Seizure (25 page)

‘And he has a history of using firearms.'

‘You do the sums, you're the detective, right?'

‘Right,' Henry said, storing this away, ‘but why did Deakin go to all that trouble to diversify? Did he need the money to prop up his drug business, which presumably was wobbling while he was locked up?' Sharon said nothing. Henry regarded her. ‘Why did Dick's brother tell you to talk to me?'

In return she regarded him. ‘Because he'd be a dead man if he got a visit from the cops while he was in prison. He's already suffered because he was Dick's brother. He wanted me to tell you he's pretty sure Deakin had Jack 'n' Dick killed.'

‘Why did he get hammered?'

‘To encourage Dick to straighten out the money thing.'

‘OK,' Henry said. He waited. ‘What do you know?'

‘Look – I'm no snitch and nor is Jamie, not even on Deakin. Not usually, anyway, because anyone who grasses on him suffers, yeah? Get my drift?'

‘Loud and clear.'

‘But I know here . . .' – she held the palm of her right hand over her heart – ‘that he killed Dick and Jack over the money from the robberies. Money which I don't know where it is, yeah?' she said in a convoluted manner. Henry nodded, didn't believe a word, said nothing. ‘But I pretty much resent being firebombed out of my house on top of all that, so he deserves someone to grass on him.'

Henry guggled encouragingly, hoping a point was about to be reached.

Then she said, ‘Point is, I know why Deakin went into the robbery business so late in the day.'

Henry's arse twitched again. ‘That would be?'

‘He needs cash – and robbery's a pretty good way of getting shitloads of it if you have the bottle. Pullin' a blag takes a real sorta bottle – I mean a real job, not a poxy off-licence or something. Just the sorta numb-headed bottle that Dick and Jack had. It's all they'd done all their wasted lives. Fuckin' robbed people, or robbed people for other people. They loved the buzz.'

Henry was intrigued. Not by the antecedents of the two dead robbers, who were probably now causing havoc for the devil, but why Deakin needed money and fast. He had a good idea, but he was keen to get this overweight dumpling estranged wife of a dead bank robber to confirm what he thought he knew.

‘Go on then, Sharon – why has he turned to robbery?' Henry urged her. It was obvious she had picked up his eagerness and she was now playing him like a flounder. She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together – the international sign that meant ‘cash'.

‘How much?' she said.

‘How much for what?'

‘Good information.'

Henry sat back. A spring stuck in his back. ‘Let me ask you something, Sharon. Do you believe Deakin ordered the hit on your husband because they'd fallen out about money?'

‘Estranged husband,' she corrected him. ‘Yes, I do – and I also know that Dick and Jack met with Mr Creep himself, Barry Baron, a couple of days before their bodies were found – to discuss matters, is what Dick told me. I never saw him again after that meeting.'

‘Why didn't you tell this to the detectives who've already spoken to you? You hardly said anything in your statement.'

Her lips twisted slightly. ‘'Cos at that stage of the game I was keepin' me head down. Then I got the nasty visit: “Where's the money?” “Don't know.” Then my house got firebombed – and luckily I was out back havin' a fag and I realized I was in danger because they obviously didn't believe me. Listen,' she leaned towards Henry, ‘If I knew where the dosh was, I'd be off to the Costa, not sat waiting for a Molotov cocktail to come flyin' through the window.'

‘Fifty quid?' Henry suggested.

She snarled. ‘Two-fifty. Remember I'm a single penniless widow, on benefits and no income from a dead husband who never worked in his life, except for being a robber.'

‘I haven't got that sort of money on me.'

‘It's worth it,' she promised.

‘Come with me to a cashpoint. Down to Bacup town centre. I'll withdraw it and pay you.' Although she was playing an agonising game with him, his cop instinct told him this was transitory. She needed to be kept sweet. It would be worth it.

‘OK.' She rose with difficulty, hitching up her tracksuit bottoms over her wide waist.

‘I need to know, though, Sharon,' Henry said. She scowled at him and puffed cigarette smoke out of her nostrils like a dragon. She pounded out the fag end in the overflowing ashtray. ‘Deacon's raking in money – yeah? Getting it in fast. Why? Bad debts or what? Come on, tell me. I won't welch on the money.'

She stared at him. He saw that her eyes were actually devastatingly beautiful. Emerald green, oriental looking.

‘Like I told the git that came to lean on me, I don't know where the money is, but I know exactly what the bastard's up to – 'cos it's an open secret in the clink, according to Jamie.'

Henry's mind jarred. ‘You told your unwanted visitor you didn't know where the money from the robbery was stashed, but you knew why Deakin wanted it?'

‘I just said I did – as I was chucking him out of the house.'

‘In the heat of that moment, did you mention you were going to tell the police what you knew?'

‘Might've threatened it, but I didn't mean it at the time.'

‘And then you got firebombed – at what time of day did you get firebombed?'

‘About midnight.'

‘When you should have been tucked up in bed?'

‘Suppose so.'

‘But you were out having a fag and you weren't hurt?'

‘Like I said. Why?'

‘Do you think they wanted to kill you or just scare you?'

‘Kill me,' she guessed thinly, starting to see where Henry was going with this.

‘And you're still alive.'

They stared at each other as the implications settled on her brain.

‘I don't think he's finished with you, Sharon. I might be wrong, but I think it might be as well if you get your things together and come with me. You need some protection. Where's your kiddie?'

‘Out with sis – should be back in an hour. Do you really think . . .?'

‘Tell me why Deacon's after the money, Sharon.'

‘Run money,' she said.

And those two words completed Henry's jigsaw.

‘Shit,' he said. ‘You need to be in a place of safety.' He stood up.

‘Oh, get to fuck!'

‘OK: scenario. You tell the heavy you don't know where the money is. Then as you kick his arse out of the door, you tell him you know what Deacon's up to and that you're going to tell the cops. This gets reported back to Deakin,' Henry waved his hands expressively to accompany his hypothesis, ‘and next thing you know – boom – firebombed! At a time of day when you should've been asleep, perhaps the only time ever a fag has saved somebody's life. Seriously, Sharon, do you think that's the end of it?' He looked closely at her. ‘Get your stuff together, call your sister if she has a mobile, arrange a meet and we'll pick up your kid. If I found you with one phone call, it won't take long for them to find you.'

‘You're a fuckin' drama queen, Mr Christie.'

They faced each other over the turd-filled potty on the carpet.

‘But you know what I'm saying is true. Next question is – when is Deakin going to run?'

Henry glanced towards the large front window. He registered that it was a single-glazed unit with a wooden frame which was rotting and that the petrol bomb arcing towards it, thrown from the right hand of the hooded figure standing on the front lawn, would easily smash the thin glass. Particularly as it was a milk bottle taped to half a house brick. And as it spun spectacularly through the air like an oversized Catherine wheel, the blue petrol flames whipping around, the figure hurled another one immediately. Two petrol bombs were about to smash through the window.

Henry saw they were well aimed – a calculation confirmed as the first one hit the centre of the window and crashed through into the lounge.

Sharon emitted an ear-piercing howl of terror as the first bottle smashed and the petrol exploded with a
whump
.

Henry twisted back to her, grabbed her tracksuit top and heaved her to the door as the second bottle exploded and the room was instantly filled with flames.

He bundled Sharon out of the door, pushing her roughly through the space while feeling a smack-smack-smack on his back as he was splattered with globules of burning fuel. Then one hit him on the back of his neck with the force of an airgun pellet.

He screamed as he fell through the door behind her.

She lost her footing, stumbled, twisted and overbalanced in front of him. Henry's weak right knee gave way as he contorted and the pair of them fell in an untidy heap in the narrow hallway. Henry landed slap-bang on top of Sharon, whose legs parted accommodatingly. And again, as Henry's mind was prone to do in the most inappropriate circumstances, he pictured himself making love to her, but the terrible burning on his neck ensured he didn't dwell on this image.

He was on fire.

Flaming petrol had sprayed on to his back and started to burn his jacket.

He reared off Sharon – was that a look of disappointment in her eyes? – thumped on to his knees beside her.

‘You're fucking burning,' she yelled.

Henry knew he had two things to do.

First, despite the flames sizzling on his back, he launched himself at the living-room door and slammed it shut to contain the flames. Next he dragged his jacket off, now melting with fire, hurled it to the floor and stamped on it, dancing like a madman to extinguish the flames. At the same time he smacked the back of his neck with the flat of his hand to douse the fire on his skin. Hell, that hurt.

Sharon got to her feet, stunned, hitching up her trackie bottoms again, but not before Henry glimpsed most of her backside and the thong wedged up the crack.

As he continued to jump up and down on his jacket, he realized the need to call the fire service, but only when he felt his mobile phone, in one of his jacket pockets, crunch underfoot.

‘Get out of here,' he said. He picked up his ragged jacket, spun Sharon round and propelled her towards the kitchen. And let me catch that bastard out there, he thought.

He shoved past Sharon, who seemed to be whirling around in circles, and headed for the side door, bursting out on to the driveway that ran up the side of the house. He ran to the front – but stopped in his tracks at the corner of the house. He expected to find the guy who'd thrown the firebombs to have legged it, either in a car or on foot, but he was completely wrong.

The one who'd thrown the bombs stood at the bottom of the drive – hooded, slightly built, wearing a black top and jeans. But an accomplice, a bigger chap, flanked him, similarly dressed. And both brandished sawn-off shotguns, held at hip level.

Henry cursed. He'd been right. The job on Sharon hadn't been finished and they were back. Probably just two hired thugs, nothing more than kids wanting to make names for themselves. Nevertheless, just as dangerous as a professional assassin. Maybe more so, because they would be reckless and wouldn't give a monkey's about collateral damage. And on top of that, they wouldn't know Henry was a cop . . . not that that seemed to matter much in the present day.

The smaller guy jerked back a trigger and fired.

Henry dropped to the right, rolled, was up and racing back to the kitchen door as the two guys advanced menacingly. He shot back into the kitchen and slammed the door behind him, sliding the chain lock on and turning to Sharon.

‘Two with shotguns,' he gasped.

Just to confirm this, two figures appeared at the other side of the door, their outlines misted by the frosted glass, but not so difficult to make out that Henry couldn't see one of them raise his weapon.

Henry ducked and staggered across the kitchen as the window dissolved behind him, spraying the room with a shower of glass and buckshot. He forced Sharon back through and closed the kitchen door, catching a glance of the sawn-off stock of a shotgun being used to smash out the remnants of the broken window and a gloved hand come through to slide the chain lock free.

They were only seconds behind.

As the inner kitchen door clicked shut, it exploded as another shotgun blast peppered the wood.

Henry twisted into the hallway with Sharon and one burning room ahead of him – and the front door down at the end of the hall. The door to the dining room was to the left.

‘In there now,' he ordered Sharon and gesticulated at the dining room.

She moved faster than she'd probably ever done in her life as another shotgun blast took out most of what remained of the kitchen door. The blast whipped past Henry's face.

He turned and raced down the hallway, hoping to hell the front door was unlocked. The last thing he wanted was to be found trying to yank it open as the two guys stepped into the hall.

Mercifully it was open.

Henry went out and slammed it hard behind him, hoping they would think their prey had legged it out with him, hoping too it would give him some advantage.

Outside he had another inappropriate thought: run to safety.

But he didn't. As a tongue of flame licked out through the front window up the dormer, Henry stood for a moment, then bent down and scooped up the wheel brace he'd noticed on arriving at the house, next to the three-wheeled Ford Fiesta. With his back to the wall of the house, getting a good grip on the piece of iron, he sidled quickly up to the kitchen door and turned in. The gunmen were four steps ahead of him, their backs to him; one stood behind the other, the lead guy being in the hallway. Henry guessed they were debating their next move. He didn't know – but what he did know was that he was in a dangerous situation which could turn fatal if he hesitated even momentarily about his next move.