The Blue Notes (6 page)

Even at the time it hadn’t come as much of a surprise, and it didn’t take long to get the background intel. An old army mate of his dad’s from Carlisle, Barry Cook, had been running fags up from the continent for years, and Hood was pretty sure that he’d know exactly who Baker had been talking about. He met Cook in a pub one evening soon after Baker’s visit, and when he’d finished selling his ciggies two hundred at a time the two men sat and talked. Or rather Cook talked, about how there wasn’t any money left in the smokes, and that he was thinking of trying his hand at something else.

‘Oh, aye?’ said Hood, ‘like what?’

‘That’s the trouble, son. There’s nowt left that Dai Young isn’t running these days. You name it, if it’s a bit dodgy and there’s a penny in it, then he’s into it.’

‘Really?’ That had come as a surprise. ‘Dai Young’s back, is he? Last I heard he’d left, with his tail between his legs. Christ, when did he become the king?’

‘Just a prince, son. Word is that he’s backed by some proper nutters from down south. He’s recruited a few ex-squaddies locally, as extra muscle, but I’m too old for that game. They’re all young lads, like you.’

‘So he’s on with the protection job, is he?’

‘Oh, aye, and how. It’s the usual shit. He owns a legit business, and he’s got a fair few now, and his lads lean hard on the competition. So Dai wins both ways. Either they stay in business and keep paying, or they get out and he takes over their trade. Nice work, if you can get it, like.’

‘And he owns a haulage business, does he?’

‘Aye, Baker’s. Used to be run by the old man, but he wanted to retire, the son fancies himself as a bit of a player, so….’

‘He got into bed with organised crime? Christ, how fucking stupid do people have to be? Young will eat the likes of him alive.’

‘Couldn’t pull the skin off a rice pudding, young Max. Just like you said. But he’s got Young behind him, so suddenly the little bastard’s cock of the bloody walk.’

Hood nodded. ‘Thanks for the intel, Barry, it’s appreciated.’

Cook reached out and put a hand on Hood’s arm.

‘You’re not planning to take them on, are you, lad? Look, I know you can handle yourself, like, but there’s only one of you and there’s Christ knows how many of them.’

‘Aye, point taken, mate. Don’t worry, I’ll not do anything daft. We all learned a thing or two, when we out there in the desert. And not just from our own side, neither. Fight a long, patient war, and use whatever you’ve got to hand, that’s what I say.’

And tonight Hood had all he needed to get the job done. He’d reviewed the online satellite view of the street and the yard, and checked and re-checked his gear. He didn’t have a gun, but he didn’t expect to need one. This would be just like his last visit to Baker’s yard. Straight in and out, as sweet as a nut. No bother at all.

He parked the van a couple of hundred yards down the road from the entrance to Baker’s yard. It was a street of Victorian terraced cottages, and Baker’s place lay behind the ones on the far side. Hood watched for twenty minutes, just as he always did, and saw nothing unusual. The only risky part was getting the chain off the old, wrought iron gates. It made a noise, and there was no innocent explanation for it that he could think of, if someone came past. But he’d walked up to the gates in daylight the previous weekend, and had a quick look at the chain that they’d used to replace the one that he’d cut through last time. It looked just as cheap, so the bolt-cutters would take it, easy.

Sure enough his short-handled cutters did the job in a second, and he slipped them back up his sleeve, then carefully removed the chain and slowly opened the gates. Then he walked back to the van, and drove straight into the yard. As he’d expected the big security lights came on, and as before he didn’t bother finding their power supply. The light was useful to work in, and the CCTV footage would be of no use to anyone. His hood was up, and his van was out of sight of both the cameras, only backed just into the entrance of the yard.

Next job was to get the diesel pump working. There was a chain on it now, but again it took mere moments to cut. The electrical control box was just as insecure as it had been before, so it took thirty seconds to get into, and to force into ‘pump fuel' mode. Then Hood jogged back to the van, opened the rear doors, slid out the ramp, and then rolled the big plastic barrel onto the tarmac. He rolled it back to the pumps quickly, and was just starting to slow it down with his hands, using them like a friction brake, when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Lately he’d been wondering if his reactions had slowed and his awareness of danger diminished in the time since he’d left the army, and this was his answer. Because when the baseball bat came down it missed Hood by a foot, and bounced off the top of the barrel.

It didn’t swing again, because Hood hit the man hard in the gut, and he went down fast. But there were two of them, Hood had sensed that from the start, and the other one caught Hood full in the back with his bat. He fell forward, and hit the barrel, face-first. It rolled forward, and Hood slipped off it and onto the yard surface. He couldn’t get his breath, and the pain was intense, but he knew that he needed to move, right now. He rolled, felt his lungs fill, and saw splinters fly off the end of the baseball bat as it struck the tarmac inches from his head. He didn’t have time to get up, that was obvious, so he swung round as best he could, like an ill-coordinated but enthusiastic break-dancer, and lashed out with his legs. He made contact, solid contact, and he saw the other man pull back, out of reach. ‘I fucking know you,’ he said, pointing at Hood with his splintered bat.

Hood had a precious second now, and that was just enough. He was on his feet before the next blow came, and he managed to dodge it, and get a couple of solid body shots in. But the big man’s next swing of the bat was shorter, and faster. He learned fast, and Hood couldn’t avoid it this time. It caught him full on the side of the head, and his right ear felt as if it was on fire. But he still stepped forward and punched much harder and faster than his opponent expected, and Davey watched him go down in instalments. The man was unconscious before he bit the tarmac.

Then Hood sank to his knees, wondered if he was going to pass out, and felt the blood on his neck. It was his all right, but there wasn’t too much of it. Not yet, anyway. He stayed in that position until his head cleared a bit, and he was sure that he wouldn’t pass out. Then he got up, crouched by each of the men in turn, didn’t bother to look at their faces, and just felt for a pulse. Both were strong, and steady. They’d be fine, he knew it, and they probably wouldn’t be out for long, either.

He rolled his barrel round to the far side of the pump, so he didn’t have to move either of the men, and calmly filled up, just as he’d planned. Then he drove out of the yard, and left the gates open. He stopped a couple of streets away, dialled 999 on the phone with the £10 SIM that he kept in the glovebox, and said that there’d been a fight at Baker’s haulage yard.

‘So you want the police?’

‘No, ambulance. The losers are lying in there waiting for you, like.’

He got out of the cab, dropped the phone down a drain, and drove on to the foodbank. He could see no reason to change his plans, especially now that the cops would be otherwise engaged for an hour or two.

Letting himself in was as easy as ever, but then they still might not know that he’d been there three times before. After all, Hood thought, with different volunteers driving the vehicles on collection and delivery runs it was quite possible that no-one had noticed that their vans seemed to be running on air, or at least on charitable intentions. He parked exactly where he had before, out of the camera’s line of sight, picked the lock to the garage doors, and went back and wheeled in the barrel. When he’d finished fuelling the vehicles he rolled the barrel back to his truck, avoided glancing up at the camera, and started pushing the barrel up the ramp.

‘Stop. I’m a Police Officer.’

Hood only needed one quick look at the tall young man to know it was true. No criminal would wear trousers that colour, for a start. So he didn’t even glance at the Warrant Card. He thought, just for a moment about putting the kid on his arse, but there was no point. He would already have clocked the van’s registration, even if he hadn’t been seen Hood’s Haulage in three-foot high letters on the side. So he held up his hands, as if in surrender.

‘I’m not nicking owt, honest.’

‘Normally I’d laugh my bloody socks off at that, but I already know that it’s actually true. You’ve been filling up the diesel tanks again, haven’t you?’

‘Aye, that’s right.’

‘And your name is?’

‘Davey Hood.’

‘I’m DC Henry Armstrong, from Carlisle CID. Hang on though, mate, where do I know your name from?’

‘One of your mates got herself into a bit of bother the other night, and I helped out a bit, like.’

‘DS Wilson, was that?”

‘Pepper, aye. Look, are you nicking me here, mate, or what?’

Armstrong thought about it for a moment. ‘Move that van, get this place locked up, and then let’s you and me have a chat, OK?’

Hood nodded, did as he was asked, and when he returned to the van having secured the gates he found Armstrong already sitting in the cab.

‘End of the street, turn right, park up where you can, please’, said Armstrong. Then he saw the blood on the side of Hood’s head, and the swelling to his face. ‘Christ, how did you get that? Did old Ted come at you with a bloody pick-axe handle, or what?’

‘Don’t be daft. I didn’t do that in there. And I’m fine.’

‘Are you sure? We should get down to A&E, right now. Hop out and I’ll drive.’

‘No, mate, I’m fine. Bit of a wash and a couple of pain-killers and I’ll be reet, that’s guaranteed.’

Henry clicked his finger, and pointed at Hood. ‘Of course, now I get it. The two blokes that were scooped up from Baker’s yard an hour go, that would be your handiwork, I take it?’

‘It was self-defence. They came at me with bloody baseball bats. Are they pressing charges?’

‘Christ, no. They’ll not say a word, even when they’re fully conscious. You do know who they work for, I take it?’

‘Aye, I know.’

‘So was it a co-incidence that you stole the fuel from Baker’s?’

‘No, it wasn’t.’

‘Jesus. Did they recognise you?’

‘Aye, one of them did.’

‘Shit. I’d bloody arrest you right now, if only to get you off the streets, except we’ll get no crime report from Baker’s Haulage, you can bet your bloody life on that. And we’d be laughed out of court if we tried to prosecute you for breaking in to a place like the foodbank in order to make a bloody donation.’

Hood laughed, then put his hand to his face and winced. ‘I see your problem. But tell me one thing, detective. I know why those lads were there tonight, but what were you doing at the foodbank? I take it wasn’t a co-incidence, like?’

‘No it wasn’t. But if I told you how I knew you were there I’d have to kill you, and I reckon that might be easier said than done.’

Hood smiled. ‘That depends, doesn’t it?’

‘On what?’

‘Whether or not you’ve got a gun, and then on whether you’re actually willing to use it. If not, then I’d not give much for your chances. Anyway, am I free to go, like?’

‘Not yet. Since we’re both on with question time now, why don’t you answer one of mine?’

‘I’ll have a go, like.’

‘Why? Why are you nicking diesel? And why from Baker’s?’

‘Because it’s mine, I reckon.’

‘Bloody hell, mate, how hard did they hit you on the head? How is it that your diesel was in their tanks?’

‘It happens, don’t you worry. The British government sent us squaddies out to Iraq because our oil was sitting under someone else’s sand, didn’t they? Well, this is much the same, I reckon.’

‘How do you work that out?’

‘Well, I’ve as good as won three or four decent contracts this last few months, but every time I’ve been told, at the last minute, that the client’s had a better offer. Sometimes from Baker’s, sometimes from one or two others. But we both know why that is. It’s intimidation, plain and simple.’

‘So you go round and help yourself to their diesel by way of compensation? Is that it?’

‘Aye, that’s it. Even things out a bit, like. Increase their cost base, and decrease mine.’

‘It’s still theft. More to the point, you do know that Dai Young will come after you now, don’t you?’

Hood shook his head. ‘No, it won’t be him. It’ll just be his boys. Listen, Henry, are we done here? If you’re not going to nick me then can I just get off home? I’m back at work in four hours, and my face is a bit sore, mate.’

‘All right, aye. But I never found you on the premises, all right? You were already outside, and the gates of the foodbank were secure. That’s what I’ll put in my notebook. I spoke to you, out here, but that’s it.’

‘Aye, right.’

‘And I suppose I can’t persuade you to make a complaint against the two blokes who attacked you, can I?’

Davey Hood was still laughing, even as Armstrong was climbing out of the cab. But he looked back in before he closed the door.

‘I don’t need to tell you that this little game of pass the diesel stops now, do I?’

‘No, I get that.’

‘Good. And you understand that I’m going to have to tell Pepper about this, don’t you?’

‘Now I am properly scared, like.’

DC Armstrong stood on the pavement and watched Hood drive away. He shook his head thoughtfully. It was much too late to call Pepper Wilson, what with the kid and all, but he was certain that she’d want to know what he’d discovered. She’d probably bollock him heartily for not nicking Hood, and he told himself that the reason he hadn’t was because he couldn’t, rather than because he really didn’t want to. Not one bit, truth be told. He set off towards his flat, only a few minutes walk away, but he decided to go past Pepper’s house, which was just a few hundred yards further on. If there was light showing in the living room he’d knock quietly, he decided.