Substantial Threat (16 page)

‘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 précis 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.