Nothing But Trouble, page 24
part #11 of Jessica Daniel Series
‘We can’t let this go on,’ Jessica whispered. ‘Someone could get killed.’
‘There’s no one here yet, no promoter, no champion. These are kids having a Friday night out. Wait until the men in suits turn up.’
‘Men in suits?’
‘You’ll see.’
The second fight wasn’t as brutal, and there were at least rounds, if not gloves. Jessica didn’t want to watch but also didn’t want to be picked out by one of the spotters as someone who didn’t want to be there. That’s exactly what they’d be looking for.
After three rounds, one of the fighters hit the canvas and the referee counted to ten. The loser was on his feet a few seconds later, shaking his head and then hugging the bloke who’d just battered him. They left together, patting each other on the back.
The barn had been filling up slowly over the course of the first two fights but there was a definite change of atmosphere through the third battle. Bigger men were entering, more women too: slim with long hair – far too tarted up to be spending a Friday evening in a barn. They were escorted to the front, standing on the side of the ring opposite Jessica and Archie. As the fight continued, a series of big men continued squeezing in and out of the crowd, carrying chairs as they arranged a front row. The women sat but there were half-a-dozen empty seats.
The third fight ended in the second round with a vicious knockout that made Jessica wince. A spray of blood flew over the top rope, splattering the people in front of them to a loud cheer. The beaten man was counted out at ten but wouldn’t have got up if the referee had counted to fifty. He was carried out on a stretcher – the victor taking one of the corners.
‘Here we go,’ Archie whispered.
A path had cleared through the crowd opposite, half-a-dozen burly minders making space for a man in a suit and long coat to walk through. He was stopping to point and say hello to the people at the fringes of the crowd, like a movie star on a stroll down the red carpet.
‘Who’s that?’ Jessica asked.
‘He’ll be the promoter but I have no idea who he actually is. I guarantee our pals at the Met will know him.’
‘How do you promote something like this?’
‘Someone’s got to arrange for the guards at the front and sort out the venue. That twenty quid a person to get in will be going somewhere and I doubt the fighters are getting much.’
The promoter gave a small wave to the crowd, before taking a seat next to the underdressed young women. His knuckles were adorned with chunky gold rings, with more jewellery around his wrists and neck. If he were tossed in the canal, he’d sink straight to the bottom. The other free seats were taken by the men who’d cleared space for him.
Jessica could sense Archie’s arm twitching next to her. She started to turn, spotting his hands in the pockets of his jacket, but he hissed ‘No’ fiercely enough to make her face the front.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing.’
There was a delay as the ring was completely cleaned and cleared, not that it mattered with the amount of booze being consumed. At least twenty minutes passed until everything was ready, by which time the canvas of the ring was almost the dusty grey it had started.
None of the other fights had been introduced but now there was a man in the ring, tall and thin, also in a suit. He had a slight Irish twang as he flapped his arms, whipping the crowd into a frenzy. The challenger was announced first – ‘Harrison “Born To Be” King’. He was short and bald with a hairy chest and thick, muscled arms, like a little tank. As he came through the crowd, people started booing, the volume increasing until it became cheers. Jessica had to stand on tiptoes to see what was happening. Harrison King was in a shoving match with someone from the crowd as the big men from the front row rushed backwards, trying to stop the fight before the fight.
The tension was almost unbearable by the time King reached the ring, raising his arms and goading the crowd. It felt like something bad was going to happen, that if King triumphed, he wouldn’t get out in one piece.
Liam ‘Nine Fingers’ Flanagan was announced to enormous cheers, having no such trouble in getting to the ring. He was tall, ginger and ripped, muscles so taut it looked like his limbs could explode at any moment. The promoter was standing, clapping enthusiastically, as the announcer went through his shtick: weights, heights, measurements. Despite the names, King was Scottish, Flanagan English, which explained the welcomes. As Izzy had said, they were fighting for the British middleweight title, though Jessica doubted this was anything official. She could see the gap in Flanagan’s left hand, where he was missing his ring finger.
Each fighter was sent to a corner as the shiny gold belt was raised and shown to all four sides of the arena. Official or not, it felt as real as anything Jessica had seen. The crowd was an overfilled, overheated pressure cooker, ready to pop.
Jessica leant backwards, whispering into Archie’s ear. ‘What do we do?’
‘Just wait.’
‘We’ve got to leave and call in.’
‘Trust me.’
Archie’s fingers interlocked with hers again and, instinctively, she had faith in him.
Someone had found a bell and with a ding-ding-ding and a mighty cheer, they were under way. The two men circled each other, shuffling and dancing until King landed the first blow with a vicious right hand. Flanagan’s head snapped sideways to a loud ooh from the crowd, but he ducked away, smiling at the man who’d almost taken his head off. They continued to trade flurries but nothing too serious. As the round progressed, Archie edged through the crowd, looping the pair of them in a semicircle until they were on the side closest to the exit. Jessica followed his lead, unsure what was going on.
By the time the bell sounded to signal the end of the first round, there was clear disappointment among the crowd. The two competitors returned to their respective corners for a drink and rub from the towel.
‘Arch . . .’
Jessica didn’t get a chance to say anything else because a man’s voice bellowed from the doorway. Two words that started a rush of movement: ‘Old Bill!’
Archie didn’t wait for Jessica, turning and barrelling for the door. She didn’t need an invitation, running as fast as she could to follow him. Behind, there were screams and the sound of hundreds of people racing to the exits. Archie got there just behind the first dozen people. Flashing blue lights were streaming into the field through the open gates, with a sound of a helicopter chikka-chikka-chikkering nearby. There were figures silhouetted in the distance, uniformed police officers running towards the barn, but Archie didn’t run towards them. Jessica had never seen him move so fast: he had his head down, target in his sights.
As Ponytail dashed for the hedgerow, Archie crunched into him from behind, tackling him to the floor. They scuffed along the dried grass for a metre or two but Archie was up quickest, lunging across and straddling Ponytail’s chest.
Wham!
Archie’s first punch sent a flail of spit and blood hurtling from the other man’s face. No warnings, no arguments, no explanation.
Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham!
Archie kept punching until Jessica dragged him off. Five punches, six, seven, eight. Ponytail’s head crunched onto the ground with each blow, eyes rolling into his head as the blows continued to come. Around them, people were running in all directions, heading for the hedges and trees as the police cordon closed. The helicopter appeared over the treeline, dousing the area in a bright white light and suddenly it was like the middle of the day. There were a hundred stab-vest-wearing officers rushing the scene, truncheons in hand.
Ponytail was a bloody mess on the floor, blood spattered around the crown of his head, his nose a pulpy mass of flesh. Archie wiped his hand on the grass and then turned to Jessica. For a moment, he wasn’t the police officer she knew, he was the street kid who’d grown up on a tough estate.
He spat a thick wad onto the ground, chest heaving with exertion. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
36
Jessica sat in her office trying to work but unable to focus on her screen. The words were mangling into a mixed jumble of letters that made no sense. Her report about the previous night was going to take some time to write up – and, yet again, she was working on a bloody sunny Saturday. Topper had a secretary to write things up for him, she was stuck typing herself.
Izzy was supping a coffee. ‘Have I ever told you how much I love Archie?’
‘I’ve heard you calling him a dickhead before.’
‘Really?’
‘Numerous times.’
‘Yeah, well, I owe him one after last night. Not only did we arrest a whole bunch of people, it was me he contacted. He could’ve called it in himself and taken the glory. Someone from the Met was singing our praises earlier – apparently they’ve been looking to pin something on that promoter guy for years.’
‘How did he contact you? I was there and he didn’t take his mobile phone out.’
Izzy laughed. ‘Well, I say “contact” but it’s a bloody good job I’m used to getting dodgy texts from Mal. He might be my husband but his thumbs are too big and his phone buttons are too small. His texts are like trying to decipher the Enigma code.’
She passed her phone to Jessica, showing her a text message from Archie: ‘Box mow ta born.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Boxing now at barn – compared to some of Mal’s messages, it’s perfectly legible.’
‘He must’ve texted you while the phone was still in his pocket. I thought he was playing with himself.’
Izzy laughed but Jessica didn’t. She wasn’t ready to call Archie a hero after what he’d done to Ponytail.
‘What’s the damage?’ Jessica asked.
‘One guy in intensive care but it doesn’t look like it was any of our lot, thank God. You never know when they start handing out truncheons. We think he got in a fight with one of the other people at the boxing and came off worse. One of the boxers is in a bad way but refusing to speak. There are a couple of others with bumps and bruises but no complaints of brutality. One of the uniforms tripped and twisted his ankle, so he’ll probably be on the sick for the next three months, but that’s the lot. It couldn’t have gone much better.’
‘It might have been better if Arch had called you before we went in there.’
Izzy shrugged. ‘Is that what you’re going to write?’
‘Course not.’
‘If he’d called earlier, we’d have gone earlier – we’d have never got the big boys. As it is, we’ve got all sorts of charges to lay. It’s going to be a fun weekend. Nine Fingers wasn’t happy – he kept saying someone nicked his belt.’
There was a knock on the door, and then Archie appeared. ‘A’ight?’
Izzy leapt to her feet, kissing him on the forehead and offering him her seat. ‘I didn’t get a proper chance to say thanks earlier.’
He waved a hand. ‘Don’t worry ’bout it. One of my mates were bound to come through at some point.’
Izzy looked between Archie and Jessica, the tension obvious. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said, picking up her coffee and closing the door behind her.
Neither of them spoke for a while, Jessica continuing to type until Archie broke the silence. ‘You ’kay?’
She spun to face him. ‘What do you think? I’m not saying thank you for beating a bloke into intensive care, if that’s what you’re asking.’
He stared at his feet. ‘I’m not.’
‘We spend our careers trying to stop that kind of violence. I’ve sat through briefing after briefing about Hyde, Carter, Fraser and everyone else where Serious Crime talk us through what they’re supposed to be into.’
‘I didn’t plan it . . .’
‘Yes you did – the minute the call came that the police had arrived, you ran straight for him.’
‘He touched—’
‘I know what he did, Arch – it was me he did it to, remember? That’s why we have laws. We could’ve nicked him and both given statements.’
Archie shrugged as his phone started to ring. He peered at the screen and then pressed the reject button. ‘Is that what you wanted?’ he asked. ‘File the paperwork and see it crawl through the courts?’
Jessica stared at him then turned away, back to her screen. She said nothing for a while, knowing she should disapprove. When the reply eventually came, it was barely a whisper. ‘You should’ve hit him harder.’
There was a much longer silence this time. Jessica had done worse but it still felt wrong. It was another line crossed, something that couldn’t be taken back. Even when Ponytail got out of intensive care, he wouldn’t know who’d hit him. They’d get away with it, but to what end? How many lines could be crossed before it permanently changed a person?
There was a popping sound and a new email dropped into Jessica’s inbox. She skimmed it, utterly unsurprised by its contents.
‘Guess what?’ she said, spinning in her seat.
‘What?’
‘The labs say Rhys Foster isn’t Isaac’s father. It’s the same deal in Southampton – neither of their fathers are their own.’
‘Does that mean Richard Hyde is the dad to both?’
‘Not necessarily. Richie Hyde and these two all share a father but we don’t have Richard Hyde’s DNA on record. There’s no match in the database to anyone else, either.’
‘So there are two people who don’t know who their dad is?’
‘Right . . . and Nicole Foster has a bit of explaining to do to her husband.’
‘We could ask her if she knows Richard Hyde.’
Jessica shook her head. ‘It’s not really any of our business. She already told us Isaac was her husband’s son, I can’t see her changing her mind.’
‘It sounds like Richard Hyde’s got a whole bunch of kids around the country . . .’
‘Probably – but there’s only one way to find out.’
37
It was the end of another long day, except that it wasn’t even the end. Jessica rolled the driver’s seat back in the car, stretching until her joints clicked and succumbing to a yawn so big it left tears streaming down her face.
‘That is one of the worst things I’ve ever seen,’ Rowlands said. He was in the passenger seat, pulling a face.
‘Sod off.’
‘No, seriously, I’ve seen murder scenes, people who’ve been bottled, but nothing like that. I thought your jaw was going to separate – and your shoulder sounded like a gun going off.’
‘I’ve had a few long days.’
‘So why are we here?’
The neon lights were blinking at the front of Hyde’s casino, sending a cascade of yellow, purple, red and blue across the tarmac. They were parked towards the back, shielded in the shadows.
‘Because I’m an idiot,’ Jessica replied.
‘If you’re waiting for me to argue . . .’
Jessica let herself yawn again. ‘I’m not.’
‘I heard about the boxing thing last night. What was it like?’
‘Chaos – Archie seemed at home. I got the feeling it wasn’t the first time he’d been to something like that.’
‘You can take the kid off the street, you can’t get the street out of the kid.’
It didn’t sound like he was having a dig.
‘We could do with more Archies and fewer people with too many letters before their name. It’s ridiculous the number of briefings the guv’s been stuck in all week. It’s not his fault, but it’s no wonder nothing’s getting done. Christ knows what Jenkinson’s up to – all I do know is that there’s no one in the frame for murdering Priestley and the two Hydes. They’re still banging on about Carter but it’s not him.’
‘You don’t reckon?’
‘No, he’s taking the piss out of us. We’ve spent so long focusing on that list of names Serious Crime gave us that no one’s considered anything else.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know.’ She sniggered. ‘You know me, all criticism, no answers.’
Rowlands laughed. ‘Why’d you ask me to come out here with you?’
‘Because I wanted to spend the evening with someone I like, plus I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘Oh . . . ?’
‘It’s about that girl from the bar – Katherine. Did you go home with her?’
‘Well, er—’
‘I don’t want details, I was wondering if you’re seeing her again.’
‘Um . . .’
An obvious yes.
‘Did she tell you her last name?’
Rowlands scratched his head. ‘I guess not. We’ve only been out twice. It’s not come up.’ Jessica saw the panic flicker in his eyes. ‘Oh, no . . . she said it in passing, I didn’t even clock it . . . it’s not . . .’
‘I thought it couldn’t be because you work right next to Franks and he’d have photos of his family on his desk.’
Rowlands’s head was in his hands as he shook it from side to side. ‘Franks only keeps pictures of himself. We all take the piss.’
‘I know – I went to have a look. I felt dirty just by being in his corner. There are seven different photos around his desk and monitor – all of himself.’
‘There’s another as his screensaver too. It’s creepy. I think he keeps photos of himself in his wallet too. He’s a psycho.’
‘I’ve got some really bad news.’
Rowlands lifted his head. ‘Don’t say it, there’s no way she can come from him.’
‘I spoke to one of the girls in HR. She gave me the usual bollocks about everyone’s file being private but I had a carrier bag full of Crunchies.’
‘No . . .’
‘Detective Inspector Franks has one daughter, named Katherine.’
‘But she’s funny . . .’
‘I’m sure she is.’
‘She’s good-looking . . .’
‘I noticed.’
‘She’s normal!’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘How can she be his daughter? She must be adopted, or fostered.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Franks is a child-snatcher! He must’ve stolen her at a young age and brought her up as his own.’
