‘So what exactly happened?’ Lee asked.
Between them, Ged and Mal outlined the events of the night. Lee listened in stunned silence.
‘Still,’ Mal concluded. ‘At least it wasn’t you. That’s something, isn’t it? He tried to kill you first. You just happened to be a better shot – and a good job too!’
‘Yeah!’ Lee agreed indignantly. ‘The bastard could have killed me, innit?’
Mal nodded. ‘That’s right, mate. So he deserved it, didn’t he? It’s his own fault.’
Ged didn’t say anything. This was Mal’s twisted logic for you. It wouldn’t occur to him that the bloke was only trying to defend himself and his property. Oh, no! He shouldn’t have done that. He should have just let them come and take it – or maybe he was supposed to just hand it over with a smile?
‘So what happened to me gun?’ Lee was asking now. ‘Who’s got it?’
‘Ahhh . . .’ Mal grinned sheepishly. ‘We didn’t think about that. Sorry, mate.’
Lee slumped down on the couch, his face as sad as could be. ‘You mean I’ve lost it, and I haven’t even finished paying for it?’
Mal shrugged. ‘Looks like it.’
Ged steepled his fingers beneath his chin, deep in thought. He’d totally forgotten about the gun. Things could get very bad if the police got their hands on that. But there was nothing they could do about it now. The best they could hope for was that Lee’s prints would be too smudged to be identifiable if it was found.
‘Do you want me to go and have a look for it?’ Suzie offered, coming back with the brews.
‘Don’t even think about it!’ Ged warned as Mal’s eyes lit up. ‘None of us is going down there again. Someone’s bound to have found him by now.’
Even Mal had to agree that Ged was right this time. It was gone six in the morning and completely light outside.
‘Yeah, all right,’ he said. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see what happens, eh?’ Turning to Lee, he said, ‘You could get life if they find it. How d’y’ reckon you’d cope with that then?’
‘Probably better than you,’ snapped Lee, totally sober now. ‘Don’t forget your prints are all over it an’ all!’
7
‘Who found him?’ Detective Chief Inspector Ted Jackson asked without looking up from his notepad. ‘One of ours or a civvy?’
Tilting his head to the side, he put the finishing touch to his rough sketch of the body before closing the flap of his pad over with a snap and turning his full attention on the young constable who immediately blushed. ‘Come on, lad. It’s not that difficult a question!’
‘Er . . . the milkman, I believe, sir.’ PC Paul Dalton wilted beneath the DCI’s gaze. ‘We took the call at five-thirty. I believe it came from that box round there.’ He pointed out of the gates towards the front of the shops.
Jackson nodded and abruptly turned away. Dalton retreated with relief. The man had the aura of an alligator circling his prey. And they were on the same side! God only knew what he did to his suspects.
Jackson squatted down beside the body for a better look. The Asian victim, Pashratar Singh, had been shot through the head. But since he was lying on his side in a macabre travesty of the recovery position this wasn’t immediately apparent. He was approximately five foot five, Jackson assessed. Well padded, and – he glanced at the hand-made leather moccasins – well-heeled. Obviously making a fair profit if the brand new jeep was anything to go by. A bit surprising, given the location of his business, but Jackson knew from experience that Asian shopkeepers had a knack of turning pennies into pounds wherever they were. Something to do with working their arses off morning, noon and night. A lesson their British counterparts could usefully learn, in his opinion.
Taking a pencil from his breast pocket, Jackson leaned closer and moved the blood-stiffened collar of the expensive suede jacket aside with the pointed end. There was no tie. Not a business meet gone wrong, then. Moving a cuff back revealed a very nice Rolex watch strapped to the wrist. Not a simple mugging, either. And a prod with the pencil told him the wallet was in the inside breast pocket – probably full, given the bulky feel of it.
Easing the pencil beneath the victim’s chin, he carefully raised the heavy head a couple of centimetres. Congealed blood, tissue and hair remained on the concrete below – an imperfect circle marking the place of death. Jackson dipped his head to look at the underside of the face. Dead a good few hours, he guessed, judging by the squashed, sunken quality of the skin. Already, a pencil-thick groove was forming in the waxy flesh.
Laying the head back in its grisly cast, Jackson recorded his findings. Glancing at his watch, he marked the time at six forty-five a.m.
Less than an hour into his shift. Beggar of a way to start the day.
Standing, he brushed the dirt from his knees and scanned the assembled crew for a familiar face. Not finding one among the crush of young, eager-faced uniforms, he ambled across to the yard’s entrance for a quiet look around. Leaning against the wall beside the open gates, he crossed his feet at the ankle and folded his arms. A passer-by would have taken him for a nosy onlooker. He certainly didn’t look official. At fifty-two, his salt-and-pepper hair was a little long to be considered respectable, his craggy face too villain-like, and his mismatched clothes too cheap.
A couple of minutes into his solo surveillance, his eagle eyes had detected a number of things that he felt warranted investigation – starting with the bushes edging the small wall. Flatter in the centre than at any other point, the trampled grass looked recently disturbed. He’d check them out after he’d done the yard.
Pushing himself away from the wall, he walked slowly forward, flicking his eyes from side to side as he scanned the concrete for signs. He’d only gone a few steps when he found something. Pushing a couple of PCs aside, he bent double and peered at a sizeable bloodstain that was partially concealed by a leaflet advertising an upcoming Simply Red concert.
‘I bloody knew it!’ he muttered to no one in particular.
‘What’s that?’ Detective Sergeant Macintosh asked, appearing at his side. ‘Thinking of going, were you?’
Jackson glanced up at his fat friend, saying without rancour, ‘You’re late.’ Then, kicking the leaflet aside, he pointed at the bloodstain. ‘That there, Mac, confirms what I was just thinking.’
Mac raised his thick eyebrows and waited.
‘See where the body is?’ Jackson continued. ‘This is too far away, and there’s no trail across the yard. If it’s our man’s, and he fell here and dragged himself – or was dragged – over there, there’d be a trail, wouldn’t there? And given the size of the exit wound and the amount of blood lost, there’d be a damn’ sight more in this spot than over there, wouldn’t there?’ Without waiting for an answer, he walked towards the bushes.
‘Forensics here yet?’ he asked as Mac followed him over the low wall.
‘Graves is on his way,’ Mac said, smirking as Jackson tutted.
‘That prick!’ Jackson was scathing. ‘Get a sample of that stain before the bollock destroys all the evidence, will you? And while you’re at it, get one off the stiff, and have it secured – just in case.’
Turning back to the business at hand, he motioned with a nod to the flattened undergrowth. ‘Recently trampled, you reckon?’
‘Herd of bloody elephants,’ Mac said, kicking the undergrowth aside with his toe.
‘Mmm,’ Jackson murmured. ‘And not kids.’
‘Not if those prints are anything to go by,’ Mac pointed to a mess of adult-sized footprints in the mud.
Jackson bent low with his hands on his knees. ‘Think we’d get a clear cast?’
‘Doubt it. Too mushy.’
Jackson nodded. ‘Looks like a scuffle. Do you reckon it started in here?’
Mac mulled it over for a minute, then shook his head. ‘The stiff came out of the back door, and he’d only gone a few feet before falling. I don’t reckon he’d have had any reason to come in here, then go back out there. More likely whoever did him was hiding here and had a bit of a panic. We found the weapon yet?’
‘Not yet. But there’ll be a search of the immediate area as soon as.’
‘What d’y’ reckon for motive?’
Jackson shrugged. ‘There’s no sign of robbery. He’s still got his wallet and watch on him, and they didn’t have the jeep away. I’d bet the shop keys are still here, too. You can check that.’ He paused, shrugging again. ‘Grudge, maybe?’
Hearing a car pull up outside the gates of the yard, Mac turned to look. ‘Heads up,’ he warned. ‘Graves.’
Jackson stood up and peered across the yard, frowning at the sight of Greg Graves climbing out of his official car. A gangling wimp of a man, with side-parted carroty hair and abnormally long wrists, everything about him set Jackson’s teeth on edge. Quite apart from the fact that he was notoriously blind to the most obvious evidence.
‘Shit!’ he hissed. ‘Get in there, Mac, and sort those samples before he puts his size thirteens right in the middle of ’em!’
As Mac leaped over the wall to do his bidding, Jackson squatted down to study the footprints in the hopes of finding a good one. But Mac had been right. The ground was so churned up, it was impossible to tell one from another.
He was about to give up when he spotted a tiny scrap of material stuck to a bramble. Pulling a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket, he slipped them on and reached for the scrap. It was black wool, probably from a hat or a balaclava. It was so small it would probably prove nothing, but there was always a chance.
Dropping the wool into an evidence bag, Jackson sealed it and slipped it into his pocket, then stood and made to go back into the yard. Just then, a convoy of TV-equipment trucks rolled up to the gates. ‘Oh, great!’ he muttered. ‘Just what I need.’
A car pulled in behind the trucks. Jackson’s eyes narrowed as Liz Jardine, the glamorous Granada newsreader, stepped out, trailing a make-up woman. He wished someone else had come to cover the killing. She would nose around until she knew everything, then give it all out on air at the first opportunity.
‘How did they get wind?’ Mac said, rushing over.
‘God knows!’ Jackson frowned. ‘But I suppose I’d better do some damage limitation. Do you think you can keep the nappy brigade out of the way while I stop the silly tart giving away vital info?’
‘My pleasure,’ Mac grinned. Then, rubbing his hands together, he turned to the crowd of PCs and bellowed: ‘Right then, lads and lasses . . . Let’s have you all over here, out of harm’s way, eh? Come on, come on – move yourselves!’
Sighing heavily, Jackson made his way towards Liz Jardine.
8
Mal woke, groaning. He was still on the rug in front of the fire, but the fire was out now and he was freezing. Shivering, he peered blearily around the room. Everyone was flaked out. Sam, still sprawled half-on, half-off his chair, his mouth hanging wide open, snoring softly. Lee, his face drained of blood, curled up on the couch with his ruined jacket over his shoulders. And Ged, over-flowing the chair near the window, his long legs stretched out before him, his meaty hands clasped together on his stomach.
‘What time is it?’ Mal croaked, pushing himself up on his elbows, yawning hard. ‘God, what a night. I’m shagged.’
‘Ten to seven,’ Ged said, rising from his dream with surprising ease and squinting at his watch. ‘Must have dropped off.’
‘Is that all?’ Mal moaned. ‘I’ve only had half an hour. No wonder I feel like shit!’
‘You don’t look too hot, either,’ Ged commented.
‘Says the bloke who looks like he’s been slapped round the mush with a kipper!’ Mal retorted grumpily.
Struggling to his knees, he dug his cigarettes out from the mess, sparked the fire and dipped his face towards it to light up. Then, grumbling loudly, he kicked aside the heap of empty bottles and cans and huddled up to the heat.
‘Whassamatta?’ Lee croaked. Lifting his heavy head from the cushion, he quickly dropped it back when a starburst of pain shot through it. ‘Shit!’ he groaned. ‘I feel like I’ve been run over by a sixteen-tonner!’
‘Serves you right!’ Mal snorted.
‘Get back up yer arse where you come from!’ Lee said. ‘But give us a fag before y’ go!’
Mal threw him one, then offered one to Ged. Ged reached for it, then lumbered to his feet and headed for the kitchen to put the kettle on. Seconds later, he popped his head round the door to tell Mal he had no milk.
Mal tutted, then yelled: ‘SUZIE! WHERE’S THE MILK?’
In the bedroom, Suzie struggled awake as Mal’s voice disturbed her sleep. The quilt had dropped to the floor, and the cold bit into her when she moved. With a shiver, she rolled onto her side and forced herself to sit up, tapping her feet around until she found her slippers.