Big City Jacks (3 page)

‘Bleedin' kids, joyridin' bastards,' snarled the owner of the car. ‘I've had it nicked a few times, but it always turns up eventually. No doubt it'll get torched sometime.' His anger turned to resignation, the sad attitude of a repeat crime victim past caring. He was a big, unshaven man with a massive beer gut hanging over the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms, wearing a grubby vest and zip-up slippers. ‘Bloody thing's droppin' t' pieces anyway.'

‘How much is it worth?' the police officer taking the report inquired.

‘Coupla 'undred, maybe less,' the man pouted thoughtfully. ‘No great loss, just means I'm walkin' t' work tomorrow.'

‘OK,' the officer said, ‘let's get this right . . .' He checked his notes. ‘Blue Ford Escort Fresco, registered number . . .' He reeled off the details to verify them, then said, ‘OK, I'll get it circulated right away.'

‘Whatever,' the owner shrugged.

The officer returned to his patrol car and settled in next to his shift partner who had not bothered to get out for such a mundane job. He radioed the details in and a communications operator took them down, circulated them locally, then forcewide across Manchester, then entered them on the Police National Computer. Having done this, the operator stood up, stretched and mouthed, ‘Going for a pee,' to his colleague on the adjacent console.

He made his way to an empty office and picked up a phone.

‘It's me.'

‘Any news?'

‘The car has just been reported stolen.'

‘It is a legit report?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did you sort out the you-know-whats?'

‘I did – they're safe and sound.'

‘Good . . . keep me informed of any developments.'

* * *

By the time Keith Snell drove into Blackpool ninety minutes later, he was shivering and sweating and beginning to hallucinate. He needed something desperately – and he knew where he was going to get it. He came off the M55 at Marton Circle and drove down Blackpool's back roads on to Shoreside Estate.

After a couple of fruitless drive-arounds, he found the house he was searching for and pulled up outside. He heaved the money bag on to his shoulder and stumbled down the short pathway to the front door, smacking it loudly with the palm of his hand.

Inside he could hear the TV blaring out loudly, and voices.

Eventually the door opened. A teenage girl stood there in a skimpy T-shirt exposing a diamond-studded belly button and tight shorts. She was chewing and sneered at Keith. ‘Yeah?'

‘Troy? Is Troy here?' he gasped.

‘Who wants to know?'

‘I'm Keith Snell . . . he's a mate. I need to speak to him . . .'

A figure appeared behind the girl and barked, ‘Fuck off out the way!'

‘Troy . . . mate,' Keith wheezed as the man shouldered the young girl out of the way.

‘What the hell are you doin' here?' There was suspicion in the voice.

‘Man . . .' Keith extended his arms, palms outward. ‘I need somewhere to doss, man, somewhere I can get my head together . . . and I really, really, need some shit.' The sports bag rolled off his shoulder and crashed to the ground, the zip bursting and revealing the shotgun resting on wads of cash.

It hit the spot with alacrity and immediately Keith started to feel mellow and warm, like he was sitting in front of a gas fire. It also pleased him he had not had to break into his own stash. He exhaled and relaxed for the first time in hours. His head lolled back and his mouth opened. ‘Jesus . . . fuck . . .' he said slowly, then, ‘Ahhh . . . this is good shit, man, real good.' Gently he extracted the hypodermic needle from the well-accessed vein at his elbow.

Troy Costain stood at the end of the bed and watched Keith shoot up, then experience the drug which Troy knew to be – as Keith had indeed verified – very good quality indeed.

‘Nice one, man,' Keith said coolly, rolling back on to the bed and closing his eyes dreamily.

Troy had bundled Keith away from his house and into his own car after instructing one of his cousins to dump the stolen car in which his friend had turned up. Troy had driven the increasingly nervous, almost delirious man down to North Shore in Blackpool where he knew he could find some accommodation. Troy knew exactly where to go and within twenty minutes had escorted his friend into a very dubious bed-and-breakfast establishment not far from the back of the Imperial Hotel on the promenade.

He had provided Keith with another free sample, remaining with him whilst he mainlined it.

Troy knew this would loosen Keith's tongue. He was intrigued by the contents of the sports bag, particularly the money. It looked a substantial amount and his antenna had extended with interest.

He perched on the end of the bed as Keith continued to make orgasmic sounds whilst the drug permeated all points of his system. He watched with a sneer of disgust on his face. Troy dealt drugs, having recently gravitated from ecstasy to much more potent substances, but he did not use them himself. He was in the trade for profit, not for pain.

‘How's it going?'

‘Good . . . yeah,' breathed Keith. ‘Like it.'

‘Do you want to talk?' Costain suggested slyly.

‘About what?'

‘Why you're in sin city, why you called on me, and why I'm helping you.'

‘No, no, it's right.'

‘No it's not, Keith. You need to be speaking to me because I think you're going to need me, aren't you? I can put two and two together.' Troy's voice was soothing and cajoling at the same time.

The Costain family lived and operated from a large semi-detached council house on the Shoreside Estate in Blackpool. They were numerous and claimed descendency from the Romanies and also had a stranglehold on the estate via their intimidatory tactics, burglary, thieving and now, through Troy, drug dealing. The youngsters in the family ran wild on the estate and two of them, Roy and Renata Costain, sixteen-year-old twin cousins of Troy, were being hounded by the cops, desperate to make the two little rascals subjects of Antisocial Behaviour Orders. It was to Roy that Troy had entrusted the dumping of the stolen Ford Escort.

Troy had given him specific instructions. ‘Just get it off the estate, dump it, fire it, and nothing else, OK? Do not fuck around, just do what I say, OK?'

Roy could hardly keep a smile off his face. ‘How much?'

‘Tenner.'

‘Oh – OK.' Roy extended his greedy, grubby paw.

When Troy disappeared with his spaced-out junkie friend, Keith, Roy got into the car and twisted the screwdriver. He drove away with glee and cruised the estate until he found Renata hanging out with a group of like-minded girls on a street corner. ‘Get in,' he shouted. Without a moment's hesitation or one question, she was in the front passenger seat. Renata was the girl who had answered the door to Keith earlier.

‘Spin time,' he said.

‘Yes!' she responded, clenching her fists.

He stepped on the accelerator and skidded away from the kerb. ‘Bit of a shit heap,' he observed, ‘but it'll do.' He veered back across the kerb, mounted the footpath and gunned the decrepit vehicle half-on/half-off the footpath.

Renata screamed with hysterical laughter.

When Troy Costain left Keith, his friend had slipped into a deep slumber. Troy had waited until he was certain Keith was well gone before peeking into the sports bag and inspecting the contents. His heart skipped a beat or two at the sight of all that money and the deadly looking firearm.

Troy, however, touched nothing – despite his urge to gather all the dosh into his hands and disappear with it.

Instead, troubled by what he had seen and what Keith had told him, he backed quietly out of the room, wondering if he could profit in any way from the knowledge he possessed. He walked slowly down the dingy, mouldy corridor of the guest house, his mind in turmoil, his loyalties being tested to the limit.

At four minutes past midnight Blackpool was buzzing with crowds of punters moving from pub to club, all watched over by the cynical eyes of a few pairs of patrolling police officers. One such pair found themselves parked on the promenade in the wide open space between the colourful entrance to Central pier and the tram tracks which ran north–south down the promenade.

For Blackpool it had been a fairly quiet evening, even though at the last count there were forty-two jobs outstanding on the log in the communications room. Most could wait, some needed attention, but even so, this duo of officers had told comms a lie (that they were busy) and had decided to chill out for a few minutes (by watching the ladies of the night tootle by).

Neither officer had been particularly motivated by their work that evening. Most of it had been boringly mundane and they were hoping that something interesting – and fun – might happen. A good fight, maybe; perhaps a sudden death or a good car crash. What they didn't realize was that they were about to get a combination of the latter two.

They had sat in silence watching the crazy world called Blackpool speed past their windscreen as they faced the traffic lights at the junction of the prom and New Bonny Street, quite close to the central police station.

Then both officers shot bolt upright in their seats as they simultaneously clocked the blue Ford Escort which had stopped at the red lights, then kangarooed through, heading north, when they changed to green.

Even from a distance of twenty-five metres and with the road lit only by street lights and the windows of the car reflecting the bright glare of Blackpool's myriad coloured lights, both men recognized the driver and passenger.

‘The cocky little shits!' one said.

Their blue lights flicked on and the police car slotted in behind the Escort which, as expected, accelerated.

That ‘something interesting' they had wished and hoped for was about to happen.

‘Yes!' Triumphantly Roy Costain punched the air, looking over his shoulder, his eyes a-gleam with excitement. ‘The plods are with us . . . hold on,' he warned Renata, who had a grim smile on her face, heart pounding with the rush of adrenaline. The chase was on and both of them loved it to bits.

Her right hand slid across to Roy's thigh and she jammed the edge of it up into his crotch.

Roy dragged the gear lever down into second and slammed his foot down on the gas pedal. The old car responded quite well, actually.

Behind them, the police siren came on in accompaniment to the blue lights.

‘Stolen earlier tonight from the Greater Manchester area,' the comms operator informed the two officers on the tail of the Ford Escort in response to their PNC enquiry.

‘Bingo!' the driver blurted.

‘Doncha just lurv it when a plan comes together?' his mate said, rubbing his hands together. Into his radio he said calmly, ‘We are behind this vehicle now, heading north along the prom, just gone past Talbot Square. It looks like he doesn't want to stop.'

‘Roger that,' the operator said.

‘We're taking up a following position,' the officer doing the radio said, very aware of the force pursuit policy.

The comms operator started to direct other patrols to the area.

Traffic was light on the promenade and it was easy for Roy to put his foot down in the battered Escort as there was nothing to get in his way. He was going to enjoy himself and then get into a position where he could ditch the car and leg it with Renata. He knew there was a good chance he would get locked up for it at some stage but that did not bother him unduly. In fact he rather liked getting arrested. It was great being obnoxious to the cops and there being nothing they could do about it. They even had to feed him!

He checked his rear-view mirror. The cop car was still behind, keeping his distance. Roy tutted with frustration. He also knew the force policy on chases and that he could lead them on a merry dance all over town without them even trying to ram him or stop him or box him in if he didn't look likely to endanger life. If he drove really recklessly they would back off and let him go, or maybe just follow him with the helicopter if it ever appeared.

‘C'mon, put your foot down,' Renata encouraged him. She squeezed his thigh. ‘If we outrun 'em, I'll give you a blow job,' she promised him.

That made him press even harder.

His plan was to do a scoot around the highways and byways of North Shore, then head back to Shoreside Estate, or nearby, and dump the car, then run.

‘C'mon, c'mon!' she urged, tightening her grip.

‘I'm doin' the best I can,' Roy rasped. ‘It's bloody clapped-out, this thing.'

‘So?'

The Escort hurtled along the promenade. Another police car swerved out of a side road and slotted in behind the first one.

‘Seventy miles per hour now,' the officer riding shotgun in the first police car commented down his radio. ‘No other traffic to worry about, though,' he added.

‘Roger,' the comms operator acknowledged. ‘Be careful. Oscar-November ninety-nine has been scrambled,' he said, meaning that the force helicopter had been turned out from its base at nearby Warton. ‘Be with you in a few minutes.'

‘Thanks for that.'

When they shot past the Imperial Hotel on North Shore, the speedo in the Escort was hovering somewhere in the region of 75mph. He knew that some very sharp braking and cute manoeuvring would be required for the roundabout at Gynn Square. In his mind's eye he was working out where he would position the car, how he would brake, which gears he would use. It must be said, though, that because of Renata's hand working excitedly away on the outside of his trousers, his brain was not 100 per cent focused on the driving.

Roy almost lost it on the roundabout, the car skittering sideways and the back end slewing wildly. Gripping the steering wheel for grim death, he managed to keep control, accelerated right around the hazard and back down Dickson Road, the two police cars on his tail.