The Crooked Beat (28 page)

‘I thought you might want to speak to him.’

‘My business is with you, not him.’ He pointed the gun at me again. ‘I do not know who you are, friend, so I ask you to politely fuck off somewhere else before I do have a problem with you.’

He was the man holding all the cards. Sutherland was going to do as he was told. I didn’t need to be told twice to make myself scarce.

I leaned against the outside wall of the building and vomited. I spat the last of it out of my mouth and straightened myself back up. I composed myself and moved quickly towards the nearest road I could see. I walked in what I thought was the direction of Bruges centre before jumping on the first bus which was passing. It wasn’t heading directly to the station, but that suited me fine. There was no way Sutherland and Palmer could find me if I had no idea where I was myself. With the driver’s help I eventually made my way back to the station. All I had was my cap as a makeshift disguise, but I made my way to the ticket desk by falling in with other travellers. I was certain I wasn’t being watched.

I boarded the ferry in the same manner, huddling together with other travellers. I threw away the mobile Sutherland had given me and made sure the SIM card was in pieces before flushing it down the toilet. I bought a ticket for the cinema, and finding myself a seat in the dark, I kept an eye on the door. I had no idea what had happened in the lock-up after I’d left. Sutherland and Palmer weren’t going to be so forgiving this time, not after having had a gun pointed at them. Once the film finished, I put the cap away and headed for the bar. I had to assume they’d settled their differences with the Belgians and the van was loaded with cigarettes. There was no way I was driving it off in the morning. As with the outward journey. I bought a pint of lager, found a table in the corner and waited. It didn’t take Carl Palmer long to find me.

He leaned over the table, angry. ‘Where the fuck did you go, Geraghty? Shit your pants when he got the gun out?’

‘I was told to disappear.’

Palmer straightened himself back up and laughed. ‘You pathetic cunt.’

‘Just following his orders,’ I said. ‘I know you, Carl. I know what you are. I bet you were the one shitting himself.’

He shook his head. ‘Follow me.’

I smiled at him. ‘You can tell Sutherland where to find me. I’m not moving.’ I pointed at the window. Night was falling. We’d left Belgium behind. ‘I’m enjoying the view.’

‘Don’t make me lose my temper with you, cunt.’

I relaxed back into my seat. I knew there would be nothing he’d like more than to hit me. ‘Be a good lad, Carl, and run along.’ I watched as he struggled to control his temper. He left me sitting there and returned five minutes later with Sutherland. He looked as angry as Palmer. ‘Why didn’t you answer your mobile, Geraghty?’

‘Flat battery.’

Sutherland leaned in closer and spoke. ‘Don’t think you’re walking away from this. The Belgian cunts were taking the piss. You should have been a man about it. Carl had to take the van onboard, and that wasn’t the plan, was it? You owe me and the debt’s mounting after today.’ He jabbed a finger at me. ‘You’re driving it off in the morning.’ He straightened himself back up. ‘It won’t be the last you hear of this.’

I told him he was wrong. ‘I did as you asked. I came across with you. They didn’t want to talk to me, so fuck you.’

‘What?’

I stood up to face him. ‘I said, fuck you.’

‘Who do you think you’re talking to, Geraghty?’

‘You might be able to push around people like Terry Gillespie and Peter Hill, but you’re not doing it with me.’

Sutherland sneered. ‘Those fuckwits? They got everything they deserved. Like you and your brother will.’

I pointed at him. ‘Leave Niall out of it.’

‘Not a chance. I own you two now.’

I laughed. ‘Like you owned your wife? She saw sense and walked away, didn’t she?’

‘Watch your mouth, Geraghty.’ Palmer took a step towards me, penning me in.

‘Look at the pair of you’ I said. ‘You think you’re hard men, but you can’t organise a piss up in a brewery.’ I pointed at Sutherland. ‘You’ve spent your life in the shadow of others, hanging on to Frank Salford because you didn’t have it in you to do it yourself.’ Before Sutherland had chance to speak, I turned to Palmer. ‘And look at you. You’re this fucking idiot’s sidekick. The way you’re going, you’ll be worse than your old man soon.’

Palmer launched himself at me, pushing the table to one side. I heard screams as he threw wild punches at me. I retaliated as best I could. As people shouted and tried to get out of our way, glasses smashed on the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sutherland walking calmly away from the trouble. Palmer soon had the better of me. I kept wriggling and moving, so the blows glanced off me. I managed to throw a punch which caught him square on his jaw. He staggered back slightly, allowing me to throw another punch which connected with his nose. It was all I managed, as Palmer regained his balance and hit me with a punch so hard I snapped backwards into my chair. The room swam a little. Palmer landed another punch before a number of Security Wardens appeared and pinned us both down on the floor. I felt my arms being forced behind my back before I was roughly picked up and marched away, Palmer’s threats fading into the distance.

I walked away from the ferry terminal without looking back. A stream of cars and lorries disembarked and passed me. I put my head down, my face aching from the beating Carl Palmer had given me on the ferry. It especially hurt when I smiled, but it was a price worth paying. Around me, holidaying families were struggling to coaches and cars with suitcases. I heard a car horn sound. I looked around and saw the vehicle parked up outside of the terminal building.

Coleman got out and leaned against the door. He shouted across to me. ‘You’ve got some balls, Geraghty.’

I walked over to him. ‘No idea what you’re talking about.’

Coleman laughed. ‘I assume you need a lift?’

‘I was going to get the bus.’

‘Get in.’

There was no sign of a bus arriving and I was going to be at the back of the queue. I got in. Coleman pulled away from the ferry terminal building, took a left at the roundabout and joined Hedon Road.

‘Where are you heading for?’ Coleman said to me.

I thought about it for a moment. ‘The office.’ It was too early for Queens and I didn’t want to go back to my flat. Not yet.

‘Sure?’

I said I was. We fell into silence and I stared out of the window as it started to rain. I didn’t look as we passed Hull Prison. I didn’t want to think about Dave Johnson. I glanced at the docks, knowing the industry was dying, desperately needing the green technology investment to accelerate. The old and the new were rubbing up against each other. It was my Hull in a nutshell.

‘It was a clever move, Joe. I’ll give you that,’ Coleman said. ‘So far as I can tell from my colleagues, you took a day trip to Bruges as a foot passenger. There’s no trace of anything untoward other than my lingering suspicion you’re not really a city-break type of person. Sound about right?’

‘No idea what you’re talking about.’

Coleman indicated and pulled out to overtake a foreign lorry. ‘Can you imagine my colleagues' surprise when they discovered the cigarettes in George Sutherland’s van?’

‘Must be pleasing to have shut off a supply line?’

‘Without doubt. Sounds like they’ve got some people in Belgium in their sights now.’

‘Seems like a result to me.’

We pulled up at the traffic lights on Myton Bridge. Coleman spoke. ‘My bet, and correct me if I’m wrong, is that Sutherland put pressure on you to drive that van over, but you weren’t so keen.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You engineered a fight and were escorted off the ferry by their security staff. That would, for argument’s sake, mean you couldn’t be anywhere near the van when it came to driving it off the ferry. You didn’t drive it on, so you would simply deny any knowledge of it. You were a regular foot passenger travelling alone who got into a disagreement at the bar.’

I smiled. ‘No comment.’ I always knew Carl Palmer’s temper was going to be his downfall. Starting a fight with him on the ferry and gambling on being held overnight by the authorities had been my only option.

The lights changed and Coleman headed into the city centre. ‘Are you in trouble with the ferry people?’ he said.

‘I don’t think I’ll be welcome in the future.’

‘I’d say that was a small price to pay. Turns out a guy with Customs received some intelligence and acted upon it. Imagine that?’

I was pleased Hill had sorted it out. If he and Terry Gillespie kept their cool, they’d be fine. ‘Have you spoken with Sutherland yet?’ I asked.

‘I’ll get my chance with him soon enough. He’s safely under arrest.’

It was all over. ‘Did you pick up Carl Palmer?’ He’d also been escorted off the ferry when it had docked.

Coleman shook his head. ‘We’ll find him when we’re ready. He won’t be far away. I’ve spoken with Reg Holborn’s neighbour. I reckon he’ll pick him out of a line-up.’

If Palmer had any sense, he’d talk. He didn’t really owe Sutherland anything. He was in deep trouble otherwise. Coleman would soon have enough to bring charges for Holborn’s murder. There was no point in Palmer taking the full blame for it. It would probably be enough for Coleman to seal his promotion, too.

Coleman spoke. ‘I’ll have to ring Holborn’s son, too.’

I agreed. I hadn’t enjoyed speaking with him, but he was going to have to be prepared for what was coming. It would be embarrassing for him on a professional level, but that would be the least of his considerations.

‘What about Dave Johnson?’ I asked him.

‘He’s continuing to help us with our inquiries, but don’t be thinking I like it any more than you do.’

There was nothing I could say to that. The man responsible for my wife’s death would no doubt be leaving prison earlier than he expected in return for the co-operation he’d given. And I’d helped to make it happen. But Niall and Connor were going to be ok. That was the main thing.

Coleman interrupted my thinking. ‘Alan Palmer walked into the station earlier this morning and confessed to his part in Andrew Bancroft’s murder.’

‘Poor bastard,’ I found myself saying. ‘It ruined his life.’

‘Working for people like Salford often does.’

I said nothing. I knew that was the essential difference between us. Years of police work had hardened Coleman. I was trying to see the good in a man who’d spent his life working as an enforcer for an organised criminal.

‘Palmer reckons it was Salford who carried out the murder. All he did was drive Bancroft to the site.’

I asked Coleman if he’d spoken to Andrew Bancroft’s mother yet.

He nodded. ‘She didn’t take it particularly well.’

‘She wants to bury her son. That’s all.’

‘I know she does.’

We pulled up outside the office on High Street. Coleman switched the engine off. We both stared at the building.

‘What about Don and Sarah, then?’ he said.

‘It’s history.’ It was the way it had to be. I’d had plenty of time to think about it during the ferry crossings. I could try to forgive and forget with Don, but I knew I’d fail. Our friendship, or whatever it had been, was over. Everything about him had been exposed and there was nothing I could do about that. It was for Sarah to decide what happened next between them. We couldn’t be as close as we’d once been. Too much had happened.

‘You should go into business for yourself,’ Coleman said. ‘Apart from being too clever for your own good, it’s what you do.’ He smiled. ‘I suppose that’s meant to be a compliment.’

I opened the car door, ready to leave. ‘I put the photos of Andrew Bancroft in the post to you. I don’t want them.’ I had no need for them. Roger Millfield, Alan Palmer, George Sutherland. They’d all been complicit in some way. Even Don had. Bancroft’s brother had known all along and left his mother with the false hope that her other son might walk back in through the door one day. It broke my heart.

Coleman was right, though. I was good at my job, but it scared me, too. Trouble had a way of finding me and I seemed to welcome it with open arms. It was what I did and I was unable to fight it. It was me and I had to carry the weight of my own bad decisions and culpability with me. Coleman had said I was a lone wolf. He was probably right. I closed the car door behind me and stared at what had once been my place of work. Truth was, I had no idea what was next.

Nick Quantrill was born and raised in Hull, an isolated industrial city in East Yorkshire. From a young age, Nick has always had a fascination with crime novels, starting young by annoying the local librarians for Famous Five novels. 
 

Never realising he could be a writer, Nick spent most of his twenties shouting and bawling his way around the Sunday League football pitches of the city, learning the hard way and meeting an impressive array of characters. With a handful of trophies and permanently damaged ankles to show for his troubles, football was swapped for education, spending the next six years studying of a degree in Social Policy. Approaching now or never time, Nick started writing crime stories set in and around his home city. Instead of just throwing them in a drawer and not letting anyone read them, the stories were made available for free on the Internet, and after winning the HarperCollins ‘Crime Tour’ short story competition in 2006, he started to build a readership.