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

by Nicky Black

  Peach felt himself flinch, and Paul tilted his head to one side.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your bairn. Terrible business.’

  A stone struck the pit of Peach’s stomach. He should have got that description from the head teacher. Did Paul Smart look old enough to pass as Sally’s father? He had an authority about him for sure, and fathering children as teenagers was hardly a rare occurrence in Valley Park.

  Raging, Peach sprung across the table, grabbing the neck of Paul’s top as the door of the interview room opened, and Murphy sprinted over.

  ‘Chief!’ he urged, trying and failing to prize Peach's fingers away. ‘Chief! Stop! There’s nothing there, they didn’t find ’owt.’

  His face a flaming red, Peach released Paul who let out an ugly laugh.

  ‘Chief? That’s made my day, that has. I take it I’m free to go?’

  Murphy pulled Peach towards the interview room door. ‘He’s clean, boss,’ he said.

  Staring hard at Paul, Peach recalled the head teacher’s words: ‘Horrible man, creepy as hell.’ He watched Paul get to his feet. There was nothing clean about him.

  Paul was ambling towards him, stopping at the door. ‘Do me a deal and I’ll give you the venue,’ he said, voice barely above a whisper. He pushed a business card into Peach’s hand. ‘And I’ll give you Collins.’

  TOMMY

  Something caustic smouldered in Tommy’s insides, even though his evening bartering with suppliers had given him some hope. They still wanted deposits, some insurance against a nobody asking for staging and lighting on the scale of a West End production. Thanks to Trevor Logan, he’d have it for them in the morning, and they’d shaken hands, giving Tommy a brief glimpse of what life could be like as a professional club owner with money to do business with.

  ‘After what he did to your da?’

  The words throbbed in Tommy’s head like a toothache as he opened his front door. He’d been sixteen, his exams only a few months away. He’d kuckled down those last few months, his mother adamant it would be his only way out, Jed insisting he wouldn’t remain friends with a thicko.

  Billy Logan had sold fish from the back of a van; Tommy remembered the smell of the fresh cod his mother would buy on a Friday, an odour that lingered in the house for days after it had been steamed with butter on a dinner plate over a pan of boiling water. Billy was an innocuous man; gentle, nervous, wouldn’t say boo to a goose. In contrast, Tommy’s father was a loud-mouth with a fog horn laugh and a liking for dirty jokes. His gambling had crippled them, brought his mother to her knees on occasion. Sometimes Reggie would cry, pull at his hair, promise to get himself straight. But the addiction was too much to resist, and Reggie Collins, for all his arrogance and cheek, was weak as water, and his debt to Paul Smart had spiralled out of control. But Paul had written it off after his conviction, and he’d never bothered the family for repayments.

  Unheard of.

  In the living room, Sam was lying on her back on the sofa, Ashleigh sprawled across her, both sleeping soundly as if their world were a place of peace and contentment. But the sight of them brought no joy, only fear and a smattering of relief that the drugs would be out of the house at last. It was already gone eight-thirty, and his heart pounded. He was getting used to the feeling of it hammering against his ribs day and night.

  He walked to the table in the corner of the room, dropping his jacket onto the back of one of the chairs. As he did so, his eyes rested on the Visiting Order which had been issued for this coming Friday. Sam never failed to request it every month, and he wondered if his father still waited for him, sitting by himself at a table, watching other families greet each other, argue, point the finger in blame.

  Sam had been his redemption. After his mother took her own life, his grandad had moved in with his pipe and tales of the war, his farts and his dicky hip. It had secured the tenancy from the council, stability for the grieving teenager, but Tommy had spent much of his time at Jed’s where Betty would let them watch Danger Mouse undisturbed and spread a sleeping bag out on Jed’s bedroom floor, giving him a pat on the arm as he crawled into it.

  ‘I miss her too, pet,’ she’d say.

  “Missing” was an understatement. Tommy had felt his mother’s absence in his bones. At sixteen, he hadn’t even begun to appreciate her role in his young life: pocket money, food, clothes ironed. She did everything for him and he would never have the opportunity to thank her now he was older and knew what it was like to love a child – now that he understood her grief, the pain of having to hand over something born of your own flesh. Even the absence of the dark times had left a hole. They were the only times she would mention the big brother Tommy missed now more than ever. Big brothers were there to advise and protect, and he often envied Barry his lifetime of Jed, and Frankie his brood of older siblings.

  But then he’d met Sam, and the sun began to shine once more. Within six months she’d moved in, and, when she discovered she was pregnant, they’d married, Sam defying her pretentious mother and pulling the whole thing off for under fifty quid. Impending parenthood hadn’t scared them, young as they were. They’d been so happy they’d talked of little else. Almost a year ago, Ashleigh came into their lives and he had even more to live for – something to protect. A family of his own.

  But that morning, Sam’s concern over his bruised face and short temper had turned into questions he couldn’t, wouldn’t answer, and now she was giving him a wide berth with her one-word responses.

  Two: treat others with the respect they deserve.

  He hadn’t respected Sam, and he couldn’t bring himself to tell her what a colossal mess he’d made of things. But maybe it would be all right. Just maybe he could give them the life they deserved. All he needed was the cash, and it was waiting for him at the rec.

  Closing the living room door quietly, he headed up the stairs to the airing cupboard, the door delivering its usual horror-movie creak as it opened. He reached up and pulled one of the boots from the top shelf. It fell from his hand to the floor and he bent to pick it up, frowning at its emptiness. He shook it out.

  Nothing.

  Panic rising, he grabbed at the other boot and brought it down.

  Empty.

  Towels and sheets fell to the floor as he raked inside the airing cupboard. At the back of the middle shelf was a box of Christmas decorations, and his dread subsided as he dragged it out, took it into the bedroom and emptied the contents onto the floor. The cardboard tubes had fallen out of the boots and into the box, it was the only explanation. On his hands and knees, he rummaged through tinsel and baubles, heat engulfing his face when he realised the drugs were gone.

  ‘What you doing?’

  He looked up to see Sam standing at the bedroom door, Ashleigh still sleeping with her head on her mother’s shoulder. The look of sheer terror on his face had Sam’s eyes widening.

  ‘Tommy,’ she demanded, ‘what are you looking for?’

  ‘What have you done with them?’ She’d been standoffish that morning. She’d gone looking. Flushed them down the toilet.

  Face searing, he jumped to his feet and grabbed her arms. ‘The Smarties. Where’ve you put them?’

  ‘Get off me!’ She stepped back, a palm over Ashleigh’s ear. ‘Smarties?’ Her face changed from confusion to fear. ‘What’ve you done, Tommy?’

  He let go of her arms, tasting dread. They were gone. He was finished.

  ‘I saw Jed today,’ Sam said, voice trembling. ‘He crossed the street to avoid us. Something’s going on, and you better tell me what it is.’

  ‘Or what?’ hissed Tommy. ‘You’ll go tappy-lapping back to your mam?’ Deep down he’d always feared it, that Denise would get her way, that Sam would start to believe her.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Sam, her wet eyes on the bruise on his face. ‘Maybe I will.’

  At least she had a mother to run to.

  He felt the dull ache of grief wrap itself around his ribs. Sam would leave him, just like e
veryone else. It suddenly felt inevitable. ‘Go on then, pack your stuff,’ he said.

  Sam’s sob caught in her throat as she clung to Ashleigh and fought back tears.

  ‘Bastard!’ Tommy heard as he passed her and ran down the stairs and out the front door.

  PEACH

  Ten o’clock couldn’t have come soon enough. The half-moon rose as he turned into Holly Drive and pulled up a few doors down from Tommy’s house. The curtains were open, no light on inside.

  Murphy put out his hand to open the car door.

  ‘Stay put,’ said Peach, ‘I don’t want him seeing you.’

  Confident as he was he’d find what he wanted, until he had Tommy in custody he couldn’t risk him recognising Murphy. Should it all go wrong, he would still need him undercover.

  Murphy looked a little disappointed not to be in on the action. ‘Might get some kip in,’ he said, withdrawing his hand and pulling the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, cracking the joints of his fingers in a stretch.

  There wouldn’t be time for snoozing. They’d arrest Collins and have him back at the station in half an hour.

  Two officers emerged from a police van that had pulled up behind, one of them holding a battering ram. Grasping the warrant in his hand, Peach emerged from the car and gave the officers their instructions: after he’d read Collins his rights, they were to search for drugs, large amounts of cash and weapons. They could do whatever damage they wanted.

  Valley Park was quiet. Birds chirped, an aeroplane flew overhead in the distance. If Peach closed his eyes, he could have been in any leafy suburb of the city. Instead, he regarded the derelict property opposite Tommy’s house, the windows boarded up with mesh grating. It stood slumped like a corpse, it’s carcass scarred and disfigured by spray paint and repeated purging. The Collins’ home, too, looked forlorn in the dusk, the houses either side of it newly boarded up, ready to be pillaged of their meagre contents.

  A few youths holding cans of Special Brew were gathered at Tommy’s gate, and as Peach approached with the officers, the youths sidled away, one or two of them glancing over their shoulders as they slunk around the corner.

  Peach turned at the sound of a pair of mopeds tearing down the street. They whizzed past him like wasps, the skinny drivers bare chested, their faces concealed with red bandanas. The street light above him buzzed and flickered, and he saw movement from the garden of the abandoned house opposite. A dog wandered out onto the road, stopping to look at him before trotting down the street and into the Logan’s garden.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said to the officers.

  As he followed them down the path to Tommy’s front door, the mopeds flew down the road again, four of them now, then five, six. The drivers, now wearing T-shirts and backpacks, whooped and held up their middle fingers. The dog appeared again, then darted back into the garden, head down and tail between its legs. The street light flickered and died.

  ‘Police! Open the door!’ The officers pounded, glancing around them, as the mopeds continued to fly past.

  Kids, out to cause a nuisance, nothing better to do, thought Peach as the officers pounded again; no response.

  ‘Break it down,’ he ordered.

  ‘Shouldn’t we—’

  ‘Do it!’

  One thrust of the battering ram and the door was open, the officers inside, their shouts causing curtains up and down the street to twitch. Then, one by one, doors opened, and people began to trickle out. Peach looked around him, saw children, naked from the waist down, standing in lit doorways with their fingers in their mouths while their parents and older siblings gathered nearby. Some people held back, curious, while others strode towards Tommy’s house, men and women in vests, shorts, and flip-flops.

  ‘Chief,’ he heard on his radio.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I don’t like the look of this.’

  ‘Stay where you are.’

  One of the officers was at the door. ‘No one here,’ he said.

  Peach looked behind him at the sullen, angry faces of Valley Park’s residents, standing their ground as the mopeds weaved around them. He heard the sound of breaking glass. He should abort, get his officers to safety. ‘Get what you can and get out of there,’ he said.

  The people gathered in small clusters, talking in hushed voices, pointing. His head spun at the sound of vehicles screeching to a halt at the end of the street. Two cars, each of them booming out a non-musical bass, manoeuvred in rapid three-point turns to block the western entrance of Holly Drive. Inside the vehicles, Peach spotted the lit ends of cigarettes, glowing like the eyes of wolves.

  The officers were tramping out of Tommy’s house, carrying evidence bags of whatever they’d been able to get their hands on in the short time they’d been inside. Peach followed them to the garden gate and put his radio to his mouth, eyeballing the crowd which had doubled in numbers in the space of a couple of minutes.

  ‘Calling your mates, are you?’

  He faced a squat woman, barely the height of his chest, tiny eyes in a red, football face, lines running from the edges of her nose to her chin like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

  ‘Don’t fucking expect them ’till the morra,’ she sneered.

  ‘Or next week,’ said her friend.

  Another bottle landed in the road, this time with a splash of fire.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ said the woman. ‘Happy now?!’

  ‘Just stand back and we’ll be out of your hair,’ said Peach.

  ‘You lot are never out our hair.’ The woman was squaring up to him. ‘You come here, you stop and search our bairns every five minutes, walk into our houses, take what the fuck you want. But when you’re wanted, when there’s some old biddy getting burgled for her pension, where are you, eh? Where the fuck are you then?’

  Grumbles of agreement rose from the throng.

  ‘Howay, Dawn, there’s no point,’ said the woman’s friend.

  ‘They’ve got parents, haven’t they?’ said Peach, nodding at the youths lining the street, revving their bikes. ‘Maybe it’s them you want to be screeching at.’

  ‘Parents?’ The woman’s face was getting redder. ‘They’re all off their heads on smack or booze just to get through the day, man. They’re on every corner selling it, and you lot.’ She pointed a finger at him. ‘Do fuck all.’

  The officers were climbing into the police van, and he could see Murphy gesturing to him from the open car window. The swelling crowd mumbled and groaned, raised voices igniting others until individual voices were indiscernible. The pounding bass from the cars joined the din as the vehicles’ doors were thrown open.

  A few seconds later, Murphy was at his side, pulling at his arm, but he wasn’t going to leave yet, not without his man.

  Then, as if some covert order had been given, bottles, stones, and bricks came raining down. Murphy pulled harder, and the square woman ducked and started to move away with her friend.

  ‘Mind, you’ve done yourself proud this time!’ she shouted. ‘Bastards, the lot of you!’

  Shielding his head with his arm, Peach pushed Murphy away. ‘Get in the car and call for back up,’ he said.

  ‘Already did,’ said Murphy over the din. ‘And I’m not leaving you here to get lynched!’

  More screeching of tyres, and Peach peered through the smoke. Three more vehicles blocked the eastern end of the street, a pack of youths climbing onto their roofs and bonnets, leaping on the metal and shrieking their war cries. He turned his head, the other cars at the western end still stationary, lads leaning against them, huddled over flames.

  The noise was intense, the night raining down arrows of glass and grit amidst the din of baying voices, barking dogs, and screaming children. Facing the derelict house opposite Tommy’s, he saw the flicker of orange flames from inside as the metal grates of the windows begin to fall away, two or three children hanging from each of them like chimpanzees.

  The officers stepped down from the van, batons aloft – b
ut they were surrounded, completely outnumbered, and there was no way out.

  ‘Come on, boss.’ He felt the tug on his sleeve again, heat on his face as a blazing bottle landed in Tommy’s garden.

  Then, he spotted him, about twenty feet away: Collins forcing his way through the crowd which was moving in waves, the older ones falling back, the younger ones moving forward, lobbing their burning bottles and bricks in quick succession. Tommy was walking towards his house, mouth open, his eyes on the broken windows and shattered door.

  Murphy’s hood was up over his face again and he turned his back on Tommy as Peach began to stride towards his target. As he got closer, the squat woman and her friend leapt between them, others, braving the falling debris, joining the two women, forming a human shield around Tommy, and within a few seconds, he had disappeared altogether.

  Blue lights flashed at each end of the street, their entry blocked by the parked cars, the spinning lights now the focus of the descending missiles and firebombs. The two officers were back in the van which was being rocked by a dozen youths, and the thundering of a helicopter overhead had the children dropping from the windows of the derelict house, scattering from the garden like cockroaches from a newly lit room.

  The chopper’s propellers fanned the flames, and the explosion blew them all off their feet. The house burst into a ball of fire that mushroomed into the air, and Peach dropped to the ground, Murphy falling next to him amidst a shower of glass, bricks, and slate.

  A few long moments passed as they lay face down, hands protecting the backs of their heads. Eventually, Murphy looked up at him.

  ‘You all right?’ he breathed.

  Peach nodded. ‘You?’

  ‘Didn’t get much kip, boss.’

  The people dispersed as quickly as they’d arrived and by the time Peach was on his feet, the street was almost deserted, the barricades abandoned, officers rolling the dumped vehicles onto the pavement to give them and their dogs access. Only Tommy remained, just ten feet away, his face blackened with soot, the whites of his dazed eyes on his house.