The Porsche swung overhead. The crane operator gleefully following the instructions given to him. Through an arc of 180 degrees it travelled, then came to a halt swaying gently in the air as though pushed by the breeze. The operator looked down for the nod.
Which was given to him by Cromer.
The four claws opened simultaneously. The Porsche dropped from the sky — right into the open, expectant jaws of the vehicle crusher below. For a few moments nothing happened. There was silence across the scrapyard. Then a motor started up, a powerful, throbbing one, building up the pressure in the massive pistons which were used to force the crusher shut.
The jaws wrapped around the Porsche, slowly, ponderously, starting to crush the car with a horrible crumpling sound.
‘You fuckers!’ wailed Ali. ‘My car.’
Teddy Bear Jackman punched Ali very hard in the lower gut — one of his favourite blows. His fat, bunched fist rammed expertly into the soft underbelly of the gangster, doubling him up and sending him to his knees, then on to his face. For good measure, Jackman kicked him in the head, then bent down and dragged him back up to his feet, where he managed to retain a staggering balance. Jackman then took hold of Ali’s elbow and steered him across the scrapyard towards a tower of scrap vehicle shells, stacked precariously on top of each other. Cromer followed, petrol can in hand.
Two huge tractor tyres, one on top of the other, lay by the foot of the dead car tower.
‘Climb in there.’ Jackman pushed Ali towards the tyres. The Asian looked quizzical. ‘In,’ Jackman explained. ‘Leg over, get in, yeah?’
Puzzled, still reeling from the punch and blow to the head, Ali clambered over the tyres and dropped into the rubber circle.
‘Stand up.’
‘Look, guys, what the shit’s going on, man?’
‘You have something belonging to our boss,’ Cromer declared confidently.
‘Like what?’
‘Cocaine. Lots of it. You robbed it from him on Birch Services.’
‘I did hell. You are wrong there.’
‘Here — stick this over your head,’ Cromer said.
‘What. . why. .?’
Jackman looped a worn motorcycle tyre over Ali’s head and shoulders. The tyre settled around him, pulling his arms tight into his side. Jackman quickly dropped a further two similar tyres around him, straightjacketing him
Ali’s eyes were wide with fear. ‘What’re you going to do?’
‘They used to do this in South Africa, didn’t they — to the blacks. .? Jeez, I can’t remember what they call it,’ Jackman said, annoyed he could not bring it to mind.
Ali began to struggle like a wild man, started to scream.
Cromer stood up on the tractor tyres and splashed petrol over their captive. Ali ducked, tried to avoid it, but could not. Within moments he was well doused, fumes starting to rise.
‘Four-star, this,’ Cromer said. ‘You can’t just get it anywhere, these days.’
‘You wouldn’t,’ Ali dared them.
Cromer gave him a wan smile. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a box of matches, lit one, held it in the air. The breeze extinguished it almost immediately. Cromer shook his head. ‘I still can’t remember what they called it.’
‘Murder, I think,’ Jackman suggested with a titter.
Cromer laughed.
Ali sank to his knees, trapped by the tyres, soaked by the petrol. ‘I don’t know anything,’ he sobbed. ‘I don’t fucking know.’
Cromer lit another match, again allowing it to blow out in the breeze.
Jackman’s mobile rang. He fumbled in his pockets for it.
‘Best be careful with that,’ Cromer warned him. ‘They don’t let you use them on petrol station forecourts, you know. Risk of sparks, apparently.’
Jackman shrugged and answered it anyway.
Cromer shuffled another match out of the box. He held its red tip to the striking side of the box, waited for Jackman to finish the call, which, after a few muffled responses, he did, then looked at his partner.
‘OK,’ Cromer said to Ali. ‘I let those last two matches go out on purpose. This one, I won’t, so, care to start talking, Ali Bongo, old mate?’
Devastated by terror, Ali was now speechless. All he could do was kneel there and shake his head and cry.
‘They burn people when they’re dead where you come from, don’t they? Then float them down the Ganges,’ Cromer said, laughing harshly. ‘Oops, but I forget. . you come from Bradford, don’t you? Anyway, the best we can do for you is set you on fire while you’re still alive, then maybe dump your body in the River Irwell. Not exactly the holy river, but it’ll have to do.’
‘We need to go,’ Jackman hissed quietly to Cromer. ‘Boss needs us to make it to Manchester airport.’
Cromer nodded. To Ali, he said, ‘One last chance, pal.’
Ali raised his head, then shook it, no sound coming from his mouth.
‘OK then.’ Cromer lit the match. It flared up. He flicked it across to Ali, who screamed as it tumbled towards him. Then it touched him and went out with a damp Phtt noise.
‘Ever tried to light diesel with a match?’ shrugged Cromer. ‘Virtually fucking impossible. C’mon, pal,’ he said to Jackman.
The obscene screams from Rafiq Ali which accompanied their departure only served to make the partners in crime howl with hysterical laughter.
Fifteen
Henry Christie had worked in, been in, many CID offices over the years. No matter where they were, there were always certain similarities between them as, after all, an office is an office: desks, chairs, computers, paperwork, baskets, coffee cups and mugs.
But yet, each office has its own tangible atmosphere, its own way of speaking, telling you how well the people in it were doing their work, how they interacted, whether they achieved or not. It did not depend on tidiness. Even the most untidy offices could be places where the staff delivered a consistently high quality of work. Nor did it depend on the age of the furniture, or whether there were posters on the walls declaring how fantastic it was to have a positive attitude. The people made the atmosphere, whether they were sitting at their desks or not. And Henry thought he could tell when he was entering a good CID office. . or not.
Sitting in the CID office of the Arena police station just on the outskirts of Manchester city centre, he was trying to get a feel for this particular room and its denizens. But he could not quite get a handle on it.
It seemed tidy enough, the few people in the large, wide-open room had their heads down, beavering away; a coffee machine gurgled in the corner, a nice aroma filtering through the air. Yet something unsettled him slightly, making a knitting pattern of his furrowed brow. He felt strangely uncomfortable. As his eyes criss-crossed the room, they paused briefly on what was obviously a home-produced poster which said simply, Invincibles! Nothing else, just that word in striking red letters. His eyes moved on.
He exhaled, looked out of the window. Not far away was the Manchester Arena, where he had recently been to see the Rolling Stones on their world tour. Behind that was Victoria railway station and beyond that was the city itself, Deansgate, the Arndale Centre, etc. In the other direction was Manchester Prison, formerly Strangeways, and wonderfully, nearby, was Boddington’s Brewery, which made one of the few bitter beers Henry could drink to excess. He was more of a lager man.
He and FB had travelled together to Manchester. During their journey from Rawtenstall, the chief had revealed why he did not want to miss the opportunity.
‘The nick we’re going to. .?’ he began.
Henry nodded. He was driving.
‘It’s the one where the detective superintendent is based who I’m — we’re — going to be investigating. The one involved in the cock-up trial at Lancaster.’