Shane was bundled back into the flat and his thin spidery body was slammed face down onto the bare floor where the red gush from his nose flooded out. The one with the gun knelt on Shane’s back, one knee planted firmly on his spine just between the shoulder-blades, the gun thrust into his cheek.
Jodie, Shane’s much-abused girlfriend, had been trying her best to breast-feed the baby which was cradled in her arms. One poor-looking breast and nipple were exposed. She reacted instinctively, drawing her arms around the baby and cowering in a chair for protection.
The one with the baton said to her, ‘If you speak or scream I’ll whack this across your head and then the baby’s.’
Jodie did not speak because, although not having experienced this type of scenario before, she was sufficiently street-wise to know when to shut up. She had immediately assumed these people were drugs dealers come to collect an unpaid debt. It was the culture she inhabited and she knew her best chance of survival was acquiescence.
She nodded nervously.
The baby, deprived of its meagre supply of milk, sucked air desperately.
‘ Now then, Shane, old bean,’ the man with the gun said, lowering his mouth near to Shane’s ear. ‘You’ve been a naughty, naughty lad, haven’t you?’
The young skinhead could hardly breathe, let alone speak. Blood had gagged in his throat. He coughed and choked, spitting a fine spray of red saliva.
‘ I don’t owe you owt,’ he gurgled.
‘ Oh yes you do, you owe us a great deal.’
Despite herself, Jodie let out a wail of anguish. The stupid idiot had obviously neglected to pay his drugs debts and from the sound of it they had amounted to a tidy sum. Now collection time had come and if they could not find the money, Shane’s brains might be joining his nasal blood on the floor.
The baton arced through the air towards Jodie’s head. She saw it coming, braced herself for the impact. It stopped a millimetre from her left temple. Her eyes focused on the end of it.
‘ Next time,’ the man warned, ‘I take your fucking head off. Now, shut it, bitch.’
She bit her lips and hugged her child which whimpered pathetically, picking up on the tension in her body. She rocked it.
The man holding the gun ground the muzzle into Shane’s cheek. He thumbed the hammer back. Shane closed his eyes tightly and lay there paralysed with fear. Tears formed in his eyes.
The man with the baton walked over to the TV set which was perched on a small table. He tapped the screen with the tip, lined himself up like a golfer before a tee shot and swung it into the screen, which exploded.
Jodie let out a gasp.
The baby in her arms jumped and started to cry.
Their TV had been destroyed. The TV set Jodie was tied to for all her entertainment. It had been her lifeline.
The man then kicked it off the table. It crashed to the floor.
Shane’s eyes strained in their sockets to look up at what had happened. He watched the man with the baton take a couple of steps over to him. The man with the gun, keeping it firmly implanted in his cheek, stood up, relieving the pressure on Shane’s spine.
It was a short-lived relief. Shane was then given much the same treatment as the TV set with about a dozen well-aimed, hard blows across his back and ribs.
When he’d finished, Shane lay curled up on the floor, emitting horrible grunting noises.
The gun was still in his ear. The man holding it said, ‘You may wonder what this is about, Shane.’
The baton man then demolished the stereo with a series of expertly wielded strikes, destroying a cheap but perfectly acceptable system which, again, Jodie relied on for her sanity. Her whole pathetic world was being decimated and she was unable to do anything to save it. As with the TV set, the stereo was kicked to the floor where it landed with a loud crash, the plastic parts splintering all around the room.
The man returned to Shane and tapped him gently a few times on the knee-caps and shins. Shane’s thin legs would have been very easily broken and probably damaged for ever. The baton man let the tip rest against a shin whilst the gunman spoke.
‘ Now then, Shane,’ he said reasonably. ‘Listen very carefully. All you have to do is this: tomorrow morning, you go into Blackpool police station and present yourself very smartly at the front desk, with your solicitor if you like… with me so far?… and be very nice and pleasant and say that you wish to retract the complaint you made against me, Detective Sergeant Christie. Now that’s all you have to do Shane, pal, old buddy, old mate. And don’t even think of mentioning this little get-together here, because if you do…’ His voice sank to a terrifying whisper. ‘Do you understand?’
Shane nodded.
‘ Good.’
The baton man gave Shane a loving tap on his shin.
The gunman stood up.
Both crossed to the baby’s cot, picked it up and between them and threw it against the wall where it disintegrated into matchsticks.
Then they left.
In the hallway outside the flat, they turned right and ran for the rear exit, pulling their hoods off as they went.
Neither one of them saw the figure of John Rider ascending the darkened staircase which led up from the basement flat below.
Chapter Twenty
There was an air of jubilation in the murder incident room next day when Tony Morton announced that all three men arrested yesterday were going to be charged with the murder of Geoff Driffield and the other people in the newsagents. The one they had failed to arrest would be circulated as wanted.
In just one week they had a major result, and all the detectives and uniformed police officers involved in the case were invited to a celebration that evening in the club upstairs. 5 p.m. start. It would be a long, boozy evening.
Henry experienced a certain degree of satisfaction. He had been instrumental in the arrest of the gang leader, Anderson, and had nearly died for his trouble.
As the officers cleared the room, Henry caught sight of Siobhan talking earnestly to Tony Morton, occasionally glancing across at him. She looked upset, on the verge of tears. Henry wondered if she’d had some distressing news or something. He did not even begin to think she could be upset about last night and the coitus interruptus. He had reflected on her behaviour and concluded he did not really blame her
… but on the other hand she had said some nasty things. Threats, almost.
She and Morton walked out of the incident room towards the office he had been allocated for the duration of the investigation.
Henry went to the CID office and sat at his desk where he re-read a photocopy of the post-it note Derek had left for him on the night of his brutal murder. What the hell did he want to see me for? Henry asked himself. Was it the reason why he was murdered? Henry could only speculate. The note was bare and said little…
His mind wandered back to the previous evening when he had called in to see Annie Luton on his way home. She had given him a whole package of work-related stuff that Derek had taken home over a period of time. It was all in a carrier bag.
‘ There’s everything there he ever brought home in relation to work,’ Annie said. ‘I’ve been round the house from top to bottom, gathering all this together. It was all over the show… he was so untidy. I even found some under our bed.’ Her eyes moistened as she talked.
Henry glanced casually at the contents. None of it seemed to be of major importance. Copies of reports, statements… the type of bumf most young officers probably had at home. Henry had been like that years ago. Taking work home. Feeling the need to write up reports off-duty so he could spend more time out on the streets when on-duty. Yeah, he could relate to that.
These days he took nothing home.