Driving into Darkness (DI Angus Henderson 2) (4 page)

He walked into the Shakespeare’s Head in Chatham Place to be greeted by Maggie behind the bar like a long-lost relative. DI Henderson’s flat in Vernon Terrace, in the Seven Dials district of Brighton, was only a few streets away and while he wouldn’t describe the pub as his local, as he didn’t believe he went in there all that often, the familiarity of the bar staff suggested otherwise.

He took a seat at the back the bar and lifted the newspaper lying there but didn’t read a word, as his mind was still on a call he received from CI Harris just as he was leaving the office this evening. It wasn’t an enquiry about his team’s progress on Operation Poseidon as there hadn’t been any, but instead he wanted his take on a surveillance job in Worthing which had gone belly-up.

It wasn’t one of Henderson’s jobs, but he had bags of experience in this area, firstly for the Football Intelligence Unit of Strathclyde Police, attending football matches and watching the crowd while they were concentrating on the game, and secondly, with the Strathclyde Drugs Unit, mounting long-term surveillance on gangs, trying to catch them with their hands on the merchandise.

Harris was collaborating and canvassing the opinion of a ‘seasoned officer,’ as the good book told him to do but in reality, the man had little practical experience to draw on and he was more likely filling in gaps in his knowledge. He had been ‘fast-tracked’ into the Chief Inspector’s job following a first class Psychology degree from Durham University, a post-grad diploma in Criminology from Cambridge University, and a bag full of brownie points after participation in a successful joint operation with the Metropolitan Police and Customs, who were involved in smashing a gang that were trafficking modern-day slaves from Africa.

It emerged later that perhaps the Chief Inspector had not been the active and resourceful participant on the investigation as he had led everyone to believe, but by then it was too late and the job was his. Rapid promotion was at the heart of his problem as he had missed out on all the street craft, locker-room banter, and gut-wrenching experiences an apprenticeship in uniform would have given him, and while he excelled at administration, budgets, and office politics, he was crap at all the other stuff that most coppers believed mattered.

He was at the end of his first pint when Rachel arrived. She looked beautiful as she sailed through the door, looking as if she owned the place. A journalist with Brighton’s daily newspaper,
The Argus
, she wrote a weekly column on the environment and rural affairs and when her editor let her off the horticultural leash, occasional forays into profiles of prominent local people.

She worked more regular hours than he did and would have been home by six, which would give her an hour and a half to get ready. He had been waylaid by the call from his boss and didn’t get home until seven, only enough time for a quick wash and a change of clothes, and well, the grooming and styling results spoke for themselves.

On leaving university with a degree in English, Rachel wanted to become a motoring journalist but life in Brighton was way too much fun, as she had worked at the local paper for six years and he couldn’t see her moving. They’d met nine months ago at one of DS Hobbs’s regular dinner parties and the fact that she was still here and putting up with his odd working hours, black moods, and sartorial shortcomings, was testament to her legendary tenacity, or perhaps a sign that she really liked him.

She was wearing a light blue dress, brightening up a dreary, cold evening and revealing enough of her tanned legs to remind him of their late summer holiday in Cyprus together. Her black hair had recently been cut short, giving emphasis to the roundness of her face and highlighting deep green eyes that often shone with mischief and affection.

‘How’s the carjacking case going?’ Rachel said after he placed a drink in front of her, New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, chilled, large glass.

‘Has Rob been talking to you?’

‘Rob Tremain? No, I hardly ever see him, he’s never in the office.’

‘Fibber. He’s frustrated at getting nothing out of me, he’s started using you.’

‘I hope you’re joking.’

Her face looked stern, a boss reprimanding a junior member of staff for a serious indiscretion.

‘Of course I am, but I wouldn’t put it past him.’

‘Well there’s no need to question my ethical integrity. Rob might not value his, but I value mine.’

He was joking but nevertheless he was careful what he said in front of her, as she might believe in Chinese Walls and professional ethics, but there were plenty of people she worked beside who didn’t and were expert at teasing facts from reluctant witnesses.

‘The gang left the house they robbed cleaner than a doctor’s surgery and knowing our luck, we’ll find a bit of DNA or a fingerprint and I bet it won’t be on the database.’

‘It was a Porsche they took this time?’

‘Aye they did,’ he said, lifting his pint, ‘a GT2 RS whatever the hell that means.’

She frowned at the bare-cheek of the thieves or perhaps in lust for the car. ‘It stands for Gran Turismo Rally Sport. It’s a cracker and the one I would go for out of the lot of them. It’s aggressive and fast but still a car you can use every day to drop the kids off at school or to do the Sainsbury’s shop.’

He gave her a reproachful look as he resettled his beer glass back on the mat. ‘I think your little Seat is fast enough.’

‘It is, but it doesn’t stop me wanting.’

A few months back, she was badly injured when her Mazda MX5 hit a people carrier coming out of a driveway. He knew the accident wouldn’t dent her interest in cars, but there were times he wished she would set her sights a little bit lower.

‘Where do you think they sell them as I’ve never seen any of them in the magazines I read.’

‘Our researchers are doing the same thing. Maybe you should all get together one night and swap stories.’

She gave him a playful punch on the arm. ‘Don’t be silly, I do it just for fun.’

‘Is this what you call it? If there's a degree course going, you could teach on it.’

‘C’mon, tell me, where do you think they end up?’

‘My best guess is the Middle East or China. Give them a set of new plates and a new colour job and their new owner wouldn’t give a monkey’s where it came from, especially with forty or fifty grand knocked off the price.’

‘You do know why they wanted the keys so badly?’

There it was, the petrol head journalist trying to get behind the wheel once again. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

‘It’s nigh on impossible to steal a modern car without them, due to the clever way the key communicates with the ignition system. You see, it will only allow a car to start if the correct key is presented. Thanks to this little innovation and better alarms, gone are the days of returning to a car park, only to find your car’s been nicked or the side window’s been smashed and all your CD’s have been stolen.’

He nodded. ‘Tony Haslam told me as much.’

‘Yes, but here’s something he might not have mentioned. Thieves are now able to steal just about any car fitted with the keyless ignition system.’

‘The cars you can start with the key still in your pocket or your handbag?’

‘Yep those, although it’s not what you would call a key, more like a signal emitting fob.’

‘How come?’

‘When the owner gets out of the car, the thieves jam the door-locking signal, making them think it’s locked when it isn’t, or simply smash the window. Then, they open the door and plug a laptop into its diagnostic port and make a new fob. They can then use the fob to disable the alarm, start the car, and drive it away, as the fob doesn’t need to be plugged into the ignition as a normal key would.’

‘Ingenious.’

‘I think so too. Are you any closer to catching your thieves?’

‘I would love to say we discovered a cracking lead today and we’re hot on the trail of the criminals, but no. We seem to be going nowhere with the case and it’s getting harder geeing-up the troops in the morning, and sometimes it includes me.’

‘Poor thing,’ she said rubbing his arm, ‘because I’ve had a good day. With summer coming, I’ve got loads of country shows and events to plan and my boss in all his wisdom, has given me an interesting piece to do about energy. You know the sort of thing, where our region get its power, how much we’re contributing towards government targets on renewables and all the other stuff.’

‘It’ll make a change from eating goats milk fudge or drinking dandelion and nettle wine. Give me the genuine article any day. When do you start doing this?’

‘Next Monday, I’m off to Shoreham Power Station, me and a photographer, so expect to see me in a boiler suit and hard hat, hanging on for dear life and trying to smile from one of the chimneys, 70 feet up. It’s probably too late to tell him I don’t like heights.’

‘I’ll look forward to it and make sure I keep a copy of the paper and show it to you every time you slag me off about what clothes I’m wearing.’

She paused for a moment, looking coy. ‘I hoped I'd catch you in a more positive mood this evening Mr H, as there’s no easy way of doing this.’

‘What’s this, the brush-off? My mother warned me about women like you.’

‘You don’t get rid of me so easily.’ She reached into her handbag pulled out a copy of
The Argus
. ‘It’s the latest edition,’ she said as she handed it to him. ‘Hot off the press.’

He turned to the sports section to see what Brighton and Hove Albion were getting up to as didn’t often get a chance to read a paper, but a manicured hand slid across the newspaper to stop him.

‘No, Angus we read newspapers from the front. Look what it says at the top.’

Beneath the newspaper’s title ran a bold taster banner, ‘Car-Jack Victim Speaks Out – Criticises Police - See Page 5.’ Beside it was a small picture which he immediately recognised as Mrs Frankcombe.

He looked at her, puzzled. ‘What’s this, ‘criticises police’? Is Rob Tremain playing silly buggers again?’

‘Just look.’

He turned to page five as instructed and there on a two-page spread were pictures of Downs View including the shattered front door, their stolen car and a tired-looking Mrs Frankcombe standing beside an empty garage. She was in much the same position as Sergeant Walters a couple of days ago, but then the garage included Mrs Frankcombe’s car and one Mr Frankcombe used for driving to the station, making it look less forlorn.

He skimmed over the bulk of the text, most of which he knew and most of it had been in the paper before with each of the other raids, but looked closer when his name appeared.

‘The senior investigating officer, Detective Inspector Angus Henderson arrived late to the scene as by then, I had seen plenty of other policemen, and the fingerprint people were packing up. He looked dishevelled as if he had just got out of bed and I’m sure his breath smelled of alcohol. He left me with the impression he didn’t have a clue who has stolen our lovely car or put my husband Alan in hospital and as a result, I don’t have the confidence to say this won’t happen to some other innocent family.’

They travelled in Cahill’s souped-up Peugeot to the Right Place, a large pub in Clapham. Way back, it used to be a traditional street-corner boozer with loads of dark wood, a floozie barmaid, and a place where you could still find London Porter, but it had been transformed by new owners into a happening place with great music, a superb choice of bottled lagers and shots, drugs, and plenty of gorgeous girls. It had become one of the main hangouts for young black kids in this part of South London as the dj’s were from Jamaica and played all the stuff they liked with none of the techno-electro crap they were playing in the white-boy clubs.

They pushed their way to the front of the crowded bar and after getting drinks, stood and watched the dancers. Rab McGovern sipped his beer and let the music, bright lights, heat, the smell of alcohol and sweat, wash over him. He could do this all night, as there was something beautiful and majestical in following the gyrating hips and swaying bums of voluptuous Caribbean women, moving around the dance floor and dancing to a rhythm and making them appear as if they were making love to an invisible deity.

McGovern had spent a large part of his 27-years inside some institution or other, first at reform school, then at a Young Offenders Institution and finally an adult prison, and like a replicant in
Blade Runner
, he devoured his time on the outside like a new arrival. If it made him seem like a man who thought his time was limited as he would soon be returning to prison, not a bad assumption given what he did for a living, it was misleading as he wasn’t going back, no matter how many people he killed or maimed in the process.

There was no need for talking, nigh on impossible as the music was loud, attacking the body as well as the ears and anyway, he wasn’t big on chitchat. The only time he talked much was in the meetings when they were planning the theft of another car. They knew the drill, but he needed to keep them in line and make sure Rooney was taking it easy on the rum, Ehuru on the weed, and Cahill wasn’t messing around with other women.

By one in the morning, he’d drunk only four beers and danced for a bit before finding the girl he was looking for. He had spoken to her a few times before, but tonight he turned on his best patter and now they were outside the pub and walking back to his place, stopping occasionally for him to put his tongue down her throat and slip his hand inside her jacket to feel those beautiful titties.

They continued walking until they came to Severus Road and a few minutes later, turned into the building where he lived. For a tough-street kid with tats on his arms and scars on his torso, he refused to live in a dump and even though Jasmine had been boozing all night and could barely walk straight, her exaggerated outburst when she first saw how clean and tidy it all looked sounded genuine enough, and it took some time to persuade her that he didn’t share the place with his mum.

He’d seen enough of her gyrating body in a silver dress to know he wanted to see it for real and without much messing about, as he was an impatient man, he took off her clothes and she did the same to him. She stood there naked and for a moment he was caught in two minds, to stand there and gaze at her beautiful body with full thirty-eight inch D-cup breasts, a trim and flat belly, broad hips and thick, muscled thighs from playing hockey or dancing or some other shit, or to grab her now and shag her senseless.

He enjoyed the view for a few seconds more before pulling her towards him and carrying her over to the bed. Sometimes when he felt all wired up, he wanted rough sex with a good bit of slapping, biting, and gouging, while other times, he liked it smooth, like the lyrics of the R Kelly song they were listening to before they left the pub. Not tonight though, as there was something he needed her to do and it was important for her to remember him in a good way, and not the mad bastard who left deep bite marks on her neck and black bruises on her arse.

He entered her fast and furious, causing her eyes to open wide in surprise and giving him a mental slap on the face and telling him to take it slow and not get too carried away, as he might be tempted to do something he would regret. Self-control wasn’t a word that appeared in his lexicon but when he wanted something as he wanted it now, even he was capable of reining in his wilder desires for a short spell.

Ten minutes later, he got up to fix them both a drink. He came back with a beer for him and a vodka and lemon for Jasmine, but while the beer was for show, as he only sipped it, he wanted her to take the full hit as he had added a little something they weren’t offering in the cocktail bars. They smoked a little dope and supped their drinks and it wasn’t long before he was starting to feel horny again but he held back until he was sure she had drained the lot.

He took her empty glass and placed it on the dresser and pulled her in close. She was biting his ear and scraping long nails against his balls and saying the dirtiest things, and it was with reluctance he flipped her over and spread her legs as he was enjoying her touch so much. He spent a moment admiring her arse, a true Jamaican rear and giving women like her a different shape from white girls and making it erotic just watching them walk.

He was about to slip into her warm, tight space once again, when she went limp. Anger swept up like a tide, as he didn’t know the drug would work so fast and for a moment he was tempted to carry on regardless, but with a groan he rolled away, feeling disgusted with himself for even considering it.

He lay still for several minutes, gathering his thoughts and trying to calm, before rolling off the bed and putting his clothes back on. In the kitchen, he drank a glass of water to clear his head and removed his chib from a cupboard in the hall. A few moments later he closed the door and headed outside. There was no need to be quiet on account of Jasmine, as she was out for the count and would be like that for most of the night. In the morning, she would wake up late with a woozy head and feeling as if she’d had too much to drink, but with no recollection of what happened when she was out.

If Jasmine wasn’t a worry, some of his neighbours were, as some of them were night owls. Damian on the floor above, the noisy bastard who owned the stereo he busted, was a crack addict who napped during the day and rarely slept at night and would be itching to have his revenge for being smacked around. Miriam on the ground floor was a former Royal Air Force officer who didn’t need much sleep and spent most of her time in a chair by the window watching the world go by, as if still on sentry duty and scanning the skies for Russian spy planes.

It wasn’t cold but he walked with head down and collar up, not wishing to attract the attention of the drug-addled muggers and layabouts who hung around Clapham Station at all times of the day and night. He wasn’t frightened of being attacked as he could handle himself, but he was in no mood for hassle and the beating he would give any punk, stupid enough to try their luck, might attract some attention and would be recorded on a multitude of CCTV cameras dotted all around the building.

He passed under a railway bridge and walked into the Lancaster Estate. This was an act a sane man would be hesitant to undertake during daylight hours and only a nutter would contemplate at night, but Rab McGovern was not a sane man when looking for the bastard who conned him.

Built in the 1970’s, Lancaster Estate was designed to house occupants of houses demolished during slum clearance in this part of South London. It had now become a haven for pimps, drug dealers, and stick-up gangs and despite a number of attempts to improve the place, nothing would change until the tight little alleyways and narrow staircases were demolished and they stopped sending the dregs of society and other problem families there.

He approached Henshaw Gardens, a square and squat block of flats, designed by a seventies architect with a Lego fixation, and known to house more than its fair share of troublemakers and drug addicts. If this estate was one of the worst in London for knife gangs, drug dealers, DSS fraud and feral kids who sniffed glue and lighter fluid, Henshaw Gardens, a compact collection of four housing blocks gathered around a dog-crap infested piece of ground that gave the place its name, had the reputation of being the granddaddy of them all.

He had been there on at least two previous occasions when the flats were visited by a large contingent of police, chasing after the notorious McGinley brothers and they couldn’t have been better equipped or prepared if operating in Northern Ireland or Beirut, as they brought riot vans, snipers, shields, and every piece of body armour the Met could offer.

He failed to break his stride as he hit the stairs. For most of the day, the staircases around here were full of kids smoking weed, sniffing glue or there would be some smack head sleeping off a fix, but at this time of the morning, the only things he could see in the weak light were empty beer and cider bottles, used condoms, fag ends, and a mangy cat searching for scraps. If the light was dim, the smell wasn’t and he gagged as the rancid aroma of piss, vomit, dampness, and stale beer hit the back of his throat with the force of tear gas.

On the second floor, he stopped outside number 215 for a moment to catch his breath and make sure his chib was to hand. The chib was an old-fashioned police truncheon, not the modern side-handled telescopic type, which was difficult to conceal and too big for close combat, but the twelve inch hardwood version, nicked from a copper in the early 90’s during a riot. It had a ribbed handle and a leather strap to wrap around the wrist, and back in the day this would be used to hold the baton in place while beating the living crap out of a prisoner.

He stood back, lifted a steel toe-capped boot and smashed it into the edge of the peeling, softwood door, close to the lock. There was no need for sledgehammers here. The door emitted a sharp, loud crack. He lifted his boot again and this time the crappy frame split and the door swung open with a noisy creak, echoing around the empty balcony and across to the dark building opposite. It held no fears, as this wasn’t the sort of place where neighbours stared out of their windows too long or were willing to help someone in trouble.

He had been in the flat a few times before and knew where to go. The bedroom was off to the right and he also knew Stephen Halliday would be sleeping alone as the useless prat couldn’t attract a bird unless he put a seed box out of his window.

He kicked the bedroom door open and found Halliday staggering towards him in a soiled white t-shirt and shorts, dazed and confused and trying to make sense of the un-Godly noise that had just woken him up. McGovern strode forward and head-butted him in the face before kneeing him in the balls.

He doubled over and screeched, ‘you bastard, what the fuck are you doing? What do you want?’ The sudden pain had obviously woken him up.

McGovern grabbed a handful of t-shirt. The only illumination in the room was a bright street lamp outside, filtered by cheap, thin curtains. He was thankful it wasn’t brighter as he didn’t want to look at him too closely as his face was dripping blood with snot and blood leaking from his nose.

‘Remember me Halliday?’ he growled. ‘I’m the sucker you sold the fucking crap gear to.’

‘What, what? Oh, it’s you Rab. Wh… what are you talking about?’ His voice was gurgling as if blood was dripping down the back of his throat. Good. Perhaps he would choke to death and save him the trouble. ‘I never doctored it or nothin’. I get it as a sealed bag from my contact. It was good gear, I swear.’

‘Good gear my arse. It was full of fucking baking powder or brick dust or some other shite. I should charge you for the damage it might have caused to ma insides.’

‘There was nothing wrong with that stuff Rab, I use it myself. Nobody else has complained.’

‘You’d stick any old shite up your snozzle but no’ me pal, and stop giving me your piss-bag excuses ya junkie prick, I don’t wanna hear them. I want some decent stuff or I’ll have ma fucking cash back wi’ interest.’

‘Give us a break man. This ain’t bloody Tesco. I mean I don’t have any more. You pay your money and you take your chances. Now, leave me alone will ya? You’ve had your fun.’

A red mist descended over McGovern’s eyes as Halliday’s grating voice and lame excuses bounced around his head like a pinball. He couldn’t believe the arrogance of the man who happily took his money but now refused to sort out his problem. He was junkie scum and it was time for someone to teach him a lesson.

He lifted a boot and sent him sprawling back onto the bed. In two strides he was beside him. He pulled out the chib and after wrapping the leather strap around his hand, brought it down on Halliday’s head. The junkie scum was trying to protect his head with his hands but he was swinging it with such force, whatever he did wouldn’t make any difference. A few seconds later, he stopped. Below him, Halliday was still, his lank, tangled hair matted in blood and grey brain matter.

He left the bedroom and searched the flat. It didn’t take long to find his stash of dope, squirrelled away in a tea caddy in the kitchen and in a jar beside it, a thick roll of cash. He pocketed both, walked out of the flat and headed home.

He pushed open the bedroom door and was pleased to see Jasmine was still sleeping. In the bathroom, he stripped off and spent a few minutes searching for bloodstains. They were hard to see on a black leather jacket but he wasn’t too concerned as he had played this gig a few times before and knew how to get the angle right without getting too splattered.

He slipped back into bed and lifted the duvet to have a look at Jasmine’s naked form, warm and inviting, and stroked her hips, before turning over and settling down to sleep. If she didn’t feel groggy in the morning, who knows, he would maybe give her something to remember him by.