Criminal Revenge (13 page)

Bruce Mann was more frightened than he had ever been before, and with good reason too. He was naked and tied to a wooden chair on the third floor of an old leather hide warehouse, somewhere near the river Mersey. He wasn’t sure exactly where, but he could smell the sea, and the sound of seagulls squawking drifted through the iron-framed windows. The windows were at least ten feet tall, and divided into eighteen squares by metal frames; many of the frames were empty and the stars twinkled against the inky black sky. The walls were rendered with thick grey plaster, big chunks of it missing, and the floors were bare wood planks, cracked and splintered by age. There was a dank, stale odour about the place. The stench of rotting animal flesh still lingered in the floorboards.

Bruce looked around and tried to fathom why he had been abducted and beaten. He remembered being hit hard from behind, and his attackers punched and kicked him unconscious, all the time asking questions about Malik Shah. His next recollection was being dragged roughly from the boot of a car, and then being manhandled up six sets of stairs separated by wide landings. He guessed two staircases joined each floor, hence he concluded that he was three floors up. Despite kicking and screaming for help all the way, no one had come to his aid. The building was empty. He knew that he was at the mercy of Malik Shah, alone, and devoid of any hope of rescue. Bruce didn’t know what he had done wrong, but he knew that he was in big trouble.

Bruce flexed his wrist painfully, a thick plastic cable tie cut into his flesh and his fingers felt swollen and numb. His thumbs ached badly, but they always did, ever since they’d been sliced off with a box cutter blade. That episode of his life was one that he promised himself he wouldn’t repeat, and yet here he was, up to his eyes in shit again. He had done his level best to avoid Ashwan Pindar and his boss Malik Shah, and he had no conceivable idea what he had done to offend them this time.

Hadn’t he kept a low profile since? Obviously not low enough, he thought. His head ached from a combination of inhaling exhaust fumes in the boot of the car, and because of the beating he had taken. There was congealed blood in his nostrils, and his bottom lip was swollen and bloody. Through the windows on the east, he could see the night sky was slowly lighting up on the horizon. The sun was coming up but it made little difference to the temperature inside the warehouse. He was shivering from the cold. Bruce knew that he had been left alone, bound and naked, so that he would have time to dwell on what was about to happen to him. He was going to be tortured, no doubt about that. What, exactly, it was that he was supposed to know was beyond him. Footsteps began to echo up the staircase from somewhere below. He took a deep breath and prayed that it would be quick.

It took a full five minutes for the footsteps to reach the third floor. There were no voices, just the sound of multiple footfalls approaching. It felt like an eternity to Bruce and he screwed his eyes closed tight as warm urine ran down his legs, fear holding him in its merciless grip. There was a screech as a metal door opened. The door clanged shut and the noise echoed through the cavernous building. The footsteps were in the room and a stinging tear ran down Bruce’s cheek. He was more frightened than he had ever been.

Sarah waited patiently at the bus stop after school. It was cold and wet, and the wooden shelter smelled of stale urine inside. The other students had all gone, their number dwindling as a series of green double-deckers buses came and went. Her father would be livid that she had purposely missed her school bus, but she would cross that bridge when she came to it. She had to see Malik. The red public telephone box next to the bus shelter was smashed and vandalised, not that she could call Malik at his parents’ home anyway. He was an hour late.

Sarah had sneaked out of the house that morning to retrieve his letter from the tree while the rest of her family ate breakfast. Crumpled up in her school blazer, she had to wait until she arrived at school to read it. Sarah hoped that it would be full of romance and kisses, but it was not. The letter was short and to the point. Malik said that he needed to see her and that he would pick her up from the stipulated bus stop at four o’clock. It was ten minutes past five when his cousin’s black Capri pulled up. Rainwater sprayed from the tyres as it screeched to a halt. The Jam were blaring through the speakers as Malik opened the passenger door and climbed out. He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. His eyes appeared sullen and dark, his pupils dilated. Sarah knew that he was stoned before she said hello to him, and his cousin leered at her from the driver’s seat. Her heart sank.

“What you waiting for? Get in,” Malik tipped the passenger seat forward to allow her to climb in. His voice was thick and slurred. Sarah wasn’t convinced that it was a good idea. This was not what she had envisaged their meeting would be like. Sarah was hoping for hearts and flowers, promises of undying love, but they wasn’t forthcoming. “Get in.”

The rain intensified, and the wind blew through her school blazer and chilled her to the bone. That chill blast swayed her, and she decided to get in the car. She swallowed her pride and climbed into the Capri. Instead of climbing into the back with her Malik reset the front seat and climbed into it, leaving her in the back alone and confused. His cousin eyed her in the rear view mirror. He made her flesh crawl.

“I thought you wanted to talk.” Sarah sat forward so that she could see Malik’s face.

Malik lit a joint as he turned to face her. He blew the smoke towards her and the sickly smell of cannabis filled her nostrils. She had smoked it with Malik many times, enjoying the mellow high it gave them. He held it up to her. This was the last thing that she wanted but life had been so constricted lately; maybe a little fun was what she needed.

“Here, chill out, bitch.”

Sarah hated it when he called her that. He said it was a term of endearment, and that she should be grateful to be his bitch. She didn’t feel grateful right now, that was for sure. Sarah took the reefer and inhaled deeply as she slumped into the back seat. She looked out of the window and tears filled her eyes as she watched the rain run across the glass. How did things get so bad? Malik turned around to face her.

“Here,” he handed her an open tin of Coca-Cola. The cannabis resin mix was burning hot and drying her throat. She took the tin and gulped. It was warm and flat but it took the edge off her thirst. By the time she had finished the joint, the Rohypnol in the coke was starting to take effect. Her head felt thick and her limbs were beginning to numb. Sarah looked at Malik and he smiled. It turned into a sneer. Sarah remembered the feeling well, from the night she had been gang raped. Malik had slipped her the drug then, and he had done it again. Why would he do that to her now, after everything she had been through? she asked herself. She loved him, and his baby inside her, and she thought he loved her, in his own way. Sarah opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out. Her face contorted as the muscles tried to contract, but the drug was taking a hold. The Capri stopped at a red light and Sarah looked at the driver in the car next to her. She tried to plead for help with her eyes because her mouth wouldn’t work. The driver turned his attention back to the road as the lights changed to green, and she closed her eyes as her consciousness slipped away.

“Do you have any idea how much shit you have caused me?” Malik’s voice drifted in her ear. “It’s payback, you fucking slut.”

It was dark when Sarah began to come round. She was confused and disorientated, alien sights and sounds flashing through her mind. Above her was a gigantic steel arch illuminated by hundreds of halogen lamps. Yellow streetlights stretched away from her into the distance, and the air was thick with choking diesel exhaust fumes. The suspension bridge above her was enormous, spanning the River Mersey between the industrial towns of Widnes and Runcorn. It’s a landmark that could be seen from miles away. Sarah recognised it somewhere in her befuddled brain. She was sitting upright against the safety railings that lined the pedestrian walkway, out of sight of the passing vehicles. Four lanes of traffic streamed past her in a blur of bright lights, steel and noise.

Her memory began to piece together the last few hours. She was sore and wet between her legs, her face was sticky, and she could recall Malik and his cousin taking turns to have sex with her in the back of the Capri. Their voices echoed in her mind, and the smell of their sex and sweat clung to her. She had no idea how many times they’d used her. She had let it happen again. Sarah stood on shaky legs, gripping the railings to help her stand. Her father would be going out of his mind looking for her by now, and what was he going to find? His slut of daughter stoned and raped… again. No one would believe her. They didn’t the first time, why would they now? She had got into the car of her own free will. She had taken the cannabis willingly and drunk the coke that Malik had given her, despite the previous allegations that she had made. Sarah leaned over the rail and vomited into the black abyss, which separated the road bridge and the river, far below.

Sarah was traumatised emotionally and still reeling from the drugs in her system when she felt warm fluid running down her thighs. She lifted her crumpled skirt and saw liquid streaked heavily with blood running from her. Sarah knew she was miscarrying, and she screamed into the darkness: her waters had broken, brought on by the physical trauma. Her father would never speak to her again, her brothers would be ridiculed at school and she would be banished to Israel, forever this time. Saliva dribbled from her lips as she cried hysterically, her vision blurred by her tears. She had ruined her own life, and was now responsible for the death of her unborn child. Sarah leaned forward, calming suddenly. There was a way to stop it all right now. She gripped the railings low down and tipped her body weight onto the rail. The world seemed to be spinning very slowly as she paused for a few seconds. The traffic became silent while she thought about it all one more time. Could she face her family? Sarah could see her father’s face in her mind’s eye, his shame and disgust etched deep into every wrinkle. When she let go there was no peace as she tumbled in the blackness. The pain inside her heart didn’t fade as she hurtled towards the icy river. Hitting the water from that height was like hitting concrete. Sarah didn’t live long enough to feel how cold the water was, and the impact mercifully ended her torment.

Bruce Mann looked at the faces of the four men in front of him. He recognised Malik Shah and his lieutenant Ashwan Pindar. The other two were strangers to him, up until they had hit him on the head and stuffed him in the boot of their Mercedes. Malik and Ashwan were suited, smartly dressed. Their associates had long rubber aprons, gauntlets and wellington boots, slaughterhouse uniforms.

“Hello, Bruce,” Ashwan said.

“Ash.” Bruce swallowed hard, trying to maintain his composure. “What am I doing here, Ash?”

“We need to ask you some questions about Mamood.”

“Mamood?”

“My son,” Ash bent level with his face and stared into his eyes.

“I don’t know your son, Ash,” Bruce shook his head rapidly. He was beginning to think that maybe he had sold him some drugs or an illegal firearm without realising who he was related to. “Honestly, I don’t know your son.”

“Maybe you do and maybe you don’t, but how can I believe a scumbag like you?”

“What do you think I know about your son, Ash?”

“You know where he is.”

“What?”

“We think you might know where he is, or you’ll know someone that does know.”

“Is he lost?” It was an instinctive question from Bruce’s point of view, but Ashwan took it as arrogance. He punched Bruce hard in the mouth. Pain flashed from the exposed nerves in his broken teeth, and he spat blood and enamel onto the ancient floorboards.

“He isn’t lost, he’s been kidnapped!” Ashwan spat the words.

“Fucking hell, Ash!” Bruce breathed deeply and shook his head again. “You cut off my thumbs for selling a bit of smack on your turf. Do you think I’d still be around if I was holding your son for Christ’s sake?”

“You have your ear to the ground.” Ash nodded to the two men in aprons. One of them wheeled a metal trolley from somewhere out of Bruce’s field of vision. He couldn’t see what was on it, but he could hazard a guess that it wasn’t tea and biscuits. “Who has my son?”

“I haven’t got a clue, but I have nothing to do with it, I swear.”

“What do you know about the bombing?”

“What bombing?” Bruce wracked his brains. “You mean the mosque?”

“Yes, the mosque.”

“Why would I know anything about that?”

“We think someone is having a pop at us,” Malik spoke. “Who has got it in for us?”

Bruce stared at the floor, shaking like a leaf inside. His mind processed information at a million miles an hour, trying to think of anything that might be significant. One snippet of information could save his life, but nothing sprang to mind. The whirring noise of a power drill echoed in the darkness. A tungsten drill bit glinted in the darkness as it turned at high speed. Bruce opened and closed his mouth and he struggled against the restraints.

“Where is my son?” Ashwan removed a photograph from his suit pocket. He held it up to Bruce’s face. Bruce looked at the picture through his tears, his vision blurred. Mamood was a handsome teenage boy, naked, tied up and terrified. Tears streaked his face and there was terror in his eyes. “Where is my son?” Ash repeated. The man with the drill approached.

“Please, Ash!” Bruce dribbled and screwed his eyes tight shut. The memory of having his thumbs cut off was still raw. He couldn’t stand the thought of prolonged torture; his heart would explode with fear. “Believe me, if I knew where he was I’d tell you. I don’t know where he is, Ash.”

“Maybe Mr Drill can convince you to remember.” Ashwan nodded to the man with the drill. He stepped closer and then kneeled down on one knee. He held the spinning drill bit six inches from Bruce’s foot. “I once watched a man being questioned by my colleague and Mr Drill for nearly four hours.”

“Ash, I don’t know anything,” Bruce was gibbering, dribbling and shaking his head in panic. “I could help you to find him, Ash!”

Ashwan waved and the drill was withdrawn, although the bit kept spinning as a reminder that it hadn’t gone away. He could smell the fear coming from Bruce, and the offer of cooperation was worth exploring before the screaming started.

“How can you help?” Ashwan asked. “One chance, Bruce, think carefully.”

“I know people, Ash,” Bruce took short sharp breath in between his words. “I’ll spend every minute of the day asking people about your son, I’ll look under every rock and stone to help—”

“What people?” Ash interrupted.

“You know what I mean, Ash. I’ll ask around.”

“No, I don’t. Enlighten me, Bruce.”

Bruce swallowed hard. His mouth was dry and caked in congealing blood. “I figure if someone is stupid enough to kidnap your son, then they either want money, or they’re doing it to hurt you, right?”

Ash took a bottle of mineral water from his overcoat pocket. He twisted the top off it and placed it to Bruce’s lips. Bruce swallowed greedily and then began to cough and splutter.

“Which category would you fit into, Bruce?” Malik interrupted.

“Which category?”

“Yes, would you do it for money, or revenge?”

“Neither, Malik.” Bruce coughed again before he spoke. “I fucked up once, and I paid for it, right?”

“So you’re in the second group then?” Ash said.

“No!” Bruce shook his head from side to side. “I sold a bit of smack in one of your pubs, and I paid dearly for the privilege. I know the score, you fuck up, you pay for it. I have made a real effort to stay out of your turf, Ash.”

“Okay let’s say I believe you,” Ash said. “Who would fit your profile?”

“I can think of a dozen of your rivals, any one of them could pull a stunt like this,” Bruce struggled to say what he really thought. Malik Shah and his henchmen were spectacularly unpopular. Most of their rivals wouldn’t think twice about killing Malik’s men or their families. “Have they asked for money?”

“Not yet,” Ashwan frowned. “Why do you ask that?”

“If they were amateurs then they would have asked for the money by now,” Bruce said shakily. “The chances are if they haven’t asked for money yet then it’s personal.”

“The chances are it’s someone we’ve had issues within the past, Bruce,” Malik said. “Someone we’ve hurt, like you.”

“I’m a one-man band.” Bruce was trying to think on his feet. The kidnap was baffling, but to think that he was a suspect didn’t make any sense. “I’m under no illusions what people think of me, I work alone because nobody trusts me, nobody likes me. I make a few quid here and there, selling smack and the odd shooter to junkies. This is way out of my league.”

“Who’s league is it in, Bruce?”

“Fucking hell, Ash, kidnap? What about the Richards family?”

“What about them?”

“You remember when they fell out big time with the Burgess brothers?” Bruce was gibbering at a hundred miles an hour.

“Yes I remember.” Malik screwed up his face as if he were getting annoyed. “What about it?”

“Well, if you remember, the Richards family blamed the Burgess brothers for whacking one of their drug deals, right.” He nodded his head to reinforce his story. “One of their heavies was shot, and the drugs and the money were lifted, remember?”

“Get to the point, Bruce,” Ashwan snarled.

“The Burgess brothers paid the Richards off, over half a million from what I heard!” Bruce thought this information was buying him some time.

“Why, what happened?” Malik was curious. He had heard the same story via the rumour mill, but he never found out why one of the families had backed down.

“The Richards took old mother Burgess from outside the hairdressers in Page Moss, kidnapped her in broad daylight.”

“Carry on,” Ash listened intently.

“They held her in a unit, and they sent pictures of her in a coffin holding a wreath, cheeky bastards!” Bruce tried a smile. Malik looked to Ash while he mulled over the information. “The Richards were a smaller outfit, but the Burgess brothers paid up, and they paid compensation for the drugs on top,” Bruce nodded emphatically as he finished his story. “No one would fuck with them ever again after that. It sent a message across the city that no one could ignore.”

“I think you’re right, Bruce.” Malik stroked his chin as he spoke. He looked at Ash, but Ash couldn’t read his thoughts. “I think it’s way above your head.”

“Thank god!” Bruce gasped. He smiled through swollen bloody lips. “I’ll help you find him, I promise I will.”

“You are also right about the message, and we need to send one too. Kill him,” Malik said to the man with the drill. “Mess him up first, and then kill him.”

The drill whined louder as it approached Bruce’s foot. Bruce twitched violently as the tungsten bit ripped through his skin, before tearing bone and cartilage and spraying blood in a wide arc. Bruce screamed and he bit down on his lip hard, but he couldn’t escape the pain.

“I’m confused,” Ashwan said as they stepped clear of the blood splatter. Their suits were expensive to clean. “Why kill him?”

“Tell them to cut him up and dump his body on the town hall steps. I want every scumbag in this city to know what happens when they fuck with us. We’ll send out a message that no one will ignore. I want his body on the front pages of every newspaper. Whoever has Mamood will think twice, and we hit the Richards gang tonight.”

Ashwan took a last look at Bruce Mann. Both men were drilling and cutting, pulling and tearing and the screams were deafening. Ash almost felt pity for him but then the visions of his son restrained and terrified came to the forefront of his mind, and his pity vanished. The screams echoed through the empty warehouse for nearly forty minutes before they were finally silenced.