Substantial Threat (9 page)

Ray fired, but because he was slightly off balance, he missed. The bullet gouged into the wall by the door. Then he gave chase.

Callan banged the door shut behind him. Ray booted it open again with the flat of his foot, paused, then leapt through it. It opened on to an alleyway at the back of the pub. Callan was running hard towards Duke Street. Ray fired another shot, not really expecting to hit him, but Callan screamed, staggered, clutched the back of his left leg and fell to the ground. He managed to execute a forward roll and was back on his feet straight away, holding his leg and hobbling towards what he hoped would be the safety of a public road.

Ray pursued him relentlessly. He was experiencing that sense of utter elation one feels when taking someone's life from them. It did not matter that he was going to kill someone in broad daylight, in the middle of a busy street, because he believed absolutely that he would get away with it.

Callan stumbled out of the alley, howling for help.

The first person he approached was a middle-aged woman out shopping. When he raised his blood-soaked hands to stop her, she screamed and recoiled.

‘Callan,' came a voice behind him, a voice which sounded like the devil calling his name.

He twisted, the agony of his damaged leg smeared across his face. He fell over on to his backside on the pavement and Ray raised the Glock again. Callan tried to crab away backwards on all fours, bawling, ‘No, no, no⎯'

Ray fired. The bullet rammed into Callan's right shoulder, pinning him to the ground.

The woman screamed horribly again, a car screeched to a halt, and people started to run and hide. But Ray Cragg had stepped back into his distorted time tunnel and all he could see and feel was the figure of Rufus Callan, a man he hated, a man who had dared to encroach on his drug-dealing patch, who had taunted Ray, who'd had the temerity to think about taking on the most powerful drug dealer in the north of England.

Ray hunted the crawling man. He fired another shot into him as he dragged himself into the road between two parked cars. The bullet went into Callan's thigh, but he continued to drag himself away from Ray, leaving a trail of thick blood behind him.

A car swerved, just missing him. Another car stopped with a squeal of brakes and tyres as Ray stood over Rufus Callan and shot him twice in the head.

And once again, Ray Cragg's normal world spun back into focus. He did not vacillate. Making sure that every onlooker saw his pistol waving in his hand and did not dare approach him, he turned and legged it back down the alley and into the King's Cross through the emergency exit. He burst into the bar, shouting, ‘Go!' to Marty, who was still covering the barman. Ray had to hurdle the two splayed-out dead bodies to get to the door, which he yanked open. Marty was right behind him.

Seconds later Crazy was driving them away, very coolly, very sedately, not drawing any undue attention to them. Ray ripped off his ski-mask, sweat drizzling down his forehead and face. He was breathless.

A police car, sirens wailing, hurtled past them in the opposite direction, going to the scene.

Crazy kept glancing at Ray, saying nothing, but eager to know what had happened.

Ray gulped deep breaths, calming himself. Eventually he looked sideways at Crazy and smirked victoriously. ‘Fuckin' good,' he snarled. ‘Well done, Marty, what a fuckin' scene that was! Shot the bastard like the dog he was.'

Henry came back to the table balancing two coffees and two plates of Eccles cakes in his hands. Jane Roscoe took hers from him, their eyes catching each other fleetingly, their insides churning. Henry seated himself and took a sip of the hospital cafeteria coffee, wincing at the bitter taste.

‘It was just so false, me being at home all the time,' Jane said. ‘Making his breakfast and having his tea on the table when he got home, usually late. Then sex!' She snorted. ‘Just to try and have a baby to keep us together. I think he thought it was wonderful, but it just wasn't . . . right.' She shuddered at the thought. ‘I didn't really want to conceive – even though I do want to be a mum – because deep down I don't really want to be married to him. I just don't love him,' she concluded sadly with a shake of the head. She took a bite from her Eccles cake, wiped some crumbs from her mouth and smiled. ‘How did you know an Eccles cake always makes me feel so good?'

‘Intuition.' Henry stared into his coffee. It was a muddy-grey colour. ‘I'm back home now, you know.'

‘I'd heard. How are things?'

He held out his right hand and waggled it from side to side. ‘So so. Not brilliant, but we're working at it. I suppose I should consider myself lucky to be allowed to have another chance.'

‘But . . .?'

It was his turn to snort. He looked squarely at Jane Roscoe and wondered about himself. He had found himself deeply attracted to her during the short time they worked together, yet they had never got further than a brief kiss, not even a suggestive conversation. But there had definitely been something electric between them.

But she had gone back to her husband and he had gone back to Kate and was trying to get his life on to some sort of even keel. Though things were far from perfect, the comfort, lifestyle and stability Kate offered him were very real . . . and yet, and yet . . . here was Jane Roscoe back on the scene, obviously with some deep feelings for him and all of a sudden, here he was again, considering destroying his life . . . for what?

His head told him he had to be strong here. He had made too many mistakes in his private life over the past few years and could not afford to make any more. He should tell Roscoe that he and Kate were a rock-solid item; that although things might be hard at the moment, the future looked good and he was going to stick with it.

‘I've still got a couple of months' lease remaining on the flat over the vet's,' he said stupidly.

‘Oh, the vet. Fiona. That was her name, wasn't it?'

‘Yup.' Henry had been seeing Fiona at one stage during his separation from Kate, but it had not worked out. Somehow they had managed to resume their former formal relationship of landlady and tenant without too much acrimony.

Henry ate some cake and sipped his coffee. They did not speak for a while and then simultaneously opened their mouths, each over-talking the other. They laughed.

‘You first,' said Henry.

‘I think you know what I'm going to say.'

‘Maybe, maybe not.'

‘I haven't been able to stop thinking about you, Henry. I'm confused. I want to love my husband, yet you are on my mind all the time.' She shook her head again. ‘I mean, bloody hell! I'm nearly forty, been married over eleven years, never ever been unfaithful to Tom and you come into my life and all I can think about is being unfaithful with you . . . ahem . . . there, said it.'

‘Wow,' said Henry. ‘Mm,' was all he could think to add. Then, ‘Bugger!'

She grinned. ‘But I'll understand if you're not interested because I can see you're trying hard with Kate. I don't want to spoil that.'

Once again they held each other's gaze. Henry speculated as to why people became attracted to each other. What was it? What was the spark? Really, he knew very little about Jane Roscoe, yet he knew there was something extra special between them.

‘Is it because I saved you from certain death?' he asked lightly, though he knew that she would surely have been mutilated and murdered had he not found her first. ‘That sort of thing does tend to play havoc with your emotions. I know I am a hero figure to many women.'

‘I knew even before that,' she said simply.

‘Bugger,' he exclaimed again, feeling deep water approaching.

Jane's mobile rang. Henry was pleased to hear that the ring tone was the riff from ‘Jumpin' Jack Flash'.

‘Gotta go,' Roscoe said, ending the call and downing the last of her coffee and stuffing the Eccles cake into her mouth. ‘Been a shooting down on South Shore,' she mumbled through a mouthful of currants. She stood up and collected her belongings. ‘Sounds like there might be a dead 'un . . . want to come?'

Henry shook his head. ‘Call us if you need us.'

‘Bye . . . speak later.' She left the cafeteria. Henry watched her disappear.

‘Bye,' he whispered. He took his time finishing his coffee, then made his way back to the mortuary.

No one followed them, Crazy was sure of it, but only after making double sure did he drive back to the garage from where they had first collected the Golf GTi and transfer them into the back of the Transit van which was waiting for their return.

The garage owner immediately went to work on the Golf. He removed the number plates and replaced them with a fresh set for the journey to the scrap yard over in east Lancashire. The car would be crumpled metal within the day.

Ray, Marty and Crazy were driven to a new address in the van, this time to a terraced house in the north of town. Here they undressed and bagged everything up they had worn for the job. The guns and mobile phones were wrapped separately and everything was then handed to the driver of the Transit whose job it was to arrange for their complete disposal and destruction. This included the van, which would be burnt somewhere out of the county.

The three showered and changed back into their original clothes.

Crazy had ensured that there was a car waiting for them near the house. When they were ready, they left discreetly and got into the car.

Although all three were hyped up, there was very little conversation between them. Ray intended to debrief the whole thing later to make sure that no holes were left in the way the job had been handled, that they had covered their tracks as professionally as possible.

He knew it would be impossible to stop rumour from spreading among the criminal fraternity that Ray Cragg had taken out a business rival. But he was happy for the message on the street to be read and understood by all, the message being that Ray Cragg controlled this town and if you got in his way, you suffered.

He also knew there was a good chance of being arrested, but because he believed he had left no physical evidence behind, the police would have to rely on a confession, which would not be forthcoming under any circumstances. He was absolutely certain nothing could be pinned on him and that, even if they did lock him up, he would be free within hours.

‘Well I don't know about you,' Ray announced, ‘but I need to fuck just now.' He eyeballed Crazy.

‘Don't look at me,' the driver laughed, ‘you ain't gonna bum me.'

Ray looked over his shoulder at Marty who, for some reason, looked severely infuriated.

‘What's up with you, half-brother?'

‘Nowt,' he snapped.

‘You did fuckin' well today. We need to talk about it later, need to talk about bonuses.' He laid a hand on Crazy's left arm. ‘You did good, too. Big bonus. But first I need to have some hot sex to cool me down . . . you know where to drop me.'

Jane Roscoe was trying to focus on the job which lay ahead. It sounded deadly serious. A shooting. Another run of the mill job in the lovely town that was Britain's biggest, brashest holiday destination. Murders were frequent and cops were run off their feet all the time with big, nasty incidents which were ten-a-penny in this town. But even so, she was still pretty new to the post of detective inspector and sometimes the enormity of the job was a little awe-inspiring.

She drove quickly through the traffic, using skills she had picked up on an advanced driving course. She was in her own car, not equipped with a blue light or two-tones, so when she hit the backlog of standing traffic where Lytham Road joined the promenade, she could not make any further progress, stuck in a line which she assumed existed because of the incident she was attending.

She thought quickly, but did not know any way to circumnavigate the traffic, so she pulled off the road, rode her car up on to the pavement and abandoned it. She was going to have to walk the rest of the way, which was perhaps no bad thing.

The King's Cross was about quarter of a mile down the road and it took her about ten minutes to get there. When she reached it she found out why the traffic was backed up all the way to the promenade and in every other direction too: there was a body in the road and the uniformed cops had sealed the scene. Now they were desperately trying to get the traffic moving somehow.

The inspector in charge of the scene was an old lag called Burt Norman, a wizened cop who had seen just about everything in his time. He spotted Roscoe arriving and went up to her.

He blew out his cheeks and said, ‘Even I'm shocked by this one.'

Jane Roscoe did not know Burt Norman well at all, being fairly new to Blackpool division, but she knew of his reputation and for him to admit that was quite something.

‘Tell me,' she said.

‘Okay – this guy here was seen being chased out of the alleyway here – which backs on to the King's Cross, by the way – so it looks like he'd been chased out of the pub and gunned down in cold blood here in the street, in broad daylight. A witness says the attacker just kept shooting him as he tried to get away. There's a trail of blood which pretty much verifies that. Bloody ruthless. This town is the pits.' He almost spat.

‘Let's have a look.'

Jane Roscoe inspected the scene quickly. It reminded her of a Mafia-style hit, photos of which she had often seen in Sunday supplements. The man was lying in a pool of black blood. One of his legs was drawn up, his arms splayed out almost as though he was sunbathing.

He had plenty of bullet holes in him.

Norman was at her shoulder. ‘There's more . . . two shot dead inside the pub.'

‘Do we know who they are?'

‘Yep – that's Rufus Callan. The two inside are his running mates. They're drug dealers and it looks like they have annoyed somebody.'

‘Annoyed?' Jane said incredulously. ‘Fuckin' totally pissed 'em off by the look of things.'