The Rave: A gritty crime drama you won't want to put down (Valley Park Series Book 2)

by Nicky Black

  His heart quickening, he opened the top drawer of his desk to retrieve Tommy’s trainer, looking from it to the photograph then back again. The sigh was one of satisfaction as he picked up the phone and dialled the desk sergeant.

  ‘Bring one of those video players and a television to my office,’ he said. ‘And tea – strong—’

  The desk sergeant confirmed she knew exactly how he took his tea after all these years.

  Hanging up, he sat back, a few hairs coming free as he tugged at his moustache in a habit that had driven his wife to distraction. He picked up another black and white still from the CCTV, the skinny robber looking slightly to the left of the camera. The eyes were arrogant, the lashes long, the irises translucent.

  Anticipation roused a thin smile.

  ‘Gotcha,’ he said to himself.

  TOMMY

  It had just gone two o’clock, that time in the afternoon when the sun shone directly into the living room making the dust motes swirl at the slightest movement. Tommy sat in the armchair under the window, looking expectantly into the faces of his two friends who sat next to each other on the sofa. He'd shoved the torn page from the Racing Post into his back pocket. The message was clear, and Paul Smart’s words ran circles around his brain as he waited for his friends' response to his proposal.

  Do it for your family.

  Jed's family was his family, though not through blood, and this was a warning of worse to come.

  Tommy had spent the last few hours weighing up his limited options. He could do nothing at all and wait for Paul to send Tucker to hurt Jed, or worse: Barry, Betty. Or he could take Paul’s money and do the best job he could. But he couldn’t do it without Jed. Jed had a head for figures, he was organised and efficient. Tommy was the ideas man, the visionary. They made a good team, but unbeknownst to Jed, Tommy had brought trouble to his door. He wished like hell he’d never gone to Phutures on Saturday night. Should have gone home to bed like a grown-up.

  ‘It can be done,’ Tommy said, still waiting.

  ‘It can’t be done.' Jed's face was still sullen.

  They’d given up waiting for the police. Instead, they’d cleared the garden of the rubbish, tried to soothe Barry’s wails, waited for Jed’s parents to arrive home from his nana’s. Davie went ballistic while Betty made tea and got the scones out, her face drawn, tears brimming, doing the only thing that seemed to calm her nerves: feed people.

  Tommy rubbed at his forehead, trying not to lose patience with Jed’s negativity. ‘Make us a cup of tea, will you?’ he ordered.

  ‘Frankie, three teas, pal,’ said Jed.

  Frankie rose from Tommy’s sofa without question and headed for the kitchen.

  ‘Here, what about the knock-off trainers?’ said Jed. ‘We could be entrepreneurs – imports, exports.’ He was dodging the subject.

  ‘Hey, I’m a pioneer of music, not a door-to-door salesman,’ said Tommy. He hadn’t told Jed the good news that Tucker was collecting the trainer money; that Paul Smart was taking over the counterfeit footware business. He’d keep that to himself for now. Jed was pissed off enough as it was.

  ‘A few hundred in a warehouse is a bit different to pulling off a full-scale rave.’ Jed slumped back.

  ‘You just multiply everything, stupid,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Don’t call me stupid,’ Jed snapped. ‘You’ll need sound gear, marquees, generators, the works. Where’s the money coming from?’

  Tommy held his stare. ‘What if I can get a backer?’

  ‘Oh aye, what’s in it for them?’ asked Jed. ‘And more to the point, who is it?’

  Tommy threw his arms in the air. ‘Fucking Barclays, does it matter?’

  ‘Aye, it matters!’ Jed turned the argument on Frankie who had arrived back from the kitchen with a tray of three mugs and a bag of sugar. ‘Spoons?’ barked Jed before Frankie’s arse had the chance to hit the sofa.

  ‘Got to know who you’re getting into bed with,’ said Frankie in his slow drawl.

  ‘Well, in your case, nobody,’ sneered Jed. ‘Virgil. That’s what your mother should have called you.’

  Frankie was back up on his feet, two fingers up at Jed, talking so slowly his next sentence seemed eternal. ‘Just because I don’t go around poking every orifice in sight. You want to charge for it, Foster, you’d be a millionaire by now.’ Frankie headed to the kitchen once more, shouting, ‘I hope your dick drops off!’

  ‘At least I’ve got one,’ muttered Jed.

  Tommy clicked his fingers, bringing Jed’s attention back to him. ‘Seriously, mate. The biggest party to hit the north-east? We’ll be heroes, man.’

  Jed folded his arms across his chest, his tongue in his cheek.

  ‘Howay,’ goaded Tommy, ‘what’ve you got to lose?’

  ‘Erm, my reputation?’

  Frankie threw three spoons onto the coffee table. ‘Listen to Vinyl Richie here,’ he mocked as he sat down.

  Jed ignored him. ‘I’m telling you now, it’ll be a disaster.’

  Everything in Jed’s body language, his expression, the slight curl of his lip, denoted his resistance. He was sick as a chip, his father out spending the milk money on paint, his mother and his brother in tears. Like Tommy, he was at breaking point when it came to Valley Park and what it had to offer. A big fat nowt.

  ‘This is our chance,’ said Tommy, seizing on Jed’s discontent.

  ‘Yours, you mean,’ came the reply.

  ‘No,’ said Tommy firmly, sitting forward. ‘Ours.’ He glanced at Frankie, making sure he knew he was part of the deal.

  Jed looked away and Tommy played his trump card.

  ‘You get to DJ,’ he said in a sing-song voice. ‘Some big names. A whole set.’

  Jed sighed, leant forward, spooned four sugars into his tea and stirred it.

  ‘Well, I think it’s a great idea, me,’ said Frankie. ‘I’ll DJ if you want.’

  Jed’s head shot up. ‘You can’t have Belinda fucking Carlisle at a rave!’

  Frankie shrunk back into his denim jacket.

  ‘Remember the Hacienda?’ said Tommy. They’d hitch-hiked to Manchester earlier that year, walked through the industrial plastic-strip curtains into a haze of dry ice, the bass setting their teeth on edge, the overwhelming sensation of coming home throwing them into each other arms as the music drew them into the centre of the universe.

  ‘Fucking awesome,’ said Jed with a nostalgic sigh.

  ‘That could be you,’ said Tommy.

  Jed continued to stir his tea then threw the spoon onto the tray.

  ‘Okay. Two sets,’ Tommy relented.

  ‘The Carl Cox of the Toon!’ said Frankie.

  Jed was in awe of DJs like Carl Cox and Danny Rampling. They were his Gods. He raised his eyebrows as he took a slurp of his tea. ‘Cash up front?’

  ‘Cash up front,’ said Tommy, without hesitation.

  ‘Legit? I can’t be fucking up my chances with Nissan.’

  Tommy hoped Jed didn’t notice him faltering. ‘Legit,’ he said. ‘Are we in?’

  ‘In!’ Frankie raised a hand.

  Tommy’s eyes were on Jed, who took a series of gulps from his tea and smacked his lips. ‘Aye, gan on then,’ he said.

  He should jump from his seat, shout ‘Yes! Yes!’ but something kept Tommy’s backside pinned to the cushion – relief that they would be spared Paul Smart’s retaliation; fear that if he didn’t pull off what Smartie wanted, he’d be indebted to him forever. Or was it the overpowering illusion of hope? Hope that by this time next week, even if it meant taking Paul Smart’s money, he could be free of all this shit.

  Frankie did the jumping for him. ‘Belter!’ he cried, pulling Jed to his feet and embracing him, much to Jed’s horror.

  Finally, the springs in Tommy’s legs were unleashed, and he leapt towards them, joining the communal hug.

  ‘Woah, hold on,’ said Jed, pushing Frankie away and holding up his hands. Tommy and Frankie froze, mid-celebration, Tommy’s stomach fa
lling; Jed was having second thoughts already. ‘What the hell’s that?’ Jed creased his nose, sniffing around him.

  Tommy’s nose began to twitch too, and their attention fell on Frankie. ‘How dare you fart in my house,’ said Tommy.

  Frankie’s eyes widened. ‘It was the dog!’

  ‘I haven’t got a dog! Get away to the bog, man,’ said Tommy.

  As Frankie dragged himself out of the living room, muttering to himself, Tommy sunk onto the arm of the chair while Jed fell back onto the sofa. It was beginning to feel real, and with the right amount of backing, it could be immense.

  ‘Christ,’ Tommy said, wistfully. ‘Imagine. We’re part of a movement. We’re making memories. We’re making fucking history.’

  While they simultaneously lifted their tea to their mouths, Tommy wondered if Jed could read his thoughts, see the spectacle: the party to end all parties. Fame, admiration, profit. Escape.

  They pondered the moment until Jed broke the silence. ‘What about this cash, then?’

  ‘Sam’s mam,’ said Tommy, thinking on his feet. ‘I’m going to sweet talk her.’

  Jed scrunched up his face in puzzlement and Tommy avoided his eyes. Denise Morris couldn’t stand the sight of him, and everybody knew it.

  Just in time, the front door opened, and Sam shouted a cheery hello. ‘What youse lot up to?’ she asked, rolling Ashleigh’s buggy into the living room.

  ‘Nothing, my love,’ smiled Tommy.

  Sam threw him a suspicious look as Frankie re-appeared at the living room door.

  ‘By, that took some flushing,’ he said, fastening his belt, a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth. ‘Thought I was gonna have to get a coat hanger.’

  They all looked at Frankie quizzically.

  ‘To chop it up,’ he explained.

  ‘He’s disgusting.’ Denise stood in the doorway behind Frankie, laden down with shopping bags. ‘Come on, you lot, hop it.’ She pushed past Frankie, and Jed sprung to his feet.

  Tommy felt heat on his face. Sam’s mother wasn’t the boss of this house, yet she seemed to railroad her way in whenever she pleased, doling out the orders, taking over. Much to his frustration, they were seeing more of her recently. Some robbery at the building society she worked for had left her traumatised. That’s what she’d told the bosses anyway – got herself a sick note for two weeks to give her a bit more time to spend the money she wouldn’t give him. Looked perfectly unaffected as far as he could see. The happy expression on Sam’s face quelled any urge to tell Denise to sling her hook, and Tommy forced a smile across his face, a smile that fell the instant Denise walked past him with a stare that would freeze mercury.

  Sam, Ashleigh in her arms, walked up to him and planted a warm kiss on his lips. ‘Love you,’ she said, wiping the kiss away with her thumb. And suddenly, it didn’t seem so bad after all. He watched her walk into the kitchen after her mother; they laughed and chatted, as if carrying on a conversation that had lasted all day.

  Sam had been sixteen when he’d first clocked her in an orange sundress so long she’d had to hold it up to walk. At eighteen he’d had his share of girlfriends. He’d even liked some of them, and some of them had liked him before they met Jed.

  It was one of the long summer weekends they’d spent in Sandy Bay at Jed’s parents’ caravan. They’d come of an age where Tommy and Jed had been allowed to stay there on their own for weekends during the summer. Tommy would bring crackly cassette recordings of the newest Chicago House, a new underground sound that was rippling through America. Soon a bunch of teenage youths, bored out of their skulls with the “entertainment” provided at the Sandy Bay Pavilion Bar, had found their way to the sounds of this new, raw mix which seemed designed for one thing and one thing only: dancing. Each visit to the caravan brought new beats, new mixes, evolving so fast that every new track was pulled to pieces, discussed, and analysed by a bunch of young lads who’d been brought up on disco and The Beatles. This was special, and it felt like nobody else knew of it but them.

  It was the morning after one of these nights when Tommy sat alone on the steps of the caravan, watching old folk set out their deck chairs. She was walking towards The Pavilion for breakfast with a woman with raven-black hair who resembled an older, portlier version of Joan Jett. He watched the wobble of the girl’s backside in the orange sundress and the bounce of her curly perm. She’d looked at him over her bare shoulder and he’d tried his best to be cool, lifting one side of his mouth into a grin, raising one hand in the way Jed did, and hoping like hell she liked house music because he had sod all else to talk about. Joan Jett had given him the daggers and quickened her pace, pulling the girl along by the arm.

  That night, the lads had got on with it on their own, and he’d lumbered down to The Pavilion Bar to suffer the Frankie Valley tribute act and buy the lass a drink once Joan Jett had staggered off to the ladies with a belly full of Babycham.

  The rest was history.

  Tommy walked to the open front door now and watched his friends strolling down the path, Frankie turning to the right and Jed to the left. He’d begun to close the door when he spotted the camper, little Carl Logan, and four or five other children under ten pulling radiators from the boarded-up house opposite. Trevor Logan emerged from the door of the empty house, bare chested, his spindly arms laden with kitchen cupboard doors. The two brothers stopped and stared, Trevor spitting on the ground before walking off, eyes still fixed on Tommy.

  Tommy peered over at the empty house, remembering the days when every property was occupied, when he could play out in the street without his mother having to watch through the window. It could all work out if he kept his head, kept shtum about Smartie. This was his chance.

  Hope.

  He’d always thought you couldn’t buy that shit. Until now.

  PEACH

  The CCTV footage was grainy and blurred to buggery – no sound, just some poor middle-aged woman in a cardigan being dragged from her chair by the skinny robber and shoved in among a huddle of people who gathered at a display board boasting fixed-rate mortgages of thirteen and a half per cent. The second robber was so short his cagoule reached his knees. He was fat and dumpy, nervous and alert, keeping the terrified customers and staff at bay with a sawn-off shotgun.

  Then a third one came into the frame. No cheap, lightweight weatherproof for this one. He stood in a thigh-length, double-breasted coat, the collar turned up and a bowler hat pulled down over his ears. A woman’s scarf covered his face like an old, Western bandana. Thought he was a right Bobby Dazzler this one.

  Then, like the cowboy he imagined he was, the Bobby Dazzler bent his knees and drew two penknives from the deep pockets of the coat. He flicked them open, took one step forward and the huddle in the corner fell collectively to the floor like dynamited chimneys while the skinny one picked up the holdall and ran around the back of the counter, the seconds ticking by endlessly before he ran back out again.

  Peach paused the video when all three of them were in the frame. He let out a sound, halfway between a sigh and a grunt. The Bobby Dazzler: Jed Foster; the short, fat one: Frankie Donahue; the skinny one in the trainers: Tommy Collins.

  He fast forwarded to the footage of the outside camera. It was better quality, clear as day, in fact. The getaway car was parked on the double yellow lines, hazard lights blinking innocently. Once they were all inside, the car indicated and pulled out into the passing traffic, casual as you like. According to the file, the three-year-old BMW was registered to a Mrs Rebecca Cooper from Windy Nook who’d confirmed that the vehicle had been at Honest Jim’s Motors on the date in question having the bumper repaired.

  He stared up at the photographs on his wall, a long, wheezy breath emptying his lungs. So, this was how they were financing their little enterprise.

  Fingers tapping the desk, he glanced across at Sally’s photograph before gathering the papers together and placing them back in the folder. If he could get an identification …

&nb
sp; Putting the file under his arm, he switched off the desk lamp and left his office, pausing at McNally’s door as he walked down the corridor. He hesitated, fingers hovering above the handle. He’d never disobeyed an order from a superior officer in all his thirty years on the force. The chain of command was sacrosanct. Biting at the inside of his cheek, he drew his hand away and carried on walking.

  At the reception, a small man with a middle parting and weasel-like face was attempting to flirt with Sharon, the desk sergeant, who eyed him with bored aloofness. He was young, studenty-looking, and he bounced away from the desk as Peach approached.

  ‘DCI Peach?’ he said, throwing himself into Peach’s path.

  Peach walked around him without giving him the time of day, but the weedy voice continued.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your daughter, Inspector.’

  Peach stopped and turned. The man was spotty, skin shining across the forehead and chin.

  ‘Mind if I ask you some questions?’ A small note pad was produced from a leather bag that hung from the weasel’s shoulder.

  ‘I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation.’ Peach turned back to reception, handing the file to Sharon. ‘Get these witnesses in,’ he said.

  ‘So, you’re treating it as a crime?’ The reporter was in front of him again, the smile fastened to his face. ‘Ben Stone, the Northern Gazette.’ He held out his hand, eager as a bitch in heat. ‘I’d like to tell your side of the story, Inspector … sir.’

  Peach ignored his outstretched hand. ‘What story?’

  ‘Your daughter, Sally.’ Ben’s tone had changed into something more supercilious and he withdrew his hand.

  Peach gave him a black look, and Ben touched his nose, speaking in a low voice.

  ‘Nurses like to talk,’ he said, ‘given the right reward.’

  Peach’s moustache twitched with antagonism. ‘And what side is there other than mine?’

  Frowning in puzzlement, the reporter pulled back his chin. ‘The side the people want to hear, Inspector. Daughter of a decorated copper, bigging it up at raves, doing drugs—’