Heartless Reaction Read online

  ‘OK, no problem.’

  ‘I’ll take you over to them and they will sort you out. Here’s my card, you can phone me and arrange a time to come to the station. We will also need to take your fingerprints for elimination purposes.’

  ‘Oh, well, OK.’

  ‘It’s just a formality, sir, no need to worry.’

  ‘Yes, OK, I understand.’

  ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

  ‘The guy looked seriously injured, I hope he’s going to be OK,’ said Kenny.

  ‘The medics will do their best,’ said Andy.

  After removing his outer clothing for the forensic staff, Kenny went to retrieve his own car and was about to pull away when he felt a creeping sensation on his scalp. This caused him to shiver and he furiously rubbed his hand over his bald head, dislodging a moth which fluttered past him and out of the open window. He closed his eyes to regain his composure. How he wished he could be transported like a time-traveller and in an instant find himself at home. Instead, he would have to endure the smell of the vomit next to him until he could spot a rubbish bin and deposit the offending package. He could hardly believe so many awful things had happened that night and just wanted to get home, take a shower and go to bed.

  Andy and Mike went over to the dead body. Forensic investigators had arrived along with a police pathologist who was in the process of certifying death. The two detectives donned some disposable gloves and plastic overshoes as they approached the tent. Photographs were being taken before the victim was turned over. Andy squatted down to get a better look, his superior remained standing as his portly frame made him less agile.

  ‘Evening, Alistair,’ said Andy.

  ‘Yes, evening to you. Lovely night isn’t it?’

  ‘Looks like this poor chap didn’t have a very pleasant stroll in the countryside?’

  ‘Indeed. I’ll just turn him over so we can see his face. He’s been stabbed, shot as well, by the looks of things but I’ll know more once I get him on the table. Ready?’

  The victim was turned over.

  ‘Well, well, a familiar face,’ said Andy Walters, ‘although he looked better when I interviewed him in the past. I won’t be questioning him this time. ‘

  ‘Friend of yours then?’

  ‘Sean Bailey. Criminal record as long as your arm. Mainly minor offences. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Looks like someone had a sharp knife though.’

  ‘Right I’ll schedule the necessary investigations, and let you know,’ said Alistair. ‘See you again soon, no doubt.’

  ‘Night, Alistair,’ said Andy.

  The two detectives went over to the uniformed officers.

  ‘Evening lads. Identity of the other man?’ said Mike.

  ‘Nothing, so far, sir.

  ‘I’ll get someone to check traffic cameras.’ Andy yawned and stretched as his lack of sleep began to take its toll.

  ‘OK, well hopefully our man will survive and we’ll see what he has to say for himself,’ added Mike. ‘Right, I’ll go and have a word with our white-suited friends and then I might be able to get some shut eye for a few hours.’ He turned towards the uniformed officers, ‘One of you get over to the hospital and make sure you stay with the victim, let me know if he reveals his identity.’

  ‘I’ll go, sir,’ said the constable who then jogged back to his car and sped away.

  Their investigations were at an early stage but Mike felt this bore all the hallmarks of a drug deal gone wrong. Sean Bailey had been arrested and charged with drug offences before. He was a minor player but perhaps he’d recently become involved in something bigger than he could cope with. He would contact one of his colleagues tomorrow on the Drug Squad, they might need to pool their resources on this case.

  Dawn was just breaking and the sky towards the east looked beautiful with faint pink streaks signalling a fine day ahead. However, Mike knew from experience that for him and his team the day ahead would be long and there would doubtless be many unpleasant revelations in the course of the investigation to distract them from appreciating the clement weather.

  **

  A black BMW 3 Series was being driven erratically towards Breckton. The driver was struggling to concentrate as the searing pain in his leg was making him feel faint. A bullet had also glanced his head and he could feel blood trickling down past his eyebrow. The evening had descended into chaos, someone had betrayed them and he was determined to find out the truth. It should have been an easy transaction, something he’d done many times before without difficulty. This time they had been ambushed and despite being armed they had been outnumbered and outgunned.

  Having put some distance between himself and the crime scene, he stopped in a deserted lay-by to assess the damage to his leg. Switching on the interior light he gasped at the sight. His trousers were completely soaked with blood and it was leaking down onto the driver’s seat. Luckily his right leg had taken the bullet, otherwise, he wouldn’t have been able to operate the clutch.

  ‘Shit, shit,’ he cursed and slapped the steering wheel. The evening had ended in disaster and now he was entering a damage limitation phase. He had no idea how long his body could last out with the injuries he’d sustained so he couldn’t afford to be caught in possession of a gun. He took out his mobile and scrolled through his contacts. ‘Please, please answer,’ he moaned to himself. He closed his eyes for a few minutes then tried again, no response. ‘Fuck, fuck!’ he cried.

  He dragged himself from the car, took out a plastic bag from the boot and wrapped the gun in it. Then he walked a few yards into the undergrowth and using the torch on his phone looked for some soft earth. Using his uninjured leg, his hands and elbows he managed to hollow out some ground and bury the gun. With luck, he could return and retrieve it. Firearms were expensive and he was loath to just discard it. His gloves went into the bin in the lay-by, tomorrow they should be on their way to landfill.

  He climbed back into the car, already weary with that small exertion and realised that medical treatment, though unwelcome was an unavoidable consequence of tonight’s exploit. Despite the agonising pain which was causing him to breathe heavily his brain needed to come up with a plausible plan, quickly.

  Chapter 3

  The ambulance, with lights flashing, was heading towards Persford Hospital, through the town centre which was conveniently quiet due to the lateness of the hour. The driver went through several lights on red and was unimpeded by inconsiderate motorists who often failed to move over. Due to the seriousness of the injury, the control room had radioed for assistance and there were now two paramedics in the back of the ambulance trying to keep the victim alive until he could receive emergency surgery. They had applied pressure to the abdomen to try to stem the bleeding and the man was hooked up to an ECG machine.

  The patient was mumbling and semi-conscious with an oxygen mask affixed to his face.

  ‘Blood pressure, ninety over fifty-five. Oxygen saturation of eighty per cent. Respiratory function seems to be weakening,’ said Lisa.

  ‘OK, are we managing to stem the blood loss?’asked her colleague, Rick.

  ‘I’m trying but he’s bleeding profusely. Applying pressure.’ She took more pads and pressed on the victim’s abdomen. The new pads were soon soaked with blood. It was unclear just how many wounds there were. She thought she’d identified the main one, at least she hoped she had.

  ‘I’ll check his thigh, could be a main wound there judging from the blood on his trousers.’ Rick cut the leg of his jeans and swabbed the thigh. ‘Small gunshot wound here, left thigh,’ he said to Lisa. ‘Not too serious.’ He taped a sterile bandage to the leg.

  ‘Can you hear me, mate?’ Rick, asked the victim. ‘You’re going to be OK? We’re nearly there now. Hang on in there. Can you tell me your name?’

  Rick bent down close to the victim and removed the mask momentarily but it was clear that he would elicit little information from him in his present state.

  ‘OK, don’t worry
,’ he said, patting his patient solicitously.

  ‘Get two IV lines in if you can, Lisa.’

  Lisa applied a tourniquet to the heavily tattooed left arm and selected a promising looking vein. Her first attempt was successful and she taped the cannula port down securely.

  ‘Never mind about the second one, we’re here now,’ said her colleague as the ambulance drew to a halt. The rear doors were flung open and the patient was lowered carefully out of the ambulance.

  ‘Right, we’ll take over,’ said the Accident and Emergency consultant. ‘How many gunshot wounds?’

  ‘Two, one major to the abdomen, small wound on the leg. The patient is still bleeding heavily. Blood pressure is low.’ The paramedic handed over the medical notes he’d made in the ambulance.

  ‘OK, theatre is ready,’ replied the consultant, scanning the notes as he spoke. The victim was wheeled off to the operating theatre. For the moment the paramedics could relax and clean up the interior of the ambulance. If they were lucky they might get a chance for a cup of tea before their next call.

  **

  A couple of minutes before 2 a.m., nineteen-year-old Dylan Beggs was cycling back towards his home on the Lensfield Estate. He must have clocked up about ten miles that night which was not atypical and despite living off a diet of junk food, his two-wheeled transport burnt off most of the calories he consumed, rendering him quite emaciated in appearance. His stomach was beginning to feel empty but it would have to wait until tomorrow for any sustenance. There was never anything much in the fridge at home, most of the space was taken up with wine and beer.

  Business that evening had been steady enabling him to clear around a hundred pounds profit, not exactly a fortune but better than nothing. Weekends were better and on a good night, he often made double that. He’d been in this particular employ for several years and had a regular client base but recently he was beginning to feel under pressure. His employer was demanding that Dylan generated a bigger turnover and thus a greater profit and it was starting to prey on the teenager’s mind.

  As he approached 15 Carlton Road he could hear the muffled beat of music coming from their next door neighbour at number thirteen. Some people were suspicious about living at that particular number but far as he was concerned, every number in this road was bad luck. As usual, his neighbour’s mangy cat was preferring to spend the evening outside away from its feckless owners and it circled Dylan’s legs as he got off his bike. Dylan bent down to stroke the neglected pet which meowed its appreciation.

  The row of small modern terraced houses had been built around twenty years ago and most were now looking in need of some refurbishment. Some were council owned, some housing association and the rest rented out by private landlords. He unlocked the front door and dragged his bicycle into the hallway where he carelessly dumped it against the wall adding another scuff mark to the array on the paintwork. The familiar smell of fried food and cigarettes greeted him. He could hear the television in the lounge and he looked in to see his mother slumped on the sofa asleep, an empty wine bottle at her feet. Dylan found the remote control and switched off the TV. He looked with disdain upon his mother and the ashtray full of cigarette butts and wondered how the house had survived so long without her burning it down.

  Dylan trod heavily upstairs, past the closed bedroom door of his younger sister Savannah and threw open the door to his squalid bedroom. The stale air from discarded clothes and unwashed bedding assailed his nostrils causing him to grimace. A firm thump with his fist forced the top window open a couple of inches. Immediately he could feel some cooler night-time air sinking down through the thin curtain, held up by a few remaining hooks. He unzipped his loose jacket and low slung jeans, threw them to the floor, pushed off his trainers and slumped down on his bed in his T-shirt and underpants. Muffled sounds of foxes, traffic and late night revellers were no match for sleep which claimed him within a few minutes.

  **

  The driver of the black BMW was now working on plan B as his phone calls had remained unanswered. The pain was now agonising, searing up his thigh to his buttock causing him to feel sick. His vision seemed strange and he was having trouble judging distances. His speed was erratic as his injured leg was operating the accelerator pedal and he realised that if he continued to drive he would surely crash.

  He had now reached the centre of Breckton. Suddenly, a wave of nausea washed over him and he had to fight against the gag reflex. This was it, he couldn’t drive any longer so he looked for the first place he could pull off the road. He could see the forecourt of an office building, turned the car left and parked carelessly. The pain in his leg now felt as if someone was slicing through it with an ice-cold knife. He put his head back against the headrest and took some deep breaths. Phoning for the ambulance then and there was tempting but he wanted to put some distance between himself and the car.

  Gingerly he climbed out and rested his arms on the roof. His leg had been painful enough whilst sitting but bearing his whole body weight was excruciating. His sock and trainer felt squelchy and soaked with blood. The man took off his jacket and tied the arm as tightly as he could around his thigh to try to stem the blood flow. He sat on a low wall for a few moments to get his breath back.

  Holding on to the wall, he shuffled, sometimes hopping, dragging his injured leg. His leg felt so heavy as if mercury and not blood were filling the veins. Sweat was running down his back and his face. His stomach was experiencing involuntary contractions, generating waves of nausea. He bent over to see whether he could vomit to relieve the feeling.

  What a sight he must look. His usual professional demeanour had been ripped away in a few moments making him helpless and vulnerable. Inwardly he was furious but self-preservation was the overriding emotion at that instant. Ahead he could see a bench in front of some shops. Somehow he made it and slumped down, his heart beating so hard it threatened to burst through his ribcage. This was the limit of his exertions. He took out his mobile.

  ‘Ambulance. I’ve been shot. Breckton town centre, outside Boots Chemists.’

  ‘The ambulance is on its way. Sir, what happened? Can you hear me?’

  ‘Car-jacking,’ was all the injured man could say before he slumped sideways on the bench, clutching his phone in his bloodied hand. He drifted in and out of consciousness until the cool night air was punctuated by the sound of emergency vehicles. A wave of relief washed over him as he sensed the presence of medical personnel carrying out their well-practised routine.

  Chapter 4

  Maureen and Ron were having breakfast and listening to the Today programme on BBC Radio Four. There had just been a report about the slowdown of the property market in London and an experts prediction that the effect would soon spread to other parts of the country.

  ‘That just shows you were right to accept the offer on your house,’ said Ron.

  ‘I know. It was a bit less than I was hoping for but it sounds like the market has peaked.’

  ‘Have the estate agents been in touch recently?’

  ‘Not since last week. The buyers are keen to move and have someone for their own house so it’s looking promising. I’ve got a lot still to clear and get rid of.’

  ‘Don’t forget you can bring anything here that you want to keep and we can get rid of some of my stuff. We can always store things in one of the outbuildings.’

  ‘I’ve given it some thought but I want a fresh start. There are really only a few things I want to keep.’

  Ron smiled at Maureen. ‘You are completely sure about this aren’t you? I wouldn’t have minded if you had wanted to keep it and rent it out.’

  ‘Why? That would just be a load of hassle. We’ve enough to cope with. It’s fine. After all, that house has got some unpleasant memories,’ she paused whilst she ate her cereal. ‘Let’s change the subject. What have you got on this morning?’

  ‘I’ve some documents to read through, nothing too strenuous. Also, that chap is going to contact me about the Roller.�
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  ‘Oh, yes, I forgot. Do you think he’s really interested?’

  ‘He seemed keen enough. I sent him the details and photos.’

  ‘You’re quite sure about selling it?’

  ‘Sure. It’s just taking up space and I never use it. When I bought it I think I was on some sort of ego trip. Looking back I don’t know why I did it.’

  ‘Well, we all change, I suppose.’

  ‘Mmm’, murmured Ron, eating his muesli. ‘Anyway, we can use the twenty grand or so for something for ourselves. A little treat, what do you say?’

  Maureen didn’t know what to say. She didn’t really regard that sort of sum as a little treat but she had to start to accept that they were well off. Since inheriting Hubert’s estate she was also wealthy in her own right. It had all happened so suddenly that she was having trouble thinking on this sort of scale. It was a huge change as if suddenly she had been picked up and transported to another world and another wealth bracket.

  ‘Sounds lovely,’ replied Maureen.

  ‘Good, think about what you’d like to spend it on.’

  ‘Ron, I hope you don’t mind me mentioning this but I’m conscious of you making some changes recently. I know you’ve let some staff go so I just wondered, do we really need a full-time security man, Corey? We’ve got CCTV and alarms.’

  ‘He does other things as well,’ replied Ron.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Just odd jobs I need doing. Errands. People I need him to meet, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘But?’ said Ron, ‘you don’t sound convinced.

  ‘No, it’s fine. You know best. It’s just that there doesn’t seem much crime around here.’

  ‘That’s because we have good security,’ replied Ron. ‘We don’t invite trouble.’

  The radio announced it was eight o’clock and the newsreader read the main headlines.

  ‘It’s after eight now, Ron, please give the doctor a call,’ said Maureen.

  ‘I’m feeling much better this morning though,’ replied Ron. ‘I’ve been a bit stressed recently, it’s probably that.’