Cath Staincliffe - Blue Murder

Dean swallowed. If he said no he could be dropping Douggie further in it. Could well be his fingerprints on it. Then it’d be a done deal. To hell with Douggie. Dean was furious. He wanted to crush something. He never should have come here. Some bloody safe house. Chock full of drugs. Douggie and his dealing. All that bull about how careful they were. Douggie wouldn’t know careful if it sat on his face. And he’d be looking at serious time. Whatever happened to Dean, Douggie would be going down. Possession and supply. Class A. Strangeways or Armley. Playing with the big boys. It’d kill him. And it’d kill Dean if they put him in there too.

‘Well?’ the man insisted.

Dean dipped his head.

‘Oh dear, illegal weapon,’ said the man. And he carefully withdrew first the flick-knife and next the videotape from the thick plastic carrier bag and placed them all in evidence bags.

They led them out to the cars. Neighbours stood gawping across the way, and a string of Asian kids in bright tunics and trousers watched from their garden wall. A gaggle of lads on bikes looked on in fascination. Douggie was shouting and cursing. Not his usual style. Dean put it down to the pills and the stress. Douggie had probably clocked what was going to happen to him and he was falling apart.

‘Don’t effing push me,’ Douggie kept on, ‘I’ll have you for assault.’

‘Douggie,’ Dean wanted to calm him down but Douggie didn’t hear or he didn’t let on.

Later, Dean couldn’t ever get the sequence of things exactly right.

They were just by the cars, taking them in different ones. Dean was a bit behind Douggie and they led him to the black Vauxhall Omega at the rear. They were putting Douggie in a squad car parked in front. Someone shouted. Dean looked up and saw two things. Douggie bolting down the pavement, back past Dean, legs going like pistons, face rigid with effort and a red car turning into the avenue. A red Nissan Sunny coming round the corner. Douggie running towards it, shouting ‘Gary!’ Gary driving the car.

Gary swerved trying to avoid Douggie; he must have seen the police and then he was trying to turn the car, make a getaway. He hit the brakes, the noise was deafening. The car ploughed into Douggie who went up, flipped against Gary’s windscreen like a puppet, a grisly crunch as he hit. Gary screeched to a halt and Douggie’s body was tossed onto the road.

There was a moment of silence. Like the film had stopped. Then commotion as the police started for Gary and the car. He revved the engine in panic, and shot forward, driving over Douggie. Bumping over him, the engine howling.

‘Douggie,’ yelled Dean.

‘Get an ambulance.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ someone called out.

A child on the wall started crying.

Dean stared at the street. At Douggie, Douggie’s body. People moved closer, a police car drove off, mounting the pavement to skirt the little crowd.

Dean stayed very, very still. He felt very small. If he didn’t breathe, he was thinking, then maybe it wouldn’t be real. His teeth clattered and his knees gave way. He fell against the car.

‘All right, son,’ the man by his side spoke, ‘you just get in here, sit in here.’

Later he wondered if he should have gone over to Douggie and said his goodbyes there. But Douggie wouldn’t have heard him. He had seen the mess that Douggie was and knew you couldn’t be like that and live. When he closed his eyes he could hear Douggie laughing his wheezy laugh and launching into a stupid impression of an ice cream van playing the Teddy Bear’s Picnic .

Janine was in the murder room when she heard about Dean Hendrix. She sent for Richard. He looked guarded. Perhaps he thought she wanted to resume their altercation. His expression soon changed when she broke the news. ‘There’s been an incident. Drugs round-up in Oldham. Went sour. Main suspect got run-over.’ She paused a moment – some young lad, not much older than Michael, dead on the streets. ‘But they got Dean Hendrix. They’ll transfer him first thing in the morning.’

‘Excellent.’

‘There’s more, though.’

He looked questioningly.

‘Guess who Dean’s mate was selling to?’

‘Tulley?’ A drugs connection could give them some motive for the killing.

‘Ferdie! And Ferdie needed some dosh to set up in business. So he and Colin went and took some.’ She tilted her head, raised her eyebrows, inviting him to work it out. It didn’t take him long.

‘The off-licences.’

‘That’s why Colin was sweating,’ Janine smiled. ‘That’s where they were Saturday morning.’

She removed Ferdie Gibson’s photograph from the board. Looked at the two that were left. Lesley Tulley and Dean Hendrix.

‘We know Dean was at the allotment, we’ve got the fingerprint, Mr Vincent has identified his photo-’ Richard began.

‘He also picked the wrong face in the line-up,’ she countered.

Richard continued his thread. ‘And Dean’s done it before plus he goes AWOL. Now, all we’ve got on Lesley is a funny parking ticket and the washing.’

‘He’s no motive.’

‘Nor has she.’

Janine looked back at the photos. Folie a deux perhaps? ‘They plan it together. Dean kills Tulley and Lesley helps cover the traces. She takes the knife and burns the clothing.’

Richard shook his head.

‘Be interesting to see her reaction to Dean being in custody,’ she said.

‘You going to tell her?’

‘Tomorrow,’ she checked her watch. ‘And now I really must make tracks.’

‘How’s Tom?’

She hesitated. She was eager to keep things purely professional with Richard but he seemed genuinely concerned – and he had gone all out to get her to the hospital quickly.

‘Sitting up and chattering.’ Pete had rung an hour earlier, updated her. ‘I’m on night shift.’

‘If there’s anything I can do?’

His offer disarmed her. It was what everyone said but she was tired, a bit vulnerable. She felt dizzy, had to look away because the last thing she wanted to do was to start weeping.

‘Janine?’

‘Just sometimes it feels like it’s all unravelling, you know? Tom, Michael, work, this…’ she nodded at her stomach, took a deep breath. Saying more than she’d intended. ‘See you tomorrow,’ she said briskly. He watched her go.

Ferdie was almost home when Shap and Butchers caught up with him. ‘Ferdinand Gibson.’

Ferdie groaned. No more hassle. ‘I’ve already talked to you lot. This is harassment, that’s what this is. I’m going to make a complaint, you know. You want to talk – I want a solicitor.’

‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ the new guy said. Fat bloke, stupid cartoon tie on. ‘Ferdinand Gibson, I am arresting you on suspicion of being in possession of a Class A drug, namely cocaine, with intent to supply and on suspicion of armed robbery You do not have to say anything…’

Shap showed his teeth.

‘Aw, Jesus!’ said Ferdie, circling his head in hopelessness. ‘Who grassed me up, eh? Was it Colin? I’ll bleedin’ ‘ave him. Look,’ he spread his palms wide, ‘can I just tell me mam, I only live there, the blue door?’

‘We’ll tell her.’

Shap opened the car door, gestured him in.

‘Can I just give her the shopping?’ Ferdie held up his little rucksack.

‘You heard that? Sonny Jim wants to drop his bag off,’ Shap said with contempt. ‘Must think we’re bloody stupid. Who’s been giving you lessons, Homer Simpson, was it? Eh? Hah hah hah.’ He chortled at his own joke. ‘Get in, Einstein,’ Shap drawled. Slamming the door after him.

Butchers started the engine.

Fucked, thought Ferdie.