Substantial Threat

Four

Henry had met Jane Roscoe a few months earlier under very difficult circumstances. He had returned to work following a virtual nervous breakdown, expecting to return to his old position — detective inspector at Blackpool Central. He had been shocked to be told that — for his own good — he had been transferred to uniform duties and that someone else had been given his job, that someone being Jane Roscoe. He had wanted to despise her, but had found himself deeply attracted to her and she to him, although neither of them did anything about it.

In a particularly traumatic incident Jane had become the target for a deranged serial killer who had kidnapped her with the intention of murdering her. Henry had tracked him down and released her. This incident had made Jane decide to take some time off work and start a family with her husband, with whom relations had been somewhat sour.

At the same time Henry had started to try and make a permanent peace with Kate. He had moved back in with her and was doing his best to make the relationship work. He was ecstatic to be back with his daughters, but things were often pretty strained between him and Kate. Not only had he found himself thinking about Jane Roscoe more than was healthy, he was not completely sure he was still in love with Kate. He told her he was, but sometimes he did not believe his own words, and without that true love, he knew the chances of their relationship working were pretty minimal.

Henry and Jane accompanied the blackened, charred body of Carrie Dancing to the mortuary at Blackpool Victoria Hospital. It was laid out on a slab next to the one with JJ’s now undressed body on it. Girlfriend next to boyfriend.

In a corner of the room, Professor Baines was preparing to carry out two post-mortems back to back. He looked across at Henry, who was inspecting the two bodies. ‘Y’know, it’s funny, but every time I bump into you, Henry, there’s never just one body to cut up. Usually I get a whole busful!’ He laughed.

‘It’s the effect I have on people.’

‘I have no doubt there’ll be even more for me to do before the day is done now that you’re on the scene. You seem to attract violent death.’

‘Cheers. . at least it keeps you in luxury items, doesn’t it?’ Henry said knowing how much Baines charged for his work.

‘Yes, beluga caviar and champagne tonight.’ The pathologist smiled, blowing into a latex glove so it resembled a cow’s udder.

Jane Roscoe came to the door. She and Henry caught each other’s eyes. He knew they needed to talk.

‘We need to nip out and get a few things sorted,’ he told Baines. ‘Back in about twenty minutes, half an hour or so.’

‘Whatever.’ Baines moved to the bodies, flexing his fingers. ‘I’ll be here for a good few hours I expect.’

They parked in a side street off Lytham Road. Crazy kept the engine of the GTi ticking over. He thought the car felt good and knew it would not let them down if they needed it.

All three were silent, waiting.

About a hundred metres away, around the corner and out of sight, was the King’s Cross, where their business was going to be conducted very shortly.

Marty tapped his foot on the floor. It was beginning to aggravate the other two.

‘Fuckin’ stop that,’ Ray said impatiently.

The sound ceased instantly. A short while later Marty started keeping a beat by slapping his thighs. Ray decided to let it ride. He was nervous, too, but he kept things bottled up inside, like Crazy did. Later he would allow himself an outlet for his emotions. Until then they would remain as controlled as they could be under the circumstances.

Soon they would be on the move.

A small man came round the corner from Lytham Road and approached the Golf. Ray wound his window down. Looking furtively round, the man bent down to the car window and breathed out smoke and beer fumes from which Ray recoiled slightly.

‘What’ve you got, Pete?’

‘He’s in the snug. Through the door to the left. He’s sat at the bar with Teddy Wright and Big Townley on either side of him. There’s one barman and no one else inside the place when I left. It’s dead quiet.’

‘You a hundred per cent?’

‘Yep.’

‘Right. Thanks. I’ll square this up with you later.’

The small man nodded and walked hurriedly away, lighting a cigarette as he went.

‘Shit,’ muttered Crazy.

Ray and Marty looked up quickly as a cruising police car turned into the side road and rolled slowly past them. All three tensed, but the PC at the wheel did not seem to notice them as he drove by.

Crazy, his hands gripping the steering wheel rigidly, watched the police car get smaller and smaller in his rear-view mirror.

‘Gone,’ he said.

All three puffed out together.

‘Times like this I wish I’d been a banker,’ Crazy said seriously.

‘Mate,’ said Ray sympathetically, ‘you are a banker!’

They all laughed in a release of tension.

‘Right. Let’s go and do this. Remember, Marty, in and out. No fucking around. We walk in quick, up to them, guns to their heads, as little distance as possible. Bang, bang, bang, they’re dead. Leave Rufus to me. Don’t say a word. Shoot ’em and then we’re out and away. Okay?’

Marty nodded.

‘Crazy — you know what you’re doing?’

He nodded.

‘Right — let’s go.’

Crazy pulled away from the kerb, drove to the junction with Lytham Road and into the line of sight with the King’s Cross. He edged on to the busy main road and into the traffic heading south. Nice and easy. Seconds later he stopped outside the pub on the single yellow line. He did not anticipate getting a ticket. Wouldn’t be there long enough.

Ray and Marty climbed out together, crossed the wide pavement and stepped into the entrance vestibule. They pulled on their ski-masks and drew their weapons.

Through the eyeholes in their masks, they appraised each other.

‘Ready?’ Ray asked, his voice muffled by the mask.

Marty nodded and raised his gun to show he was.

Ray put his weight against the door which led to the snug. He opened it an inch so he could see through. It was quiet, dead, even, as their small informant had said it would be. He could see the barman, but only two figures sat hunched over the bar, deep in conversation. He was unable to tell if one of them was Rufus Callan or not.

One way or another he had to do something, though.

He could not wait where he was for fear of some innocent customer coming in and tripping over them in the vestibule. He pushed the door open and walked smartly — did not run — towards the men at the bar.

‘Snug’ was an inappropriate term for the room because it was extremely spacious and it was perhaps thirty feet from the door to the bar. A long way to walk with a gun in your hand.

As Ray came in, Marty behind him, time seemed to move very slowly. Ray felt like he was walking through treacle, as though his hearing had been tampered with and he was wearing mufflers. Nothing seemed real — except for the realization that Rufus Callan was not sitting at the bar.

The barman was first to notice their approach. His head jerked up and he shouted something which, to Ray’s ears, was loud, strange and distorted. It was obviously a warning, but Ray could not distinguish the words.

Instinctively Ray raised his chosen weapon, the Glock.

The two men at the bar looked over their shoulders. Expressions of horror creased their faces as they reacted to the sight of two armed, masked men approaching.

One of the men pushed himself up and away from the bar, his stool tipping over, and turned to run, but even in the slow-motion time in which Ray was operating, he did not have a cat in hell’s chance.

Ray shot him in the back, two bullets double tapped from the Glock, driving between his shoulder blades. The man’s arms flew up, he pitched down on to his knees, then smack down on to his face where he squirmed on the beer-sticky carpet.

The other man at the bar belonged to Marty. He did not move, just stared rigidly at their approach and raised his hands in surrender.

Not a good enough gesture for today. Marty waltzed up to him, jammed his gun hard into the man’s temple, forced his head to the bar top and pulled the trigger.

Ray stood over the man he had taken out and, shot him in the head.

Time returned to normal for Ray with a blinding flash, as though he had stepped out of a time tunnel.

‘Where the fuck is Rufus, where is he?’ he yelled. He jumped across to the bar and pointed his gun at the cowering barman. ‘Where is he?’

‘B-bog,’ stuttered the terrified man. ‘In the b-bog, having a shit.’ He pointed to the toilet door.

Callan pulled up his trousers and flushed the toilet. He tucked his shirt into his jeans and went to wash his hands, which he dried under the hot-air machine. It was because of the combined noise of the toilet flushing and the hand drier that he did not hear any of the shots being fired in the snug. Unaware of any problem, he left the toilets and wandered back down the corridor towards the bar.

For a few vital nano-seconds, it did not even register with his brain when a masked figure appeared at the door ahead of him. It did not register because it did not seem real, because he was not expecting it. But as the gun rose in the hand of the masked man, it became all too real and he reacted.

‘You keep an eye on that fucker!’ Ray screamed at Marty and pointed at the barman. ‘Kill him if you have to.’

He jumped over the body of the man he had shot and ran to the door leading down to the toilets. As he pushed it open he came face to face with Rufus Callan.

Ray hesitated and Callan threw himself against an emergency exit by his side, slamming the release lever down and lurching out of the door.

Ray fired, but because he was slightly off balance, he missed. The bullet gouged into the wall by the door. Then he gave chase.

Callan banged the door shut behind him. Ray booted it open again with the flat of his foot, paused, then leapt through it. It opened on to an alleyway at the back of the pub. Callan was running hard towards Duke Street. Ray fired another shot, not really expecting to hit him, but Callan screamed, staggered, clutched the back of his left leg and fell to the ground. He managed to execute a forward roll and was back on his feet straight away, holding his leg and hobbling towards what he hoped would be the safety of a public road.

Ray pursued him relentlessly. He was experiencing that sense of utter elation one feels when taking someone’s life from them. It did not matter that he was going to kill someone in broad daylight, in the middle of a busy street, because he believed absolutely that he would get away with it.

Callan stumbled out of the alley, howling for help.

The first person he approached was a middle-aged woman out shopping. When he raised his blood-soaked hands to stop her, she screamed and recoiled.

‘Callan,’ came a voice behind him, a voice which sounded like the devil calling his name.

He twisted, the agony of his damaged leg smeared across his face. He fell over on to his backside on the pavement and Ray raised the Glock again. Callan tried to crab away backwards on all fours, bawling, ‘No, no, no?’

Ray fired. The bullet rammed into Callan’s right shoulder, pinning him to the ground.

The woman screamed horribly again, a car screeched to a halt, and people started to run and hide. But Ray Cragg had stepped back into his distorted time tunnel and all he could see and feel was the figure of Rufus Callan, a man he hated, a man who had dared to encroach on his drug-dealing patch, who had taunted Ray, who’d had the temerity to think about taking on the most powerful drug dealer in the north of England.

Ray hunted the crawling man. He fired another shot into him as he dragged himself into the road between two parked cars. The bullet went into Callan’s thigh, but he continued to drag himself away from Ray, leaving a trail of thick blood behind him.

A car swerved, just missing him. Another car stopped with a squeal of brakes and tyres as Ray stood over Rufus Callan and shot him twice in the head.

And once again, Ray Cragg’s normal world spun back into focus. He did not vacillate. Making sure that every onlooker saw his pistol waving in his hand and did not dare approach him, he turned and legged it back down the alley and into the King’s Cross through the emergency exit. He burst into the bar, shouting, ‘Go!’ to Marty, who was still covering the barman. Ray had to hurdle the two splayed-out dead bodies to get to the door, which he yanked open. Marty was right behind him.

Seconds later Crazy was driving them away, very coolly, very sedately, not drawing any undue attention to them. Ray ripped off his ski-mask, sweat drizzling down his forehead and face. He was breathless.

A police car, sirens wailing, hurtled past them in the opposite direction, going to the scene.

Crazy kept glancing at Ray, saying nothing, but eager to know what had happened.

Ray gulped deep breaths, calming himself. Eventually he looked sideways at Crazy and smirked victoriously. ‘Fuckin’ good,’ he snarled. ‘Well done, Marty, what a fuckin’ scene that was! Shot the bastard like the dog he was.’

Henry came back to the table balancing two coffees and two plates of Eccles cakes in his hands. Jane Roscoe took hers from him, their eyes catching each other fleetingly, their insides churning. Henry seated himself and took a sip of the hospital cafeteria coffee, wincing at the bitter taste.

‘It was just so false, me being at home all the time,’ Jane said. ‘Making his breakfast and having his tea on the table when he got home, usually late. Then sex!’ She snorted. ‘Just to try and have a baby to keep us together. I think he thought it was wonderful, but it just wasn’t. . right.’ She shuddered at the thought. ‘I didn’t really want to conceive — even though I do want to be a mum — because deep down I don’t really want to be married to him. I just don’t love him,’ she concluded sadly with a shake of the head. She took a bite from her Eccles cake, wiped some crumbs from her mouth and smiled. ‘How did you know an Eccles cake always makes me feel so good?’

‘Intuition.’ Henry stared into his coffee. It was a muddy-grey colour. ‘I’m back home now, you know.’

‘I’d heard. How are things?’

He held out his right hand and waggled it from side to side. ‘So so. Not brilliant, but we’re working at it. I suppose I should consider myself lucky to be allowed to have another chance.’

‘But. .?’

It was his turn to snort. He looked squarely at Jane Roscoe and wondered about himself. He had found himself deeply attracted to her during the short time they worked together, yet they had never got further than a brief kiss, not even a suggestive conversation. But there had definitely been something electric between them.

But she had gone back to her husband and he had gone back to Kate and was trying to get his life on to some sort of even keel. Though things were far from perfect, the comfort, lifestyle and stability Kate offered him were very real. . and yet, and yet. . here was Jane Roscoe back on the scene, obviously with some deep feelings for him and all of a sudden, here he was again, considering destroying his life. . for what?

His head told him he had to be strong here. He had made too many mistakes in his private life over the past few years and could not afford to make any more. He should tell Roscoe that he and Kate were a rock-solid item; that although things might be hard at the moment, the future looked good and he was going to stick with it.

‘I’ve still got a couple of months’ lease remaining on the flat over the vet’s,’ he said stupidly.

‘Oh, the vet. Fiona. That was her name, wasn’t it?’

‘Yup.’ Henry had been seeing Fiona at one stage during his separation from Kate, but it had not worked out. Somehow they had managed to resume their former formal relationship of landlady and tenant without too much acrimony.

Henry ate some cake and sipped his coffee. They did not speak for a while and then simultaneously opened their mouths, each over-talking the other. They laughed.

‘You first,’ said Henry.

‘I think you know what I’m going to say.’

‘Maybe, maybe not.’

‘I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, Henry. I’m confused. I want to love my husband, yet you are on my mind all the time.’ She shook her head again. ‘I mean, bloody hell! I’m nearly forty, been married over eleven years, never ever been unfaithful to Tom and you come into my life and all I can think about is being unfaithful with you. . ahem. . there, said it.’

‘Wow,’ said Henry. ‘Mm,’ was all he could think to add. Then, ‘Bugger!’

She grinned. ‘But I’ll understand if you’re not interested because I can see you’re trying hard with Kate. I don’t want to spoil that.’

Once again they held each other’s gaze. Henry speculated as to why people became attracted to each other. What was it? What was the spark? Really, he knew very little about Jane Roscoe, yet he knew there was something extra special between them.

‘Is it because I saved you from certain death?’ he asked lightly, though he knew that she would surely have been mutilated and murdered had he not found her first. ‘That sort of thing does tend to play havoc with your emotions. I know I am a hero figure to many women.’

‘I knew even before that,’ she said simply.

‘Bugger,’ he exclaimed again, feeling deep water approaching.

Jane’s mobile rang. Henry was pleased to hear that the ring tone was the riff from ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’.

‘Gotta go,’ Roscoe said, ending the call and downing the last of her coffee and stuffing the Eccles cake into her mouth. ‘Been a shooting down on South Shore,’ she mumbled through a mouthful of currants. She stood up and collected her belongings. ‘Sounds like there might be a dead ’un. . want to come?’

Henry shook his head. ‘Call us if you need us.’

‘Bye. . speak later.’ She left the cafeteria. Henry watched her disappear.

‘Bye,’ he whispered. He took his time finishing his coffee, then made his way back to the mortuary.

No one followed them, Crazy was sure of it, but only after making double sure did he drive back to the garage from where they had first collected the Golf GTi and transfer them into the back of the Transit van which was waiting for their return.

The garage owner immediately went to work on the Golf. He removed the number plates and replaced them with a fresh set for the journey to the scrap yard over in east Lancashire. The car would be crumpled metal within the day.

Ray, Marty and Crazy were driven to a new address in the van, this time to a terraced house in the north of town. Here they undressed and bagged everything up they had worn for the job. The guns and mobile phones were wrapped separately and everything was then handed to the driver of the Transit whose job it was to arrange for their complete disposal and destruction. This included the van, which would be burnt somewhere out of the county.

The three showered and changed back into their original clothes.

Crazy had ensured that there was a car waiting for them near the house. When they were ready, they left discreetly and got into the car.

Although all three were hyped up, there was very little conversation between them. Ray intended to debrief the whole thing later to make sure that no holes were left in the way the job had been handled, that they had covered their tracks as professionally as possible.

He knew it would be impossible to stop rumour from spreading among the criminal fraternity that Ray Cragg had taken out a business rival. But he was happy for the message on the street to be read and understood by all, the message being that Ray Cragg controlled this town and if you got in his way, you suffered.

He also knew there was a good chance of being arrested, but because he believed he had left no physical evidence behind, the police would have to rely on a confession, which would not be forthcoming under any circumstances. He was absolutely certain nothing could be pinned on him and that, even if they did lock him up, he would be free within hours.

‘Well I don’t know about you,’ Ray announced, ‘but I need to fuck just now.’ He eyeballed Crazy.

‘Don’t look at me,’ the driver laughed, ‘you ain’t gonna bum me.’

Ray looked over his shoulder at Marty who, for some reason, looked severely infuriated.

‘What’s up with you, half-brother?’

‘Nowt,’ he snapped.

‘You did fuckin’ well today. We need to talk about it later, need to talk about bonuses.’ He laid a hand on Crazy’s left arm. ‘You did good, too. Big bonus. But first I need to have some hot sex to cool me down. . you know where to drop me.’

Jane Roscoe was trying to focus on the job which lay ahead. It sounded deadly serious. A shooting. Another run of the mill job in the lovely town that was Britain’s biggest, brashest holiday destination. Murders were frequent and cops were run off their feet all the time with big, nasty incidents which were ten-a-penny in this town. But even so, she was still pretty new to the post of detective inspector and sometimes the enormity of the job was a little awe-inspiring.

She drove quickly through the traffic, using skills she had picked up on an advanced driving course. She was in her own car, not equipped with a blue light or two-tones, so when she hit the backlog of standing traffic where Lytham Road joined the promenade, she could not make any further progress, stuck in a line which she assumed existed because of the incident she was attending.

She thought quickly, but did not know any way to circumnavigate the traffic, so she pulled off the road, rode her car up on to the pavement and abandoned it. She was going to have to walk the rest of the way, which was perhaps no bad thing.

The King’s Cross was about quarter of a mile down the road and it took her about ten minutes to get there. When she reached it she found out why the traffic was backed up all the way to the promenade and in every other direction too: there was a body in the road and the uniformed cops had sealed the scene. Now they were desperately trying to get the traffic moving somehow.

The inspector in charge of the scene was an old lag called Burt Norman, a wizened cop who had seen just about everything in his time. He spotted Roscoe arriving and went up to her.

He blew out his cheeks and said, ‘Even I’m shocked by this one.’

Jane Roscoe did not know Burt Norman well at all, being fairly new to Blackpool division, but she knew of his reputation and for him to admit that was quite something.

‘Tell me,’ she said.

‘Okay — this guy here was seen being chased out of the alleyway here — which backs on to the King’s Cross, by the way — so it looks like he’d been chased out of the pub and gunned down in cold blood here in the street, in broad daylight. A witness says the attacker just kept shooting him as he tried to get away. There’s a trail of blood which pretty much verifies that. Bloody ruthless. This town is the pits.’ He almost spat.

‘Let’s have a look.’

Jane Roscoe inspected the scene quickly. It reminded her of a Mafia-style hit, photos of which she had often seen in Sunday supplements. The man was lying in a pool of black blood. One of his legs was drawn up, his arms splayed out almost as though he was sunbathing.

He had plenty of bullet holes in him.

Norman was at her shoulder. ‘There’s more. . two shot dead inside the pub.’

‘Do we know who they are?’

‘Yep — that’s Rufus Callan. The two inside are his running mates. They’re drug dealers and it looks like they have annoyed somebody.’

‘Annoyed?’ Jane said incredulously. ‘Fuckin’ totally pissed ’em off by the look of things.’

Henry had returned to the mortuary to find Baines engrossed in the post-mortem of Carrie Dancing, assisted by a young male mortuary technician who would not have looked out of place on a slab himself. The burnt flesh smelt terrible and seemed to claw at Henry’s nose hairs and cling to his clothing. The pathologist peered over his mask as Henry entered and walked past the painfully thin body of Johnny Jacques.

The thought of the two of them dying made Henry feel sad. He had always thought of JJ as one of life’s losers, a pretty harmless soul, more likely to do himself mischief than anyone else.

‘Ahhh, Henry.’ Baines smiled behind his surgical mask. ‘Glad you could make it back. Not too smitten with the very pleasant, but homely Ms Roscoe, I hope?’

‘No, I’m not,’ Henry said firmly, but with a grin. Henry’s up and down love life was always cause for amusement for Baines. ‘What’ve you got?’

‘I was right,’ Baines said, delving into Carrie’s open chest with his scalpel and cutting out her heart which he pulled out with both hands. He carried it over to the dissecting table, laid it out and sliced it open expertly, checking the arteries for any possible blockages. ‘Nothing much wrong with that,’ he said, raising his eyes to Henry. ‘Yeah, I was right. . this girl was dead before the fire. It was the line of the jaw that made me suspicious — out of line, if you will. My examination confirmed it. She had a broken jaw.’

‘That wouldn’t have killed her, though, would it? Even I know that.’

‘No, but the severe beating about the head by some blunt instrument did. There was no smoke inhalation in her lungs.’ He pointed with a gloved finger to the deep-pink mass of dissected lung tissue on the table next to Carrie’s heart. ‘Clean and healthy. . as much as a heavy smoker’s lungs can be. Definitely beaten up and killed prior to the fire. And just out of interest,’ he added, pointing to the side of Carrie’s head, ‘I think that could be a footwear mark, so I’ve asked one of your footwear experts to have a look at it.’

Henry peered at Carrie’s temple and could see a couple of faint ridges. ‘So, did he do it?’ Henry thumbed at JJ.

‘I’m not sure a post-mortem on him will give you that answer, Henry old boy. You might have to do some detective work for a change instead of continually relying on me to solve all your cases for you all the time.’

‘Cheeky git,’ said Henry.

The barman who witnessed the shootings in the King’s Cross was in no fit state to make any sort of statement. Roscoe spoke to him for a few minutes, ascertained that he had been threatened at gunpoint and was in fear of his life, and arranged for him to be taken home with a police escort who would stay with him for the time being. Roscoe wanted to be present when he was eventually interviewed.

The pub had been closed and was now a sealed-off crime scene, being dealt with thoroughly and professionally.

She took a seat at the rear of the snug and tried to imagine the terrible thing that had happened here: two masked gunmen, three people shot to death, drugs’ connections, turf war.

One thing was certain. She was dealing with some totally ruthless individuals who had coldly planned this multiple execution very carefully and precisely.

Henry had once dealt with a domestic murder where a man had killed his wife simply because she had moaned at him for smoking in bed. The guy had been drunk at the time, admittedly, but it had demonstrated to Henry that people can go ‘off on one’ for no particular reason and resort to murder in their rage. What Henry could not see happening in the case of Johnny Jacques and Carrie Dancing was that JJ had killed her, whatever the provocation. And he especially could not believe it when Baines peeled back the charred skin from Carrie’s head to reveal the cranium underneath. The damage caused to it was beyond anything Henry thought JJ was capable of. JJ was a weak, spindly druggie and Henry just could not see him being so violent over the sustained period of time needed to inflict such injuries on the woman he’d been with for years.

Which kind of put a spoke in the wheel.

In truth, this was the sort of incident Henry knew he could write off if he so desired. He could easily surmise that JJ had murdered Carrie and then, in a fit of remorse, had leapt to his own death. He was supremely confident he could get a coroner to swallow it hook, line and sinker.

It would be a good one-for-one. A murder solved without the expense of a trial. A good one for the figures.

Except he did not believe it and his conscience would not allow this to happen, until he was totally convinced otherwise.

He bagged up JJ’s clothing for forensic examination, and did the same with Carrie’s burned garments too.

If JJ had killed her, Henry was sure he would be able to see blood on JJ’s jeans at the very least. There was nothing.

He decided to return to the scene of the fire to see if anything had been missed or forgotten.

Before setting off he spoke to Rik Dean via mobile phone and found out he had been re-deployed to the shooting incident down in South Shore. It sounded like an interesting job, but Henry was not going to poke his nose in unless asked — which he knew he would be very soon. He wasn’t going to show his face before then because he trusted Jane to get a grip of everything and work the scene professionally.

He bade farewell to Baines, after warning him he was likely to be dealing with a further three bodies before the night was over.

Baines thanked him profusely for the news and said again, ‘Why is it that when you’re involved there’s always a mass of bodies?’

‘Just lucky, I guess,’ said Henry.

Crazy drove Ray to his girlfriend’s house. Marty, still in the back seat, looked drained and unhappy.

At the end of the driveway, Ray instructed Crazy to be back in an hour or so, not to hurry, but to be there. Crazy promised he would be and Ray got out of the car. Marty clambered over between the seats and plonked himself into the passenger seat.

Crazy put the car into first and set off, but Marty said, ‘Wait!’ a little too quickly, then felt he had to explain himself to Crazy. ‘Er. . let’s make sure he gets inside safely.’

Ray rang the doorbell. The door opened and Ray stepped inside.

Jacqueline Burrows gave a quick wave to Marty and closed the door.