Substantial Threat

Five

‘Welcome to life as an SIO,’ Bernie Fleming, the detective chief superintendent in charge of the team, said to Henry Christie. ‘Never rains but it pours.’

Henry was unfazed. This was what he wanted. Involvement up to the hilt. To be kept busy, to be hunting down killers. He was sure he had been born to do this job — well, perhaps not — but it was certainly something he enjoyed, keeping all the plates spinning in the air, hoping to God they did not smash around his feet.

Fleming had turned out to the triple shooting, then called Henry in to see him at Blackpool nick, following a consultation with the divisional chief superintendent concerning allocation of resources, which is what murder enquiries always came down to these days.

Which is also why Fleming was slightly irritated with Henry and his view on the incident involving Johnny Jacques and his girlfriend. It would have been simpler for all concerned for Henry to write the job off, but because he believed it was not as straightforward as it appeared, it meant that a team needed to be allocated to it at the expense of the triple shooting.

Henry and Fleming were trudging up the steps in Blackpool police station because the lift was not working. They were making their way up to the canteen. Both men were starting to sweat, and the bigger, older and less fit Fleming was wheezing as he breathed. He was also whining about costs. It was a story Henry was familiar with and the words only just registered.

‘There’s six ongoing murder investigations right across the county. I’m not saying they’re all labour intensive by any means, but we don’t really need two more.’

‘Tell that to the murderers.’

‘Yeah, right,’ Fleming snorted gruffly. ‘So obviously the shooting is going to take priority here.’

At last they reached the sixth floor and stepped into the canteen, which was about to close for the evening. Using their charm they managed to wangle two mugs of coffee from the reluctant lady behind the counter.

‘How do you want to play the fire job?’ Fleming asked.

‘Run it as a full enquiry until it’s proved otherwise,’ Henry said defensively.

Fleming shook his head. He looked pained. ‘Not enough people to go round.’ He pondered things for a few moments, rubbing his chin. ‘What about if you head up the shooting, then split your resources to look into the fire and see how it pans out?’

‘I thought you were going to SIO the shooting.’

‘Name only, name only. I want you to do it and as a sideline, use people as and when to look into the other job.’

‘Okay,’ said Henry. There was no point arguing. The days had long since gone when every suspicious death was allocated a full team. Everything got prioritized these days and in these circumstances it was seen as far more important to catch someone who was dangerous enough to use a gun in public to shoot a man down, than to catch someone who may have killed someone in the confines of a council flat. Henry could not see the difference, but in a world where money counted, that’s what happened. It was not unusual these days for a pair of detectives to investigate a murder — a state of affairs that had long existed in the USA.

Although Henry accepted the way of the world, he hated to see the police being driven solely by money and budgets. He believed the public did not get the service it deserved because of it.

He squinted. ‘You want me to run both jobs at the same time? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Henry, one day you’ll make one hell of a fine detective with such a sharp mind.’

The sex had been over within a minute. Ray Cragg, still hyper after the shooting, had almost dragged Jack Burrows up the stairs, tearing her clothes off as he went. She played the part too whilst disguising the shiver which ran through her. She led him into the bedroom and pushed him on to the bed before straddling him and letting her breasts flounder over his face.

He bit and sucked at them greedily, biting her large, purple nipples so she gasped, not with pleasure, but with pain.

‘You really have had some kind of day.’ She smiled lovingly.

‘You wouldn’t believe it.’ He moaned then said, ‘I want to do it from behind.’

‘Yeah, okay babe,’ she agreed.

‘Like dogs,’ he added.

As she slid off him and he took up his position behind her, she was glad he could not see the expression on her face.

He rammed himself in and after only a very few hard, ruthless thrusts, he came, jabbing wildly in an orgasm all of his own.

She pretended to climax, but all she felt was a cold, cold chill inside. She was relieved when he withdrew and slumped on the bed, exhausted.

‘Yes, I know it’s my first day back at work, love, and I’m sorry, but I can’t help it that three people have been shot to death on my patch. . Yes, my patch, and unfortunately I have to start running an investigation immediately. . time? Er. . not sure. . when I get there. .’

The door to Roscoe’s office opened. Henry Christie poked his head through.

She beckoned him in, shaking her head. She did not want him to go. She mouthed the word ‘husband’ to Henry and raised her eyes heavenwards.

‘Look, I’m not sure what time I’ll be back. . There’s a pizza in the fridge which you can do in the microwave. . As soon as I can, okay?’ She slammed the phone down and sat heavily on the chair at her desk, brushing her hair back from her face. She looked frazzled and sighed deeply.

‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘first day back and I’m going to be late home.’

‘Goes with the territory, and you don’t get overtime for it.’

‘And guess what?’ she said, placing both hands on the desk. ‘I don’t care. I’m just glad to be back at work, involved in something as meaty as this — and especially with you around.’ She sat back. ‘Henry, I’ve really missed you.’

He swallowed. She had been in his thoughts too. Not just in his thoughts, but all over his brain every waking moment. He sometimes even dreamt about her. ‘I’ve missed you too,’ he admitted. ‘But we’ve got a bit of a job on and it needs to be done pdq.’

She smiled radiantly at the prospect of working alongside him. ‘Better get on with it, then.’

‘I need an alibi,’ Ray said to Jack Burrows. ‘For around two till four o’clock this aft. You have to say I was with you during that time, okay?’

She had returned to the bedroom from the shower, having spent a long time washing under the hot, power jets. Ray made her feel dirty. She always had to wash herself after intercourse.

‘Sure, no problems.’ She sat at the dressing table, a towel wrapped around her body, and started working on her hair. Suddenly, a thought came to her and she stopped brushing it. ‘I can’t,’ she said, her mouth arid. She turned to Ray, who was spread-eagled on the bed, still naked, thin and pasty white.

‘What the fuck do you mean, you can’t?’

She told him about the visit she’d had from a cop that afternoon.

Henry and Jane walked side by side into the parade room on the ground-floor annexe of Blackpool police station.

The people assembled there were not the actual murder squad, but a mish-mash of people cobbled together just to get things underway. The real squad would come together for an 8 a.m. briefing in the morning when all the detectives and other specialists were brought in. Henry desperately wanted to get things moving now, but it didn’t mean it would be a haphazard deployment of personnel. He had particular goals in mind for this evening, especially the rooting out of informants to bleed them of anything that might be useful.

It was 8 p.m. by the time the briefing finished. Henry and Jane returned to her office to discuss the briefing which would take place the following morning and get everything prepared for it. They had numerous phone calls to make, trying to pull a team together. It did not help that other murders were being investigated across the county and that the majority of the people Henry would have liked on his team were already gainfully employed.

After an hour, Henry hung up the phone for the last time and wiped his brow in mock exhaustion.

‘Just one more call to make, if you’ll excuse me.’ He stood up and took his mobile phone from his jacket pocket, leaving the room as he dialled Kate.

Out in the corridor he filled her in on what was happening. She already knew a lot because he had spoken to her earlier, but as part of the communication package between them he had felt obliged to call her again and tell her he was going to be very late coming home. Then, not really knowing why, he added that it might be better if he spent the night at his flat because it was so central, handy for the police station, and he would not disturb Kate or the girls by coming in late.

It was all rubbish, of course, but that ‘certain something’ had crept into Henry’s brain again. He experienced a vicious stab of guilt when Kate happily accepted what he was saying at face value, told him she loved him and asked him to ring her if he could — any time.

He ended the call with an irritated frown on his face. He returned to Jane’s office, replacing the expression with a more positive one.

‘Ready?’

She grabbed her coat. Henry was going to take her on the town in the hunt for an informant or two. As they descended the stairs, Roscoe asked, ‘Was that Kate you were talking to?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Oh,’ she said, and clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth.

By 9 p.m. Ray Cragg, Marty and Crazy had made their way to the counting house. When he was there, Ray always thought of himself as the king counting out his money. Or to be more accurate, overseeing while others counted out his money for him.

The counting house was in the middle of a short dead-end terraced street in the town of Rawtenstall in east Lancashire. The houses had been built towards the end of the nineteenth century to accommodate workers at the nearby cotton mill on the banks of the River Irwell. Over a hundred years later the mill and the cotton business were long since gone. After having been abandoned and allowed to decay through non-use and vandalism in the decades following the Second World War, the shell of the mill had finally been flattened in the early 1990s. The demolition of its massive chimney had made national TV news. A new industrial park had replaced the mill and the cotton trade itself had been replaced by a variety of businesses and services, none of which would last half as long as cotton had done.

But the street remained. Two rows of houses with back yards and outside toilets, clinging perilously to the side of the Rossendale Valley. Even its original cobbles remained, now shiny and worn with age, use and weather. On damp, dank, foggy days it did not take too great a leap of the imagination to visualize those bygone days when cotton ruled: clogs clattering on cobbles, the mill chimney belching plumes of unhealthy smoke into the atmosphere, cholera and typhoid.

However, it had been touch and go for the survival of this street. Most of the surrounding streets had been demolished, grassed over, never to be rebuilt in any shape or form. The bulldozers had been ready to roll to flatten this last one. The required compulsory purchase orders had been served and all the residents, bar one stubborn old lady — ninety years old, who had lived in the street all her life and had never been further than Blackpool — had been evicted and rehoused. It was only a matter of time before the old lady popped her clogs and the bulldozers waded in. The council had been prepared to wait.

The street had been saved by Ray Cragg. He had spotted its location and potential, and had slipped some fairly hefty backhanders in the form of cash and B-list celebrity blowjobs to a couple of councillors ripe for the plucking.

It would be a crying shame to flatten the street, destroy history, wipe out our heritage. . at least that’s how the councillors lobbied on Ray’s behalf. The council were informed that a local businessman and general do-gooder (no name mentioned, obviously) wished to preserve the street, yet also modernize it and let out the properties to the local community at low rents.

What the council did not hear was the truth: that Ray Cragg had seen the street’s potential. A nice, little nondescript location, tucked out of the way, affording the privacy he craved, close to a motorway link giving him fast access to Manchester in one direction and the whole of Lancashire in the other. It was also extremely cheap.

Neither were the council told that he wanted to relocate his counting operation from Blackpool to Rawtenstall, somewhere easily guarded and controlled, away from the prying eyes and greedy intentions of his business rivals, where he knew who the neighbours were — somewhere like Balaclava Street, Rawtenstall.

The first job Ray had done when it became his was to ensure that the stubborn old lady died in the house she had been born in. He had enjoyed doing that himself, breaking into her house in the middle of the night, sneaking up to her bedroom, his face covered — appropriately enough — with a balaclava. His intent had been to terrify her to death, something he thought would have been easy. It did not happen as quickly as he had anticipated.

Her valiant old heart only packed in after he had dragged her from her bed, torn off her winceyette nightie, thrust the barrel of a revolver into her toothless mouth and told her he was going to rape her.

‘That is, unless you die, you old bitch,’ he’d growled into her hearing aid. ‘Die, die, die.’

She’d complied and Ray had placed her back into bed, covered her up and left her to be discovered by relatives three weeks later. It had been one of Ray’s proudest moments.

‘What are you smiling at?’ Crazy asked him.

‘Oh, nothing.’ Ray chuckled, shaking his head to rid himself of the memory of that night in the old biddy’s room. He had really enjoyed making her die. And no one, not even Marty, knew he had done it. It was his little, proud, secret.

Ray’s eyes roved round what had once been the living room of one of the terraced houses, but was now where the counting took place. There was no front window any more. A large piece of hardboard had been fixed on the outside of the window to make it appear as though it had been boarded up. Behind the board was a thick sheet of steel pock-riveted into the stone window frame. The rest of the room had been gutted. Four tables had been brought in, similar to decorators’ pasting tables, and one person sat at each of the tables.

Ray moved and stood behind one of these people, a woman by the name of Carmel. He watched her counting.

The week’s takings were looking very healthy indeed. Spread out on the four tables were four very large piles of cash. At each of the other tables was also a woman studiously separating the notes into respective denominations, piling them neatly and then counting them.

Ray Cragg glanced appreciatively at the stacks of cash, feeling a flush of excitement. A quarter of a million, he guessed. All in used notes. Not a bad week’s work by any standards. A million a month. Twelve million a year, conservative. All his hard work over the past four years had been worth it. The violence, the intimidation, the planning, the homework and the killing where necessary. He now virtually controlled the supply of drugs from Merseyside to Cumbria, and from Manchester north to Blackpool.

Sure there were a few gaps in the map, but he intended to plug them in time and become the undisputed king of the north.

And drug dealing wasn’t the whole picture. It was a vast part of his empire, but the running of illegal immigrants into the UK was becoming far more lucrative and far less dangerous.

He intended to have a couple more years with the drugs, but to keep building on the people-movement side of the business for another four years on top of that, then he would retire, maybe with thirty million stashed away. That was the figure, he estimated, that would see him out. He would take his mother to Florida and live a lazy lifestyle down on the Keys. Nothing too flashy — that wasn’t his style — just live off the interest, want for nothing, and chill.

He had been planning this since the age of sixteen.

He checked his watch and frowned. It was getting late and not all the money had arrived.

Marty and Crazy were sitting reading magazines by the front door, keeping a check on the CCTV monitor fixed discreetly over the front and rear doors of the premises. The street outside was deserted.

‘Haven’t heard from Dix, yet,’ Ray said. ‘He’s usually pretty good.’

‘Maybe he’s done a runner with the loot.’ Marty chuckled, not lifting his head from his magazine.

Ray grabbed Marty’s face and squeezed it hard. ‘Not fuckin’ funny,’ he snarled.

Marty jerked his head out of Ray’s fingers and glared at him.

‘Hey, hey, hey,’ cooed Crazy soothingly. It was apparent that both brothers were still up in the sky and agitated from the day’s events. Even Ray, despite having got laid, was still buzzing and could not stay still. On the way over from Blackpool he had relived the shooting time and time again for Crazy’s benefit. Crazy had listened calmly, wondering if he was the only one with a cool head, even though he was called Crazy. But he did realize that he was the only one of the three with no direct blood on his hands, so he could be chilled. . to a degree.

‘He’ll be here soon. Dix is a good lad,’ Crazy said.

‘Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, Mart.’

‘Whatever.’ The younger man’s eyes returned to the magazine, but inside he was seething. Apart from the congratulation after the shooting, Ray had said nothing more to his half-sibling. It was as though Ray had done all the work, and yet hadn’t he, Marty, also wasted one of the miscreants? Marty’s teeth grated like sandpaper, but then he glanced up from his reading and became entranced by the sight of the wads of money being counted in the room. His breath shortened, his heart raced.

An hour later all the money was counted, stacked and wrapped in thin bricks of a thousand, each wad put into a plastic wallet. Ray’s earlier estimate of a quarter of a million was about right. In fact there was just over that amount, all neatly piled up, ready to be packed into one large sports bag for the next stage of its journey. The women who had done the counting were paid off, warned to keep their mouths shut — a warning received every time they counted — and sent on their way. The only people left in the place were Marty, Crazy and Ray.

And they were still short of the money that Dix should have collected and dropped off by now. Ray strutted angrily round the room. Marty and Crazy watched him nervously. He looked as though he was about to explode.

‘Where is the fuck?’ he demanded.

‘Ray, c’mon, cool it,’ said Crazy. ‘Gimme your phone.’ He waggled his fingers at Ray. ‘Let me call him.’

‘He shouldn’t need bloody calling. He should be here NOW!’ Ray jabbed his finger towards the floor. ‘Here.’

‘Phone,’ Crazy said. ‘Gimme.’

Ray wrenched it out of his back pocket and tossed it over to Crazy. ‘Make sure you dial one four one first.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know.’ It was the first rule of making a phone call when you were a crim. Make sure your number doesn’t end up on anybody else’s phone. ‘He’ll be here,’ said Crazy confidently as he dialled. ‘He’s with Miller anyway, so there’ll be a good reason for being late. . bet you.’ He put the phone to his ear and listened to it connect.

Because Jane Roscoe had only been posted to Blackpool for a short time, she’d had little opportunity to get to know any of the town’s high spots. When she had been transferred there several months earlier — unwittingly taking Henry Christie’s position as DI — she had been immediately embroiled in the murder enquiry which had resulted in her kidnap, then had subsequently decided to take a career break. On her return to work she had been very fortunate to get straight back as a DI at Blackpool, because no guarantees were ever made to officers returning from such breaks that they would get their old jobs back.

Henry, who had spent more years than he cared to remember trawling through the jungle that was Blackpool, knew all the best places, all the best people and he saw that evening as a bit of an educational opportunity for Roscoe.

He was also on the lookout for one of his best-kept secrets — an unregistered informant by the name of Troy Costain who might be able to tell him one or two things if the price was right, or pressure was exerted where it hurt.

With those things in mind, he dragged Jane on a whistle-stop tour of the less salubrious hostels in South Shore.

Obviously Jane knew a lot of detectives, many of whom bathed in the afterglow of their reputations, real or imaginary, but Henry Christie was different from anyone else she knew because he really did have a reputation which preceded him like a fanfare, but seemed unaffected by it. She knew that he’d had to kill a man, that he had battled, and won, against the Mafia, a KGB hit man, dishonest cops and child killers, yet none of it seemed to affect the way that he was as a person. He remained quiet, unassuming and, on the face of it, very ordinary. Those were some of the qualities which attracted her to him. He was the main reason she had returned to work so quickly. There was just something about him and she had fallen in love with that ‘something’. She had thought about him constantly, and her desires often made her shudder at their implications.

Now here she was, investigating a murder with him — and loving every moment.

The first pub Henry took her to in South Shore was a huge double-fronted monstrosity, with a rock band pounding out some up to date guitar music. The place was heaving and Henry had to jostle his way through to the bar where he had to shout for two halves of lager.

After he had been served, he and Roscoe seated themselves at the back of the room where there was a little space, but no chance of talking. The band was deafeningly loud.

Henry seemed to be enjoying the music, but when Roscoe surreptitiously glanced at him, she saw he was actually scanning the bar area, inspecting every face, sometimes pausing as a thought struck him.

She looked round, too, and noticed several people eyeing Henry with a mixture of suspicion and hate. They were no doubt some of his previous customers, she thought. It was as plain as day he was well known in these circles, and though this was sometimes a disadvantage and a danger, Roscoe felt safe and comfortable next to him even though some of the characters looked like they would have been happy to smash their beer glasses and grind them into his face. Henry did not seem unduly perturbed by their attention.

‘Seen anybody you know?’ she asked him, being forced to repeat the question an inch from his ear as the band cranked into the latest Oasis rocker.

‘Only fifty per cent of them.’ He laughed. ‘This is one of the big low-life hang outs, but there’s never really much trouble. A bit like a watering hole in the Masai Mara. Some are hunters, some are prey, but here there’s a kind of truce between them.’

There was no doubt in Jane’s mind as to which category Henry fell into.

‘Here — hang on to this. Just need to pay a visit.’ He pushed his glass into her free hand. Before she could say anything, Henry had ducked into the crowd and was heading towards the toilets.

He had seen someone he needed to talk to.

‘Ten minutes.’ Crazy hung up.

‘What the hell has he been up to?’ Ray demanded.

‘Had a few probs.’ Crazy shrugged. ‘He’ll tell you when he gets here.’

‘Well I don’t know about you, but I’m effin’ starvin’,’ declared Marty with a stretch of his limbs. ‘I need some sustenance and I’m gonna get some chips. Anybody else want any?’ The other two shook their heads. ‘Suit yourselves.’ Marty stood up. ‘How’s about putting the kettle on anyway?’ He peered at Crazy and raised his eyebrows, hoping to galvanize him into some movement. Crazy did not move. ‘We’re gonna be here till Dix lands and then we’ve got to count the cash. . yeah?’

Crazy sighed and dragged himself out of his seat. ‘Okay — get me a fish, then.’

‘Ray?’ He looked at his half-brother. ‘Sure you don’t want owt?’

Ray shook his head.

‘Buzz me out, then.’

Marty went to the front door and waited while Ray pressed the buzzer release, allowing Marty to step out into the night.

It was cold, a biting draught coming down from the steep hillside. Marty shivered and hunched down into his coat, digging his hands deep into his pockets as he moved away from the door and headed towards the town centre of Rawtenstall. He knew there was a fish and chip shop about five minutes away.

Suddenly he felt very nervous, yet undeniably elated.

The gents’ toilets were at the back of the pub. Henry followed his man into them, about fifteen seconds later. When Henry pushed the door open, he was not surprised that the other man was nowhere to be seen and that the toilets appeared to be empty. Henry had long since ceased wearing leather-soled shoes. They creaked and announced arrival. He preferred man made because they allowed him to sneak up on people.

There was a low murmur of voices about halfway down the toilets, coming from one of the cubicles. Henry smiled and his heart moved up a gear. He loved times like these.

The sound of voices remained indistinct, but grew slightly louder as Henry slid along from cubicle to cubicle, holding his breath. He reached the occupied cubicle just as the door swung open and a small man he did not recognize stepped out, then froze at the sight of the detective soaring over him.

Henry smiled wickedly. In a hoarse whisper he rasped, ‘Police — scram!’ The little man paused uncertainly. Henry added, ‘Before I change my mind.’

The man needed no further prompting.

Henry swung into the cubicle, rammed his hand against Troy Costain’s chest and forced him down on to the grey, cracked toilet, the seat of which was not down, ensuring that Costain’s bottom hovered only inches above the surface of the water and whatever happened to be floating about in it.

Costain struggled, but he was no contest for the six-foot-two Henry, who grabbed his denim jacket and said, ‘I’ll push your arse all the way down this bog if you don’t stop.’

If was only then Costain actually realized who his assailant was.

‘Oh, shit,’ he breathed, ‘it’s you. I thought I was going to get hammered.’

‘Yeah, it’s me. I want to talk to you and if you don’t tell me what I want to know, you will get hammered.’

‘God, Henry — I can’t talk here,’ Costain pleaded. ‘Please, not here.’

‘Okay.’ Henry stood back. ‘Car park. Five minutes. And if you’re not there, I’ll be round knocking at the family home, letting the rest of your criminal tribe know what a helpful little soul you’ve been to me over the past ten years.’

‘Henry,’ Costain said seriously, ‘you’re a real twat.’

Henry patted Costain’s cheek and gave him a winning smile. ‘I know.’

Dix hated being late, but he also hated not doing his job properly and doing the job properly meant turning up with all the money that was owed to Ray Cragg, not just eighty per cent of it. He was fuming and not a little nervous as Miller, his driver, powered the car across the county.

Ray would be angry because of his tardiness, but he would have been even angrier if all the money wasn’t there. At least Dix had good reason to be late — and maybe Ray would do something constructive about the reason now.

Miller cooled it as he drove into Rawtenstall, past the magistrates’ court building on the left, then around the fire station roundabout, left into Bocholt Way past ASDA, the river Irwell running parallel to the road on their right.

Miller wound his way through some terraced streets and stopped at the top of Balaclava Street to let Dix out to walk the last 100 metres. Ray did not like to see any cars coming down the cobbles. He preferred to see people approaching on foot.

‘Give me fifteen minutes,’ Dix said as he swung his legs out of the car.

‘Sure. I’ll go and juice up at ASDA.’

He drove away and Dix, holdall in hand, trotted down towards the counting house.

Miller yawned and rubbed his eyes as he drove away. It had been a long, tiring day and he was looking forward to getting back to Blackpool and hitting the sack with his girlfriend. Exhausted as he was, though, he still managed to glimpse the two cars parked at the end of a nearby street, containing two guys each.

They looked out of place. The hairs on Miller’s neck crinkled as they rose.

It was a low-walled car park just off the busy main road. It was poorly lit and over the years there had been many crimes committed in it, ranging from car theft to rape, from mugging to manslaughter. The proximity of the pub, people passing by on foot and in vehicles, did not prevent the commission of offences.

Henry and Jane sat in Henry’s car, engine idling, heater blowing.

‘Now I don’t want you to tell on me,’ Henry said quietly, ‘but this guy is an unregistered informant.’

‘Tut tut.’ She grinned.

‘And last time I spoke to him was when you went AWOL.’

‘Was he any use?’

‘Naah,’ drawled Henry, ‘not much.’ He failed to mention that during that particular encounter, his frustration had so boiled over that he had splattered Costain in a heap on the road leading up to Blackpool zoo. The recollection did not make him smile.

From where they were parked they had a view of the side door of the pub, but not the front. If Costain chose to be uncooperative he could easily have legged it without Henry knowing, but Henry firmly believed his informant would decide to have a cosy chat instead.

Costain was one of several sons in a family of gypsies who had been settled for a couple of generations on the Shoreside estate in Blackpool. They terrorized the inhabitants and made their living mainly through intimidation and theft. Troy Costain had come to Henry’s notice over ten years earlier when he had arrested him for theft. On his arrival at the police station, Troy’s hard man image had cracked immediately and his fear of incarceration in a pokey cell was apparent when he begged Henry not to lock him up. He promised to tell Henry anything he wanted to know, which was music to a cop’s ears. A good informant on Shoreside was like gold dust. Most folk on the estate kept their mouths shut and told the police nothing.

The side door opened. A blast of rock music shot out and the furtive figure of Troy Costain sneaked out.

‘Here he is,’ whispered Henry.

Costain stood on the steps and peered out at the dark car park. Henry flashed his headlights once. Costain started to zigzag his way around the other parked vehicles.

‘It’s Troy Costain,’ Henry said to Jane before the informant reached them. The significance of the surname was not lost on her. Troy’s brother had been the victim of the killer who had kidnapped her. She shifted with discomfort. ‘But he won’t know who you are,’ Henry reassured her.

As Costain reached the car, Henry opened his window. ‘In the back.’

Costain slid in, shaking his head. ‘Fuck me, Henry, you don’t half put me in some shite positions,’ he moaned. ‘One day someone’ll find out about us and I’ll be a dead man.’ His voice was jittery. Only then did he notice Jane slumped low into the front passenger seat. ‘Oh fuck!’ he groaned. ‘Who the shit is this?’

‘No one you need worry about.’ Henry adjusted his rearview mirror so he could observe his man without having to twist around. Costain closed his eyes and slammed his head back on to the seat. ‘The noose tightens,’ he said, blowing out long and hard.

‘So what were you doing in the bogs?’ Henry enquired.

‘I’m saying nowt.’ Costain’s lips went tight as piano wire.

Henry shrugged. ‘Just want to know what I’m turning a blind eye to.’

‘Just some nicked property. Nothing really.’

‘You sure?’

Costain paused. ‘Just put him on to a good shoplifter that’s all.’

‘Okay,’ Henry said accepting this. ‘Whatever.’

‘So why the hassle?’

‘I’ve hassled you, have I?’ Henry said, affronted. ‘Just run that one by me, Troy?’

‘You know what I mean. Turnin’ up at my waterin’ hole and puttin’ me in a. . a situation which I’ve got to explain to some very nasty people.’

‘You’ll think of something,’ Henry said with certainty. ‘Go on, have a guess why I’m here.’

‘Doh — let me think about that one.’ Costain put a finger to his lips in a dumb gesture.

‘You don’t have to be the Brain of Britain to get it right, Troy.’ The car was beginning to steam up. Henry flicked the fan heater up a notch and readjusted the rear-view mirror for a better view of his informant.

‘Yeah, right. . Rufus and his two cronies blasted to smithereens not too far down the road.’

‘Correct. One point.’

‘How much is this gonna be worth?’ Troy asked. ‘Because I’ll tell you now, whoever grasses on whoever pulled those triggers is gonna need some dosh to lie low, get out of the country or whatever. It’s not gonna be cheap information, Henry.’

‘I take it you already know something, then?’

‘Not saying that.’ Costain became cagey. ‘But if I did’ — he opened his palms — ‘it would be expensive. Big drugs people involved there, I’d say.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Henry. ‘I would never have guessed.’ He paused, then for the first time turned in his seat and looked squarely at Costain, who shrank a little deeper into the upholstery. ‘I’ll make it worth your while, but you’d better get something quick. Slow won’t do.’

‘I’ll see.’

‘Good man. Hey, just an afterthought, you knew Johnny Jacques, didn’t you?’

The words penetrated Costain’s cranium quite slowly. He said, ‘What d’you mean, knew?’

‘I take it from that reaction he used to be a bit of a buddy of yours?’

‘Bit of a buddy? Bloody good mate. . what’s all this “knew him” and “used to be” crap?’

‘You haven’t heard? He’s been taking flying lessons, only his wings didn’t flap fast enough. Splat!’ Henry clapped his hands once to reinforce the last word.

‘Jesus! Dead?’

‘Dead as a pancake, I think the expression goes. So who would want to hoiek him out of a window?’

‘His bird? He was always messing her around.’

‘She got burned to death in her flat, Troy, the same flat JJ took a leap from.’

Costain reached for the door handle. ‘I’ll be back to you soon.’

‘You know my mobile number,’ Henry called out to Costain’s retreating back.

‘It’s Dix,’ Crazy said watching the CCTV monitor. He pressed the door release button and Dix went out of sight as he stepped into the counting house, reappearing a couple of seconds later in the living room, sports bag in hand, humble in his body language.

‘Sorry about the lateness,’ he apologized. He gave the bag to Crazy who immediately unzipped it and tipped the contents out on to a table top.

‘You’d better explain. We should be out of here by now,’ said Ray.

‘It’s that idiot, Zog. He’s just one lazy twat. Doesn’t want to hand any money over, can’t be arsed to collect it in the first place. I had to shove the shotgun up his shitter and go round all his people to collect his debts. Took time, Ray, but at least it’s all there.’ Dix nodded at the pile of cash. ‘Eleven grand.’

Ray sighed. Zog had been getting to be a nuisance. The only problem was that his string of contacts was second to none and his infrastructure of drug selling in Fleetwood was excellent. He was just very lazy, reluctant to pay up and a user himself. ‘We’ll have to see about him,’ Ray said. ‘Later.’

‘Yep — it’s all here,’ Crazy said, leaning back from the task of counting the money. It had been easy to do because Dix always presented it in neat bundles anyway. Crazy picked up one of the bundles and tossed it to Dix, who caught it expertly. His week’s pay.

‘Cheers.’

‘Okay, Dix, you can get going and we’ll see you in a week’s time,’ said Ray. ‘Meanwhile I’ll have a think about Zog.’

‘Sure.’ Dix checked his watch. Miller should have filled up by now, should be pulling up at the top of the street to take Dix back to the coast. ‘See you guys.’ He folded his money and tucked it into his jeans’ pocket, collected his now-empty sports bag and turned to the door. ‘Give me a buzz out,’ he told Crazy.

Crazy watched him walk out of the room into the short hallway. He glanced at the CCTV monitor, saw nothing untoward on the street and pressed the electronic door release. At the same time the screen went blank. Puzzled, but still with his finger on the door release button, Crazy smacked the side of the monitor in the hope that this tried and tested method of repair would work. It had no effect.

‘Strange,’ he said.

‘What is?’ said Ray, who had been transferring the recently counted cash into the big holdall. Crazy directed Ray’s eyes to the blank screen. Then both men looked up as Dix walked back into the room. His face was a veil of fear, his eyes terrified and pleading because there was a massive revolver skewered into the back of his neck, held there by a large man wearing a stocking mask pulled down over his face, distorting his features. Three other men, similarly attired and armed, crowded in behind him.

‘There was nothing I could do, Ray,’ Dix wailed plaintively.

The man pushed Dix hard away from him, making him stumble towards Ray. The three other men fanned out into the room, brandishing their guns with cool menace.

The one who had herded Dix into the room pointed his gun at Ray. ‘Hard or easy,’ his voice rasped behind the stocking. ‘That’s always the choice. Just hand the money over, nice ’n’ easy and there’ll be no problem at all.’

Miller had been in the business long enough to know when something wasn’t quite right and the dark shapes huddled in the parked cars only a matter of yards away from the counting house put his senses on a high. He drove past as though he had not seen them and pulled in a few streets away where he sat and inhaled deep breaths.

Then he leaned over to the passenger side where Dix had been sitting and reached into the footwell. His fingers curled round the barrel of the pump-action sawn-off shotgun Dix always took with him on collection days. Miller knew the weapon was fully loaded and ready to fire.

There was a very uneasy silence between request and response. Both parties weighed up each other’s strengths and weaknesses. There was no contest here. Ray and Crazy, even if Dix was included in the reckoning, were outnumbered, outgunned and outmanoeuvred and they knew it.

‘Looks like it’s all yours,’ Ray said, admitting defeat.

The biggest of the four intruders, the one who had done the talking so far, said, ‘Good speech. You’ — he pointed to Dix — ‘pick up the bag nice and careful.’

Dix shot Ray an anxious glance.

‘Do it,’ Ray confirmed the instruction. He was standing still, his nostrils flaring, assessing the situation continually, looking for an advantage.

With a tremulous hand, Dix reached for the holdall containing the week’s takings. His fingers closed around the handle loops.

Ray said, ‘You don’t really think you’re going to walk out of here with my money, do you?’ His voice was soft.

‘Yes we do.’ Their spokesman raised his weapon, a Star Model 30M, 9mm, originating from Spain. He pointed it at Ray’s chest. ‘Oh aye, we do.’

Miller came down the street, his back tight to the building line, staying deep in shadow, the sawn-off held diagonally across his chest, ready for instantaneous use.

He was a former soldier. Nothing special, just an infantryman, but he had done time in a few of the world’s hot spots in his younger days. This situation reminded him of Northern Ireland, a semi-derelict Belfast street of the 1970s. He had been up and down numerous of them and even now he expected a sniper to have him in his sights.

He was at the door of the counting house only seconds after he had watched the four masked men force Dix back inside ahead of them at gunpoint. With his back to the wall by the front door he reached out and pushed with his left hand, hoping the door would be open. It was.

The masked man held his gun steady, pointing unwaveringly at Ray Cragg’s upper body. Very briefly, Ray thought about the impact of the slug into his small frame: it would shatter him. Then he dismissed the thought because it wasn’t going to happen. No one was going to shoot him because he was invincible. This was merely a battle and he would live to fight another day and annihilate the people who dared to be so brazen as to steal from him.

He glanced at Crazy, still seated by the dead TV monitor. He had not moved, just sat there quietly, taking everything in. One hell of a cool bastard, Ray thought. Didn’t even look worried. And where was Marty? Typical of him to choose the wrong moment to go for chips.

Next he looked at Dix, his hand grasping the handles of the holdall with close to?270,000 in it, all counted, all sorted.

Ray’s mind flashed: was Dix up to some scam or other?

No. The expression on his trusted gofer’s face told its own story.

‘It’s okay, Dix, pick up the bag. Do as they say,’ Ray told him.

Ray turned back to the masked man who seemed to be the leader. ‘Take the money and fuck off,’ he said, ‘but don’t think for one second I won’t find out who you are.’

The man laughed behind his mask. ‘Don’t count on it.’ He gestured for Dix to come. All four men, plus Dix, began to reverse out of the room, into the hallway, leading to the front door.

The first of the men backing into the hall turned towards the front door and stopped dead. The last word to leave his mouth was, ‘Shit!’

Miller stood there on the threshold of the front door like an avenging devil. His face was hard but deadpan, almost lacking expression. The shotgun was held with the sawn-off butt to his groin, ready to fire.

The one thing Miller’s military training had taught him was that to hesitate is to die. Miller did not feel like dying on that particular night.

The shotgun came up, fast. He pulled the trigger and the man staggered backwards into one of his colleagues. The shot had whacked him right in the middle of his chest, causing his sternum to disintegrate with massive damage to his heart and lungs. His arms flailed and his gun flew out of his hand. He died before he hit the floor.

One down, three to go.

Miller twisted out of the door, standing with his back pressed tight to the wall, and racked the shotgun. The action was smooth and well oiled. The spent cartridge ejected and a new one slid easily into the breech to replace it and those few seconds were as long as Miller was prepared to give them. He spun back into the doorway faster than ever and saw the three remaining men in disarray, shocked at having been ambushed so spectacularly, stunned and unready for Miller’s next onslaught.

He came round at a crouch, as low as a shadow.

The shotgun roared again and he gritted his teeth as his body jerked against the kickback.

Another masked man went down with a scream, this time hit in the belly and the groin area. He continued to scream horribly.

The remaining two men dragged their unwilling hostage, Dix, into the kitchen, slamming the door behind them just as Miller reloaded and loosed his third, and penultimate, shot into the closing door.

He racked the final shell into the breech and flung himself against the wall as a bullet was fired back through the kitchen door, down the hall, whizzing dangerously close to his head. Another bullet splintered through the door, then another.

Miller dived low through the living-room door and came up into a crouch, breathing heavy.

Ray and Crazy stood stock still for a frozen moment, then seemed to come to life.

‘Well done,’ Ray said. ‘Let’s get these fuckers, Crazy.’

Crazy jumped out of his seat, crawling underneath the table on which the TV monitor was positioned, tearing away at the tape which held three guns to the underside. He tossed a revolver to Ray, kept one for himself.

The remaining two men were not about to wait. Things had gone wrong and they knew time was against them, that the odds had changed. They bundled Dix out through the kitchen door into the backyard, then out into the alley where they did a right turn towards the Irwell, pushing, prodding, forcing Dix ahead of them.

One was definitely dead. The other would probably die sooner rather than later. Ray yanked the stockings off their heads, firstly to see if he recognized them — he didn’t — and secondly to ask the living one some quick questions. It was obvious that the pain he was in made him impervious to any quizzing. After a few yelled questions, Ray dropped the man’s head hard on the floor and left him to die.

Miller picked up a discarded gun — another Star revolver — and tucked it into his waistband, then took up position at one side of the kitchen door with Crazy at the opposite side. Ray Cragg hung back.

Miller counted to three, then twisted to face the door. Crazy reached across, pulled down the handle, then stood back as Miller booted the door open. It flew back on its hinges revealing the empty kitchen.

‘You don’t need me, let me go,’ Dix pleaded. ‘Here’s the money, just take it and run.’

‘Shut it,’ the lead masked man snapped, and pushed his gun into the small of Dix’s back, urging him forwards.

They had run across a grassed area and over a low fence taking them to the steep river bank. They had been hoping to loop back to where they had left their cars, but in their panic to escape, they had become disorientated. At the point where they reached the Irwell it was perhaps only twenty feet wide. Normally it was quite shallow and easily crossable. But the river was running heavily following torrential rain on the moors high above. On the opposite bank was a road and more terraced housing.

‘Down there — and keep hold of the bag,’ the man ordered Dix. ‘We go across the water.’

Dix peered down the almost perpendicular bank. The rise and fall of his throat made the sound like that of the mouse in the Tom and Jerry cartoons. ‘It looks a bit dangerous to me,’ he said.

‘It’s either that or a bullet in your spine.’

Ah, certain death either way, Dix thought. ‘I’ll go for drowning, then,’ he said. He took a firmer grip on the holdall and dug his heels into the bank as he stumbled, tripped and fell towards the water, accompanied by his two captors.

One shot a glance back. ‘They’re coming,’ he said, spotting the low approach of Ray, Miller and Crazy. ‘Move it,’ he urged.

Dix stepped gingerly into the fast-running water. Its bitter coldness immediately took his breath away. He gasped.

‘Get across.’ He felt a jab in the back from the gun muzzle.

Dix stepped further in, expecting it to be fairly shallow. Instead, his right leg went in as far as the knee and he had to fight to keep balanced.

‘This is friggin’ dangerous,’ he shouted.

‘Just get across and keep hold of the money.’

Only just keeping on his two feet, Dix heaved the cash-laden holdall on to his back, putting his arms through the handles and wearing it as though it was a haversack.

He put another foot into the water, feeling for a steady place to put it down. The water was freezing cold, so cold it burnt his legs. He wobbled unsteadily.

‘Go, you fucker,’ one of the men shouted and pushed him hard.

‘Right, I’m going,’ he said, stepped into the current and lost his balance completely. It was as though the river was practising its judo throws as it swept his legs away from under him. He toppled over, caught his right ankle between some rocks on the river bed and fell sideways.

He had expected to be able to stand up again, but the strength and depth of the water were too much for him. Before he could surface properly, he was sucked under and dragged downstream. Now he was sure he was going to drown.

Henry and Jane spent a further couple of hours in the hostelries of South Shore, but Henry could not weed out any more of his informants, registered or otherwise. Obviously word had got round he was out on the prowl. Just after 11.30 he suggested that they drive back to central so he could drop her off at her car. She agreed and they headed back north up the promenade in companionable silence. He drove to the police station and she directed him to her car, a neat little Toyota.

With her fingers looped around the door handle, she hesitated. ‘It’s been nice to see you again, Henry. I’m glad we’re working together.’

‘Me too.’

‘You’d better be getting home to the missus.’ Jane smiled painfully. ‘She’ll be wondering where you are.’

‘Not tonight. I’m going to crash out at the flat so I’m nearer to the action. She’s not expecting me home.’

‘Oh. Anyway, good night, Henry, see you in the morning.’

‘Yeah. Bye.’

He waited until she was in her car before driving away with a quick salute. He drew up outside the flat a few minutes later and called Kate on the mobile. She was in bed, sleepy, and the conversation was short. When it was over, he sat at the wheel of his car, mulling things over and sighing occasionally.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when someone tapped on the window.

‘Jane,’ he said, surprised, or maybe not so surprised, as he wound down the window.

She leaned in and, without a word, kissed him full on the lips. Their mouths seemed to be a perfect fit. She was wonderful to kiss and Henry wanted it to go on for ever. She bit his bottom lip, then slowly drew away, her hand on his face, her eyes fixed on his.

‘Take me to the flat,’ she said quietly. ‘You can do anything you want to me, so long as you wear something.’

Henry was stunned. ‘Okay. . I’ll keep my socks on,’ he said with a squeak. They both burst into a fit of giggles which lasted all the way up the back stairs to the flat.