Dead Heat (28 page)

There was just a smattering of people inside. A big screen had been pulled down and a live football match was being televised.

At the bar he had a Coke this time – again in the bottle. He distrusted the glasses in these places, liked to see bottle tops being removed if possible. This time he gravitated to a table in one corner from which he could see all entrances and exits. It was 9.30 p.m. He thought he could either sit tight and hope for the best, or continue on what could be a fruitless tour. Sitting and waiting now suited him. At least he could watch the football. This was a watering hole and sooner or later both predator and prey came to drink. If he was lucky, in the next hour or so, his prey would show and he would pounce.

He sipped the Coke. Finished it, got another, sat and sipped. He was reminded of a Rolling Stones' song, ‘The Spider and the Fly': ‘Sitting, thinking, sinking, drinking . . . Jump right ahead in my web.' It worried him slightly that he could relate many situations in which he found himself to the lyrics of songs.

‘Come on, fly. I've got a daughter to pick up,' he mumbled.

9.50 p.m.

The door opened and a gaggle of half-drunk, half-stoned girls stumbled through. Short skirts, micro tops, tons of smeared make-up. His guts lurched. Did his eldest daughter Jenny do this sort of thing? They looked and behaved awfully.

Then a young man walked in, closely followed by another.

The first one interested Henry. He was dressed slickly. Designer gear, making Henry raise his eyebrows.

This was his prey. Troy Costain.

The man walked straight up to the girls. They were ecstatic to see him. Two of them draped themselves around his neck, kissing him as his hands felt them up without any complaint from them.

Henry smirked. ‘You've come up in the world, Troy my laddie,' he said to himself.

Costain bought a round of drinks. The young man who had come in with him smooched with one of the girls. The drinks came. Alcopops.

One of the girls sidled up to the main man and whispered something in his ear. Her hand cupped his genitals, giving them a playful squeeze which almost made his eyes shoot out of their sockets.

Costain and the girl discussed something, then both turned and walked hand in hand towards the toilets. Costain touched his friend on the shoulder and mouthed a few words in his ear, causing him to leave the girl he had been getting intimate with to follow the couple out.

Henry waited a minute and then downed his Coke thinking, I'm going to end up in some grotty bogs again here. He followed the trio down towards the toilets.

Above the door marked ‘Toilets' was also an exit sign. Henry knew that beyond the door was a corridor off which were male and female loos and at the end was the doorway out on to the car park.

He pushed the door open. The corridor was empty. The first on the right was the ladies. He entered without hesitation. Inside it smelled awful, a concoction of urine, shit, stale dope and cheap perfume. The walls were scrawled with obscene graffiti, the likes of which he had never seen in a men's toilet. His nose turned. He reluctantly stepped fully inside and did a quick recce. They were empty.

Back out and down the corridor, he twisted next right into the gents. It had all the smells of the female toilets minus the perfume, plus an overflowing toilet bowl which had flooded the tiled floor. Again it was empty.

They had gone out on to the car park to conduct whatever their business was.

Henry approached the exit door, which opened outward. He pushed and found it would not move. Slightly puzzled, he applied more pressure, but it still refused to open. He realized it had been wedged, a favourite trick of a dealer to prevent or at least telegraph unwanted interruptions.

Henry reared back and flat-footed the door. It gave an inch. He repeated the size 11 method of opening doors. It rocked open and he was through, out on to the concrete slope leading down to the car park, noticing the wooden wedge on the floor.

The two men and the girl were like rabbits caught in headlights.

The younger of the two men bristled and stood upright. The other two stepped back guiltily.

‘Troy,' Henry called, ‘need a word, pal.'

The younger man was obviously the minder. He glanced nervously over his shoulder, then back at Henry. ‘What do you want me to do, Troy?'

‘Knife the fucker,' came the response Henry did not really want to hear.

‘Who is he?' the minder asked, not realizing that minders should ask questions later.

‘A cop. Knife him, you cunt.'

There was the flash of a blade under fluorescent light. Henry saw it glint. A long, thin knife. Blood pounded in his ears. The side of his chest called out, reminding him how much a knife can hurt, even if it doesn't go right in.

‘Put it down, son,' he said coolly, ‘or I'll put you down.' Henry knew what sort of a character he was dealing with. This was no Verner. This was just a street kid. He took a step towards the knife-wielding minder, who, more scared than he was, stepped a pace back. ‘Drop it, or you're fucked. I mean it.'

‘Do him,' Troy called bravely from behind the girl. ‘Fuckin' do him, Ashey.'

Henry opened his hands, exposing his unprotected torso.

‘C'mon Ashey,' he dared him, ‘come on lad. You either drop it or you go for me. No half measures, sonny. This is a big boy's game you're playing. Got the bottle?' he taunted.

‘T . . . Troy?' he uttered nervously. The knife shook in his hands.

Behind him, the girl broke cover and did a runner. Henry did not care about her. It was Troy he wanted.

‘Is this your first test, Ashey?' Henry asked him, taking another threatening step. ‘Bottle? You need it, y'know?'

‘You come any nearer me and I'll fuckin' gut you,' he warned Henry, taking a firmer grip on the knife.

‘You sound like a fishwife.' Henry took that fateful step.

Ashey, minder to a major drug dealer, shrieked with fear. His hands flew up into the air, the knife disappeared into the darkness somewhere and never clattered down. Ashey turned tail and legged it.

‘Ashey, you fuckin' twat, get back here, get back here!' Troy howled, but Ashey, his protection, had gone into the night. Troy looked nervously at Henry.

‘Not much cop, was he?'

‘Fuck you, Henry.'

‘You gonna leg it too?'

‘Might.'

‘Go on then. I fancy chasing you.'

Troy took up the offer, spun quickly and went for it. Before he had gone five metres, Henry's big hands slapped down on his shoulders, followed by Henry's bulk. Troy staggered to his knees with Henry on top, forcing him face down into the tarmac which covered the car park. Henry placed his right knee at the mid-point between Troy's shoulder blades and dropped all his weight on to that point, almost crushing his lungs and heart. An agonized gasp escaped from Troy.

‘You're hurting me.'

‘Good,' said Henry. ‘You're a little twat and I don't like you and now, to cap it all, you're dealing, Troy, and I don't like that very much.'

‘Just a few Es is all,' he pleaded defensively.

‘Oh, is that all?' Henry increased the pressure on his knee. ‘That's OK then.'

‘Aaargh!' The breath went out of Troy. ‘Jesus!'

Henry eased off, stood up and dragged the doll-like figure up to his feet with both hands, frog-marched him to a car and deposited him face down on the bonnet. ‘Now let's see. Empty your pockets.'

‘I can't, not from here,' he whined, his cheek rammed down on the cold metal, his hands trapped underneath himself. He had a point, but Henry was unrelenting. His own face came down to within an inch of Troy's.

‘Do your best,' he breathed into his nostrils. Henry did ease back slightly to allow him access to his pockets. ‘Put it all on the car.' A selection of items slowly appeared.

‘That's it,' Costain said. ‘That's everything.'

Henry yanked him off the bonnet and drove him towards the high wall at the back of the car park and pinned him against it while he ran his hands over Troy's clothing, including a good root around the crotch area where good things often get concealed and cops are just too nicey-nice to search people properly. All Henry found was meat and two veg.

He spun Troy around and said, ‘Let's have a look at you.'

Troy Costain was a member of the wide-ranging Costain clan that inhabited the Shoreside Estate in Blackpool, a notorious, run-down area, almost a no-go area for the cops, but not quite. The Costains pretty much ruled the roost by burglary, theft, cheat and general intimidation. They were feared by many people and often held at arms' length by the police. Troy, however, had fallen into Henry's grubby hands over ten years earlier when, as a spotty teenager, Henry had arrested him for some minor offence. Once in custody, thrown into a cell, Troy had crumbled. He was severely claustrophobic and had pleaded desperately with Henry for release and that he would do anything, admit anything, just to get out. Henry remembered smiling like a devil at Troy's pathetic whimpering. The upshot was that since then Troy had become one of Henry's best local informants ever. He had provided Henry with information which had tripled his arrest and conviction numbers. The pay-off was that Troy had been allowed to get away with some things he shouldn't, but that was the price of a good-class source.

Over the years Troy had become more reluctant to part with information and Henry had sometimes resorted to using brutal methods to obtain it. If necessary.

A return to the cells was probably long overdue, Henry thought.

‘Well, well, well, my little informant, Troy Costain,' Henry beamed cruelly. His hand continued to search inside and under Troy's jacket. His fingers touched something cold tucked into his waistband. Their eyes met. Henry glared ferociously at him and extracted a two-inch-barrelled revolver. ‘Troy, you carry a piece,' said Henry in disbelief, holding the offending weapon between finger and thumb.

Troy was caught and desperate. ‘Just a frightener, Henry, I wouldn't fuckin' use it, you know that.'

‘Is it loaded?'

Troy nodded.

‘You stupid, stupid bastard.' Henry grabbed hold of Troy's shirt with his left hand and dragged him across the car park back to the car on which his possessions were displayed. ‘What's here?' He kept hold of Troy whilst using the gun to sift through the items. A fat wallet, packed with money. ‘How much in here?'

‘Dunno . . . fifteen hundred?'

A bag of tablets. ‘E?'

Troy nodded.

‘How much do you make a week?'

‘Two grand-ish . . . enough.'

Henry wanted to hit him very hard indeed. ‘Got a motor nearby?'

‘This one.' Troy nodded at the car he had been almost plastered all over. It was a BMW, white, tinted windows, alloys, spoilers, ‘G' registered.

Henry chuckled despite himself. ‘You fuckin' stereotype. Let's go for a little ride.'

‘You are in very big trouble, Troy: carrying, dealing, fuck me. This is very big shit indeed. The way the courts are backing us up now, I'd say this is worth six to eight . . . years, that is.'

Troy was driving, keeping his face firmly forward. Henry saw Troy's Adam's apple rise and fall. He knew he was sitting next to a very frightened man.

The gun and the drugs were in the footwell at Henry's feet.

‘Eight years in a cell . . . OK, let's be generous – five years for good behaviour and all that . . . five years being buggered daily whilst performing oral sex at the other end. That would be you, wouldn't it, because you'd have no clout at all in the nick. You'd be bottom of the ladder, pal. And your fear of confined spaces. Banged up every night in a cell with a couple of other guys, all of whom will fuck you in turns. Way to go, Troy!' Henry was remorseless. ‘Why the hell are you carrying a gun, Troy? Why?'

‘Protection.'

‘Oh, good one. Always goes down well in court, that one. Not.'

‘I'm in a dangerous business.'

‘You're in an illegal business,' Henry corrected him. ‘Pull in here and let's have a one-to-one, a bit of a cuddle.'

Henry had directed him up along the promenade and then on to the public car park next to the Blackpool central police station.

‘Take a look at the nick, Troy. With this gun and those drugs you wouldn't walk out of there again. In fact, the next time you stepped out of a door would be when they release you from Wymott Prison in, say, 2010, give or take a year or two.'

Troy looked ill.

‘I would ensure that all bail applications are refused,' said Henry, really rubbing it in. He smiled at Troy. ‘So while you were waiting to go to court you'd be in custody all the way.'

‘Bastard.'

‘That's me. Love it to bits.'

‘OK, you've made your point. What do I have to do? That's obviously what all this is about. You come looking for me, threaten me and I give you some gen . . . which is?'

‘The deal is this: you do what I want to my complete and utter satisfaction and I'll consider giving you a verbal warning for the gun and the drugs. Obviously they'll have to be destroyed, but that's a small price to pay for getting some information to me and staying a free man, wouldn't you say?'

Troy shrugged like he could take it or leave it. The hard man.

‘Ever heard of Andy Turner?' Troy nodded. ‘I want to know where he is. I want to know within twenty-four hours.'

Troy shook his head sadly. ‘That might be difficult.'

‘Why, because he's legged it?'

‘No – because he's dead.'

Henry fell silent as his brain chewed that over. ‘Dead?'

‘Word is he got whacked a couple of years back.'

‘Who by?'

‘No idea.'

‘Find out.'

A guffaw shook Troy. ‘Easier said than done.'

Henry pointed down between his knees. ‘This is easier done than said. Eight years in the slammer. Very easy for me, love . . . Now find out the truth, OK? I also want a list of addresses for Turner and his friends and associates, business partners.'