‘ Fine.’
‘ And the first thing is, for the sake of realism, Frank Jagger would definitely lie low for a few days before slithering out of the woodwork, so that’s what I’ll be doing. Not least because I haven’t spent enough time at home for a while.’
They left the classroom a short while later.
In the very basic bedroom that had been provided for him at the Training School, Henry settled on the bed after a long, hot shower. He got to thinking about Rupert Davison. He remembered him from years before. Recalled what a prick the guy had been as a Constable. A real loose cannon. Obviously the intervening years had not changed him much. He had been unpopular way back then and as Henry dozed off he tried to remember why. Then it struck him. Davison did stupid things, always seemed to put other people in danger and always emerged unscathed himself. The thought made Henry sweat.
‘ Look up, you bastard,’ Crane ordered Spencer. All bravado gone, the teenager was sitting back on his reeking chair, doubled forwards, trying to nurse the terribly broken arm. The pain was excruciating, burning up from his elbow to his shoulder and across his chest. He rocked in agony, trying to handle the sickening waves which pulsated through him. However, he responded to Crane’s harsh voice and raised his chin.
Cheryl was standing up, naked, petrified. Hawker was behind her, holding her arms, preventing her from moving.
Crane stood next to her, swinging a solid metal pipe in his right hand. It was about half the length but of a similar diameter to the thick end of a snooker cue.
‘ Watch this,’ he said to Spencer.
‘ Oh God,’ screamed Spencer as Crane’s body twisted at the hip and knee. The pipe arced through the air. He put his whole weight behind the movement and smashed the pipe against Cheryl’s left shin.
She screamed and fell clutching her shattered leg, fractured by the blow.
Crane surveyed his handiwork. Above the sound of Cheryl’s moans he announced, ‘This is what you get when you cock up with me. Grief.’
Then he thought the couple had suffered enough. He waggled his fingers at Smith who had watched the whole episode whilst leaning against the wall. He handed a revolver to Crane.
‘ Enough of this shit,’ Crane said. He reached out and grabbed Spencer’s hair, yanked him up off the chair and dragged him to the edge of the vehicle inspection pit where he forced him on to his knees, overlooking the edge. Very quickly, without preamble, Crane pressed the muzzle of the gun against the back of Spencer’s head and pulled the trigger. The bullet lifted him into mid-air and into the inspection pit. He smashed to the bottom of it and twitched only once.
Crane repeated the procedure with Cheryl. Her body landed on top of her boyfriend’s.
When the echo of the gunfire had died away, Crane looked at Smith. He was breathing heavily, chest rising and falling, but his expression was exuberant, as though he’d just won Gladiators.
‘ You said you had something else for me.’
Chapter Seven
At 10 a.m. next day, Danny walked up the concrete steps of the block of flats where Cheryl lived. She strode over pools of urine and spew and avoided broken needles. At the first landing she turned left on to a walkway. A small group of youths were gathered outside the doorway to one of the council flats. Danny had to walk past them to get where she was going.
All eyes turned to her; conversation ceased as they immediately clocked her as a cop. A lone cop at that. And a woman. They purposely edged away from the door into her path to obstruct her.
She approached them with the impression of streetwise confidence, but underneath she was quaking. She had no business with these guys and did not want to have, but people like this always wanted to know what the authorities were doing on their territory. Danny guessed the oldest of them was about fifteen. Even so, they were all mean and potentially nasty.
Their chins — marked with zits and tufts of adolescent bum-fluff — lifted. Sneers appeared on their faces. They were like a pack of wild dogs responding to an intruder… in this case, Danny.
‘ Excuse me, please,’ Danny said politely.
‘ Why? What’ve you done — farted?’ one giggled.
‘ Just excuse me,’ she insisted.
One of them drew himself up to his full height. He stepped directly in front of her, challenge written across his face. Danny was tall, but he wasn’t far off.
‘ What’re you doing here?’ he wanted to know.
Danny sighed. ‘Just let me through, please, OK?’
There was a second or two’s hesitation; those tense moments when one or the other had to give ground. It wasn’t going to be Danny. The youngster lost his nerve and stepped reluctantly aside. A path opened and she passed through with relief.
‘ Bitch,’ one of them hissed.
‘ Twat,’ said another.
‘ Show us yer cunt… I can smell it already,’ another added bravely, sending them all into fits of hysterical laughter.
Danny chose not to respond, acknowledge them or turn round. She simply sighed and thought, Ahh, the youth of today, the leaders of tomorrow, and walked to the end of the landing, turning left out of their sight.
The flat was number 23. She stopped outside it, saw the obscene graffiti scrawled on the door, the window pane boarded up with cardboard and the damage halfway down the door which looked as though someone had kicked it in.
She raised her knuckles, but did not knock. The door was slightly open. She pushed gently with a finger. It swung open with a creak of the hinges, revealing a short, empty vestibule.
‘ Cheryl?’ Danny called. ‘It’s me, Danny Furness.’
Danny’s cop instinct — honed by eighteen years of entering premises — told her straight away the flat was empty. Something about the atmosphere. The stillness. The way the sound of her voice was not absorbed by human flesh, just bounced off the fixtures and fittings. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, making her shiver.
She crossed the threshold and turned into the living room. She surveyed the empty room, listened and sniffed, catching the tangy mixture of cigarette and cannabis smoke, and beer; some cans of lager were open on the carpet in front of the electric fire which burned bright red, hot enough to make toast.
The room was sweltering. The heat hit Danny immediately.
The TV was on, too, the volume low; a morning chat show hosted by some celebrity on the way down career-wise. Incest being the topic up for discussion. Danny crossed the room, a quiver of apprehension inside her. She bent down, flicked off the TV and then the electric fire. The three bars faded immediately as though happy to be relieved of their task. Next to the fire was a half-smoked joint in an ashtray and next to that a clear plastic bag containing herbal cannabis. Danny recognised the illegal substance, as any cop worth their salt would have done. Alongside this was a packet of cigarettes, the lid tipped open, revealing the contents — about a dozen remaining from the original twenty. Then there was a set of keys, one of which looked like it was probably the front-door key.
Danny sighed through her nose, stood upright and considered the rest of the room.
Clothes were scattered around the floor, male and female. A pair of skimpy knickers, a dressing gown, a pair of jeans, a T-shirt. Cold remnants of a fish-and-chip supper were all over the settee and carpet, beginning to stink.
Danny checked the small kitchen, the bathroom, the untidy bedroom.
A very bad feeling made her swallow.
Earlier that morning she had checked the signing-on book at the front desk of the police station. She had seen that Cheryl, as well as missing last night’s rendezvous at the cop shop, had also missed this morning’s. Having a professional interest in the case, she decided to pay Cheryl a visit and give her the hard word, intending to warn her that next time she failed to sign on she would be thrown back in front of the court with the recommendation that bail be rescinded, and get locked up.