‘Black bastard,’ one of the gang across the street called — terminology often applied by scrotes to police officers, no matter what the colour of their skin.
Byrne walked to and stood by the car.
Henry was about to rap on the door again when it opened. A waft of shouts and abuse flowed out from the family inside as Troy came to the door. ‘It’ll be right,’ he shouted back into the house, pulling on his denim jacket. ‘This better be good,’ he growled low to Henry. ‘My folks are going ape-shit in there. I’ve had to really think on my toes to give ’em some bullshit.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘I said you wanted me to identify some property.’
‘Not far off the mark,’ Henry muttered. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
Every shadow hid a potential petrol-bomber, every wall a rock-thrower. The two officers expected to be attacked at every turn but although the estate was buzzing, they drove off safely.
Byrne was at the wheel, Henry in the sagging passenger seat. He turned and looked at Troy, a less than debonair man of the Shoreside underworld where violence and intimidation were currency and drugs meant power. Henry knew the Costain family were driven by violence and held much of the estate in fear of them, hence few people ever willingly came forward as witnesses against them for fear of reprisal. The only challenge to their dominance had been the Khan family and now that challenge had erupted into violence and death.
‘Where we going?’ Costain demanded.
‘Head out towards the hospital, but find somewhere to pull in on the way — somewhere intimate,’ Henry instructed Byrne. He squinted nastily at Costain. ‘Somewhere we can have a chat. Woodside Drive sounds nice.’
Byrne nodded.
Henry smiled at the back-seat passenger. Troy was very much like the rest of his family in many ways. He came across as a tough cookie, was respected by kids who’s dads were never home. Troy liked beating people up who could not or would not fight back, but sometimes, unless backed up by other members of his family, he could not always pull it off. He often hid behind the reputation of the Costain clan because in truth, like so many other bullies, he was a coward at heart, something which Henry had turned ruthlessly to his own advantage.
Although the use of police informants was tightly controlled due to past abuses, many detectives unofficially still ran informants, or ‘sources’ as they were correctly known. Strictly against force policy, but what the hell. Some jacks had sources going back twenty years who did not want their relationship ‘formalised’ and monitored. As was the case with Henry and Troy Costain.
Troy had been the ripe old age of fifteen when Henry had first arrested him on an allegation of assault. Once in custody, Troy had crumbled and offered the arresting officer information in return for leniency. Their relationship had blossomed into a financial footing and had lasted well over twelve years. Troy had served Henry well, giving him some good information leading to good arrests. He’d also given him some duff gen too.
Costain had become Henry’s direct link to Shoreside — and Henry had kept it to himself.
Henry had decided that his contact with Troy would have to be stretched or even broken now because of the present circumstances. The greater good, corny as it might sound, was more important than information leading to an arrest.
‘OK, what’s this about?’ Costain said.
‘Let’s just go somewhere where we can park and talk, eh? Be patient.’
Costain put on a sulky pout and watched the street lights spin by.
‘Sorry you had to witness that,’ Vince Bellamy said. He was speaking to Franklands who now had two large whiskies circulating in his stomach, though the alcohol content of them was not getting into his blood stream as quickly as he would have liked.
‘What was it all about?’ he spluttered.
‘You don’t need to know, other than the fact you have just helped rid our sweet organisation of a traitor who could possibly have destroyed us,’ Bellamy explained. ‘He had to be lured to a place and dealt with and the best way of doing it was to let him think he was going to help us sort you out. But as we know, you’re not a traitor, are you, Martin?’
‘No.’ He helped himself to another shot of whisky. He was sitting on a chair in Bellamy’s office at the Berlin.
Bellamy sat down in front of him. ‘It was vital,’ he said reassuringly, ‘and you’ve proved your worth. We know we can trust you ultimately because,’ and here he dropped the bombshell, ‘that man was a cop.’
Franklands swallowed the vomit in his throat. He pictured images of the assault: the first blow, the kicking, the jumping on Baxter’s head, crushing his skull like they were stamping on a beetle. Franklands could hear the noise. It was horrible and he shuddered. Oh God, a cop, he thought bleakly.
‘You are truly one of us, Martin.’ Bellamy’s voice became lilting and hypnotic. ‘Sometimes these small things have to be done for the good of the movement — you know how true that is, don’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ he croaked, his breath coming in judders.
‘Will you do something else for us?’
Franklands looked up quickly into Bellamy’s eyes. ‘I. . I don’t know. . I’m in shock, Vince.’
‘I know, but again, it is only a small thing, another piece of the jigsaw which will eventually lead us to power.’ Bellamy paused, smiled and reached across to put his fingertips on Franklands’ jaw line, tilting his head up so their eyes were on a level. ‘You are one of my boys, Martin, part of the top team now. Yes, I mean it — irreplaceable.’
‘What do I have to do?’ Franklands could not stop himself asking.
‘Deliver a package.’
Woodside Drive was off the busy East Park Drive which leads up to Blackpool Zoo, now closed for the day. It was an unlit road, often used by courting couples at night. A perfect place for a conversation.
Byrne pulled the car into the kerb, switched off the engine, killed the lights. Henry laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Stay put. We won’t be long.’ He jerked his head at Costain, meaning ‘out’.
Costain reluctantly complied and Henry ushered him away from the car.
‘You could’ve fucking compromised me, you silly twat,’ Costain hissed worriedly. ‘If they find out I’m a grass, I’m dead. My family’ll fucking do me, never mind any cunt else. What’s happened to your fucking carefulness?’
‘Just at this moment in time, Troy, I don’t give a monkey’s,’ Henry said. A sentence which, even under the circumstances, made him smirk because on the word monkey’s, a tribe of them started howling loudly in the nearby zoo, obviously offended by Henry’s turn of phrase.
‘Then it better be better ’n good,’ Costain spat.
‘Shut it and let me speak.’ Henry’s tone of voice, coupled with the forefinger poked threateningly an inch from Costain’s face, made the young man clam up. ‘Has DI Roscoe been round to see you and your family?’
‘Yeah, bitch rousted us all early this morning, searching for Joey.’
‘Has she been back since, this evening?’
He shook his head.
‘You sure?’
‘Course I’m fucking sure. Look, what’s going on?’
‘She’s gone missing. Her and another detective.’
‘Well at least that’s two less of you fuckers.’
It was the wrong thing to say and Troy knew it immediately when a chill came over Henry’s face. He snapped and his open-palmed right hand came out of nowhere and whacked Costain across the face. The blow lifted him off his feet and sent him sprawling onto the ground. Henry stepped over the prostrate form with menace. Anger, like an internal demon, rushed through him.