A Shot In The Night (John Harper Series Book 2) (3 page)

After
the shooting in Elsworth the police of Liverpool had been on high alert.  They
mounted more patrols of the area of trouble, endeavouring to stop any
retaliation for the murder of Joey Boulton.  The increased number of police
cars on the street ensured that there was a complete lack of young lads hanging
about.  That was until the cars had gone out of sight and then the dealers were
back on the corners or waiting in their own vehicles.

With
the colder nights creeping in and the prospect of more rain, the more affluent
of dealers sat in their cars.  Their stashes were located nearby so that if
they were to be pulled over or searched there were no grounds to be arrested. 
The safety that the cars provided them made some of the dealers more fearless
and much more willing to stay out later.

A
police patrol passed down one of the main streets of Elsworth, the two officers
noting a dark blue old Clio parked on a side street, the interior lights on. 
Both men were tired and bored of the shift work but thankful for the overtime. 
They knew with Christmas around the corner that the money would be well
received by their spouses, which meant it would be well spent.  Trust the
police to find a silver lining in the killing of a young man, but it was their
job and laughing at death made it easier to take, especially when you were used
to it as these two men could attest.

Officers
were taught to know the locals and in turn the local dealers, hustlers and
general yobs knew the officers by sight.  These two were known for being fair
but at the end of the month if they had not managed their target number of
arrests they would be brutal on anyone they caught.  It was a good game
considering everyone knew it and once you had been caught in possession or
breaking an anti-social behaviour order by them before the turn of the month,
most caught on.

It
was still early to mid-December so no one was in danger of being arrested for
petty issues but they must still do their job.  Both men knew that their good
fortune with overtime would not last; the force did not have the budget nor the
inclination to keep police on the streets at such hours other than cursory
sweeps.  Before, they would have tried to make an increase in arrests at that
time to ensure that there would be more hours but that was not how the system
worked and their experience taught them to simply do the job they were tasked
with.  So they made another circuit of the area, noting four suspect cars and
pulling over to have a genial discussion with one such occupied automobile. 
The two young men inside, who smelt strongly of tobacco, agreed to move on and
after much show of putting on their seatbelts, they did so.  This brought
smiles to both parties as they separated and the policemen continued their
patrol.

Officer
Archie Cramer leant on the door in the patrol car and sighed, “This is dragging
on Mike.”

“I
guess we’re doing our job properly then,” Sergeant Mike Blackwood replied.  He
was dying for a cigarette but could not light up in the car so was sterner than
he had been at the start of their shift.

“That’ll
be the day.  How about we do another pass of the Moran estate and then go get
some coffee from the drive thru and stretch our legs?”

The
sergeant nodded, “Let’s give it two, ok?”

“Fine
you Kopite prick but if I end up pissing in the car it’s on your head.”

They
laughed and chatted about the most contentious subject they knew: football. 
Archie, being an Everton fan, took great delight in poking fun at his boss,
whose own team Liverpool where languishing behind the blue team of Merseyside. 
Mike was quick to rise to it though and called the younger man every word he
knew for bitter when they drove past the blue Clio again.

Archie
wagged his finger at the two occupants and they continued on; joking about the
football listing and the hopeful signings their respective teams would make in
the winter transfer window.  That conversation lasted for more than fifteen
minutes; enough time for them to make it all the way back to the same parked
car.

The
two officers approached the car from the front this time.  The Clio was dirty
and had a number of dents in it.  The driver’s side wheel was dangerously bald
and the others looked low and the skirting around the car was rusting with age
and the sea air.  It was parked beneath a smashed light; no surprise
considering most of the street was in darkness due to the same issue.

The
two men inside had their heads tilted towards each other as if listening to
something earnestly or talking to each other.  Mike pulled the police car up in
front of them and noted how neither man flinched away.

“These
two think they’re hardnuts ignoring you boss.  Let’s see how they feel when I
book them for driving that piece of scrap,” Archie Kramer said putting on his
hat and picking up his clipboard from in between his legs.

Mike
nodded but with a concentrated look on his face; something was not sitting
right with him and he remained in the car, his body ready in case they tried to
make a run for it and he had to give pursuit.

Zipping
up his jacket, Archie braced himself against the cold night air and the slight
drizzle that was falling on him.  He walked over to the car with the authority
his position commanded, stepping on broken glass as he approached the passenger
side window, “Ok boys, fun is over.  Let’s see your license and proof of
insurance please.”

The
police officer had been looking at his clipboard as he approached and it was
only when he looked up at the passengers did he realise that they were both
deceased.  He called over to Mike and the two of them were classed as the first
responders. Brad Walsh and Steven Gerald had both been killed by gunshots.  Two
had hit the passenger, Gerald, three had ended up in the body of Walsh and a
sixth bullet had passed through the vehicle without hitting either man and had
smashed through the window and embedded itself in the wall next to the car.

I’d
spent the rest of my day after meeting with Simon Jones in the briefing office
of the category C squad.  I knew I’d have to show my face at some point and I
picked up a number of files that I estimated they wouldn’t need back anytime
soon.  After that I went back to my office to find that Harris had left;
leaving a disgruntled note on the desk that he had been forced to leave the
office to get his own lunch and might have picked up a cold in doing so.  He
had however printed off a number of pages and had placed them in a folder for
me.  There was also a USB stick on top of the tablet that was in turn on top of
the folder on my desk.  For all of his complaining, he was a useful and
dedicated worker when his mind was turned to it.

I
stayed in my office reading through the information he had gathered for me till
past ten o’clock.  My back ached from the sitting in my chair and even after
reading on the couch for a good hour I was sore enough to want to go home. 
Even though I had not done anything specific on the Morrison case, I felt that
the framework I had given myself would provide me with a better chance of
making some headway the next day.  Before I left the office though I stopped at
Harris’s desk and placed a takeaway menu and a ten pound note on his keyboard
with a scrawled piece of paper stating that I would not be in the office the
next day.

Waking
early, I went on my usual five mile run and returned to my house.  It was
nothing special but I owned it outright and had spent the first month of my
retirement improving it after buying it cheap and rundown.  The main factor in
my procurement of the building was the fact that it had an ample garage.  I was
happy that the street was relatively safe from car theft, although it was in an
overly student area of Manchester which meant that there were occasions that I
would be woken by drunken youths.  Unfortunately for them that meant getting a
visit from me banging on their doors early in the morning everyday during their
exam weeks; I was petty that way but I think they had learnt a valuable lesson.

The
garage was needed since I didn’t want my Jaguar on the street and had bought
two other cars for my new job.  One of them was an old Honda Civic I’d bought
from a pal who owned a second hand dealership who promised me I was getting a
deal.  It ran well and was quick, but the best part was that it didn’t stand
out so was ideal for tailing and day-to-day business that required me out of
the town.

Once
I was back from the run, which had helped clear my mind and settled some of the
facts about where I was going in my mind, I prepared for the day ahead. 
Dressing in jeans, an old shirt that could no longer withstand the rigours of
being worn with my suits and a pair of soft leather ankle high boots, I packed
my car and set off for Liverpool.

Considering
I was usually at my desk or still asleep at that hour, I was annoyed to be
greeted by bumper-to-bumper traffic.  After a slight detour, I headed down the
East Lancashire Road listening to Motown classics till my CD ran out of songs
so I put on the radio.  The local news was all about the double murder the
night before in Elsworth I shook my head and banged my hand on the steering
wheel, annoyed with myself that I was behind.  I was also very annoyed that
things had escalated so badly.  It would make things a lot more difficult for
me, but at least I knew that Thomas Morrison, the full name of my client,
couldn’t have committed those murders as well so I was one up on my last case.

There
were only the bare facts in the bulletin but it appeared that it was a direct
retaliation for the murder of Joey Boulton by the gang he belonged to.  The
number of shots fired and the increase in the number of victims suggested a
heightened sense of violence.  Things had just got a lot more dangerous in this
investigation.

I
wouldn’t say I was a brave man, often in my past I’ve been involved in
situations that put my life in jeopardy, but I don’t actively seek them.  Going
into what was a gang warzone did not interest me one bit; in fact, I’ll admit
that for a moment, I nearly turned around the car at the nearest set of
lights.  It was only a sense of duty to my debt held by the late James McNeal
that stopped me.

That
urge to turn around was only heightened when I saw the sign for Hollingswood on
my journey.  Too much had happened there recently and it still turned my
stomach sour at the prospect of going back.  My fault; I should’ve stuck to the
motorway.  It did however provide a not so unwelcome distraction from my
thoughts as I made my way to the outskirts of Liverpool, and the scene of the
first shooting.

There
was a strange atmosphere on the street when I arrived in Elsworth.  In the space
of two weeks there had been three bodies dropped in the suburb.  It was
surprising the level of violence and more so that it was located all on one
area.  The gunmen from Rakspeath had crossed the divide during increased police
patrols and had killed two men in vengeance, which made no one safe in
Elsworth.  Considering that act of territorial war I would not be surprised if
there would be a similar retaliation in Rakspeath soon; an opinion no doubt
shared by the police in Merseyside estimated by the number of official vehicles
I passed on my way in.

My
sat nav took me on a random long diversion through Rakspeath to get to Elsworth
and I was surprised that I was not asked to pull over and have my car
searched.  Once through the police roadblocks, I arrived at the location of the
shooting with little problem.  I had passed the rest of the constabulary and
the press in general on my way as they had gone to the new crime scene.  That
was of no concern to me whilst I tried to clear the name of Tommy Morrison.

I
parked my car away from the park, on a side street that offered me a view of
where the shooting took place, but away from prying eyes.  Harris, as much as I
slate him for his general laziness, had been good to me when it came to
research.  I picked up the tablet and folder that had been on the passenger
seat and went over an aerial view of the area.  I wanted to familiarise myself
once more with my surroundings.

Feeling
more secure about my knowledge I put the tablet and the folder under my seat
and out of sight before stepping out of the car and locking it.  It may be a
stereotype but that area was full of thieves, even with a mass of police
nearby, so I set the alarm and was extra vigilant when it came to my car.  I
walked over to the park with some pictures from the folder still in my hand.

There
were markings on the floor that indicated where the body had fallen after the
shooting and I walked forward imagining Joey Boulton shooting.  I did my best
not to raise my hand as if pointing a gun, so as not to arise suspicion from
anyone watching.  From the reports in the papers and from some eyewitness
accounts that had been posted online I had learnt that Boulton had fired a
number of shots at three men.  I wanted to know where those bullets had gone
and the shot that had killed Boulton, since I was surprised that nowhere in the
information I had been given did it state the calibre of the murder weapon.

Of
course the bullets could travel a long distance undisturbed but the park was a
collection of amusement apparatus for children.  A large swing set, a number of
slides and a climbing frame which all showed signs of neglect.  The ground
around the equipment was that spongy black stuff that gave you an extra bounce
in your step as you walked on it.  Taking out my keys I pressed on the small
laser pen that was attached to the keyring, which I must admit was overburdened
with gadgets; another vice of mine.  I shone it at roughly the right height as
the boy’s head trying to trace the bullet’s flight path.

Harris
had somehow obtained a picture that showed the bullet wound with entry and
exit; in this case Boulton’s face was a distorted mess.  It had seemed to go
straight through, so with a pistol it must have been close range, it being rare
that the shooter would have some sort of marksmanship ability.  I followed the
path the light had shown me but there were no bullet holes in the metal
structure that housed a number of slides and a pole.  I raise the angle a
little; maybe the shooter had been shorter than Boulton.  Yet again I walked
the scene and once more I found no trace of the killing bullet.  I’d found
other signs of damage but yet again none on the flight path I had managed to
work out.

I
knew where the body dropped and I had a number of good reference points to indicate
where the bullet would have ended up.  There was even a backstop for the
projectile in the form of a raised mound of the protective sponge surface.  I
knew that the scene of crime unit would have done their job especially
thoroughly on such a case and that a ricochet could happen but there surely
would be some indication of calibre in some of the literature.

Once
again I walked back to the where the body had fallen; aware now that I was
being watched and this time rang Harris.  The young man answered in his usual
laconic way, “Sup?”

“Morning
Harris, I’ve got some questions for you.”

He
yawned long and loud into the phone receiver, “Can’t this wait till you get in?”

“I
doubt I’ll be coming into the office, so just answer the questions I’ve got.”

“Sure,
sure whatever boss.”

“You
read a lot of stuff on that shooting.  Did any of them say how close the
shooter was to Boulton when he fired the kill shot?”

“I
put them all in your folder but I’d say just about half said that the shooter
went up close and offed him with a shot straight to the noggin.  A couple of
others said that the shooter was close and one or two said they didn’t see the
gunman.  To be honest they are the ones I’m more likely to believe, all
residents and older.  All of the execution stuff was young lads, and far too
many to have actually seen what happened.”

I
rubbed my beard thinking at that; there would always be people who lied about
seeing an event; no matter how trivial it was someone would think it made them
interesting to fabricate a story about an occurrence.  What interested me
though, was that there were people who said they didn’t see the shooter;
something that I in my naivety had not thought.  Gang shootings in general,
were usually carried out by pistol or shotgun, rarely anything larger than a
submachine gun.  To be accurate and not seen the shooter was either a marksman,
which would narrow down the list of suspects or had used a rifle.  If the
person had used a rifle then that too would change my investigation and would
effectively rule out Tom for the killing.

All
of that went through my head as I walked forward going on the basis the shot
may have travelled downwards.  I carried on, “Harris, have we had any more work
since I left?”

“No.”

“Maybe
we would if you went to the office,” I hung up and hoped I had confused Harris
enough to get him to go to work.  Harris would have most definitely thanked me
for the lunch money and then complained I hadn’t given him enough.  He knew I
kept money in a wall safe that I had specifically installed in the office and
always whinged that he needed more expenses.  If it weren’t for the fact that
it was a very old style tumbler lock safe, I never would have left any money
with him anyway.

Standing
at where I thought the bullet would have possibly travelled I noticed an
indentation in the soft ground.  Something had been gouged out of the
protective surface and had not been done in a delicate way.  Squatting down I
was about to put my fingers to the hole when the natural light behind me dimmed
and I became very aware that I was no longer alone.