Crime After Crime Read online

  He tried to hide the easiness in his mind – it had been three years since he’d been a free man. He looked her in the eye and ordered. She spooned the food into a plate and he sat down. Watching people walking through the services he noticed women with prams, an elderly couple with grandchildren tugging at their arms and a line of foreign tourists buying gifts at a checkout. Unlike the last three years nobody paid him any attention.

  He smiled to himself – he was free once more.

  * * *

  Three hours after his release Frankie put a can of lager down on the cabinet by the side of the bed and gazed over at Madge.

  “Frankie, it’s been so long.” There was a nervous tone to her voice.

  He looked over at her as she unfastened her trousers and wiggling her hips let the material fall to the floor. Had he been twenty years younger he would have torn her clothes off before they’d closed the front door.

  “I know I’ve put on weight,” she said.

  He stepped towards her and undid her bra.

  “Madge, you’re still my babe.”

  Afterwards, he lay in the warmth of the bed and pulled Madge close drawing his hand through her hair. Her skin felt smooth and warm against his body and her breath tickled the hairs on his chest.

  “Frankie, we need to get ready,” Madge said eventually slipping out of bed. After a shower, he unwrapped a new shirt and pulled on a pair of grey trousers. He rummaged through a drawer, finding a gold necklace, a gift from Peter’s wife Sophie, and hung it round his neck; on his wrist sat a gold band, a gift from Madge and on each hand he had gold rings – gifts from the grandchildren. He looked at himself in the mirror. Three years in various prisons and he’d lost two stone in weight, three inches around the waist and, whenever he looked in the mirror, there were too many grey hairs for comfort.

  “I look like a Christmas turkey.”

  “What’s wrong Frankie?” Madge said sitting by her dressing table, carefully plucking her eyebrows and turning her face to either side as if convincing herself the double chin wasn’t showing. “You always liked the gifts from the family.”

  He let his hands fall to his side and dismissed his worries as the embers of post-release blues.

  * * *

  The Crippled Bear had a selection of eight cask conditioned ales, ten lagers, including a cloudy wheat variety from Belgium, and so many soft drinks Frankie’s mind fizzed from the choices. He had known Arfon forever. It felt like a hundred years. Arfon had a thin narrow frame with legs like a butcher’s dog but a stomach that hung out over the waistband of his trousers held up by a belt tightened at a rakish angle round his body. He smiled at Frankie exposing a row of teeth tarnished yellow by years of nicotine. He coughed and a deep crackling sound, like dry wood on a roaring fire.

  “Good to see you, Frankie.”

  He grasped Frankie’s hand.

  “And you.”

  “You all right?” he stepped backward and looked at Frankie. “There’s nothing fucking left of you. All skin and bones.”

  Frankie thumped him on the arm.

  “Get me a drink.”

  Frankie sipped from his favourite ale and let the warm bitter sensation grip his throat. Arfon stood by his side and grabbed his shoulder.

  “So what are your plans?”

  Frankie raised an eyebrow.

  “Retire that’s what you should do. Dig up the drug money and retire. You should keep out of trouble.”

  Frankie didn’t respond and from the door he heard a scream and turning saw two of his three grandchildren. Becky and Rachel ran up, clutched his legs, and then inspected his jewellery, carefully turning them in their small fingers. Peter and Sophie followed their daughters. Sophie leaned over, her kisses brushed his cheeks.

  “Nice to see you again. How are you?”

  “Great, Love.”

  Danny was hiding behind his father’s legs staring at the floor.

  “Danny,” Frankie began ruffling his grandson’s hair.

  * * *

  The steak was medium rare and as the flavour of the meat assaulted Frankie’s taste buds, accustomed to prison food, unseasoned and cooked to death, he became uncharacteristically silent. He looked up and caught the glances of his family as he finished the food before the others had barely started. He piled more chips onto his plate and beamed at Madge.

  In the taxi home Frankie grabbed Madge as though he were a teenager again only to find her pushing him away.

  “Behave,” she said.

  Later, at home Madge lay in his arms beneath the sheets, the bedroom air cool against their faces.

  “It’s good to have you back,” Madge said.

  She reached an arm across his shoulder.

  “It’s good to be home. Enjoyed tonight.”

  “You were enjoying that food.”

  Frankie thought about the thin red streak of blood on his plate.

  “Nothing like a good steak.”

  “I do love you, Frankie,” she pressed her arms tight around his body.

  “Love you too.”

  “You won’t get it any more trouble will you?”

  “What at my age? Don’t want to die in prison.”

  * * *

  Two of the letters on the neon sign were broken and faded red patches on the door and the evidence of touch-up painting completed the tired appearance of the snooker club.

  Frankie pulled open the door and took the stairs two at a time, reminding himself he had to maintain the training regime he adopted in prison. Fluorescent tubes covered the room in a pale glow, the smell of spilled beer and stale clothes filled the air. A dozen snooker tables all covered with black plastic sheets lined the room. He heard the tinkling of stacking glasses and bottles crashing against each other and turned towards the bar. A face appeared and two clear blue eyes looked over at Frankie, unmoved by his presence, as though he were expected.

  “He’s in the office,” the man said.

  Frankie nodded and walked over to the far end of the room, noticing the man’s unwavering stare.

  Peter got up from the leather bound chair behind the mahogany reproduction desk.

  “Alright, Dad.”

  “What’s wrong with the guy cleaning the bar?”

  “Simple. He understands fuck all.”

  “Good.”

  Frankie curled his lips into a smile that said it’s-good-to-be-back. He sat in the chair folding his arms behind his head, lifting his feet and rested them on the edge of the desk as he leaned back in the chair. Against one wall was a display cupboard with a selection of spirits. A small window cast a dull shadow across a leather Chesterfield whose arms needed attention.

  “Locatelli,” Frankie let the name hang in the air like an aged aunt’s fart at a birthday party.

  Peter cleared his throat.

  “Don’t you think it’s time to forget about him?”

  “You must be joking.”

  “But you want to move on. For Mum’s sake.”

  “He’s moved to Altrincham,” Peter said, a resigned tone to his voice. “One of those gated communities.”

  Frankie jerked his feet off the desk and pulled the chair towards the desk. Peter continued.

  “I heard he got shit-scared when you got parole. Hasn’t been out. Takeaway pizzas left by the gate. CCTV cameras installed.”

  “What a shame,” Frankie snorted. “We need to make plans.”

  * * *

  Frankie’s Mercedes passed the Bell and Anchor that stood on the corner of Mack Street and then swept down over the cobbles and occasional tarmac until it stopped by the lock-up underneath the railway arch. The street filled with the noise of a commuter train rattling over the points above. He powered down the window and sat back enjoying freedom, the smell of decaying rubbish and feline urine, being able to drive around Manchester, see his grandchildren, drinking with Arfon, and feeling the warmth of Madge by his side in the morning.

  And, see to Locatelli.

  It had been
two long, hot summers in the courgette house since the deal with Paolo Locatelli had gone sour. Not a single day had passed without Frankie waking to the contemplation of Locatelli’s fate. A warm damp smell hit his nostrils and he remembered the launderette on the next street. As he glanced at his watch he saw his son’s car turning into the street. Frankie was already outside the Mercedes when Peter drew up, stepped out and bleeped his car.

  “You sure about this?” Peter said.

  “Course.”

  “If the cops find out…”

  “They won’t.”

  Frankie heaved open the door of the lock-up, making enough space for them both to enter. The light from the torch in his left hand darted over the empty walls until it found the light switch.

  “Wonderful,” Frankie said as the bulb flickered into life

  There was a table with boxes of car parts and some electronic switches. In a corner, at the far end, was a Belfast sink under a tap on a pipe jutting out of the wall.

  “Just like I remember.”

  “What did you do…?” Peter’s question trailed.

  “When I started out I made a few bob from this place.”

  Frankie dragged a single wooden chair into the middle and placed it underneath the light.

  “Perfect.”

  * * *

  Frankie never liked Altrincham, too new-money for him, not enough bling and too many beauty parlours and hair stylists promising miraculous transformations. He drove past the entrance to The Beeches and slowed as he watched the gates open and a Porsche 911 slip out. He saw the first house behind the closing gate with its flickering alarm and manicured garden.

  He imagined Locatelli enjoying fresh pasta and sipping a fine Chianti, all paid for with his money. He drew the car into the curb and watched the gate closing. He wrapped his fingers over the steering wheel, a light rain fell and the blades swished automatically, clearing the windscreen. The mobile rang and he saw Peter’s number on the screen.

  “Dad, where are you?”

  “Altrincham.”

  “You’re not…”

  “Yeah. Lovely isn’t it?”

  Their conversation was stilted, Peter tried persuasion and then an appeal to common sense. Frankie stared out of the windscreen as he listened to his son before interrupting him.

  “I’ve had a fucking brainwave.”

  * * *

  MacPherson was having a bad day, indeed a bad week and it was shaping up to be a bad month. There were dirty grey colour bags under his eyes that his latest girlfriend kept complaining about and Frankie was proving to be a distraction from all the other urgent cases he had on his desk. Last night it had been after midnight when he finished reading the latest surveillance reports and when he finally reached his bed, sleep had eluded him until the early hours. Now, he was wondering how much overtime the superintendent would allow without any results. Glancing at his watch he guessed that he would know soon enough, with a meeting scheduled for later that afternoon. Once he’d read the transcripts of the telephone calls Frankie had made from inside HMP Bleadon, MacPherson knew that things were going to get messy once he was released. Frankie wasn’t the forgiving type. Frankie took revenge, quickly. It was only a matter of time.

  He knew that the resources of the police service didn’t extend to continuous surveillance of a recently released prisoner. He tried re-reading the reports, but he had read them so often the words were dissolving into each other, a meaningless litany of driving and domestic arrangements. Frustration filled his mind, as he realised how little he knew of Frankie’s activities since his release.

  He dragged on his jacket and walked through to the conference room. He felt the crumpled remains of the cigarettes in his pocket and glancing at his watch realised he didn’t have time for a smoke before the meeting.

  Superintendent Baker was sitting by the table turning a silver fountain pen in his hand. He waved for MacPherson to sit down.

  “Not much here.”

  “I know, Sir, but…”

  “Don’t tell me. It’s a gut feeling.”

  “Sir. He’s going to go after Locatelli.”

  “I’m not having police resources protecting Locatelli on the basis of your gut feeling. Locatelli’s a known criminal.”

  “But, Sir.”

  After twenty minutes of persuasion that MacPherson considered to be the fundamentals of sound policing, they’d agreed on a strategy. Back in his office MacPherson actioned the plan and flicked through the latest reports about Frankie, trying to guess where and how.

  * * *

  The fumes from the transit filled the lock-up until Peter killed the engine and jumped out. Frankie was already standing, legs astride, by the back door of the van. He yanked open the doors and stared inside. Bungee cords, odd pieces of rope and lengths of twine hung from the wooden struts along the inside. In one corner, huddled into the foetal position, was Paolo Locatelli, his wrists tightly bound, duct tape covering his mouth.

  Frankie clicked on the torch, held spear-like, in his right hand and lit up Locatelli’s face – eyes wide, pupils small.

  “Paolo, my old mate,” Frankie said.

  Peter jumped into the van and dragged Locatelli until he fell out of the rear into a heap, a faint cloud of dust rising as he hit the floor.

  “Welcome to my humble abode,” Frankie said.

  Locatelli fumbled on the ground.

  Frankie drew back his right foot and landed the first kick to Locatelli’s rib cage. The pain flashed across his face, the duct tape stretched across his mouth muffling the groans of pain. Locatelli’s writhing body wriggled on the floor unable to judge when the next blow would come.

  And it came soon enough.

  Frankie aimed the point of his brogues at Locatelli’s right thigh and swung the blow. Tears drizzled down Locatelli’s cheeks cascading over the duct tape and onto his chin. Peter winced as he heard the cracks of breaking ribs as Frankie landed two more blows.

  Frankie dragged Locatelli across the floor before pulling him upright and pushing him onto the hard wooden chair. Frankie undid Locatelli’s hands and rebound them behind the chair.

  “Paolo,” Frankie began. “Look what you’ve done to my brogues.” He pointed at the scuff marks.

  Frankie took a step back.

  “We’ve got some unfinished business,” Frankie said, his tone halfway between let’s-be-friends and I’m-going-to-kick-the-shit-out-of-you. He turned his back and walked over to the bench, returning with a small wooden tray.

  “Do you know what these are?”

  Locatelli nodded.

  “Of course you do,” Frankie snorted. “You’re Italian. That’s all you eat. Fucking courgettes.”

  Locatelli moved his right buttock but Frankie clenched his fist and gave him a glancing blow over one eye. Frankie lowered his head until he could smell Locatelli’s expensive aftershave.

  “Do you know how many different sorts of courgettes there are?”

  Locatelli whimpered.

  “Of course you fucking do. You’re Italian.”

  Locatelli rolled his eyes.

  Frankie lent down and rummaged through the box until he found a small courgette with a large yellow flower perched on one end. With one quick movement he pulled off the duct tape. Locatelli squealed and grabbed lungfuls of air. Frankie forced his mouth open and stuffed the courgette inside, the flower dangling limply. He bent down to Locatelli’s ear.

  “If you bite that courgette, you’re a dead man.”

  Locatelli swallowed hard but his eyes told Frankie he understood.

  “See these,” Frankie said, holding up both hands. “They’ve picked more courgettes then you eat in a year. For two summers I’ve picked courgettes and all the time I was thinking of you.”

  Locatelli gave out a laugh that came out like a grunt.

  “Everyday my hands would be covered in this rash from the leaves that drove me mad. Off. My. Fucking. Head.”

  The courgette wobbled slightly
.

  “And then, when I’d finished my toil in the courgette house, we’d have courgettes for tea. Courgette salad, courgettes in the curry, in the stews, courgettes every fucking meal.”

  Frankie grabbed one of the larger courgettes from the box by his feet and began tapping Locatelli on the head.

  “And I thought of you.”

  The flower on the courgette in Locatelli’s mouth fell off and Frankie raised an eyebrow. Locatelli blinked furiously. Frankie circled him holding the large courgette in his right hand.

  “Do you know where this would fit?” he turned to face Locatelli and held the courgette to his face.

  “Right up your jacksie.”

  Frankie laughed but Locatelli didn’t see the joke.

  “But then I thought it would be a waste of a decent courgette.”

  Frankie raised it high above his shoulder and brought it down in one smooth blow onto Locatelli’s head. The courgette split apart and bits careered over the dirt as Locatelli fell to the floor, dragging the chair with him. He bit into the courgette and spat out the portion in his mouth.

  “Frankie. No. I can explain.”

  “You’re not going to beg for mercy are you?”

  “Frankie, please listen…”

  Within seconds blood was streaming from Locatelli’s nose and cuts above his eyes. When Frankie stopped, the swelling was beginning to close both of Locatelli’s eyes. He stopped kicking Locatelli and pulled the chair vertical.

  “Paolo, stay awake. I still need you to tell me where my money is,” Frankie was breathless.

  Locatelli mumbled a reply.

  “Once you tell me where the money is we’re going to part as friends, aren’t we?”