‘Staff only,’ he squeaked.
Cromer’s hands closed around the scissors and he eased them gently off the hairdresser’s thumb and finger. He held them like a knife. ‘Like my friend said — fuck off.’
Meekly the hairdresser stepped aside, slim shoulders drooping, his body deflated. Cromer and Jackman walked past as though nothing had happened. They barged into the office.
Tom looked up in surprise, as did his newest sixteen-year-old male employee, who was kneeling down in front of Tom.
‘Jesus Christ, I told you lot to. .’ Tom began, knocking the young man away with a slap and attempting to do up his trousers. ‘What the. .?’ he continued when he saw who was interrupting him, hopping around. ‘What do you want?’
‘Just a little word,’ Cromer smiled cruelly. He clicked the scissors. ‘You — out,’ he told the young lad, who scuttled out of the office, trying to rise from his knees as he went, leaving his boss to face two very evil-looking men.
The MIR at Rawtenstall police station was quiet when Henry arrived back from the revisit to the murder scene. The only person in was Jane Roscoe, who was deep in a review of actions taken and pending. All other officers were out, just as it should be, Henry thought. Out digging, overturning rocks, annoying the bugs which lived under them. One other person, though, should have been in the office.
Henry strolled across to Roscoe, his eyes taking in everything which had been plastered on the walls. Known details about the victim, the location, speculation about motives, timelines, photos of the scene and all manner of other items from the intelligence cell Henry had established, including where to buy the best sandwich in town.
Roscoe did not notice Henry’s approach. She looked up, startled, to see him hovering next to her.
‘Where’s my chum, Carradine?’
‘Lunch,’ Roscoe said shortly. ‘Gone with. .’ She checked herself abruptly.
‘With who?’ Henry asked.
Roscoe looked away, averting her eyes.
‘With who?’ Henry probed again, wondering why he even wanted to know, because he could not really care less who Carradine lunched with. It was just that Roscoe’s reaction had made him curious.
‘Mr Anger.’
‘Oh, right. . good mates, are they?’
‘Served in Merseyside together.’ Roscoe peered at Henry as he juggled this bit of information in his brain and could not stop from letting his face do the talking. So Carradine and Anger were old mates. Carradine had started his career in Liverpool, later transferring to Lancashire. That had been a good few years ago. Anger had served in Merseyside too, before his own, more recent, transfer across the border to the head of the SIO team. Shit. Old buddies. Anger promises he’ll look after Carradine, get him a job on the SIO team and instead gets lumbered with Henry Christie whom he cannot seem to offload. Henry was in the way of Anger doing Carradine a good turn. That explained Carradine’s behaviour and attitude towards Henry.
He allowed himself a short, mirthless laugh, and gave Roscoe a knowing look.
‘Anything new I need to know about?’ Henry inquired, bringing the whole thing back to a more professional footing. ‘DNA back? Firearms?’ She shook her head to both. ‘Chase ’em up, will you?’ Henry veered away and left the MIR, now understanding that he had obstructed a promised move. A rather wicked grin appeared on his face. Knowing that made him even more resolved to stick in there and show the bastards.
‘Don’t get me wrong, Ted, but I quite enjoyed that.’ Cromer made a snipping gesture with the first two fingers of his right hand. Both men erupted in laughter.
‘Which bit — getting hold of Tom’s knob?’
‘No — snipping off that little bit of foreskin.’
‘He screamed a bit, though.’
‘Yeah — but at least he told us where to find Spinksy.’
‘Should’ve told us when we first asked.’
‘Should’ve,’ agreed Cromer.
‘There was a lot of blood wasn’t there. .? I mean, for such a small cut.’
‘Gallons. . wouldn’t stop flowing.’
‘Bet it’s gonna sting.’
They were walking side by side across the moor-top golf course at Whitworth, a cold, damp, windswept course which had wonderful sweeping views away towards Rochdale and Manchester beyond. They had seen Spinks’s Bentley in the car park, so they knew he was here and the information passed so painfully by Tom through screams, gasps and penile blood flow was correct. He had told them that Spinks was at Whitworth Golf Club with his girlfriend, but if he wasn’t, he would be shagging her at his house.
Cromer and Jackman warned Tom not to contact Spinks, otherwise they would return and cut his dick off. He had promised them he would comply with that reasonable request as he dabbed at his bleeding genitalia with one of the salon’s towels.
Even though the day was pleasant, the wind was whipping around the moors. The sheep and cattle which roamed unchecked over the course, leaving their droppings and hoof prints all over the tees and greens, looked cold and miserable.
There were few players on the course. The pair easily spotted Spinks and his lady on the eighth, approaching the green, very concentrated on their game. They did not clock the two men until both balls were on the green and within putting distance of the hole. They were laughing and joking with each other in an intimate way.
Cromer and Jackman took up a position on the edge of the green, side by side, hands clasped around their backs, watching as though they were golf aficionados.
Spinks was lining up for a long putt, head down, taking a few practice swings. It was his girlfriend who saw the deadly duo first.
‘Johnny,’ she said, looking worriedly past Spinks.
‘Shh, I’m gonna hole this, babe.’
‘Johnny.’ Her voice became a little more urgent.
His head swivelled impatiently towards her, about to deliver short shrift for interrupting his concentration. He saw her expression, stood upright from his unplayed shot and turned in the direction of her stare.
Cromer gave him a friendly wave. ‘Go on, it’s OK, play your shot,’ he called pleasantly. ‘Don’t let us interrupt you.’
The steamy basement underneath the bar reeked of beer, cigarettes and rotting vegetables. But at that moment, the only thing Ramon’s sense of smell could distinguish was that of his own blood. . and that was difficult enough as his nose had been virtually obliterated, broken by an iron bar, smashed to a pulp. Both his eyes were blackened and swollen, huge now, puffed-up and closing a little more all the time. Not that he could see much anyway because his left eyeball had burst, was oozing blood and puss down his cheek. Below his flattened and bloody nose, his mouth was a mess. Lips split wide open, teeth missing or loose, although before the teeth had gone he had bitten part way through his tongue. His lower jaw was hanging loose, too. Again, a blow from the iron bar, rather like a double-handed tennis shot which, whilst breaking the jaw just below the joint, had sent powerful shock waves coursing through his cranium — almost, only almost, knocking him unconscious.
His head lolled forwards into his chest and nothing seemed to make sense any more. Pain seared through his torso following the beating he had received. His fingers had been broken one at a time, snapped back like twigs, making Ramon howl with screams he never knew he could voice. His kneecaps had also been the focus of a lot of attention from the iron bar, both having been smashed.
Snot and blood bubbled out of his distorted nose.
But the screaming was over. Although his body was in the most extreme agony, he did not have the reserves to even moan anymore. Every last bit of juice had been beaten out of him remorselessly.
All he wanted now was release. He either wanted to be allowed to die, or to be taken to a hospital and pumped full of morphine.
His head was yanked upright.
‘Can you hear me, Ramon?’ came the whisper in his ear.