The Dark Heart, page 21
Then everything changed.
Shouting, yelling, blue strobing lights and chaos from all around them. Laser dots appeared on Stringer’s chest, to be immediately replaced with bullets smashing into his torso, stomach and face. He fell to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
Max was briefly aware of more explosions to his right, and then it was all over.
Armed officers, clad in Kevlar helmets and body armour, all brandishing carbines or pistols.
He reached up to his throbbing temple, and it came away wet and sticky with hot blood, rapidly being diluted by the pouring rain. His head swam, and he dropped to his knees, the rain bouncing on the tarmac. He stayed there for a moment, trying to clear his swimming head.
Chaos was everywhere, and Max looked around through the stair rods of rain, his mind racing as more cops turned up. Max remained still as he looked at the scene. Stringer and Shorty were flat on the ground, Stringer’s arm extended, covered in slick blood, twitching on the ground. Shorty wasn’t moving at all, as the armed cops approached, guns trained on both men. Both still a threat.
The whole scene swimming around him, Max felt dizzy.
A pair of feet in Timberlands was just visible at the front of the Mondeo. Fear gripped Max as he stood up and approached them. Joe was flat on his back. He raced over to the big man.
‘Joe!’ he yelled, as he knelt down next to him.
His pale shirt was saturated with blood that was rapidly spreading in the unrelenting deluge. Joe’s eyes were wide open, and his chest was moving up and down as he gasped, trying to suck air into his lungs. He turned to Max, his eyes full of fear, wide, but somehow vacant. His mouth moved but only a gurgling noise came out, accompanied by bright red blood.
‘Joe, hold on, man. Help’s coming.’ He looked around at the thronging cops in the melee that was all round him, and he yelled, ‘I need some help, man down. Man down.’
Max assessed Joe’s blood-soaked chest, and his heart sank as he saw the almost black hole at the centre of the bloom of blood.
Then it happened. The look of terror on Joe’s face eased, he shuddered as he tried in vain to suck air into his ruined lungs.
‘Joe, man. Look at me, pal,’ Max said, grabbing hold of the man’s huge hand. It was cold. So cold, and so wet.
Joe turned his head, just a fraction, and looked straight at Max, his saturated face pale, his eyes fading and terrified.
Total, unmitigated terror in his friend’s face. ‘Joe, man, hold on, pal. Please hold on,’ Max said pleadingly, his voice cracking.
Then Joe’s eyes emptied, and he was still. His eyes were open, and staring, but devoid of any vestige of life.
Max knew immediately. As the rain cascaded down his face in thick rivulets, he knew.
He knew that it was too late. In that moment, everything changed. The world stopped, and Max had no awareness of the ensuing chaos as the blue lights strobed around him, armed officers swarmed, with the stink of coppery blood in his nostrils.
He didn’t even acknowledge the throbbing pain at the side of his head, the warm blood that was trickling down and being cooled by the rain.
Max raised his head to the darkening sky, the rain battering into his face, and roared. He roared animalistically until the blackness began to infiltrate his vision, and he fell. He welcomed the velvety silence, even with Janie calling his name, over and over again.
51
The dream arrived, almost immediately. Afghanistan. Helmand Province, Max sucking in the hot, dusty air as blood pulsated from Dippy’s stumps onto the dry, desiccated sand. The stench of death in Max’s nostrils as his friend’s eyes relaxed and filled with confusion, before clearing and becoming … Nothing.
Just empty.
Max cried out again, his eyes snapping open, as he sat up rapidly, sucking in a breath. He was saturated, but not like he usually was after one of his dreams. Not sweat. He was slick and cold with rain, and he could taste blood in his mouth.
‘Max,’ came the voice, full of concern, but familiar and comforting. He opened his eyes, and looked to where the voice was coming from.
It was Janie, gripping his hand tightly, face pale, her eyes full of tears. He looked around him, in the brightly lit space, a burly, young green-uniformed paramedic was shining a torch into his eyes.
‘You’re okay, pal. The bullet just grazed your temple. You’ll be grand, but we need to get you checked out,’ he said, as he sprayed saline water onto the side of his head. It stung like a bitch.
‘Janie …’ Max tried to find the words, but she just gripped his hand tighter.
‘Just relax, we’re on way to the Perth Royal, you need that sorting.’
‘Janie …’ He tried to sort through the thoughts and emotions that were bouncing around his head, images of Katie came into his mind, then of Evie, and then of Joe.
‘Janie, what about Joe?’ he said, turning to look at her, unable to properly focus.
‘Just relax, Max. You need to relax.’
Max knew. He knew, but he needed to hear it. ‘Janie, for fuck’s sake. What about Joe?’ Max bellowed, his throat cracking.
Janie’s eyes brimmed with fat tears, and she shook her head. ‘He didn’t make it, Max. Paramedics tried, but it was too late.’
Max felt as though his head was about to explode, such was the pressure throbbing at his temples, his eyes feeling like they were going to escape from their sockets. He wanted to scream, to curse, to get out of this fucking ambulance.
‘Those fucking bastards, where are they?’ he stuttered, looking pleadingly at his partner and friend. His vision swam, and his head felt like it was being pumped with air.
Janie nodded. ‘Both gone. Multiple shots from the ARVs.’
Max’s vision began to fade again. Of the four of them who went into that encounter, he was the only survivor, and it was with that thought that the darkness returned.
52
Breaking News: Three Shot and Killed in Police Drugs Bust in Pitlochry
Sources confirm that a police officer is amongst the dead.
The Cashier frowned as he saw the news story flash up on his phone. He knew immediately. There could be no doubt that Stringer had failed, and that he and Shorty were now dead.
He switched to his Bitcoin wallet. The money was there. A single Bitcoin, worth just over £50,000, had come via a circuitous route from Stringer. Untraceable, and anonymous. The other £50,000 was all set, ready to automatically transfer in a month, unless it was either cancelled, or paid early, by the person who put it there. Well, it looked like he’d be waiting for a month for his other half of the payment. A smile stretched across his lips.
He felt nothing for Stringer, or Shorty. He couldn’t give a hoot. They played big-boys’ games, with big-boys’ rules, and they had lost. Such was life. They were a couple of morons, and he was thankful that he’d never met them. No links to him in any way. As always, he was thankful for his standard operating procedures. It just showed how important self-discipline was in his line of business.
But he’d complete the contract. The Cashier always completed his contracts.
His clientele were very discerning, and he only worked from personal introduction, on this occasion via the Russian. Only a former client could refer a new client. That was just how it worked. The world was small, and reputations were hard to acquire, but very easy to lose. His reputation for a hundred per cent reliability was everything to him.
He refreshed the newsfeed, but it hadn’t been updated. He moved to WhatsApp and tapped at the screen.
Pitlochry?
The response came back quickly. Stringer and Shorty, plus a cop killed. Undercover sting gone very wrong. I didn’t hear until late, tried to warn them, too late, it seems.
Now was the perfect time to get on and fulfil the contract paid for by the now deceased Stringer. The police would be so busy with recent events, they’d have almost no capacity for anything else.
A target as notable as this one would take exacting research.
He was almost looking forward to it.
53
Ross was sitting in the Volvo next to Barney, as the rain lashed down against the windows. The place was full of cop cars, vans and armed response vehicles, all with lights strobing. Forensic tents had been erected over the bodies of Stringer, Shorty and Joe by the local CID team that had responded to the incident, all being directed by the duty inspector, a small, nervous man who looked totally out of his depth.
His phone began to buzz on the dash. Ross looked at the display – it was Norma.
‘Aye?’ said Ross, his voice flat.
‘What the hell has happened? Everything is going mental, I’m hearing people have been killed,’ she said, her voice full of panic.
‘Both suspects down, and tragically Joe was shot by Shorty. He didn’t make it, pal.’ Ross struggled to get the words out.
‘Oh, God, no. Poor Joe, he was so lovely.’ Norma began to sob.
‘Aye.’ Ross didn’t know what to say, feeling the same pressure in his chest that always came with grief. Not now, he thought. There was work to do.
‘What about Max?’ said Norma, her voice full of fear.
‘He’s got a wee graze, but he’s gonna be fine.’
‘Oh my God – like a graze from a fucking bullet?’
‘Aye, but it’s minor, just needs patching up, and he’ll be right as rain.’
‘God, this is just fucking horrible.’ She began to weep again.
‘Norma, listen to me now, I know it’s fucking horrible, but we still have to do our job. There are still dirty bastards out there who are responsible for making this happen.’
‘You’re right, there is. I was about to phone when it all went crazy.’ She paused to blow her nose, her voice cracking up.
‘What for?’ said Ross. ‘We had no line activity on the intercept.’
‘I’ve been monitoring both suspects’ phone data, live. Just before it all kicked off both Stringer and Shorty had data activations, at precisely the same time.’
‘What, calls or texts?’ said Ross.
‘Neither. Data. Specific data activations. Both phones hit exactly the same 4G mast in Pitlochry, with the correct azimuth, at precisely the same time, having been totally silent all day. I don’t think it was browsing, I think they made or received messages to or from someone, and that person has to be dirty. Right while they were in that car park. We need to secure those phones, now. If they were WhatsApp, Wickr or similar they may have the auto delete function on them.’ Norma’s voice was thick with emotion, but her underlying professionalism still shone through. No doubt, the analyst wanted what they all wanted. To catch those responsible.
‘How long?’ said Ross.
‘Depends on the app. WhatsApp is minimum twenty-four hours, I think, but other platforms can be much quicker. I’d say we need to get into them right bloody now,’ she said, her tone as hard as iron.
‘Right, we’re on it.’ Ross hung up and looked across at Barney. ‘Can you do it?’
‘Aye, I can ’ave a look at the very least. If it’s proper PIN protected it may take a while, mind, and I’d say you’d need to be persuasive to get past that bolshy-looking inspector.’
‘Leave that one with me, get your kit from your van. All we want now is the number that called into them both. Whoever has that phone is the dirty bastard, I’m willing to bet.’ Ross began to dial as Barney stepped out into the rain.
54
Max and Janie were sitting silently in a cubicle, both staring into space, the sounds of the busy A&E ward had faded to almost nothing. A flat-screen TV was on the wall, set to a news channel. Max looked at the screen without really seeing it. First Minister Ria Choudhary, along with her entourage, was opening a new hospice in Arbroath. He turned away from the TV screen, immediately uninterested.
They just sat there.
Janie looked across at Max, at the scorched and blackened wound on the side of his head where the bullet had burned as it skimmed his temple. About the size of a fifty pence piece, it oozed; the harsh lights bounced off the moist wound.
‘I think that’ll leave a scar,’ said Janie.
Max said nothing. Just sat up on the trolley, staring straight ahead.
‘It won’t affect your looks, though. You’re already hacket enough.’ Janie let a slight smile touch her lips.
Still Max was silent, but his lips twitched, just a little.
‘Max?’ Janie spoke a little more firmly.
He turned towards her, his face pale and eyes dull.
‘You know this isn’t your fault, don’t you?’ she said, gently.
Max turned away from her but spoke, his voice cracked and hoarse. ‘Stringer got a text, just before he pulled the piece. He and Shorty were eyeballing each other. We need to get into the phones, urgently. Some bastard was grassing on us.’
Janie nodded. ‘Ross texted me. It’s in hand, and Norma is on standby. Both their phones were active at the time. Irrespective of that, you know it’s not your fault, right?’
Max just nodded, then looked back towards her, his eyes widening. ‘What about Joe’s wife?’
‘Police in Perth are going to see her now to deliver the message.’
The message. Known in policing as a ‘death message’. All cops dread delivering death messages, of shattering a person’s life with a few words.
But this was different.
This was one of their own.
‘I need to go and see her. She needs to hear what happened from me, I owe her that.’ He closed his eyes tightly, creasing the wound and causing it to seep.
Max’s thoughts were crashing into each other, like dodgems at a funfair, and his ears rang with tinnitus after the gunshot, so close to his ear, but then, out of nowhere, his mind cleared.
The curtain pulled back, and a smiling doctor in scrubs entered. ‘Hi, guys, I’m Dr Sharma. X-rays look fine, no fractures, nothing sinister. I think we can call you very lucky.’
‘Aye, right,’ said Max.
‘We just need to clean you up properly, get a decent dressing on the wound, and you can go. Dawn is coming in now, and she’s way better at deep cleans than me.’ He smiled, and then was gone.
Max sat upright and swivelled his legs off the bed. ‘I need to get out of here, Janie. This job hasn’t died with those two scumbags, and I need to speak to Katie.’
‘Max, you need to rest, you’ve been shot, for God’s sake,’ said Janie.
‘No, I don’t. I need to catch the bastards behind this. For Joe. We’re doing it for him, Janie.’
55
Ross and Barney were both dressed in full forensic kit as they approached the car park, which had been totally encircled with blue scene tape. Uniformed cops stood on each side, and temporary lights had been erected. Three forensic tents were in place on the tarmac, alongside the BMW X5 and the Ford Mondeo.
It hadn’t taken much persuasion to get Miles Wakefield to authorise access for Ross and Barney to retrieve the phones from the bodies of Stringer and Shorty.
The scene guard lifted the tape, and they ducked underneath it and headed towards the cars.
Firstly, they rounded the Mondeo, looking in each of the windows for any phones. There were none immediately obvious, but there was an old-looking iPad. Ross leaned in and grabbed the tablet. ‘We’ll take this. By the time the MIT team get to it, someone could have wiped it remotely.’ He handed it to Barney, who opened his rucksack and pulled out a square pouch, dropping the iPad in.
‘Faraday pouch, no signals in, no signals out,’ he said, winking.
A quick walk around the BMW yielded nothing else. No phones, no computers, no tablets. They headed for the closest of the forensic tents, and Ross pulled the flap to one side and stepped in.
The huge form of Stringer was laid flat on his back, and his soaked body was riddled with at least seven bullet holes. Ross looked at the previously formidable gangster. All muscles, intensity and bravado.
Now he just looked dead. Empty. A hollow shell. His eyes were open, a look of confusion on what was left of his face. A bullet had caught him under the chin and had blown a portion of his jawbone away, revealing white shards of bone that shone out vividly against the gore. His T-shirted torso was studded with red-rimmed holes, and the entire barrel chest was saturated in dark, diluted blood. The smell in the tent was fetid with a mix of coppery blood, and shit.
Stringer hadn’t died well.
‘Right, where’s the bastard’s phone?’ said Ross.
Barney squatted on his haunches and pointed to the right-hand side of the big man’s jeans. An oblong outline was visible. ‘There we go, in his pocket.’
‘I’ll get it, you’re still a contractor, while I’m the cop. Best it’s me that writes the statement,’ said Ross, squatting down with a muffled groan, his knees cracking as he reached for the pocket. He eased his gloved fingers into the sopping wet, tight pocket, and in a moment had pulled out a basic-looking smartphone. He pressed the button on the side, and the phone woke up, requesting a PIN.
Ross handed the phone to Barney, who pulled out a tablet computer. He plugged a lead into the handset, and grunted. ‘Six-digit pin. I can’t break it here, I’ll need my proper computer, or if it’s what I think it is, I’d need to get my mate Clive to have a go.’
‘What – that computer geek in Yorkshire I paid about six grand to last year to bust the dark-web bunch?’
‘That’s the one. Clive. Clever bugger.’
‘Expensive bugger. Does it have fingerprint recognition on it?’ said Ross.
Barney looked at the screen on the tablet. ‘It does.’ He then paused, and looked hard at Ross. ‘You’re not serious?’ he said.
