Substantial Threat (3 page)

But Henry was not surprised. He had long since stopped being surprised at anything. He knew how ruthless and uncaring the world was.

‘Thanks very much, Mr Fleming,' Henry said to himself under his breath, ‘for giving me a no-hoper of a case.'

It was 5.45 a.m and Henry had to be at Blackburn Magistrates Court at ten to see how his murderer fared during the remand hearing. He stifled a wide yawn and crept upstairs, knowing the household did not stir until seven thirty. He checked his daughters again to see if they were sleeping soundly, his fiercely protective parental instinct roused by the thought of a fourteen-year-old girl missing and murdered. If either of his two went, he knew he would never rest until he found them. The thought made him judder.

He slid back in bed, ensuring he did not rouse Kate. She murmured something and turned over, taking the duvet with her.

With a wry smile, Henry closed his eyes, then thought about his cold case. If only for the sake of some parent out there, he would give this one his best shot in the time he had available . . . then within seconds he fell into the sleep that had been eluding him for the last couple of hours.

R
ay Cragg surfaced from sleep with a storming headache, but did not have any time to brood about it. He had some serious work to do, a busy day ahead. He groaned as he rolled out of the same bed he'd been sleeping in since the age of ten: single, narrow, with a deep indentation down the centre of the mattress into which his thin, wiry body fitted perfectly. It was the only bed he could ever sleep comfortably in.

Once on his feet he staggered a little to keep his balance until the blood made it up to his brain. He kicked some discarded clothing out of the way and lurched out on to the landing dressed only in the ragged, loose underpants he slept in. On the way to the main bathroom he passed his mother's bedroom. The door was slightly ajar.

Cragg paused outside, listening. Then, unable to resist, he peeped in.

Deep asleep, his mother lay splayed on the king-sized bed, naked, the duvet only half-covering her. There were numerous roach ends in the ashtray on the bedside cabinet and the sickly-sweet smell of stale cannabis hung in the air. Cragg shut his eyes momentarily as the sight of his mother's pubes made him shudder. Next to her was the bulk of some sleeping guy, breathing deeply but not quite snoring. On his bedside cabinet were two used condoms half-wrapped in tissue. Cragg had no idea who the man was. Didn't particularly want to know. Didn't actually care either, because he loved his mum. So far as he was concerned she could do anything, or shag anyone, so long as it made her happy.

The only thing Cragg would not tolerate was any bastard who dared slap her round. Two guys had suffered for doing that in the past. One had even thought he could do the same to Ray Cragg.

A knife plunged into the guy's left buttock had made him squeal and think differently.

Cragg closed the bedroom door quietly. He padded barefoot along to the bathroom, had a piss, a power shower, then shaved, although there wasn't very much to shave off, even at the age of thirty. His almost pure-white blond hair, cropped right back to his skull, frustrated the life out of him. Sometimes he thought he would never get any facial hair other than odd tufts here and there which reminded him of Shaggy in
Scooby Doo
.

He left the bathroom annoyed by this thought and also because he had razored the head clean off a big yellow pimple on his chin which refused to stop bleeding. Holding a tiny triangle of pink toilet tissue to his face he stomped angrily back to his bedroom to get dressed.

Transformation time. He tossed his less than clean underpants across the bed and opened the wardrobe. Inside was an array of designer everything. His pulled on a pair of boxer shorts, CK T-shirt, jeans, trainers, and set them off against an Omega wristwatch, a line of single diamond studs in his pierced ears and a state of the art mobile phone (pay as you go, so therefore no records of calls made) slotted on his black leather Gucci belt.

‘I am the fucking biz,' Ray Cragg said to his reflection in the mirror while hunching his shoulders in a threatening way. ‘The effin' biz,' he said again. ‘I think I might just shoot some bastard today.'

He was ready to operate.

His half-brother Marty was in the kitchen waiting for him. He had let himself into the house earlier, was munching toast and listening to Oasis on a portable hi-fi placed on top of the fridge, while perusing the racing pages of the
Sun
. He was dressed similarly to Ray but was more sturdily built.

Ray turned the music off immediately. ‘Stuff that for a game of soldiers,' he said, complaining at the noise. ‘Got a shaggin' headache.'

‘I was listenin' to that,' Marty whined half-heartedly, turning to appraise his half-brother for the first time.

Ray batted his eyelids blandly, daring Marty to challenge him. Though Marty was bigger and physically more powerful than Ray, no aggression from the younger man, he knew his place in the hierarchy.

Marty sneered secretly and looked back down at his racing tips for the day, hiding a smirk at the little pink dab of toilet tissue with the red dot of blood in its centre stuck on Ray's chin. Marty took a huge, rude-sounding slurp of tea from his mug.

Ray rubbed his head, feeling slightly faint again. He dropped a couple of Nurofen Meltlets into his mouth and washed them down with ice-cold orange juice from a carton in the fridge.

‘Heavy night?'

Ray shrugged. ‘So-so.'

‘You wanna keep off that Pils. Fuckin' kills you.'

‘Thanks for the crap advice.' Ray slotted a couple of slices of thick white bread into the toaster and re-boiled the kettle. He trimmed the crust off the toast and spread it thickly with butter and seedless raspberry jam (he hated food with bits in it and bread with the crust on, had done since childhood). He sat next to Marty and snatched the
Sun
away from him. Marty let it go without a murmur of protest. Ray ate in silence while leafing through the tabloid.

‘What time's Crazy coming?' Ray asked. He turned to the back page. Now that he had some sustenance inside him he was coming to life.

‘Should be here by now,' muttered Marty, checking his watch.

‘Tosser's always late,' Ray commented. His thin-lipped mouth twisted distastefully. With a ‘tut' of annoyance he unhitched his mobile from his belt and punched in a number. With the phone to his ear he crossed to the sink, dropping his cup and plate into the washing-up bowl, already brimful of dirty crockery, water, scum and food particles.

‘Crazy?' Ray demanded. ‘It's me, yeah, now where the fuck are you? . . . Yeah, right,' he said, sneering at whatever the response was. ‘Not fuckin' good enough . . . we've got things to do, a bloody busy day ahead, so put your foot down, will you?' Ray folded the mouthpiece of his mobile back into place and shook his head.

‘If that twat's on his way like he says, I'm a fuckin' Dutchman,' Marty said. ‘Marty van-fuckin'-Cragg's my name. I'll swing for the unreliable tosspot.'

‘He'll be here,' Ray said.

‘Still up t'maker's name in that slag of his,' Marty surmised.

‘He'll be here.'

They migrated into the living room and watched the best bits of a slasher-type movie while waiting impatiently for Crazy's arrival. He was the driver for the day, Ray's number-two man after Marty. Hopefully he would turn up in a fairly nondescript, clean and reliable motor which would not draw any undue attention to them.

Half an hour later he pulled up outside, honking his horn as though he was the one who had been kept waiting.

‘Fuckin'-hoo-ray,' Ray said, jumping up. He pulled a baseball cap on, peak twisted backwards, a denim jacket, and fitted a pair of Full Metal Jacket sunglasses on. He was ready to roll. ‘C'mon.' He brushed past Marty who, also clad in sunglasses, was at the front door, opening it for his brother. They trotted down the driveway, past the Mercedes and the BMW, and jumped into the waiting Astra GTE. Ray went in the front passenger seat next to Crazy. Marty hunched in the back.

Ray twisted side-on to Crazy, made the shape of a gun with his first finger and stuck it against Crazy's temple. ‘Bein' late pisses me off.'

‘Hey, hey,' Crazy's voice creaked nervously. ‘I been working, sorting stuff out for you.'

‘Yeah? More like screwing that bint of yours,' Marty interjected, his mouth curling.

Ray removed the pretend gun from Crazy's head and sat properly on his seat, allowing Crazy to look disdainfully over his shoulder at Marty. ‘No – actually, no.' He turned back to Ray. ‘Sorting out today for you, that's what I've been doing, and checking this area real careful, like, for cop surveillance, just in case.'

‘And?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Good.'

‘So what's first on your agenda?' Crazy asked, gripping the wheel tightly and revving the engine.

‘JJ needs a visit first. Needsa bit of geeing up, doesn't he, Mart?'

‘Sure does, skimming bastard,' Marty agreed, a wicked smile expanding across his mean face.

‘Then after we've had some fun with him, let's really get down to business.' Ray clasped his hands behind his head. ‘Because today is the day when Ray Cragg puts his foot down and steps on some shite.' He glanced at his driver. ‘Let's go, Crazy.'

Joe Sherridan's court appearance was over almost before it began. It took two, maybe three minutes at most. The clerk of the court read out his name and Sherridan nodded when asked if the details were correct. He made no response to the charge against him. He then sat down in the dock, a morose expression on his face, his eyes staring unfocused at the floor.

Henry Christie watched his prisoner thoughtfully, wondering what was going through the man's mind. Turmoil, despair, Henry guessed. Remorse about what he had done – perhaps. Uncertainty about the future? His head must be spinning like a washing machine.

The defence made no application for bail. Seconds later the magistrates remanded Sherridan in custody and without a backwards glance he was led down to the holding cells below by his Group 4 jailers.

Henry stood up wearily. He chatted about the case for a few minutes with the pretty lady prosecutor from the Crown Prosecution Service, knowing it was best to keep her sweet, then left court and headed to Blackburn police station, which adjoined the court building. After ironing out what still needed to be done post-charge with the local DI, such as the case file, custody remands, the inquest, reviews and family liaison, he phoned his own office to see if there was anything outstanding for him to deal with. There was nothing that needed immediate attention, so he jumped into his car and decided he fancied a trip to Blackpool.

He could do some work on the cold case he had been given to review, then he could have lunch with Kate. Surprise her.

Johnny Jacques had been in bed with Carrie, his lady friend, when the knock came on the door. He had been awake, but groggy and bleary-eyed, still sluggish from the effects of the night before's drink and drugs binge. It had not been anything too dangerous. Lots of lager, one ecstasy tab and a nose full of coke, or two or three. He'd lost count. But it was all having its hangover effect now and not for the first time. He thought that at the age of forty-five he was getting a little old for it, his body did not seem to have the resilience it once had.

The sound of hammering on the door made him roll over and pull a pillow over his head. The knocking persisted.

‘Shit,' Carrie said. She was suffering equally.

The knocking went on. Carrie heard the letterbox flap open with a clatter and a voice shouted through it. She recognized it immediately.

‘Fuck!' she said this time, shooting bolt upright, shaking JJ by the shoulder. ‘It's Marty Cragg,' she hissed.

‘Wha⎯'

‘It's fuckin' Marty, and if it's Marty, it's Ray too.'

‘Shite.'

The knocking grew into pounding.

Carrie's breathing was short and desperate, her heart pounding. ‘They must know you're here.' Suddenly, with a clear head, she jumped out of bed, grabbing her towelling dressing gown and wrapping it tightly around her. JJ stayed in bed, having removed the pillow from his head. He stared up at her, eyes wide as a bunny caught in the glare of headlights on main beam. ‘I'll do my best to keep them at the front door. You get dressed and scarper out of the back window.'

‘Yeah, yeah, right.' JJ twitched, but still lay there as if stunned.

Carrie leaned over him and spoke as though he was retarded. ‘Get fuckin' moving,' she said, exaggerating her lip movements so he would understand.

Marty shouted something obscene through the letterbox.

JJ shot upright, jumped out of bed and began to scrabble for his scattered clothing as Carrie left the bedroom and walked into the hallway, shouting, ‘Keep yer friggin' hair on.'

Dressing quickly was no picnic for JJ. He managed to find his underpants and slotted one leg through a hole, then put his second leg down the same hole, only to discover they were not his underpants at all, they were Carrie's knickers. He ripped them off as fast as he could and threw them furiously across the room. He dived for his jeans and hopped into them, pulling a grubby T-shirt on at much the same time. Picking up his trainers, he dashed through to the living room at the exact moment Carrie opened the door on the security chain.

JJ ran to the window, slid it open and peered out.

‘C'mon,' he panted to himself, trying to get it together. It looked a very long way down to the ground, which was a large, asphalt kids' play area, though with no equipment left in it. It would hurt.

He heard the sound of Ray Cragg's voice at the front door. A motivator to action if ever there was one.

Ray Cragg kept the tone of his voice reasonable, calm and dangerous.