‘...What it is with the ‘H’ mate see,
You get some people and they talk about the rush.
But it ain’t a rush. It’s gentler than that.
You’re surrounded by piss and shit, your fucking life ain’t nothing, no friends, family hate ya; nothing.
And yet the ‘H’ mate. The feeling;
It takes you over you know.
Like a sudden sadness maybe
But it’s a fucking
glorious sadness...’
(Prisoner 3091: 2009)
Prologue
Sweat slithered down his forehead in a thick film, it ran into his eyes making them sting and between his lips making them roll together and smack at the taste. Drops of it fell further onto his loosened shirt as his well polished brogue shoes pounded off the concrete and mercifully he felt able to give into his lungs and slow to a walk. His footfalls were the only ones he could hear now amongst the closely packed houses and this came with a mixture of emotion, they had split and hurriedly starburst in different directions and it was probably the right decision but with it came questions. Had they come after him and he’d outrun them? A man in his 50’s and considerably out of shape; he doubted it. So had they gone after his companion? Maybe they’d caught him already? He kept walking but turned to look over his shoulder as if that might give him the answer but all he could see was dimly lit pavements, shiney with moisture and terraced houses separated only by patches of shadow.
The man rounded a sharp corner at the end of the street and considered coming to a complete stop, his body badly needed rest even if it was just 30 seconds. His lungs gasped for breath, so much so that his mouth gagged and gaped to fill them. A build up of lactic acid tugged at both hamstrings and he took long strides on tip-toes to stretch them out as the light rain fell in a drizzle.
His panic subsided a little and he found himself shaking his head at the ridiculousness of the situation ‘Stupid, fucking stupid’ he said out loud to his own shadow that appeared out in front of him before sliding underneath as he walked in the proximity of yellowed street lights ‘I’m not a young man anymore’ he said expelling a deep breath and lifting his face to the cooling rain. He had opened up his chest with his hands on his hips and a stiffened back like he used to do when he ran for his school in the county cross country championship; he was a winner three times on the trot but that was almost 40 years ago and his lifestyle had since taken a far more sedentary route. Certainly he shouldn’t be running through deserted streets from faceless, hooded men and in one of the country’s most notorious estates. He shook his head again and noted that the sweat that had gathered on his back had already been turned cold by the sub-zero temperatures.
‘WHAT YOU RUNNING FROM!’ A mocking voice cut through the night and he spun towards its source. The streetlamps illuminated two figures, their hoods still firmly up, the closest one with hands pushed firmly into his pockets pulling the hood to a point over his head, swinging both arms from the elbows with a determined menace as he started a walk. To his left he was flanked by the second figure, a similar walk but with arms hanging free, fists clenched. As their quarry broke back into a run, so did they.
His footsteps once again pounded through the Effingell Estate, a name steeped in irony and proof perhaps, if any was required that local councils do indeed have a sense of humour. What they did lack however, was a sense of planning and the estate was a warren of alley ways and bolt holes that the locals had learnt extensively and become able to turn to their advantage when required. Sure enough, a third hooded man thrust himself out of an invisible alleyway surprising the sprinting figure, forcing him to veer sharply off the pavement and out into the road. The drop off the kerb caught him quite unawares and he stumbled where a body of water had formed in the gutter before losing his balance completely, scraping to an uncomfortable stop on his knees. Sodden and bruised he looked up at the sudden appearance of a high revving engine and a pair of headlights. The car was stolen and being driven like it with the occupants laughing at each other through a smoke-filled haze and with spots of water covering the windscreen they could see nothing of the man on his knees in front of them, with a single arm raised in self defence.
All three of the pursuing men stopped a fraction of a second before it happened and for them at least, time slowed down. The car hit the stricken man before brakes were applied and the speed of the vehicle combined with the stance of the man forced him under the front grill and dragged his mass along the slimey tarmac, shedding bits of him as the turning wheels and metal underside allowed. The bulk of the man stayed together and continued its forward momentum, thrown out from under the vehicle which lurched sideways into a row of cars that were parked in a silent formation. The two front occupants of the vehicle, the laughter wiped from their face made eye contact.
‘What the fuck was that!’ The driver still gripped at the steering wheel as his passenger exhaled his question, rain still fell lightly on the windows as both made attempts to peer out through the condensation.
He was controlled in his reply. ‘I think it was someone’ the engine still ticked over, hurriedly he selected first gear, scraped away from the side-swiped cars and accelerated into the warren of the Effingell Estate.
The three men on foot had stopped short and took a second of their own to assess what had happened. The third man who had been the late-comer noted lights flickering on in surrounding houses and paced over to where blood-sodden trousers had been pulled down to blood-sodden ankles. With slick and well-practised movements he crouched down and patted the pockets, he swore before staying low and scanning the ground the best he could in the low light. A small, square object caught his eye, lying against the wheel of one of the parked cars it was sheltered from the rain and he jogged over to it. It was the main body of a mobile phone; the battery part had come away and was nowhere to be seen. He quickly ran it over in his hands, satisfied he stuffed it into his pocket and as a front door to one of the houses opened behind the cars he stayed low and slipped back into the shadows.
5 hours later.
‘Sergeant Cutter! You got the call too then?’ The first light of the morning did nothing to increase the temperature and Detective Constable Thornton tugged at his suit jacket as he acknowledged the Sergeant who was already half way through his roll-up. Ian Cutter himself had left his coat on its peg and was stood in just his suit but seemed far more accustomed to the freezing fog that floated, unmoving in the December morning. He smiled a greeting ‘Yup, all you want on a Saturday morning’ he exhaled smoke before tapping the cigarette thoughtfully on his lip. He ran his other hand over the top of his head, his mature years and hereditary genes had long since taken away the opportunity of running his hand through hair but it remained his thinking stance.
‘I have to say, the wife wasn’t too happy; supposed to be taking her shopping today see’ Thornton forced a laugh; his colleague made no reply. ‘So you get any clue as to why we’re all here?’ he did his best to sound casual as he motioned back at Langthorne House Police Station where a team of four summoned Detectives were walking round bleary-eyed and tossing a coin to determine who went back out for the milk.
‘Nope; we’re being briefed shortly though I think’
Thornton scowled a little ‘so they haven’t even told you why we’re here?’
‘And why would they give me any special treatment?’ Cutter’s eyes twinkled as the young Detective squirmed.
‘Well I just thought that with you being a skipper an’ all you know, you might have a clue or summin’?’
‘Well now you know so you can stop digging’
‘I wasn’t digging’ Thornton did his best to act indignant.
‘Really?’ Cutter stubbed out the tiny bit that remained of his roll-up, smoke remained in his breath as he coughed cold air. ‘Then why else are you stood in a smoking area, shivering with cold when it appears that you don't smoke?’
Thornton paused before forming a smile at Cutter’s back as he walked away. ‘Blimey, you should be a Detective!’
Cutter didn’t stop to look round ‘I know plenty of people who’d disagree.’
‘So what have we got?’ Cutter’s style was always straight to the point ‘and it had better be good enough to warrant a 4am wake-up call’.
The office wasn’t much warmer than the exterior and Detective Chief Inspector Price strode the length of the room to click at the manual heating control. He took the opportunity to check that the door was firmly shut to his office and noted that three of the four Detectives looked over as his movement attracted their attention. The fourth was hurriedly completing his errand of fetching milk.
‘We had a job come in over night’ Price paused.
‘I guessed that’ Cutter was always impatient when conversing with someone who didn’t have the same direct route to the point. He had remained standing as a subtle way of pushing things along.
‘We have a body’
‘That’s not particularly surprising either’ Cutter buried his hands in his pocket. He was the Major Crime Sergeant, generally all he dealt with was the high end of the crime spectrum and there was often a body involved somewhere.
‘A man was struck by a car. Nasty incident by the sounds of it, early reports state that he was killed instantly...’ Price allowed a further pause.
‘I assume it was malicious? Some sort of intent been implied?’ Cutter was digging for the reason he was there.
‘Well perhaps. That’s not really known at this time Sergeant’. Cutter pulled at the knot of his tie and at the top button of his shirt, all the while holding an expectant look at his colleague. ‘You see, this one is a little different in circumstance’. Price again peered across to ensure that the door was still shut to his office.
‘Hit and run’s are not really my thing Sir; if I’m just here because them traffic boys couldn’t be arsed to...’
‘No Ian’ the force of the interruption and the use of Cutter’s first name was effective in stopping him in his tracks. Price continued ‘That’s not it. You are here because I need you here’ Cutter noticed for the first time the ashen face of the DCI. Young for someone of his rank, he had been in the position just over a year and his promotion was timed with his 35th birthday. Add to this Price had always been a baby-faced officer and had sometimes found that the older, established members of the Police had been a challenge to manage. Always immaculate in his presentation, his creased suit and ill matching shirt/tie combination smacked of someone in a hurry to get to the office and with more pressing matters than what he was wearing. Cutter showed himself to a seat opposite where Price had flopped with an elongated sigh. The Sergeant could see he was putting his words in some sort of order before he started speaking again.
‘The body. It’s Chief Constable Alan Cottage’
There; he’d said it. Detective Sergeant Ian Cutter was a man with 26 years experience and most of that he had spent in amongst a major crime department where dealing with twisted sexual deviants, murderers and rapists were an every day occurrence; as were bodies lying in the road. Rarely fazed and never speechless he sat staring at his commanding officer with no idea what he should say next.
‘The guv’nor?’ he managed.
‘Yes’.
‘Chief Constable?’
‘Yes’
‘Dead?’
‘Yes’
Cutter was back on his feet. ‘Hit by a car?’
‘Yes’
‘What he just stepped out or summin?’ Cutter rose back to his feet and started to pace, his hand again running over his head and Price noted his reaction was attracting attention outside of the room.
‘Look, sit down. There are, shall we say aggravating factors’
Cutter returned to his seat ‘aggravating factors? You mean aggravating factors other than the fact that we’ve just lost the Chief of Police?’
‘Yes. Bearing in mind who we are talking about; it was called in at around 1am this morning from an informant who lives in the house outside which, the Chief fell. He is from the basement flat of 9 Bench Street’
‘Bench Street?’ Cutter’s face contorted in confusion. ‘Bench Street, Effingell Estate?’
‘Yes’
‘What the hell..? Why would he be..? I mean, he hasn’t done field work for donkey’s years, the man’s closer to retirement than I am, what the hell...’
‘He wasn’t doing fieldwork. He wasn’t there as a police officer Ian’.
Cutter exhaled and ran his hand back over his scalp. Several times. ‘So what was he doing there?’
Price forced a smile and looked beyond the Sergeant as movement again attracted his attention outside of his office and he gave a thumbs-up in response to a carton of milk being held up. He focused back on Cutter who still stood with his hand on his head.
‘Welcome to the reason you are here’
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