by Adam Croft
He’d learnt a lot on the inside. That’s the sort of thing that happens when you’re given time to think. Especially when you’re given eleven years to think. By the end of it all he’d just wanted to get out, wanted to make a fresh start and try again. He’d still be under the watchful eye of the authorities — he’d have a probation officer visiting him regularly — but to all intents and purposes he was a free man. Certainly freer than he’d been a day or two earlier, anyway.
He’d done what he’d needed to do to come to terms with everything that had happened. Forgive and forget, they all said. That had never seemed possible. But sometimes — just sometimes — something would happen that’d mean it all became irrelevant. Events had a funny way of putting things in perspective. And now he was able to move on with his life, free from the bitterness and anger that had consumed him for so many years.
True enough, the decision had been his. It had been a spur of the moment thing. He didn’t feel he’d been left with any option. It was the only way out. At least, it had seemed that way at the time. Soon enough, the testosterone and adrenaline had died down and he’d been able to see that it was a bad move. But still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his hand had been forced, that he didn’t have another option. And when all was said and done, that decision had been forced upon him by Freddie bloody Galloway, whether he liked it or not.
He started to feel the anger rising again, then told himself that he didn’t need to feel angry any more. This was all over. He was able to move on now, to become a bigger and better person. He couldn’t let what happened all those years ago rule his life any more. If he did, it threatened to consume him and take over. Now he was able to make a clean break. Now his destiny was in his own hands.
He sipped at the hot mug of tea, not minding the fact that it was scalding his lips. To be able to have a piping hot cup of tea was a luxury compared to the lukewarm shit he’d been given in prison. What he did mind, though, was that his doorbell had just rung, quickly followed by a knock at the door.
His probation officer wasn’t due to visit until tomorrow. What concerned him the most was that many of the old gang still knew where he lived. He’d never been afraid of that, never worried about hiding it. There was honour amongst thieves, as the saying went, and at the end of the day no-one had any reason to hold a grudge against him. But spending his life mixed up with bad people had made him unavoidably paranoid.
He went to the curtains in the living room and peered out through the gap, looking at the two figures standing by his front door. In that instant, he knew this wasn’t going to be good.
14
Tyrone grunted and let out a groan of intense pleasure tinged with an undercurrent of pain. The pain wasn’t a bad thing, though; it felt good. It was all part of it, as far as he was concerned.
He felt the strong release as he ejaculated onto the bedsheets below him, feeling the movement slow and stop as Lenny’s hand returned to Tyrone’s right hip, before Lenny eased himself out, allowing Tyrone to flop down onto the bed, avoiding the sticky patch he’d just created.
He’d been coming to see Lenny for almost two years now, and he felt they’d built up a connection, a bond. He knew damn well there was no way he’d build up a real relationship with a rent boy, a male prostitute whose job was to make men feel special, but after the number of times he’d been to see Lenny, Lenny had got to know exactly what Tyrone had liked. It had got better every time.
Immediately afterwards came the guilt. Every single time. It flooded him with the undeniable feeling that what he had done was wrong, that if anyone he knew found out about it his life would be over. He asked himself the same old questions: Why did he come here? Why couldn’t he have satisfied those urges on his own? But that was nothing compared to the absolute pleasure he’d felt in the preceding minutes, which was the whole reason he’d kept coming here, time after time, for the past couple of years.
He’d be crucified if anyone he knew found out. In the circles he moved in, homosexuality was worse than a sin. Not that Tyrone was gay, of course — he’d never use that word to describe himself. He just had certain ... urges. He’d never enter into a relationship with a man. There was no way he could even if he wanted to, but the thought often made him feel repulsed. He knew he’d been conditioned to feel that way due to his upbringing and cultural background, but that knowledge changed nothing. It was built into his DNA to feel that what he was doing was wrong. Worse than wrong.
‘You know, you lads need to give yourselves a break,’ Lenny said, as he pulled on his jeans.
‘How d’you mean?’ Tyrone replied, refusing to meet his eye.
‘You black guys. You always pretend like it hasn’t happened, like it’s not perfectly normal and natural to have desires.’
Tyrone sat on the edge of the bed, ignoring the pain from his backside, and leant down to pick up his boxer shorts before putting them on.
‘Dunno what you’re talking about. I’m just tired. Had a long week.’
‘You’ve been having long weeks for the past two years then. All your lot have. You all act the same afterwards. Like it’s some big sin. That mama’s going to disown you for it if she finds out.’
Tyrone instinctively closed the space between him and Lenny, keen to intimidate him but at the same time not wanting to get too close right now. ‘You know nothing about my mum, alright? And you can cut out the racism ’n’all.’
Lenny looked at Tyrone and shook his head as he watched him put his own jeans on before pulling a tight t-shirt over his muscled torso. ‘It’s not racism, sweetie. It’s a pattern I’ve noticed. You all seem to do it. Why can’t you just let go and enjoy yourselves?’
Tyrone fished a wad of notes out of his pocket and threw two twenties and a ten onto the bed. ‘Fifty quid, isn’t it?’ he asked, knowing damn well the special price they’d agreed months ago.
‘Only for you. Seriously, though. You need to let loose. It’s not good for you to ignore it and carry this round like it’s some sort of burden. Black guys can be gay, you know. You’re not exempt.’
Tyrone stopped tying his lace for a moment and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself and avoid getting worked up. ‘Like I said. I’m just tired. It’s been a long week.’
Lenny was less than convinced, but he could see he wasn’t going to get any further with this. ‘Alright. I won’t push. But just know that it’s never as bad as you think, alright? The world’s moved on. The vast majority of people are cool with it. You might be surprised.’
Tyrone nodded and picked up his gym bag before going to walk past Lenny and head for the door. As he did, Lenny took hold of his arm.
‘Same time next week?’
Tyrone avoided Lenny’s eye and pulled free from his grip. ‘I’ll let you know.’
15
‘John Lucas?’ Culverhouse said as the man in front of him opened the door.
‘Yeah, why?’
‘Can we come in?’ the DCI replied, already pushing his way past John Lucas and into the house, Wendy following behind him.
‘Doesn’t look like I’ve got much choice, does it?’
‘Just wondered if we could ask you a few questions, that’s all,’ Culverhouse called from the living room. ‘Nice wallpaper, by the way.’
‘It’s my mum’s. Was. And anyway, I deal with the probation service now. You lot had your moment eleven years ago. I’m clean now.’
Culverhouse snorted as he put the photo of John’s mum and dad back on the mantelpiece. ‘Once a con, always a con.’
John stood in the doorway and folded his arms. ‘I know what this is all about. This is because of that copper, isn’t it? You lot never could admit that people make mistakes, they change. It was eleven years ago. It was a mistake.’
Culverhouse walked slowly over to John until he was almost nose-to-nose with him. ‘“That copper” had a name. His name was Owen McCready. He was a dedicated, loyal police officer who worked to keep the public safe. He had a bul
let lodged in his pre-frontal cortex. A bullet fired from your gun. He spent four months in hospital, came out a changed man who managed to ruin his marriage and never worked again. He had a name.’
John nodded, holding Culverhouse’s eye contact. ‘Like I said. It was a mistake. I served my time.’
‘You didn’t serve a quarter of what you deserved,’ Culverhouse said, sitting down in an armchair. ‘Now. Where were you last night?’
‘I was here,’ Lucas replied. ‘I’m not allowed anywhere else.’
‘I know you’re not. You tagged?’
‘No.’
‘So how are we meant to know where you were last night?’ Culverhouse asked.
Wendy hovered behind John Lucas, keen to see how this was going to play out.
‘Listen, I was released on parole because I’d served my time and the prison reported to the parole board that I’d been on my best behaviour. Read the judgement. It declared me to be a reformed character who deserved a second chance. What do you reckon the odds are of me breaking the terms of my probation on the first bloody night I’m released? I was here. All night. And I’m still here.’
‘Do you live alone?’
‘Yes. My mum died while I was inside.’
‘Hence the wallpaper,’ Culverhouse quipped, gesturing at the walls. Lucas ignored him. ‘I presume the name Freddie Galloway means something to you?’
John Lucas laughed. ‘You know damn well it does. You’ve not come here knocking on random doors, have you? You know about me, and you know about Freddie Galloway.’
‘And what do you know about him? Any idea what he’s up to at the moment?’
Lucas swallowed hard. ‘I don’t know and I don’t care. I’ve put that all behind me now.’
Culverhouse nodded as he looked at him. ‘And what if I was to tell you that he’s currently lying on a slab in the mortuary, having been moved there from a slab in his back garden?’
He watched as Lucas registered what he was telling him, but he couldn’t see any signs of recognition or reaction to what he'd said.
‘I don’t know,’ Lucas said, eventually. ‘I want to say “good”, but I don’t see how that would help anyone.’
Wendy gave Culverhouse a look that said he should just arrest Lucas and get it over with. PACE guidelines suggested that arrests should be made immediately, meaning that anything the suspect said could be taken down as evidence to be used against him. All the time Culverhouse spent talking to Lucas before arresting him was potentially wasted, and anything he said could easily be thrown out in court. But Culverhouse had his own way of doing things and tended to follow his nose rather than the guidelines — something which had rarely let him down in the past.
‘What were you wearing last night?’ Culverhouse asked.
‘Uh, a t-shirt and jeans I think. Why?’
‘Where are they?’
‘In my washing basket, upstairs in the bedroom.’
Culverhouse nodded to Wendy to go upstairs and retrieve the washing basket as evidence. Potentially, they could find traces of accelerant on the material or other evidence which would link John Lucas to the scene of the arson attack on Freddie Galloway’s house.
‘Righto. In the meantime, Mr Lucas. You’re coming with me.’ Culverhouse read him his rights as dictated by the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, put the handcuffs on him and led him out to the car.
16
By the time Jack and Wendy had got back from John Lucas’s house, the team had begun gathering together all the information they had relating to the man and his past. Having had Lucas booked into the custody suite, they’d left him to sit in a cell while they gathered everything they needed for the interview.
They knew they’d have twenty-four hours in which to speak to him and gather enough evidence to convince the Crown Prosecution Service to authorise charging Lucas. If that time passed, they’d either need to request an extension — something which was far from guaranteed — or release him.
‘There’s quite a lot of information on the armed robbery case itself, and even more on things John Lucas said afterwards, while he was in prison,’ DC Ryan Mackenzie said. ‘Two men were convicted over the Trenton-Lowe robbery. One of them was John Lucas. He blabbed more or less straight away about who else was involved. He named Galloway, but later retracted that. Afterwards, he’d only ever give the nicknames. The officers who questioned him at the time suspected he knew their real names, but didn’t want to say.’
‘Why would he do that, though? I mean, if he was blabbing anyway, why not go the whole hog?’ Wendy asked.
‘To make us think he’s told us everything,’ Culverhouse said. ‘Seem like you’re being helpful and cooperative, but hold a load back. Tried and tested.’
Ryan continued. ‘The names he gave were Footloose, Peter and Bruno. Now, the officers at the time assumed Footloose was Freddie Galloway, otherwise known as Footloose Freddie. That was no surprise to anyone. They later found out that Peter was actually a man by the name of Benjamin Newell.’
‘Why Peter?’ Steve asked.
‘Comes from “Peterman”, a slang term for a safecracker. He was the one who was meant to break into the safe and steal the cash. But something went wrong. In interview he said he was told the safe was a completely different type. Said the information was duff. He wouldn’t blame it on anyone in particular, though. Again, the general consensus was Freddie Galloway.’
‘Another motive for murder,’ Culverhouse interrupted. ‘If you’re due a huge wad of cash and some dozy bastard fucks it up by giving you dodgy info, you’d want to do something about it, wouldn’t you? Might be worth looking at Newell’s finances and recent history. See if there’s something that might’ve urged him to act now.’
‘Well that’s the thing,’ Ryan said. ‘Why wait that long? Newell was only in prison for three and a half years. He could’ve done Galloway over any time he wanted. Why wait until now?’
‘Because doing it the day he got out of prison would’ve looked a bit too obvious, don’t you think? Look how quickly we descended on John Lucas when we realised he’d been released the same day Freddie Galloway’s place burnt to the ground. That’s why I’m not convinced it was him.’
‘What if it was Newell, and he’d done it that day because he knew it’d frame Lucas?’ Steve offered.
‘Possible,’ Culverhouse replied.
‘Thing is,’ Ryan continued, ‘There are a number of statements from prison officers and other people Lucas had spoken to. He regularly and openly spoke about how Galloway had “done him over” and left him to face the music alone. Galloway — assuming he’s Footloose — and this Bruno guy left via the back entrance and managed to escape. Lucas and Newell — Headache and Peter — went back out the front.’
‘Headache?’ Culverhouse asked, his face contorted.
Ryan shrugged and shook her head slightly. ‘No idea. Never got to the bottom of that one. But they were stopped by a patrol officer who heard the call over the radio. He was in the area at the time. He recognised Lucas, and made the stupid mistake of telling him so. He took a bullet to the head. When he came round in hospital he gave Lucas’s name and they matched gunshot residue found on his clothing. Seems he’d been so confident he’d killed the officer, he didn’t even bother to chuck his clothes in the wash. Newell was driving the getaway van. He drove off after Lucas shot the police officer, and was stopped less than half a mile down the road. He drove into the side of a chip shop trying to escape from traffic officers who tried to pull him over for having no insurance.’
Culverhouse guffawed. ‘You couldn’t make it up. What a bunch of twats.’
‘Lucas was the one who seemed to suffer most. He got the longest sentence, obviously, for pulling the trigger. Apparently he was more than willing to give up all sorts of information by the time he was up for parole. Possible he was trying to buy his way out, but the parole board said he seemed genuinely remorseful and that he wanted to help.’
Culverho
use snorted. ‘Yeah, we’ve seen that before. It’s amazing how many born-again-Christians pop up six weeks before their parole hearings. John Lucas might’ve been able to pull the wool over the parole board’s eyes, but I’m something different altogether.’
‘You can say that again,’ Frank Vine muttered under his breath.
Culverhouse, although blessed with supersonic hearing, pretended not to hear him.
‘Right. Well, I think we’d better go and have a word or two with Mr Lucas, don’t you?’
17
Benjamin Newell beamed with pride as he watched his new wife strutting her stuff on the dance floor, surrounded by friends and family. The day had gone beautifully, and everyone seemed to have a great time. Lisa had used the bride’s prerogative to make him wait an extra ten minutes, turning up to the ceremony fashionably late. But he hadn’t doubted that she’d come — not really. He’d never been able to rely on anyone up until meeting Lisa, but he knew he could trust her fully. It was the first time he’d ever been able to give himself to anyone completely, and it felt hugely refreshing.
He sidled up to the bar and ordered another pint of Foster’s. It was easy drinking, and today had been a warm day — not to mention the heat building up inside the venue now that the disco lights were on and the guests were busy dancing away. Some’d had more to drink than others, as was customary at British weddings, and the guy standing to his left seemed to be swaying rhythmically to a completely different song than the one that was actually playing.