast, take him down, then we front the other two, see where their balls have gone. If they still want it, then we fucking have it there and then, but I want our fucking money first. Once we got that, they can have what’s coming. Where are the tools?’
BODILY HARM a gripping crime thriller full of twists Page 10