A Shot In The Night (John Harper Series Book 2) (15 page)

Even
in the cold winter months the people of Liverpool still ventured out in their
hundreds.  Like many cities across the country, the clubs and bars filled up on
a Friday night even though many people were saving in these austere times for
the coming festive season.  The men and women from the home of the Liver Birds
were famous for their party nature, nearly as much as the Geordie population, and
took to the nightlife that evening with vigour.

Cheap
cocktails and poor excuses for lager were drunk by the gallon and the only
shots being taken were of the alcoholic variety.  The news of Ambrose’s death
had been welcome relief to Merseyside police and to the owners and managers of
the drinking establishments wary of what a crazed gunman would do to their
sales if he was still on the loose.

The
police were already stretched to breaking keeping the city centre streets safe
during the drinking hours and the prospect of having to patrol the suburbs had
given the top brass nightmares.  The lack of manpower and the possibility of
paying obscene amounts of overtime pay had led to fierce debate over the best
way to maximise the resources they had and although there was still a presence
on the streets of Elsworth and Rakspeath it was much less than what had been
out earlier in the week.

With
the minutes towards closing time ticking by many patrons had made their way
home to bed much like the investigators into the Ambrose shooting.  The few
arrests that were being made were mainly misdemeanours; public urination and
intoxication.  A couple of brawls that had left chunks of poor quality hair
extensions on the pavement near streaks of blood and pools of vomit took the
time of officers who were already wishing it was shift end so they could forget
all about the mess that was the drunken populace.

There
were three car accidents that night, two of which involved drivers under the
influence, whilst the one that didn’t was the only incident of fatality; a
young woman recently passed her test was driving home from a friend’s house and
hit patch of ice. The car ended up on its side, the driver’s neck snapped from
the force of impact when the air bag didn’t deploy.  A sure win lawsuit would
be scant consolation to the parents who would spend their first Christmas in
seventeen years alone.

It
was a bleak night but for Megan Reed it was going remarkably well.  She worked
for a small accountancy firm in the city that had held its Christmas party
earlier than most.  The meal had been the processed rubbish that most hotels
put out for that sort of soiree; rubbery chicken and watered down cream sauce
went with overly boiled vegetables.  There was however a plentiful supply of
wine on the tables, red and white which was gone long before the dessert
course.  That plus the bottle of gin that Megan had taken with her had given
her enough courage to talk to her long time crush Craig Tunney.

Craig
was one of the more attractive members of staff and although he had flirted
with nearly every female in the firm it was Megan who had managed to catch
him.  It had begun as stolen glances in the office and at the party they had
shared a bottle of lacklustre red wine.  A couple more drinks and their
laughter had got louder and their conversation softer.  Soon they were outside
kissing as if they were kids in a park after a bottle of cheap cider.  Slightly
dishevelled, they had gone back into the party and made their goodbyes,
delaying their leaving by five minutes so no one would know they had left
together.  Of course everyone did; the lipstick smear on Craig’s ear and the
fact one of the more jealous secretaries had seen them outside ensured that the
information and some slanderous rumours had travelled around the hotel
conference room within minutes of their departure.

Ordinarily
Megan wouldn’t have taken someone home on a drunken whim.  She told herself she
wasn’t that type of girl but a couple of incidents whilst studying at
university in Chester suggested otherwise.  Craig, she thought, was different
and she was hoping that there would be more to their relationship after that
one night.  He was just happy to be going home with arguably the most
attractive woman at the party, well at least of the unmarried variety and
someone he hadn’t already slept with.

The
taxi driver, Larry Davis, tried not to look at the heavy petting that was going
on in the back of his cab as he drove through the quiet streets towards Megan’s
home.  It had been a long shift for Larry, having had to clean out the car when
some girl had vomited on the way to the city.  One of his fares had tried to
make a run without paying as well but his experience had made sure he got what
little cash the boy had on him and a stop at a cash machine ensured the rest. 
He would still be working till sunlight filled the sky and was just happy that
the couple still had their clothes on.

Megan
lived with a friend in Rakspeath, not the best of places but the house was
cheap when she had bought it and Pamela paying rent helped towards the
mortgage.  Pam was visiting her boyfriend in Milton Keynes that weekend so
Megan was delighted she would have the place to herself and Craig.

Larry
pulled up at the top of her street under his passenger’s orders.  Megan was in
a good mood and tipped him generously.  He drove off, barely noticing the
passing black car.  The vehicle slowed to a halt before the new couple who
leant on each other in drunken revelry.

The
driver rolled down the passenger side window and called out to them asking for
directions.  Megan was startled at first that someone had broken the focus of
Craig who had been delicately stroking the bottom of her chin and staring into
her eyes as they had walked.  Craig, seeing no harm in showing his chivalrous
side to Megan, moved over to the window to offer assistance even though he knew
nothing of the local roadways.

He
put his hands on the car door window and looked at the driver as best he could;
his eyes adjusted slowly, not recognising the shape of the revolver till it was
too late.  The driver was clever enough to wear ear plugs so as not to hurt his
own eardrums when he pulled the trigger, the first shot hitting Craig in the
chest just off the heart.  The second bullet went through the left eye socket
ruining the deep blue eyes that had enticed Megan so.

She
was shocked into standing still at the sight of Craig falling backwards before
she let out a deafening scream.  That seemed to jolt her body into action and
she began to run forward which afforded her some safety as the driver’s next
shot narrowly missed her, instead travelling through a fence and then a shed
wall to end up in a bag of fertiliser stored there.

The
driver had to step out of the car firing over the roof to try and hit the
fleeing woman who took a round to the hip spinning her to face her attacker,
her new expensive high heeled shoes catching on the uneven pavement sending her
crumpling to the ground.  Moving closer to the fallen accountant who lay
pleading on the cold floor, another shot rang out passing through her right
middle finger, nearly severing it, and into her stomach.

The
wound would be enough to kill her, the amount of blood soaking the close
fitting black dress and the puddle forming on the concrete suggested that, but
there was a sixth and final shot.  It was aimed at her head but in her
thrashing it ended up destroying her throat.  The light in her eyes dimmed, the
last thing she saw was the body of the man who would have been her lover.

I
woke at midday feeling refreshed and in some way looking forward to the
evening’s entertainment.  It had been too long since I had been out to a
sporting event; once upon a time I had gone nearly every week to some sort of
match.  I’d been lucky enough to watch some great boxers in Manchester, the
rise and fall of Ricky Hatton a particular highlight to a fellow member of the
city.  Still it was going with a few friends and my then fiancée to the watch
Joe Calzaghe at the start of the century that I remembered fondly.  His career
lasted longer into the decade than my relationship with the fat bitch did.

I
ordered breakfast to my room and the racing and newspapers.  Eating my fried
breakfast and making some selections for the day, I was aware my phone was
ringing.  I’d put it on silent to ensure I wasn’t woken any earlier than my
body wanted and looked at the number of missed calls from Camille Jarvis.  Four
different calls from her and over seventeen from the voicemail service which
annoyed me since I hated going through the ‘push this button now’ rubbish of
automated messaging systems.

Ignoring
her attempts at communication I turned on the television to the sports news
channel.  Finding a hotel with satellite television was normally a high
priority for me, so I could enjoy the sports late at night.  It was only an
hour or so later when I changed the channel to the news station after the
excellent commentator talked about the problems in Liverpool and the hope that
the football teams could help alleviate some of the peoples’ worries.  He also
mentioned the increased police presence at the Everton game in case of anymore
shootings.

The
shock of seeing the latest shooting filled me with regret for not being more
vigilant.  The murder of the couple was something completely different to the
rifle killings but close enough to suggest a link to the second shooting.  It
had me wondering if what had been thought of as retribution killing to the
Boulton slaying was linked to the others.  Until now all of the victims had
been drug dealers or related to them but this couple had no connections to
anything illegal in any part of their life which stuck out like a sore thumb.

I
skimmed through the news channels, watching as the press began to turn on the
police force, saying how the manpower visible on the streets had been relaxed
due to the death of Leo Ambrose.  So-called experts on gun violence and drug
crime gave their opinions on what had happened and how the police should have
remained in a presence in the suburbs.  I understood the problems they faced
more than others and my sympathy went out to the press officers that would be
frantically trying to defend the actions of superiors.  It would be a tough
month at least before the fury diminished and also probably meant lasting
damage to the people of Elsworth and Rakspeath trust in the police.

My
phone buzzed again; I’d forgotten about it as I’d watched the news reports and
scanned through articles on my tablet.  I answered the call, “Hello?”

“Harper
it’s hit the fan here,” DI Spencer said, “and God knows I don’t want to call
you for help but you were spot on the money with Ambrose.  Have you got
anything on this one?”

“I’m
flattered you ask Spencer, but I’ve only just been made aware of this.”

“When
they brought you in after Ambrose was shot you said that he was most likely
linked to the Boulton shooting.  The two dealers killed in their car was
retaliation we thought for that but this is so unconnected it’s got us grabbing
at straws.  People are looking at me for answers since I’m the one who came up
with Ambrose’s name and since you’re the one who gave me that in the first
place, I’m coming to you.”

The
way he spoke suggested that he was wary of using me again and also slightly
suspicious but I expected that from Spencer, “Like I said, Ambrose was a name
given to me by friends at a rifle club.  I know it’s against regulations but
I’m still technically working for the force so run through what you’ve got.”

Spencer
exhaled loudly before reluctantly going through the information, “We’ve rushed
the ballistics and it’s the same weapon used in killing the two drug dealers
earlier in the week.  Both men had ties to the Rakspeath crew and were shot
close range, we never released the more gruesome information but they both died
quickly from multiple wounds.  Two hit the passenger and three in the driver.”

“Five
shots?”

“Six. 
As far as we can tell a revolver, six shots fired which means no shell casings
on the scene.  The sixth bullet went through the passenger window.”

I
tried to picture the scene in my head coupled with the memory of images seen in
the papers and news around the time of the shooting, “Spencer, do you want my
help on this?  I mean actually owe me a big favour because you can’t hire me as
a consultant.”

“You’ve
done a lot of gang violence work, you’re something of an expert.”

“Cut
to the chase.”

“Yeah.”

“Right,
fine. I need to see the crime scene photos.  I need to know what you have.  I’m
working on secondary and tertiary information here.  Again I know it’s not what
you want to hear and could get you in a lot of trouble but I can help.”

On
the other end of the line, Spencer must have been weighing up the pros and cons
of getting me involved.  With the way the shootings had taken over the suburbs
of the city, the top brass would be putting the pressure on everybody, “I’ll
get make some copies of stuff and meet you.  After the stunt you pulled in
chasing down Ambrose I doubt it would be a good idea having you come into the
station.”

“Fine,
you know where I’m staying. Bring me something nice, Spencer, or I won’t let
you in the door.”

The
information and pictures Spencer provided were stomach churning but not enough
to stop me eating the jam doughnuts he had also brought.  He must have thought
he was being funny with the chosen pastries but I was more than happy to eat
them, delighted that the filling was not custard, even though I’d had a few
close calls with errant preservative trying to drop on my black suit trousers
and light blue shirt.  I went through the statements of the first men on the
scene and then the pictures detailing the position of the bodies in both cases.

Sitting
cross legged on the bed sipping my Assam tea, I ignored Spencer who had been
pacing up and down and trying to talk about the case for at least thirty
minutes.  I had wanted more information not his summations.  He looked haggard,
more so than usual, and his brown suit was crumpled as if he had slipped it on
this morning without hanging it up the night before.

“Okay
then Spencer, let me tell you what I’ve got.  Firstly, time wounds all heels.”

“What
the hell do you mean?”

“Her
shoes - the heel snapped, it’s an old saying my grandmother told me it when I
was a kid,” I dismissed the look of dismay on his face with a wave of the hand,
“Anyway this first shooting was more professional and I think staged somewhat.”

Spencer
frowned, “In what way?”

“The
shooter went to the driver’s side window as if passing from the driver’s side
of another vehicle.  The first victim, Walsh, rolled down said window as if he
were talking to someone.  You say these two were known drug dealers, well it’s
safe to assume that whoever killed them gave them reason to believe that they
wanted to buy some narcotics.  The first shots kill Walsh and then the
triggerman fires at Gerald.”

“Nothing
we don’t already know.”

“True
but when the officers drove up they saw the two men leant together as if
talking to one another.”

“And?”
Spencer said once again becoming exasperated by me.

“And
Gerald wouldn’t have ended up in that position from the shots that killed him. 
The one to his head would have snapped his body the other direction.  There’s
also the matter of his hands.”

Spencer
shook his head, “Cut to the chase.”

“Fine,
his left hand should have been on the door handle.  The blood spray pattern
suggests it was at first but if you look at the crime scene photos, it is in
his lap.  Head tilted inwards suggests to me that the gunman fired, hit the man
and had the coolness to stage the scene afterwards so at first glance no one
would suspect there had been a shooting,” I told him, standing from the bed and
filling the kettle from the bathroom sink, somehow avoiding Spencer in the
cramped confines of the room.

The
detective was looking at the picture indicating what I had said, “Surprised no
one noticed it,” he managed peering closely at the door trying to see the
telltale signs of blood splatter.

“Not
the easiest from the photos and it may have just fallen, but why?  In my
opinion it was because the body was moved.  The bullet that missed the man,
what does the trajectory suggest to you?”  I asked whilst the kettle boiled,
handing him a couple more photos.

Spencer
shrugged off the question, “Gerald got lucky in not having another bullet in
him.”

I
shook my head in response, “Could be, but from the angle I’d say it was a
deliberate miss.  I could be wrong, probably am, but I think this guy was more
professional than that especially since he hit Gerald in the head.”

“He
wasn’t that professional in the second shooting.”

“That’s
the thing, I don’t know if our unknown shooter pulled the trigger last night. 
Tunney died pretty much the way you would expect if someone had shot him from a
car.  Every shot from there on out was sloppy compared to before.  The shot to
the stomach is easier as it is a large target but it’s also excessively
violent.  Now of course a moving target is harder to hit but once the first
shot hit her and she stumbled, she was at the mercy of her killer.  Instead of
one to the head or the heart it was two shots the first of which probably would
have taken her life anyway,” I said, whilst pouring the boiling water into my
cup.

“So
you’re saying we have two shooters but the same gun.”

I
played with my stubble goatee and sat back down with another cup of tea,
“Wouldn’t be the first time a gun was used to commit more than one crime.  It
could have changed hands within a week easily.”

Spencer
rubbed his eyes, “So we’ve got nothing else?”

“The
first one wasn’t a retaliation hit, it was professional.  The second one could
be same guy but more emotional if you want to believe it.  May be it’s the same
shooter and he’s progressing in his kills.  The first was drug dealers, the
second ordinary people.  Easier targets with Walsh and Gerald static, they’re
in that car.”

“Can
we expect more shootings?”

“My
honest opinion is yes, things could get a lot worse.”