Palmer gave it one more go, revved the car till it made a terrible wail of protest and slammed it hard into reverse. There was an almighty grinding sound as the car lurched a few feet to the rear, the bike was dragged along under its wheels and then, with a bump that nearly jolted me off the seat, the car jumped backwards and shot out into the road.
I couldn’t see a thing but I could hear shrieks from the people in the street, as they scrambled to get out of the way. Right then I’d have accepted Palmer ploughing through a crowd of pedestrians if he could just get us both out of there. I lay still as the car raced back up the hill and looked up in time to see the iron arches flash by above me as we tore across the High Level Bridge, the shriek of the Police sirens receding in the distance behind us.
16
.......................
As soon as Sharp got the call from Blake, he went straight over to Peter Dean’s flat. The whole city was buzzing with rumours about what exactly had happened on the Quayside that morning; Newcastle had its rough spots, but no one had ever tried to gun down a crime boss in broad daylight just yards from the city’s best hotels, bars and restaurants. Coming on the back of the shooting of Jaiden Doyle in the same area, this constituted a crisis for the Police, and the Press were all over it like a rash. Every detective in Northumbria had been dispatched to look for leads. Of course newly-promoted Detective Inspector Sharp was one step ahead of them all – because he was on the payroll of the intended victim.
It wouldn’t be long before someone discovered that David Blake was meant to meet Peter Dean that day, so it was important Sharp got to him first. At the very least Dean had a lot of explaining to do.
The door to Dean’s apartment was to the rear of the video store atop a metal staircase that rose to a first floor gantry. Sharp was cautious by nature, but Dean wasn’t muscle in anyone’s eyes, so the detective didn’t hang about. He climbed the stairs, reached the flimsy wooden door and tried the handle. The door was locked, but Sharp didn’t bother to knock, glancing right, then left, and giving the door a sturdy kick. It popped open like it was made of balsa wood and Sharp went straight in, expecting to find Peter cowering on a sofa, pleading that it had all been an unfortunate misunderstanding.
Peter Dean was in the room, but he wasn’t seated on the couch.
‘Fuck me,’ said DI Sharp aloud, as he took in the scene before him. Peter Dean was swaying ever so slightly. His eyes were bulging wide open and his arms hung straight down by his side. The dining chair was upended on the floor, because Peter must have used it to get high enough to thread the drawstring he’d torn from the curtains around the old, metal light-fitting in the ceiling. He had tied the other end around his neck, in a noose that tightened sharply when Peter kicked the chair out from under him.
Whatever role Peter Dean may have played in the plot to kill David Blake, he must have panicked when he learned it had failed. He wasn’t going to be talking to anyone about it now.
‘You were right about the CCTV,’ Sharp was telling me what I already knew, ‘it was down. There’s no footage of anything on the Quayside all morning. It all crashed about an hour before you arrived there.’
We were standing out in the open air on the roof of the Cauldron. Sharp had flashed his badge at the manager of the Chinese restaurant next door, then gone through his kitchen and up the fire escape so he could meet me without being seen. His information about the cameras being down was no surprise to me. You wouldn’t plan to shoot somebody in broad daylight in the Quayside unless you could be sure the CCTV was out of commission. Only someone in our league could have pulled off that stunt. The only question was who.
‘Your lot are investigating that?’
‘Too right,’ said Sharp, ‘it’s all kicked off at our place. No one likes firearms being brandished in the city centre. They’re not partial to hit men being flattened in hit-and-runs either, if I’m honest. Journalists all over the country are onto this one, trying to paint Newcastle like it’s Dodge City. Our top brass have been taking a right kicking from government. Now they are passing the bollockings down the line to us and demanding answers.’
‘What do they know?’ I asked, ‘or what do they think they know?’
‘Not much without the CCTV, but…’
‘Go on.’
‘They know it’s you,’ he admitted, ‘the intended victim, I mean. A lot of folk saw you pegging it through the streets. A few of them will have known you and were prepared to tell us, as long as it was on the QT.’
‘Don’t suppose your lot are too happy with me right now, even though it wasn’t my fault?’
‘No,’ he said simply.
I knew the Police would blame me for this whole thing. They’d figure I must have done something to deserve it. So I was the one endangering the local population and putting the kibosh on a few promotions in the process. Now they’d be mad keen to find anything that could be used to put me away.
‘Did they ID the shooters?’
‘Yep. Andy Tate is ex-Royal Marines. They booted him out, also ex-Foreign Legion and ex-dodgy freelance contractor, selling his skills all over Europe to the highest bidder. He’s a serious, professional operator by all accounts, at least he was. The younger man was Jimmy Dane; basically a thug with convictions for robbery with violence and GBH but nothing like this before.’
‘Tate? I know the name,’ I said, ‘is he local?’
Sharp nodded grimly, ‘Yeah. One of the lads thinks he might even have done a job for Bobby a few years back.’
I was trying to take all of this in. Even the hit man had been local. What the hell was going on? Who was after me?
‘What about our car?’ I asked.
‘Witnesses described the make and model but nobody got the full reg number, maybe because Palmer was reversing into them at speed.’
‘Good.’
‘Anyone ID Palmer?’
‘Nope,’ said Sharp, ‘the best description we have is “a scary looking bloke in sunglasses”.’
‘I dunno,’ I said, ‘sounds pretty accurate to me.’
‘This is serious, you realise?’ said Sharp.
‘Do you think I don’t know that, Sharp!’ I shouted at him. ‘Try it from my fucking perspective. I was the one they were going to kill, remember?’
‘I know. I’m just saying that my lot are fuming. They were sure they’d be able to at least get you tagged as the victim. They reckoned you’d have to admit to illegal activity or beg them for protection.’
‘Don’t know me very well then, do they?’
‘No,’ he admitted, ‘they don’t.’
‘Find out who took out that CCTV system.’
‘Okay,’ he said, but he looked uneasy. I reckoned Sharp was finally starting to realise how deep he was in with us.
‘Did you get anywhere with the waiter?’
‘He confirmed what you already knew. He took a call from a man purporting to be Kinane with a message for Palmer. Clearly it wasn’t Kinane…’
‘Clearly,’
‘….I think they chose the venue because the mobile signal is so bad in there,’ he explained. Even so, I thought, we shouldn’t have fallen for such a simple trick. If Palmer hadn’t phoned Kinane from his car en route and realised the message was bogus, I would have been gone.
‘And Peter Dean?’ I asked, ‘you sure he hanged himself or did he get a little help?’
He shrugged, ‘Doesn’t much matter, does it?’
‘No,’ I sighed, I don’t suppose it does.’
The Police showed admirable restraint under the circumstances, waiting twenty-four hours before they hauled me in but, thanks to Sharp, I knew that was more down to lack of evidence than anything else. I was interviewed by a new DI I’d never come across before. He told me his name was Carlton.
‘It’s usually DI Clifford who drags me all the way across town when you lot want a word. What’s happened to him?’
‘Detective Inspector Clifford has elected to leave the for
ce,’ he said stiffly, ‘on medical grounds.’
I nodded as if I understood, ‘that’s a shame. I rather liked Clifford. His heart was in the right place. Stress was it? I shouldn’t wonder. He used to get stomach ulcers. He was a bit of…an obsessive. I hope you are not like that, DI Carlton.’
The Police officer who faced me was a well-built man of around forty with a local accent and a humourless expression. ‘If you mean will I be using my holidays to jet off round the world looking for Bobby Mahoney? Then no, I won’t. DI Clifford might have believed that Mister Mahoney is alive and sunning himself in Morocco or the Algarve, but I don’t. I reckon he’s six feet under and it was you that killed him.’
‘Me?’ I asked incredulously. I knew that DI Carlton was fishing. He knew nothing about the demise of Bobby Mahoney, but such a direct accusation from the new man threw me a little. I was used to dealing with Clifford, the expert chaser of wild geese. We always knew where Clifford was going for his holidays because we arranged for informants to tell him that Bobby was living in retirement out there. Clifford would jet out on vacation and return a week or two later with nothing more than a tanned face and another ulcer to add to his collection. ‘Why would I kill Bobby Mahoney?’
‘Because he was in the way and you wanted to be Top Boy, but spare me your denials. How about you waste my time denying you were in the Quayside yesterday morning instead?’
‘No,’ I assured him, ‘I was there. I had a coffee at Chi-Chi.’
‘Then you went for a jog?’ he prompted me.
‘Not a jog, no,’ I clarified, ‘but if you are referring to the fact that some people may have seen me running through the streets afterwards, that’s because I had an appointment with my accountant and I realised I was late. No harm done. A brisk run helps combat the jet lag.’
‘The jet lag?’ he sighed. ‘Yes, I was coming to that. On the TV, Policemen are always asking suspects not to leave the country but I’m going to tell you the exact opposite. We don’t want you in the city Mr Blake. Your presence here offends us. We want you to fuck off back to whence you came and stay there for a while, so we can fully investigate the circumstances behind the recent attempt on your life by two hit men on motorbikes who were themselves killed by one of your crew.’
‘Is this the bit where I say, “What a vivid imagination you have, Detective Inspector”?’
‘Don’t bother. I knew bringing you in here would be a complete waste of my time, but the brass insisted. I thought I might as well use some of it constructively to inform you that you’re going to be on a plane tomorrow. You see our Chief Constable has the severe hump. His eyes are firmly on the prize right now, and that prize is you. He wants you banged up for life.’
‘So why allow me to flee the coop?’
‘Oh we’re not. We just want you out of the way until we find enough evidence to arrest and charge you, that’s all. We are coming for you and your business interests; the club, the new hotel. It’s only a matter of time, so get your affairs in order; write your will, put some money aside for the nearest and dearest, that sort of thing, because you are going down for life. That much has already been decided.’
I was angry now and I didn’t care what I said to him. ‘Do your worst,’ I told him, ‘you haven’t got jack-shit on me or we wouldn’t keep having these fireside chats. You’re just the latest empty threat in a suit. I’ve heard it all before. I’ll fly out if it makes you feel better about yourself, but not tomorrow. I’ve got too much to do right now, but don’t worry, I’ll be gone in a few days. I could use a break from this place. Don’t be deluded though. You can’t hurt me. The club and the hotel aren’t in my name, they are not even owned by Gallowgate Leisure. Those deals are funded by venture capitalists using legitimate shareholders with deep pockets and very nasty lawyers. Try and block those projects and you’ll get a firestorm of court orders, injunctions and writs for damages. The bureaucracy will keep you in the station for a year,’– he looked like he didn’t take too kindly to that – ‘and if you get any ideas about coming over all Gene Hunt and planting evidence on me, my lawyers will fucking destroy you. When they are through, the only job you’ll ever get will be holding one of those placards on street corners that advertise golf sales.’
Carlton rose then and brought his arm across his chest, then unleashed it in an arc so that the back of his open hand shot out and smashed into the side of my face. It was a meaty blow, but it was worth it to know I’d rattled him. I could feel blood inside my mouth and I spat it onto the desk in front of me. Then I smiled at him through my bloodied teeth and said, ‘Nice one, Carlton! Good to see you’ve got a pair! Normally I’d take myself straight off to be photographed and the lawyer would skewer you, but you can have that one on me.’ I was pleased to see his fury. Anger clouds the judgement. I got to my feet like we were done. ‘You want to be careful though, DI Carlton,’ I warned him, ‘you’ll give yourself an ulcer.’
17
.......................
Kinane was waiting for me in the car. I could tell by his face that something was up. As soon as I climbed in, he said ‘Jack Conroy has been in touch.’
‘Bloody hell. What does he want?’
‘Exactly,’ Kinane seemed relieved I was taking it seriously, ‘he wants to have a meet.’
‘Who with?’
‘Well that’s just it, with you,’ and he cleared his throat, ‘and only you.’
There aren’t many people in our business who unsettle me. You have to learn to carry yourself with absolute authority when you are around these guys. Otherwise they will sense your unease, feel your fear; then they’ll chew you up and spit you out. So I act like the Top Boy should, and after a while you get used to the company of killers, but there is definitely something about Jack Conroy that unnerves me.
*
You could never have guessed what Jack Conroy did for a living. He dressed like a working man; plain black coat with a collar, sweat shirt, jeans, black shoes. You might have said he was a builder, unless you got a close look at those hands. They were big, and there was strength in them, but they weren’t the rough hands of a labourer. That was the only clue you’d get about his true profession, that, and the eyes. I don’t believe that bullshit about eyes being the windows of the soul but, if I did, I would have assumed that Conroy didn’t have one because there was nothing behind his eyes.
We agreed he could come and see me but we met him in numbers; Palmer on the door to pat him down, Kinane close behind, Hunter and three of Kinane’s lads between me and him, all of them armed, and Danny close by my side.
Jack Conroy simply spread his hands wide and gave us a resigned smile, ‘I’d have to be daft to be carrying in here,’ he told us.
‘And I’d have to be stupid not to check,’ I informed him.
‘Fair enough,’ he said.
Palmer finished frisking Conroy for weapons, then he got him to remove his coat and leave it on a chair. We were using the Cauldron and its blacked-out windows gave me the level of privacy I needed.
We had used Jack Conroy before, on more than one occasion, because he was good, very good in fact. If you gave him a job, he carried it out without fail, often making it look like an unfortunate accident. If you were a business rival of Bobby’s there was no point looking over your shoulder. You still wouldn’t see Conroy coming. He was particularly adept at arranging car crashes or hit and runs with no witnesses. He could throw you off a building and make it look like a fall, fake a suicide and leave evidence of gambling debts or mistresses that the Police would jump on to conveniently explain your sudden removal from the world.
Sometimes though, we didn’t want a killing to remain secret. In those cases we would prefer people to know it was a really bad idea to take us on. Conroy would shoot you, stab you or kill you up close with those deceptively soft, white hands of his. Man or woman, he would not fail, which is why I afforded his talents the absolute respect they deserved by placing half a dozen members of the firm
between him and me.
Palmer indicated a chair in the middle of the room and Conroy regarded it wryly, but walked slowly towards it and sat down. He placed the palms of his hands on his knees where we could see them. He must have figured we were jittery so he probably did this as much for his own safety as for my peace of mind.
‘So what can we do for you Jack,’ I asked him, ‘it’s been some time since we did business together.’
‘Aye, it’s a while back,’ he said, as if we were discussing a painting and decorating job and not the murder of a town councillor. The fool not only failed to oil the wheels of the planning department, like he’d promised when he took Bobby’s money, but even threatened to tell the Police all about it. Bobby was so incensed he got Conroy to make the married councillor’s death look like the suicide of a tortured, closet homosexual. There was poetic justice in it, I suppose. Councillor Barry had been one of the most bigoted blokes ever to join the Labour Party. I don’t suppose his wife and family saw the funny side though when they were told he was found with gay porn, the numbers of several male escorts programmed into his phone and ‘love letters’ from a young man of dubious character.
‘This isn’t a social call though,’ I told Conroy, ‘not from the tone of your message.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘not a social call.’
I cocked my head slightly and gave him a questioning look to prompt him.
‘I had a visitor a few days ago,’ he explained.
‘Did you now?’
‘Aye. It was a go-between, a cut-out, you know.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ he was telling me he didn’t know the identity of the client who wanted to hire him.
‘Anyway, I knew the guy right enough, we all do, but I was surprised as he’s not into that game normally. I mean, you wouldn’t have sent him to talk to me. He asks me straight out if I’d be interested in a job, someone local, somebody “high profile” as he put it, and I said “well that depends”. He asks me on what, and I say “on who it is and how much we are talking” and that’s when it got interesting.’
The Damage (David Blake 2) Page 12