Dead Heat

Prologue

He had just rolled the body into the shallow grave when the headlights hit him. The main beam sliced through the trees like a strobe, catching him in their glare, then moved on. Initially he froze, spade in hand. Then as the lights passed him he dropped quickly into the grave on top of the body.

He knelt on the dead man’s stomach, keeping low and peering over the edge of the grave. The body hissed, groaned and twisted underneath the weight of his knees and something glugged obscenely out of its mouth. But this did not affect Verner. After all, he had killed the man in the first place and brought him to this deserted spot, where his intention was to quicklime and bury the body.

Yet now it transpired that it was not such a deserted spot after all.

Verner cursed, keeping his head down, annoyed with himself for not having heard the vehicle approach in the first place. But, to be fair, he had been digging hard — concentrating, sweating, his heart and ears pounding with the physical exertion of that — having just dragged the body of a fully grown man twenty metres through the trees before depositing it into the newly prepared resting place. His mind had been fixed on the task in hand, so it was not impossible for a car to sneak up without him knowing until the last moment. It was something he would have to think about for the future. It had never happened before and he was damned if it would ever happen again.

The vehicle, which had a quiet engine, was on the hard-packed track which curved through the forest. It was being driven some fifty metres into the trees beyond where Verner was hiding on top of the corpse. It moved slowly and Verner caught the occasional glimpse of its bodywork reflecting light from the half-moon hanging up in the clear night sky. The headlights were doused and the car slowed to a halt, then the engine was killed. Silence returned to the forest. Nothing seemed to be moving.

At first, when the headlights surprised him, Verner assumed that the appearance of the car was just a rotten coincidence. Someone else was up in the woods, up to something. That was all. A courting couple, maybe. Possibly poachers.

But as the car stayed parked there on the track, Verner began to feel differently about it. He blinked and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Instinct was now telling him he had been followed, or perhaps the man on whose corpse he was now balanced had been followed. Whoever was in the car was either looking for him, or the dead man, or both.

Car doors opened, were closed quietly. Voices shushed and whispered to each other. A torch beam came on, went off.

Two men, Verner worked out. His hand gripped the spade tighter. He slightly adjusted his position on the body, causing wind to be passed. Verner screwed up his nose and wafted the smell away with distaste. Then he regained control of his breathing and heart rate.

At least whoever it was had not spotted him in the headlights, that much was obvious. They did not know where he was and that gave him the advantage. Then he remembered his own car parked deep amongst the trees to his left, about a hundred metres away from where the intruding car and its occupants had stopped. Verner knew that a quick search would easily reveal the spot where he had driven off the track, then the car would soon be discovered. They would see the blood mess inside it, where much of the dead man’s brains were still splodged on the passenger door and window. It would be an easy further step to find the drag marks made by the dead man’s heels all the way to the grave. If they had anything about them, Verner knew they would soon be here.

His mind whizzed as it weighed up the options.

He could slide off into the woods and get away. That would be an easy enough thing to do, but it was not something he could realistically think of doing. His job had only been half-completed. There were too many forensic links left behind in the vehicle. His fingerprints were all over it. No doubt there was some DNA lurking in there too. Very messy and unprofessional. Not Verner’s scene at all. He was paid good money to get jobs done — to kill people and dispose of them without them ever being found again — and, just as importantly, without him ever being connected to the disappearance.

Shit. This was not a good situation to be in.

Suddenly he was feeling quite vulnerable.

One of the men called out, ‘Let’s wander this way.’

Verner expected a male response — but it was a woman’s voice which replied.

‘OK.’

So — not two men after all. Verner had been wrong. Perhaps it was a courting couple after all and all they wanted was somewhere to consummate their relationship. Verner did not allow himself to relax, though.

He fidgeted on the dead man’s stomach, causing the corpse to burp quite loudly into the night. Verner touched a finger to the man’s lips, shushing him gently.

Torch beams played down the track as the two people walked along it. Occasionally their lights flashed into the trees. They were now almost at where Verner had driven his 4x4 offroad into the trees.

He held his breath.

They stopped, drew close to each other and whispered. Verner could not hear what was being said, but their words seemed to be urgent, rushed. Verner’s eyebrows knitted together. One of the two people broke away and jogged back to their car, opened it, reached in and then returned to their companion down the track.

Verner heard the next words as clear as a bell.

It was the woman speaking. ‘DC Coniston to Control. . DC Coniston to Control. . receiving?’ There was a pause whilst a reply was awaited. Then she said the words once more. ‘DC Coniston to Control. .’ Still nothing came back. ‘Shit, the bloody things are still not working properly,’ she said, ‘or this must be a real blackspot here.’

Only then did Verner exhale as he said to himself, You’d better believe it, babe. This is a real blackspot for you.

So they were cops. And they could not radio for assistance. Aah, poor little mites. How very sad. All alone in the spooky dark forest with a big bad wolf watching them hungrily.

Verner watched their torches progress down the track, then they stopped again. He knew they had found the point where he had driven off, where the grass had been flattened and his tyre tracks disappeared into the woods. This, he thought, is where things will turn interesting. But he knew that whatever happened from this moment on, the two cops could not be allowed to live.

Earlier that same day. .

The surveillance had not gone well that evening. It was one of those jobs when it seemed that if anything could go wrong, it did.

The team came on duty at 4 p.m., less than a day after another surveillance operation which had lasted four solid days and taken them from one end of the country and back again. So they were all, if not exhausted, pretty well worn out and in need of a longer break. . which was not a good start in itself.

Not one of the team moaned or complained though. They all loved the job they did. It was exciting and rewarding at its best, though more often than not they were faced with hours or even days of tedium when nothing was happening, when targets were not moving. But even during these periods, it was fun because they made it so.

They assembled at the small, discreet office they used as their base on a business park in Prestwich, Greater Manchester. Each grabbed their personal-issue body radio and that was when the first problem of the tour manifested itself. As they tested the radios, they crackled with static and sometimes just stayed plain dead. There were a few frowns within the team, but no one really thought anything of it. They assumed that when they got out on the road, the radio signal would probably be OK.

There were six police officers making up the team. Five were dressed in casual-to-scruffy clothing, not one of them remotely resembling a cop. Even the ones who looked like cops when they first joined the unit no longer looked anything like. They had grown and developed into their roles, become cool, laid back, able to melt into any background.

The sixth member of the team was in his motorcycle leathers.

Detective Constable Jo Coniston was the newest member of the surveillance unit, two months into the job following many weeks of extensive training. She sat at the table in the briefing room, mug of black coffee in hand, a tiny smirk of satisfaction playing on her lips.

She was ecstatically happy.

She had been a police officer for just over four years, all that time spent as a uniformed bobby on the beat. It had been a tough, exciting time at the sharpest end of policing imaginable, working the cauldron that was Moss Side, Manchester. The posting had opened Jo’s eyes to a world she had only ever imagined existed in horror nightmares. A world in which a shooting occurred almost daily, where drugs, violence and intimidation ruled a frightened community and where the police could only hope to keep a lid on things — on a good day.

She had been first on the scene of four murders, two of which had been innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire of a drive-by shooting. She had administered first aid at six other shootings and stabbings and had made one arrest for murder during which the suspect assaulted her remorselessly with a hammer in his attempt to escape. But she held on tight until assistance came. She received a Chief Constable’s Commendation for that effort, plus four days in hospital suffering from concussion and a broken wrist.

Four solid years of it made her crave for a change of scene. When she got wind that the Surveillance Branch were looking for female applicants, she put in a report and, following a tough initial test, she was accepted as a member.

Jo sat quietly at the table, listening to the quiet banter of her teammates, content in her choice of career move. A couple of years following villains around the country would do her very nicely, thank you, she thought. Then she would apply for a job on CID after she had taken her Sergeant’s promotion examination. Professionally, the next few years were pretty much mapped out in her mind. It had been a good decision to join the police and she was forever thankful that her mother had dragged her to a careers convention where her imagination had been fired up by a detective on the police stand. His lurid tales of life as a cop had totally won her over.

In personal terms, though, she was not as clear. A slight frown came on her face as she thought about her most recently ditched boyfriend. Then she shrugged it off and the smile returned to her pretty face. She looked up from her brew as the team leader, Sergeant Al Major breezed into the room, a set of brown files under his arm and a big smile on his face.

‘Hi, people,’ he said as brightly as his personality. ‘Everyone well?’

The small talk had ceased on Major’s arrival. The team focused on him and the job in hand.

‘You may be surprised to learn,’ Major announced, ‘that today we are back on the trail of our old friend and foe, Andy Turner.’

A groan chorused from the team.

‘I know, I know,’ Major said, holding his hands up in defeat, ‘but one day we’re gonna get this bastard bang-to-rights, if you young-uns will pardon the rather traditional turn of phrase.’ Major began to pass out the folders, one to each team member. Jo took hers eagerly and opened it. Yes! she thought. She had been itching to get involved in an operation which targeted Andy Turner, a man who boasted that the law would never touch him as long as he lived.

As ever, Al Major’s briefing was precise and detailed. It took half an hour, gave some of the past history of their target, Andy Turner, and brought the team up to date with the latest intelligence available on him.

Turner was only a young man, twenty-five years old, yet he had established himself in certain parts of Manchester and Lancashire as a ruthless operator, very wild and unpredictable in his approach; a man with no conscience whatsoever. He was no master criminal in that he was not discreet with his actions or lifestyle, nor was he particularly wary of the law. Cops did not frighten him. Courts did not even make him think twice. He had tried to mow down one policeman who tried to arrest him a few years earlier, had gone on the run and been arrested in Spain when he tried the same with a Spanish cop. On his subsequent extradition he had been jailed for two years and let it be known at his trial that he would gladly kill any cop who got in his way. On his release from prison, the Crown Court judge who had sentenced him had been killed in a hit-and-run car accident. It was never proved, though it was strongly suspected, that Turner had murdered him.

He had laid low for some time following this and intelligence reports had him dotted around Europe, particularly in Spain and Portugal, establishing contacts and dealing drugs and guns. He disappeared from that scene after a German drug dealer was found dead with two bullets in his brain. Again, Turner was suspected, but there was no actual evidence to link him to the crime.

And now he was back on home turf, beginning to expand a drug-dealing network in north Manchester and into Lancashire.

His methods were brutal, but such was his cold-blooded reputation, that no one would ever challenge or testify against him and very few would risk informing on him to the cops.

The police wanted to nail him — badly.

He was very surveillance-conscious though. All previous operations had been binned, but now they were going for him again with the intention of building up a conspiracy case against him.

‘OK, guys ’n’ gals,’ Al Major said as his briefing drew to a close, ‘that’s about the long and short of it. Let me reiterate: this man is very, very dangerous. He could well be carrying a firearm. At the very least he’ll have a flick-knife on him and if something goes wrong and you’re unfortunate enough to come face to face to face with him and he makes you as a cop, he’ll have a go at you. Be wary,’ he finished.

Jo Coniston went into the admin office and picked up a set of keys for the battered Nissan she and her partner would be using that evening.

‘Hey — got there before me,’ a voice exclaimed behind her. It was her partner, Dale O’Brien, another newish member of the Surveillance Branch. Jo liked him well enough, but she did not really believe he had what it took to be a good surveillance officer. He seemed to have very little patience, did not enjoy ‘sitting’ on things, always wanted to be on the move, delving and probing. Jo gave him another couple of months before he decided to transfer into something more appropriate, such as pro-active CID work.

‘Yeah,’ she said, teasing him by dangling them, then whisking the keys out of the flexing grasp of his long fingers. ‘I’ll drive — at least for the first few hours.’ She almost said, ‘The first half of the tour of duty,’ but checked herself because these days a normal tour of duty was not eight, ten or even twelve hours. Fourteen was the usual length and there was no way she wanted to drive for seven solid hours.

O’Brien shrugged happily. ‘OK.’ He spun out of the office, nearly colliding with Al Major, who was on his way in. ‘Oops, sorry, Sarge,’ he said, twisting away and curling out through the door.

Major watched him go with a paternal shake of the head. Then he looked at Jo.

She coughed and made to leave behind her partner. Major’s hand shot across in front of her. His fingers gripped the doorjamb tightly, preventing her from leaving. His face, usually bright and open, darkened like a hurricane. His mouth tightened.

Jo’s heart rate upped dramatically at the same time as her stomach sank. She had wanted to avoid this.

‘Let me out, please,’ she said quietly, her voice quavering.

‘Bitch,’ he hissed. He checked over his shoulder. No one was close by. ‘You shouldn’t have done it.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it anymore, Alan, please.’

Major said nothing, but stared dangerously at her. For a moment she thought he was going to hit her. She knew that if they had been anywhere else than on police premises, he would have done.

‘Excuse me, boss.’ Dale O’Brien had returned unexpectedly. He ducked under Major’s arm-barrier. ‘Forgot my notepad.’ He came into the office and Major’s face returned to it’s normal, affable self.

‘. . So,’ Major said, as though he and Jo were having a work-related conversation, ‘any problems on that point, let’s chat.’ He winked at her in a friendly way and made his way down the corridor to the supervisor’s office.

Jo exhaled a lungful of air.

‘You ready yet?’ O’Brien demanded of her.

‘Yeah, yeah.’ She pulled herself together. ‘Here.’ She tossed him the car keys, which he caught against his chest. ‘You drive. I’ve changed my mind.’

‘Oh brill,’ he said with a wide grin.

One of the reasons why people were terrified of Andrew Turner was that he believed in sorting things out himself. He described the drug barons or top-class criminals who hired goons to do their dirty work for them as ‘shitless wonders’, holding such people in contempt. They had no real bottle or courage. Not like him. Turner had the ‘real shit’ to do things himself, to get his hands bloodied and, where necessary, put his own forefinger around a trigger and pull the thing backwards and make a big bang. That was why he believed he stood apart from all the others, all the so-called hardmen.

Andy Turner had the ‘shit’.

And that evening he was on his way to show someone just how powerful his shit was.

Turner had recently moved out of Manchester to docklands in Preston. He owned an apartment overlooking King George Dock, now a marina full of yachts, pleasure boats and retail outlets. The move out to the sticks was not through any personal fear on his behalf, because Turner was afraid of no one, but just through a bit of common sense. Cop-wise the innards of the city of Manchester were becoming a little too hot for him. He needed somewhere cool where he could chill, and Preston suited him fine. He could be on the motorway within minutes and in Manchester in just over half an hour, so he now commuted as and when required. Quite often he did not go into the city for days on end, doing much of his wheeling and dealing over mobile phones and arranging his meetings at pubs, restaurants and hotels outside the environs of Manchester. He tried to keep his visits to the city to a minimum because he knew that if the cops sighted him, he would either be harassed or surveilled.

Today, though, he needed to get into the heart of the city and cause some grief before having a very important meeting.

The night before he had been out on the town in Preston, cruising around the pubs and clubs, revelling in the anonymity, even though one or two wise-looking guys eyeballed him. He easily picked up a woman, aged about thirty-five, on the prowl for a good fuck, and took her back to his apartment. They had a long bout of very drunken sex followed by almost twelve hours of alcohol-induced sleep. On waking, Turner screwed her again before literally forcing her out of the door with a?50 note crumpled in her mitt by way of compensation.

‘Will I see you again?’ she pleaded.

Turner laughed. ‘Fuck off,’ he said and slammed the door in her face.

Without any further thought for her, he got ready. A four-mile run on the treadmill, twenty minutes on the weights, then a shower before dressing in jeans and T-shirt. He packed a zip-up jacket, shirt, chinos and a pair of loafers into a sports bag, then made his way to the secured underground car park.

As ever he took time checking his car carefully for any tracking devices, but found nothing. He knew the cops were capable of anything.

A minute later, the wide tyres squealing dramatically, he exited the car park through the security barrier. As he did a left, he had to slam his brakes on.

The woman he had so unceremoniously ejected from the flat was standing in front of the car, bedraggled and forlorn.

Turner wound his window down, stuck his head out and before she could utter a word, he shouted, ‘Do us all a favour, sweetheart — just fuck off and count yer blessings. Otherwise they’ll be draggin’ yer body out of the docks. Get me?’

Before she replied, Turner pressed down hard on the accelerator and his big Mercedes surged powerfully away. He shook his head in disbelief, curled his lips with disdain. He had no time for women. As far as he was concerned they were good for two things only: sex with him and sex with people he wanted to do business with. As regards the latter, Turner was convinced that a good blowjob or arse-fuck was usually a dead-cert deal clincher. The old ways were always the best. He did not even bother to glance in his rear-view mirror to look at her, just drove down to Strand Road and purred out towards the motorway.

He was looking forward to Manchester.

Dale O’Brien, Jo’s partner for the day, did a quick check of the car before setting out: water, oil, lights and tyres and found everything to be working OK. It was an old, battered Nissan, with a nodding dog, fluffy dice and a shabby exterior, belying the fact that underneath it was a police car maintained to a high standard. He swung into the driver’s seat next to Jo, who, sat in the passenger seat, was ostensibly reading her briefing pack. Her mind was not on it, particularly. Al Major had thrown her well off balance.

The rest of the surveillance team were going through much the same sort of pre-road rigmarole, including the motorcyclist, who was often a vital part of the mechanism of keeping targets pin-pointed as they moved around the country. He had just checked his big machine, mounted it and fired up. The bike sounded lovely, purring away like a pussycat, then roaring like a tiger as he twisted the throttle back. He slotted down his visor, engaged first and crept slowly out of the garage.

Jo and O’Brien gave him a wave.

He reached the gates of the secure compound and waited for them to swing open. He turned his machine into the road, leaned into the turn and gunned the bike away.

But his rear tyre had a very tiny patch of oil on it which he had not noticed. It could have come from anywhere. The garage floor. The bike’s engine. The road, maybe. No one would ever know. Not that it mattered where it came from, it’s the effect it had that mattered.

As the biker angled into the turn out of the gates, the oil patch made the back wheel slide sideways uncontrollably, even though it was only travelling at a slow speed. The rider could not keep it upright and though he tried, it slithered away and crashed to the ground before he could leap off, trapping his left leg underneath.

Jo and O’Brien saw it happen.

It was not a spectacular accident by any means. In fact as accidents go, it was rather pathetic.

‘Shit!’ O’Brien gasped. He leapt out of the Nissan and ran towards the stricken, trapped motorcyclist. Jo was right behind him as were the other members of the surveillance team.

The biker may not have fallen far and it may only have been his machine that dropped on him, but it was plainly obvious from the shape of his left shin that it had snapped like a twiglet. The team eased the bike off him and he screamed in a very animal-like way when one of them accidentally kicked his left foot.

Al Major jogged up and saw the damage. ‘Someone call an ambulance.’ One of the team responded and dashed back into the unit.

Jo gently removed her colleague’s helmet and placed her thigh under his head for him to rest on.

‘This doesn’t half cock things up,’ the biker said with a wan smile. Beads of pain-induced sweat cascaded down his forehead. ‘Bugger,’ he added, then passed out.

Turner kept to the speed limit on the motorway, just cruising, enjoying the ride, letting everyone pass him, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He peeled off the M61 and picked up the road into Salford, taking extra care to keep his speed down again on a stretch of road populated by speed cameras. Once in Salford, on the edge of the city, he worked his way to an area behind the police station on the Crescent to a block of small industrial units. He drove the Mercedes into one of the units, a one-man car maintenance business owned by one of his friends, a guy called McNally.

‘Mac,’ Turner greeted the owner of the garage as he climbed out of the Merc.

Dressed in oily overalls, McNally wiped his hands on rag, emerged from underneath a car on the ramp and sauntered towards Turner. Something in McNally’s manner did not sit quite right with Turner, who was always switched on to body language. His intuition had saved his skin a number of times. McNally seemed edgy, nervous, his smile sheepish and obviously forced.

‘Andy, how goes it?’

‘Mmm, good,’ Turner responded cautiously. His inner warning bells sounding caution. ‘Gonna leave the motor here as usual,’ Turner said, thumbing towards the Merc.

‘No probs.’

The two men were standing close to each other. Turner’s face changed, became serious and hard. ‘Anything you’d like to tell me, Mac?’

McNally was taken aback — and it showed. ‘Eh? No, no. . what do you mean?’

‘I mean I’m good at reading people. That’s why I’m still alive, Mac, and I can see you’re not one hundred per cent.’

‘Oh, yeah, suppose not.’ McNally relaxed and breathed out a sigh. ‘Just struggling really. Been chasing some bad debts all day, some real hard bastards. Just pissed off that’s all.’

‘I’m pretty good at bringing debts in,’ Turner said with a nasty smile which was chilled by McNally’s explanation. Turner was easily spooked by other people’s behaviour, even if it was rooted in innocence. He trusted no one and was always searching for signs of betrayal.

‘No, it’s all right,’ McNally said. ‘I’ll sort ’em. It’s a legit debt, if you know what I mean?’

Turner shrugged. ‘Just ask if you need any help.’

‘I’m obliged — thanks, Andy.’

Turner did a quick check of his watch. ‘I’ll be back to pick this up as and when,’ he said, referring to the Merc. ‘See how the day pans out.’

‘Got your keys for this place?’ McNally asked. ‘I won’t be here after six.’

Turner nodded. He pulled his change of clothing from the boot of the Merc.

A dull-grey Peugeot 405 drew up outside the unit. Turner gave McNally a wave, strode out to it and slid into the passenger seat. He rarely took the Mercedes into the city when he did business. It turned too many heads, was too recognizable and telegraphed to people that he was about. Today he wanted to keep a low profile and parading about in a ‘big fuck-off Merc’ as he called it, was no way of doing that. Even the hot-headed Turner knew that much. Today was a day for discretion. Eventually.

It took almost forty minutes for the ambulance to arrive on the scene of the accident. During that time the injured biker drifted — worryingly — in and out of consciousness. Jo Coniston stayed with him throughout, comforting and reassuring him, until two very apologetic paramedics eventually carried him into the ambulance. He was rushed to hospital, accompanied by one of the other team members, thereby further reducing the numbers for the surveillance job on Andy Turner.

Jo’s knee joints had almost seized up by remaining folded in one cramped position for such a long length of time. She stood up stiffly, hopping painfully as blood surged back into her lower legs.

Al Major moved in and assisted her to keep balanced.

‘Thanks,’ she said begrudgingly, easing her elbow out of his fingers.

‘You were very good there,’ he told her. ‘Showing you care for someone — but you haven’t shown you care about me, have you?’ His voice was tinged with anger.

‘Don’t start Al, just DO NOT START,’ she warned him.

‘You ready to roll now?’ Dale O’Brien piped up from the garage door.

‘Coming,’ she chirped and walked away from Major.

Major hissed two words into her ear as she passed. ‘Selfish bitch.’

Stern-faced, she ignored him and made her way back to the car, in which O’Brien waited, engine idling. She dropped into the passenger seat and slammed the door. ‘Let’s friggin’ go,’ she growled. ‘And you can run that bastard down if you want.’

They drove out. Major stepped aside and, bowing like a matador, waved them through. Jo stared dead ahead, but she could feel Al’s piercing eyes burning into her temple. Only when they had turned out of the compound did she realize she was holding her breath. She exhaled with relief, turned brightly to O’Brien with a wide smile, happy to be out on the road, tracking a crim.

‘I don’t know about you, Dale, but I could murder a brew.’

For Andrew Turner that evening was about matters of credibility. So that there would be a record of events, the driver who picked him up from McNally’s garage was equipped with a digital camera to keep a contemporaneous record. At the end of the day, once credentials had been established, the camera and its contents would be destroyed completely.

Turner was driven from Salford, edging around the city centre, out to Crumpsall, to the area around North Manchester General Hospital — a building, Turner thought with an evil smirk, which might just come in useful. Especially the A amp; E unit.

Sitting there in the passenger seat, he started to get twitchy with anticipation.

‘Got me a “whacker” then?’ Turner asked the driver, whose name was Newman.

‘Under the seat.’

Turner reached down between his legs. His fingers alighted on a wooden baseball bat, which he drew out and tested for weight and balance by smacking it firmly into the palm of his hand. It felt good.

‘Nice,’ he commented.

‘It’s got a lead core,’ Newman said.

Turner slid it back, then reclined the seat, closing his eyes for a few moments. His mind slipped back to the night before, thinking about the woman he had picked up at Tokyo Joe’s nightclub. She had been a good fuck — twice — but what a silly, pathetic bitch! Hanging around outside the apartment like a love-struck teenager. Immature, that’s what she was. Why did it have to be anything other than a good shag?

His eyelids clicked open. His inner warning bells — an instinct he had grown to trust — clanged a few times.

The prospect of her hanging around after he had gone made him feel slightly wary. Maybe he should have picked her up and dumped her in town. . got her away from his pad. . too late to worry now.

‘Is Goldy likely to be at home? We’re not going to end up chasing round like a pair of blue-arsed flies, are we?’

‘He’ll be there,’ Newman assured him. ‘He’s expecting a delivery from his supplier, so I’m told, so he’ll be geared up for it. Won’t be going out.’

‘Looks like he’s going to get more than he expected,’ Turner laughed cruelly. He put his seat upright. ‘You OK with that digital camera?’

‘Yeah. Been practising on Lesley.’

‘Is she a good subject?’

‘Depends how pissed she gets.’

‘Well, this is gonna be fast and hard, so you’d better be ready to click away. I won’t be hanging around: in and out. Forty whacks, then I’m gone straight after the lecture. You’d better be right behind me.’

Newman shrugged. ‘I’ll be there.’ He slowed and turned into a leafy side road of old, well-constructed terraced houses, most now bed-sits or flats. Newman drove down the road, maintaining the same speed. ‘It’s that one — number eight,’ he said without pointing or looking. ‘Goldman lives on the first floor. The door to his flat is the first one you come to on the landing. He keeps it well locked. We won’t be able to boot it down. It’s made of toughened steel but painted to look like wood. He only lets in people he knows. Got a good peep-hole and there’s plenty of locks behind it. . not easy to get through.’ Newman pulled in a hundred metres down the road. ‘That means we have to get him to open it for us.’

‘Does he operate alone? Will anyone else be in the flat?’

‘He’s alone,’ Newman confirmed.

‘Mmm,’ Turner ruminated. ‘Shit.’

‘Don’t worry though. I know somebody he knows.’ Newman grinned, showing cigarette-stained teeth. ‘Someone who’ll get the door open for a ton.’

‘A ton?’ blurted Turner.

‘Worth every penny. . have you got it?’

‘Yeah, yeah. . so where is this guy?’

‘It’s a bird, actually.’ Newman looked across the road. Leaning on the gable end of a house was a scrawny-looking young woman, early twenties. She wore a T-shirt which showed her tummy and the ring pierced through her navel, and a pair of jeans. She was smoking nervously, flicking back scraggy unwashed hair from her drug-ravaged young face. ‘There.’ He wound his window down and beckoned. ‘Denise, luv, c’m’ere.’

She continued to glance anxiously around as though she had not seen or heard him. Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she was trapped in her own world. Then she set off across the road, tossed the cigarette away, and folded her arms underneath her small breasts. Newman reached over his seat and unlocked the back door for her. Her thin body entered the car. She looked defiantly at the two men in the front seats, her eyes wild at first, as though she blamed them solely for her predicament. Then they glazed over to become lifeless. Turner saw the scars on the inside of her spindly arms, more visible evidence of heavy drug abuse and self harm. She looked like she attempted suicide on a regular basis. Turner knew the type. People like her were the epitome of his usual customer.

‘OK, sweetie?’

She nodded reluctantly.

‘You up for this?’ Newman went on.

She shrugged. ‘Yeah, whatever.’

‘This is Andy.’ Newman indicated Turner. Denise gave him a crooked smile. From somewhere on her person she produced a hand-rolled cigarette, lit it and blew grey smoke into the car.

‘Hundred quid. No negotiation,’ she said as a lungful of acrid smoke left her nostrils and mouth.

‘Fine,’ Turner said. ‘You do the job, you get the dosh.’

‘Up front.’

Newman and Turner exchanged glances. Turner shrugged and dug into a pocket, pulling out a wodge of twenties. He peeled five off and held them out to her. Her eyes suddenly became alive again, focusing on them hungrily. She did not try to take it. Too many people had teased her with money, only to play snatchey-snatchey with her.

‘You get the door open, get out of the way. That’s all you have to do,’ Turner said. ‘Dead simple. Money for old rope.’

‘I know.’

He tossed the money on to her lap. She took it and eased it into the back pocket of her jeans.

‘What you gonna do?’

‘That,’ Turner said, ‘you don’t need to know.’

She shrugged. She did not give a shit, even though she had enough imagination to guess. The pairs of disposable latex gloves each man was easing on to his hands were a bit of a giveaway.

‘What is it with you and Al?’ Dale O’Brien asked Jo innocently enough, but she could see he was burning with curiosity.

They were sitting in a Little Chef, not far away from Manchester Prison, more famously known as Strangeways, drinking exorbitantly priced cups of tea — which would be claimed back on expenses at the end of the month.

Jo took a sip of hers, savouring its expense. ‘Just crap,’ she said.

‘You been having an affair?’ O’Brien asked directly.

Jo spluttered on the tea, placed the cup down and wiped her mouth. ‘Bit to the bloody point, that, Dale!’

‘Sorry.’

‘Well, anyway, yeah. . you could say that. We were an item.’ She tweaked her fingers on the word ‘item’. She sounded wistful. ‘But it didn’t work out.’ She finished her tea and said, ‘Let’s move.’

‘Once she’s in, give her half a minute,’ Newman said, looking into his rear-view mirror. He watched the girl walk towards the front door of the flats, and press a button on the intercom. She leaned on the wall and talked into the speaker, then stood upright for a moment before pushing the door open.

‘She’s in,’ Turner said. He was contorted round in his seat, also observing Denise’s progress. He spun around and picked up the baseball bat, which he concealed underneath his jacket when he got out of the car.

He and Newman crossed the road and walked side by side down the pavement to the door.

‘What a good girl,’ Turner said. As promised, Denise had wedged the door open with one of her trainers. Turner muscled his way in, followed by Newman. They stopped at the foot of the stairs leading up to the first-floor landing. Turner motioned Newman to complete silence by touching his lips with a finger and withdrew the baseball bat from its place of concealment. He positioned a foot on the first step.

The sound of the girl’s voice filtered down to them.

‘Yeah, I know I’m early, Goldy, but I’m fuckin’ desperate. I need it now and I’ve got the cash. . look.’ It was obvious she was talking through the steel door to the dealer, who was all nice and snug and safe in his little fortress.

There was a muffled response from Goldman which could not be made out down at ground level.

‘Yeah, thank fuck for that, Goldy,’ Denise said.

What could be heard on the ground floor was the unmistakable sound of bolts being drawn back and a key in the lock.

‘Come on,’ Turner whispered, dashing quickly up the stairs, bounding on to the landing and dropping into a crouch in a corner. Newman came up behind him, digital camera at the ready. Denise was down the narrow corridor, standing outside the first door. She did not even glance in their direction, but stepped back a yard (with the trainer missing from her left foot) from the door. She dropped her lighted cigarette and stooped to pick it up, overbalancing slightly, making more room for Turner and Newman to move in.

Drug dealers have a very finely honed sense of self-preservation. If they don’t have, they don’t stay in business for long.

When Goldman peered with one eye through his spy hole in response to the persistent knocking on his door and saw the distorted figure of Denise through the fish-eye lens, his brow creased with puzzlement. She was one of his regulars, a good payer either in cash or blowjobs, but usually he dealt with her in another location, out in the streets. She had been to his flat occasionally, but it was only yesterday he had supplied her with a quarter gram of heroin. He did not expect to see her so soon — and certainly not at his abode.

His hands hesitated on the numerous locks and bolts which secured his steel-backed door. Something did not feel quite right. ‘I only saw you yesterday, girl. Our next meet is tomorrow. You know that. I don’t deal from here.’

‘I know man, I know,’ she’d pleaded convincingly. ‘I’m desperate, had a really bad night, really withdrawing, shaking like mad.’

Goldman knew what that was like, for he, too, was an addict. Aches, tremors, sweating and freezing, sneezing and yawning. Any combination of these effects. He felt for her.

‘You got cash?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Show me,’ he insisted through the door.

‘Oh, fuckin’ hell, Goldy,’ she whined.

‘Look, you’re a day early and I’m a nervous guy.’

‘Yeah, I know I’m early Goldy, but I’m fuckin’ desperate. I need it now and I’ve got the cash. . look.’

Goldy saw her wave a handful of notes up to the spy hole.

‘OK, OK, hang on.’

‘Yeah, thank fuck for that, Goldy,’ she said and stepped away from the door as he unlocked it.

The heavy door swung open, its hinges well oiled and maintained. Goldman appeared on the threshold and looked down at Denise as she wobbled and reached for the burning cigarette on the worn floor. He immediately noticed her missing trainer.

She caught his eye as she glanced up and in that split second Goldman knew he had been set up by one of his best customers.

He was already moving backwards into his flat when Turner leapt up from his crouch and swung the baseball bat in a wide arc at Goldman’s head.

It connected with a hollow smack, right across the bridge of his nose, which crumbled instantly, sending him staggering backwards down the short hallway, into the living room, pursued by the vengeful forms of Turner and Newman, coming after him like a pair of devils.

Goldman’s nose had broken marvellously, blood gushing everywhere down the front of his T-shirt, which originally had been white.

As Turner roared from the hallway into the living room, he wielded the bat again, this time whacking it sideways across Goldman’s temple, knocking him to the ground, senseless. Behind Turner, Newman ducked and weaved to get the best angles he could in order to record the terrible assault on camera. He got one great shot of Goldman as he pitched floorwards, then another, as on the way down, Turner managed to get another blow in on the back of the drug dealer’s skull.

Goldman lay between his furniture, writhing slowly and moaning piteously face down in the pool of blood spreading underneath his face, bubbles foaming as he laboured to breathe.

Turner’s chest rose and fell from his short burst of exertion. There was a large smile on his face, one of victory.

‘Here — get one of this,’ he instructed Newman. Turner bestrode Goldman’s prostrate form, rested the tip of the bat in the middle of the injured man’s back, between the shoulder blades, and placed his hands one on top of the other on the tip of the bat, as though he was a great white hunter astride a kill.

Newman fired away.

‘Now this.’ Turner reached down and grabbed Goldman’s ponytail. He heaved his head up and held his blood-drenched face to the camera. ‘Get this,’ he told Newman.

‘Got it!’

Turner dropped Goldman’s face back on to the carpet. It smashed into the puddle with a squelch. Now he was not moving at all.

‘Think he’s dead?’ Newman asked.

‘No, he’s still breathing. . I think.’

More often than not, surveillance operations are very specific in that the location of the target is usually known and he or she is picked up from that point and followed by the team until the operation is either called off or the cops move in and make an arrest. The surveillance team is never used for this latter purpose. Occasionally some ops are run on an ad hoc basis by putting a team into an area which the target is known to frequent, hoping there is a sighting from which the team would then pick up the target and slot themselves into place.

As was the case that afternoon and evening.

But this type of op can be frustrating, especially when the target does not put in an appearance.

The team had gravitated to the Rusholme area of Manchester, a location well known for the high number of Asian restaurants along the main street. Andy Turner was known to do quite a lot of his business in this part of the city. He was suspected of trading with Asians, who made up a large proportion of the local community in Rusholme. Much of the heroin which found its way on to these streets originated in Pakistan, coming in from the north-west frontier, through Turkey and some of the former Soviet republics and across Europe.

Jo Coniston and Dale O’Brien were sitting in their car on a side street, facing towards the main road through Rusholme, becoming very bored with the way the afternoon was progressing into evening. They had exhausted ‘I spy’ and medleys of Beatles songs and were sitting in glum silence, listening to sporadic radio transmissions between other team members, aware that the radios were still not working properly. They had a tendency to pack up half-way through a conversation. Very annoying.

‘I’m going for a stroll,’ O’Brien announced.

Jo sank down in her seat and reclined it. ‘Don’t blame you,’ she said. ‘This is just so bloody wishy-washy. . needle-in-a-haystack job. He’s never gonna turn up, y’know.’

‘I know.’ O’Brien climbed out and walked down to the main road, turned out of sight. She closed her eyes after locking the car doors, this being the sort of area where anything could happen, especially to a lone woman in a car. She exhaled a long, fed-up sigh.

Goldman was not dead, but he was not well. Blood continued to cascade out of his nose, indicating that his heart was still beating, and the blows to his head had knocked him unconscious for a few seconds. He came round with massive brain pain.

Newman hoisted him up off the floor, avoiding getting any blood on his own clothes, whilst Turner scoured the flat. He returned from the kitchen, shaking his head in wonderment.

‘A right little drug dealer’s set-up,’ he said. In the kitchen he had found an array of mobile phones and pagers, neatly piled up bank statements, coded lists of contacts; wraps, bags, weighing scales, crushed paracetamol tablets, bicarbonate of soda and four microwave ovens. ‘Ready for a delivery, I’d say. Isn’t that right Goldy, you Jewish twat?’

He tapped Goldman on the crown of his head with his bat. The dealer, now seated on a chair, swooned and dropped his bloodied face into his blood-covered hands. He did not respond to Turner’s question, nor his derogatory racial remark.

‘I asked you a question.’

Goldman mumbled something and held his head, which felt as though it had been smashed like an egg.

Turner positioned himself on the arm of a chair. ‘Now then, you little shit, a little budgie’s told me that you’ve been dealing on my patch without my say so. Very rude thing to do, that. Don’t like it.’

Goldman slavered out a gobful of blood down between his legs.

‘It’s got to stop. Where do you keep your cash, boyo?’

‘What cash?’ he managed to reply.

‘Don’t mess — any cash you have in this house, I want it. So where is it? Pay up and stop dealing on my streets and I’ll call it quits.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Wrong answer.’

Turner slid what could have been a friendly arm around Goldman’s shoulders and gave him a hug. He beamed at Newman. ‘Photo opportunity.’

Newman caught the tender moment on the digital camera.

Turner punched Goldie hard on the side of his head, twice, so hard he hurt his knuckles.

Goldman’s brain felt like it had been dislodged. He dragged himself slowly up from the floor, clinging to the furniture.

‘You know who I am, don’t you?’ Turner said.

Goldman gasped a yes.

‘Then you know I have a reputation to maintain, don’t you?’ It was not a question, it was an explanation. ‘So you have a choice about this, don’t you?’ Once again, it was not a question. This time it was a statement of facts. ‘Accept you made a mistake, hold your hands up, say sorry, pay up — and live! Then I might even think about letting you deal for me.’

‘Fuck off.’ Goldman spat out a mouthful of blood at Turner which splattered obscenely across his T-shirt.

Turner looked down at the mess and said, ‘Oh,’ with disappointment.

They took five steady minutes over the beating which followed, taking Goldy to within a whisper of his life.

‘That’s enough,’ Turner said, holding Newman back. Both men stepped away. Goldman was curled up in a foetal ball in a corner of the room, his face mashed to an unrecognizable pulp, his jaw twisted and broken; his hands had been hammered by Turner’s baseball bat, the bones smashed and broken. Both assailants had jumped on his chest, stomping down on his ribs, breaking many of them and almost killing him in the process.

Turner knew when to back off. He had beaten many people senseless in his time and prided himself on his judgement. He did not want Goldman dead because he actually might be of some use once he had recovered. It looked like he had a pretty good set-up here and Turner thought he might be able to take advantage of it.

‘Let’s find the dosh now,’ Turner said. He was breathing heavily with exertion, sweating profusely, as was Newman.

They turned Goldman’s drum upside down. Carpets were ripped up, cupboards emptied, as they searched hard for the money which they knew must be somewhere in the flat. They went to all the well-known hiding places and the ones which were not so well known. Eventually they found it by taking off the plastic cover protecting the electrical shower in the bathroom. The money was in a waterproof plastic wallet. Four thousand pounds, all in twenties.

Turner counted it and peeled off two hundred for Newman. ‘On account,’ he said.

In the living room, Goldman had somehow managed to get himself into a sitting position, jammed into the corner of the room to prevent himself from falling over. He could only open one eye — and that one only just. The other, his right, had already swollen to the size of a cricket ball and was much the same colour. His wheezed as he breathed, his chest sounding like metal scraping over sandstone. As he inhaled and exhaled, he moaned painfully.

‘Found it,’ Turner said gleefully, wafting the money in front of Goldman’s face. Just for spite, he placed his foot on Goldman’s shoulder and pushed him back down on to the floor. Goldman could not stop himself from sliding, his useless broken hands unable to hold him. Turner stood on Goldman’s outstretched left palm and pirouetted on the heel of his trainer, making Goldman scream in agony. He left the drug dealer still shrieking as he and Newman left, slamming the reinforced outer door behind him, ensuring the screams became muffled and inconsequential.

At 9 p.m., Newman dropped Turner off at the Star of India restaurant in Rusholme. Turner had changed, having disposed of his blood-splattered gear from the assault on Goldman. The clothing had been left with Newman to dispose of by fire.

On alighting from the car, Turner kept his head bowed down and walked swiftly across the pavement to the restaurant.

Inside it was fairly quiet. Just a few customers eating their curries, mainly white people.

Turner stood by the till as a little Pakistani waiter greeted him and took him to a table at the far end of the dining room where he could sit with his back against the wall and face the door, with the option of a quick getaway through a side door should the need arise.

‘Not seen you recently, sir,’ the Pakistani said.

‘Busy guy, Ali, busy guy.’ Turner sat down and was offered the menu. He shook his head. ‘Usual.’

‘OK, sir.

‘And be quick.’

‘Yessir.’

Turner settled back, feeling buoyant. The Goldman incident had made him feel fresh and alive. Hurting others gave him a great deal of satisfaction, that and making a living out of other people’s misery. He loved preying on the weaknesses of others. It was very, very pleasurable. He also believed that the ‘Goldman incident’, as he liked to now call it, would be a very good indication of his management skills to someone he would be meeting later, someone very influential.

A waiter deposited a pint of very cold lager on Turner’s table. He took a long, slow swig of it, feeling it flow all the way down his neck and into his empty stomach.

A few minutes later his Chicken Vindaloo arrived. He tucked into it with relish. Beating the living shit out of people gave him a healthy appetite.

It was a long sigh, followed by a deep stretch, brought about by boredom and several hours spent in a car, watching and waiting. Jo Coniston eyeballed her partner.

O’Brien’s chin dropped on to his chest, then jerked up quickly as he fought sleep. ‘Christ,’ he mumbled, ‘nearly went there.’

‘Nearly?’ she quipped, ‘you’ve been snoring for ten minutes.’

‘Haven’t!’

‘This is just shit,’ Jo griped. ‘Needle in a bloody haystack. Why?’ she demanded. ‘Why, why, why?’

O’Brien yawned. ‘Could be worse. Could have to work for a living.’

‘I’m going for a walk.’

She hoisted herself out of the car, feeling her bones starting to ache. Her senses told her that tonight was going to be one horrendous waste of time. The mixed and exciting aroma of Indian cooking reached her fine nostrils as she sniffed in the Rusholme night air. Suddenly she was ravenously hungry.

Beads of sweat from eating a hot curry as opposed to sweat from beating a man senseless dribbled down Andy Turner’s forehead. He wiped himself with a napkin and took a draught from the new pint of lager which had just arrived at the table.

It was 9.30 p.m., about time someone showed up.

As if on cue, the door of the restaurant opened and a figure entered the establishment. It was not the person he was expecting, unless the person happened to be a woman, which he did not think would be the case. Turner watched her as he sipped his beer. A waiter showed her to a table near the window and left her with a menu.

Turner liked the look of her. Very pretty, short dark hair, a little snub nose and nice wide lips which he immediately imagined working on him.

The waiter returned to her with a bottle of water and took her order. She sat drinking the fizzy water, glancing shyly around the restaurant, checking out the other customers. She seemed to look at him for a fraction longer than anyone else and Turner allowed himself a grin, but she seemed not to notice. Her eyes dropped and she stared at the table cloth, then looked out of the window at the busy street beyond.

The smells had been just too much for Jo Coniston. She had not eaten since coming on duty and she was famished. She turned into a decent-ish-looking restaurant — there were several on the strip which looked highly suspicious and should be avoided at all costs — with the intention of having a quick drink and a starter. Maybe a mixed kebab, she had thought, just to fill the gap. Maybe spend ten to fifteen minutes inside, then head back to the car.

The waiter was all over her, his eyes spending too much time hovering in the vicinity of her boobs. But at least he was attentive. He brought her a drink, took her order and promised speedy service.

Only as she took a sip of her mineral water and let her own eyes do a bit of roving, did her heart nearly stop.

Because there he was, large as life and twice as menacing. Andy Bloody Turner. Sitting not twenty feet away from her at the back of the restaurant.

Stay calm, she instructed herself as her blood coursed through her veins like fire. She hoped her face did not register surprise, but thought it might have done. She realized her gaze had stayed on him for more than a split second, a contact often long enough to alert a switched-on villain. But had he seen that? She prayed not.

How had they missed him coming into the restaurant? Her team was crawling round the area like lice and somehow their target had walked straight through them, sat down, ordered a fucking meal.

Christ. What to do? Having herself ordered food, she had trapped herself. If she got up and left before it came, would it draw attention to her?

She turned to the window, pretending to look out. She pressed the flesh-coloured transmit button affixed to the palm of her hand, tilted her head slightly to move her mouth a little closer to the button-shaped mike on her collar. Trying desperately not to move her lips — why were there no miming sessions in the surveillance training programme? — she said, ‘Anyone hearing me? I have an eyeball. . repeat, I have an eyeball. . Star of India.’

Outside a big four-wheel-drive monstrosity pulled up and double parked. Jo noticed that the steering wheel was on the left-hand side and the man who was driving was able to get out straight on to the pavement.

No one replied to her transmission. She spoke again, urgently. ‘Dale? Ronnie? Ken? Anyone hearing me? I have an eyeball. . repeat, eyeball.’

The driver of the 4x4 entered the restaurant. He looked at her as he walked past. A very bad feeling, something akin to the pain she had endured when her appendix had to come out, creased the pit of her stomach. Somehow she knew this guy had come to meet Turner. And pick him up — otherwise why leave the car outside in such a ridiculous position? She fumbled in her pocket, pulled out her mobile phone and started to dial frantically.

‘Andrew Turner?’

Turner had watched him come into the restaurant. He did not recognize him, but knew he had come from the Spaniard. Turner nodded and appraised him. He looked hard and mean and ready to move. It did not faze Turner, who said, ‘Yeah, that’s me.’

‘My orders are to pick you up and convey you to Mr Lopez.’

Turner quaffed the last of his pint and wiped his lips. He stood up and was glad to see that he was bigger and wider than the man who had come for him. But yet the man’s eyes screamed danger and even Turner felt something almost tangible emanating from him.

‘You carrying?’

‘Nope.’

‘Let me check. Mr Lopez does not like to be surprised.’

‘I said I wasn’t.’

‘I don’t give a damn what you said. I got a job to do and if you do not comply, then I walk out of here. If you don’t let me check, you don’t have a meet.’

Turner rolled his jaw ruminatively, peering down his nose at a man who was, after all, only a driver, weighing up whether the issue was worth pushing. He decided to back down.

‘OK.’ For the sake of business he relented and lifted his arms.

The driver skimmed him quickly, lightly, effectively quartering his body within a few seconds. Turner knew he had been searched well. This guy knew his trade.

‘What about you?’ Turner sneered.

The man considered Turner and his face broke into a crooked grin. He spun on his heels and Turner followed him out to the car. As he passed the attractive woman seated alone at the table near the door, who was talking on her mobile, Turner blew her a kiss. He heard her say, ‘Hiya, sweetie.’

There was some kind of a meet on. That much was obvious from what Jo had seen happen, having watched the interaction between the two men by means of the reflection in the window. The quick chat. The search. The exit. Turner was on his way to see someone very important.

Her phone connected at the very moment Turner came alongside her at the table and blew her a kiss. As O’Brien answered, she found herself saying, ‘Hiya sweetie,’ and almost choking on her words.

‘Hello to you, too,’ O’Brien responded in a deep, suggestive voice. ‘I didn’t know we had something going.’

‘We don’t. My radio’s down,’ Jo babbled quickly. ‘I’ve eyeballed the target and he’s just getting into a big four-wheel-drive parked outside the Star of India.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m out of the car, about five minutes from it, down in the Frog.’ O’Brien was referring to a pub about a quarter of a mile away, on the way to the city centre. ‘I got bored too.’

‘Shit. . well. .’ Jo braved herself to openly watch the big vehicle muscle its way into the evening traffic towards the city, causing other traffic to brake hard with a cacophony of angry horns. The driver stuck up a middle finger and accelerated away. ‘He’s headed your way, Dale. . get out of the pub and watch out for a big Yank-style four-by-four. I’m gonna leg it to the car.’

Jo rose from the table, surprising the waiter who was on his way to her with the much anticipated mixed kebab. His Indian accent failed him as he immediately — and rightly — believed she was going to do a runner, although most people did that after they had eaten.

‘Oi! Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’ he shouted at Jo’s retreating back.

‘Sorry pal, got to rush,’ she yelled as she exited, did a cartoon-like skid and hared towards the car. She dodged around numerous people now out for a night on the pavements of Rusholme, then veered into the street where the car was parked unattended — and locked. The realization that she could not drive the car away only hit her as she saw the vehicle. She slowed to a trot, then a walk, and when she got to the car, she kicked it in frustration. Dale had the keys.

Her mobile chirped: O’Brien.

‘Jo — the four-wheel-drive,’ he panted, ‘just gone past me then U-turned again, heading back to Rusholme. Obviously surveillance-conscious.’

‘Yeah, good — but I can’t get in the car. You’ve got the bloody keys.’

‘I’m running now,’ O’Brien said, his phone going dead.

Jo went back to the main road and stood on the corner of the street to watch, hopefully, for Turner’s reappearance. She decided to use the time constructively and keyed the number of one of her other team members into the phone. She was going to alert them one by one.

‘Hey — you!’

Jo twirled. It was the Indian waiter.

‘Hey, you — you order food, we cook it — you fuckin’ pay for it,’ he said.

‘Shit!’ Her eyes rolled heavenwards. ‘Look — just fuck off, will you? I haven’t time to explain, okay?’

‘I’ll call the cops.’

The 4x4 containing Turner and his unknown chauffeur crawled past in the traffic, which was heavy now.

‘I am the cops,’ Jo blasted him, keeping one eye on the traffic and the other on the irate little waiter. She extracted her warrant card with a flourish and shoved it into his face. The 4x4 was disappearing in traffic now.

‘Don’t give you a right to do what you did,’ chuntered the waiter.

‘Look, just fuck off, will you? I’ll make it right, but just now I’m a bit busy.’

‘Jo!’ screamed Dale O’Brien, appearing on the scene at a run. He went straight for the car, clicking the remote as he got to it, diving into the driving seat.

‘We’ll settle up with you, honest,’ Jo assured the waiter. She backed away from him, hands palm forwards, placating him. ‘Honest.’ She jumped into the car next to O’Brien. ‘What a bleedin’ cock-up,’ she said. ‘Go left — he went thataway.’

She sat back and took a deep breath.

Next to her, O’Brien was breathing frantically and his hands and feet were dithering on the controls. He edged the car into the evening traffic, poking its nose out hopefully. No one was for letting him out.

‘Come on for God’s sake,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘C’mon you impolite bastards, let me out.’ He thumped the steering wheel.

‘We’re gonna lose him,’ Jo stated, feet tapping. ‘What a cock-up.’

‘I can’t believe this traffic.’

There was a gap a millisecond wide and O’Brien went for it, his tyres skidding and the car lurching across the line of cars, only to find there was no gap at all to get into on the opposite carriageway, thereby finding himself stuck at an angle halfway across the road, completely halting traffic in one direction. No one was feeling patient and horns began to sound, but then someone did slow for him and wave him in. He gave a relieved wave and shot into the line and started to crawl along — only to pass Turner in the 4x4 going back in the opposite direction towards the city. He had spun round again.

‘This is a bloody farce,’ Jo simpered, keeping her face firmly forward-facing.

‘Where’s everybody else?’ O’Brien demanded.

Jo spoke into her radio again. It was dead. So was O’Brien’s.

She reverted to her mobile phone again, not having completed the call she had started earlier to one of her other colleagues. She saw that her battery charge indicator was low.

‘Right, right, right, if he can do it, so can I.’ stated O’Brien. This time he was ruthless. He swung the car into a gap that wasn’t there and completed a spectacular U-turn so he was now heading in the same direction as their target. ‘If I see the bastard going back the other way again, I’ll bloody cry.’

‘Can’t get through,’ Jo said, pulling the mobile away from her ear. She pressed redial.

O’Brien squeezed in a double overtake, not recommended in such busy circumstances, but he pulled it off without damage or injury and stood on the accelerator, tail-gating the car ahead.

‘Nothing!’ Jo spat contemptuously at her phone. ‘Aaargh!’ she screamed angrily, then screamed again, this time in fear, as O’Brien executed another daring overtake followed by a wicked swerve into a space which he alone created.

‘How the hell did you get in here?’

‘I’m good at getting big things into tight places,’ he boasted.

Jo chuckled, the tension released for a moment. Then she shook her phone, still unable to get through. She tried the number of another team member. This time she connected. ‘Ken. . it’s Jo. . we’ve eyeballed the target. . he’s headed towards. .’ Click. Whirr. The line went dead as the signal broke. ‘Shit. I do not effin’ believe this. Technology, I’ve shit it.’ She watched the signal-strength bars reappear on the mobile-phone display. She redialled again.

As they hit a set of traffic lights on red, they found themselves stuck in a long queue of traffic.

‘Can you see him, or have we lost him?’ Jo asked.

O’Brien opened his window and stuck his head out, craning to see. ‘Dunno.’

With the mobile to her ear, Jo opened the door and, holding the door pillar, swung herself up to get an elevated view across the roofs of the cars in front of her.

O’Brien heard her slam a hand down on the roof. He ducked instinctively. She dropped back into her seat. ‘About eight cars ahead,’ she said, her phone still stuck to her ear. She pulled it away and glared crossly at it. ‘Blooming thing,’ she said and threw it down in the footwell. ‘Gimme yours,’ she demanded of O’Brien and held out her hand.

The traffic began moving slowly.

‘You’re very cautious,’ Andy Turner commented, following the numerous U-turns.

The man in the driving seat said nothing, concentrated on driving and checking his mirrors.

‘I like that,’ Turner said.

‘Don’t get to like anything about me,’ the man warned.

The cars moved so slowly that by the time they reached the traffic lights, they were turning back to red, Turner’s vehicle having gone through towards the city. Jo looked aghast as the amber light appeared. O’Brien swore, then took a chance.

He pulled out and accelerated past the car in front and shot the red light. He made it over the junction before the cross-traffic began to move.

‘Well done,’ Jo breathed.

O’Brien held on tight to the wheel, but made no reply.

‘I just hope he hasn’t seen us carrying out death manoeuvres and basically doing everything we can to draw attention to ourselves, y’know? Us being undercover, highly trained surveillance operatives and all? So far we’ve done everything we shouldn’t have.’

‘What’s new? It’s usually a wing and a prayer at the best of times. At least we’re still in touch with him.’

‘But not with the rest of the team,’ Jo said miserably. She tried to call Ken on O’Brien’s mobile, but could not make a connection despite there being a charge in his battery and a strong signal. ‘Somebody up there doesn’t like us tonight,’ she said. She tried another team member and this time got through.

The 4x4 weaved through the centre of Manchester, emerging on the other side of the city on the A56, which led out past Manchester Prison, towards Prestwich and Bury.

O’Brien hung in behind him, keeping as far back as he dared without actually losing sight. It was not ideal. A one-car follow was always tough, but it was all he had. There was no doubt that, just at that moment, the team was in disarray and there seemed little hope of pulling it back together. Jo had contacted some of the others and they were doing their best to play catch-up, but she was beginning to despair a little because the battery on O’Brien’s mobile was losing strength and the radios still did not work, even with a change of channel. She used the phone sparingly, but knew it would not last for long and she also knew that the further Turner travelled, the more stretched and ineffective the team would be.

Not a comforting scenario.

The only good side of it was that the 4x4 was such a big vehicle it was fairly easy to keep tabs on, particularly with its cluster of high-level brakes across the rear window, which shone like Blackpool illuminations every time the brake pedal got pressed.

Turner and his driver took them past the entrance to Sedgley Park, Greater Manchester Police’s training school, then into Prestwich, staying on the main road all the way.

Jo speculated where they could be headed.

‘Motorway junction’s up ahead,’ she mumbled. ‘Straight across to Bury, or left on to the M60 ring road towards south Manchester, or east out towards Rochdale, or beyond to Leeds. If he goes on to the motorway either direction and puts his foot down, I think we’re snookered.’

‘Let’s not give up yet,’ said O’Brien grimly.

They followed through Prestwich and approached the motorway junction. On the left, just before the roundabout was a petrol station which the 4x4 drew into. O’Brien sailed past on to the roundabout. This gave Jo the opportunity to scribble down the registered number of the car and to have a glimpse of the driver again as he climbed out and went to a pump. She saw he was looking around warily and that he actually watched her drive past.

O’Brien went on to the roundabout, circled it twice, covered by fairly heavy traffic. Turner’s vehicle rolled off the forecourt and accelerated straight down on to the M60 southbound as O’Brien was three-quarters of the way through his third circle.

‘Motorway,’ Jo said unnecessarily. She quickly relayed the message to another team member who was still trying to get through heavy theatre traffic on Deansgate in Manchester City centre, which was a long way away now. They might as well be on the moon. She and O’Brien were effectively on their own.

O’Brien tore down the motorway slip road and hit the main carriageway at 70mph, cutting ruthlessly into the first lane, out into the middle, then into the fast. He was expecting not to come into close contact with the 4x4, but suddenly there it was ahead of them in the middle lane, travelling sedately. Another tactic for the surveillance-conscious criminal — and O’Brien almost fell for it. Instinctively he took his foot off the gas and drifted into the centre lane, dropping about half a dozen cars behind the target.

‘That was a bit close for comfort. I hope he hasn’t made us,’ said Jo. If they had passed the 4x4 she knew they would definitely have been blown out of the water and that would have been the end of the night’s operation. As it was, they were clinging to the remnants.

Then, just to make matters worse, the big car lurched out into the fast lane and surged forwards.

‘Bugger!’ O’Brien cursed.

They were lucky to see the back end of the 4x4 leaving the motorway on the exit which looped round on to the M61. They were only just able to cut sharply across the traffic themselves and throw up road dust as their car angled across the chevron markings on the exit. By the time they reached the point where the M60 joined the M61, and there was also the choice of going onto the A666 towards Bolton, the 4x4 had beaten them. It was nowhere to be seen.

Al Major was not amused.

‘You incompetent idiot,’ he sneered down the phone. At her end, Jo Coniston could see his face in her mind’s eye. She bit her tongue and thought better than to point out what an ill-judged and purely hopeful operation it had been from the word go. . and that she had done well to even come across Turner in the first place. . and, and, and. . but she didn’t. She kept her mouth firmly closed.

‘What do you want us to do?’ She was standing at a pay phone at Bolton West Motorway Services on the M61, formerly known as Anderton Services. Dale O’Brien was standing behind her, hopping from foot to foot as she got their bollocking.

There was silence at the other end of the phone whilst Major thought about his response. Jo handed O’Brien a slip of paper on which she had written the result of the PNC check on the 4x4 registered number — it had come back with no current keeper.

‘Call it a day,’ Major decided. ‘I’ll debrief when you get back.’

Jo knew what that meant — a real roasting, probably with his anger directed mostly at her for no other reason than she had dumped him.

‘OK.’ She hung up, turned to her hyperactive partner. ‘Back to base for a court martial. . except I don’t feel like rushing back — let’s have a coffee here first.’

Andy Turner shifted uncomfortably. He felt like he was being interviewed for a job — although he had to use his imagination somewhat because he had never actually worked in his life other than in a criminal capacity and interviews for such positions were fairly unstructured at best. He looked across the table at the Spaniard, feeling himself bubbling with frustration.

The Spaniard was a very important man. He was a scout on the lookout for business opportunities for his boss, a very big underworld figure based in Barcelona. Turner knew he was lucky to get to talk to him, to pitch his business. If he could get this guy’s nod, he would be going sky high.

It was not easy. The guy was cagey and inquisitive. Questions, questions, questions — and he had done his homework on Turner, something which Turner found disquieting.

Turner realized he had to keep his cool. Don’t get riled. Go with the flow. Answer the questions. Tell the truth where necessary, otherwise bullshit. . but above all, do not lose it.

‘Tell me about your organization,’ the Spaniard said. He was sitting with his back to the wall, sipping from a glass of chilled mineral water with lemon. He was casually dressed and came across as confident and knowledgeable, but Turner did not like the man’s mouth at all. It reminded him of something. . then he remembered and became fascinated by the lips because he knew exactly what they looked like. Turner had once visited the Sea-Life Centre at Blackpool, just to see the sharks, but the stingrays had also caught his attention. The way they moved, the way they could actually rise out of the water and stay upright, showing their mouths and the white undersides of their bodies. They had pink, anaemic-looking lips, just like this Spaniard. Obscene, somehow.

‘What do you want to know?’ Turner asked, masking the revulsion of the thought: this man had lips like a stingray.

The pink lips turned down. He shrugged his shoulders a little. He was becoming irritated by Turner, who he thought was merely a small-fry time-waster on the make. He wondered how he had been duped into this meeting. He knew his boss would not be overly impressed with this one.

‘Your structure. How does it work? Do you have firewalls in place?’

‘What the fuck’s a firewall?’

‘A firewall is a layer, or layers, of protection. It prevents leakage. It’s a safety mechanism ensuring that the people who need to be shielded are shielded, so that mistakes at a low level do not have repercussions further up.’

‘Uh, right,’ said Turner numbly, failing to inspire confidence.

‘So. . your organization?’ the Spaniard prompted.

Turner blew out his cheeks, stumped a little. ‘Fluid,’ he said. ‘Nothing formal. . very loose, yet safe.’

‘OK,’ said the Spaniard, ‘describe how you would get a consignment on to the streets. How would the consumer be dealt with? What’s your process from receipt to consumption?’

‘Pretty simple, really. I’ve got several little labs dotted around the city. The goods would go into them for processing and packaging. They then get sold on to the dealers for street distribution. I got about twenty people doing the dirty for me around the north of the city. Some areas are well sewn up and I’m moving into others, expanding bit by bit.’

‘A small operation then,’ the Spaniard observed. ‘Not as large as we were led to believe.’

Turner felt his feathers ruffle. ‘I’ve been in this business over ten years. I’ve worked across Europe and the north of England. I’m a hands-on guy. I like to keep control, keep my finger on the pulse. I need to expand now. . yeah, it’s a small operation, but it’s fucking profitable and I do very well, thank you.’

‘Do you have any respect for the law?’

The question threw Turner. ‘Eh? Do I fuck! Cops and courts mean nothing to me. I ran a cop down once. I shit on cops.’

‘Interesting,’ the ray-lipped man remarked.

‘Cops are frightened of me. People are frightened of me. I scare the shite out of people. No one gives evidence against me. I see to that personally.’

‘How?’

‘Midnight visits. Phone calls. Beatings. . I don’t mess around and I don’t get anyone else to do my dirty work for me. No one frightens me.’

‘Hm,’ murmured the Spaniard, unimpressed. Turner did not pick up on the less than wonderful reception to the news of the ways in which he dealt with people. ‘I believe you were responsible for the death of Wolfgang Meyer in Germany, about a year ago.’

‘If you think I’m going to say I did that, then you’re wrong, pal. How do I know you’re not wired up?’

‘You don’t. . but I’m not, and you did, didn’t you?’

A dangerous smile fractured on Turner’s face. He nodded and pointed to the Spaniard with his forefinger. He clicked his thumb, as though cocking a revolver. ‘Bang, bang,’ he whispered.

‘So you deal harshly and effectively with wrongdoers?’

‘He was causing problems. . in fact,’ Turner began boastfully, ‘I’ve sorted a problem just today.’ His hands slid under his jacket and emerged with a set of photographs which he passed across. ‘This man was operating on my area without permission. Now he ain’t,’ he said proudly.

The Spaniard fanned out the photographs on the table. He winced at the blood-soaked tableaux depicted in the digital images.

‘Personal service,’ Turner gloated.

The Spaniard stacked the photographs as though they were a pack of playing cards. He handed them back. ‘We cannot do business, Mr Turner.’

‘I beg your fuckin’ pardon, spik?’

The Spaniard looked impassively at Turner and licked his pale pink lips. ‘Your organization is not sophisticated enough. There are too many holes and you are far too unbalanced. You do not have respect for law enforcement. . No, let me finish,’ he indicated to an agitated Turner. ‘Whilst our business is illegal, we treat day-to-day law enforcement with dignity, because we do not wish to fall foul of it through stupidity.’

‘Stupidity, you stupid bastard! Are you calling me stupid?’

‘Hot-headed, reckless.’

‘You are just another shitless wonder,’ Turner blasted and shot angrily to his feet, towering over the Spaniard, who did not flinch. ‘I’ve shat people like you.’

Suddenly, standing behind him, was the man who had driven him to this meeting. Turner saw him and snarled. He spun to the Spaniard. ‘You do business with me, or I’ll waste you, you cunt.’ He held his fist underneath his nose, so close that the hairs on the back of his hand were clearly individually visible. Again, the Spaniard did not move. His eyes rose slowly and met Turner’s.

‘You are a loose cannon. You are unstable and unpredictable. My boss is not interested in you. Just be pleased I met and listened to you today. Not many people have that privilege. This meeting is now over.’

‘Privilege, you twat!’ Turner’s fist shook angrily. Other people in the establishment were beginning to take an interest in proceedings. ‘Privilege? I’m gonna fuck you and your boss up good and proper, mate, you shitless wonders.’

The driver stepped up close behind Turner. ‘That’s enough. Behave yourself.’

There was a doom-laden pause during which Turner could have gone either way. Eventually he stood upright again, still glaring with ferocity. ‘You’ve made a mistake here, mister big-shot. I will screw your operation up, big style. You will regret this.’

The Spaniard pursed his lips pensively. ‘Mr Verner will take you back. Adios.’ He nodded at the driver, who nodded back with understanding.

They were in no rush to return. In fact Jo Coniston did not want to go back — ever. She did not want to have any form of interaction with Al Major, particularly after this evening’s very unsuccessful operation against Andy Turner, which, she was certain, would be put down to her. She would be Major’s scapegoat.

After the coffee at the motorway services, she and O’Brien drove east along the M61 into Lancashire. They came off at Chorley. Instead of looping back on to the motorway as they should have done, Jo — who was now driving — went towards Chorley down the A6.

As they circuited the town centre, she suddenly turned left and headed towards Rivington.

‘Fancy a little drive through the country?’ she said.

‘Seems I have no choice in the matter,’ smiled O’Brien. ‘Just so long as you don’t pretend to run out of petrol in the middle of nowhere and expect to have your wicked way with me.’

The withering glance from female to male told him there would be zero chance of that happening.

Verner knew what he had to do and did not dawdle. Turner stormed out of the restaurant ahead of him, his fuming rage apparent with every footfall. Verner followed as Turner went out and stalked toward the 4x4, amused by the antics.

‘Come on, get the car open,’ Turner demanded.

Verner pointed the remote and the doors unlocked with a squelching noise. Turner swung in and dropped on to the front passenger seat.

‘Who the fuck does he think he is?’ he insisted.

As he slid the key into the ignition, Verner said, ‘A very powerful man — and you should not have spoken to him like that.’

‘When I say he’ll regret it — he’ll regret it,’ Turner said dangerously.

Verner was fiddling with the ignition — apparently. Trying to get the key turned.

In reality, he was reaching to the small shelf under the dash on which loose change might normally be stored, though in this case a small revolver was resting on it. Verner’s hand slid over it, his fingers slotting into place around it.

He moved silkily, almost without speed it seemed, yet he was lightning quick. He sat upright, twisted towards Turner slightly and raised the weapon. It had a stubby barrel and was loaded with bullets designed to enter the heads of victims, ping around like a bagatelle causing massive brain damage and hopefully not exit outside the other side of the head. Turner did not see it coming. He was facing away from Verner, staring moodily out of the door window.

Verner put the muzzle against the back quarter of Turner’s head, just above the ear. As soon as he touched, he pulled the trigger — twice. The sound was dreadful in the confines of the vehicle, but no so bad as the damage caused to the inside of Turner’s cranium.

Verner’s wrist recoiled slightly with the power of the shots and he ducked quickly in an effort to dodge the inevitable back-spray of brain tissue and juice as Turner’s head twisted grotesquely and smashed against the window.

After a series of brutal jerks of his body’s nervous system, Turner’s whole being relaxed as he died.

Verner pulled him upright and drew the seat belt across his chest, then pushed him up against the door jamb and wedged him there at an angle. His head lolled down, chin on chest.

Verner set off with his dead passenger.

The roads around Rivington were dark and winding, often unlit by street lamps. Jo decided she needed a razz to get something fundamental out of her pent-up system. She floored the accelerator pedal and told O’Brien to hold on for the ride of a lifetime.

He did as instructed.

Jo threw the car around the unlit country roads, going for broke around blind corners and long straight stretches, braking hard, changing up and down, fast and accurately, pushing the car to its screaming limits.

She was thoroughly enjoying herself, though her companion had a look of abject dread on his countenance. Even without being able to see him properly, Jo knew O’Brien’s complexion had gone sickly grey. However, he remained silent, probably numbed by the experience he was having.

‘Yee-hah!’ she yelled as she roared down a forest road.

‘Jesus Christ — look out!’ screamed O’Brien, breaking his silence.

Ahead, just in the extremity of the main beam, was a big, black shape with eyes that were red rubies in the headlights.

A deer.

Jo wrestled with the wheel, cursing, slamming on the brakes. But she could not do anything to avoid hitting the stationary beast, which remained facing them, defiant in the centre of the road.

‘Oh no,’ uttered O’Brien.

Jo braced herself for the impact. O’Brien cowered and covered his eyes, instinctively bringing his knees up for protection, and waited for the deer to come crashing through the windscreen.

But with a mighty, unbelievably muscular and giant leap, the deer was gone into the pitch-black woods. It was as though it had never been there in the first place.

The car swerved to a halt, slewed at an angle to the road. The engine stalled with a judder. The new silence was almost tangible.

Jo sat there, hands gripping the wheel, knuckles white, breathing unsteady, feeling very ill. She stared at the road, unsure if there ever had been a deer there in the first place, whether it had just been a mirage.

Slowly she turned her head and looked at O’Brien. He was shaking visibly.

‘I need a fag,’ he said.

‘Me too.’

‘You don’t smoke.’

‘Do now.’

They climbed out of the car and leaned against it. O’Brien lit up and offered one to Jo, but she refused. Alcohol was what she needed really.

‘Sorry ’bout that,’ she said meekly.

‘Got it out of your system then?’

She nodded.

‘Let’s go back, nice ‘n’ easy and we might just be able to get to the pub for a drinkie-pooh if we’re lucky.’ He ground out his quarter-smoked cig.

‘Good speech.’

‘And I’ll drive,’ he said, rushing to the driver’s seat before she could argue the toss. Dragging her feet, she got in next to him. He set off more sedately. He drove past Rivington Barn in the direction of Horwich, a small town west of Bolton. He intended to cut back down on to the M61 and get back into Manchester that way.

The 4x4 passed them going in the opposite direction as they reached the motorway junction.

The dead man was annoying Verner intensely. He would not stay sitting upright, kept lolling about as though he was. . dead.

‘Sit the fuck up,’ Verner said angrily, pushing the drooping figure back into the corner of the seat, trying to wedge him by the stanchion. Turner was being uncooperative, even though it was not really his fault. Verner did not stop driving, but tried to keep Turner in place with his outstretched left arm, doing all the driving with his right.

He knew where he was going. Earlier that afternoon, during daylight hours, he had combed the area around the reservoir at Rivington. It was not as though he knew for definite that he would have to kill Turner, but the omens were not good, and he liked to be prepared. He had been informed of the plans for the evening and knew he might need somewhere suitable to dispose of a body. He found what he thought would be the ideal location.

He knew that the meeting would be taking place between Turner and the Spaniard at a restaurant just off the M61 near to Horwich. So he had spent his time driving around the area, checking out locations. He thought the thickly wooded environs of Rivington were a fairly good place. There were lots of tracks running off the road into the forest, which was dark, quiet and, he assumed, would be somewhere he would be unlikely to be interrupted late in the evening. He even picked the forest track and the place he would dig. If it came to it.

It did — and that was where he was headed.

Jo and O’Brien hit the motorway junction fast. O’Brien tore around the roundabout, tyres screeching as he held on tight to the steering wheel, looping round and back in the direction of the 4x4. By the time he reached the next roundabout — right towards Bolton, left towards Horwich — there was no sign of it.

‘Bugger!’ he said. ‘Which way?’ He turned to Jo for some inspiration.

She shrugged helplessly. ‘Eeni-meeni-minie-mo,’ she began, index finger flicking from left to right as she applied the scientific approach to solving the problem. ‘That way,’ she declared, pointing left.

‘Back to where we came from?’

‘Well, go that fucking way, then,’ she growled.

‘No, no, no,’ O’Brien said. There was a queue of cars behind them, all becoming annoyed. ‘We’ll go your way,’ he said, resigned, ‘but I’ll bet it’s the wrong way.’

‘If you keep this up it won’t matter which way he’s gone, will it?’

Shaking his head, O’Brien pointed the car back towards Horwich. He just knew they were travelling in the wrong direction.

It was not particularly late, but Bill Gordon, who had been drinking heavily, was now rat-arsed. As he staggered out of the pub door and lurched to his car on the pub car park, the cool night air hit him slap-bang in the face and almost floored him. Nevertheless he regained his composure, pulled himself upright as only a drunk can, and slewed to his car.

If anyone had asked him, Bill Gordon would have said that he was pretty much okay. Yesh, okay. Maybe he’d been drinking steadily since noon, but that was the key — steady. And that is how after more than ten pints of bitter and several wee chasers, and four packets of crisps to soak it all up, he knew he was more than capable of driving safely home.

The door key slid in, no problem. So did the ignition key. He even fitted his seat belt. And home was less than a mile away. If he had been over the limit, he would have walked. He belched loudly and edged the car lumpily towards the car-park exit.

O’Brien sped along the A673 to Horwich. It was a narrow road through a built-up area, but he took no notice of the speed limits because he knew he would soon be doing an about-turn to Bolton. As he reached a set of traffic lights, they changed to red and he slowed reluctantly.

He cursed.

‘I think that’s him,’ cried Jo.

Beyond the junction, several cars were heading towards the centre of Horwich.

‘How can you be sure?’

‘I can’t, but it looks like it.’ She pointed excitedly.

The lights changed to green.

Bill Gordon — drunk, middle aged, no convictions, in full employment all his adult life, a man who had successfully negotiated his way home in his car whilst drunk literally hundreds of times — waited patiently at the car-park exit for traffic to clear. His judgement was sound as a pound.

He hummed a happy tune as he revved the engine of his Vauxhall Vectra, whilst holding the car stationary on the clutch.

At court later, he strenuously denied he was to blame for the accident.

The fact he was holding the steering wheel, was sitting in the driver’s seat, in control of the car, did not in any way make him feel inclined to plead guilty to the charges laid before him.

This stance did not prevent him being convicted. He lost his licence for five years, was fined over a thousand pounds and was sent to prison for three months.

No, he felt he was not to blame for his foot slipping off the clutch and the car hurtling into the stream of traffic passing from left to right in front of him.

He did not hit Verner’s four-wheel-drive monster, but slammed into the car behind it, smashing into the passenger side and forcing the vehicle into the path of a Transit van coming the opposite way.

Verner saw the accident in his rear-view mirror. Obviously he did not stop as a witness, kept going.

At first it was all confusion, chaos and cars in front. O’Brien came to a sudden halt and stopped only inches away from the car in front.

‘Been a bump ahead,’ Jo said, craning her neck.

‘Shit.’ O’Brien punched the wheel.

Jo jumped out and sprinted towards the scene of the accident. It looked a bad one. Three vehicles, two head-on by the looks. No one in any of them appeared to be moving. She was torn momentarily between her duty to save life and to find out what Andy Turner was up to.

‘Job for the traffic department,’ she decided and jogged past the carnage.

About 200 metres down the road, she saw the 4x4 in the outside lane of the road, signalling to turn right towards Rivington. Then it turned.

She doubled back, passing the scene of the accident again, feeling bad about it, but not bad enough to stop and offer assistance.

‘He’s gone towards Rivington,’ she gasped to O’Brien. ‘Do you know a way round?’

‘No,’ he admitted.

‘In that case go on the pavement.’

He eyed her in amazement. She shrugged. ‘It’s your decision, but we’ll lose him if we don’t do something.’

‘OK,’ he said meekly. He reversed away from the car in front, stopping just a hair’s thickness short of the one behind, yanked the wheel down and mounted the kerb.

‘Not good,’ he decided as they bounced along.

Jo hung on to the hand rail above the door. ‘You’re the guy at the wheel. No one’s held a gun to your head. If you kill a pedestrian, it’ll be down to you, not me.’

‘Thanks a bunch,’ he responded, misery in his voice. ‘Shit.’ Ahead, a group of people had already gathered to gawk at the accident. O’Brien flashed his lights and pipped his horn. A look of startled disbelief filled the faces of several people. They stepped or jumped out of the way and O’Brien drove through the gap. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the route ahead, not daring to look at anyone. He emerged on the far side without having added to the mayhem too much.

‘I don’t believe what I just did,’ he said.

‘You better had — now put your foot down.’

‘He’s done a disappearing trick,’ O’Brien said with disappointment. He sniffed. ‘Eeh, smell that engine.’

They were almost back in Chorley town centre after hurtling through the country roads around Rivington, then combing and re-combing them without success. He had floored the accelerator and spent most of the chase in first or second gear, screwing the car to its limits to catch the 4x4, which seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth. Hence the reek of the engine.

‘He must’ve gone like shit off a shovel,’ O’Brien moaned and the bitter engine fumes wafted into the cab. ‘We shoulda caught him. I drove like a maniac.’

White-faced, dithery and clinging to the door handle, Jo had to agree. She swallowed, feeling slightly poorly. O’Brien had flung the car around the roads like a rally driver, but unlike her, seemed to be in total control of the machine. Even so, she had hoped they did not meet up with another — or the same — suicidal deer.

Now, it seemed, they had lost Turner for good. Their last chance gone. Or maybe not, she thought. ‘Let’s head back the way we came,’ she suggested. ‘Nice ’n’ slow and have a look up some of those foresty-type tracks. Maybe he turned off for some reason.’

‘Why? Why would he have done that?’

‘How do I know? It’s just a thought. Take it or leave it.’

It was close to midnight as O’Brien turned off the road and on to one of the tracks that cut through the forest.

‘Last one, this,’ he said, ‘then we go home.’

‘I’ll have that,’ Jo conceded. She was tired and coming to the conclusion that Turner was definitely gone now. ‘Drive up this one, turn round and we’ll call it quits.’

O’Brien nodded. The thrill of the chase had worn off. He wanted to get home, via a late-night hostelry, and get some shut-eye.

Jo peered through the headlights as the car crunched slowly up the track. She, too, had had enough. Just intended to concentrate for a few more minutes.

O’Brien yawned, wide and loud and shook his head.

‘I thought I saw something,’ Jo said quickly, leaning forward, almost pushing her nose up to the windscreen.

‘If only.’

‘No, I did. A glint of something in the trees. Stop. Kill the lights.’

‘Now what?’

‘Let’s have a look.’ Jo reached for the torch under her seat, a powerful dragon-lite. She got out, switching the torch on, then off. O’Brien climbed out too, a less powerful torch in his hand.

‘Let’s wander this way,’ he said.

‘OK.’ They started to walk along the track, torches on. Jo halted suddenly. ‘Look — there,’ her voice rasped hoarsely. She directed the torch beam on to the edge of the track, where, clearly, there were indents made in the verge where a vehicle had been driven off into the trees. She flashed her torch into the trees, picking out the shape of the 4x4 in there.

Quickly she shut off the torch. As did O’Brien. He sidled up beside her.

‘What’re we going to do?’ O’Brien asked.

‘Well, put it this way, there’s a good chance we’ve been spotted now, so I think we might as well go and investigate, don’t you? I’m bloody curious to know what’s going on, aren’t you? The surveillance is cocked up, so we might as well show our hand and see what’s happening.’

‘OK, but I don’t like this,’ he admitted.

‘Me neither. Just stay here, I’ll go back and get a radio and see if we can get through.’ Jo ran back to their car, then jogged back to O’Brien. She tried to call in, but there was no response. ‘Shit, the bloody things are still not working properly, or this must be a real blackspot here.’

‘Let’s have a look,’ O’Brien whispered. Their torches came on simultaneously and they both stepped off the track into the undergrowth. They were at the 4x4 within seconds.

‘No one with it,’ O’Brien observed as he approached, shining his torch. He walked up to the driver’s door and shone it in. ‘Shit,’ he gasped.

Jo was behind him. She shone her more powerful beam into the vehicle.

‘Wooo,’ she said, pursing her lips.

There was blood swathed across the inside of the passenger door, pools of it on the seat.

‘Not good,’ said O’Brien nervously edging his way carefully around the 4x4. He stood by the passenger window, which was pasted in blood. He shone his torch around his feet and saw the drag marks along the forest floor. Jo joined him, saw what he was looking at.

She looked at him, worried. ‘Bloody hell — I think our Mr Turner is a dead un.’

‘Let’s follow them, now that we’re here.’

Jo nodded. ‘Keep to one side of the marks.’

They found the unattended grave, and the body of Andy Turner. Their torch beams played over him.

Verner was behind them, just feet away. They had not seen or heard him, had no idea he was so close.

He rose out of the undergrowth, his spade held high over his head.

He went for the man first.