Get Cartwright (18 page)

‘Come away with me, Sam. Forget all this. It’s not for you.’

Sam felt the Girl's cold hand seeking his own again, but this time he pushed it away.

‘You’re a fool, Sam.’ The Girl’s voice was becoming hard. There was an edge to it. ‘I’m trying to help you. I’ve told you before – it’s better to come with me, to a place where you can fall asleep forever, than stay awake for what’s about to happen. Your precious Annie can’t be saved. And Mr McClintock will only give you a false sense of hope. It’s much better to come with me now, Sam, before it all turns
really
nasty. Come with me. I’ll help you to sleep – and then you’ll never know what happens.’

‘I’m not going with you,’ Sam said. ‘I’m staying here, with Annie. I’m going to save her from that bastard Gould. I can do it. I know I can. Me and McClintock can do it between us. That’s why I’m going to speak to him now. He could be in trouble. We promised to stick together.’

‘False hope, Sam. Forget him.’

‘You can’t make me forget my friends, you little freak.’

Sam stepped forward to open the French windows. And as he did, the Test Card Girl suddenly stamped her foot – childishly, but with an impact that shook the entire house like a crashing jet plane had struck it. The French windows shattered. The plastic ice bucket and whisky decanters tumbled from the minibar. From the kitchen, Annie let out a blood-curdling scream.

Sam jolted awake. He was lying flat on his back, fully dressed, strong daylight filtering in through the windows.

He let out a shaky breath, and wiped away the film of sweat that had formed on his face.

What am I to make of all that? Was McClintock really trying to contact me? Or was it nothing, a nightmare – another little game played by that brat from the test card?

He tugged back his sleeve and looked at his wrist watch. It was nearly midday.

‘Good God, I’ve slept the day away … I’m getting too old for all this, Annie – racing around the city, dodging falling chimneys, breaking gun sieges. It’s all catching up with me.’

He looked over and found that he was alone in the bed.

‘Annie?’

Silence.

He slipped his feet into his Chelsea boots and shuffled about the flat. There was no sign of her. Her coat and shoes were gone. She had left without a word, not even making herself any breakfast.

And then he spotted it. A note. At once, Sam’s heart was in his mouth. He strode over, swept up the note, and started to read:

Without pausing to draw breath, Sam pounded across the flat, flung open the door, and belted off into the hallway. He leapt down the stairs three at a time and went crashing frantically out into the street.

‘Annie! Come back!’

There was no sign of her, and not the slightest clue as to which direction she had gone in. Sam looked left, right, left again, then right again – then raced off at random, shoving people out of the way, yelling Annie’s name. He belted down one set of streets, then down another. Charging recklessly across the road, the Mini Cooper nearly slammed into him. It tooted its feeble horn at him, but Sam ignored it and kept running.

Running, yes – but WHERE?

He skittered to a halt, breathing heavily.

No point being a headless chicken. You need to THINK, Sam!

He shook his head furiously to clear it.

You’ve been asleep all morning. There’s no telling what time Annie left the flat – it might well have been hours ago. She could have gotten onto a train and be miles away by now.

‘Far away from me,’ he panted to himself. ‘Far away, to keep me safe.’

Tears threatened to well up in him, but he swallowed them down.

Think, Sam. Don’t panic, don’t get tearful. Think!

Annie was alone, and most likely far away. And yet, perhaps she was all the safer for that. Yes, she was the ultimate prize that Gould had set his sights on – but even though he was dead and reaching out from beyond the grave, Gould still thought like the violent, egotistical gangster he had been in life. There was a score to be settled, an act of disrespect to be avenged. A copper had gotten his hands on Clive Gould’s woman.
And that copper would pay. Oh yes, that copper would
pay.

McClintock promised to contact me if he got into trouble – but it was Annie he got through to. He made a connection to her in the cinema, and then last night the message finally got through – that letter addressed to her – the one in the dream. He’s told her something … he’s told her somewhere to go, somewhere safe, somewhere out of the way. He’s giving me the time and space to face Gould alone.

Sam stopped dead in his tracks, and quietly repeated that thought out loud: ‘Alone.’

Alone, just as he had been when he first arrived here in 1973, when he had blundered through these very streets, confused and afraid.

From somewhere behind him came the piercing howl of tyres. Sam knew the sound instantly.

‘Not quite alone …’ he muttered. ‘Never quite alone.’

The Cortina lurched into view, pulling up recklessly directly in front of him. He glimpsed Ray’s sour face looking out at him from the front passenger seat, a fag in his gob, an X of sticking plasters like the mark of Cain on his forehead. In the back, Chris peered over Ray’s shoulder, trying to see who was rolling about on the bonnet.

Dramatically, the driver’s door flew open and Gene loomed into view.

‘
There
you are, you idle sod!’ he boomed. ‘We just been round banging the door of your whiffy gaff, Tyler, but
here
you are, out promenading like a tit.’

‘Annie’s gone,’ Sam said. ‘She’s disappeared.’

‘Given you the heave-ho already? I shouldn’t have fired her; she’s got more sense than I thought.’

‘I mean she’s vanished, Guv,’ said Sam. ‘Missing.’

‘Not my problem, not anymore. We’ve got a shout. Another flamin’ stiff. Nasty. Messy. A little bit more pressing than playing hide-and-seek with your misplaced bit of cupcake, you read me?’

‘Up yours, Guv, up
yours
!
How bloody
dare
you refer to her like that!’

‘Like what?’

‘Annie’s worth a million stinking, fat, half-witted drunks like you!’

Ray suddenly stuck his head out of the Cortina window, the X of sticking plasters on his forehead making him look like he’d been rubber-stamped as a reject.

‘Why do you stick with that scrubber Cartwright, eh, Boss?’ he snapped. ‘Your lass could’ve blinded me last night – but you didn’t give a stuff about that, did you?’

‘She’s more of a man than you’ll ever be, Carling,’ Sam came back at him. ‘None of you idiots see what she’s made of. None of you understand. She's quality.’

‘Oh, per-
lease
,’ sneered Ray, and he vanished back inside the motor.

‘Yes! Quality, Ray!’ Sam yelled. ‘Quality’s something you wouldn’t know if it came swimming up the Grand Canal and shot right up your arse!’

‘Keep your rug on, Sparky, you’re fritting young Chris,’ said Gene, calmly puffing out a plume of fag smoke. ‘It ain’t
my
problem you can’t keep your numbskull totty on the leash. And even if it
used
to be my problem it sure as shitty-fingers ain’t now coz Annie Cartwright is right royally sacked. History. Kaput.’

Sam took a long, slow breath and subdued his temper. It wasn’t tiresome sexist banter that was a danger to Annie. There were far worse things out there to worry about. He had to trust that Annie wasn’t just running around blindly, that she had a plan, that whatever message McClintock had gotten to her was designed to keep her safe for as long as possible.

I trust you, Annie,
he thought.
I have to.

‘So – we've got a shout have we, Guv?’ he said, walking towards the Cortina.

‘We most certainly have, Tyler, you nutty fruitcake,’ said Gene, planting himself heavily back behind the wheel. ‘Another mangled stiff’s just turned up, all sliced up like Pat Walsh. Looks like we got a right looney-tunes on our hands, playmates – all a bit more urgent than Tyler’s runaway shag-bunny.’

This time, Sam let the insult pass. Climbing into the motor, he kept his thoughts focused on what mattered – on Gould, on how to confront him, on how to defeat him.

In the next moment, he was flung back in his seat as Gene stamped on the gas and sent the Cortina screaming away along the street.

They were at a children’s recreation ground, set amid drab playing fields lined with houses. The climbing frames, swings, seesaw and roundabout were surrounded by patrol cars and uniformed officers and fluttering police tape.

Gene flashed his ID and swept through, leading his team through the crush of plod. They were confronted with a ghastly sight. Under the iron rungs of the climbing frame sat a flyblown red mulch that had once been a human being. A skull grinned out from beneath the mangled remains of its face.

‘Sweet Jesus …’ muttered Ray, sticking a fresh stick of gum into his mouth and lighting up a Silk Cut.

Chris turned away, his face green.

‘What’s the betting that dollop of puddin’ is retired Detective Sergeant Ken Darby?’ Gene growled to Sam. ‘Third ex-copper on the list, third ex-copper to die.’

Sam edged closer to the corpse, fanning away the cloud of bluebottles buzzing about it. Gingerly, he reached into its jacket pocket, and pulled out the bloodied remains of a driving license. Despite the blood, the name on the license was still legible.

‘It’s Darby,’ said Sam.

‘We got a full-blown cop killer on our hands,’ muttered Ray. ‘And seeing what he does to the bodies, looks like he’s one of them fruitcake mass murderers.’

‘Serial killer,’ Sam corrected him.

‘Like whatsisface from that film,’ Chris piped up. He belched dryly, struggling to keep his breakfast down, and said, ‘Mary Hopkins in
Psycho.’

‘It ain’t Mary Hopkins, it’s thingy Bates you’re thinking of, with the wig in the shower,’ said Ray. ‘Point is, whoever’s chopping up these ex-coppers has got to be a stark staring skull-job. I mean – look at that!’

Ray, Gene and Sam (but not Chris) all stared at the grisly remains.

Gould’s strong,
Sam thought
.
The pit of his stomach felt cold and clenched.
He’s very strong. Too strong for McClintock, maybe – and too strong for me?

Gene said thoughtfully: ‘Our killer slices hell out of the bodies, cuts their faces off, like he don’t want ’em recognised – but leaves them with ID just sitting there in their pockets.' And then, after a pensive pause, he added, ‘Tyler – a word.’

He led Sam away from the thronging coppers. They tramped together across the churned-up football pitch, feeling the mud squelch beneath their boots, until they reached a long run of wooden fences that screened off a row of back gardens from the playing fields. The fences were plastered with posters and flyers, mostly torn and graffiti’d, that formed a chaotic, colourful collage against which Gene now stood. He looked Sam over with narrow, thoughtful eyes, and said, ‘Three dead coppers in a row. Three dead coppers on my
patch. This is getting
really
bad, Sam.’

‘It’s bad, Guv.’

Gene pursed his lips pensively, then said, ‘What do you know?’

‘Guv?’

‘You. And your bird. You found more in them files than you’re letting on.’

Sam sighed, said: ‘God, Gene, everything’s so complicated.’

‘So you keep telling me.’

‘I … I don’t know how to explain things, or even make sense of them myself.’

‘Tyler, do me a favour. I need help here. See who’s just turned up.’

Gene indicated with a curt gesture of his head. Sam looked, and saw a dishevelled figure in a raincoat trying to talk his way past the police cordon to get a look at the bodies.

‘It’s that drunk reporter, Guv,’ said Sam. ‘What was his name again …? Sargood.’

‘Aye, Saucy Jack Sargood. On the sniff again,’ said Gene, his attention fixed not on the crime reporter from the
Evening Gazette
but on Sam. The intensity of his gaze was oppressive. ‘Things are stacking up, Tyler, and not in a good way. Sargood’ll be sticking the knife in my back like he’s been doing for years, but this time he’s got a good chance of hitting an artery, you hear what I’m saying?’

Dead coppers. A killer on the loose the police can’t find. A retired DCI lying dead in a churchyard with a police bullet in him, put there by DI Tyler himself. And the whole stinking, vile scandal of PC Tony Cartwright’s death just waiting to burst out of the police files and be splattered across the front pages of the papers.

Gene was right. Heads would roll – starting with his own.

‘Now I want you to listen to me, Sam,’ Gene said in a low voice. ‘I don’t care how difficult you find it to explain to me what you know … I want you to help me. Because I
know
you can help me.’

Gene looked desperate, even vulnerable. His job, his precious job of DCI, which defined him and was everything in the world to him, was hanging by a thread. The press could crucify him in the days and weeks to come. They would bombard him with negative publicity, hold him up for ridicule, parade him as the captain of a rotten, corrupt ship, until at last somebody higher up would make the decision that it was time that Manchester CID rid itself of that turbulent DCI.

But what could Sam say to him? Should he pull out the fob watch from his pocket and try and explain what it was and where it had come from? Impossible. Could he describe what he had seen in the churchyard, lying frozen at the bottom of an open grave? Madness. What could he say? What could he do? Sam was as lost and floundering as the guv himself.