Backlash (30 page)

‘Sure, anything to help,' Franklands said, slipping the phone into a back pocket. He grabbed his donkey jacket from a coat stand. He knew Don Longton was one of the many observers round the town, reporting on police movements and anything else of interest to the hotel control room. Batteries were always crashing, needing to be replaced.

‘Thanks, Martin, see you soon.'

Franklands trotted out and down the hotel steps, glad of the break and the opportunity to get some fresh air. He turned out of sight of the hotel, onto the promenade.

Bellamy watched him go. He unhitched his own mobile phone from his belt and called one of the listed numbers.

‘Don?'

‘Yep.'

‘He's on his way.'

‘Thanks.'

Bellamy went back to his office.

‘Anything from Jane Roscoe?' Henry asked Byrne, just in case he had missed something.

Byrne shook his head.

Henry hit the steering wheel with frustration. ‘I suppose she could be up at the Costains, but to remain out of contact for so long is worrying.'

‘Just a bit,' Byrne agreed. ‘Is that why we're going there?'

‘One of the reasons, just to check they haven't beaten the crap out of her and Mark, but I don't think they would. The other reason is to tell them about Joey Costain, if Jane hasn't told them already, and the next reason is to quell any possibility of a riot.'

‘Oh?' Byrne twisted in his seat. ‘And how do you propose to do that, boss?'

‘Community policing at its best and most basic,' Henry said mysteriously.

The chill on the promenade was bitter and came through the fabric of Martin Franklands' donkey jacket. The wide paved area between road and sea was virtually deserted. A tram trundled past, lit up brightly, the people inside looking warm and protected.

To his left, Franklands could hear the sea, a sound drowned out as he walked past the entrance to north pier which was basically an amusement arcade. Loud music pumped out, but there were very few punters inside playing the machines. Franklands walked on to the war memorial, leaving the sound of the music behind, once more picking up that of the sea less than twenty metres away.

There was a dark figure lurking by the memorial where the promenade dropped into an incline behind the Metropole buildings, out of sight of the road. Even without seeing the man's face, Franklands knew the guy was Don Longton, a fellow with whom he had struck up a passably decent relationship over the past few months. Longton was standing in the shadow cast by the memorial, his face completely obscured.

‘Don,' Franklands said in greeting. ‘Got a charged-up phone for you.'

Longton did not say a word. Franklands knew he was being sussed up and down through the blackness. He could feel Longton's eyes on him.

There was actually nothing in that moment to give it away; even so, Frankland's instincts burst into life like a ruptured appendix. He knew there was big trouble afoot and that he had been lured to this spot for some reason.

‘Everything OK, Don?' he asked the big, silent figure, almost unable to utter the words, he was so frightened.

It was not.

Franklands heard a shuffling noise behind him, turned quickly and found two men standing there, having stepped out from the other side of the monument. Franklands edged away a pace, recognising the two immediately. They were the men who had been acting as doormen for Vince Bellamy at the Berlin, the ones who had been done over earlier by some mad guy or other. Their names were Baxter and Higgins. Both were peas out of the same pod. Hard nuts, London upbringings, Nazi tattoos, brainless cunts. Baxter had a plaster over his nose where he had been head butted and a cottonwool bud screwed into each nostril. Both his eyes were black and swollen. He did not look well. He and Higgins – who had been kneed in the balls by the mad guy – looked like two pissed-off individuals who wanted to vent some spleen.

Franklands quaked in his boots.

‘What's this?' he asked shakily, knowing his time had come, but not knowing why. His eyes flicked back and forth between all three men, weighing up the distance between them and him, calculating if he could make a break for it.

As if reading his thoughts, Longton stepped menacingly out of the shadows.

‘Snitches need sorting,' Longton growled like a bear. ‘Good style.'

All three towered as he cowered.

‘Hey, this is shit,' Franklands pleaded. ‘What's going on? I ain't no snitch to anyone. There is a fucking error here.' His hands rose defensively, palms out, trying to pacify them and make them keep their distance.

He decided to try and run for it. It was his only option. They had obviously been given their instructions and nothing he said would change that – rather like the Gestapo, he thought. He turned, about to leg it.

With no warning whatsoever, Longton turned towards the bouncer called Baxter, the one with the plastered nose. The other man, Higgins, grabbed Baxter, who was not expecting this, and gripped him in a vice-like bear hug.

‘What the––?'

The word ‘fuck' was cut off as Longton, who had eased a spiked knuckle duster onto his right fist, smashed Baxter heavily and accurately in the face. Baxter's face exploded. His already broken nose burst open. Blood sprayed everywhere. The next blow slammed into his left eye and cheekbone, the spikes of the knuckle duster piercing his eyeball, breaking his cheekbone. The third blow, in more or less the same place, tore the eye socket open and put Baxter into semi-consciousness.

Higgins opened his arms and let the limp body crumble to the ground.

Franklands, appalled, looked on, his hands covering his wide-open mouth. ‘Jesus, Jesus,' he kept repeating, never having witnessed such dreadful, focused violence.

Longton and Higgins started kicking Baxter. Kick, after kick, after kick. Both were wearing steel toe-capped boots. After this they began jumping up and down on his head, smashing the soles of their shoes into his skull with as much power as they could muster. He was dead before the two of them dragged his body to the sea wall. Longton and Higgins rolled him to the edge and kicked him underneath the railings into the waves below. His body made a splash, then the waves tugged him away and pounded him back against the sea wall like flotsam.

Longton and Higgins stood there breathing heavily before turning to each other and exchanging a high-five of victory.

Franklands, silenced and terrified, watched them. His whole being shook. He felt physically sick.

Longton put an arm around Franklands' shoulder.

‘Got that phone, pal?'

‘Y-yeah,' he stuttered.

‘Give it here.'

He handed it over. Longton punched in a number.

‘Me,' he said. ‘It's a done job.' He ended the call and gave Franklands a big hug and a pat. ‘Well done, mate.'

Shoreside was still like a war zone. The council had been unable to start any repair work during the day, so the estate remained in absolute darkness.

‘Spooky,' Henry observed, driving onto the estate, speculating whether it was really such a good idea to go to the Costains. Perhaps Jane and Mark had made the same mistake, had been ambushed and were lying injured in some dark alley – or worse. But that still did not explain their cars down on South Shore.

Gangs of kids roamed the streets, hanging out on corners like packs of wild dogs. They were dark shapes, evil and frightening, even though they were only kids. People were trapped in their houses again, afraid to step out. Henry could taste the fear and the tension in the air coming through the partly open car window. Fires burned on waste ground.

Henry drove slowly past a dozen youths gathered at the entrance to a ginnel. They jeered, spat and flashed V signs at the car, making his blood simmer. He did not react but drove on by, gritting his teeth, pulling on his shirt collar to let steam out.

There was a loud crack on the car roof: a half house brick lobbed by one of the gang. Henry and Byrne ducked instinctively. Henry's right foot slammed down on the gas pedal.

‘Shit.'

‘Yes – shit,' Byrne agreed, thankful they were quickly out of range.

Both men were tense.

Henry did not stop to check the damage. They could do that later, somewhere safe. Nor did he try to root out the offender. Both acts would have been foolish and potentially dangerous. The gang would have loved it and things could have got very nasty very quickly. It was always the wise cop who knew when to let things be, because every dog has its day.

There were no further incidents and they reached the Costain household unscathed. The house was lit up. Faces peered through the window at the car and its unwelcome occupants.

Henry sat pensively for a moment, elbows resting on the lower rim of the steering wheel.

‘How are you going to handle this, boss? I'm intrigued.'

‘Let me put it this way, Dermot, my plan is still in its infancy, but I think I have an ace up my sleeve. Let's just hope the cards get dealt my way. Come on.' He got out of the car and strode confidently up the path to the front door.

It opened before he even reached it.

Henry breathed a sigh of relief when he saw who it was: Troy Costain, Joey's eldest brother. Named, Henry suspected, after the great Troy Tempest of
Stingray
fame. He was the first person Jane Roscoe's search team had encountered on their early morning raid, the one who had wanted a fight.

‘What the fuck do you want?' Troy yelled.

Henry did not break his stride, but bore down on Troy and stuck his forefinger into his chest and said, ‘You, Troy. I want you, now. I want you in your coat, out of this house and in the back of that cop car before I can say “Alakazoo” – get me?'

Troy swallowed. ‘Why, what the fuck have I done?'

Henry poked his chest again. ‘Fucking do it now,' he hissed and under his breath, so that only Troy could hear, he said, ‘Do not piss me about, Troy. This is serious shit.'

Costain sneered, but wilted. He withdrew with a nod and closed the door behind him.

Henry glanced back at Byrne, some ten feet away at the garden gate. Henry smiled and tossed the car keys to his sergeant. ‘Stand by the car and get ready for a quick getaway.' Henry looked past Byrne's shoulder. A bunch of youths were beginning to filter in and gather on the opposite side of the road, drawn by the police presence, looking for any excuse for trouble. If Troy did not co-operate with Henry as he hoped he would, it could be a signal for bother and the two cops could be in for some real grief. Henry licked his dry lips. He had policed the streets of Blackpool, on and off, for a lot of years. Never had he known such a feeling of hatred in the air, never before had he felt so vulnerable on Shoreside where he was very well known by the good guys and the bad guys alike. He'd had moments of anxiety, even been whacked a couple of times, but they had been run-of-the-mill things that every cop got at some time or another. This was different. Dave Seymour had made it different. Cops had become game animals. ‘C'mon y'prick,' he whispered.

‘Black bastard,' one of the gang across the street called – terminology often applied by scrotes to police officers, no matter what the colour of their skin.

Byrne walked to and stood by the car.

Henry was about to rap on the door again when it opened. A waft of shouts and abuse flowed out from the family inside as Troy came to the door. ‘It'll be right,' he shouted back into the house, pulling on his denim jacket. ‘This better be good,' he growled low to Henry. ‘My folks are going ape-shit in there. I've had to really think on my toes to give 'em some bullshit.'

‘What did you tell them?'

‘I said you wanted me to identify some property.'

‘Not far off the mark,' Henry muttered. ‘Let's get out of here.'

Every shadow hid a potential petrol-bomber, every wall a rock-thrower. The two officers expected to be attacked at every turn but although the estate was buzzing, they drove off safely.

Byrne was at the wheel, Henry in the sagging passenger seat. He turned and looked at Troy, a less than debonair man of the Shoreside underworld where violence and intimidation were currency and drugs meant power. Henry knew the Costain family were driven by violence and held much of the estate in fear of them, hence few people ever willingly came forward as witnesses against them for fear of reprisal. The only challenge to their dominance had been the Khan family and now that challenge had erupted into violence and death.

‘Where we going?' Costain demanded.

‘Head out towards the hospital, but find somewhere to pull in on the way – somewhere intimate,' Henry instructed Byrne. He squinted nastily at Costain. ‘Somewhere we can have a chat. Woodside Drive sounds nice.'

Byrne nodded.

Henry smiled at the back-seat passenger. Troy was very much like the rest of his family in many ways. He came across as a tough cookie, was respected by kids who's dads were never home. Troy liked beating people up who could not or would not fight back, but sometimes, unless backed up by other members of his family, he could not always pull it off. He often hid behind the reputation of the Costain clan because in truth, like so many other bullies, he was a coward at heart, something which Henry had turned ruthlessly to his own advantage.

Although the use of police informants was tightly controlled due to past abuses, many detectives unofficially still ran informants, or ‘sources' as they were correctly known. Strictly against force policy, but what the hell. Some jacks had sources going back twenty years who did not want their relationship ‘formalised' and monitored. As was the case with Henry and Troy Costain.

Troy had been the ripe old age of fifteen when Henry had first arrested him on an allegation of assault. Once in custody, Troy had crumbled and offered the arresting officer information in return for leniency. Their relationship had blossomed into a financial footing and had lasted well over twelve years. Troy had served Henry well, giving him some good information leading to good arrests. He'd also given him some duff gen too.