Dead Heat Read online

  Major watched him go with a paternal shake of the head. Then he looked at Jo.

  She coughed and made to leave behind her partner. Major’s hand shot across in front of her. His fingers gripped the doorjamb tightly, preventing her from leaving. His face, usually bright and open, darkened like a hurricane. His mouth tightened.

  Jo’s heart rate upped dramatically at the same time as her stomach sank. She had wanted to avoid this.

  ‘Let me out, please,’ she said quietly, her voice quavering.

  ‘Bitch,’ he hissed. He checked over his shoulder. No one was close by. ‘You shouldn’t have done it.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it anymore, Alan, please.’

  Major said nothing, but stared dangerously at her. For a moment she thought he was going to hit her. She knew that if they had been anywhere else than on police premises, he would have done.

  ‘Excuse me, boss.’ Dale O’Brien had returned unexpectedly. He ducked under Major’s arm-barrier. ‘Forgot my notepad.’ He came into the office and Major’s face returned to it’s normal, affable self.

  ‘. . . So,’ Major said, as though he and Jo were having a work-related conversation, ‘any problems on that point, let’s chat.’ He winked at her in a friendly way and made his way down the corridor to the supervisor’s office.

  Jo exhaled a lungful of air.

  ‘You ready yet?’ O’Brien demanded of her.

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ She pulled herself together. ‘Here.’ She tossed him the car keys, which he caught against his chest. ‘You drive. I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘Oh brill,’ he said with a wide grin.

  One of the reasons why people were terrified of Andrew Turner was that he believed in sorting things out himself. He described the drug barons or top-class criminals who hired goons to do their dirty work for them as ‘shitless wonders’, holding such people in contempt. They had no real bottle or courage. Not like him. Turner had the ‘real shit’ to do things himself, to get his hands bloodied and, where necessary, put his own forefinger around a trigger and pull the thing backwards and make a big bang. That was why he believed he stood apart from all the others, all the so-called hardmen.

  Andy Turner had the ‘shit’.

  And that evening he was on his way to show someone just how powerful his shit was.

  Turner had recently moved out of Manchester to docklands in Preston. He owned an apartment overlooking King George Dock, now a marina full of yachts, pleasure boats and retail outlets. The move out to the sticks was not through any personal fear on his behalf, because Turner was afraid of no one, but just through a bit of common sense. Cop-wise the innards of the city of Manchester were becoming a little too hot for him. He needed somewhere cool where he could chill, and Preston suited him fine. He could be on the motorway within minutes and in Manchester in just over half an hour, so he now commuted as and when required. Quite often he did not go into the city for days on end, doing much of his wheeling and dealing over mobile phones and arranging his meetings at pubs, restaurants and hotels outside the environs of Manchester. He tried to keep his visits to the city to a minimum because he knew that if the cops sighted him, he would either be harassed or surveilled.

  Today, though, he needed to get into the heart of the city and cause some grief before having a very important meeting.

  The night before he had been out on the town in Preston, cruising around the pubs and clubs, revelling in the anonymity, even though one or two wise-looking guys eyeballed him. He easily picked up a woman, aged about thirty-five, on the prowl for a good fuck, and took her back to his apartment. They had a long bout of very drunken sex followed by almost twelve hours of alcohol-induced sleep. On waking, Turner screwed her again before literally forcing her out of the door with a £50 note crumpled in her mitt by way of compensation.

  ‘Will I see you again?’ she pleaded.

  Turner laughed. ‘Fuck off,’ he said and slammed the door in her face.

  Without any further thought for her, he got ready. A four-mile run on the treadmill, twenty minutes on the weights, then a shower before dressing in jeans and T-shirt. He packed a zip-up jacket, shirt, chinos and a pair of loafers into a sports bag, then made his way to the secured underground car park.

  As ever he took time checking his car carefully for any tracking devices, but found nothing. He knew the cops were capable of anything.

  A minute later, the wide tyres squealing dramatically, he exited the car park through the security barrier. As he did a left, he had to slam his brakes on.

  The woman he had so unceremoniously ejected from the flat was standing in front of the car, bedraggled and forlorn.

  Turner wound his window down, stuck his head out and before she could utter a word, he shouted, ‘Do us all a favour, sweetheart – just fuck off and count yer blessings. Otherwise they’ll be draggin’ yer body out of the docks. Get me?’

  Before she replied, Turner pressed down hard on the accelerator and his big Mercedes surged powerfully away. He shook his head in disbelief, curled his lips with disdain. He had no time for women. As far as he was concerned they were good for two things only: sex with him and sex with people he wanted to do business with. As regards the latter, Turner was convinced that a good blowjob or arse-fuck was usually a dead-cert deal clincher. The old ways were always the best. He did not even bother to glance in his rear-view mirror to look at her, just drove down to Strand Road and purred out towards the motorway.

  He was looking forward to Manchester.

  Dale O’Brien, Jo’s partner for the day, did a quick check of the car before setting out: water, oil, lights and tyres and found everything to be working OK. It was an old, battered Nissan, with a nodding dog, fluffy dice and a shabby exterior, belying the fact that underneath it was a police car maintained to a high standard. He swung into the driver’s seat next to Jo, who, sat in the passenger seat, was ostensibly reading her briefing pack. Her mind was not on it, particularly. Al Major had thrown her well off balance.

  The rest of the surveillance team were going through much the same sort of pre-road rigmarole, including the motorcyclist, who was often a vital part of the mechanism of keeping targets pin-pointed as they moved around the country. He had just checked his big machine, mounted it and fired up. The bike sounded lovely, purring away like a pussycat, then roaring like a tiger as he twisted the throttle back. He slotted down his visor, engaged first and crept slowly out of the garage.

  Jo and O’Brien gave him a wave.

  He reached the gates of the secure compound and waited for them to swing open. He turned his machine into the road, leaned into the turn and gunned the bike away.

  But his rear tyre had a very tiny patch of oil on it which he had not noticed. It could have come from anywhere. The garage floor. The bike’s engine. The road, maybe. No one would ever know. Not that it mattered where it came from, it’s the effect it had that mattered.

  As the biker angled into the turn out of the gates, the oil patch made the back wheel slide sideways uncontrollably, even though it was only travelling at a slow speed. The rider could not keep it upright and though he tried, it slithered away and crashed to the ground before he could leap off, trapping his left leg underneath.

  Jo and O’Brien saw it happen.

  It was not a spectacular accident by any means. In fact as accidents go, it was rather pathetic.

  ‘Shit!’ O’Brien gasped. He leapt out of the Nissan and ran towards the stricken, trapped motorcyclist. Jo was right behind him as were the other members of the surveillance team.

  The biker may not have fallen far and it may only have been his machine that dropped on him, but it was plainly obvious from the shape of his left shin that it had snapped like a twiglet. The team eased the bike off him and he screamed in a very animal-like way when one of them accidentally kicked his left foot.

  Al Major jogged up and saw the damage. ‘Someone call an ambulance.’ One of the team responded and dashed back into the unit.
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br />   Jo gently removed her colleague’s helmet and placed her thigh under his head for him to rest on.

  ‘This doesn’t half cock things up,’ the biker said with a wan smile. Beads of pain-induced sweat cascaded down his forehead. ‘Bugger,’ he added, then passed out.

  Turner kept to the speed limit on the motorway, just cruising, enjoying the ride, letting everyone pass him, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He peeled off the M61 and picked up the road into Salford, taking extra care to keep his speed down again on a stretch of road populated by speed cameras. Once in Salford, on the edge of the city, he worked his way to an area behind the police station on the Crescent to a block of small industrial units. He drove the Mercedes into one of the units, a one-man car maintenance business owned by one of his friends, a guy called McNally.

  ‘Mac,’ Turner greeted the owner of the garage as he climbed out of the Merc.

  Dressed in oily overalls, McNally wiped his hands on rag, emerged from underneath a car on the ramp and sauntered towards Turner. Something in McNally’s manner did not sit quite right with Turner, who was always switched on to body language. His intuition had saved his skin a number of times. McNally seemed edgy, nervous, his smile sheepish and obviously forced.

  ‘Andy, how goes it?’

  ‘Mmm, good,’ Turner responded cautiously. His inner warning bells sounding caution. ‘Gonna leave the motor here as usual,’ Turner said, thumbing towards the Merc.

  ‘No probs.’

  The two men were standing close to each other. Turner’s face changed, became serious and hard. ‘Anything you’d like to tell me, Mac?’

  McNally was taken aback – and it showed. ‘Eh? No, no . . . what do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I’m good at reading people. That’s why I’m still alive, Mac, and I can see you’re not one hundred per cent.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, suppose not.’ McNally relaxed and breathed out a sigh. ‘Just struggling really. Been chasing some bad debts all day, some real hard bastards. Just pissed off that’s all.’

  ‘I’m pretty good at bringing debts in,’ Turner said with a nasty smile which was chilled by McNally’s explanation. Turner was easily spooked by other people’s behaviour, even if it was rooted in innocence. He trusted no one and was always searching for signs of betrayal.

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ McNally said. ‘I’ll sort ’em. It’s a legit debt, if you know what I mean?’

  Turner shrugged. ‘Just ask if you need any help.’

  ‘I’m obliged – thanks, Andy.’

  Turner did a quick check of his watch. ‘I’ll be back to pick this up as and when,’ he said, referring to the Merc. ‘See how the day pans out.’

  ‘Got your keys for this place?’ McNally asked. ‘I won’t be here after six.’

  Turner nodded. He pulled his change of clothing from the boot of the Merc.

  A dull-grey Peugeot 405 drew up outside the unit. Turner gave McNally a wave, strode out to it and slid into the passenger seat. He rarely took the Mercedes into the city when he did business. It turned too many heads, was too recognizable and telegraphed to people that he was about. Today he wanted to keep a low profile and parading about in a ‘big fuck-off Merc’ as he called it, was no way of doing that. Even the hot-headed Turner knew that much. Today was a day for discretion. Eventually.

  It took almost forty minutes for the ambulance to arrive on the scene of the accident. During that time the injured biker drifted – worryingly – in and out of consciousness. Jo Coniston stayed with him throughout, comforting and reassuring him, until two very apologetic paramedics eventually carried him into the ambulance. He was rushed to hospital, accompanied by one of the other team members, thereby further reducing the numbers for the surveillance job on Andy Turner.

  Jo’s knee joints had almost seized up by remaining folded in one cramped position for such a long length of time. She stood up stiffly, hopping painfully as blood surged back into her lower legs.

  Al Major moved in and assisted her to keep balanced.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said begrudgingly, easing her elbow out of his fingers.

  ‘You were very good there,’ he told her. ‘Showing you care for someone – but you haven’t shown you care about me, have you?’ His voice was tinged with anger.

  ‘Don’t start Al, just DO NOT START,’ she warned him.

  ‘You ready to roll now?’ Dale O’Brien piped up from the garage door.

  ‘Coming,’ she chirped and walked away from Major.

  Major hissed two words into her ear as she passed. ‘Selfish bitch.’

  Stern-faced, she ignored him and made her way back to the car, in which O’Brien waited, engine idling. She dropped into the passenger seat and slammed the door. ‘Let’s friggin’ go,’ she growled. ‘And you can run that bastard down if you want.’

  They drove out. Major stepped aside and, bowing like a matador, waved them through. Jo stared dead ahead, but she could feel Al’s piercing eyes burning into her temple. Only when they had turned out of the compound did she realize she was holding her breath. She exhaled with relief, turned brightly to O’Brien with a wide smile, happy to be out on the road, tracking a crim.

  ‘I don’t know about you, Dale, but I could murder a brew.’

  For Andrew Turner that evening was about matters of credibility. So that there would be a record of events, the driver who picked him up from McNally’s garage was equipped with a digital camera to keep a contemporaneous record. At the end of the day, once credentials had been established, the camera and its contents would be destroyed completely.

  Turner was driven from Salford, edging around the city centre, out to Crumpsall, to the area around North Manchester General Hospital – a building, Turner thought with an evil smirk, which might just come in useful. Especially the A & E unit.

  Sitting there in the passenger seat, he started to get twitchy with anticipation.

  ‘Got me a “whacker” then?’ Turner asked the driver, whose name was Newman.

  ‘Under the seat.’

  Turner reached down between his legs. His fingers alighted on a wooden baseball bat, which he drew out and tested for weight and balance by smacking it firmly into the palm of his hand. It felt good.

  ‘Nice,’ he commented.

  ‘It’s got a lead core,’ Newman said.

  Turner slid it back, then reclined the seat, closing his eyes for a few moments. His mind slipped back to the night before, thinking about the woman he had picked up at Tokyo Joe’s nightclub. She had been a good fuck – twice – but what a silly, pathetic bitch! Hanging around outside the apartment like a love-struck teenager. Immature, that’s what she was. Why did it have to be anything other than a good shag?

  His eyelids clicked open. His inner warning bells – an instinct he had grown to trust – clanged a few times.

  The prospect of her hanging around after he had gone made him feel slightly wary. Maybe he should have picked her up and dumped her in town . . . got her away from his pad . . . too late to worry now.

  ‘Is Goldy likely to be at home? We’re not going to end up chasing round like a pair of blue-arsed flies, are we?’

  ‘He’ll be there,’ Newman assured him. ‘He’s expecting a delivery from his supplier, so I’m told, so he’ll be geared up for it. Won’t be going out.’

  ‘Looks like he’s going to get more than he expected,’ Turner laughed cruelly. He put his seat upright. ‘You OK with that digital camera?’

  ‘Yeah. Been practising on Lesley.’

  ‘Is she a good subject?’

  ‘Depends how pissed she gets.’

  ‘Well, this is gonna be fast and hard, so you’d better be ready to click away. I won’t be hanging around: in and out. Forty whacks, then I’m gone straight after the lecture. You’d better be right behind me.’

  Newman shrugged. ‘I’ll be there.’ He slowed and turned into a leafy side road of old, well-constructed terraced houses, most now bed-sits or flats. Newman drove down the road, maint
aining the same speed. ‘It’s that one – number eight,’ he said without pointing or looking. ‘Goldman lives on the first floor. The door to his flat is the first one you come to on the landing. He keeps it well locked. We won’t be able to boot it down. It’s made of toughened steel but painted to look like wood. He only lets in people he knows. Got a good peep-hole and there’s plenty of locks behind it . . . not easy to get through.’ Newman pulled in a hundred metres down the road. ‘That means we have to get him to open it for us.’

  ‘Does he operate alone? Will anyone else be in the flat?’

  ‘He’s alone,’ Newman confirmed.

  ‘Mmm,’ Turner ruminated. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Don’t worry though. I know somebody he knows.’ Newman grinned, showing cigarette-stained teeth. ‘Someone who’ll get the door open for a ton.’

  ‘A ton?’ blurted Turner.

  ‘Worth every penny . . . have you got it?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah . . . so where is this guy?’

  ‘It’s a bird, actually.’ Newman looked across the road. Leaning on the gable end of a house was a scrawny-looking young woman, early twenties. She wore a T-shirt which showed her tummy and the ring pierced through her navel, and a pair of jeans. She was smoking nervously, flicking back scraggy unwashed hair from her drug-ravaged young face. ‘There.’ He wound his window down and beckoned. ‘Denise, luv, c’m’ere.’

  She continued to glance anxiously around as though she had not seen or heard him. Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she was trapped in her own world. Then she set off across the road, tossed the cigarette away, and folded her arms underneath her small breasts. Newman reached over his seat and unlocked the back door for her. Her thin body entered the car. She looked defiantly at the two men in the front seats, her eyes wild at first, as though she blamed them solely for her predicament. Then they glazed over to become lifeless. Turner saw the scars on the inside of her spindly arms, more visible evidence of heavy drug abuse and self harm. She looked like she attempted suicide on a regular basis. Turner knew the type. People like her were the epitome of his usual customer.