And this is what thanks they got, places like this and a score of other derelict sites around Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire, Yorkshire. Maggie Thatcher betrayed us, the whole country let us down. Even our own workmates stabbed us in the back. It was 1984. Write it on my gravestone.
Somewhere north of Newark, the French truck would be picking up speed on the flat. In a few minutes it would hit the bypass and turn off westwards on the A46. Within the hour it would be in a warehouse on an industrial estate outside town, and it would be nothing to do with me at all. All thanks to Slow Kid Thompson.
Oh, I forget to mention Slow Kid, didn’t I? Slow Kid Thompson is one of my best boys. He’s got a lot of talents, but his number one skill is driving. If Slow can’t drive it, it hasn’t got wheels. Today, he’d just delivered our first big load, a job worth quite a few grand to us all. After years of doing small-scale business, shifting dodgy goods and re-plating nicked motors, we were finally moving into the big time. That Iveco represented the start of a new life.
“You’re lucky, monsieur. I’m feeling in a good mood.”
By now the Frenchman had gone as quiet as Doncaster Dave. I guess it had finally dawned on him that we weren’t going to help him catch his stolen lorry after all. Maybe he’d realized that there’d be no nice British bobbies rushing up to arrest the villains who’d ruined his day. No high-speed pursuit, no road blocks, no one to pull him out of the brown stuff.
Oh yeah, that’s another thing I forgot to mention — you just can’t rely on anyone these days. I call it the Stones McClure Top Hard Rule.
Cop and Robber
Paul Johnston
The cop caught the robber and sent him to jail.
When he finishes his sentence, the cop’s waiting for him outside the prison gate.
“Need a lift?”
“Seems you’re the only person offering.”
They head back to town.
“What is it you want from me?” the robber asks, after he’s smoked one of the cop’s cigarettes.
“It’s not like that.”
“Sure it isn’t.”
“All right, I’ve got something I want you to do.”
The robber looks out at the suburbs — grey buildings, people with their heads bent against the scouring wind, trees with bare, bony branches. “I’ve got a choice?”
“Not really. If you do this for me, I’ll keep off your back.”
“How long’s it going to take?”
“Just tonight.”
“Any money involved?”
“Sure. Whatever you find in the place.”
The robber’s gut overdoses on acid. The last time that happened was in the shower block. He’s always been able to tell when he’s about to be shafted.
“You want me to break the law?”
The cop laughs. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? Look, it’s simple enough. I’ll give you the address of a residential property. You go there after dark and use your talents to get inside. Then you locate a certain something.”
The acid is half-way up the robber’s oesophagus now. “What about the people who live there?”
“They’ll be out.”
“You sure about that?”
The cop gives him a hard-man look. “Trust me.”
The robber doesn’t do that with anyone, never mind cops.
It’s one-thirty in the morning. There are no lights showing inside the medium-sized detached house, and the only one outside is above the front door. Checking the street for movement, the robber goes up the garden path and round the back of the building. He sees no sign of an alarm system, but takes the necessary precautions. He’s inside in under three minutes, using a torch with a narrow beam and the tools he retrieved from a friend earlier.
The robber stands stock-still in the kitchen, the only sounds those coming from kitchen appliances. He goes into the hall, casts his light around the sitting and dining rooms, and then moves slowly up the wooden staircase. He tests each step before putting his weight on it.
The doors to two of the three bedrooms are open, as is that of the bathroom. The rooms are furnished, but unoccupied. Only the main bedroom is left. That’s where he’s been told the envelope will be. The robber puts his ear to the closed door and listens. Silence. The heating units are cold. That just makes him more suspicious. Taking a deep breath, he turns the handle and pushes the door inwards. The curtains are open and the light of the waxing moon floods over a large bed. On it, a naked male is lying on his back, arms wide and legs apart. There is a dark stain on his chest and the smell of fresh blood is strong. The shaft of a knife is standing vertically in the middle of the blood slick. As the robber has suspected from the start, it’s a set up. He has to get out before law enforcement arrives, but he can’t stop himself moving towards the body. He looks down at the dead man’s face, which is twisted in agony. He still recognizes him. It’s the cop. So what happened? Did he kill himself or did someone else oblige?
As the seconds pass and no sirens approach, the robber wonders if he’s been framed after all. Then he sees an envelope under the cop’s head. It looks like the one he was told to look for, brown and size A4. Pulling it out with latex-sheathed fingers, he sees his name scrawled on it.
He kneels down, holding the torch between his teeth, and slides his fingers under the flap. He takes out a photograph and a sheet of paper. The photo shows his wife. He hasn’t seen her in the flesh for nearly three years, when she made her single, sorry prison visit. She is naked from the waist up, an inviting smile on her lips and a male hand on her right breast.
The robber reads the hand-written words on the sheet of paper.
“We were together when you were inside. She said it was you or me when you came out. I’ve had enough of her and the job. She’ll be back from her shift at the bar around two-thirty. Think about it, you’ve got options.”
The robber rocks back on his heels and does what he’s told, a large wad of banknotes falling unnoticed between his knees.
Not long before two-thirty, a key sounds in the front door. Footsteps move up the stairs and along the hallway. A slim form comes through the open door. He clamps his hand over his wife’s mouth before she can scream.
“You’ve been screwing the man who put me inside.”
She feels the point of the knife that was in the cop’s chest against her abdomen. “I... I...”
“I’ll gut you if you cry out.” The robber slowly removes his hand from her face.
His wife stares at the bed and then turns towards him, eyes wide. “You killed him!”
“If that’s what you want to think.”
“I suppose... I suppose you’re going to do the same to me.”
“And soil myself with your blood? No, I’ve got other plans.”
She stares at him uncomprehendingly. “What...”
He thrusts the knife into her hand, pushes her on to the bloody body on the bed, and makes a rapid exit. He hears a couple of screams before his wife realizes that calling attention to herself is a bad idea. To make sure, he calls the cops from a pay-phone. By the time the first patrol car arrives, he is out of sight.
The robber isn’t sure if framing the woman had been one of the options his benefactor had hinted at. He puts a hand in his pocket. For once in his life he’s loaded with cash that he hasn’t stolen. On the other hand, the cop stole his wife. He remembers the statue on the court building. Justice is blind, but her heart’s obviously in the right place.
Off Duty
Zoë Sharp