NOT DEAD YET a gripping crime thriller you won’t want to put down, page 1
NOT DEAD YET
A gripping crime thriller you won’t want to put down
DAN LATUS
Frank Doy Book 9
Revised edition 2021
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
First published in Great Britain in 2020
© Dan Latus 2020, 2021
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Dan Latus to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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Cover art by Jarmila Takač
ISBN: 978-1-78931-874-6
CONTENTS
Prologue: On the Tyne Bridge
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
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Prologue: On the Tyne Bridge
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Two vehicles. Both of them a gleaming, brilliant black. One a Mercedes saloon, the other a Range Rover. They pulled out of the traffic lane and on to an area covered by a blitz of yellow lines indicating no driving, no parking and no anything else either for anything on wheels, except emergency vehicles.
Five men got out of the Range Rover and another two from the Merc. Apart from the passenger from the Merc, the men were all in their twenties or thirties. Young, but not very young. Not kids. The passenger was a couple of decades older. The deference accorded him made it clear he was in charge.
All but one of the men accompanying the boss man were hard and tough looking. Seasoned warriors. The one exception walked with a heavy limp and was shrunk and shivering, as if used to better times that were long gone.
A cold evening. Low cloud had settled over the city for days on end, keeping the temperature down and bringing a premature close to the day. A gusty wind blowing up the Tyne as the tide came in prevented even the illusion of warmth. Autumn had arrived, and it felt as if winter wouldn’t be far behind.
The men crossed over the complex of yellow lines and mounted the pavement on the far side of the road. There, they regrouped and turned to head for the pedestrian walkway over the Tyne Bridge. The older man, the passenger from the Merc, led the way. The man with the pronounced limp didn’t walk at all well. He was supported on either side by men who held him in a tight, supporting grip.
Early evening. Not so much traffic now, the rush hour done. What there was, mostly cars and white vans, kept moving steadily. Most of it was one-way traffic, heading into the city for the evening. Little was going the other way, to the Gateshead side of the river.
The group walking across the bridge slowed as they approached the middle, leaving it to the older man, the passenger from the Merc, to decide where to stop. When he did stop, he stood close to one of the great steel girders that had held the bridge up since it opened in 1930. He turned to gaze down the river, marvelling at the view. Both banks of the Tyne hereabouts were enormous pleasure grounds now, with restaurants and bars, a concert hall and an art museum, and open, paved spaces for folk to wander around at their leisure.
‘It’s different to when I was young,’ the older man said to the one member of the group who seemed to find walking difficult. ‘You won’t remember it, of course, Jamie. But, back then, you couldn’t get near the river or the quayside unless you worked on the boats or the docks. And you wouldn’t have wanted to, either; the quayside was such a mucky, semi-derelict mess and the river itself was just a stinking torrent of liquid filth. It’s all different now.’
He stared hard at the man with the injured leg, who nervously nodded to show he understood.
‘And who knows what the future holds?’ the older man continued. ‘Not me, and not you. Certainly not you.’
‘No, Boss,’ the other man muttered.
‘I don’t really know what to do about Malkovich. You’ve told us everything, I assume — everything that you told him?’
‘Everything. I’m sorry, Boss.’
‘I’m sorry an’ all, son.’
The older man shook his head, as if weighed down by sadness.
‘I shouldn’t have told him nothing. I know that now.’
‘You shouldn’t. You’re right there. Loyalty is everything in our world.’
‘Yes, Boss.’
The older man smiled and said, ‘Still, it won’t happen again.’
‘No, Boss,’ the other man said, mistakenly thinking he had been asked a question.
The older man stepped away and nodded to his main man, who in turn ushered two others forward. They stooped and caught hold of the man who found walking difficult. Without hesitation, they straightened up and tipped him over the railing at the side of the bridge, almost before he knew what was happening.
The wind caught his scream as he fell but it wasn’t a sound that lasted long or attracted any attention. Without bothering to watch the falling man’s progress, the group turned and set off back to the vehicles.
‘Let’s hope there’s no more like him,’ the older man said to his chief aide.
‘There shouldn’t be,’ came the reply, ‘Not now.’
The older man nodded agreement. ‘Don’t forget to send a wreath,’ he instructed. ‘A good one. We don’t want the family whingeing and complaining, saying we didn’t do things right.’
Chapter One
North Yorkshire
I like to travel occasionally on the Esk Valley Railway that runs from Middlesbrough to Whitby. For one thing, it’s a bit of a curiosity these days, a little enterprise with a single-track line that snakes through the tranquil backwaters of the lovely and historic Cleveland landscape. For another, I like to think my occasional fare paying helps keep the line viable — and open. I would hate to see it close, if only because there are times when snow blocks the roads to Whitby, my route home. The railway can be a life saver then.
There are only half a dozen passenger trains along the line each day. So usually it’s a pretty relaxed way to travel. But on this occasion it wasn’t. There was a certain tension in the air from the moment the train left Middlesbrough. Something wasn’t quite right with the other passengers. I didn’t know what it was, but my antennae were bristling from the start. Something was going on. I sensed it was going to be one of those d
As usual, it was a short train. Just two carriages. And in my carriage there were only three passengers, myself included. The other two were women, thirty-somethings, I guessed, who were sitting together. I gave them no more than a passing glance as I boarded the train, passed them by and sat down to immerse myself in the Evening Gazette I had picked up at a kiosk outside the station.
Coming out of Middlesbrough, the train makes stops at three places that don’t interest me much. I looked up after the fourth stop, Nunthorpe, anticipating the fine view coming up. On your right is Roseberry Topping — Cleveland’s Matterhorn, as we used to call it when we were kids — and the long line of the Cleveland Hills. Within moments the view changes, as the railway makes a big swing to the south that puts Roseberry Topping to your left and the line of hills to your right. That was when my fellow passengers first attracted my interest.
They were in an agitated state. At least, one of them was. She was distraught, and in something of an emotional frenzy. She seemed desperate to get out of her seat. Her companion was restraining her, holding her by the arm and talking soothingly, beseeching her to calm down and stay put. But the first woman, head shaking wildly, continued trying to get up. And her companion continued to hold her down.
All three of us were seated looking forward. The women were several seats ahead of me and on the other side of the aisle. So I had a good view of them and could see what was going on, even if I couldn’t hear what was being said. Whatever the cause of the upset, the tussle was unrelenting, one woman trying to stand up, the other urging her to desist.
The woman who was so agitated had long, dark hair and could quite possibly have been good looking if not for her distressed and tormented state. As it was, she was an anguished mess. I felt very sorry for her.
In contrast, her companion could never have been considered good looking. She was a lean, hard-faced woman with short, tidy hair and a serious look about her. She was managing to keep her companion in her seat, but it was a titanic struggle. Fortunately, she seemed strong, both physically and mentally.
For the moment, her strength was keeping the lid on the situation but I had to wonder if she would be able to keep it up all the way to Whitby, or wherever it was they were going. I certainly hoped she would. Unless things got very much worse, and there was a call for help, I didn’t want to interfere. I couldn’t see what I could usefully do, to be honest. There was no one else available to lend a hand, either.
The train began to slow as we approached the next stop, Great Ayton Station, and then it gradually came to a halt. That was when everything changed — fast!
Two men boarded the train and entered our carriage. I sensed trouble as soon as I saw them. They made directly for the two women. One of them reached out to grab the distressed woman by the arm and haul her out of her seat, while the other guy pushed his hand into the face of the short-haired woman and held her down.
The woman who was so upset screamed and struggled as she was pulled upright. For that, she received a heavy slap to the head that knocked her backwards and stunned her.
The man holding her companion down yelped and jerked his hand away, angry and shocked that, seemingly, he’d been bitten. Then he hit the woman with a vicious punch to the head in retaliation.
By then, I was on my feet and automatically wading in like any decent human being would. This was something I couldn’t ignore, and might be able to do something about. I grabbed the collar of the man hitting the woman who was still in her seat and dragged him backwards, tripping him and sending him sprawling across the floor.
My momentum took me on towards the guy dragging the other woman towards the doorway. That one saw me coming, threw his victim aside and turned to deal with me. He was too late. I was on him before he could set his feet and I bowled him over.
I fell with him, but he threw me off. As I scrambled upright, I glimpsed the second woman catapulting out of her seat and punching the man who had been holding her down. He was still hitting out at her but she was fighting back hard with what looked like karate-style chops.
Then the train lurched back into motion, throwing me off-balance and back to the floor. As I got back up, I saw that the men were abandoning the fight. One grabbed and pulled a handle operating the emergency brake. That resulted in me being thrown to the floor once again.
By the time I was on my feet, the two men were heading for the doorway. Immediate crisis over, I didn’t bother trying to stop or detain them. I had banged my head hard in the last fall and I was winded, as well. So I just let them go. Instead, I reached down to help the distressed woman up from the floor and onto a seat. She sat there in a heap, shaking convulsively.
I turned to her companion, who was pulling a phone out of her pocket. She nodded calmly to me and then moved away to say something into the phone.
I looked out of the door to see what was happening, and was just in time to see a grey-coloured Range Rover leaving the small car park in a big hurry, spraying out gravel as it went.
‘What was that all about?’ I asked the short-haired woman.
‘Thank you for helping us,’ she replied before turning away.
‘They wanted me,’ the distressed woman said wearily.
Her head was down but she was sitting up by then, starting to recover from the ordeal.
‘You? Why?’
Neither of them was prepared to give me an answer. I didn’t press them.
‘What now?’ I wondered aloud instead.
‘There’ll be a long delay for you, unfortunately,’ the short-haired woman said matter-of-factly.
‘For you, too,’ I suggested with a wry smile.
She shook her head. ‘Not for us, no.’
She was right about that. A couple of men they seemed to trust came for them in a matter of minutes. And off they went in a black Jaguar saloon, leaving me to explain to officialdom, and to anyone else interested, what had happened — so far as I knew, that is.
Chapter Two
I was driving home from London when I got a phone call I would never have wanted, not in a million years.
My heart had lifted when I saw the first motorway sign for ‘The North’. By the time I was past Leeds, I was coasting, feeling relaxed and getting ready to turn off the A1 and head for Teesside, and to my home on the Cleveland coast.
Then the phone rang.
I glanced at the screen. It wasn’t a number I recognised. Probably nothing. Somebody calling from India to see how happy I was with my broadband connection, or to tell me my computer had a virus I didn’t know about and they were going to have to close my internet access down unless I pressed ‘1’ on the keypad. Something like that.
I left it, but the caller didn’t give up. The phone kept on trilling relentlessly, filling the car with its unwanted and ugly sound. I gave in, shook my head and pushed the phone symbol on the dashboard screen.
‘Frank Doy,’ I snapped impatiently.
‘How are you doing, Frankie boy?’
I frowned. ‘Who is this?’
There was a throaty chuckle, followed by: ‘Don’t recognise the voice, eh?’
‘Should I?’
‘Well, it has been some time, I guess.’
I hadn’t a clue who it was, and I wasn’t in the mood for guessing games.
‘Who are you?’ I demanded. ‘And what do you want?’
‘Don’t be like that, Frankie! It’s your old mate, Malky. Remember me?’
Malky? For a couple of seconds I still didn’t get it. Then realisation dawned with the impact of an icy blast of sleet in the face on a windy January day.
‘Malkovich?’
‘In person!’ he said with a coarse laugh.
I was taken aback, stunned even. ‘What do you want?’ I managed.
‘A little of your time, Frank. I have a job that may interest you.’
‘No, thanks! I’m busy.’
The last thing I wanted was to be involved with the likes of Malky Malkovich — even if we had gone to school together, which was the sole basis of his claim to be an old mate.
I hadn’t even seen him for . . . what? Twenty years? More? Something like that. Back then he’d been a tough kid with a growing reputation. Now, from what I heard, he was a fully-fledged crime boss.
