Paul Finch - Ashes to Ashes - An unputdownable thriller from the Sunday Times bestseller

‘Ma’am,’ he replied, ‘if tomorrow morning someone was to detonate a dirty bomb in the centre of Bradburn, the only reason I’d lose sleep is because it would prevent us getting our hands on John Sagan. My desire to bring to book a bloke who hurts people as his business is much stronger than any lingering dislike I may have for the hometown that shat on me.’

‘That’s fair enough, but is this something you actually want to do? And I’m asking you that as a friend, not your boss … maybe even as your ex. We could be up there quite a while. Do you think you could stand that? It’s not like there isn’t lots you can be doing down here.’

‘I’ll be fine. The past is gone.’

‘If you say so.’ She only seemed vaguely satisfied, though she rarely gave a more positive response than this to any of Heck’s glib assurances.

He opened the door. ‘Any message for Penny Flint, in case she gets in touch?’

‘Yes,’ Gemma said distractedly, writing notes again. ‘Tell her she’s a bitch and she deserves locking up. And tell her that if she ever meets me again she needs to tread warily, because it might still happen.’

April was supposed to be a spring month, Danny reminded himself as he plodded down the dank alleys of the Blackhall ward, heavy feet tramping the wet black cobbles. And, while it wasn’t what you’d call bitter, it was a tad colder than it should be at this time of year, even late at night. His breath misted out in front of him as he stumped his way along. Danny hated cold weather, but then it didn’t care much for him. A gangling six-foot-three and bone-thin, he felt it more than most, and his ragged denims and oily old military coat did little to help with that.

Of course, cold or hot, rain or shine, business was business – and it didn’t stop for anything.

Not that Danny Hollister looked much like a businessman, or even someone who might be carrying money. And that was to his advantage at this time of night, though he always had a roll of cash on him and a stash of gear in his pocket.

He reached his normal pitch just after eleven. It was halfway down a narrow brick entry between two derelict warehouses alongside the Leeds–Liverpool Canal, whose water lay black and motionless under a thin film of oil.

Clapping his gloved hands together, Danny waited patiently beneath the decayed stoop of a side entrance. It was a good position. He wasn’t exactly hidden from the world; those who wanted to find him would do so easily. But the canal lay forty yards to his right, and an open cobbled backstreet forty yards to his left; if a patrolling cop turned in from either of those directions all he had to do was back out of sight and beat a retreat through the burned-out innards of the industrial ruin. But in all honesty, what were the chances of a patrolling cop showing up here? It was well known that they were understaffed to an epic degree. Course, if the Drug Squad came sniffing around, that would be more of a problem. But there was an open drain just to the left. Everything could go down there at a second’s notice if it needed to. It was all cellophane-wrapped anyway, and Danny knew where it washed out again. He didn’t see it’d be a problem. Such cops as were available these days surely had more important things to do. OK, Danny traded in crack and heroin as well as grass, not to mention a bit of China. It wasn’t what the average Joe would call small potatoes, but for safety purposes he never carried massive amounts of the stuff. And Danny was a user as much as a dealer. If the time ever arrived, he’d shrug his stick-thin shoulders and say: ‘I only shift enough to feed my own habit.’ And he’d be absolutely sincere.

He coughed harshly. It hurt, the air rasping in his sunken chest. His head ached too – he always seemed to have a headache these days. And a cold. Snot spooled out from his sore-encrusted left nostril, and he wiped it with his skinny wrist.

An engine rumbled somewhere close by.

Danny stepped back into the recess, crooking his head right and left. There was no sign of anyone on the towpath, but the other way he saw that a vehicle had pulled up on the cobbled space beyond the entry. By instinct, his left hand burrowed more deeply into his pocket, fingers caressing the folded switchblade he kept down there.

The vehicle at the end of the alley had turned its lights off, but remained motionless. Danny watched it irritably. This happened on occasion. Middle-class kids looking to score would come down here nervously. Not wanting to get jumped on these mean streets, they’d get as close as they could in the car and then, ignorant of the protocol, would sit there waiting, engine chugging. With every passing minute, it was more likely they’d draw attention to themselves. The narrow backstreet they were parked on might feel like it was in the middle of nowhere, but actually it wasn’t. A couple of hundred yards further up, another old warehouse had been changed into a nightclub. OK, it was only open on Fridays and Saturdays; there was no one there on weekday nights, but there was a small car park in front of it, and on the other side of that a grotty little pool bar which sometimes entertained midweek custom.

The fact the car was grey, or looked grey in the dimness, would reduce this risk a little. But even so, its occupants were clearly not for venturing down the alley.

Danny swore under his breath. He could picture them. A twenty-something couple. Probably both doing jobs they loved and at the same time earning good money. They’d have put street-gear on to come down here. Stonewashed jeans or Army Surplus, maybe hoodie tops, perhaps a baseball cap for the guy. But everything would be crisp and clean, with designer branding.

Danny loathed middle-class phoneys, but he could never allow himself to show it. Whatever their pretensions in life, they were still dopers, and dopers were his lifeblood.

But still the car sat at the end of the alley, swimming in a smog of its own exhaust.

‘Shit,’ he said.

These really would be silly little rich kids. They might not intend it, they possibly didn’t even realise it, but it clearly came natural to them to get served. Well, this once – just this once, to get rid of the dickless fool and his bint before they attracted the entire town – Danny would wander down there. But once business was concluded, he’d give them some advice, spiced with a few choice swear-words of his own.

He ambled along the passage, hands in his coat pockets. Even when he reached the end, he couldn’t tell for sure what kind of motor it was. It surprised him actually – it was an estate car, but it looked a bit grubby and beaten-up; not what he’d expected. Though perhaps this was the family spare; something they felt safer in down on the Blackhall ward, a bit more incognito. As he approached, its front passenger window scrolled down. Most likely this would be the guy. The girl would be behind the wheel, because he wouldn’t want her dealing face to face with a criminal. Obviously not.

But then it all turned a bit unreal.

The window had reached the bottom of the frame, and yet no bearded or handsomely chiselled face appeared there. Instead, Danny saw a circular steel muzzle – a broad one, at least three inches in diameter. His mouth dropped open.

A bulky figure was visible behind the muzzle, hunched over from the driving seat. There was no one else in there, quite clearly. To operate this mechanism, one man was enough.

A fountain of white-hot flame spewed out.

One minute Danny’s tall, thin body was uncomfortably cold, the next every part of him was ablaze with agony. He stumbled backward with such force that he bounced from the warehouse wall. At first, he was so agonised that he was unable to make a sound. But as his clothes fell away in charring tatters, taking much of the flaming, adhesive fuel with them, he found his voice – in long, braying screeches. Only for a second jet to engulf him, lighting him head to foot, eating immediately into his scorched and vitreous flesh.