Facing Justice

NINETEEN

On the morning of his death Massey had woken up heavy-headed from the previous night’s excess. He had disturbed his girlfriend when he jumped quickly out of bed and teetered to the toilet, where he vomited noisily and copiously. After swilling out his mouth, he came back to bed, sat on the edge, head in hands, making soft moaning noises. He looked around at her when she reached across and touched his naked back with her fingertips.

‘You OK, babe?’

‘Yuh,’ he answered. They had been together a couple of months now, much to everyone’s surprise. Laura Binney was a quiet, reserved girl who had pretty much avoided the pitfalls that came with an upbringing on one of Lancaster’s most deprived council estates. She was not the most intellectual of girls but could see beyond the prospect of living on benefits, like her older sister Linda, or getting a dead-end job on a supermarket till. A streak of stubbornness inside her got her work in administration with the local council. It wasn’t the greatest job in the world, but there was the possibility of advancement and it provided enough money for her to rent a little flat on St George’s Quay by the River Lune. Cash was tight — only occasionally did she allow herself a blast night out with the girls — but strict budgeting ensured she survived.

She had known Wayne Massey for a while. He had gone out with Linda, a short tempestuous relationship that ended acrimoniously when she accused him, justly, of stealing cash from her.

From the sidelines, Laura secretly fancied him. He was a known drug dealer in the city, a hard man, even though he was only twenty-three, and he possessed a mysterious, dangerous aura that fascinated Laura, even though it went against her sense of sanity.

It was on a girlie night out with Linda and others that she bumped into Massey in a club where, it was rumoured, he controlled the drug trade.

He had a stand-up squabble with Linda over their failed relationship and she flounced off, carrying her high heels. But Massey caught Laura’s eye and the bottle of champagne he sent over fuelled a feeling of naughtiness. She had just broken up with her own feckless boyfriend and was on the lookout for a physical encounter just for the hell of it.

The champers got them chatting. And at three that morning they were fucking like there was no tomorrow in her flat by the river. It was the beginning of an intense relationship for Laura, who found herself inexplicably obsessed by Massey and the way he threw himself around the city like he owned it. Pretty soon she thought she was in love, as he seemed to offer excitement she had never before experienced.

Despite a stark warning from Linda — ‘He’s a dangerous, unpredictable fuckwit and knocks about with dangerous people and he’ll screw every penny out of you’ — Laura was certain that once she got her hooks into him, she could change and mould him.

When Massey disappeared for a couple of days once without contacting her, she became worried, but he returned haggard-looking on the doorstep. He refused to tell her where he’d been, but did promise her he had not cheated on her, all she needed to hear. He screwed her dispassionately that day, a cold, clinical fuck, and just once she caught him looking at her in a way she did not quite understand. But it was only a fleeting glance, a moment of uncertainty, before they climaxed together.

Post coitus, she lay tucked into him, her head on his chest, her hand holding him gently, willing him to become hard again.

‘Babe?’ he said.

‘Yes, what is it?’

‘Yeah, look, I need to borrow some money. I hope that’s OK.’

‘From me? I don’t have anything.’

He chortled. ‘I need a few grand to tide me over.’

‘What for?’

‘Just a bit overstretched.’ It was a complete understatement.

‘I haven’t got that sort of money. You know that.’

He took her hand from him and pushed her away as he sat up. He took hold of her chin in the V of his right hand, where his thumb and forefinger connected. ‘Don’t fucking lie.’

She jerked herself away. ‘I’m not lying.’

‘Honey — some very bad men think I did the dirty on them, y’know, short changed them. If I don’t pay back, I’m going to suffer.’ She blinked. ‘And I know you’ve got money in a building society account.’

‘You’ve been through my things,’ she accused him.

‘Yeah — and you’ve got three big ones stashed away. I need it.’

‘Honey, it’s my money. I’ve been saving it for years.’

‘Do you want me to get my head kicked in?’

‘No, but…’

‘Then trot down to the building society and draw it out.’ His voice softened. ‘I’ll pay you back, you know I will.’

Laura was now sitting on the edge of the bed, her mind tortured, but knowing she would do as asked. She withdrew the money later and handed him the cash.

‘I need it back,’ she said.

‘Trust me,’ he said, reassuringly.

The money was never mentioned and their love life returned to normal, until that morning three days ago. The day on which he would die.

Massey had been out the previous night, without Laura, having returned very drunk to her flat at 3 a.m. He stumbled into bed and slept with his mouth agape, snoring horribly, ensuring that Laura got no sleep for the remaining hours in bed.

When he returned to bed from vomiting, she had touched him and asked if he was OK. He had just uttered the words, ‘Yeah, yeah,’ when she heard the first crash at the door. A massive smashing sound that initially puzzled her. It was followed by another.

Massey, however, seemed to know exactly what was happening. He screamed an obscenity, fell to his knees by the bed, forced his hand between the mattress and bedstead, frantically searching for something.

In the short hallway there was another crash.

‘What’s going on?’ Laura demanded. By this time she was on her feet, wide eyed, terrified, the duvet clasped around her.

‘Where is it, where is it?’ he chuntered, his voice rising, his right hand still groping under the mattress.

‘What’s going on, what are you after?’

Massey extracted a snub-nosed revolver from its hiding place, spun around with it as the bedroom door was kicked off its hinges and two men, followed by a third, burst into the room. The first pair were carrying baseball bats and as Massey swung the gun towards them, shouting something incomprehensible, they were on him. A bat smashed down on his wrist and the gun dropped from his fingers. The second man kicked it out of reach and the third stepped forward as Laura watched the spectacle, horrified.

This man carried a semi-automatic pistol and as the first two men hauled the cowering Massey to his feet between them, the weapon was ground into Massey’s cheek, and the man’s face leered into Massey’s.

‘Time to face the music,’ said the man she later identified to Henry as Tom James.

The story had been told falteringly, with certain parts omitted, to Henry Christie in the living room of Tom James’s house in the snowbound village of Kendleton in north Lancashire. Tom himself was handcuffed in the office across the hallway, watched by Steve Flynn, whilst Henry listened to the tale behind a closed door.

‘You’re sure it was Tom James? The guy in there?’

She nodded. ‘I didn’t know his name, or who he was, but that is him. Yeah, he got Wayne to get dressed and then the other two men walked him out between them, and that’s the last I saw of him.’

‘Three days ago?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you contact the police?’

Laura dropped her eyes. ‘I was too frightened. I knew this was a gangland thing.’

Henry ruminated a moment. ‘What brought you here?’

‘I did make some enquiries,’ she said defiantly. ‘I asked questions of the people I’d seen Wayne with in the clubs. No one wanted to say much, really, but a guy eventually told me that Wayne was selling drugs for a guy called Jack Vincent. Then someone else told me the rumour was that Wayne had skimmed loads of money and drugs from a deal and that this Vincent guy was after his blood. He was in serious trouble. I think that’s why he borrowed from me, to pay Vincent back, so I can’t understand why Vincent kidnapped him. Surely he must have paid him with my money, otherwise…’ A dawn of realization crossed Laura’s young, innocent face. ‘Unless he blew it, and didn’t pay them off, otherwise why would they have…?’ she said. All Henry could think was, you poor deluded woman. Men like Wayne Massey have self-destruct buttons where money is concerned.

Henry doubted two things. First that she would ever see her money again, that was long gone. Second that she would see Massey again.

‘I heard something else, too,’ she said meekly. Henry waited. ‘That Jack Vincent owns a leopard or mountain lion or something — and he feeds people to it.’

Henry stared at her, his initial disbelief replaced by a shiver running down his spine as he recalled the ghostly shape behind the fencing on the hill and the effect it had on Roger, the German shepherd dog. He laughed it off. ‘Sounds rubbish that,’ he said, but his voice didn’t even convince himself.

After a second urgent visit to the toilet, Donaldson curled up in Ginny’s comfortable bed, certain the worst was over, that his insides were completely evacuated. The pains had all but gone, a faint twinge now and then. His ankle continued to throb, but the elastic tube bandage that Alison had found for him held it firmly, yet gently.

He tapped off the bedside light and snuggled into his favourite position, sleeping mode as he called it, on his right-hand side, left leg drawn up, right extending, hands palm to palm underneath his face.

A few things whirled through his mind. The day’s terrible walk, Ken’s infected chicken, his wife and the baby growing in her tummy, the evening’s events and whether Henry was coping without him. But his meanderings circled back to his future child, sex still unknown. That was going to be a surprise for both of them. He started to drift off, working through lists of names.

He came awake with a start at the sound of a click. His whole body tensed as he listened, his brow furrowing, certain he had heard something. The click, then a creak. Then a footstep — soft, but definitely a footstep. Donaldson held his breath. Someone, he was positive, had entered the bedroom. Ginny, he wondered. Forgotten something? Not wanting to disturb him?

He was facing away from the door, so opening his eyes didn’t help.

Another shuffle, then he was aware of a presence by the bed. He heard a rasping breath, then smelled cigarette smoke and body odour and he knew this was an intruder, someone who should not have been there.

‘Now then, you foxy bitch, I’m going to continue what I started,’ the voice croaked.

Donaldson relaxed, a smile spreading across his face, and what little light there was in the room caught the mischievous twinkle in his eye.

‘You are going to get it,’ the man said huskily. A smell of alcohol joined the other fine aromas. ‘And you’re gonna like it.’

Donaldson allowed himself to emit a slight squeak of air from his lungs, hoping it would sound like the sort of noise a girl might make. He snuggled down deeper under the duvet, aware of the figure leaning over and a hint of warm breath, garlic laden, wafting across. He must have had the garlic mushrooms as a starter, Donaldson thought.

‘I’m gonna shag you silly, you little bitch.’

It was at that point that Donaldson felt enough was enough.

Although he was sick and injured, the sugar-rush of adrenalin ensured that these disabilities were sidelined.

He moved fast and hard and violently, all his training kicking in — particularly the offensive tactics he had learned and continued to practise to perfection over the years.

The duvet went down. The back of his left hand, bunched into an iron fist, arced upwards and slammed directly into Danny Bispham’s face. It was a perfect landing and even as he continued to move, Donaldson patted himself mentally on the back for this excellent blow. It may only have travelled less than two feet, but the power of the punch was tremendous, rather like being hit by a flat iron.

Donaldson felt the gristle crack, the septum snap, and the resultant mush get forced back into Bispham’s face. The second punch he had received in more or less the same spot that evening.

He fell backwards, the combination of the blow and its surprise knocking him back against the bedroom door. His senses reeled, the pain was intense, the shock overwhelming. He sank down on to his backside, uncomprehendingly holding his face.

By which time Donaldson was out of bed, giving the intruder no respite, dragging him to his feet, driven by that terrible combination of rage and precision. Rage at the gall of the man to think he could continue what he had started in the restaurant by putting his hand up Ginny’s skirt; precision in the way he clinically proceeded to beat the man senseless. The assault lasted less than a minute, though to Bispham it felt more like a month, until he was curled up in a ball, whining for mercy, sobbing.

Towering over him, Donaldson growled, ‘Still want to screw me?’

Tom James had been stuffed down into one corner of the office with firm orders not to move. He sat wedged there, knees drawn up, his cable-tied hands resting on his knees, watching everything that was going on. Callard was still asleep.

Flynn stood in the open doorway, one eye always on Tom, whilst he talked in whispers to Henry. ‘It’s going to be a long night,’ Flynn said. It was approaching midnight now and both men felt as though they had lived three lifetimes that day. ‘Good news is the snow seems to have eased off.’

‘Now it looks like it’s starting to freeze.’ Henry was in the hall, looking past Flynn into the office, angled so he could see Tom and Callard’s outstretched legs. ‘At least if it’s clear, they’ll be able to get the helicopter out to us at first light… some relief.’

‘Don’t bank on it.’

Both men exhaled simultaneously, caught each other doing it and grinned.

‘You know I didn’t take that million, or have anything to do with it,’ Flynn said, and added, ‘apropos nothing.’

‘We’ll have to see what your ex-partner says about it, won’t we? If he ever gets caught. And anyway, why are you so bothered? Do you crave for my, I dunno, stamp of approval or something?’

‘Just want you to see the truth… I don’t like clouds hanging over me.’

Henry gave him a scornful look. ‘I’ve got clouds queuing up to hang over me.’

‘But you’re still in the job.’

‘Yes, I am,’ he said tiredly and rolled his injured shoulder, which was stiffening up painfully, still weeping blood.

Behind them, the living-room door opened and Alison stepped out.

‘How is she?’ Henry asked.

‘OK — tired, wants to sleep.’

‘I don’t suppose you could…?’ Henry’s voice trailed off.

‘Put her up? I’m afraid we’re full at the inn,’ Alison said biblically.

‘She’ll have to bed down here, then. There’s a guest bedroom made up. Not ideal, but we need to keep hold of her.’

They were talking in hushed tones, but not quietly enough it seemed.

Tom piped up. ‘This is my house. You are taking liberties. This is an invasion of my civil liberties… you cannot do this.’

All three heads turned to him, the withering expression on all three faces identical, though Henry’s suddenly morphed into something much more serious. He stalked over to Tom, who scowled.

‘Henry fucking Christie,’ Tom sneered. ‘I know all about your chequered past, all about your very dicey history of bad judgement calls. I know you’ve been suspended before… you’re a freakin’ legend, mate… and this is all bollocks, it’ll be the icing on your cake.’

‘And yet here you are in handcuffs and I’m a superintendent.’

‘Only because you’re up the chief constable’s arsehole. Everybody knows — everybody!’

‘And yet you’re the one in handcuffs,’ Henry repeated, ‘suspected of murdering your wife, consorting with known OC targets… and much, much more. When the dawn comes, you’ll be fucked and facing justice, Tom. You’ll be going down for life and you’ll never set foot outside again for at least what, thirty years?’ Henry grinned. ‘By which time I’ll be in my dotage, bouncing great-grand-kids on my knees.’

Tom laughed. ‘Don’t think so, Henry,’ he said smugly. ‘You just don’t know who you’re dealing with here.’

‘And plainly, nor do you.’

Henry felt someone grip his arm and squeeze gently. It was Flynn. ‘Henry,’ he said, and did not need to speak another word. Flynn had watched him get sucked into a fruitless confrontation, a tit-for-tat argument, the only winner of which would be Tom because he had nothing to lose.

Henry nodded and withdrew from the room. In the hallway, this time definitely out of Tom’s earshot, he said, ‘Got my goat. I’m just tired and irritable.’

‘Oh I know that, but you know what worries me most?’

‘What?’

‘His confidence.’

‘Mm,’ Henry mused. ‘That phone call.’

For good measure, Donaldson bashed Bispham’s head against the door frame, a blow that caught the edge of his temple against the right angle of the door jamb and instantly split the skin. There was a slight delay, then blood poured out down the side of his face.

Bispham was thin and wiry, built like a scrapyard dog, all bones and bollocks, and he was light enough for Donaldson — much bigger and stronger and fitter — to manage easily. He forced one arm up his back, trapping the hand between his shoulder blades. Donaldson twisted the man’s ponytail around his other fist and could easily have torn it out of his skull by the roots.

Holding him thus, like a Roman shield, he manoeuvred him out of the door into the corridor. Directly opposite was the door to Alison’s bedroom and Ginny, disturbed by the commotion, had emerged sleepily in her jim-jams, her face falling with shock at the sight of Donaldson coming out of her room carrying Bispham in front of him.

‘Night-time visitor,’ Donaldson said, turning left and marching him along the corridor, Bispham’s toes hardly touching the floor. He led him to the door that opened out to the bar and noticed the splintered wood around the lock, answering a question in Donaldson’s head. Bispham had jemmied his way into the living accommodation, naughty man. Donaldson pinned him to the wall and toed the door open. He said, ‘Gonna be a cold, cold night for you, buddy boy.’

The man’s bloodied face was crushed up to the wall and he could not respond. Then, as the door opened, Donaldson reaffirmed his grip on the ponytail and the hand, and pushed him out of the door so they emerged into the pub, the bar to their left.

It was fortunate for the American that he was holding Bispham up like a shield because he was faced with three masked and armed men who, in turn, were surprised by his sudden appearance.

The men were in a V-shaped formation. The lead man, the point of the V, was armed with a pump-action shotgun and he swung it around and pointed it at Donaldson’s writhing captive, who had also seen what was in front of him.

Donaldson had little time to react. Just enough for him to take in the situation — the weapon coming around in his direction — so he drew himself in as tightly as he could behind Bispham and held him forward like an offering.

And the shotgun was discharged from a distance of about ten feet, not giving the cartridge load the space to spread before it slammed into Bispham’s chest, right on the sternum, blowing a fist-shaped hole in him.

Donaldson held on, even though the force of the blast waved through his arms, and Bispham suddenly went limp. Dead.

He heard the cartridge being ejected, the weapon being racked as a new round slid into the breech. He held Bispham slightly to one side, now literally a dead weight, and saw the man racking the shotgun was blocking the way of the other two, causing them to hesitate unless they shot their colleague by mistake.

Using Bispham like a battering ram, Donaldson emitted a warlike roar and charged the intruders, driving the dead man into the shotgun guy before he could fire the next round, then barged on, using all his power to force him backwards, before with one last heave he threw Bispham ahead of him like a demented zombie.

Donaldson knew he had only seconds.

The element of surprise, both ways, had gone.

He turned, moving quickly, and before the men could regroup and work out what had hit them, he threw himself back through the door into the living accommodation, slammed it shut and slid the three big old bolts across.

Ginny was standing in the corridor.

‘Get down,’ he screamed, gesticulating wildly — but she was affixed to the spot, still did not know what had happened. He ran towards her, keeping low, and, being as gentle as he could about it, tackled her and carried her through into her bedroom. The door behind them seemed to explode as two shotgun cartridges ripped into it. But the door was almost as old as the pub, constructed over a hundred years before of thick oak and fitted together by craftsman-made joints and pride. It held well against the shotgun blast and the bolts made the thing virtually impregnable.

He gave Ginny a ‘shush’ gesture and on his belly he wriggled into the hallway and along to the door, keeping to the edge of the corridor, moving like a lizard, or maybe a crocodile.

At the door he stopped, listened hard, but could hear nothing and he knew why.

The intruders were not remotely interested in anything on this side of the door. They had not broken in for him or Ginny.