Big City Jacks (28 page)

‘I'm sure that'll be fine, too.'

Henry wasn't so sure, but he said nothing about his doubts. ‘I hear you're down to investigate that cock-up at Lancaster Crown, that GMP job that went shit-shape.'

‘Mm.' FB looked along his nose at Henry. ‘Partly why I've come to see you.' Henry waited. ‘I'm putting a small team together to look at the allegations. I'd like you to head it.'

The revelation took Henry aback. ‘I'd relish it,' he admitted, feeling himself swell at little, ‘but I'd be struggling at the moment. This job's taking all my time. I don't see much slack ahead, not enough for a job like that, anyway.'

‘Whatever, I'll be wanting you to head the inquiry team,' FB said as though he hadn't heard Henry's position. ‘You'll have to make the time – one way or the other.'

Henry found his teeth were grinding, something they did quite often in FB's company. His swell had also deflated. ‘OK,' he said unsurely.

‘You need to be up and ready first thing next week – that's when I'll be in a position to get going fully. That OK?'

‘Have to be, won't it?'

FB smiled and downed the last dregs of espresso. Henry finished the latte and they set off back for the nick. As they walked side by side along Bacup Road, Henry towering over the rotund figure of the chief, Henry's mobile rang.

‘What the hell is that ring tone?' FB demanded.

‘“Jumpin' Jack Flash”.'

‘Is it a work phone?'

‘Yep.' Henry extracted it from his jacket pocket.

‘In that case get something more appropriate.'

‘What? Scooby Doo?' The phone went to his ear. ‘Henry Christie . . . yep . . . yep . . . email me now . . . Good . . . thanks.' He ended the call and bunched his fists triumphantly. ‘Forensic submissions, the little darlings. The DNA has come up trumps. Positive ID.'

Two other people up and about early that morning were Teddy Bear Jackman and Tony Cromer. They were at their local gym by six thirty a.m., working out for an intense half hour before hitting the road at seven fifteen a.m. They wanted to make a call on someone. A surprise call.

Rafiq Ali was an Asian gentleman who owned a dozen corner shop convenience stores in the Bolton area, all opening from six in the morning to midnight. They were all profitable businesses in their own right, but not as profitable as the drug empire he ran on the same lines – small and local – nor the prostitution business in which he specialized in providing young, very beautiful Asian girls and boys to clients with big wallets and small consciences.

Rufus Sweetman had paid Ali little attention over the years because their markets were in different areas. Ali concentrated on Asian kids, where the drug addiction rate was phenomenal, whereas Sweetman – who was an out and out racist anyway – dealt mainly with the white population. Sweetman had a feeling, though, that Ali was expanding his turf and that an early visit by his two negotiators and influencers would not go amiss.

Ali lived in luxury in a row of terraced houses in Bolton which he had converted into one huge abode. Jackman and Cromer knew he wasn't to be found there that morning. They had been told he had been gambling in Manchester and had holed up for the night in one of Manchester's top hotels. It was there they headed that morning.

Their idea was to pin him down in his suite, but as they drove into the underground car park below the hotel, they spotted Ali walking quickly across the concrete towards his motor, a Porsche.

‘Wonder if some bastard tipped him off,' Jackman mused.

‘Who cares – he's ours,' said Cromer.

Always ready and adaptable, accepting change as it came their way, they went for him.

Actually the first inkling that Ali got that something was amiss was the revving engine, the squeal of tyres and the approach of a car travelling far too fast for the circumstances.

Ali reacted immediately. He made a mad rush towards his sports car.

But then he had a moment of hesitation.

Was his car the best place to be? Or should he turn and leg it back to the lift? Or the stairs? Or maybe he should play hide and seek amongst the parked vehicles? Try to get up on to the street and disappear on foot?

His early-morning brain did its best to prioritize these options, but unfortunately they all got horribly clogged up, mangled and twisted. In the end the analysis led him to paralysis. He dropped his arms uselessly and stood there as the car screeched to a halt in front of him. Jackman and Cromer piled out of the car, unable to believe their good fortune.

Ali raised his hands and braced himself for the inevitable punch.

Find out how they lived, find out how they died. So very, very true, thought Henry once again, as he, Jane Roscoe and the chief constable raked through everything that was suddenly pouring in about Keith Arthur Snell. And there was a lot of it.

It would have been interesting to have worked their detailed way forwards from Snell's birth in 1978 to the present day, but that was something the intelligence cell could pull together. What Henry needed was a pen picture of the man, his known associates, any next of kin and how he had lived his life most recently.

Henry had already pinned up an A4 photo of the dead man on the wall of the MIR, blown up from a fairly recent mugshot, adjacent to the CSI shots from the crime scene. Henry, Roscoe and FB – whose detective instincts had been revitalized and who would not piss off in spite of Henry's subtle suggestions – had read and reread everything that had been sent through to them from the intelligence department. The SIO – Henry – now wanted to pull it together, to get the snapshot of Snell.

‘OK, so what've we got?' Henry said, wanting to move on this. ‘Keith Snell, twenty-six years old, born Cheetham Hill 1978. In and out of various institutions all his life. From a broken home, no family to speak of, no one particularly interested in him. Been thieving since he was eight, string of convictions for shoplifting and burglary. In and out of youth offender institutes, then prison since twenty-one. Chuck in lots of fines, probation orders, community service orders.'

‘Pretty much a pain in the arse,' FB offered. ‘Not bright, not Mr Big, probably not a full shilling.'

‘Yeah, you're right,' Henry agreed. He looked down at his scribbled notes. ‘Moved into drugs in his mid-teens. Cannabis busts, coke, then becomes a registered heroin addict by the age of nineteen.'

‘So he's part of the Manchester drugs scene in some way, shape or form,' Roscoe said. ‘Even if he's only one of its victims.'

Henry nodded, glancing through the long list of Snell's previous convictions from PNC. ‘These all start off pretty tame . . . smacks of crime being committed to pay for drugs – shoplifting, snatch thefts . . .'

‘But it escalates,' FB pointed out, ‘probably as his addiction intensifies.'

‘Yep. Snatch thefts lead to street robbery . . . more and more desperate,' Roscoe said. ‘Then on to armed robbery.'

The details of the offences downloaded from the PNC were sketchy. In order to fill in the blanks, a visit to Greater Manchester Police was necessary.

‘What are we looking at here?' Henry asked, although he had reached his own conclusion.

‘Drug debts,' FB suggested. Roscoe nodded.

Henry nodded. ‘Could be. The thick plottens,' he added and took a pause. ‘OK, we need a place of abode, next of kin, known associates . . . I feel a cross-border visit coming on and a good long look in GMP's intelligence files.'

FB murmured something inaudibly and thoughtfully. He was reading through the details of all the arrests of Snell. Then he spoke up. ‘He was arrested about a week ago and lodged in the cells at the Arena police station . . . according to this he wasn't charged with anything . . . Interesting . . .' He glanced at Henry, a gleam in his eye. ‘You know it's my policy for high-ranking officers, including myself, to get out and about with the plebs . . . sorry, operational staff.' He grinned at Roscoe. ‘So, on that basis I think I might just come along to Manchester with you, just to see how things are at the pointy end these days.'

Henry frowned. ‘Who said I was going to Manchester?'

‘I did.'

The gigantic claw-like grab descended from the sky. Its talons settled almost gently around the body of the Porsche. There was the briefest of pauses – a moment when it seemed as though this was just a huge joke – and then, with a powerful jerk, the claw tightened its grip and sank its talons into the gleaming bodywork of the £70,000 car.

‘Jesus, you fucking idiots,' wailed Rafiq Ali. But he was helpless and anyway, Jackman and Cromer just laughed as the grab took good hold and the crane lifted the sports car high into the air. Ali's bloodshot eyes rose with it, disbelief changing to devastation. ‘Bastards.'

‘I thought you were a Muslim?' Cromer said. ‘Shouldn't you say “Allah!”'

‘Fuck you!' Ali spat, his eyes still transfixed by the upward journey of his beautiful thoroughbred. ‘I'll kill you for this.'

‘Oooh!' Cromer said. ‘These top crims are really sensitive about their cars, aren't they?'

‘You guys are dead,' Ali snarled, but there was nothing he could personally do at this moment. His hands were pinned behind him, tied at the wrists with plastic handcuffs, the figures of Cromer and Jackman on either side, making him powerless.

The Porsche swung overhead. The crane operator gleefully following the instructions given to him. Through an arc of 180 degrees it travelled, then came to a halt swaying gently in the air as though pushed by the breeze. The operator looked down for the nod.

Which was given to him by Cromer.

The four claws opened simultaneously. The Porsche dropped from the sky – right into the open, expectant jaws of the vehicle crusher below. For a few moments nothing happened. There was silence across the scrapyard. Then a motor started up, a powerful, throbbing one, building up the pressure in the massive pistons which were used to force the crusher shut.

The jaws wrapped around the Porsche, slowly, ponderously, starting to crush the car with a horrible crumpling sound.

‘You fuckers!' wailed Ali. ‘My car.'

Teddy Bear Jackman punched Ali very hard in the lower gut – one of his favourite blows. His fat, bunched fist rammed expertly into the soft underbelly of the gangster, doubling him up and sending him to his knees, then on to his face. For good measure, Jackman kicked him in the head, then bent down and dragged him back up to his feet, where he managed to retain a staggering balance. Jackman then took hold of Ali's elbow and steered him across the scrapyard towards a tower of scrap vehicle shells, stacked precariously on top of each other. Cromer followed, petrol can in hand.

Two huge tractor tyres, one on top of the other, lay by the foot of the dead car tower.

‘Climb in there.' Jackman pushed Ali towards the tyres. The Asian looked quizzical. ‘In,' Jackman explained. ‘Leg over, get in, yeah?'

Puzzled, still reeling from the punch and blow to the head, Ali clambered over the tyres and dropped into the rubber circle.

‘Stand up.'

‘Look, guys, what the shit's going on, man?'

‘You have something belonging to our boss,' Cromer declared confidently.

‘Like what?'

‘Cocaine. Lots of it. You robbed it from him on Birch Services.'

‘I did hell. You are wrong there.'

‘Here – stick this over your head,' Cromer said.

‘What . . . why . . .?'

Jackman looped a worn motorcycle tyre over Ali's head and shoulders. The tyre settled around him, pulling his arms tight into his side. Jackman quickly dropped a further two similar tyres around him, straightjacketing him

Ali's eyes were wide with fear. ‘What're you going to do?'

‘They used to do this in South Africa, didn't they – to the blacks . . .? Jeez, I can't remember what they call it,' Jackman said, annoyed he could not bring it to mind.

Ali began to struggle like a wild man, started to scream.

Cromer stood up on the tractor tyres and splashed petrol over their captive. Ali ducked, tried to avoid it, but could not. Within moments he was well doused, fumes starting to rise.

‘Four-star, this,' Cromer said. ‘You can't just get it anywhere, these days.'

‘You wouldn't,' Ali dared them.

Cromer gave him a wan smile. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a box of matches, lit one, held it in the air. The breeze extinguished it almost immediately. Cromer shook his head. ‘I still can't remember what they called it.'

‘Murder, I think,' Jackman suggested with a titter.

Cromer laughed.

Ali sank to his knees, trapped by the tyres, soaked by the petrol. ‘I don't know anything,' he sobbed. ‘I don't fucking know.'

Cromer lit another match, again allowing it to blow out in the breeze.

Jackman's mobile rang. He fumbled in his pockets for it.

‘Best be careful with that,' Cromer warned him. ‘They don't let you use them on petrol station forecourts, you know. Risk of sparks, apparently.'

Jackman shrugged and answered it anyway.

Cromer shuffled another match out of the box. He held its red tip to the striking side of the box, waited for Jackman to finish the call, which, after a few muffled responses, he did, then looked at his partner.

‘OK,' Cromer said to Ali. ‘I let those last two matches go out on purpose. This one, I won't, so, care to start talking, Ali Bongo, old mate?'

Devastated by terror, Ali was now speechless. All he could do was kneel there and shake his head and cry.

‘They burn people when they're dead where you come from, don't they? Then float them down the Ganges,' Cromer said, laughing harshly. ‘Oops, but I forget . . . you come from Bradford, don't you? Anyway, the best we can do for you is set you on fire while you're still alive, then maybe dump your body in the River Irwell. Not exactly the holy river, but it'll have to do.'