‘I don’t know,’ her warped voice came out.
‘What do you mean, you don’t know? He shags you, doesn’t he?’
‘I haven’t seen him for days.’
‘You must have heard from him.’
‘No I haven’t,’ she pleaded. ‘Let me go, you’re hurting me.’
Marty spun her round so they were face to face, still holding her tight against the wall. He crushed her body, feeling himself begin to harden. He held her chin in the crook between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing her cheeks and forcing her lips out into a misshapen pucker.
‘I will hurt you. . where is he?’
‘I tell you, I don’t know.’ Her eyes were wide with dread.
Marty backed off, released his grip. Debbie sobbed. ‘I haven’t seen him for days,’ she insisted.
But Marty hadn’t finished. He smacked her hard across the face, whipping her head round and sending her spinning to the floor where she landed in a messy heap. He dropped to his haunches, his knees cracking. ‘You hear from him, or see him, or have any contact with him at all, I want to know. Understand, girl?’
She nodded.
Then the telephone rang.
Both looked up at it on the wall near to the kitchen door.
‘Answer it,’ he instructed her. He pulled her to her feet and propelled her down the hallway towards the kitchen. Her hand dithered over the instrument.
‘Pick the fucker up,’ Marty said, emphasizing each word. He took hold of her hair at the back of her head and tilted her face backwards. ‘Do it or you are dead.’ He released his grip with a flick.
She picked it up and held it to her ear. ‘Hello.’ Her voice trembled.
Harry Dixon did not know why he phoned Debbie. It was a crass, stupid thing to do. The best thing would have been to skip the country, maybe contacting her in a couple of months’ time when it had all died down. Dix knew it was a very foolish thing and had real danger to it, but the fact of the matter was that Debbie had been the backbone of his life for the last eighteen months and, though he would not admit it to anyone, he loved her like mad. That was why he contacted her. He needed to hear the comfort of her voice and to reassure her he hadn’t just done a runner and was not dead.
He realized immediately on that first faltering word of hers that he had made a very big mistake in contacting her. He should have slammed the phone down. He should have said nothing. He should have run away. But that frightened tone touched something deep inside him and he had to respond to it.
‘Debs, it’s me, Harry.’
It was a conditioned response. Just as Dix could not help himself, Debbie could not stop herself from saying, ‘Harry!’
Marty tore the phone out of her hand. ‘Dix, you twat, where the fuck are you? You’d better show with that money or you’re fucking dead?’
The phone was slammed down at the other end. Marty immediately dialled 1471, but the number was not known.
He turned slowly to Debbie, as she cowered by the kitchen door. ‘You tell him to speak to me on my mobile. Me. No one else. Me — okay?’
He gave her a pat on the cheek and left her quivering in the hallway, her legs buckling under her as she folded down into a heap.
Ray Cragg had been busy that afternoon. As soon as Marty had left to try and track down Harry Dixon’s girlfriend, he had immediately got on the phone and made arrangements to meet a contact at Skipool Creek on the River Wyre, near to Fleetwood.
Cragg arrived first and parked his car — a clean, very unremarkable Ford Escort which he used for business such as this — in the picnic area, which was otherwise deserted. The tide was in and the river was up and very brown-looking. A few small boats and yachts were moored mid-stream, bobbing up and down in the strong wind that was beginning to gust.
In due course another car pulled up alongside and a middle-aged woman got out and joined Ray in his car.
‘It’s very difficult for me to get out just like that,’ she complained.
‘I know, love,’ he commiserated, ‘but I keep you sweet, don’t I?’ He handed her a wodge of ten-pound notes. ‘Two-fifty,’ he said. ‘Double if you come up with the goods.’
Edina Trotter worked in a civilian capacity at Blackpool police station as an admin clerk in the intelligence unit. She had gone to the same school as Ray’s mother and fallen pregnant at much the same time. The difference was that Edina had lost her baby and Ray had been born alive and kicking. The two young girls kept in contact with each other over the years, but Edina had stayed on the straight and narrow while Ray’s mother had deviated somewhat. Edina had found herself in dire financial straits several years earlier when her husband dumped her and their two kids. That was when Ray came to her rescue with a proposition. As a member of the intelligence unit Edina had access to a great deal of sensitive information and also to the computer networks of Lancashire Constabulary, very useful for someone like Ray Cragg.
‘Well,’ she said doubtfully, riffling through some sheets of paper she had brought with her, printouts from computers. ‘I’ve looked through all the logs relating to Rawtenstall and no body has been seen or recovered from the Irwell, nor has any large amount of cash been found either. I discreetly spoke to a friend of mine who works for Greater Manchester police in Bury, the division which adjoins Lancashire, and they haven’t found a body washed down the river either.’
‘Okay, anything else?’
‘As I was checking the computerized incident logs I noticed a couple of odd things in New Hall Hey, a little sort of village next to the river, just down from Rawtenstall.’ She shuffled the papers. ‘Three crimes reported on the same night you are on about. Pretty unusual, I’d say.’
Ray waited.
‘One was theft of clothing from a washing line — a pair of jeans and a T-shirt; another was the owner of a house reporting damage to his door. It looks like someone’s been in the house, which is up for sale and unoccupied, but nothing was stolen from it. Thirdly, there was a car stolen from the village.’
‘Did the car turn up?’
‘Yes, on the multi-storey in Preston.’
Ray scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Could be,’ he mumbled. ‘Right, thanks, Edina.’ He separated some more notes from a roll in his pocket and handed them to her. ‘An extra hundred. Keep an eye on stolen cars, will you? Particularly those which either don’t turn up, or those which get abandoned a long way away.’
After she had gone, Ray sat in the car for several hours, just watching the river and the boats bouncing around on the waves which were whipping up in the wind. His mobile rang.
‘Ray? Me.’
‘Hello.’
‘He’s definitely alive.’
‘Yeah, thought so. . how do you know?’
‘Talked to him on the phone. Let me find him, will you? I’d like to teach the little shit a lesson.’
‘Marty, little half-brother, he’s all yours.’
It had been a frustrating day for Crazy and Miller. They had drifted through Stockport, going from pub to pub, dropping into likely-looking corner shops on council estates, betting offices, sleazy clubs, trying to flush out any information concerning the friends of the two men they had shot to death a few days before. It was not a subtle approach, but one designed to make people angry and come out fighting. It did not seem to be working. Most people clammed up tight, said nothing and looked away; others went pale and shaky with fear. However, although they did not unearth anything of great use, they knew they had made their mark on the underworld of Stockport.
At seven that evening, they decided to call it quits and head back to Blackpool. It was motorway all the way, M60, M61westbound, M6 and M55. They were in Miller’s ageing, but wonderful Mercedes Coupe, a real gangster’s car. It purred easily down the motorway at 80–85 mph. Both men listened to Radio 2 and argued about the merits of sixties music as opposed to today’s trash. They did not know each other very well, but found themselves quite liking each other.