The Damage (David Blake 2) (15 page)

I didn’t hang around to see if I was right. I left my drink unfinished and walked briskly away. As soon as I left the restaurant I heard the bike rev and I knew they’d seen me and were coming after me. Suddenly the message from the waiter made sense. Someone had dragged my bodyguard away from me and set me up. I didn’t have time to worry about who. I didn’t fuck about and I didn’t care how it looked because I knew what was going down. I broke into a run. Behind me I heard a scream, and the unmistakeable sound of a motorbike careering at full speed. They almost knocked down a pedestrian in their haste, and I wished they had because they would have probably turned and fled. As it was, I was left with the unlikely prospect of outrunning a motorbike with a hit man on the back. Jesus Christ, I’d been stupid. I was too relaxed sitting on that terrace waiting for Peter Dean. I’d let my guard down for a moment and now I was completely in the shit. I sprinted flat out to get to the end of the street so I could lose them.

There are a bunch of little cuts and sidestreets round here, near the old city walls, and I chose one with stone steps that the motorbike couldn’t handle. I took them two at a time, thankful I’d kept myself in good shape. Fear was driving me along and I knew I needed to put enough space between me and the road or they’d just aim up at me and gun me down right there on the steps. I could hear the motorbike’s engine getting louder and I kept running upwards. The sound was piercing for a moment, then abruptly faded away.

Maybe I’d lost them, but it wouldn’t be for long. They’d know I’d gone for higher ground and they’d be after me, moving at a far greater speed and using the main road to loop up to the road above me. I didn’t have the nerve to double back down the steps the way I had come, in case they were waiting for me. When I reached the top of the steps, I pegged it across a cobbled courtyard that doubled as a hotel car park, so I could make a sharp right turn and get back down into the quayside where I’d be surrounded by people. The cobbles were slippery and I almost fell flat on my face but forced myself to keep going.

I’d been stitched up, and I didn’t even know who’d done it. I took another flight of old stone steps back downwards at a rate of knots and managed to reach the steep hill that drops down to form a side street.

I had to get off the street and lose myself and I spotted my best chance straight ahead of me. Halfway up the hill there was a little gap between two old buildings, a restaurant and a pub. I knew that gap and where it led to. If I could dart down it, I could keep on going until I emerged on the other side, into a vacant lot full of builder’s rubble that had been empty for years, covered in old bricks and full of weeds. It was one of those brown-belt developments that no one wanted because it was hidden from view and you wouldn’t get any passing trade. The council had shown it to us when we talked about opening the club, and I told them they were having a laugh, but I was bloody glad I’d seen it now. No motorcycle was capable of following me over that rubble.

I made short work of the cobbles as I pegged it down the hill, and had almost reached the safety of the little sidestreet when I looked up and, abruptly, the bike swerved into view, its rider struggling to keep control of it as it came round to face me. They’d seen me and I now had no choice but to trust in my plan. I ran flat out across the road towards the cut. The bike made a low rasping sound as the rider revved it and shot off down the hill towards me. I had to get across the road, into the cut and out through the other side again before they caught up with me.

I made it across the street, my unsuitable leather shoes almost giving way as I ran. I reached the cut and came round the corner so fast I was halfway down it before I realised something had changed. When the man from the council had walked us down here months earlier there was a twenty yard stretch of unblocked pavement, except for a couple of wheelie-bins and some litter that had blown in there. Beyond that, there’d been an old brick wall just a couple of feet high that was left there to ensure the demolition rubble stayed put. It was so low I would have been over it in one bound. The scene that confronted me now was very different. Straight ahead of me was a high, sturdy, wire fence with a metal gate in the middle of it.

I carried on running towards it because I had no choice. It was too late to turn back to the main street now. I would have run straight into them. The fence was too high to climb and the gaps in the wire looked too small to plant my feet into them for toe holds. Even if I could manage it, I would have been halfway up as the bike turned the corner. To my right and left were the two high, sheer walls of the buildings either side of me. There were no conveniently opened doors to dart into, and the only windows I could see were so high I couldn’t reach them. My only remaining chance was the gate. If it was unlocked I could still get through it and be over the rubble and away. It looked solid, but I couldn’t see a padlock, so I sprinted flat out straight at it, expecting to hear the motorbike behind me at any moment. I got there and pulled hard on the metal handle. It was designed to slide to one side, releasing a long, flat metal bolt so you could push the door open. The bolt gave way and I felt a surge of relief flood through me, but it didn’t last long. It moved but only a couple of inches before it met resistance with a loud clang. It was locked. I was trapped. I was also a dead man. I knew all of this in the time it took for the echo of the clanging metal to die away.

In my panicked state, even though I knew it couldn’t possibly work, I tugged at the bolt. I tugged again and again, praying I could somehow force it to open by sheer bloody will alone, but it wouldn’t give. And that’s when I heard the motorbike behind me.

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I
span round to face them and watched as the rider drew the bike to a skidding halt at the end of the alley. All I could see of his face was the jet-black glass of his helmet’s visor, but I knew he was staring straight at me. Then the second man leaned round and looked at me too. He patted the rider on the shoulder and the guy tilted the bike to allow him to dismount. For a man who was about to kill me he didn’t look to be in a big hurry, but then he didn’t need to be. He knew I had nowhere to run. I felt sick. All I could do now was wonder if it would be quick and whether there would be a lot of pain. As I watched him climb from the bike, I thought of Sarah and the grief I would cause her because I’d been stupid. I’d fucked things up and I’d cost us everything.

The man who was about to kill me was off the bike now. He had both feet planted firmly on the ground next to it and he was reaching into a leather satchel, the kind that motorcycle couriers use. I watched as he carefully drew out the gun and I took a deep breath. In the absence of any plan, idea or clever solution, I was trying to at least look defiant. It was the only thing I had left. I knew he wouldn’t let me reason with him. I was wondering if I had the guts to run at him, or maybe just stand there and shout ‘fuck you’ as my last words, or would I lose all my dignity at the very end and blub like a little girl.

The man who was about to kill me briefly examined his gun and took a step forwards.

I reckon he had taken about three steps when it happened, another two or three and he would have been in the cut. Right then, I heard the loud revving sound that indicates a car accelerating at top speed. The rider turned towards the sound and tried to climb off the bike, as the man who was about to kill me turned on his heel. I watched him put both hands up in a vain attempt to cushion the blow.

Palmer’s car hit the bike full-on at speed, smashing into it, sending the bike, the man trying to dismount from it, and the man who was about to kill me flying towards the far wall of the alley. The two men, the motorcycle and the car all collided with a sickening impact that must have killed both men outright, or at least severely injured them. Their bodies were slammed against the brickwork like they’d been thrown there by a giant hand. Blood fountained up the wall and limbs were bent and twisted under the car’s wheels, but Palmer wasn’t taking any chances. He was out of the car, crouched low with his pistol drawn. He fired twice into the rider’s body to finish him off, then he aimed at the shooter. Amazingly, considering the impact of the crash, he was still moving, but I doubt he could have troubled anyone now. The gun was nowhere to be seen. It had been catapulted from him at the moment of impact. He must have been dimly aware of Palmer’s presence though, because he tried to hold up a hand, but his arm fell limply back down by his side. Palmer shot him twice; once in the chest, then a second time through the visor of his helmet and he finally lay still.

Palmer was calling to me but I couldn’t hear him, so he called again, louder this time. My ears were ringing and I couldn’t make out what he was saying to me. I knew we had to go but I was rooted to the spot. I couldn’t believe what I had just seen or how close I had come to death. If he had been ten seconds later it would have been me lying there instead of them.

Palmer started frantically beckoning me then, and he was clearly shouting ‘Come on! Come on!’ at me. Somewhere, not very far from this spot, a siren was wailing. I realised it was a Police car and it was getting nearer. That snapped me out of it and I set off, making short work of the yards between us. When I reached him, he grabbed me by the arm and hauled me towards the car. He tore open the rear passenger door and threw me onto the back seat, slamming the door behind me, then ran round the car and climbed in. He started the car and slammed it into reverse. There was a horrible sound of twisted metal grinding, but the car wouldn’t budge. It was stuck fast on the wreckage of the motorcycle. Palmer tried once more; there was an acrid burning smell as the clutch started to burn out but the car still didn’t move. I could hear the normally unflappable Palmer swearing at the car now, his voice becoming louder and more desperate.

Palmer gave it one more go, revved the car till it made a terrible wail of protest and slammed it hard into reverse. There was an almighty grinding sound as the car lurched a few feet to the rear, the bike was dragged along under its wheels and then, with a bump that nearly jolted me off the seat, the car jumped backwards and shot out into the road.

I couldn’t see a thing but I could hear shrieks from the people in the street, as they scrambled to get out of the way. Right then I’d have accepted Palmer ploughing through a crowd of pedestrians if he could just get us both out of there. I lay still as the car raced back up the hill and looked up in time to see the iron arches flash by above me as we tore across the High Level Bridge, the shriek of the Police sirens receding in the distance behind us.

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A
s soon as Sharp got the call from Blake, he went straight over to Peter Dean’s flat. The whole city was buzzing with rumours about what exactly had happened on the Quayside that morning; Newcastle had its rough spots, but no one had ever tried to gun down a crime boss in broad daylight just yards from the city’s best hotels, bars and restaurants. Coming on the back of the shooting of Jaiden Doyle in the same area, this constituted a crisis for the Police, and the Press were all over it like a rash. Every detective in Northumbria had been dispatched to look for leads. Of course newly-promoted Detective Inspector Sharp was one step ahead of them all – because he was on the payroll of the intended victim.

It wouldn’t be long before someone discovered that David Blake was meant to meet Peter Dean that day, so it was important Sharp got to him first. At the very least Dean had a lot of explaining to do.

The door to Dean’s apartment was to the rear of the video store atop a metal staircase that rose to a first floor gantry. Sharp was cautious by nature, but Dean wasn’t muscle in anyone’s eyes, so the detective didn’t hang about. He climbed the stairs, reached the flimsy wooden door and tried the handle. The door was locked, but Sharp didn’t bother to knock, glancing right, then left, and giving the door a sturdy kick. It popped open like it was made of balsa wood and Sharp went straight in, expecting to find Peter cowering on a sofa, pleading that it had all been an unfortunate misunderstanding.

Peter Dean was in the room, but he wasn’t seated on the couch.

‘Fuck me,’ said DI Sharp aloud, as he took in the scene before him. Peter Dean was swaying ever so slightly. His eyes were bulging wide open and his arms hung straight down by his side. The dining chair was upended on the floor, because Peter must have used it to get high enough to thread the drawstring he’d torn from the curtains around the old, metal light-fitting in the ceiling. He had tied the other end around his neck, in a noose that tightened sharply when Peter kicked the chair out from under him.

Whatever role Peter Dean may have played in the plot to kill David Blake, he must have panicked when he learned it had failed. He wasn’t going to be talking to anyone about it now.

‘You were right about the CCTV,’ Sharp was telling me what I already knew, ‘it was down. There’s no footage of anything on the Quayside all morning. It all crashed about an hour before you arrived there.’

We were standing out in the open air on the roof of the Cauldron. Sharp had flashed his badge at the manager of the Chinese restaurant next door, then gone through his kitchen and up the fire escape so he could meet me without being seen. His information about the cameras being down was no surprise to me. You wouldn’t plan to shoot somebody in broad daylight in the Quayside unless you could be sure the CCTV was out of commission. Only someone in our league could have pulled off that stunt. The only question was who.