Substantial Threat

Seven

‘If you ask me, it’s bloody odd,’ said Ray Cragg. ‘That river’s nothing more than a stream, even if it was swelled up by the rain. Four days and nothing!’

‘He’ll turn up,’ said Marty. ‘Dead as a duck.’

They were sitting in a restaurant on the seafront at Lytham, a premises which Ray had no connection with, which he had never tried to muscle in on and never would. There had to be some places left untouched. They were in the dining room, overlooking the wide green towards the windmill and the Ribble Estuary.

Jack Burrows was sat with them, snuggling up to Ray.

Marty had his girlfriend with him. He had not really spoken to her or even acknowledged her presence since coming into the restaurant. She did not seem to mind. She ate and drank whatever was placed in front of her and spent the rest of the time, long thin legs crossed, filing her already perfect nails. Her name was Kylie and she was seventeen.

‘And what about all that money?’ Ray whined pitifully, very depressed.

‘You can kiss that goodbye,’ Marty said. It was said without humour, more with an air of despair.

‘Are we sure Dix is dead?’ Ray asked. ‘He could easily have got out the river and done a runner with the cash.’

‘Course he’s dead,’ said Marty. ‘If he wasn’t, he’d have brought the money back.’

‘I don’t know. . unless it was him that set the whole thing up, unless he got tempted. Even the best of us get tempted, Marty.’

‘I need to go and powder my nose,’ Jack Burrows announced.

‘Have a slash, you mean?’ said Ray in an ungentlemanly manner.

‘If you like,’ she said, very pissed off. She stood up, her eyes catching Marty’s for a split second.

‘Dix has a bird, hasn’t he?’ Ray asked.

‘Yes, she lives in Fleetwood,’ Marty said.

‘Can you find her? Ask if she’s heard from him? Put some pressure on her?’

‘Pleasure.’ Marty’s eyes sparkled at the prospect.

‘Wonder how Crazy and Miller are getting on?’ Ray pondered, changing the subject slightly.

Marty’s insides churned. ‘Dunno. . I need a piss too.’ He patted Kylie’s exposed knee and headed for the toilets.

‘You’re gonna file your fucking fingers away,’ Ray said to Kylie with a sour, disdainful look on his face. He looked out towards the windmill.

The police in Greater Manchester announced the identities of the two murdered men found floating in a flooded quarry just inside their boundary three days after discovering them. They had identified them quite quickly, actually, but had wanted to give themselves a couple of days’ uninterrupted investigation before telling the world at large who they were.

It was as a result of that public announcement that Crazy and Miller travelled to and began to trawl the streets of Stockport, the home town of the two men.

Their plan was extremely simple: go in feet first, annoy people, ruffle feathers and see what bugs came skittering out.

Marty came face to face with Jack Burrows in the corridor leading down to the toilets. ‘Is there anybody in there?’ Marty nodded towards the ladies’ toilet.

‘It’s empty,’ she said.

Marty took her by the hand and yanked her to the door. On his right he saw a disabled person’s toilet.

‘Even better,’ he said gleefully, opening the door. ‘More room.’

He swung her into the room and locked the door behind them.

‘Marty, we don’t have time for this,’ she warned him, aware of the danger. However, there was a look of mischief on her face.

He winked at her. Suddenly they were in an embrace, kissing passionately, their hands running up and down each other’s bodies.

‘I’d rather have sixty seconds of this than nothing,’ he breathed, his lips slavering up and down her neck.

‘What are we going to do, Marty?’

‘Don’t know, don’t know,’ he said, his mouth moving up and down her sweet-smelling neck. ‘I’ll figure something out.’ He pushed her away from him reluctantly. ‘We’d better get back.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ she said, smoothing her skirt down.

Marty went to unlock the door, but Burrows put a hand over his and stopped him, throwing her arms around his neck. ‘I fucking love you,’ she said and kissed him hard on the mouth.

‘That was a long piss,’ Ray remarked as the two unruffled people came back from the loo, chatting amicably and sharing what appeared to be an innocent laugh. Burrows gave Ray a nice peck and sat down next to him. Marty sat next to Kylie and she smiled thickly at him, then returned to the more important subject of her fingernails, which were superb examples of a blank intellect.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Ray said. ‘I think you should definitely go and visit Dix’s bit of stuff. See if she’s heard anything from him. I’m not convinced he’s dead until I see his body on a slab. And in the meantime I’ll have a chat with my friend on the force.’

The Murder Incident Room (MIR) was up and running smoothly under the auspices of Temporary Detective Chief Inspector Henry Christie. There was a lot of information and intelligence coming in and being dealt with. All in all, Henry was content with the way things were progressing. The room was buzzing, a sign that everyone in the team was feeling confident.

But in spite of everything he suspected, there was very little coming in that pointed in the direction of Ray and Marty Cragg, the chief, but unofficial, suspects of the shootings and maybe also of the deaths of Johnny Jacques and his girlfriend. The latter investigation, though, was being kept fairly low key.

Henry had moved into Jane Roscoe’s office and they shared it between them. Jane was out following some leads and Henry was in the office becoming frustrated by the lack of stuff coming in about the Cragg brothers. It was pretty apparent that their reputation as hard men was keeping people at bay.

He was taking a breather from the hubbub of the MIR just to skim through and review a wide range of material from Victim Association Charts to Sequence of Events Charts and the policy log in which he had to document all decisions made and the reasons for them.

One of the tasks he had asked the intelligence cell to undertake was to research the history and associations of the Craggs and to distil the information down into a brief, readable format.

For the umpteenth time he sat and read a precis of the life and times of Ray and Marty Cragg.

The Craggs were born of the same mother but two different fathers. Ray was thirty and Marty was twenty-seven. Ray had been making a living from crime since the age of ten. He had started off as a petty thief, graduating to burglary and street robbery. By the time he was thirteen he was well known for selling stolen goods throughout the Fylde coast and further afield. Information had once come in that he had been dealing in stolen VCRs in Manchester, showing that even at such a young age he had a good strategic mind on his shoulders. It also showed that he had the intelligence to distance himself, whenever possible, from the actual act of committing first-line crimes. He had become a middleman, dealing profitably with stolen property, but not having the risks associated with actually stealing the gear in the first place.

It was during these early years that, in spite of his small stature, he developed a reputation as a hard case. Very willing to fight dirty. He was known to have stabbed at least two people, though his follow-up intimidatory tactics ensured that he was never prosecuted for them.

By the age of fourteen he was dealing drugs and pimping for teenage girls.

At twenty he was believed to have established connections with the Colombian drug cartels, Eastern European drug traffickers and Asian heroin exporters. He was reported to be a millionaire several times over, though he remained living with his mother, moving to a detached house with her in Poultonle-Fylde. He did not indulge in a flamboyant lifestyle which would keep him in the public eye, and this helped him to keep his businesses going for so long.

He had later become involved in a turf war in north Lancashire over drugs. Two people had been shot dead and Ray and Marty were the main suspects, but nothing was ever proven against them. They had walked even before they reached court and the police had found out how very forensically aware Ray was. Add that to his uncompromising reputation and here was a man who could evade the law.

Ray was also believed to have some police officers on his payroll.

Marty, it seemed, just followed in Ray’s wake, trying to emulate him, but never quite succeeding in doing so.

Henry skimmed through the rest of the summary, then moved on to the Association Charts. He decided he needed a coffee to assist his concentration.

Dix’s girlfriend, Debbie Goldman, lived in a small terraced house in Fleetwood, well maintained, quite pleasant and near to the seafront, within the sound of waves and the Isle of Man ferry. Marty called round that afternoon on the off chance he would find her in. There was no reply to his knock. He was about to turn away from the front door when he heard the telephone in the hall begin to ring. It rang for a very long time, then stopped.

As part of the work carried out by the analysts, they had photocopied any custody records relating to the Cragg brothers as a tool to increase their knowledge about them and in case there was anything of value to be gleaned from them.

There were four custody records for Ray. One related to the shootings in Lancaster when he had been arrested on suspicion of murder, two related to assault charges that were never substantiated and another to a public order offence committed when he stupidly became embroiled in a drunken fracas outside a pub in South Shore a year before. He had been cautioned for it.

Marty had eight custody records. One was for the shootings. Three related to him beating up his girlfriends, all of whom had called the police in terror when he had been knocking them around. Four more related to public order and drink-related incidents. He had been charged with two of them, had appeared in court and been fined.

Both brothers, it seemed, had a penchant for violence.

Henry skimmed through the documents, his head bursting with an overload of information. He had reached his limit for the day and stacked the papers up neatly. As he was doing this, something made him crease his brow. A name. He had read a name on one of the custody records, but could not remember which one and in what context.

His mind cleared and he started to read the records again. This time he did it very carefully and very methodically.

Dix’s girlfriend was back at her home just after 5 p.m. Marty was not far behind, knocking on the door before she had chance to take her coat off. The door was already chained and she opened it slowly, peering out at Marty. He stood there with a friendly grin on his face.

‘Hi.’

‘Hello,’ she said dubiously, not taken in by his appearance.

‘I’m Marty Cragg,’ he introduced himself.

‘I know,’ she said frigidly.

‘You’re Debbie, aren’t you? Harry’s girlfriend?’

She nodded unsurely.

‘Look. . do you think I could come in and have a chat? Won’t take long.’

She nearly unlatched the chain, but thought better of it. She knew of Marty’s character, but had never actually met him before. Dix had often talked about his instability, particularly with woman.

‘We can talk here.’

Marty shrugged. ‘Okay, no probs. . it’s just that?’ He burst into violent action and flung his whole bodyweight against the door. The chain did not have a chance. It’s tiny screws were no match for Marty’s power as they were dragged out of the door frame. Marty stepped menacingly into the hall and seized Debbie, twirling her round and hauling her into him, one hand covering her face, the other securing her squirming body.

‘Nobody keeps me waiting outside,’ he growled into her ear. He threw her against the wall and crushed his body up against hers, pinning her there, twisting and contorting her face against the wallpaper. ‘Now then, love, I want to know where that shit of a boyfriend of yours is.’

‘I don’t know,’ her warped voice came out.

‘What do you mean, you don’t know? He shags you, doesn’t he?’

‘I haven’t seen him for days.’

‘You must have heard from him.’

‘No I haven’t,’ she pleaded. ‘Let me go, you’re hurting me.’

Marty spun her round so they were face to face, still holding her tight against the wall. He crushed her body, feeling himself begin to harden. He held her chin in the crook between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing her cheeks and forcing her lips out into a misshapen pucker.

‘I will hurt you. . where is he?’

‘I tell you, I don’t know.’ Her eyes were wide with dread.

Marty backed off, released his grip. Debbie sobbed. ‘I haven’t seen him for days,’ she insisted.

But Marty hadn’t finished. He smacked her hard across the face, whipping her head round and sending her spinning to the floor where she landed in a messy heap. He dropped to his haunches, his knees cracking. ‘You hear from him, or see him, or have any contact with him at all, I want to know. Understand, girl?’

She nodded.

Then the telephone rang.

Both looked up at it on the wall near to the kitchen door.

‘Answer it,’ he instructed her. He pulled her to her feet and propelled her down the hallway towards the kitchen. Her hand dithered over the instrument.

‘Pick the fucker up,’ Marty said, emphasizing each word. He took hold of her hair at the back of her head and tilted her face backwards. ‘Do it or you are dead.’ He released his grip with a flick.

She picked it up and held it to her ear. ‘Hello.’ Her voice trembled.

Harry Dixon did not know why he phoned Debbie. It was a crass, stupid thing to do. The best thing would have been to skip the country, maybe contacting her in a couple of months’ time when it had all died down. Dix knew it was a very foolish thing and had real danger to it, but the fact of the matter was that Debbie had been the backbone of his life for the last eighteen months and, though he would not admit it to anyone, he loved her like mad. That was why he contacted her. He needed to hear the comfort of her voice and to reassure her he hadn’t just done a runner and was not dead.

He realized immediately on that first faltering word of hers that he had made a very big mistake in contacting her. He should have slammed the phone down. He should have said nothing. He should have run away. But that frightened tone touched something deep inside him and he had to respond to it.

‘Debs, it’s me, Harry.’

It was a conditioned response. Just as Dix could not help himself, Debbie could not stop herself from saying, ‘Harry!’

Marty tore the phone out of her hand. ‘Dix, you twat, where the fuck are you? You’d better show with that money or you’re fucking dead?’

The phone was slammed down at the other end. Marty immediately dialled 1471, but the number was not known.

He turned slowly to Debbie, as she cowered by the kitchen door. ‘You tell him to speak to me on my mobile. Me. No one else. Me — okay?’

He gave her a pat on the cheek and left her quivering in the hallway, her legs buckling under her as she folded down into a heap.

Ray Cragg had been busy that afternoon. As soon as Marty had left to try and track down Harry Dixon’s girlfriend, he had immediately got on the phone and made arrangements to meet a contact at Skipool Creek on the River Wyre, near to Fleetwood.

Cragg arrived first and parked his car — a clean, very unremarkable Ford Escort which he used for business such as this — in the picnic area, which was otherwise deserted. The tide was in and the river was up and very brown-looking. A few small boats and yachts were moored mid-stream, bobbing up and down in the strong wind that was beginning to gust.

In due course another car pulled up alongside and a middle-aged woman got out and joined Ray in his car.

‘It’s very difficult for me to get out just like that,’ she complained.

‘I know, love,’ he commiserated, ‘but I keep you sweet, don’t I?’ He handed her a wodge of ten-pound notes. ‘Two-fifty,’ he said. ‘Double if you come up with the goods.’

Edina Trotter worked in a civilian capacity at Blackpool police station as an admin clerk in the intelligence unit. She had gone to the same school as Ray’s mother and fallen pregnant at much the same time. The difference was that Edina had lost her baby and Ray had been born alive and kicking. The two young girls kept in contact with each other over the years, but Edina had stayed on the straight and narrow while Ray’s mother had deviated somewhat. Edina had found herself in dire financial straits several years earlier when her husband dumped her and their two kids. That was when Ray came to her rescue with a proposition. As a member of the intelligence unit Edina had access to a great deal of sensitive information and also to the computer networks of Lancashire Constabulary, very useful for someone like Ray Cragg.

‘Well,’ she said doubtfully, riffling through some sheets of paper she had brought with her, printouts from computers. ‘I’ve looked through all the logs relating to Rawtenstall and no body has been seen or recovered from the Irwell, nor has any large amount of cash been found either. I discreetly spoke to a friend of mine who works for Greater Manchester police in Bury, the division which adjoins Lancashire, and they haven’t found a body washed down the river either.’

‘Okay, anything else?’

‘As I was checking the computerized incident logs I noticed a couple of odd things in New Hall Hey, a little sort of village next to the river, just down from Rawtenstall.’ She shuffled the papers. ‘Three crimes reported on the same night you are on about. Pretty unusual, I’d say.’

Ray waited.

‘One was theft of clothing from a washing line — a pair of jeans and a T-shirt; another was the owner of a house reporting damage to his door. It looks like someone’s been in the house, which is up for sale and unoccupied, but nothing was stolen from it. Thirdly, there was a car stolen from the village.’

‘Did the car turn up?’

‘Yes, on the multi-storey in Preston.’

Ray scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Could be,’ he mumbled. ‘Right, thanks, Edina.’ He separated some more notes from a roll in his pocket and handed them to her. ‘An extra hundred. Keep an eye on stolen cars, will you? Particularly those which either don’t turn up, or those which get abandoned a long way away.’

After she had gone, Ray sat in the car for several hours, just watching the river and the boats bouncing around on the waves which were whipping up in the wind. His mobile rang.

‘Ray? Me.’

‘Hello.’

‘He’s definitely alive.’

‘Yeah, thought so. . how do you know?’

‘Talked to him on the phone. Let me find him, will you? I’d like to teach the little shit a lesson.’

‘Marty, little half-brother, he’s all yours.’

It had been a frustrating day for Crazy and Miller. They had drifted through Stockport, going from pub to pub, dropping into likely-looking corner shops on council estates, betting offices, sleazy clubs, trying to flush out any information concerning the friends of the two men they had shot to death a few days before. It was not a subtle approach, but one designed to make people angry and come out fighting. It did not seem to be working. Most people clammed up tight, said nothing and looked away; others went pale and shaky with fear. However, although they did not unearth anything of great use, they knew they had made their mark on the underworld of Stockport.

At seven that evening, they decided to call it quits and head back to Blackpool. It was motorway all the way, M60, M61westbound, M6 and M55. They were in Miller’s ageing, but wonderful Mercedes Coupe, a real gangster’s car. It purred easily down the motorway at 80–85 mph. Both men listened to Radio 2 and argued about the merits of sixties music as opposed to today’s trash. They did not know each other very well, but found themselves quite liking each other.

Throughout the journey Miller kept a regular eye on his mirrors.

As they left the M6 and joined the M55 on the last ten miles or so of their journey, Miller turned the radio down.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he said grimly. ‘I think we have rattled a few cages. It’s been with us ever since we came out of Stockport.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ said Crazy. He had been using the big mirror on his door to keep tabs on following traffic. ‘I was just waiting for you to notice it.’

‘Kept the same distance all the way. Slowed down when we did, speeded up when we did.’

‘Yep.’

‘Let’s just carry on as normal for a while.’

‘Yep.’

Dix had considered stealing a car from the multi-storey car park in Preston but decided against it. He knew Ray Cragg had police contacts and that, above all, Ray would not be fooled into thinking that he, Dix, was dead. He even regretted nicking the car from New Hall Hey because it was likely that, via his informants, Ray would put two and two together. So to steal a car from Preston town centre as a follow-on to abandoning the one he had stolen from Rossendale would be the start of a trail which Ray and his cronies would soon follow. Working on the worst-case scenario, Dix knew he had to start covering his tracks now. To do that he jumped into a taxi in Preston and took a short journey to Bamber Bridge. From being dropped off at Sainsbury’s, he crossed over to the Premier Lodge, both establishments close to junction 30 of the M6. He booked into the motel, no trouble, paid cash, gave a false name and address and retreated to his room and lay low for a few days to think.

It was on the fourth day that he went to Sainsbury’s and bought himself a new pay-as-you-go mobile phone. Twenty minutes later he was logged on to the network and it was from his new phone that he contacted Debbie, disguising his new number before dialling.

The sound of Marty’s smug and nasty voice rattled him. They were moving quickly to find him, so he knew he had to move even quicker.

He sat in his room, eating a prawn mayo sandwich bought from the supermarket, swigging bottled water with it and considering his options.

By eight that evening he had pretty much decided on his plan of action. There was nothing clever about it, but he thought it best to keep it as simple as possible. The only real problem was that there were certain risks to be taken. The other alternative was to hand the money back to Ray, claim concussion or something equally ridiculous and beg for mercy. Naah!

Dix wanted the money for himself. But before he could quit the country, he needed to realize his assets.

The car was still with them as the M55 narrowed to become Yeadon Way and threaded into Blackpool.

‘Fancy a burger?’ Crazy asked Miller.

‘Why not?’

Miller checked the rear-view mirror. He allowed himself a grim smile of anticipation and wondered if there would be any chance to ask questions. He hoped so, because the job Ray had given him was to find out information and Miller hated being unable to deliver.

But what will be, will be, he thought philosophically.

Other than at the daily briefings, Henry and Jane Roscoe had barely seen each other for days. They were both working long shifts, none less than fourteen hours a day, and somehow had managed to avoid — or evade — one another. This was much to Henry’s relief. Now that the very obvious attraction between them had been consummated, Henry was beginning to feel that things had moved on far too quickly for his liking, almost as though he had been ambushed by the act of sex. He was having regrets and did not want to be embroiled in another affair which seemed to be a repeating pattern in his life.

At least that’s what he thought.

Just after 8 p.m. Roscoe came into the office. She looked exhausted, but was smiling broadly. Henry caught his breath because it suddenly hit him that to him, she was a stunningly beautiful woman. He could not take his eyes off her face, and she could not stop looking at him either.

‘Phew,’ she said sitting on a low chair by the office door. She crossed her legs and Henry noticed something else about her: objectively it could never be argued that she had wonderful, shapely legs; they were a little too flabby around the thigh and her feet were too big, but to Henry they were the most wonderful pair of legs he had ever seen in his life. He swallowed and felt very hollow inside as though he had not eaten for days. She breathed out and shook her head. ‘Lots of info coming in,’ she said. ‘I think it’s time we made some sort of move on the Cragg brothers.’

‘Sorry, what?’ asked Henry, only just tuning in.

‘Are you listening to me?’ she demanded sternly. She licked her lips and glared seriously at him.

‘To be honest, no.’

‘Why not?’

‘You don’t want to know. . go on, I’m listening now.’

She paused, holding his gaze for longer than necessary. ‘I think it’s time we moved in on the Craggs — but only after I’ve taken you back to your flat and fucked your brains out. How does that sound for a strategy?’

‘Well, speaking as a tactician, I always like to be told where I’m headed, then I can get on and do it.’

‘So you want to know where you’re headed, eh?’ She became severe. ‘To oblivion, I expect, so hold on tight, Henry Christie, because it’s going to be one hell of a ride.’

Miller pulled the Merc into McDonald’s car park, just off Yeadon Way, close to the newly built stadium belonging to Blackpool Football Club. He and Crazy moseyed across to the restaurant, both aware of the car which had followed them from Stockport driving past the car-park entrance, towards Blackpool.

They each ‘went large’ on a quarter-pounder meal, then sat at one of the tables near to the toilets and an emergency exit. Each man unwrapped his meal with delight. They had eaten little that day and were ravenous, coffee and cola being the only things which had kept them going.

‘God, I love these,’ Crazy said. He bit into the slippery burger, which he had trouble keeping together.

‘More a KFC man, me.’ Miller bit into his and through a mouthful said, ‘But it’s not bad — just crap food.’

‘Junk,’ agreed Crazy. He folded four long, salty chips into his mouth and slurped them down with Tango.

Miller could see over Crazy’s shoulder into the car park. His steel-grey eyes narrowed. ‘They’re pulling in now.’

Crazy nodded. He opened his burger and extracted the gherkin, which he put to one side. ‘I’ll save that for later.’

Miller sipped his coffee, which tasted bitter and was scorching hot. He maintained a little commentary, ‘Two guys getting out. . jeans, trainers, wind-jammers. . just have a quick peek, Craze, then you’ll know who they are.’

Crazy glanced round, focused on the two men and quickly returned his attention to his chips.

‘Coming in now,’ Miller relayed. ‘Mid-twenties, short cropped hair. . up and coming young buckos, out to make their mark, I’d say.’

‘Let’s not let them make it on us.’ Crazy wiped his fingers and lips on a serviette. He took a deep breath, feeling his heart rate increase with the expectation of conflict.

‘Little or no chance of that,’ Miller said quietly.

The two young men entered the restaurant, trying to look cool, calm and dangerous, their body language buzzing. They could not keep still, were jittering with nerves and finding it impossible to keep their eyes off Crazy and Miller sitting in the corner.

‘You ready for this?’ Miller asked.

Crazy smiled. ‘Got to be.’

Miller watched the two men join the end of the short queue to the counter. They pretended to inspect the menu and to discuss their preferred choices.

‘I think they’re going to go large, too,’ Miller said.

Crazy nodded. He could see them in the reflection from the large window behind Miller. ‘They must only have handguns,’ he guessed.

‘Yeah,’ Miller agreed. The ex-military man was cold and comfortable. Very much in control of himself and pleased to see that the younger man, Crazy, was keeping chilled as well. ‘Having said that,’ Miller went on, ‘there might be nothing in this. Just coincidence, maybe.’

They smirked at each other, knowing the truth.

‘If they don’t get a move on, they’ll have to buy something,’ Miller said. ‘Oh-oh, here it comes!’

The two men went into a kind of huddle, then sprang away from each other, spun round and revealed they had each put on a mask, similar to the Hannibal Lector face guard worn by Anthony Hopkins in the Silence of the Lambs, designed to prevent him from biting the throats out of unsuspecting people. The masks made them look frightening and dangerous. Each pulled a gun out of his waistband and ran towards Miller and Crazy, kicking stools out of the way, scattering other customers.

Crazy saw it all happening in reflection.

He and Miller rose together, their chairs tipping backwards.

Crazy twisted round low, smoothly extracting the pump-action sawn-off which had been concealed under his jacket. Miller had a Glock 9mm in his hand. They moved rapidly and precisely. Crazy dropped to one knee, Miller stayed high, tactics they had determined at the beginning of the day.

Their two adversaries were openly startled by this concerted movement and both hesitated. Something not wise to do.

Other customers watched the unfolding scene with open-mouthed astonishment and disbelief. Some dived for cover. Some simply stood there. The staff all ducked behind the counter. There was a scream.

Crazy pulled the trigger on the shotgun. The boom was ear-shattering in the confines of the building.

The first man went down clutching his groin and thigh as the shot blasted into him. He staggered against a pot plant, dragging it crashing to the floor, writhing in agony on top of the scattered leaves and soil.

The second man stopped in his tracks. More fatal hesitation.

Crazy racked the shotgun.

Miller shot the man in the chest. The 9mm slug drove into his right lung. Miller had shot people before and was always amazed by the different effect taking a bullet had on folk: some toppled over like skittles; one man he shot in Northern Ireland, a suspected IRA terrorist, just walked to a nearby seat, sat on it and started to cry while nursing his wound. This man, today, did not even stagger back. He looked down at his chest, looked up accusingly at Miller and opened his arms in a gesture which seemed to ask, ‘Why me?’ His gun dropped to the floor and he sank to his knees, both hands now covering the hole in his upper chest from which pumped blood.

Without a word, Miller and Crazy headed for the exit. They walked purposefully, not too quickly, not in any sort of panic. They shouldered their way past people, did not touch anything, stared ahead of themselves, making no eye contact with anyone. Once outside, their walk turned into a brisk sprint to the Mercedes.

By the time they were out of the car park, the first public-spirited member of the public ran out and tried to take their registration number, but she was too late. They were gone.

Their lovemaking was long and slow. Afterwards they held each other tight. Henry could not stop kissing her, nor she him.

‘You’re pretty good at bonking,’ he told her.

She grinned. ‘Only with the right person.’ She kissed him and sucked his bottom lip and sank her teeth into it. He gasped and squeezed her bottom hard. ‘And you feel like the right person.’

‘Mmm,’ he agreed, was about to kiss her again when the inevitable happened: her mobile rang. ‘Hate those things,’ he said. She clambered across him, ensuring her breasts brushed across his chest, then lay at an angle over him and answered the phone. Henry did not take much heed of the conversation. He was too engrossed in running his fingertips up and down her spine, caressing her buttocks and rubbing her shoulders. She ended the call then lay unmoving, revelling in Henry’s touch.

At length she said, ‘That was the office. There’s been some sort of shooting incident at McDonald’s, Yeadon Way. . Ahhh,’ she breathed as Henry slid his hand between her legs and into her cunt. ‘They want me to turn out to it. . I said I’d be there asap.’ She dragged herself up, straddled him, kissed him and reached for his cock, slowly easing herself down the shaft. ‘I’m not sure what asap means, though,’ she confessed.

Dix took a chance. He phoned Debbie again on the new mobile, this time calling her mobile number. She answered and he could tell from her voice that she was now more in control than she had been earlier.

‘Are you alone?’

‘Yes. . look, Harry, what’s going on?’

‘Don’t talk — listen,’ he said firmly.

For the moment Marty was being patient. Under the present circumstances there was no point in being otherwise. It was the only way. He had to stay focused and cool. No need to panic. Just play things nice ’n’ easy. Wait for the moment and pounce. Dix was sure to show himself and the best way to get him, Marty believed, was through the sweet Debbie.

Marty was parked two streets away from her house, waiting for her to make a move. She had to drive past the end of the street he was on in order to get to the main road, so he was certain he would not miss her when she set off to meet her beau.

It was just a matter of time.

He was fiddling with the in-car CD when she whizzed past him. He gave her a few seconds, then followed. Marty concentrated hard on keeping on Debbie’s tail, ensuring he was always a few cars back, trying not to spook her. Unfortunately for him, he was so wrapped up in this that he forgot the first rule of survival in the world of the professional criminal: ‘Always look over your shoulder.’