Marked men, p.8
Marked Men, page 8
The young woman was on the ground cursing. Which means she’ll survive, thought Sean, jumping over her and giving chase.
Army Coat lost his balance rounding the corner of the multistorey. By the time he’d recovered enough to start running properly again, Sean was level with him. Using a shoulder, he barged the bloke towards the side of the building. Unable to stop, Army Coat careered into an open doorway, glanced off an inner wall and vanished from sight.
Sean came to a stop, retreated a few metres and stepped inside. Beside two ticket machines, a flight of concrete stairs led up. But they were closer to the doorway than the far wall where Army Coat now stood. He was trapped. Sean pointed a finger. ‘Still got that card I gave you?’
The man frowned.
‘DC Blake. We spoke down near the railway arches at Castlefield.’
The man said nothing.
‘Who’s this Lee you’re asking after?’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Fuck you.’
Sean sighed. ‘OK, you’re coming with me, mate. Turn round and face the wall.’
He could see that Army Coat was weighing his options up and Sean knew that, with every passing second, his ability to dictate what happened was diminishing. He took a step forward. ‘I said face the wall. Now!’
The fruity smell of alcohol hit Sean as Army Coat breathed out and shook his head. ‘Fuck you.’
Nightmare, thought Sean. He’s worked out I’m on my own and now he fancies his chances. I’ve got no cuffs. Nothing. ‘What? You reckon you’re leaving?’
He looked Sean up and down and nodded. ‘Yeah, I do.’
Sean didn’t break eye contact. ‘Go on, then. Leave.’
Smiling to himself, Army Coat lifted a hand. He slapped himself hard in the face. He did the same with his other hand, before blinking and shaking his head. ‘Better.’
The guy’s a bloody loony, thought Sean, lifting up both fists.
A quick nod and Army Coat came at Sean with both arms out, as if wanting a hug.
Rather than wait, Sean went up on the balls of his feet, shimmied forward and popped a jab into Army Coat’s face. His head snapped back, but his legs kept moving forward. Sean slid back a step to keep his range and jabbed again. This time Army Coat’s foot planted to the side and he had to ram the flat of his hand against the wall to stop himself from falling over. Blood started flowing from his nose.
Sean waited a moment. The man’s not giving in, he thought. Probably won’t until he’s unconscious. He took a couple of steps closer and landed a right on the man’s temple. He had started on an uppercut with his left but saw Army Coat hadn’t a clue where the next blow was coming from. Sean was just able to open his fist so it was a full-handed slap that connected with the side of Army Coat’s face. His head, still going one way from the punch, jerked in the other direction. Both eyes rolled up and he dropped to his knees.
Sean started to step round, ready to get one of Army Coat’s arms locked behind him when an impact sent him flying into the ticket machines. A woman’s voice started screaming.
‘Get off him, you fucker! Get off him!’
Weak blows began to patter down on his back and shoulders. One caught him on the head and his ears started to sing. He moved sideways, raising his arms and ducking his head to deflect any further strikes. The young woman from round the corner was standing there, eyes half shut, both hands windmilling wildly about.
‘Just leave him! Leave him, leave him!’
Beyond him, Army Coat was regaining his feet. Sean managed to catch one of the young woman’s wrists and shoved her aside. But as she fell, her fingers caught the hem of Sean’s jacket. She clung on like a limpet. Army Coat was starting towards the doorway. Sean tried to hop after him, dragging the woman along. He felt another hand scrabble up the inside of his thigh before fingers closed on his scrotum. Yelling in pain, Sean reached down, found the pressure point at the front of the woman’s shoulder and dug his thumb in, hard. Her fingers went slack and Sean was able to step clear.
By the time he got outside, Army Coat had disappeared. Sean sprinted to the corner of the multistorey and looked both ways along the street. Army Coat was being swallowed by the shadows at the mouth of a narrow lane off to the left. Sean weaved his way between a couple of benches and glanced up at the sign on the blackened brickwork. Turner Street. He knew the lanes interconnected to form a jumbled little warren. Legacy of the city’s chaotic growth during the boom years of the cotton industry. By the time he got to the first intersection, Army Coat was out of sight. Back at the side entrance of the car park, there was no sign of the woman, either.
FOURTEEN
Carl Parker stood in his car showroom, slowly rubbing a hand against the back of his neck. The cluster of higher value vehicles he kept inside were lost to him. So were the ranks of more modestly priced cars filling the expanse of tarmac that bordered the Droylsden Road.
Instead, his attention was on the opposite side of the street. The point where he was pretty certain he’d glimpsed Jordan Hughes the previous afternoon. Had it been him? The man who’d been sitting on the low wall, head turned in the direction of the forecourt, had been the right age, give or take. He had closely cropped hair, thinning to a widow’s peak at the centre of his forehead. The face was thinner; cheekbones, eye-sockets and jaw line all harsher than he remembered. But the ears, the way they jutted out. Jug-ears Jordan. Who had he encouraged to call Jordan that? Was it Phil Nordern? Probably. Phil always was willing to jump in with both feet.
Hughes had turned up at Belle Vue High when they were all year tens. A new kid with no friends and an accent that was different to everyone else’s. Plus those ears that stuck out too much. He heard a teacher say the new kid’s name was Jordan. At lunch-time, they’d seen him coming round the corner of the science block, crossing the empty bit that led to the side of the canteen, even though those doors were always kept locked. No one to help him get his bearings on his first day, and looking unsure and hesitant in a school like Belle Vue High was never good.
Someone had quietly pointed out his knackered-looking shoes. He had a crap bag, too. And his blazer was dead cheap, the dark blue of the Belle Vue High badge not quite matching the shade of the material it was mounted on. Which meant his mum had got the blazer from Asda and then sewn the badge on herself because stuff from Monkhouse’s, the school’s official uniform supplier, cost more.
But it was the bloke’s ears that had caught Carl’s attention. Carl knew he was good at picking out the best way to get at someone. Finding their weak spot. And with this kid, he sensed it would be the ears. So he’d nudged Phil and pointed them out. Check his lugs, massive. They weren’t: but he knew Phil would latch on to it anyway.
‘Yeah,’ Phil sniggered. ‘Jug ears.’
‘And he’s called Jordan,’ Carl prompted.
It took Phil a couple of seconds to make the connection. ‘Jug-ears Jordan!’
Carl laughed encouragingly.
Phil sat forward, waiting until Billy-No-Mates was a bit closer. ‘Jug-ears Jordan!’
And that was how they ended up letting him into their group. No other pupil would have had the bollocks to immediately alter course and front up to six total strangers. Jordan hadn’t seen who’d said it, so he addressed them all. ‘Got a problem?’
His feet were apart, fists clenched. And you could tell – no need for words – he was ready to fight.
They’d stared back in surprise. Then, one by one, heads turned to Phil, who now looked a little bit uncomfortable. He smiled crookedly. ‘Hey, only joking, mate.’
Jordan’s posture hadn’t altered. And he kept silent. Carl could remember thinking that was genius. Suddenly, this unknown was in control. Not even Anthony stirred and they all knew he was the hardest in their group by miles.
Phil, all sneer from his voice gone, asked, ‘Where are you from?’
‘Leeds way, why?’ His knuckles had lost their whiteness, but his feet hadn’t moved.
Finally, Ant spoke up. ‘Them canteen doors are locked, mate. You have to go round the front.’
And that was it. Ant had approved him.
Carl sighed, mind moving to the little matchstick gallows he’d found when he crossed the road to the wall where the man had been sitting. It had been put together without glue or tape. Instead, the little lengths of wood had been prised apart at their ends. Then they’d been slotted together. It was the sort of thing you only learned when you had loads of time to fill. Like if you were locked up in a cell for twenty-two hours each day. The miniature construction was now in the top drawer of Carl’s desk.
‘Everything OK, boss?’
Carl had been so deep in thought, he hadn’t heard the doors opening. He pushed his shoulders back and there was an easy smile on his face as he turned his head. ‘All good, Alex. You?’
The sales assistant was making his way over. Nineteen and already having trouble finding a suit that fitted. Too many McDonald’s breakfasts, Carl thought, snatched on his way in to work.
‘Not so bad. Been reading about this double-murder. Nasty way to get snuffed, hey?’
Carl frowned. He’d missed the news so far that morning. ‘What’s that, then?’
‘You not heard? It’s here in the Chronicle. They found two blokes.’ He held the paper out. ‘Got to be gang-related,’ he added, before waddling on towards the kitchen area.
Carl took the paper and straightened it out on the bonnet of a Range Rover Vogue. From beyond the showroom’s end wall, he heard the crescendo of rattles as the workshop’s doors were rolled back. A whistling began: one of the mechanics was feeling cheerful.
Any time a death occurred in the city that appeared linked to organized crime, Carl couldn’t help wonder if Ant had something to do with it. After all, his childhood friend now controlled a good chunk of the city.
The headline took up most of the front page:
POLICE HUNT FOR LINK
BETWEEN GRUESOME
CITY CENTRE MURDERS
Carl’s eyes settled on the main image. It was a canal lock, but minus the water. Sludge-covered shit littered the bottom and a white tent had been erected in the corner. A male figure in a hard-hat was standing next to it. Inset within that image was a smaller one. The face of a man in his early twenties, also in a hard hat.
Same guy, Carl concluded. He read the caption. An investigating detective from the SCU.
The person had evenly balanced features, full lips and dark eyes. The brooding look male models strove for on catwalks or in magazine advertisements. This guy was pulling it off because, Carl concluded, he wasn’t actually trying. Christ, he thought, you know when you’re old when the policemen don’t look long out of school.
He skimmed the opening paragraph before freezing at the victim’s name: Lee Goodwin, thirty-one, no fixed address. Carl stared at his old school friend’s name. Poor old Lee, he thought. Couldn’t say it wasn’t coming. He turned to pages four and five where the story resumed. A new headline: Foul Play for Dead Pair? Carl knew that any headline posed as a question meant the report was largely guesswork. He hurried through the text, conscious they were due to open the showroom in a few minutes.
First victim’s hands had been tied behind his back.
In the water for over forty-eight hours.
Second victim discovered in similar circumstances.
Victim had been fishing.
Body found in lake at Debdale.
Believed to be a council worker.
Carl Parker stopped reading. Phil Nordern spent many a night fishing at Debdale Lake and he was employed part time by the council to clean parks. He found himself staring across the road to where the man had been sitting the previous day.
Jesus Christ, had Jordan come back to deliver on his promise?
He hurried into the back office. Alex was at his computer but scrolling through something on his phone. He swiftly placed the device aside. ‘Sure you’re OK, boss?’
Carl was scanning his desk. Where the fuck did I put my keys? ‘You what?’
‘Looking a bit peaky there, that’s all.’
He lifted a sheet of paper and spotted them. ‘Listen, I need to go out. You open up as normal, OK?’
‘Just me?’ Alex glanced to the showroom.
‘Where the hell’s Martin?’
‘Half-day, boss. It’s a Wednesday.’
Carl rubbed at his forehead. Jesus. He waved in the direction of the workshop. ‘Get Arthur in here. He can smile and take messages. I shouldn’t be long.’
He slammed the door of his Mercedes while reaching for the seat belt. Slow down, he said to himself. No good getting in a panic. After taking several deep breaths, he ran his fingers round the outer edge of the steering wheel. Just see what Kevin has to say. Kevin always takes things calmly. He’ll have a good idea what to do.
During the ten-minute drive to his friend’s house, Carl contemplated phoning ahead. It was almost nine: what if Kevin had set off for work? Of their school-days gang, it was Kevin who always grafted most. And now he was finding time to coach the Abbey Hey Under-10s. Best way to guarantee seeing his boy, Joe, each Saturday: that was how Kevin reasoned it. Since he’d split from the boy’s mum, Martine, she’d become quite the little bitch.
When Kevin took on the role of coach it seemed natural for Carl to take his own son, Charlie, along. Then Ant got wind of it. Said he wanted his lad, Dean, to start playing for a local side. Of course, Ant being Ant, he couldn’t just show up and watch like the other parents. Had to get involved, make a statement. First of all, it was a new team strip, even though the last one was perfectly fine. Out they ran in their new shirts – with the name Cindy’s across the front. How many kids were sponsored by a fucking casino? The sight of them running round the pitch with that across their chests. The other parents soon got wind of who the dad was who drove the Aston Martin. A couple immediately moved their sons elsewhere.
Dean, as it turned out, couldn’t play for toffee. Totally useless. But, by then, Ant had worked things to suit him. How could Kev not play the lad? His dad had provided all the kit the team could ever need, paid for a squad trip to that trampoline place over in Denton, then KFC for the lot of them. Pizza deliveries to the club if they ever won, which would have been a lot more often without Dean in the side. But that’s how Ant had always operated. He didn’t do anything if it didn’t carry a benefit for him: that’s how the bastard had ended up controlling so much of the city.
Carl turned into Kevin’s road and, to his relief, spotted the work van parked on the little drive. Crazy Diamond Window Cleaning Services. He remembered when Kevin had bought the van off him. Gave him a decent enough deal on it. He slotted his car into a space, strode up to the front door and rang. No reply. Come on, Kev. Not still in bed, surely? He rang again and waited. A minute ticked by. Should he phone?
He spotted a pizza box half-hidden beneath the front bumper of Kevin’s van. Something made him not reach into his jacket pocket. Who could tell how this would play out? Plod could access phone records, listen to voicemails, track your movements, if needs be. Best not leave any messages. He tried the bell again then had a peep through the letterbox. First thing he saw was a matchstick gallows on the side table. ‘Kevin? You there, mate?’
He walked to the corner of the house. The side gate was unlocked, so he made his way down the gap beside the fence and into the narrow rear garden.
Kevin had the TV and games console in the back room. Quieter than the front, he said, where traffic was constantly going by. A football goal took up the garden’s entire far end, the grass worn away where Joe, and sometimes Charlie, practised their flicks and drag-backs and whatever else they picked up from their heroes on the telly.
Curtains were open, though it looked pretty dark inside. The sky was bright and Carl had to cup his hands to the sides of his face and bring his nose almost up to the glass. Things took a second or two to sink in. His heart lurched and stuttered before, finally, his brain caught up. Kevin Rowe was on his stomach, lying in a puddle of blood. It looked like someone had poured jugs of the stuff over him. Thick and dark. He was wearing no top and the heels of his feet were almost touching his knuckles. Carl couldn’t figure out how he was able to lie like that, until he realized a mass of silver tape was wound round the ankles and wrists. His friend was looking towards the windows and his face had been sliced open crossways, upwards, downwards. A square of tape covered his mouth and one eye was missing.
The ground felt like it had gone soft. In the sky above the sound of a plane faded and suddenly his throat contracted. He slapped one hand against the glass for balance. Oh shit. Kevin … someone had … no, not someone. He dry-retched again. Jordan. Jordan had found him. This was crazy … Jordan was back. Oh Christ.
Carl pushed himself away from the awful scene. Behind him, a perfect hand print was left on the glass.
FIFTEEN
Jordan Hughes gazed up at the ceiling’s vast emptiness. From outside came the familiar clunk and clang of a cooking pot being vigorously scraped clean. He didn’t want to move, but the dark waves of self-loathing threatened to drown him if he didn’t. They aren’t real, he told himself. Those feelings wouldn’t be here if you were taking the pills.
Sitting up, he held his head in his hands and wondered what he’d done. He knew what he’d done. The images might have been half obscured in the fog of his mind, but the sensations had sunk into his muscles. How it took a really good thrust of the knife to get it through Kevin’s clothing and properly into his body. Then, once he’d thought to punch down with an over-arm action, how things got easier.
He caught a quick glimpse of what he’d done to Kevin’s face and screwed his eyes shut, grinding his knuckles against the top of his head. His legs started to shiver and he looked desperately about. He hated this place. This shitty room that was hardly bigger than his cell. There was a can on the floor. Lancaster Super Strength. The thing was half full and he gulped it back, hoping his stomach would hold. Next, he saw a business card on the floor. Black with pink writing. Piccadilly Sauna. He groaned as another memory nudged its way forward. How many more of them were waiting out of sight?
