Substantial Threat (17 page)

‘It's very difficult for me to get out just like that,' she complained.

‘I know, love,' he commiserated, ‘but I keep you sweet, don't I?' He handed her a wodge of ten-pound notes. ‘Two-fifty,' he said. ‘Double if you come up with the goods.'

Edina Trotter worked in a civilian capacity at Blackpool police station as an admin clerk in the intelligence unit. She had gone to the same school as Ray's mother and fallen pregnant at much the same time. The difference was that Edina had lost her baby and Ray had been born alive and kicking. The two young girls kept in contact with each other over the years, but Edina had stayed on the straight and narrow while Ray's mother had deviated somewhat. Edina had found herself in dire financial straits several years earlier when her husband dumped her and their two kids. That was when Ray came to her rescue with a proposition. As a member of the intelligence unit Edina had access to a great deal of sensitive information and also to the computer networks of Lancashire Constabulary, very useful for someone like Ray Cragg.

‘Well,' she said doubtfully, riffling through some sheets of paper she had brought with her, printouts from computers. ‘I've looked through all the logs relating to Rawtenstall and no body has been seen or recovered from the Irwell, nor has any large amount of cash been found either. I discreetly spoke to a friend of mine who works for Greater Manchester police in Bury, the division which adjoins Lancashire, and they haven't found a body washed down the river either.'

‘Okay, anything else?'

‘As I was checking the computerized incident logs I noticed a couple of odd things in New Hall Hey, a little sort of village next to the river, just down from Rawtenstall.' She shuffled the papers. ‘Three crimes reported on the same night you are on about. Pretty unusual, I'd say.'

Ray waited.

‘One was theft of clothing from a washing line – a pair of jeans and a T-shirt; another was the owner of a house reporting damage to his door. It looks like someone's been in the house, which is up for sale and unoccupied, but nothing was stolen from it. Thirdly, there was a car stolen from the village.'

‘Did the car turn up?'

‘Yes, on the multi-storey in Preston.'

Ray scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Could be,' he mumbled. ‘Right, thanks, Edina.' He separated some more notes from a roll in his pocket and handed them to her. ‘An extra hundred. Keep an eye on stolen cars, will you? Particularly those which either don't turn up, or those which get abandoned a long way away.'

After she had gone, Ray sat in the car for several hours, just watching the river and the boats bouncing around on the waves which were whipping up in the wind. His mobile rang.

‘Ray? Me.'

‘Hello.'

‘He's definitely alive.'

‘Yeah, thought so . . . how do you know?'

‘Talked to him on the phone. Let me find him, will you? I'd like to teach the little shit a lesson.'

‘Marty, little half-brother, he's all yours.'

It had been a frustrating day for Crazy and Miller. They had drifted through Stockport, going from pub to pub, dropping into likely-looking corner shops on council estates, betting offices, sleazy clubs, trying to flush out any information concerning the friends of the two men they had shot to death a few days before. It was not a subtle approach, but one designed to make people angry and come out fighting. It did not seem to be working. Most people clammed up tight, said nothing and looked away; others went pale and shaky with fear. However, although they did not unearth anything of great use, they knew they had made their mark on the underworld of Stockport.

At seven that evening, they decided to call it quits and head back to Blackpool. It was motorway all the way, M60, M61westbound, M6 and M55. They were in Miller's ageing, but wonderful Mercedes Coupé, a real gangster's car. It purred easily down the motorway at 80–85 mph. Both men listened to Radio 2 and argued about the merits of sixties music as opposed to today's trash. They did not know each other very well, but found themselves quite liking each other.

Throughout the journey Miller kept a regular eye on his mirrors.

As they left the M6 and joined the M55 on the last ten miles or so of their journey, Miller turned the radio down.

‘I've changed my mind,' he said grimly. ‘I think we have rattled a few cages. It's been with us ever since we came out of Stockport.'

‘Yeah, I know,' said Crazy. He had been using the big mirror on his door to keep tabs on following traffic. ‘I was just waiting for you to notice it.'

‘Kept the same distance all the way. Slowed down when we did, speeded up when we did.'

‘Yep.'

‘Let's just carry on as normal for a while.'

‘Yep.'

Dix had considered stealing a car from the multi-storey car park in Preston but decided against it. He knew Ray Cragg had police contacts and that, above all, Ray would not be fooled into thinking that he, Dix, was dead. He even regretted nicking the car from New Hall Hey because it was likely that, via his informants, Ray would put two and two together. So to steal a car from Preston town centre as a follow-on to abandoning the one he had stolen from Rossendale would be the start of a trail which Ray and his cronies would soon follow. Working on the worst-case scenario, Dix knew he had to start covering his tracks now. To do that he jumped into a taxi in Preston and took a short journey to Bamber Bridge. From being dropped off at Sainsbury's, he crossed over to the Premier Lodge, both establishments close to junction 30 of the M6. He booked into the motel, no trouble, paid cash, gave a false name and address and retreated to his room and lay low for a few days to think.

It was on the fourth day that he went to Sainsbury's and bought himself a new pay-as-you-go mobile phone. Twenty minutes later he was logged on to the network and it was from his new phone that he contacted Debbie, disguising his new number before dialling.

The sound of Marty's smug and nasty voice rattled him. They were moving quickly to find him, so he knew he had to move even quicker.

He sat in his room, eating a prawn mayo sandwich bought from the supermarket, swigging bottled water with it and considering his options.

By eight that evening he had pretty much decided on his plan of action. There was nothing clever about it, but he thought it best to keep it as simple as possible. The only real problem was that there were certain risks to be taken. The other alternative was to hand the money back to Ray, claim concussion or something equally ridiculous and beg for mercy. Naah!

Dix wanted the money for himself. But before he could quit the country, he needed to realize his assets.

The car was still with them as the M55 narrowed to become Yeadon Way and threaded into Blackpool.

‘Fancy a burger?' Crazy asked Miller.

‘Why not?'

Miller checked the rear-view mirror. He allowed himself a grim smile of anticipation and wondered if there would be any chance to ask questions. He hoped so, because the job Ray had given him was to find out information and Miller hated being unable to deliver.

But what will be, will be, he thought philosophically.

Other than at the daily briefings, Henry and Jane Roscoe had barely seen each other for days. They were both working long shifts, none less than fourteen hours a day, and somehow had managed to avoid – or evade – one another. This was much to Henry's relief. Now that the very obvious attraction between them had been consummated, Henry was beginning to feel that things had moved on far too quickly for his liking, almost as though he had been ambushed by the act of sex. He was having regrets and did not want to be embroiled in another affair which seemed to be a repeating pattern in his life.

At least that's what he thought.

Just after 8 p.m. Roscoe came into the office. She looked exhausted, but was smiling broadly. Henry caught his breath because it suddenly hit him that to him, she was a stunningly beautiful woman. He could not take his eyes off her face, and she could not stop looking at him either.

‘Phew,' she said sitting on a low chair by the office door. She crossed her legs and Henry noticed something else about her: objectively it could never be argued that she had wonderful, shapely legs; they were a little too flabby around the thigh and her feet were too big, but to Henry they were the most wonderful pair of legs he had ever seen in his life. He swallowed and felt very hollow inside as though he had not eaten for days. She breathed out and shook her head. ‘Lots of info coming in,' she said. ‘I think it's time we made some sort of move on the Cragg brothers.'

‘Sorry, what?' asked Henry, only just tuning in.

‘Are you listening to me?' she demanded sternly. She licked her lips and glared seriously at him.

‘To be honest, no.'

‘Why not?'

‘You don't want to know . . . go on, I'm listening now.'

She paused, holding his gaze for longer than necessary. ‘I think it's time we moved in on the Craggs – but only after I've taken you back to your flat and fucked your brains out. How does that sound for a strategy?'

‘Well, speaking as a tactician, I always like to be told where I'm headed, then I can get on and do it.'

‘So you want to know where you're headed, eh?' She became severe. ‘To oblivion, I expect, so hold on tight, Henry Christie, because it's going to be one hell of a ride.'

Miller pulled the Merc into McDonald's car park, just off Yeadon Way, close to the newly built stadium belonging to Blackpool Football Club. He and Crazy moseyed across to the restaurant, both aware of the car which had followed them from Stockport driving past the car-park entrance, towards Blackpool.

They each ‘went large' on a quarter-pounder meal, then sat at one of the tables near to the toilets and an emergency exit. Each man unwrapped his meal with delight. They had eaten little that day and were ravenous, coffee and cola being the only things which had kept them going.

‘God, I love these,' Crazy said. He bit into the slippery burger, which he had trouble keeping together.

‘More a KFC man, me.' Miller bit into his and through a mouthful said, ‘But it's not bad – just crap food.'

‘Junk,' agreed Crazy. He folded four long, salty chips into his mouth and slurped them down with Tango.

Miller could see over Crazy's shoulder into the car park. His steel-grey eyes narrowed. ‘They're pulling in now.'

Crazy nodded. He opened his burger and extracted the gherkin, which he put to one side. ‘I'll save that for later.'

Miller sipped his coffee, which tasted bitter and was scorching hot. He maintained a little commentary, ‘Two guys getting out . . . jeans, trainers, wind-jammers . . . just have a quick peek, Craze, then you'll know who they are.'

Crazy glanced round, focused on the two men and quickly returned his attention to his chips.

‘Coming in now,' Miller relayed. ‘Mid-twenties, short cropped hair . . . up and coming young buckos, out to make their mark, I'd say.'

‘Let's not let them make it on us.' Crazy wiped his fingers and lips on a serviette. He took a deep breath, feeling his heart rate increase with the expectation of conflict.

‘Little or no chance of that,' Miller said quietly.

The two young men entered the restaurant, trying to look cool, calm and dangerous, their body language buzzing. They could not keep still, were jittering with nerves and finding it impossible to keep their eyes off Crazy and Miller sitting in the corner.

‘You ready for this?' Miller asked.

Crazy smiled. ‘Got to be.'

Miller watched the two men join the end of the short queue to the counter. They pretended to inspect the menu and to discuss their preferred choices.

‘I think they're going to go large, too,' Miller said.

Crazy nodded. He could see them in the reflection from the large window behind Miller. ‘They must only have handguns,' he guessed.

‘Yeah,' Miller agreed. The ex-military man was cold and comfortable. Very much in control of himself and pleased to see that the younger man, Crazy, was keeping chilled as well. ‘Having said that,' Miller went on, ‘there might be nothing in this. Just coincidence, maybe.'

They smirked at each other, knowing the truth.

‘If they don't get a move on, they'll have to buy something,' Miller said. ‘Oh-oh, here it comes!'

The two men went into a kind of huddle, then sprang away from each other, spun round and revealed they had each put on a mask, similar to the Hannibal Lector face guard worn by Anthony Hopkins in the
Silence of the Lambs
, designed to prevent him from biting the throats out of unsuspecting people. The masks made them look frightening and dangerous. Each pulled a gun out of his waistband and ran towards Miller and Crazy, kicking stools out of the way, scattering other customers.

Crazy saw it all happening in reflection.

He and Miller rose together, their chairs tipping backwards.

Crazy twisted round low, smoothly extracting the pump-action sawn-off which had been concealed under his jacket. Miller had a Glock 9mm in his hand. They moved rapidly and precisely. Crazy dropped to one knee, Miller stayed high, tactics they had determined at the beginning of the day.

Their two adversaries were openly startled by this concerted movement and both hesitated. Something not wise to do.

Other customers watched the unfolding scene with open-mouthed astonishment and disbelief. Some dived for cover. Some simply stood there. The staff all ducked behind the counter. There was a scream.

Crazy pulled the trigger on the shotgun. The boom was ear-shattering in the confines of the building.

The first man went down clutching his groin and thigh as the shot blasted into him. He staggered against a pot plant, dragging it crashing to the floor, writhing in agony on top of the scattered leaves and soil.