Lies That Blind

by Tony Hutchinson

  The Man waited until they had passed then darted from behind a privet, large sports bag in hand. He yanked open the back door and jumped in behind the driver.

  ‘Slow and steady,’ he said in greeting. ‘No point in attracting attention. Head out of town, south.’

  He put his head back, closed his eyes.

  Nobody spoke.

  Ten minutes later The Man sat forward, head between the two front seats.

  ‘What went wrong then?’ he said in a calm, quiet voice, noticing the ugly gash on Marshall’s head for the first time.

  ‘He put up a fight and legged it,’ Swan answered. ‘I sorted Staples here when we got back to the lock-up so no hospitals to worry about.’

  ‘I’m not interested in his cut head. What happened with Scott Green?’

  ‘When he bolted he ran straight in front of a bus,’ Swan said quickly.

  The Man twisted the black plastic bottle top and turned towards Marshall.

  ‘Go on then, how did you get cut?’

  ‘He kicked me in the head,’ Marshall said, ‘and I bashed into the wall.’

  The Man took three mouthfuls of Diet Coke, looked at the congealed blood around the ridge of staples, and wondered how much blood, how much DNA, was on the wall.

  ‘Turn left here. Get off these main roads. What about the newsagent you mentioned on the phone? Will he say anything?’

  Swan glanced in the rear-view mirror, searching for a clue in The Man’s facial expression. There wasn’t one.

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  The Man sat back and finally examined the sandwiches.

  Marshall stared straight ahead; Swan’s eyes darted between the road and the rearview mirror.

  The Man discarded two packets before opening the third.

  He bit into the Prawn Mayo.

  Marshall held his breath. He didn’t need to look at The Man to know he’d opened a sandwich.

  ‘Just what the doctor ordered. I’m starving.’

  Swan and Marshall exhaled, quiet and slow.

  ‘So,’ The Man continued like a managing director chairing a business meeting. ‘Scott runs in front of a bus. Not your everyday suicide method. Did you get him to write his own note?’

  In the edgy silence, The Man belched loudly. Two things always fizzed him up – Diet Coke and fish and chips. Today it was the Coke. ‘Well?’

  ‘He wouldn’t,’ Marshall blurted out. ‘We couldn’t get him to do it so I wrote it…looked alright though. Looked authentic.’

  ‘What about his mobile?’

  Swan scrambled for approval.

  ‘Took that off him before we went to the multi-storey. It’s smashed to bits and dumped.’

  The Man took another bite and spoke with a mouthful of prawns, pink Marie Rose sauce on the corners of his lips.

  ‘So the note,’ he said, working calmly through the possible consequences. ‘It’s not in his handwriting is it?’

  If the police found the blood, identified Marshall through DNA, it wouldn’t be too hard to obtain handwriting samples and tie him to the note.

  And the newsagent? One description, link it to known associates of Marshall, and bingo, Swan was identified.

  How long before Davy ‘The Bull’ Swan and Jimmy ‘Staples’ Marshall were banged up?

  How long before they tipped him up in a police interview?

  Bull and Staples? Bull and Shit more like.

  He unwrapped the Gala pie and bit into it, fighting the urge to snap it in two and get straight to the egg.

  Two or three minutes of silence followed, tyres on Tarmac and rhythmical chewing the only interruptions.

  Marshall couldn’t wait any longer.

  ‘How did it go at your end?’

  The Man set his teeth around the pork filling, clamped them together and got a mouthful of boiled egg. He chewed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, pastry falling onto the seat. He smiled at the flakes, remembering the young lass this morning pushing the buggy, pasty in mouth and pastry falling onto her child’s head…‘baker’s dandruff’ they called it round here.

  ‘My end? Like clockwork. No problem. Take the next turn-off. Find somewhere quiet to pull over.’

  Minutes later they turned off the rural road onto a track that within ten metres was blocked by a five-bar gate, high hedges either side.

  ‘Turn off the lights.’

  The Man unzipped his bag, put on a pair of gloves and took the mobile out of his pocket. He removed the SIM card, wiped it with his handkerchief, cut it up with a pair of scissors, wiped the phone, got out of the car and then threw all the pieces into the hedge.

  Back in the vehicle he drank greedily from the large bottle of Diet Coke. ‘Don’t worry. It’s sorted now. There’ll be no comebacks on us.’

  He watched two pairs of shoulders in front relax in relief. Like two young scolded children neither turned around; first rule when you’re in the shit… don’t make eye contact.

  The car was in darkness as he leaned forward, put the bottle on the floor and gripped it with his feet. He took the tiny, clear plastic bag from inside his right sock and tipped the powder into the bottle.

  Sam drove into the multi-storey car park opposite Thompson’s Newsagents.

  She had no idea what she was looking for, but if Scott Green had run out of a car park there were two burning questions: how had he got there, and what was he doing there in the first place?

  She slowed on level 4. The old car park attendant was checking tickets on windscreens. She didn’t realise they still had staff, presumed they were redundant, replaced by Automatic Number Plate Retrieval cameras.

  It was 11.35pm.

  Tall and stick-thin, the weight of the uniform jacket pushed the man’s shoulders towards the ground.

  She pulled up alongside him, wound down her window, and flashed her warrant card.

  ‘Sorry to bother you. I just need to do a check of your car park. Nothing to worry about.’

  He adjusted his cap, a mark of respect to authority, old school manners; jacket and tie to visit the doctor type.

  Jim McLean, too tired to be curious, old enough to be polite, bent down and put his bony hand on her door. ‘That’s okay pet. Need a hand?’

  ‘I’ll be fine thanks. Tell me, is the car park cameraed up?’

  ‘Normally it is, but it’s all down. Maintenance have been working on it all day.’

  ‘You been here long?’

  ‘Since eight this morning. Doing a double shift. Josh, one of the other lads, rang in sick. I’m doing my eight ‘til four, and his four ‘til midnight. That’s when this place shuts.’

  Sam’s smile turned to pity. The guy must be in his late seventies. Double shift? In this concrete tomb?

  ‘Actually, you probably can help me, but only if you’ve got time...’

  She raised her eyebrows. Old or not he picked up on the unspoken question.

  ‘Jim. Jim McLean.’

  ‘Have you seen anything unusual today Jim?’

  She avoided the word suspicious; that invariably led to a resounding ‘no’.

  People were more likely to tell you about unusual things. ‘Unusual’ could mean anything, a less loaded word than suspicious.

  ‘No…well apart from the accident outside with the bus.’

  ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘Not the bloke getting knocked down. I heard the sirens. Went out to see what the fuss was about.’

  Sam looked at his frail hand, translucent skin, clipped nails and broad wedding ring.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Sam said, ‘Jump in.’

  The higher she drove, the less cars there were.

  ‘Is it always this quiet?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, not many left now, and only overnighters coming in.’

  By the time they reached the upper level Sam knew Jim McLean was 79 years old, married more than half a century, had two children and three grandchildren and would be a great grandfather very soon. He had worked hard at a vari
ety of jobs, never claimed benefits in his life and always believed the state would provide him and his wife with enough money to get by. Working at his age had never crossed his mind.

  Sam parked up and they both got out.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Jim McLean asked, adjusting his cap again.

  ‘Not sure. Sorry to sound evasive. I just want to walk around.’

  She counted three cars. ‘You stay here. If I need anything I’ll shout.’

  He nodded and watched as Sam looked at the tickets in the windscreens. Each car had been there since around 11 that morning, which explained why they were on the top tier. She touched the bonnets – all cold.

  Sam walked to the pedestrian exit door, put her back to it and looked around. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

  She walked slowly to the perimeter, eyes searching the grey concrete floor and walls. It took her less than five minutes to find red-brown splatters on the wall just below head height, more red-brown drops on the floor.

  ‘Jim. Can you come here please?’

  He walked briskly, alert and interested now.

  ‘You know how long that’s been here?’

  She pointed to the drops. Sam would need forensic scientists to confirm it was blood and if she was right, DNA would hopefully tell her who it belonged to. Blood Pattern Analysis would help her understand what had happened.

  Jim McLean shook his head.

  ‘Wasn’t here this afternoon. We have to report that sort of thing. Graffiti, vomit. You’d never believe what people do in car parks.’

  I probably would.

  ‘We have to keep everything clean as possible. Them up high say it’s all about the customer experience.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘All they want to do is park their cars. Not stop for a picnic.’

  You and Ed would get on like a house on fire.

  ‘How can you be sure it wasn’t here this afternoon?’

  Jim McLean closed his tired eyes and remembered.

  ‘About four o’clock I helped an old lady with her shopping.’

  Sam smiled, wondering if the ‘old’ lady was younger than him.

  ‘She was parked just here. I’d have seen it.’

  ‘Just excuse me for a minute Jim.’

  Sam stepped away and made the call.

  Once SOCO had arrived, taped off the area and started photographing and swabbing the walls, she walked every level with Jim including the staircase. Satisfied there was nothing else untoward she thanked him, drove out of the car park and went to HQ to brief Monica Teal.

  Sam had plenty to tell her but first and foremost would be remembering to ask the ACC to send a letter of appreciation to Jim McLean’s employers.

  The Man had hidden in the hedgerow for over half an hour. Two cars had driven past, too fast to notice the car parked on the darkened track.

  Swan and Marshall were still in their seats. The crushed Rohypnol tablets had left them semi-conscious. The carbon monoxide had put them in a coma.

  Once the Rohypnol had kicked in, The Man had taken a length of flexi-hose and a jubilee clip from his bag. He had fastened one end of the hose around the exhaust, fed the other through the driver’s window and climbed into the back seat.

  He had reached around Swan and sealed the window with gaffer tape. The Man wasn’t stupid enough to tape the window from the outside. No point in giving the police a bone.

  He had dropped the gaffer tape in the driver’s foot-well – the gloves he was wearing would conceal his prints – then lifted Swan’s limp right hand, pressing his compliant fingers against the tape around the window. He had let Swan’s arm fall, checked the car was in neutral, and stretched to turn on the ignition.

  Back by the hedgerow he waited and listened, doing his best to tune his ears into everything except the idling engine next to him.

  Thirty minutes felt like two hours. The Man was always careful but patience was never easy for him. Finally, another vehicle approached, the sound of the engine slowing over three high-pitched horn beeps as it pulled up just before the farm track.

  The Man moved quickly from the hedgerow and put his hands on the warm bonnet of the car still pouring exhaust fumes through the taped driver’s window. Through the windscreen, Swan and Marshall were barely visible, motionless ghosts consumed by a fog that churned and boiled with lazy grace.

  Satisfied, The Man walked to his pre-arranged lift.

  ‘Sorted?’ the driver asked.

  The Man closed the door and fastened his seat belt.

  ‘They’ll not be talking to anybody,’ he said. ‘Like the Green Party says, pollution’s a fucking killer.’

  The Man laughed at his own sense of humour and told the driver to head to York on the A19 South.

  The driver glanced back., ‘What’s in York?’

  ‘I’ll find a B and B,’ The Man said. ‘Bed down for the night then tomorrow catch a train to King’s Cross.’

  The train might be a bit of a risk but he had business in London that couldn’t wait.

  ‘I need to be back home by Monday night,’ The Man said, thinking of the rented high-rise, a suburban prison with communal gardens and stuck-up arseholes who thought the weekend trip to Waitrose and a couple of overpriced pints on the waterfront was the good life.

  Still it wasn’t for much longer.

  ‘The driver accelerated and moved smoothly through the gears.

  ‘There’ll be CCTV everywhere at York Station.’

  ‘I’ll keep my head down,’ The Man said, tired of talking now. ‘Nobody will be looking for me.’

  The driver concentrated on the poorly lit road, travelled a couple of miles before speaking again.

  ‘You still in that rented place?’

  The Man grimaced and stared out into the darkness.

  ‘For now, but Christ I can’t stay there much longer. Talk about Stepford.’

  The driver glanced at him again.

  He thought about explaining the ‘Stepford Wives’ movie but what was the point? Too young for the original, probably too young for the 2004 remake.

  ‘Do you need me to stay in York tonight?’

  Now he let his eyes take in the soft profile of the woman behind the wheel.

  ‘No, just drop me off and get yourself back home,’ The Man told her. ‘‘And if you get any more visits from the cops, stick to the plan. They’ve got nothing. They’re just fishing.’

  He looked at her again.

  Tara would be a beautiful distraction, but distractions like her came at too high a price.

  Chapter 18

  Sam briefed Monica Teal on the Malvern Close shootings, and told her all the post mortems would be carried out in the morning.

  ‘The scene’s cordoned off and preserved,’ Sam said. ‘We’ll not be able to speak to many witnesses tonight. The firearms teams, negotiators and everybody else will have had their hot debrief. May as well make an early start tomorrow. Nothing’s spoiling.’

  ‘Makes sense. Thanks Sam.’

  Sam walked back to her office.

  As arranged, Russell Willings was waiting.

  She hung up her coat.

  ‘Have you got a statement from the woman in the push chair?’ Sam asked, walking to her chair.

  ‘I have, boss,’ Willings’ eagerness was radiating like cheap cologne. ‘Corroborates what the newsagent says.’

  Sam sat down, leaned forward, and rubbed her eyes. She could do without this but no way would she let Mick Wright kick the investigation into the long grass.

  ‘Okay. Have you got the suicide note?’

  Russell Willings nodded, handed her a scrap of paper in a clear plastic bag. It was written, if that was the correct phrase, in blue ink. The block capitals could easily be mistaken for the handwriting of a child.

  I’VE HAD ENOUGH. TO MUCH SHIT TO MUCH HASSEL.

  OUR LASS LEEVING WAS THE LAST STRAW.

  NO POINT IN GOING ON.

  I WON’T BE MISSED.


  NOBODY GIVES A FUCK.

  Sam read it three times; each time slower than the time before.

  ‘You spoke to his wife?’

  Willings nodded. ‘They’d been together over twenty years but she plucked up the courage to leave him three months ago. It wasn’t common knowledge. She hadn’t told anybody, apart from a few of ours who helped get her into a refuge. She’s still devastated, though. Idolised him despite everything’

  ‘She should have got away years ago,’ Sam said.

  Scott Green was quick with his fists and if there was no other target, Linda would do.

  Sam remembered him as a nasty piece of work. She’d interviewed him a couple of times years ago. He was the type who didn’t even say ‘No reply’ in police interviews, just sat there with a smart-arse smile, grinning at every question.

  Not that Scott Green had always been an obvious low life.

  The son of a Welsh miner, his world had revolved around Rugby Union since the age of seven. The sport was his past, present and golden future until he did his knee in a game with a touring side from Australia. By the time he met Linda in a pub in St Davids, when she was camping with friends, Scott Green was drifting. He’d shown her around the Pembrokeshire coast and after ten days together, with nothing to stay for, he had followed her to Seaton St George.

  Linda’s uncle was Billy Skinner.

  With no qualifications, no family ties in the north east, and one casual labouring job after another, Green’s journey to the bad lands became nailed on.

  He had become one of Skinner’s trusted inner circle and was loyal to Luke, the youngest son, after Skinner was killed. At one time Green’s name carried weight, even fear, but not now. The Skinner empire was falling apart and Scott Green had been finding himself more and more isolated with nowhere to run.

  ‘The SIM card in his sock,’ Sam was saying now. ‘Did he have a mobile on him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Strange,’ Sam said. ‘We’ll see what’s on the SIM.’

  She told Willings about what she had found in the car park.

  ‘We still have the bus?’ she went on.

  Russell nodded.

  ‘While we’re checking it for faults let’s take a look at its CCTV. It might have picked something up.’