‘Yes. It’s always been like that. But not this time. He’s on remand in Manchester. Well I’ve got the young in-law … well, they were never married. But he was bunking up with Rikki Rossi’s daughter, Sharon Rossi, his pride and joy. She was going steady with Pete Grady, more than two years. I got him, Pete Grady, willing to give evidence against Rikki … for murder.’
Angel’s eyebrows shot up. Sounded good, in fact, very good; quite a coup.
‘What’s the deal, sir?’
‘No deal. You could say vengeance. It was Rikki that made Sharon give Grady the push. Grady didn’t like it. Still doesn’t.’ ‘You remember that cheeky robbery last October at the Northern City Bank in Streatham,’ Strawbridge went on. ‘Murdered a man. Bank clerk. Nasty. Got away with a hundred and ten thousand. Never found the cash.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘The Rossis pulled that job. Yes. Gina, their mother, was the queen bee, and the driver. Rikki and Carl and Pete Grady were the workers. But Grady says he wasn’t armed. Says he didn’t carry a gun. Furthermore, he says it was Rikki who pulled the trigger on that bank clerk. In fact, he’s prepared to swear he did.’
Angel blinked and gave a little nod. This was indeed great stuff.
‘Well it’s time Rikki Rossi was put away. There are at least seven murders down to him. He’s been working his way through the other criminals on his patch. Well, Rikki’s on remand in Strangeways, well, it’s just called plain Manchester these days. But I can’t send him down without Pete Grady’s evidence. Trial’s in Manchester, case opens Monday.’
‘What do you want me to do, sir.’
‘I want you to keep him hidden and alive until after the trial.’
‘You mean in the safe house.’
Strawbridge shook his head.
‘Police safe houses aren’t safe enough.’
*
‘Come in,’ Angel bawled.
Ahmed came into the office gripping a tin tray with a beaker of tea wobbling precariously in the middle of it. He closed the door and turned to Angel who was busy at his desk.
‘Ah. Ta,’ Angel said, looking up. He quickly yanked open his desk drawer, pulled out a BT Broadband disc and slapped it down next to the telephone.
Ahmed carefully placed the beaker on it.
Angel picked it up, took a trial sip and winced.
‘What is it? Turpentine?’
The cadet smiled wryly and shook his head. He knew the tea was good.
‘Ahmed, I want you to get me the housing manager at the Town Hall. I reckon he owes me a favour, the amount I’m paying in community tax or whatever it’s called these days.’
‘The housing manager, sir? Is that his title?’
‘Dunno. I want the chap who allocates council-owned rented flats or maisonettes in the borough.’
‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said and turned to go. He wondered what the inspector wanted with a rented flat.
Suddenly, out in the corridor there was a loud scream. Sounded like a woman or a girl. It was a very loud scream. Then another.
They stared at the door.
The back of Ahmed’s hand turned to goose-flesh.
‘Sir!’ he said and looked anxiously at the inspector.
Angel’s fists tightened. He licked his lips.
‘Better take a look.’
He jumped up, knocking the swivel chair back with the back of his legs.
The screaming continued; it was ear-piercing.
‘Hurry up.’
Ahmed opened the door.
Angel charged out into the corridor.
The cadet followed close behind.
There was no immediate sign of anything or anybody. Four or five office doors opened in quick succession. Anxious faces looked out. Then, from the female locker room a WPC backed out into the corridor. It was clear to see that it was WPC Leisha Baverstock, the station beauty, in uniform but without a hat. She didn’t look that beautiful at the moment. She was holding her face with both hands, and, as she turned, Angel could see her big eyes were bigger than ever; her mouth was open and her lips were quivering. She spotted Angel, turned rapidly towards him and wrapped her arms round his shoulders and crashed her head on to his chest.
Angel didn’t move. He stood there motionless like Nelson on his column. It was unexpected.
‘What is it, constable,’ he eventually said, lamely. ‘Erm … what’s the matter, Leisha?’
She looked up into his face, blinked, pulled away from him and fished around in her pocket for something.
‘Oh. Sorry, sir.’ Then she pointed at the locker room door. ‘It’s in there,’ she wailed. ‘Under the sink.’ She found a tissue and blew her nose.
‘What is?’
‘A rat, sir.’
‘A rat! Is it dead?’
She squirmed.
‘Oooo, no. No. Running up and down,’ she squealed.
Angel sniffed.
‘How big is it?’
‘Huge!’ She held her finger and thumb two inches apart. ‘With its tail, I reckon it’ll be four inches long.’
Angel pulled a face.
‘It’ll be a field mouse. That won’t hurt you.’
The nosey parkers down the corridor hanging out of the offices smiled, withdrew and closed their doors.
‘I can’t go back in there again, sir,’ she said.
Two more WPCs appeared from up the corridor and gathered round the woman and began chattering animatedly.
Angel took the opportunity to escape. He turned and made his way down the corridor to his office.
‘All that for a field mouse,’ he muttered.
Ahmed caught up with him.
‘Shouldn’t we get a cat, sir?’
Angel blinked then shook his head.
‘Would you condemn a cat to living in this mad house?’
As they walked back to the office, Ahmed considered the merits and demerits of being a cat living in Bromersley nick, while Angel recalled that he had heard screams like that once in a bank siege, where a cornered gunman had shot an assistant bank manager. He remembered the crack of the bullet and the distressing reactions of the wife on being told. His mind then drifted into thinking about Pete Grady …
3.
The noon train from King’s Cross pulled into Doncaster station at 13.32.
Michael Angel was standing on Platform 1, half concealed from the track by a telephone kiosk. He was pretending to read a copy of the Financial Times, inside which was tacked a four-year-old mugshot of Pete Grady.
The diesel rattled noisily up to the platform. People on the platform going to Leeds surged forward. Doors flew open as the train slowed and the passengers inside crowded at the top of the steps waiting for it to stop. He peered over the top of the paper and saw a familiar face on the top step of a carriage as it glided slowly past. It was not a face he had been expecting to see that afternoon. For a moment, he couldn’t quite place it. He remembered it had been a long time since he had felt the owner’s collar. The name came to him. Stuart Mace, gambling club proprietor, con man, bully-boy, extortionist and versatile villain extraordinaire, looking very prosperous: well-trimmed beard, sharp suit, umbrella, expensive suitcase. What was he doing back here? He had thought he had left South Yorkshire for sunnier climes. Well, it was a free country: it was a public railway station, and he had served his time. He watched the bearded Stuart Mace step off the moving train and lose himself among the crowd of passengers making their way down the steps to the exit. If he hadn’t already had a pressing appointment, he might have been tempted to follow him; he was bound to be up to no good. He rubbed his chin. He hoped Mace hadn’t been ‘associating with’ Grady. Of course, they might have known each other from way back. They might have been in the same prison, even shared a cell, maybe, at some time. Angel wasn’t looking for complications. It was his job to keep Grady alive, at least until after he’d given his evidence at Rikki Rossi’s trial.
A tall, distinguished-looking man about thirty, in a su
it as sharp as Maggie Thatcher’s tongue, stepped down on to the platform from a following carriage. He had prematurely greying hair and a jet-black moustache. He was looking round. It was Pete Grady all right. Angel recognised him from the photograph and discreetly waved the Financial Times to attract his attention. Grady spotted him. With his eyebrows raised, he advanced on Angel fast. He was carrying a suitcase in his left hand and had his right hand thrust hard down in his raincoat pocket. Angel didn’t like that. He sensed danger. His jaw tightened. His pulse raced.
‘You must be Michael Angel?’ Grady said nonchalantly with the corners of his mouth turned upwards.
Angel didn’t reply. He dropped the pink paper, closed in on the man, made a grab for his raincoat pocket with both hands, directed his hand towards the ground and squeezed very, very hard. As he suspected, through the gabardine he felt the barrel of a handgun.
Grady lost his cool.
‘Get off!’ he yelled and tried to batter him on the hip with the suitcase.
Several passengers rushing past gave them curious looks.
Grady lifted his knee to Angel’s groin.
Angel anticipated it. He bent forward and stuck out his backside.
‘You’ve got a gun!’ Angel said, his jaw set like the Rock of Gibraltar. ‘And that’s not friendly.’
Grady didn’t reply.
Angel squeezed his hand even harder.
‘You’re hurting, you fool,’ Grady yelled. He stopped struggling.
‘Take your hand out of your pocket … very slowly,’ Angel said through his teeth while adjusting his grip so that Grady’s fingers were free. ‘Leave the gun in there.’
Grady’s lips tightened. He brought out the crushed hand.
Angel dived into the pocket, pulled out the gun and glanced at it. It was a Walther PPK/S automatic. It was fully loaded with eight rounds. He checked the safety catch then pushed it into his own pocket.
Grady exercised his hand to recover the feeling. ‘You can’t take that iron. Angel. I need that. It’s me they’re looking for, you know.’
Angel glared at him.
‘Come on,’ he replied briskly. ‘Let’s go.’
He bent down, recovered the newspaper concealing the photograph, and walked briskly with the crowd down the steps, along the tunnel, up more steps to the ticket barrier, Grady keeping close behind. Once out of the station, they moved swiftly to his car which was on a yellow line at the front. Grady put his suitcase in the back and jumped into the front passenger seat. Angel raced up to the station traffic-lights as they turned red. He glared up at them and slammed on the brake.
‘I want that iron back,’ Grady snarled. ‘There was nothing in the arrangement that said I couldn’t carry a gun.’
Angel shook his head determinedly.
‘I am a policeman, Grady. I can’t let you swan around with a gun when I am unarmed. Stands to reason.’
The lights changed. Angel let in the clutch and turned left on to the North Bridge.
Grady rubbed his hand hard across his wet lips.
‘Ask Strawbridge. Ring him up. He’ll tell you. I don’t think you appreciate the position I’m in,’ he yelled.
Angel didn’t reply. His jaw stiffened as he thought about it. But he was confident Strawbridge would agree with him that they couldn’t let an ex-con walk about carrying a handgun while he hadn’t so much as a peashooter to defend himself.
The car slowed. Grady looked out of the window. They were approaching a crossroads. Angel turned left at the sign that read: Bromersley 12 m.
‘Where are you putting me up then?’
‘On your own, in a flat.’
Grady pursed his lips.
‘Not a safe house?’
‘No. The DS wasn’t happy about the security. It’s a small, self-contained furnished flat in a block of twelve. Near the centre of town. Rented from the council. Short term. Social Services. They think you are a charity case, needing temporary shelter while you recover from an illness. You couldn’t be safer.’
‘You mean they think I’m a tramp,’ he growled.
‘No. It’s rather swish. You’ve got your own bed. Your own telly. Your own loo. Your own kitchen. I got Tesco to deliver a big shop this morning. All right?’
He wrinkled his nose.
‘I could eat out.’
‘You eat there,' Angel snapped.
‘Mmm. No phone?’
Angel blinked.
‘Who would you want to ring?’
‘I got my mobile.’
‘Don’t use it, and don’t answer it.’
‘Who are the neighbours?’
‘Mostly single, elderly retired folk. People on their own. You’ve just got to keep the door locked, and your face away from the window.’
He sniffed. ‘Who knows about me, then?’
‘Just the super and me. That’s all. I tell you, you couldn’t be safer.’
A mobile phone rang out; Angel dipped into his pocket, glanced at the LCD, then put it to his ear.
‘Yes, sir? … He’s with me now … Yes sir … straight to the flat … right, sir.’
He turned to Grady.
‘He wants to speak to you.’
Grady’s eyes lit up. He snatched the phone.
‘Hey, Strawbridge, your man here has taken my gun. You know, I need a gun. If Rikki or Carl or Missis G or any of them get anywhere near me, I’m finished. You know that! They’ll rub me out. Look, Strawbridge, if I’m going to do this for you, you’ve got to do this for me. I gotta have my protection with me, all the time, night and day, you promised me. And your man says you’re not even putting me in a safe house … I gotta have my gun … Yes. All right … all right. Hold on.’
He turned to Angel, grinned and passed him the phone.
Angel couldn’t believe what was coming, and he didn’t like it one bit. He put it to his ear.
‘Angel … yes, sir … yes, sir … yes, sir.’ He pulled a face like a man having his prostate checked. He closed the phone, dropped it in his pocket. Then he drove on. He remained silent for a minute or so, then he took out the Walther and passed it to Grady.
Grady smiled and stuffed it into his raincoat pocket.
Angel drove into the service road at the back of Beckett’s Flats. It was narrow and crammed with cars parked all down one side. He found a gap and managed to manoeuvre his way into it. As he switched off the ignition, he told Grady to stay in the car while he walked back to the narrow turning to see if anybody had been following them. He ran back to the corner, waited half a minute, it all seemed clear so he returned and together they made an orderly entrance through the back gate across the small yard and up three steps. He tapped a four digit code into the panel on the door. It was simple enough to remember. It was simply 4321. He saw that Grady had carefully watched him put in the number. The door opened. They climbed a flight of concrete steps with green painted iron railings round them, to a landing leading to a short corridor. They made for the last door on the left, number 12.
Angel took a keyring out of his pocket with two keys on it, threaded one off, shoved it in the door, unlocked it and waved to Grady to go in ahead of him. Then he withdrew the key, closed the door, put the key in the lock on the inside and locked it.
The door opened straight into the small freshly painted white sitting-room cum kitchen and Grady stood in the middle of it looking round at the big double window, the sink unit, the television set, the settee and the dining-table with two chairs. Everywhere was bright and clean, if a bit stark.
There were three doors leading out of the little room, and Angel stuck his head through each doorway in quick succession, checked the light switches and came back looking satisfied.
Grady watched him from the middle of the room. He sniffed.
‘Like a pigeon loft.’
‘You’ve been in worse,’ Angel said, and he picked up the remote from the top of the television, and slumped down on a chair at the table. He switched the television on, looked r
ound through the window at the main road and busy traffic outside and rubbed the lobe of his ear between his finger and thumb, wondering if he had forgotten anything. As the television came to life, he looked up at Grady and nodded at the set.
‘Telly’s working OK,’ he announced brightly and turned it off.
Grady nodded, went into the bedroom, slung his suitcase on the bed, then mooched through the bathroom and loo doors, and poked in the cupboards and drawers, all the time muttering at everything he saw. Lastly, he spotted the bags of groceries on the kitchen worktop; he rushed over to them and pulled out a loaf of bread, some tins and packets and rummaged through the rest of the stuff. Eventually, he turned angrily to Angel and said, ‘No booze!’
Angel glared up at him.
‘You want to keep your wits about you, don’t you?’
Grady put his hand to his mouth and began to nip and pull his bottom lip.
‘You don’t understand what it’s like … what I’m going through. The risk I’m taking.’
Angel’s face tightened then he rubbed his chin.
‘It’s only for a few days. You’ve just got to keep your head down and out of sight. There’s a radio in the bedroom and there’s the telly in here. There’s plenty of grub. DS Strawbridge is calling later on today no doubt to check on you. Probably go through your deposition with you, that’s all.’
‘Well, it isn’t all!’ he suddenly snapped. ‘There’s more room in a tin of pilchards. And there’s no back way out of here. If anybody comes to that door, there’s no way out.’
‘Who is going to come? Nobody knew you were coming up north, did they? Even if they did, we weren’t followed from Doncaster, and we weren’t followed in here, either. You couldn’t be safer if you were in Fort Knox! Nobody knows where you are?
‘Carl and Mrs G and the rest of them will be out looking for me. They’ll be looking and asking around all my usual places.’
‘Well, you’re not there, are you? They’re wasting their time. They’ll never find you here.’
Grady didn’t reply. He turned away, slackened off his tie, took off his raincoat and dumped it over the chair.
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