Screen of Deceit (3 page)

‘Yeah, I know it,' Craig said. ‘I searched for a missing kid in it about a month ago.'

‘This is no missing kid … it's a guy with a gun who just shot a cop.'

Craig nodded and gave Henry a look which said, ‘Tell me something I don't know.'

‘I'll kit Albert up, then send him in to play. It's what he does best, isn't it, pal?' He ruffled the dog's head and Henry thought he heard the canine reply, ‘Yeah, yeah.' The pair headed back to the dog van.

Henry read his mental check list again: the warehouse was surrounded, tick; four armed cops were on the plot, tick; the dog was about to be let loose, tick; Rik should be at the hospital by now, tick; senior officers had been informed, tick; the Lexus was being taken care of, tick. All bases covered.

Craig returned with Albert, who looked like a
Star Wars
extra, now wearing doggie body armour and a small camera on his head, known as a FIDO cam – an acronym for Firearms Incidents Dangerous Operation – which could transmit pictures and also allowed the handler to speak to the dog as it was running free as it searched.

Craig handed Henry a mini-monitor that was already getting pictures from the dog's point of view.

Craig patted his thigh and said, ‘C'mon, Bert, let's go play,' to his eager partner. Man and dog stepped through the gate into the warehouse yard.

Henry heard Craig's shouted warning which was repeated three times before the further warning that the dog was being let off the leash. Henry went to sit back in the Astra out of the rain, but the truth was he could not have been any wetter. The rain had been relentless.

He settled back to watch Albert's progress through the dark, dangerous corridors and rooms of the old warehouse.

It was a bouncy, jarring ride on the dog's head, reminding Henry of the camera work on some US TV cop shows, but the image transmitted by the tiny camera was clear, despite the lack of light.

Albert worked his way diligently through the building.

Then suddenly he became still.

Henry found himself tensing up. Had the dog found someone?

The dog moved slowly. Was he now stalking someone?

Henry was transfixed by it. His knuckles were white as he gripped the monitor.

Then there was a sudden rush.

Two bright flashes.

Henry heard two bangs from inside the building. Gunshots.

His insides churned as he watched the blurred images on the screen.

Albert had found the gunman – but had he been shot?

The images kept moving – and then Henry watched in amazement as the screen showed the figure of a man getting larger and larger as Albert rushed at him, then leapt.

Henry saw the man's face, abject terror on it, then his forearm came up in a protective gesture as Albert powered into him and did what police dogs love doing: sinking their fangs into bad guys.

‘Remind me never to go out on a job with you again.'

Henry looked down at the woozy, drugged-up Rik Dean on the hospital trolley. A tangle of tubes and wires had been inserted into him and he was in pre-op before going under the knife to have the bullet removed. Rik managed a weak smile.

‘As if,' Henry responded. ‘Anyway, just thought I'd let you know – we got the guy who shot you up. He'll probably be in the operating theatre after you after the mauling the police dog gave him. It just wouldn't let go, apparently.' Henry smirked. ‘His mate's in custody.'

‘What about the Lexus?'

‘I got it pulled and searched.' Henry shook his head. ‘Nothing.'

Rik tutted, rolled his eyes.

‘Guy driving it was clean, said he'd just bought it.' Henry shrugged. ‘It's obvious he was a decoy. I think the drugs'll have come in by another route.
C'est la vie
.'

‘So he out-thought us.'

‘Seems that way.'

‘And another police operation fails to net the biggest drug dealer this side of the Irwell.'

‘Aye, the Crackman lives to fight another day, whoever the hell he is … one day, eh?'

‘Yeah, whatever.' Rik had lost interest.

A nurse came into the room and told Henry it was time to leave. He touched Rik's arm and went just as the nurse inserted a hypodermic needle into the back of his friend's hand and he started counting down from ninety-nine.

M
ark Carter knew he was going to get a battering.

‘I don't do drugs,' he said. ‘You know that.'

He was standing astride his Diamond Back Igniter BMX bike, staring guardedly at the three lads in front of him. They were arced around in a semicircle to prevent him from pedalling away, all noisily chewing gum, looking menacing, their heads tilted to one side as they glared at him.

Mark knew all three by name and reputation. As his eyes darted from one to the other, he kicked himself for choosing this route home. Normally he would have circled the estate, but because he was running late, he'd decided to cut through instead.

Big mistake.

Now he was going to pay for the big mistake.

Big style.

These were the most feared lads on Shoreside, even though none of them was older than him, that is to say fourteen. Their leader and biggest troublemaker was Jonny Sparks, Sparksy or JS to his mates. It was he who was standing directly in front of Mark, the front wheel of the BMX gripped securely between his legs, his bony, spider monkey-like fingers curled tightly around the handlebars. Jonny was as tall as Mark, but thinner, wiry, pale, his face pockmarked from a childhood disease. Mark would say he was as evil-looking as a weasel.

‘Maybe you should start. They're good for you,' Sparks said with a sneer.

‘Drugs screw you up. I don't need 'em,' Mark replied.

‘Unlike your sis, eh?' Sparks taunted.

Mark's mouth clammed shut. His guts were jittering, his insides trembling. He was frightened, no doubt about that; too frightened to respond to Sparks. He just wanted to get away unscathed and as far as he was concerned, Sparks could bad mouth his family to hell and back if it meant not getting hammered.

However, Mark was canny enough to know that whatever he said, or didn't say, was unlikely to help this situation. They were out for blood. Mark could sense it.

They beat up people just for the fun of it, sometimes to rob them, sometimes for a laugh. They were into happy-slapping, too, recording their exploits on their mobile phone cameras to watch back later and post on the Internet. And they were known to use knives and hammers as well as fists and feet. The fists and feet didn't bother Mark too much. It was the possibility of weapons that terrified him.

He tried his best not to look intimidated, staring impassively at Jonny. He blinked, said, ‘I don't want any drugs, thanks,' and did not rise to the nasty remark about Bethany, his older sister.

Mark wondered what was going to happen now. He knew that others had been beaten up for refusing to buy drugs off this crew. In a one-to-one confrontation, and unarmed, Mark was pretty sure he could equal any of the three, even though he didn't consider himself a fighter. But these lads never operated singly. They always ganged up, hunted in a savage pack, which was why they called themselves ‘The Hyenas'.

A heartbeat of silence passed between Mark and Jonny Sparks.

Sparks leaned in closer. ‘Your sister's a slag, y'know,' he hissed, with a dirty expression on his face.

Mark bit his lip hard, trying to stay cool, not get wound up. His mind raced as he tried to figure out how to extricate himself from this mess, but try as he might to hold back, he could feel that the tremble inside him was morphing from fear into anger, especially when Sparks taunted, ‘She'll shag anyone just for a score.'

Sparks eyed Mark with a triumphant smirk, knowing he was succeeding in touching a raw nerve and winding him up. A twisted smile played on his thin lips, as he added, ‘Shagged her meself,' really turning the screw.

Jonny Sparks had been after Mark for a long time, never missed a chance to goad him and it was well known he wanted Mark to have a dig at him, just to give him an excuse. Mark had no idea why this was because, for sure, he'd never knowingly done anything to annoy Sparks so much. He just stayed out of his way, avoided him at all costs, and maybe that was reason enough for Sparks. That's how it was on the Shoreside council estate in Blackpool, Lancashire. People often hated others for no definable reason. They just did, and that was good enough. Just like Jonny hated Mark. It was probably all about some sort of perverted ‘respect' thing – fights often started because one lad had ‘dissed' another by showing disrespect, often innocently. That was part of the jungle that was Shoreside.

Mark couldn't ever recall knowingly dissing Sparks. Maybe his avoidance of Sparks amounted to disrespect? Maybe that's what wound the little toad up – because he couldn't get to Mark, couldn't get his claws into him. And Jonny liked having his claws in as many people as possible.

Mark swallowed. His nostrils flared. He glanced quickly around for some help, but he knew there would be none. This scenario was nothing out of the ordinary around here – a scrap brewing between lads outside the boarded-up Spar shop. It happened all the time and you could guarantee no one would intervene or get involved in any way. Nobody would call the cops either, except maybe when it was all over and Mark was sprawled in the gutter with his head kicked in and blood gushing out of his nose and the danger was over. Nobody saw anything, nobody got involved. Everybody was scared, usually.

Mark Carter was on his own.

‘Can I go now?' he asked.

The Hyenas cackled with laughter, more like a coven of witches than a gang of hoodlums. It was like Oliver Twist asking for more.

Not a hope in hell.

Sparks released the bike's handlebars, sort of eyed Mark as if weighing him up and, amazingly, said, ‘Yeah, sure you can go, Mark, mate.' But he didn't move. The front wheel of Mark's BMX stayed firmly trapped between Sparks's legs. He was lying, surprise, surprise; obviously there was a condition to Mark's release. Mark didn't even try to cycle away. Jonny Sparks did not just let people off the hook. He looked at the BMX, leaning from side to side, admiring it. ‘Nice bike.' He winked, creasing his whole face as he did so.

Mark remained silent. His heart was slamming in his chest.

‘You can go, but the bike stays. Like a pressie, from you to me.' He arched his eyebrows, licked his lips and eyed his gang members, Eric King, known as The Kong, and Sam Dale, known, without explanation, as Rat-head. They were Jonny Sparks clones in the way they dressed, spoke and treated folk; nasty devils, but with no independent thought processes of their own. They relied on Sparks to lead the way and jumped at his command.

‘Nice one,' The Kong said enthusiastically. He had a lazy left eye and sometimes it was hard to know which one was looking at you. It didn't stop him being a hard swine, though. He took a drag of the rolled–up ciggie he always seemed to have dangling from his bottom lip, hacked up and gozzed revoltingly on the ground. Then he sniffed up disgustingly.

‘Yeah, we can get a few quid for it down at Tonno's,' Rat-head piped up. He was a broad-shouldered lad, good-looking, with a shock of blond hair, but he had even less up-top than The Kong, which was saying something. Sam Dale was Jonny's powerhouse. The guy he could wind up and set off to do the heavy battering. He had big fists with lots of scrapes on the knuckles, and he used them well. When he talked about Tonno's, he was referring to a second-hand shop in town through which most of the estate's stolen goods ended up being sold on.

‘What d'you think?' Jonny asked Mark.

‘It's my bike and you're not having it,' he said, feeling a tightness across his chest. Things, he thought, are about to get out of hand.

‘Whoa! Tough words from a soft kid,' Sparks spat. ‘Tell you what, then – you pay
me
for your bike and I'll let you keep it. Ten quid now, ten at the end of the week. That's fair, innit?'

‘Like I said – it's my bike.' Mark was fiercely proud of the Diamond Back. He'd worked hard on a double paper round in the mornings before school, one after school and a Sunday round for nine months to get the dosh together. In fact, he thought it was probably the only bike on the whole estate that wasn't stolen, or didn't have any knocked-off bits on it. ‘You're not having it, Jonny,' he squeaked.

The ‘look' came down on Jonny Sparks's face. The look that didn't need words, that itself said, ‘Game's over, business is just about to begin.'

Except this was no game – not for Mark, anyway – and the business was violence.

Mark braced himself. As frightened as he was, there was no way he was going to let go of the bike – they'd have to prize it out of his fingers; nor was he going down without a fight.

Sparks flicked his head at his two mates. They stepped forward menacingly, but halted suddenly as Jonny's mobile phone rang. He held up a hand to stop the attack, looked warningly at Mark and said, ‘Don't move, or else. I need to get this.' He shuffled the phone out of his trackie-bottoms pocket, the polyphonic ring tone being Green Day's ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams', which Mark recognized instantly. Green Day was his favourite band and that was his favourite track. It made him feel sick that scumbag Sparks liked it too.

‘Me,' Sparks said into the flashy phone, his eyes still intently on Mark. ‘Yeah … yeah … understood …' He adjusted his position slightly as he talked, his feet moving a couple more inches apart so that the wheel of Mark's bike was no longer trapped between his legs. He probably didn't even realize he'd done it – but Mark did. ‘Yeah, so it'll be there? I'll sort it … yeah …'

To Mark it sounded as though the conversation was coming to an end.

This was his chance.

He took in the scene: Sparks standing dead ahead of him; Eric and Sam a couple of feet either side of Sparks's shoulders. Mark could tell they were interested in the phone call, trying to earwig. He realized this would probably be the only opportunity he'd get. His fingers tightened on the handlebar grips. He tensed up.