Substantial Threat (19 page)

Neither spoke.

‘Knew you'd like it.' He winked. ‘I'll stay here with the delicious Debbie while you do it and if you don't come back, I'll rape her then kill her. Sound okay?'

‘Nothing to say, either of them.' Jane Roscoe, looking red and flushed even two hours after making love with Henry Christie, was talking to him in a more professional capacity in the A&E department at Blackpool Victoria Hospital. ‘One's been shot in the chest, the other's been blasted by a shotgun in the groin. Both are stable, but the one with the chest wound can't speak yet. It's the one who nearly had his cock shot off who told me to piss off. But they aren't going anywhere. From witnesses at the scene, these two went for two other guys sitting down eating a meal.

‘And they came off worse.'

‘Very much so. The other two legged it unharmed. Drove off in a Mercedes sports, an old one, but no registration number taken.'

‘Any connection with the shooting at the King's Cross?'

‘Dunno. It's a bit of a coincidence if it isn't.'

‘Let's just keep an eye on how it progresses – have you got someone capable of dealing with it properly?'

‘I thought Rik Dean could sort it.'

‘Yeah, he's pretty thorough,' said Henry.

By 2 a.m. Debbie had fallen into a difficult sleep, fully clothed on the wide double bed in the motel room. Dix lay beside her, completely awake, his hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Marty sat in one of the uncomfortable easy chairs, feet up on the other, watching a soft-porn film on the video channel, sound turned down. His gun was laid across his crotch. His head kept nodding and lolling as he endeavoured to keep awake. Dix monitored him through the corner of his eye, hoping he would nod off properly and give him the chance to grab the gun and blow his head off.

At least that's what he'd like to do. Whether he would have the courage to attempt something so foolhardy and dangerous was another matter. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, regretting ever contacting Debbie and dragging her into this situation. Not that he could blame her for his current predicament. She was just a bit naive – and maybe he was too, and now they were both paying the price.

He opened his eyes and looked lovingly at Debbie, curled up next to him. She had been very good for him, had made him think twice about his life and had promised him something more fulfilling. Perversely, that was one of the reasons he had stolen the money. A new start, away from all the shit. It had backfired badly.

Marty struggled to sit upright, yawned and stretched his arms upwards and outwards. The gun slid off his lap on to the floor with a thud. Marty ignored it and rolled his shoulders and rubbed his aching neck, his mouth opening and closing with a clicking noise.

‘Need a brew . . . make one, Dix.'

‘Yeah, right.'

The gun was still on the floor at Marty's feet.

Dix sat up. He saw it. He could go for it now. It was about 60–40 in Marty's favour, but he could still go for it. He tensed.

‘Go on, have a go. Try it,' Marty urged.

‘Try what?' Dix's shoulders sagged.

‘Don't tell me you weren't thinking about it.'

The gun remained on the carpet.

‘Thinking about what?' Dix swung his legs off the bed and rubbed his eyes, feigning innocence.

‘You know.' Marty placed a foot on the gun.

Debbie stirred and rolled over. She started to snore quietly.

‘Is she a good fuck?'

‘I'll make that brew.' Dix stood up.

The door blew open with a huge crash and four men, hooded, all dressed in black, all wielding Uzi machine pistols, poured into the room in a well-planned well-thought-out manoeuvre. They came in in single file, past the bathroom, then spread across the room where it widened. They came in screaming – loud, noisy and disorientating.

Dix turned to face them, kettle in hand.

Marty was caught mid-way to retrieving his gun from the floor.

Debbie woke groggily to the noise, confused and woozy.

‘You do not move,' the first one through the door shouted. The two behind him rushed past and pointed their weapons at Marty. The last man of the four covered Dix and Debbie, his gun constantly waving from one to the other.

‘On your feet,' the first one ordered Marty.

‘Me?' he said in disbelief.

The masked man shoved his gun right up into Marty's face. ‘You.'

Marty rose unsteadily. His foot was still on top of his gun on the floor.

‘Let's deal,' Marty said quickly. ‘I've got money. I can give it to you.'

‘My job is to deliver you,' the man said. ‘So shut up.'

‘Shit,' blabbed Marty, ‘shit, shit.'

‘Come with us,' the man beckoned Marty.

‘Where are we going?'

‘To a rendezvous.'

One of the men covering Marty grabbed his shirtfront and pulled him across the room, propelling him towards the door.

One by one they withdrew, leaving Dix and Debbie standing motionless and shocked. Dix was first to move.

‘Fucking hell,' he cried. He stepped across to the window and looked out through the curtains to the car park below. A van of some sort was drawn up on the tarmac near the front of the motel, its registration number obscured. He watched the four men bundle Marty into the back. Three leapt in with him, the fourth got in the front passenger seat next to a driver and the van sped away, up the road. The night porter ran out behind the van and stood there arms wide, flabbergasted by events.

‘We'd better move,' said Dix. ‘I have a bad feeling about those men, can't think why. We need to lie very low.'

Debbie, totally out of her league, dropped back on to the bed and did the only thing she was capable of doing at that moment. She cried.

The three men pinned Marty face down on the floor of the van. One of them knelt on him, his knee pressed between Marty's shoulder blades and his gun pressed into his neck. As soon as the back doors slammed shut, the van moved off. Marty closed his eyes and did not struggle because he knew it would be useless. He said nothing and tried to stay calm.

They travelled only a very short distance. The van slowed, turned, slowed more and stopped. Marty opened his eyes as the doors were pulled open. The gun was jammed harder into his neck and the man holding it leaned into Marty's face, huffing garlic-scented breath over him.

‘You get out here. If you struggle you'll die. Nod if you understand.'

Marty nodded.

‘Come.' The man eased his knee off Marty's spine, took hold of his collar and, keeping the muzzle pressed into Marty's neck, pulled him out of the van. They were in a dark car park which Marty did not recognize. Away to his left, high up, was a motorway he could not place. Either the M6 or M65, but he was too disorientated to work out which.

He was pushed round to the side of the van and down a short pathway. Ahead of him he could see a group of figures in the darkness. He was prodded hard and staggered. He did not complain. He was not in a position to do so.

As the figures got closer, they became more defined in the night.

Four men were standing in a circle, looking at something. The circle parted as Marty reached them and revealed what they were inspecting. It was a man. He was on his knees. His wrists were bound around his back with duct tape, there was a blindfold of the same tape covering his eyes and a strip of it gagged his mouth.

One of the men switched on a torch. He shone the beam into Marty's eyes, making him flinch.

‘Glad you could come,' the man said. He turned the beam on to himself and held the torch under his chin, casting the light upwards, casting long eerie shadows up his face. Marty recognized him immediately.

‘Mendoza,' said Marty.

‘Correct,' he said, ‘and I don't often make house calls.' His voice was deep and slow and heavily accented. ‘But in your case I have made an exception.' His English was excellent. ‘There is something I would like you to see.'

Mendoza took a step back and shone the torch at the kneeling figure on the ground. ‘Okay.'

Another man stepped behind the man and put a silenced pistol at the base of his skull, angling it upwards slightly.

‘Okay,' Mendoza said again.

The trigger was pulled. The bullet entered the kneeling man's head and exited through his left eye socket, taking that side of his face with it. He pitched headlong, writhing and jerking.

The killer stood over him and shot him twice more in the head, making him still.

Mendoza's big head turned. He smiled at Marty. He had a big mouth, full of white, even teeth. ‘I want you to kneel down.'

‘Oh, Jesus, no,' Marty gasped. He twisted away and tried to run. Hands held him tight and forced him down to the ground.

Debbie was feeling so weak she could not move. Her limbs would not respond. She felt as though she had been turned into frog spawn, or blubber, or something which had no form or substance. She was caught in a nightmare. In one way it did not feel real, in that, surely, this could not be happening to her. For God's sake, she was a hairdresser. In another way, she knew that it was real, that she was here and that these events were definitely happening to her.

‘Harry, I feel sick,' she moaned.

‘Yeah, me too,' he responded. He had waited long enough to motivate her to move and was becoming irritated by her inaction. He pulled on his jacket and went to the window to look down at the car park. ‘But we need to move, get on, get out of here,' he pleaded.

‘I know, I know – just give me a moment.' Debbie rolled on the bed and drew her knees up into a foetal position. ‘I can't stand up. I feel like I want to spew.'

Dix closed his eyes. He sighed and sat next to her. She grabbed one of his hands between hers and held it tight, transmitting her tremors to him. He stroked her hair.

‘It'll be all right. We'll just put a bit of space between them and us, chill out somewhere, make some plans, then go for it. How does that sound?'

‘I don't know, I don't know,' she said weakly.

‘I love you, y'know,' he told her.

She nodded numbly.

Dix tensed. He'd heard a vehicle coming into the car park. He sped back to the window and peered out through the gap in the curtains. It was the van which had taken Marty away. It had returned.

‘Shit, they're back.' He picked up the holdall, grabbed her arm and dragged her roughly off the bed. She whinged and he shook her. ‘We've got to move – now!'

He started for the door.

She made no attempt to follow him.

‘Now!' he yelled.

The expression on her face changed as a dawning realization jarred her into action.

‘Come on,' he urged her.

At the door he turned right down the corridor and headed for the fire escape at the far end. He burst through on to the steps outside, Debbie now right behind him. He closed the door and ducked down out of sight as four hooded men appeared at the far end of the corridor and crashed into room 34.

Ten minutes later the van was back on the car park where Marty was still being held down on his knees. The men climbed out and went over to Mendoza. Marty closed his eyes in desperation when he saw that none of them was carrying the holdall. It meant they had missed Dix. It also meant something far more fundamental.

Mendoza and the men from the van talked in hushed tones.

Marty looked at the body of the man who had been executed. A surge of fear corkscrewed through his intestines. His breath shortened and he swallowed back an urge to vomit.

Mendoza moved away from the men. Marty heard him say, ‘
Gracias
.' He squatted down by Marty and lifted his chin up gently with the tip of his forefinger, so they were eye to eye.

‘Your friends have gone.' There was a sort of sadness in his voice.

‘Give me a chance. He has the money. I can find him and I can pay you.' Marty was frantic.

Mendoza shook his head. ‘Too late. Too many promises broken. Too much debt.' Mendoza placed his hands on his thighs and pushed himself up. Marty's eyes rose with him, pleading. Mendoza nodded at someone standing behind Marty.

The last thing Marty Cragg felt before his brain exploded was the muzzle of a gun being pushed into the back of his neck.

H
enry Christie re-read through the photocopy of the custody records relating to Marty Cragg which had caught his interest previously. Every time a prisoner is brought into custody, they are allowed certain rights which can be delayed, but never totally withheld except under certain circumstances, for example, if the custody sergeant believes the prisoner is too drunk to understand what is being said, or is too violent, or both.

This had been the case on the night about six months earlier when Marty Cragg had been arrested for a fairly minor public order offence outside a Blackpool nightclub. According to the custody record, Cragg had been brought in and had been very drunk and abusive towards the arresting officers and also to the custody sergeant. Most detainees do not realize, particularly when under the influence of alcohol, that to be abusive to the sergeant is a bad move.

In Marty's case, his behaviour resulted in him spending very little time chatting to the sergeant. He was forcibly restrained and searched and immediately heaved into a cell, the door slamming shut behind him, and he did not get his rights. He banged continually on the cell door and shouted verbal abuse for at least another hour. He urinated on the door, followed this by vomiting around the cell and then fell asleep. He had been arrested at 2.05 a.m. and was deemed to be fit enough to receive his rights, after mopping up his cell, some nine hours later at 11.15. The notes on the custody record said that he was compliant, quiet and apologetic. He was released an hour later following a written caution given by the sergeant. Because of the minor nature of the offence for which he was arrested, he did not have to provide fingerprints or a DNA sample.