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

by Nicky Black

  Sam was smiling back at him, and she slid her hand into her shoulder bag, handing him a small bundle. He stepped back, holding it up to the moonlight: their passports and tickets.

  ‘Ibiza,’ she said.

  ‘Eh? You want a holiday?’

  She shook her head. ‘They’re one-way, Tommy.’

  It took a few moments to sink in. ‘Ibiza?’

  ‘Yes!’ Her eyes were wide. ‘Sod building sites,’ she said. ‘Do what you love.’ She cupped her hand and drew it across the air. ‘Tommy Collins, Pioneer of Music.’ And, for a heavenly moment, he saw his name in lights.

  ‘How?’ he asked.

  ‘Me mam’s credit card. Got to the travel agent’s just in time.’ Sam looked down at her feet. ‘Long story.’

  He was too happy, too elated to think about Denise. Ibiza. The birthplace of raves, the Mecca of everything House Music.

  ‘She can always come and visit,’ he said, his joy interfering with his judgement.

  Sam looked up at him, eyes sad but determined. ‘We’ll see.’

  His hands cradled her cheeks, and he kissed her upturned face. ‘I fucking love you,’ he said, ‘and Ashleigh.’

  Sam smiled at him. ‘We are pretty awesome, aren’t we?’

  At that moment, it didn’t matter where he was. He could be living in a shack on the moon and he wouldn’t care, so long as he had his family with him.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Tommy, ‘how did you get here?’

  ‘The inspector brought me.’

  As if he’d landed in Antarctica, Tommy’s skin froze.

  ‘We had to walk for miles,’ Sam said.

  He closed his eyes and Sam’s voice became concerned. ‘He said I would be safer here …’

  ‘Oh, Sam …’ It was all he could say, and he opened his eyes to find her face frightened. Peach had said the patrol car would stay there all night to protect Ashleigh, and the Fosters until they were ready to leave, she said.

  ‘He knows about this?’ Tommy held up the tickets and the passports.

  Sam nodded, yes, eyes brimming, and face creased with the knowledge she’d done something terribly wrong. Her voice trembled, ‘Oh my God—’

  But Tommy held a finger to her lips. A shack in Ibiza would be just fine. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

  He took Sam’s hand and led her away, past the couple by the caravan whose heads where now resting together, mouths hanging open in cannabis-induced smiles. They walked through the neon-lit tunnel, hands slapping off Tommy’s shoulders and back, making him feel like Paul Gascoigne about to emerge onto the pitch at St James’s Park.

  At the end of the tunnel, Peach stood in the beige Mac, legs apart, hands in his coat pockets.

  ‘This is quite the spectacle,’ Peach said when Tommy reached him.

  ‘Didn’t have you down as a raver,’ replied Tommy, warily.

  ‘No. It’s way past my bedtime.’

  Tommy looked around for the rest of them – hundreds of coppers who would literally pull the plug and take everything.

  ‘It’s just me,’ said Peach. ‘Thought I’d come and see for myself.’

  ‘So, what do you think?’ asked Sam.

  ‘Bunch of raving lunatics.’

  ‘People just want to escape,’ said Tommy, ‘feel good for a while.’

  Peach nodded. ‘Yes, but at whose expense?’

  Sam was looking at Peach, and he back at her, and Tommy thought he felt some kind of weird connection between the two of them.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sam. ‘But I think I’m going to be all right now.’

  Peach nodded again and didn’t follow when Sam pulled Tommy away towards the riot of colour, and when Tommy reached the throng of dancers and weaved his way among their flailing arms, he turned back, and Peach was gone.

  SUNDAY

  TOMMY

  ‘It’s not safe here, pet.’

  Betty’s hands grasped Tommy’s across the kitchen table. They talked quietly, Davie and Barry asleep upstairs, half a dozen neighbours in sleeping bags in the front room. Betty didn’t trust the policemen in the car outside not to doze off. She’d spent the last half an hour wringing her hands around her tea towel as she recounted tales of Paul Smart driving past the house three or four times until the police came calling. The officers had made sure all was well inside before parking up on the pavement and taking their fill of Betty’s rock cakes and flasks of tea. She might not trust them, but she wouldn’t see them go hungry.

  The party was still going, Jimmy and Hadgy left in charge, but the elation of the night was over. News of Frankie had reached Tommy via Hadgy, the DCI relaying the details to him rather than directly to Tommy. His night had ended then, Hadgy hot-wiring a car parked two miles away, and Jed driving like a madman back to Valley Park. They’d fallen through the door at 5.00 a.m., and Betty had phoned the hospital to be told by Frankie's mother that he was "critical, but stable."

  ‘She’s right,’ said Jed. ‘Just go, man, look at the time.’

  Sam was sitting next to him, one arm cradling Ashleigh, the other holding the handle of her holdall. But Frankie was fighting for his life. He couldn’t leave him.

  ‘But, I sent him,’ he said.

  ‘We sent him,’ said Jed. ‘Look, what would Frankie say if he was here now?’

  ‘He might have come with us,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Narrr,’ growled Jed. ‘His mam wants the kitchen doing. He’s got pink paint and everything.’

  ‘I know, I gave it to him,’ said Tommy, sadly.

  ‘Go, son. We’ll make sure he’s all right.’ Betty carried on in the same quiet voice. ‘He’ll be right as rain in no time.’

  Tommy thought he saw a glance between Betty and Jed. ‘But what about you?’ he asked. Paul Smart would come for them.

  ‘Us?’ said Betty. ‘We’ve got Starsky and Hutch outside, pet.’

  ‘The inspector said they could have protection,’ said Sam.

  Tommy frowned. ‘Peach?’

  Sam nodded, and a horn tooted outside. ‘That’s the taxi,’ she said, her eyes on the flight tickets on the table in front of her.

  ‘If your mother was here, she would never forgive me if I let anything happen to you and her grandbairn,’ said Betty. ‘You need to do the right thing, son. We’ll miss you, but now’s your chance. You won’t get another one.’

  Tommy looked down at Ashleigh’s pouting mouth, sucking at her bottom lip in sleep. Paul Smart, Trevor Logan, Peach, Denise. Tucker. Their faces seemed to merge into one grisly image.

  He got to his feet.

  ‘Good lad,’ said Betty. ‘Jed, tell the taxi driver to wait.’

  Tommy took Sam’s holdall with one hand and picked up the rucksack at his feet with the other. It was all they had. A bag full of cash, enough to get through customs and a hotel until they got themselves sorted. The rest, Jed would take care of; all one hundred and twenty grand of it. Jed would take his cut, give Frankie his and pay whoever needed to be paid. The rest would be invested in whatever new venture Tommy could find on the sunny shores of the Med.

  ‘Take care, son.’ Betty hugged him when they reached the front door, held on as if she didn’t want to let go. Tommy felt the warmth of her, smelt the familiar lily of the valley scent, and felt the needles pricking his heart.

  Outside, Jed was leaning into the passenger window of the taxi while Tommy and Sam walked down the path, and Betty closed the door to let them all say their goodbyes, not before rolling her eyes at the sleeping officers in the squad car.

  Sam climbed into the back seat of the taxi with Ashleigh and closed the door. The sun was gone, great leaden clouds rolling towards them, the heatwave finally broken.

  Tommy and Jed faced each other.

  ‘Come with us,’ said Tommy. ‘Loads of lasses in bikinis, howay.’ He’d been wanting to ask, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer, not out loud.

  ‘Got an interview with Nissan next week.’

  ‘Jesus, congr
atulations,’ Tommy said, not meaning it one bit. He knew that Nissan wasn’t the only thing keeping Jed here.

  He put his hand on Jed’s shoulder, his friend mirroring the gesture. ‘Divven’t bubble, man,’ Tommy said.

  ‘Just got something in my eye,’ said Jed, blinking rapidly.

  Tommy smiled as well as he could, dropped his arm and turned to the taxi, his fingers on the handle of the car door when the shot split the air and a bullet whizzed over his head.

  They both fell to the ground, Sam’s muffled screams coming from inside the taxi.

  After a few moments, Tommy lifted his head in the direction of the shot, sitting up as he saw Tucker step out from behind a parked van, eyes fixed on Tommy’s, shotgun pointed straight at his chest.

  ‘The trainer money!’ Tommy heard Jed whimper.

  Tommy glanced at the squad car, the officers nowhere to be seen. They’d ducked out of sight, frightened for their lives. But they’d be calling for armed back up who would be there in minutes, minutes Tommy didn’t have.

  Arms still clutching the rucksack of cash, Tommy looked straight at Tucker. ‘We’ve got your money, Tucker!’ he shouted. ‘Five hundred, plus a bit more for your worries!’

  ‘Never mind his money, where’s mine?’

  The voice sailed over Tommy’s head, a pair of white, patent leather shoes appearing inches from his feet before he felt himself being hauled from the ground.

  Paul Smart’s unshaven face was red and blotchy, one side of his hair slightly out of sync with the other. His shirt was smeared red, his fingernails rusty.

  The rain started to fall as Paul held out his hand for the rucksack and Tommy pulled it closer to him.

  ‘And the rest,’ Paul said to Jed who still lay on the ground.

  But Jed’s face was a picture of dismay as he strained his neck to look beyond Tommy and Paul. Tommy leant to one side, looked around Paul and saw him too, emerging from a car and pulling his Mac closed at his chest.

  ‘You all know the score. Illegal do, the proceeds get confiscated.’

  Peach walked right up to them, didn’t bother holding out his hand for the rucksack, just grabbed it, one eye on Tucker who took a step towards them and stood at the bonnet of the taxi, gun still aimed at Tommy.

  Tommy felt his plan, his money, his future sliding through his fingers like sand. There was only one last hope.

  He turned to face Tucker, and, blinking through the falling drops of rain, he said his name: ‘Tony.’

  Tucker’s one open eye held Tommy’s gaze for a few long seconds.

  ‘Do the right thing,’ Tommy said.

  Tucker’s shoulders seemed to relax, just for a moment.

  ‘Brother,’ Tommy added.

  The rain was falling heavily now, a quiet rumble on the roof of the taxi. Tommy watched Tucker’s Adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallowed a decision that could change the course of Tommy’s life forever. Or end it.

  In one swift move, Tucker turned the gun on Paul Smart, and Tommy sensed the years of hatred and spite gathering in the tips of Tucker’s forefinger as it twitched on the trigger.

  Then, in the blink of an eye, Tucker turned the gun on Peach, and Tommy heard Sam’s piercing ‘No!’ as the shot rang out and he fell to the ground once more.

  PEACH

  He could hear sirens in the distance, but it was too late. The bullet would take his life in just a few minutes, if not sooner, his daughter an orphan before he had the chance to put things right. His daughter who was coming home today.

  In a flash, the future was laid bare. Murphy would return to Manchester with exaggerated tales of his spell in the Geordie capital, working for a man who never cracked a smile; a hero, the first victim of a craze that just about destroyed a generation. McNally would retire and someone else would take Peach’s place, probably his sick female DI, just to meet the quota. The nurse, Pamela, would cry for a while then get on with her life. Perhaps she would befriend Sally, become a role model. And Sally – he hoped she would fight on, not be ground down by grief, that she would find guidance and the love she so craved.

  Someone will die. Paul Smart’s words drifted like feathers around him, and he opened his eyes for one last glimpse of the world while he waited for pain and death.

  But neither came. The only pain he felt was the handles of the rucksack pressing into his ribs.

  He focused his vision. Before him lay Paul Smart, the smooth grey stones of his eyes the same in death as they were in life. Hollow.

  Sitting up stiffly and rubbing the grit from his palms, he saw Collins, his arms around his wife and child, both staring over Peach’s shoulder. The lad, Foster, was leaning on the bonnet of the taxi, shouting at the driver, telling him to wait just another minute, his mother by his side, doing the same thing.

  Tucker was gone, and the sirens came closer.

  Peach got to his feet slowly and wiped down his Mac, following Tommy and Sam’s stunned eyes and looking behind him to find Trevor Logan standing in shocked stillness, the pistol hanging loosely in his hand.

  ‘That was for your da,’ said Trevor, his bloodshot eyes on Tommy. ‘And mine.’

  Then everyone was looking at the rucksack at Peach’s feet.

  He was alive. He could feel his heart beating, the blood in his veins. Looking towards the taxi, his eyes fell on Sam, holding onto her baby for dear life, her eyes pleading with him. Like Kathleen’s. Like Sally’s.

  Peach bent down, picked up the rucksack and walked to the taxi, opening the boot and dropping the bag inside. He slammed it closed and stepped back.

  The sirens were close, just seconds away.

  He jerked his head towards the taxi and watched Tommy open the back door and bundle the girl inside with the baby, jumping in behind her. The door closed, and the taxi screeched away, leaving them all standing in the puff of the exhaust fumes.

  Peach turned away from the scene and walked back to the car while armed response officers poured from their vehicle, barking at Trevor Logan to throw the gun away and get to his knees. Trevor did so without question and put his hands behind his head while the two officers from the squad car emerged, their faces red, their chests puffed out as if to rebut their own cowardice.

  Peach closed the car door, the silence and the salty smell of its new interior enveloping him. He held a thumb and finger to his eyes, eyes that could still see in a face that was still alive.

  ‘Is there anybody there?’

  He frowned down at his car radio. The voice was weak, pathetic.

  ‘Can somebody help me?’

  A smile formed as he remembered throwing his radio onto the farmer’s filthy bed. Denise Morris could stay at Groat Hall Farm for a few hours longer. He was going home, and when he got there, he would stay there. He would sleep for a while and then he would pick Sally up from the hospital, maybe get Pamela’s phone number, take her out somewhere nice to say thank you.

  Thank you.

  It didn’t sound so bad after all.

  He took the car radio from its cradle, turning the dial to control. ‘I’ll be taking the rest of the week off,’ he said. ‘Stick a note on Superintendent McNally’s desk, will you?’

  ‘Will do, sir. I’ve got DS Murphy here, wants a word.’

  ‘Put him on.’

  ‘One of the murders last night wasn’t a hoax,’ Murphy said. ‘A Darren Adams-Deighton was found stabbed to death. Looks like he was a serious dealer judging by the amount of drugs in his house. Don't suppose you fancy adopting a couple of cats, boss?’

  Peach grunted his rejection of the idea. He never wanted to see another cat as long as he lived.

  ‘And, chief, not good news on Frankie Donahue.’

  Peach sighed and hung his head.

  ‘Passed away an hour ago, the family’s all at the hospital.’

  Somebody would die all right. It was only a matter of time.

  As he put his radio back into its cradle, Peach soaked up Valley Park, its narrow roads and uneven p
avements, the shopping trolleys, the graffiti, the boarded-up windows and doors. He wound down his window despite the falling rain, and he could swear heard Valley Park creak under the weight of poverty, crime, and disregard. It seemed to breed badness while the world around it pursued progress. Paul Smart was gone, but Peach had a feeling that something much more dangerous was about to take his place.

  To his right, Trevor Logan’s baby brother, Carl, sat on a wall in a pair of Fraggle Rock pyjamas. As he turned the key in the ignition, Carl formed his fingers into the shape of a gun and pointed them at Peach.

  Carl closed one eye. ‘Bang, bang,’ he said.

  EPILOGUE

  Ibiza

  May 1990

  Tommy and Jed lay side by side on their loungers holding Tom Collins cocktails like a scene from Club Tropicana. Behind them, Shona and Sam held out their arms in the pool as the children jumped in, hoping to be caught, revelling in the potential of being dropped. Hadgy Dodds, his thick, naked chest barely free of hair, shook cocktails for a line of middle-aged women whose sarongs were just low enough to bare their wrinkly cleavages.

  By day, Frankie’s Bar was a family haunt, serving pina coladas, chips, and pizzas – the odd Spanish omelette for those with an appetite for foreign food. By night, its beach parties were legendary across the island, DJs flying in from far and wide to play to the crowds of clubbers who flocked to their all-night extravaganzas. Tommy and Mobz worked day and night to ensure they were the best, unrivalled among all other open-air clubs on the Mediterranean. The merchandise sales were booming, and Tommy had bought the plush sofa for his villa just the week before, the nursery all ready for baby number two.

  Jed supped his cocktail, straining his sunblock-smothered face forward to reach the straws. He didn’t want to age prematurely, he said. He might be a married man, but he wasn’t going to let himself go.

  ‘How’s the car industry?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Cushty, aye.’

  Project management hadn’t been the offer. Jed was on the production line, earning a pretty penny as it happened.