His face a hard mask of anger, Lynch threw himself down these stairs, aware that if Snell made it out through the front door and on to the street, he might as well say ‘Adios’ to him and the money. Lynch knew from experience that scrawny little thieves-cum-druggies could run like a hurricane when they had to. It was only when they knew they’d escaped did they stop and cough up their lungs. They could be very slippery bastards when necessary.
As Lynch landed in the ground-floor hallway, Snell had just snaked out through the front door.
For a nanosecond Lynch thought about taking a shot at him. . but he held back. He was too far away to guarantee a hit.
Lynch ran, determined that Snell would not be going far.
In his time as a low-level crim, Keith Snell had been forced to outrun the law on many occasions and, more often than not, he had been successful. This was because he had learned one thing about being chased: never, ever hesitate. The trick was to keep going and hope for the best, because it didn’t matter where you ran, it’s just that you needed to keep on doing it.
Having said all that, he had never before been hunted down by someone with a gun and a grudge.
As he landed on the footpath outside the guest house, he gyrated on his heels and sprinted down the street, then cut out between a couple of parked cars to put some sort of barrier between himself and Lynch, then turned on the speed.
Each pound of a foot on the ground was matched by a similar one in his cranium, in his ears and behind his eyes. His whole head seemed to be loose.
He glanced over his shoulder. No one was there. He was approaching the end of the street. No pause. He ran across the junction, dimly aware of blue lights and police activity down the main road to his left, near the town centre. He pushed on in the direction of the sea, the blue sports bag on his back, bouncing and banging against his spine, his arms threaded through the straps, the shotgun in his right hand.
Another glance. Still clear.
Snell was finding it harder to catch his breath now, but he knew he had to keep going. He urged himself on, motivated by two men with guns, keeping to the darkness of the building line until he broke cover on the promenade, where he stopped. . and almost toppled over.
But there was no time to think.
He veered right, heading north, now keenly aware that he was under the bright street lights of the sea-front. An easy target. He needed to return to the safety of darkness. He spun next right, back inland, now suffering, hardly able to keep going. At the first alleyway on the right he turned in and slumped down in the recess of a doorway. His breath came in painful rasps.
Had he done enough to save himself again?
Snell took a minute to calm down, easing his arms out of the straps on the sports bag, placing the shotgun carefully on the ground.
Eventually his body returned to almost normal. He stood up and stepped out of the doorway, bag in one hand, shotgun in the other.
Time to steal another car.
‘Keith. . Keith Snell!’ Lynch’s voice came ominously from behind.
Snell felt his whole body contract on those words.
‘Drop the gun.’
It clattered from his fingers.
‘And the bag.’
It landed with a dull thud.
Snell began to rotate slowly.
‘No need to move, Keith my boy.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Snell gasped. ‘I’ve been a fool.’
‘Trouble is,’ said Lynch, ‘when you realize that, it’s just too late. Well anyway, it’s all over now. No more need to run.’
The way in which Lynch raised the revolver in his right hand, supported it in the palm of his left, and double-tapped two bullets into Keith Snell’s back was almost casual.
Three
There was nothing special or remarkable about the murder, other than the fact that all murders are special and remarkable to those affected by them. A man and wife. A silly drunken row about nothing which escalated into violence and then a brutal stabbing. Just another something that happened every day that was impossible to prevent but easy to detect. In police terms, a ‘one for one’.
The only thing about it was that tonight it happened in the sleepy backwater town of Bacup in the Rossendale Valley, tucked away high on the hills in the very eastern corner of the county of Lancashire. God’s country, some say; others would be less enthusiastic about it.
Following the procedures laid down for such occurrences, the duty police inspector ensured that the scene of the crime was dealt with professionally, as well as the arrest of the offender, then informed the on-call Senior Investigating Officer (SIO), who, at the moment of the phone call, was playing a game of late-night chess with his eldest daughter, Jenny, whilst the rest of the family, mother and daughter number two, were tucked up in bed.
Instinctively, and before picking up the phone, the SIO — Henry Christie — checked the time and made a mental note of it. Times could end up being crucial to an investigation and several investigations that he knew of had rocked because of disputes over them.
Henry knew the call would be for him and a frisson of excitement tremored through his whole being. He cleared his throat, announced his name, then, ‘Can I help?’
‘Henry, sorry to bother you. This is John Catlow over in Pennine Division.’
‘Hello, John.’ Henry knew Catlow and also knew that he was the uniformed night duty inspector in the huge division which covered Bacup, but stretched from the Greater Manchester boundary in the east, right up to abut with North Yorkshire in the north. It was a big, sprawling area, one which used to be covered by an inspector in each of the towns therein. Now it was down to one poor soul. How times had changed. As night-call SIO, Henry had made it his business to know who was on duty throughout the force of Lancashire. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘We’ve got a domestic murder in Bacup. . big drunken row, big falling out, wife stabs pissed-up husband to death. . twelve times at least. It’s pretty much sewn-up. She called the ambulance, they called us, we went and she gave herself up. Cut and dried, so to speak.’
‘Is your on-call DI aware?’
‘Yeah. He’s turning out.’
‘Where did it happen?’
‘Moorside Terrace.’
Henry knew it. Visualized it. ‘Is everything done that needs to be done?’
‘Yes. Body’s still in situ, scene sealed, CSI en-route, police doctor pronounced life extinct. Home Office pathologist informed and on the way. .’ It was as though the inspector was counting things off with his fingers. ‘Offender banged up, clothing seized, forensic issues addressed — no cross-contamination anywhere. . yep, all done.’
Even so, Henry made him go through it in more depth and when he was satisfied said, ‘Right, I should be across there within the hour. I’ll make to the scene and meet the DI there. Can you ensure he meets me, John?’ The Inspector told Henry that the DI was actually at Burnley police station, where the offender had been taken. Henry accepted this and said he would see him there after the scene visit instead.
They hung up. Henry looked at his daughter. She tilted her pretty head and squinted quizzically at him.
‘Dad?’ she said. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit odd?’
‘What’s that, my dear?’
‘Y’know — sitting around, waiting for people to pop their clogs?’
Henry pouted thoughtfully. ‘Never really considered it in those terms.’
‘Anyway,’ she said, her expression changing to one of glee as she moved her Queen regally across the chessboard, dramatically wiping out Henry’s remaining Bishop with a flourish. She announced, ‘Checkmate!’ very smugly.