Bad Blood (26 page)

‘The girl is a no-go, I am afraid, sir.’ Savage sighed and took a drink from her bottle. ‘I am not sure she is going to come up with anything to help us as regards Fallon.’

‘Damn.’ Hardin continued eating for a couple of minutes. Then he wiped a finger across his lip and licked the tip. ‘Can you give me anything? A glimmer of hope?’

Savage thought about the way Vanessa had set her up with Jackman. No way she could mention any of that to Hardin. The girl was off limits now. She shook her head and followed Hardin’s gaze as he turned and stared out the window again. A double-decker bus threaded its way out from a bus stop, the beam from the headlights reflecting on the wet tarmac. Ahead, another bus was trying to turn into its own stop, but a delivery van was in the way, hazards flashing, not a soul inside to respond to the bus driver’s thump on the horn. Behind, the traffic stretched nose-to-tail all the way down Royal Parade and around the Derry’s Cross roundabout. Dozens of cars stuck in the queue, going nowhere.

‘Gridlock,’ Hardin said.

Then his phone rang.

Savage returned to Crownhill to await news. All Hardin had told her was that two officers from Plymouth had been involved in an RTC on the A38. He didn’t have any names but said you didn’t need to be a bloody detective to work it out. As she had got up to leave the restaurant Hardin took another call, his words of ‘no bloody risk assessment’ all too audible as she walked out.

Back at Crownhill she sat at her desk trying to sort out getting the records for Riley’s mobile phone, but couldn’t even begin to fill in the paperwork. What the hell was going on? Life appeared to be conspiring against her, events running out of control, bad news piling up. Her hand shook as she tried to put her signature to a document, so she gave up.

A few minutes later DC Denton came into her office, the line of the scar on his face white against his flushed cheek. He blurted out confirmation that DC Calter and DC Enders had been in a car crash, along with a taxi driver from Moor to Shore Taxi. The A38 had been closed, he said. The Air Ambulance had attended. It was unclear if there had been any fatalities. The whole thing was a fucking nightmare.

Denton gazed down at his shoes, as if the shine might reveal something in the way a crystal ball does. Nothing doing, he looked up at Savage. ‘God, I hope she’s OK.’

Savage spent the next half hour trying to get the full picture from Derriford Hospital, failing in all the confusion to make sense of anything. An hour later though Enders breezed in, a plaster on the back of his right hand the only indication he had been in an accident.

‘Luck of the Irish, Jane called it.’ Enders said, hunching his shoulders and turning the palms of both hands upwards and looking to the ceiling. ‘Doesn’t explain why I haven’t won the lottery yet, does it?’

Enders went on to say Calter had received a knock on the head, but the doctors had given her the ‘all clear’ and sent her home. Lynn Towner, though, could have done with some Irish luck. When the car had come to a rest she hadn’t had a mark on her. At least at that point. Calter had tried to grab her, but Towner leapt out. She stumbled into the road and was hit by a car. She’d somersaulted over the bonnet and landed in the carriageway where a Tesco lorry ran over both her legs.

‘Oh no,’ Savage groaned. ‘What are her chances?’

‘She’s in ICU, unconscious, intubated. Fifty-fifty she’ll live. Even if she does we won’t get anything out of her for at least a couple of days.’

‘What kind of life if she does survive though?’ Savage said.

‘If you want my opinion she deserves all she gets, ma’am. She was something to do with kidnapping DS Riley. Definitely. Plus she nearly killed me and Jane.’

‘Well let’s hope she lives so she can give us some answers.’ Savage paused for a moment, not wanting to bring the next subject up. ‘Hardin is not best pleased. He has been going on about health and safety. He wanted to find out if I carried out a risk assessment before letting you get into the taxi.’

‘You’re joking, right? “Excuse me Mrs Towner, may I examine your driving licence to check for endorsements? Are you a safe driver? Do you frequent with knowncrimos? Are you likely to want to put a police officer’s life in danger? No? OK, great, please ignore what I just said and act as if nothing has happened. Oh and if you could wait half an hour while I fill this form in and return to the station to shove it up the Super’s arse.”’

‘Well said and I am glad you and Jane are OK.’ Savage patted Enders on the back. ‘Although I suggest you rephrase the last bit of your statement if and when Hardin questions you.’

After the interrogation, Riley had nursed his bruises. His shoulder still hurt and through Monday night and Tuesday he found himself sweating, rivulets trickling down him, soaking his clothing and making him alternately hot and cold. He tried to drink as much as he could in order to prevent dehydration, but the fever brought a delirium which meant it was all he could do to remember to breathe. No one came all through the day, although he heard cars coming and going, voices raised once, Budgeon and someone with a Spanish accent.

Sometime late Tuesday afternoon his fever seemed to diminish, the weather changing too. Rain pattered down outside, forming puddles in the gravel drive, but the air was warmer, no longer quite so icy. With the clouds overhead, the day never really got started and the gloom in the stable didn’t help Riley’s mood.

Budgeon would be back for more information soon and even if Riley gave him everything he wanted it wouldn’t be enough. As the man had said, he didn’t forget. And he certainly wasn’t going to forgive. Riley pondered his options and decided that at some time he’d have to try and jump Budgeon and Stuey. He’d probably fail and they’d probably kill him but it would be better to die trying.

As he began to work out how on earth he’d take them both on, the door rattled and opened. A beam of torchlight scythed its way across the room before settling on him. He held up his hands to try and block the light and see what was beyond. Shadows moved behind the light and he heard the bark of the dog again, the one which sounded big and very bad.

‘Get the hell in there.’ The voice belonged to Stuey and he sounded none too friendly either.

Something tumbled through the open door and fell to the floor with a groan and then the light swivelled away, a voice from the corridor shouting out.

‘Look after him, Riley,’ Stuey said. ‘You wouldn’t want another fuck-up on your hands, would you?’

The door crashed shut, the wooden frame jarring with a crack. The dog barked again, the yapping fading into the distance until there was nothing but the laboured breathing from the crumpled body lying in the straw.

Riley moved out from the corner and crawled across the floor towards the dark outline. The man – and it was a man, that much Riley could tell – breathed with a harsh rasp, wincing at each intake.

‘Alright, mate?’ Riley placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and the man flinched. ‘You’re going to be OK.’

‘London. South of the river. Got that right at least, didn’t I?’ The man let out a grunt which might have been a laugh and then groaned. ‘They broke a couple of ribs, Darius, and they ain’t finished yet.’

‘Kemp. Marty Kemp. How the hell did you …?’ Riley left the question hanging, knowing before the man spoke the answer Kemp was going to give.

‘Circumstances, mate. Bloody circumstances.’

Nr Constantine, Falmouth. Wednesday 23rd January. 7.37 a.m.

Budgeon was at the window again, watching the light creep into the day. Waiting.

The waiting was the part he’d always found hardest. The boredom. Nothing to do but run things round in his mind, try and work out if everything was set up right.

This time he was pretty sure it was. True, Redmond hadn’t squeaked as much as Budgeon would have liked and what Riley had come out with wasn’t much better. In the end it wouldn’t matter. Big K and Lexi were as good as history and the drugs his. He wondered if the pair of them had been as confident all those years back, when they’d sent him up off the motorway. Budgeon hadn’t wanted to go that day. Couldn’t be arsed. Big K and Lexi had insisted.

‘Russian geezer,’ Big K had said. ‘Bristol way. You need to meet him.’

‘Russian? What the fuck? Are we doing business with commies now?’

‘They’re not commies,’ Lexi had said. ‘Not any more. It’s the future, bud. These guys have got money. Believe me. Get in with them and it could open up opportunities. Know what I mean?’

He hadn’t, not really, but he’d gone anyway.

‘Take Stuey,’ Big K had said. ‘Just in case.’

Stuey went everywhere with him those days. Fucking loon, but there wasn’t a piece of yellow in him. In a scrape Stuey’d sooner end up with his head kicked in than give an inch.

‘Russians,’ Stuey says, grinning as he ducks into the passenger seat of the Beemer, bottle of vodka in hand. ‘Monster drinkers, so I’ve heard.’

With Stuey along it’s as well to keep within the speed limits. No need to draw unnecessary attention. Exeter, Taunton, Bridgewater. Stop for a slash and an early pint. Back at the car, whistle at some pussy walking past. Jeans like they’d grown on her, arse that could launch a thousand ships.

‘Have a gander at that, Stuey. Imagine her bent over the bonnet.’

Stuey laughs, imagining her bent over the bonnet. All he can do, imagine. The way he looks, he wants action, he has to pay or blag a freebie off one of Big K’s girls.

Off again, pushing onward. Somewhere after that a mirror full of blue lights and a cop car alongside too, the gesture from the officer in the passenger seat to pull over.

‘Calm, Stuey, calm.’

Indicate. Move to nearside lane. Hard shoulder. One car in front, one behind. Doors opening, these officers not Traffic. Talking of traffic, where is it? The motorway has gone quiet in both directions. Not a car to be seen.

They are walking back now, one with a pistol, one with a semi. Behind, in the other car, the officers sit, waiting. No chance of a sneaky getaway.

‘Calm, Stuey, calm.’

Shouting from a distance.

‘Get out of the car.’

‘What?’ No words, just a mime, hand cupped to ear as if it is a struggle to hear the officer’s instructions.

Closer. The guy with the pistol has a stance like the man has been watching too many US cop shows. To the side now. Standing in the centre of the carriageway. Flattened if they hadn’t stopped the traffic.

Hands up. Surrender. Sort of – because one hand is sneaking down again, feeling beneath the seat for something cold, heavy, comforting. Then pulling the gun out and up and going for the door handle with the other hand.

The side window crazes like frosted glass. Bang comes later. Lying back in the seat. Head sticky. Lucid, but not moving. World going all funny, colours like taking an acid trip in a cinema.

Another officer approaching on Stuey’s side, Stuey’s hands held high.

‘You’re hit, Ricky,’ Stuey says. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

‘Calm, Stuey, calm.’ Still able to speak, but the words slurred. Not acid now, more like having done a bottle of Scotch.

Click.

Stuey has opened the door. He’s getting out.

‘Hands where I can see them,’ the officer says.

Stuey obliges and thrusts them high. Stupidly high. He is so tall and thin that it looks almost comical, as if Stuey is one of those toy dolls you can pull to any length. Stretch Armstrong. Was that the name? Stretch-fucking-Stuey.

Laughing now. Is this the acid trip, the bottle of Scotch or real life? There’s snot trickling out, blood flowing down over one eye, all the while Stuey getting longer and taller and thinner.

Stuey wiggles his fingers, like he is in some chorus line. He just needs a garter and stockings, some sort of ragtime fucking piano backing track. For a split second the officer looks up, distracted.

Funny thing, time. When a minute should last forever it’s gone in a flash, when hours need to fly by, they drag like a weight pulled up a steepening hill.

Right now the few hundredths of a second the policeman takes are quite enough. Stuey’s right arm moves down in a jerk, catches the knife that appears in thin air. Magic. Or possibly hidden up his sleeve. Stuey’s right leg comes up. Something the lad learnt from watching too many Bruce Lee movies. Roundhouse kick. Snap. His foot connects with the officer’s arm, the semi-automatic weapon flicking upwards. Now, in slow motion, Stuey’s hand moves down and slices across, finds flesh beneath the stab vest.

The pair of them fall over together, Stuey slicing again and then reaching in with his other hand and pulling and pulling. Tug of war, except Stuey’s definitely on the winning team.

Trouble is the other officer has come round to help his buddy.

‘You’re a fucking dead man!’

His pistol is right up against Stuey’s head, but the bang doesn’t come. The gun has jammed. Instead the officer smashes the weapon into Stuey’s skull. Once, twice, three times.

Poor old Stuey is out for the count, lying next to the other officer, head resting on the man’s guts. Soft, better than the hard concrete. Stands to reason doesn’t it? The police are the good guys, considerate. Nothing too much for old Stuey and Ricky. Probably just pulled them over for a dodgy brake light. Even now things have gone a little sour they’ve found the time to give Stuey a nice comfy pillow.

Light is fading now, like the day just got speeded up somehow. Evening. Twilight. Sleep.

And sleep was the one thing that didn’t come easy any more. Tossing and turning. Thinking back. Streaks of light shooting in the dark. A tracer bullet bringing searing pain.

What had the doctor said? Acu-bloody-puncture? Well they’d tried that on Redmond, Stuey-style. It hadn’t helped much.

The sun pierced the horizon, rays like that bullet. Budgeon scrunched his eyes against the brightness, feeling sandpaper scrape across them. He clenched his fists and let out a growl of rage against the dawn, against the whole fucking world.