Blood, Bullets and Blue Stratos lom-2 Read online

  ‘If it’s what we asked for, then you’ll have no objection to my taking a look,’ smiled Cowper. ‘So open it.’

  What we asked for, Sam noted. Unless Cowper was using the royal ‘we’, this suggested that he was part of a bigger organization. And it certainly wasn’t the IRA.

  He’s with the RHF, surely, Sam thought — whatever the RHF actually is.

  Michael Deery reached into his pocket and produced a flick knife. The blade shot out menacingly. Sam could see Michael fighting the urge to thrust it into Cowper’s heart — and so could Cowper, who smiled, daring Michael to strike. Michael’s hand shook. Cait whispered something to him that Sam couldn’t hear.

  ‘Your wife’s right,’ said Cowper, insufferably smug. ‘Now, get on with it.’

  Michael stuck the blade into the side of the cardboard box and cut a rectangular flap. Not even bothering to take his hands out of his pockets, Cowper sauntered over and put his eye to the hole. If Michael’s rage had got the better of him and he decided to strike with the knife, Cowper was wide open, completely unprotected. But from his attitude it was clear that he knew Michael would not strike — that he would never strike — because Cowper had an aura about him, an air of being untouchable. Whatever hold he had over the Deerys, it was unbreakable.

  This isn’t an IRA handover, Sam thought. This is something else entirely. Surely even Gene can see that for himself now.

  Cowper smiled at what he saw in the box, then straightened slowly. ‘Well, everything looks very much in order. Excellent. Tiptop. Now be so kind as to stash it carefully in the back of the van.’

  ‘You’re not the boss of us, you stinking English bastard,’ Cait hissed.

  ‘Au contraire,’ Cowper replied. ‘As long as we’re babysitting for you, we most definitely are “de boss o’ yous”.’ He spoke these last four words in a mocking Irish accent.

  Babysitting? thought Sam. He shot a glance across at Gene, but his guv’nor was intently focused on the scene in front of him.

  For a few moments, Michael Deery didn’t move, just stood glaring at the Englishman, and Sam could see that his self-restraint was at breaking point. At any moment, he’d attack. But, suddenly, tears of rage and frustration welled up in Michael’s eyes, and in the next moment all the fight had gone out of him. He hung his head and painfully swallowed down his tears.

  ‘If the histrionics are now all over and done with, perhaps we might get on with the job at hand,’ said Cowper. ‘Get that box into the van, and let’s have no more shilly-shallying.’

  Obediently, but burning with resentment, the Deerys carried the box across to the van and stowed it.

  ‘Nice job, very well done,’ grinned Cowper. ‘I think that just about concludes matters for the time being, yes?’

  Cait Deery paused to fix the Englishman with a look of pure hatred, standing almost nose to nose with him. Michael gently tugged her arm, but for some seconds she wouldn’t budge.

  The Englishman smiled a slow, cold smile, then said, ‘Can you even imagine what they’ll do if you lay so much as a finger on me?’

  Cait’s face flushed scarlet with rage. Moments later, the colour drained from it entirely, leaving her cheeks and even her lips ashen and bloodless. Cowper patted Cait’s shoulder in a mocking pretence of friendship, then turned away, his John Lennon spectacles sparkling insolently, and climbed back into the cab of his van as if he had all the time in the world.

  ‘Top o’ the mahnin’ to de pair o’ ya,’ Cowper called out to them mockingly, and started the engine.

  Suddenly Gene tapped Sam’s shoulder, and indicated with a jabbed thumb that they were to get back to the Cortina double pronto.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Gene as he settled himself behind the wheel. ‘We’re following that long-haired southern poofter. We’re sticking to him like glue.’

  ‘The Deerys might be IRA, but there’s no way Cowper is,’ said Sam, watching the white van trundle backwards onto the road, turn, and start heading back the way it had come. ‘What was all that about babysitting?’

  ‘Worry about it later,’ growled Gene. ‘Right now, we’re playing “Follow the Bastard”. Get ready to call for backup — it’s likely he’s going to lead us right to his IRA playmates.’

  ‘Guv, he’s not IRA. How many more times? He’s part of the RHF.’

  ‘Oh, yes, those made-up baddies you keep banging on about.’

  ‘Come on, Gene, open your eyes. Whoever Cowper is, he’s certainly no friend of the Deerys. He’s coercing them to hand over guns or explosives that are meant for the IRA. He’s blackmailing them so he can supply the RHF with them instead. You can see that, Guv. Surely you can see that.’

  ‘If I was to go along with you, Sam, I would first have to admit that I was wrong, and then — even worse — that you were right, and I’m not prepared to do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you’re an irritating smart-aleck tit and I’m not in the mood to be gracious. Now, get ready to call for backup in case things start getting frilly.’

  Gene let the van get a good couple of hundred feet headway on them, then hit the gas and followed. Sam glanced back and caught a glimpse of the Deerys. They appeared briefly by the side of the road, comforting each other, hugging, sobbing, until he lost sight of them entirely.

  The van made its way back into town and began a long, meandering crawl through the grim suburbs and rundown industrial outskirts. Gene held back, keeping his distance, but, as time dragged on, he grew impatient and tetchy. He started nosing the Cortina up close to the van as if he were about to ram it in frustration.

  ‘Chuffin’ Nora! Is this twat taking the scenic route or what?’

  ‘Don’t get too close, guv. Play it cool.’

  ‘Play it cool? You’re not about to break into West Side bloody Story, are you, Sam?’

  ‘If you tailgate him like this he’ll clock us clear as daylight.’

  ‘I know what I am doing,’ declared Gene. ‘Now give your chops and my ear’oles a rest, Samuel. This is worse than having a bird in the car.’

  Sam threw his hands up in frustration and fell silent. But then he looked out of the window.

  ‘Guv!’

  ‘I told you to pipe down and let me drive.’

  ‘But, Guv-’

  ‘I am this close to hitting the ejector seat.’

  ‘Guv, we passed that factory ten minutes ago.’

  ‘What factory?’

  ‘The one we’re passing again right now. I remember that corrugated roof and the two chimneys.’

  ‘Is this some pathetic attempt to impress me with your powers of observation? Because if it is, Tyler, I can assure you that-’

  ‘Guv, Cowper’s driving in circles. You know what that means.’

  Gene fell silent. He knew very well what that meant. Driving in circles — it was a standard means of checking to see whether the car that was always in your rear-view mirror really was following you.

  ‘He’s clocked us,’ said Sam.

  ‘Then let’s stop fannying about and nick him,’ barked Gene, and without warning he floored the gas. The Cortina lurched forward and plunged into the oncoming lane. Horns blared and cars ducked out of the way. Sam found himself grabbing frantically at the wheel.

  ‘You’re going to kill us.’

  ‘Get your flippers off my ruddy motor!’ Gene bellowed. He shoved Sam back and pulled the Cortina alongside the white van at high speed. ‘Nick him, Tyler! Bloody nick him!’

  Sam wound down his window and waved his police ID about.

  ‘Police!’ he yelled. ‘Pull over!’

  Cowper was visible in the cab of the van. He glanced across at them, that same infuriating smile still on his lips.

  ‘Pull over! Police! I won’t tell you ag-’

  Cowper jerked the wheel to the right. The van veered into them, crashing against the passenger side and bouncing the Cortina hard on its suspension.

  ‘Cheeky little sod,’ Gene growled, hittin
g the brakes and tucking the Cortina back in behind the van again. ‘Right, he’s done his bit — now it’s my go.’

  He pulled the Magnum from beneath his coat, leant out of the window, and squeezed off a shot. Fire spat from the muzzle of the gun. The van’s rear tyre exploded. Strips of rubber flew across the road as the shredded remains wrapped themselves crazily around the spinning axle. The van veered, crossed into the oncoming lane, struggled drunkenly back.

  ‘For God’s sake, Gene, you’re going to cause a pile-up.’

  But Gene couldn’t give less of a toss what Sam thought he was going to cause. He stamped on the gas. The Cortina roared forward, tearing up recklessly on the inside of the van. Steering with one hand, Gene got himself positioned alongside the cab and took careful aim. Cowper had time to look round, saw the light glinting along the barrel of the Magnum, and at last the smug bloody smile vanished from his face.

  The guv’nor squeezed the trigger. ‘Say cheese.’

  Gene bullseyed the front tyre, shredding it. The van lurched madly and swung violently in front of them. Gene slammed on the brakes; the van missed the Cortina’s bonnet with an inch to spare, and slammed into the hard shoulder. Crashing through a barrier, it went cascading down an embankment towards a dry gravel pit.

  With a piercing screech of rubber on tarmac, the Cortina slewed to a wild stop, and in a heartbeat Gene was out and running, the smoking Mangum in his hand. Sam flung open his door and belted after him. They threw themselves down the steep embankment, fetching up by the van that lay overturned in the gravel, fountaining steam from its shattered engine block. Gene leapt onto the cab and stood astride the upturned window, aiming the barrel of the Magnum directly down at the man in the cab.

  ‘Well?’ he intoned. ‘Do ya? Punk?’

  There was a flash of light and the sharp crack of a bullet, and for a split second Sam thought Gene had actually blown Cowper away, executing him in cold blood. But in the next moment he realized the shot had come from inside the cab. Gene threw himself backwards, landing heavily in the gravel.

  Sam drew his own gun and raced to cover Gene, who was already scrambling furiously to his feet. Cowper appeared, popping up from the open window of the overturned cab, blood smeared over his face, his long hair in wild disarray, a pistol in his hand.

  ‘Stop! Police!’ Sam screamed, levelling his firearm straight at Cowper.

  Cowper fired without hesitating, his shot going wide and kicking up a sharp shower of gravel just past Sam’s feet. Sam replied with a shot of his own; it clipped Cowper hard in the shoulder, flinging him backwards and sending the pistol spinning from his hand. Cowper cried out, furiously clutching his upper arm as it spurted with blood, then slid back down into the cab, groaning.

  ‘The suspect’s disarmed,’ Sam yelled. Then, ‘You okay, Guv?’

  ‘Happy as a sandboy,’ Gene said. But then he took in the state of his camelhair coat, encrusted with a layer of filthy gravel. ‘Correction: make that “mortally offended”.’

  He strode across to the van, clambered onto its upturned side, flung open the door and jumped inside. From within the cab came a series of desperate screams — Aaargh! Aaiiee! No! No! Nooooaaaaghh! — as Gene Hunt explained to Cowper the importance of treating camelhair with the proper respect.

  CHAPTER SIX

  AN AUDIENCE WITH GENE HUNT

  Cowper sat silently in the Lost and Found Room, staring blankly though the cracked lenses of his glasses, his gaze fixed on a point in space eighteen inches from the front of his bloodied nose. He was surrounded by unclaimed bicycles, forgotten briefcases, mysteriously abandoned stereos and wallets and prosthetic limbs and prams, great stacks of dusty detritus, labelled and shelved, logged and left to moulder year after year, unclaimed, unwanted. Manchester’s flotsam and jetsam all washed up here eventually — and, with his broken glasses and blood-streaked face, Cowper fitted in perfectly: just another piece of junk in need of a home.

  Does the same go for me? thought Sam, trying to keep his thoughts focused on the interview instead of on himself. Am I just another bit of lost luggage? Is that why I feel this urge to move on? Am I no more at home here than all this forgotten junk? He shook his head to clear it. Concentrate. You’ve got a job to do.

  Sam sat himself down across from Cowper and placed a set of typed pages neatly on the table in front of him. But Gene Hunt was in no mood for sitting. He paced, tigerlike, up and down, back and forth, behind Cowper’s back. His eyes glowered dangerously. If he’d had a striped tail, he would have swished it menacingly. His blood was still up after the chase and the shootout, and he was making no effort to calm himself down. It was only a matter of time before he’d kick off, and the interview would degenerate into a chaos of clenched fists and loosened teeth and squished testicles. But, for as long as he could manage it, Sam was determined to see that some degree of professionalism was adhered to.

  ‘Right, then,’ said Sam, maintaining a controlled, neutral tone. ‘Your name is Cowper. At present, that’s all we know about you. We want to know a lot more. So let’s start at the beginning. Would you state your full name, please?’

  Cowper kept his eyes fixed on the dead air in front of his face. He twitched not so much as an eyelid.

  ‘Come on, let’s not muck about,’ Sam prompted. ‘Your full name, Mr Cowper.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Are you refusing to state your full name, Mr Cowper?’

  Silence.

  ‘I see. Would you be willing to cooperate with this interview if you had a solicitor present? It’s your right to request one.’

  Not a flicker.

  ‘Mr Cowper, you do understand that keeping silent will do you absolutely no good whatsoever,’ Sam went on. ‘Eventually, with or without your cooperation, we will obtain all your personal details — who you are, where you live, who you associate with. Sitting here in silence, you’re achieving nothing but wasting everybody’s time.’

  ‘And winding one or two of us up,’ put in Gene, pausing for a moment to glare down at Cowper. ‘Winding one or two of us right up.’

  After a menacing pause, Gene resumed his slow, dangerous pacing.

  But Cowper said nothing, didn’t move a muscle, barely even blinked.

  Sam sighed and opened the police file on the table in front of him. ‘Very well, then, Mr Cowper. If you won’t answer questions directly, let’s see if we can coax you into responding by some other means. I have here an inventory of items recovered from your van. It’s quite an Aladdin’s cave. Allow me to read it to you. If you want to respond at any time, please do. Okay?’ He paused. Still nothing. ‘Okay, then. At the time of your arrest you were found to be in possession of — and this is an impressive list, Mr Cowper:

  ‘Item one: a Steyr fully automatic pistol with four rounds unfired and three spare clips of ammunition. That’s the gun you discharged at DCI Hunt at the arrest scene.

  ‘Item two: an AR-18 ArmaLite assault rifle. The old IRA favourite, the “Widowmaker”. Now that’s the one you discharged at both DCI Hunt, myself, our fellow officers and various members of the public two days ago in the council records office. We know because the rounds recovered from the crime scene positively match the fifty-three rounds found in your van. Feel like telling us anything about that? Do you want to deny that it’s yours? Were you looking after it for a friend? Mm? Still don’t want to say anything? Then we shall continue.

  ‘Item three: six and a half pounds of Semtex plastic explosive, delivered to you by the Deerys just prior to your arrest. Again, it’s identical to the Semtex found in the ladies’ toilet at the records office.

  ‘Item four — you still don’t want to say anything, Mr Cowper? Okay. Item four: ten detonators and eight coils of electrical wire, which — no surprises here — also match the detonators and wire found at the council office.

  ‘Item five: a balaclava, identical to the one worn by the mystery gunman in the council office.

  ‘Item six; a jacket, also identical to the one wo
rn by the mystery gunman in the council office.

  And, just on a hunch, Mr Cowper, I’m going to add one more item. Item seven: you, Mr Cowper — the mystery gunman himself. Same height, same build, same round glasses, and a mass of evidence to directly link you to the crime scene. Now then, given everything that I’ve just explained to you, can you now see how it would be in your interests to start talking, Mr Cowper? You’re in serious trouble. Silence won’t help you.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time, Tyler,’ Gene growled. ‘Cowper’s the strong silent type. Leastways, he thinks he is. But I’ll get him talking. ’Coz you see, Cowper, you ain’t down South no more, poncin’ about with all them Financial Times-reading, wine-drinking, Play for Today-watching sausage jockeys. This is Manchester, son. This is CID. This is A-Division. This is my manor.’

  Gene slammed his massive fist down on the table.

  ‘You’ve heard the evidence, you toffee-nosed dipstick! So, if you wanna keep your ball sac attached to the rest of your anatomy instead of residing somewhere uncomfortably far down your oesophagus, drop the Trappist-monk routine and start talking. Name. State your name. In full. Say it!’

  Arrogantly, completely unconcerned, Cowper tilted his head and coldly observed Gene through two circles of fractured glass.

  ‘Name, Cowper. Say your name. Say your chuffin’ name!’

  Cowper opened his mouth, paused for few moments, and then, with a joyless smile, said quietly, ‘You’ll start bashing me again whether I cooperate or not. That disinclines me to make things easier for you.’

  ‘Bashing?’ breathed Gene, bringing his face close to Cowper’s. ‘Who said anything about bashing? I don’t bash. I’m not a basher. I’m more a sort of … Well, hard to put into words, really. It’s simpler if I demonstrate.’

  Gene moved suddenly and with surprising speed. In the blink of an eye, his powerful hand was clamped vicelike around Cowper’s genitals. Cowper scrambled awkwardly to his feet, his cheeks and forehead flushing in agony, the chair clattering over behind him. Gene tightened his grip as if he were squeezing juice from a lemon, and then, in a well-honed manoeuvre, gave such a ferocious twist that it sent Cowper sprawling to the floor, sweating and gasping.