Big City Jacks (33 page)

‘Where we going?' the prisoner called out.

‘Burnley.'

‘Why Burnley, for God's sake?'

‘That's where the custody office is.'

Carruthers withdrew for a few moments, thinking.

‘You and Keith good mates?' Henry tossed to him.

‘Hmph . . . were, stupid bastard. He always came to me when he was in trouble.'

‘Did he come to you recently?'

‘Yep.'

‘When did you last see him?'

‘Dunno . . . week ago?' Carruthers fell silent, then suddenly added, ‘But you'd know that, wouldn't you?'

Henry adjusted the rear-view mirror so he could see Carruthers as he drove. ‘Why would I know that?'

FB's mobile interrupted the flow of the conversation, exasperating Henry. He did not let it show.

Grant and Lopez sat together in the hotel bar, chuckling, smiling. Real bonhomie.

‘They're floundering,' Grant said.

‘
Si
.'

‘Haven't got a clue.'

‘No.'

‘When do we make our move?'

‘Twelve hours?'

‘Twelve hours sounds good.'

They clinked glasses.

The call was from his staff officer, something about meeting the Police Authority, and the conversation seemed to go on forever, Henry getting more and more frustrated with FB. Finally it ended and just as Henry opened his mouth to resume the unofficial interview, his own phone blared out – ‘Jumpin' Jack Flash'. FB eyed him as he answered it, although at seventy mph on a pitch-black motorway was not the best of circumstances in which to chit-chat.

‘Henry? It's me, Karen Donaldson.'

‘Hi – have you heard anything?' Henry got in first.

‘No, nothing.'

‘Oh, bloody hell. What does the Legat say?'

‘That they've heard nothing either – and now it's official. He's officially missing.'

‘Right, right . . . at least that's a good thing. Means they're taking it seriously. Putting some resources into it.'

‘Maybe.' Karen sounded doubtful.

‘He'll be fine, Karen. He's a top man. He'll just be doing something and won't want to break cover. You know what he's like.'

‘Suppose he's been hurt – or worse. I keep calling him, just can't get through.' Henry could tell she was on the verge of tears. In the background the kids were crying.

‘When I get off duty tonight, whatever time it happens to be, I'll call you. Is that all right?'

Her ‘OK' was very numb-sounding.

‘I promise,' he said, ending the call. ‘Karen Donaldson,' he said to FB, who groaned. He had known Karen whilst she was an officer in Lancashire and had crossed swords with her on numerous occasions. They had little affection for each other, just as FB had no time for Karl Donaldson either. He had also been at loggerheads with him. Henry decided not to say anything about the nature of the call.

‘OK, Colin . . . you were saying . . .'

The motorway traffic was light at that time of day. Henry had pretty much claimed the outer lane and no one, so far, had pushed to overtake. He glanced into his door mirrors and saw that a vehicle was fast approaching, headlights blazing. The lights were high up and subconsciously Henry put it down as a van, or similar. But it was coming up fast. Henry automatically checked his speedo. It was now hovering around eighty-five mph. He had increased his own speed without realizing.

Suddenly the van was tailgating.

‘Tosser!' Henry uttered.

FB glanced over, frowning. Carruthers looked too.

Henry signalled to pull across into the middle lane, but before he could manoeuvre, the van moved into that lane. Henry sniffed and assumed that he was now going to be overtaken on the inside. He clung to the outer lane and waited, but the van did not shift, hung there on Henry's shoulder. He released some of the pressure on the gas pedal, losing speed slightly to encourage the van to pass.

It stuck where it was, reducing its speed too.

‘What's this guy playing at?' Henry said aloud. There was the implication of a sigh in his voice. He pressed the accelerator and the Mondeo surged forward – as did the van, still in position like one of the Red Arrows. On the whole, Henry had little or no time for road rage. He always tried to see the foolhardy manoeuvres of other road users as ‘interesting' but ultimately nothing to get wound up about. And he was basically a peace-loving individual who had no desire to get into pointless altercations with others. It was undignified.

The van driver was starting to annoy him, however. Henry's new intention was now to outspeed the van and put some distance between him and it.

The speedo touched ninety.

Still the van stayed where it was, as if attached by a rope, in Henry's slipstream.

‘This fucker's annoying me,' FB said curtly.

‘And me,' Carruthers piped up.

‘Shut it,' both FB and Henry voiced unanimously. Carruthers cowered down, browbeaten.

At a hundred mph Henry expected to be pulling away from the van. But there it remained, lodged to his tail pipe.

Henry knew the Mondeo had little else to offer. It was not the fastest motor in the world.

‘We need to have words,' FB said gruffly.

‘Serious ones,' Henry agreed. He eased some pressure off the accelerator. Speed dropped and suddenly the two vehicles were alongside each other, moving parallel, speeds exactly the same.

FB glared across at the driver.

Henry clocked the actual make of the van now – a Citroën, black. He ducked his head, leaned over and peered across at the man at the wheel, who, for the first time, turned to face them, and for the first time they saw he was wearing a full-face clown mask.

‘Shit!' breathed Carruthers.

Then, in what seemed like slow motion, the masked driver deliberately turned the van into the side of the Mondeo. Henry squirmed in his seat, attempting to sit upright and respond, but at the moment of impact he was still half-leaning over FB and that was the last thing he remembered as the Mondeo swerved and hit the central reservation barriers and sparks flew as Henry tried desperately to control it.

A
s sour as things had become for Mendoza, this did not prevent him from indulging in the pleasures of the flesh.

Following the dispatch of Teddy Bear and Cromer to execute their jobs of the night time, the two bosses were left with little to do other than wait for a result. Despite the two men being fellow felons, they had little in common with each other and would have struggled to conduct a sustained conversation about anything beyond criminal activities.

Neither was tired, both high from the adrenaline rush of stress, a stress which demanded a release. To alleviate this, Sweetman suggested they hit the city, let their hair down, relax, get laid.

Which is exactly what they did.

Accompanied by Grant and Lopez, they lurched out of the hotel and were immediately in the city centre. Within minutes they were inside one of the big nightclubs, spending a couple of hours drinking and talking to women. Sweetman fixed them both up with a couple of expensive girls, one being a dark one, with Mediterranean looks which the Manchester hood thought the Spanish one would appreciate. He did.

The two players gravitated back to Sweetman's quayside apartment, via a meal in Chinatown, where Mendoza and his appointed hooker took up residence in the guest bedroom. Grunts, cries and gasps drifted from the room for the next hour or so, whilst Sweetman paid his girl off and sent her packing. He knew he was not up to anything and when his head hit the pillow, he was out like a busted light.

Meanwhile, both second in commands returned to the city centre hotel, both accompanied by ladies of the night.

In the morning Grant and Lopez met for breakfast in the restaurant, both wrecked by the previous night's overindulgence in food, sex and drink.

It was nine a.m. when they ate.

‘When shall we break the news?' Lopez asked. He was drinking black coffee.

‘How about noon?' Grant suggested.

Lopez grinned. ‘
Si
. . . I like that very much. High Noon.'

A clown in a Citroën. That was all Henry Christie could see in the dark swirl of the unconscious mind. Blackness. A horrible scraping, tearing noise. A clown in a Citroën. Then nothing. Other than he now knew he was awake. Sensation flooded through him. His leg twitched. He coughed and opened his eyes like a doll. And then the headache hit him hard, an iron ball and chain swinging against his cranium.

‘Oh thank God, thank God.'

His head rolled to one side and he blinked rapidly at Kate. He tried to say a word, wasn't sure what word. Any word would have done.

Kate looked ashen, desperately anxious. ‘Henry . . . oh, thank God,' she cried. Tears streamed down her face, cascading like a mini waterfall. Henry tried to force a smile. Hell, this was all so confusing . . . a clown, a Citroën . . . a storming headache . . . like an axe in his head, splitting his brain in half.

He exhaled, found more pain across his body. Across his chest, his lungs were tight and sore, had spikes hammered into them.

Kate was half-on, half-off the bedside chair, holding herself up, looking down at him, tears still streaming.

What?
he wanted to say. That was it, that was all, that was the word he was searching for. What? He still could not force it out.

Instead, in a haze of pain and puzzlement, he closed his eyes again. It was much easier and the last thing he heard was a cry of anguish from Kate.

‘How do you feel now?'

‘Sore . . . confused. My brain feels like it's in a mush,' Henry said.

‘You suffered a severe blow to the head and your body got a sound battering, too.'

‘Oh.' His eyes hurt as he squinted at the doctor, a drilling behind his eyeballs. The white coat made him look away. It was too much.

‘As it happens, you're basically OK. X-rays show no skull damage, nor any damage to the rest of your body. You're just bruised. Your experience is rather like having thrown yourself into a spin-drier. Wearing your seat belt probably saved your life.'

‘Seat belt?' Henry's face screwed up. ‘Er . . .?' he found himself at a loss. ‘Have I been in an accident or something?'

He was in a side ward, did not even know which hospital. Alone now. Everyone had left for the moment; even the worried Kate had withdrawn. They would all be back soon, crowding him. A nurse had propped him up on soft pillows. He carefully laid his head back. The pain had been held at bay for the time being. Drugs. Good drugs. Warm, soft, fuzzy drugs, comforting him. He closed his eyes again, thanking the world for drugs. Apparently he was lucky to be alive. But why? What did that mean? Why was he so bloody lucky?

What the hell had happened?

Try as he might, nothing would come. He had no idea why he was lying in Bolton Royal Infirmary. And he was getting to the point where he needed to know, because it was driving him nuts.

* * *

They came at noon. Their faces were serious, grave even. He was sitting up now, a bed tray across his knees, trying to digest some food which did not really want to go down. He had been concentrating on drinking the fruit drink, all he felt capable of keeping inside.

A few moments passed before he actually recognized his visitors: Detective Superintendent Anger and DI Jane Roscoe. Anger's face stayed very serious, Jane's relaxed a little with relief. They pulled up chairs on either side of the bed.

‘Welfare visit?' Henry said with a forced smile.

Anger merely raised his thick eyebrows impatiently. ‘The consultant tells us you're fit enough to talk to now.'

‘Yes, sure,' Henry said brightly.

‘How're you feeling?' Roscoe asked.

The patient shrugged. ‘OK, I guess. Battered, bruised and a mushy-pea head, but otherwise not too bad.'

‘Good – can you tell us what happened then?' Anger blurted sharply.

‘About what?' Henry said blankly. His brain was hurting.

‘The accident.'

‘What accident?' His mind was adrift again.

Anger sighed, seething, and opened his mouth to remonstrate. Jane Roscoe held up a calming hand to hold him back.

She spoke. ‘What
do
you remember?' Her voice was gentle.

Henry shook his head slowly. ‘Erm . . .' he began pathetically, but could not follow it up.

‘Do you remember going to Manchester with the chief?'

‘The chief constable? Why would I be going to Manchester with FB?' Henry said, rubbing his tired eyes, trying to concentrate. Then something came back to him. ‘Yeah, I did, didn't I?' He paused, forcing his grey matter to get hold. ‘I remember having a Big Mac with him, surrounded by a load of kids.'

‘What else?' Roscoe probed.

‘Nothing, nothing there.' He was getting frustrated with himself. He banged his fist on the bed tray, rattling the cutlery and crockery. ‘Shit!'

‘It's OK, Henry,' Roscoe said consolingly. ‘It'll probably take time for it to all come back. Funny thing, memory.'

‘Yeah, yeah,' he said dreamily.

Dave Anger was less understanding and his dislike of Henry surfaced like a bubble coming up from the slime in the bottom of a cesspit and popping on the surface. ‘I think you're taking the piss, Henry.'

‘Boss!' Roscoe said sharply.

Henry stared distastefully at him.

Anger shot a warning look at Roscoe. ‘No,' he said, getting to his feet. ‘This is all one big piss-take. Someone ducking and diving their responsibility, trying to wangle their way out of a messy situation.'

‘Boss!' Roscoe said again.

‘No – he's having this, the bloody bastard.' Anger rose to his full height, like a bear about to attack. Then he bent over close to Henry and pointed a thick, stubby, accusatory finger at him. He growled through clenched teeth. ‘I want to know fucking everything, Henry. I want to know why there were two guns in the car and two knives and an Intel file, what's been going on, who the third person was and I want you to stop playing this bloody amnesia game with us. It's boring and very annoying.'