Face Book Read online

‘Plus, that supermarket must have CCTV,’ Dawn added. ‘The footage from the last hour needs checking. Odds are good they’ll pick action up. That’s a priority.’

  ‘Somebody’s already on that,’ the officer driving said.

  They were nearing the supermarket now. Nearing the chaos. The street had been cordoned off by squad cars, which were parked at angles. Two at each end. Paramedics were wheeling away a covered body, towards an ambulance. Onlookers had gathered, eager to see what was going on. Flash photography and TV cameras: paparazzi and reporters. Shoppers were being escorted from the store. The police wanted to be certain Ward wasn’t in the building.

  Getting out of the car, Dawn made for the entrance with Jenkins on her heels. Thirty seconds later they were in an office, watching CCTV footage. They saw a woman putting her shopping into the boot of a red Punto. Saw her securing her baby into the vehicle. Then, after she had seated herself in the driver’s side, Ward appeared, knife in hand. He climbed in the back.

  Dawn radioed the details and registration to the pilot.

  ####

  Derek and Chris were walking back to 147. They had wandered up and down streets, discussing their predicament. Diplomacy was still Derek’s favoured course of action, whereas his brother was warming to the idea of something more direct – something that involved his foot being rammed up Byron’s arse, sideways.

  Nearing the club, they noticed the door was open. With a sinking heart, Derek passed between parked cars and began to jog. Chris followed, matching his pace. They stopped at the door, looking at its busted lock. Then they went inside to see what had happened.

  ‘Oh, fuck!’ Derek said, taking the place in. Putting his hands on the sides of head, he screwed his face up in frustration. ‘Why did we go out! We shouldn’t have gone out!’

  ‘Shit!’ Chris said.

  The hall was a mess. Looked like it had been bombed. The mirror behind the bar was shattered, cracks splintering out from its centre where a cue ball was embedded. Glass littered the floor. Furniture was everywhere. A smashed chair near one of the snooker tables had blood stains on its cloth seat. Another table had a fire extinguisher on it. Lying on its side, like a fallen soldier. Oozing foam from its nozzle. The slate beneath was dented, but neither Derek nor Chris were bothered about that. All they cared about was their friends. Slate is replaceable. Friends aren’t.

  ‘Who’s that?’ someone called out from the darkness at the far end of the room. ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘I hope they’ve come back for another beating!’ a familiar voice said.

  ‘Another grade-a arse whooping coming up!’ chimed in another familiar voice. ‘Will these idiots never learn … Ah, fook, it’s you pair. What took you so long? You’ve missed the fun.’

  Derek exchanged a look of relief with Chris as three figures came into view. Willis had his gun held out in front of him. He lowered it. Jevon and Nelson were brandishing snooker cues. They tossed them aside, almost simultaneously.

  ‘What happened?’ Derek asked them. ‘Are any of you hurt?’

  ‘Someone’s hurt,’ Jevon said. ‘Someone’s badly hurt. But it ain’t any of us.’

  He went to Derek. Gave him a brother’s handshake. Then Derek stood back, checking his friend out from head to toe. Jevon appeared to be unharmed. No cuts. No bruises. No nasty swellings. Willis looked unharmed, too. But Nelson had blood on his shirt.

  ‘Relax, man,’ he said. ‘S’not my blood.’

  ‘They turned up just after you left,’ Willis explained. ‘Four of ‘em. Big fuckers. Tooled up with baseball bats, crowbars and shit. We tried talking to ‘em, tried reasoning with ‘em, but they wouldn’t listen. Told us they wanted money, or else. It didn’t matter that we don’t own the fucking place. I told ‘em to do one and that’s when it got rowdy.’

  He shrugged. Offered an apologetic grin.

  ‘It was always going to get rough,’ Chris said. ‘Bet they were elated when you told ‘em to piss off. They thought they were gonna have some fun beating on niggers.’

  ‘It was us that had the fun,’ Willis said.

  Derek nodded towards Willis’s gun. ‘Please tell me you didn’t use that. Tell me you didn’t shoot anyone.’

  ‘The piece wasn’t needed,’ he said, sounding disappointed. ‘They weren’t armed. Got a feeling we’ll need it next time, though. Because there will be a next time. Now we’ve caned their backsides, they’re gonna be more determined than ever to make us pay. And I don’t mean in money. Things have moved beyond that now.’

  Nelson pointed at the broken chair that had blood on it. ‘Smashed that over ginger Moe’s head,’ he said. ‘He was the one that did the talking, dished out the threats. Big and brave when had his thugs stood behind him. Not so big and brave when I clocked him one. Ker-pow! Get down, idjut!’

  Derek had to smile at that. He wished he had seen it. Wished he’d been able to help. Not that he or Chris were needed, from the sound of things.

  ‘This is going to cost us a fortune to put right,’ Chris said, looking around, ‘and I don’t think we can afford it.’

  Derek said, ‘We can’t afford it.’

  ‘There’s no way we can open now,’ Chris said. ‘We’re fucked!’

  ‘We can help you out,’ Jevon and Willis said in unison.

  ‘We’ll get some money together,’ Jevon said. ‘It’s our fault this place got wrecked.’

  Nelson chirped in, ‘I’ve got dosh set aside.’

  Shaking his head, Derek said, ‘Nobody is putting anymore money into this snooker hall. Not while this shit is going on. As far as this place getting wrecked is concerned, there’s only one person to blame and we know who that is.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’ Chris asked.

  ‘We need to talk to Byron,’ Derek replied.

  ‘We’ve already attempted that,’ Willis said.

  ‘I know,’ Derek said. ‘We need to speak to him directly, somehow.’

  ‘There’s only one way to stop this,’ Nelson said. Getting a cue from a stand, he sighted down it like it was a rifle. Simulated pulling the trigger. ‘BOOM!’

  Nobody objected to his suggestion.

  ####

  Hours passed. No news came through about Ward’s whereabouts. There hadn't been any sightings of the Punto. The helicopter had checked a twenty mile radius of Cavershall. Nothing. Police cars had scoured streets, lanes, avenues, crescents and dirt tracks. Nothing. It was like he had disappeared.

  It was pushing three a.m. when Dawn called it a night. Ward had got away. She accepted that. No point smouldering the night flame. She wanted at least a few hours sleep so she could be up early, back on the case.

  She had been so engrossed with catching Ward that she’d forgotten about Luke Armstrong. He’d got away, too. He was also out there, somewhere. Two scumbags still to bring in. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day.

  Parking her Freelander on the driveway, she was surprised to see lights on in the house. Either Philip had forgotten to switch them off – which was unlikely – or he’d stayed up, waiting for her. He sometimes did this at weekends, but never on a weekday.

  Dawn checked her mobile to see if she had any missed calls or messages. She did. Nine of the former and seven of the latter. She read the first message:

  Why didn’t you tell me a gangster got sprung in that convoy raid?

  Her heart sank. She read the second:

  Please call me because I’m worried about you.

  The third worried her:

  Our daughter could be in danger if you mess with those people!

  ‘Are you coming in the house? Or are you going to sit there all night?’

  She glanced up. Saw Philip at the front door. He had his arms folded, a no-nonsense look on his face. Getting out, Dawn slammed the driver’s door a little harder than intended. The noise shattered the night’s silence. She pressed her key fob. The vehicle’s indicators pulsed, deadlocks clicked into place. She made her way towards the house.

  �
�Why didn’t you answer my texts?’ Philip asked as she approached. ‘Why didn’t you call me back?’

  ‘So sorry I haven’t had time to check my mobile, but I’ve been busy hunting and trying to apprehend a serial killer. Doing my job, in other words.’

  ‘I’ve told you not to have the volume low on your phone. What if I need to get you in an emergency, Dawn? What if something had happened to Abbie?’

  Dawn had to take a deep breath to prevent herself from losing it. After the evening she’d had, this was the last thing she needed. She pushed past her husband, into the hallway.

  ‘The safety of your family is more important than your job,’ he said, shutting the door. Locking it. ‘Me and Abbie should come first. You need to get your priorities right.’

  Heading towards the kitchen, Dawn turned to face him. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my priorities. You knew what job I did when you met me. We can’t survive on your clerk's wage alone, so don’t rant at me like I have a choice. I can’t pick and choose my cases. I have to investigate criminals: that’s my job. Sometimes that involves me staying out until the early hours and sometimes it means I have to investigate dangerous people.’

  ‘That Armstrong guy is about as dangerous as it gets. I've listened to the news and he's a nasty piece of work, that bloke. The sort that'll have you and your family killed and think nothing of it. If you start chasing him, trying to bring a crime lord in …’ Philip trailed off, shaking his head.

  ‘I tell you what, tomorrow I’ll tell Chief Reinbeck I can’t do the case, if that’ll make you happy. I’ll tell him my husband thinks it’s too dangerous.’ She had no intention of doing this. ‘With any luck I won’t get demoted or sacked. He might even assign me to something nice and cushy, like a shop theft or … jaywalking.’

  ‘Let’s hope he does. At least then you won’t have to worry about your family's safety.’

  In the kitchen, Dawn took her jacket off. Tossed it over a chair. She was thirsty, so she got a carton of orange juice from the fridge. Poured herself a glass. Calm. Keep calm. Deep breaths, she thought, take some deep breaths … She inhaled, then exhaled.

  ‘Career, career, career,’ Philip said, coming up behind her. ‘That’s all you ever care about, isn’t it? The job comes first, me and Abbie second. Nothing changes.’

  Whirling around, Dawn said, ‘Armstrong wasn’t the only one who escaped after the attack on that convoy …’ She nearly spat it out – came close to telling him about the threat Ward had made – but decided against it. What good would it do? Philip was already frantic with worry. Enlightening him that Ward wanted to cut her face off would most likely send him into overdrive.

  ‘Ah, yes, the Face Book Killer,’ Philip said. ‘He’s on the loose, as well. Someone else for you to chase. Another reason for you not to be at home. Family last. Job first. Nothing changes.’

  Dawn was sipping juice. She spat some out.

  ‘Why don’t you just GO TO BED!’ she yelled.

  ‘Keep your voice down; you’ll wake Abbie.’

  They heard the pitter-patter of small feet above. Coming down the stairs.

  ‘Well done,’ Philip said. ‘You’ve woken her.’

  Abbie ran into the kitchen, clutching her Timmy the Sheep doll. She looked up at them with her big blue eyes. ‘Why are you arguing?’ she asked. ‘I don’t like it when you argue.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be walking around at this time of night, sweetheart,’ Dawn said, scooping her up, kissing her on the cheek. ‘You should be tucked under your covers, firmly in the Land of Nod.’

  ‘It scares me when you shout at each other,’ Abbie said. A tear glistened below her eye, so Dawn wiped it away. ‘My friend Becky told me that her parents used to shout at each other allll the time. She said that if your mummy and daddy keep doing it, then they have to get a de … a dev … a dee-vorce.’ This word made Abbie shudder. ‘Becky told me that when mummies and daddies get a dee-vorce, Daddy has to leave the house and take his stuff with him, even his best CD’s.’

  Managing a weak smile, Philip caressed her hair. ‘My CD’s aren’t going anywhere,’ he assured her. He looked at Dawn with raised eyebrows. ‘Are they?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Dawn replied. She put Abbie down. Patted her on the backside. ‘Come on, little miss, let’s get you back under those covers. You jump in and I’ll read you a story.’

  ‘Pooh Bear?’ Abbie said, her face brightening.

  ‘Yes,’ Dawn said. ‘Whatever you want.’

  Abbie darted into the hallway. Dawn and Philip listened to the thud-thud-thud of excited footfalls on the stairs.

  ‘You’ve got her hyper now,’ Philip said. ‘It’ll take you ages to get her to sleep. By the time you do, it’ll be morning.’

  ‘It’ll take fifteen minutes, tops, so don’t be a drama queen. Why don’t you call it a night? You look knackered. Are those pins holding your eyelids up?’

  Philip looked at Dawn and she looked back at him.

  ‘I’ve been a dick again, haven’t I?’ he said.

  ‘Just a bit.’

  Philip stood in the doorway, resting his head against the jamb. ‘It’s only because I’m worried,’ he said. ‘Very worried.’

  ‘I know. And I am, too. But I have to do my job. You get that, yeah?’

  Giving a weak nod, Philip trudged wearily towards Dawn. Gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘I’ll read her the story,’ he said as he left the room. ‘Then I’m turning in.’

  After Philip had got Abbie to sleep (which took ten minutes, not fifteen), Dawn stayed up for a bit. She wanted to give him time to nod off. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to sleep herself. Not with Ward out there, still at large. The last thing on his mind would be retribution, she figured. He was on the run. Self preservation was surely his only remit. This should have been a reassuring thought, but Dawn did not feel reassured. Not in the slightest.

  In the living room, Dawn picked up a framed photo off the mantelpiece. The photo showed her sister, Abigail, who had gone missing two years before. Just walked out of her house one day, leaving behind her husband and two children. She had taken nothing with her. No handbag. No purse. No money. Postnatal depression was the diagnosis. Her whereabouts wasn’t known and a body hadn't been found. Dawn had never forgiven herself for not being there for her sister.

  4

  Jack was in the bathroom. Didn't have a clue how he got there. The last thing he recalled was nodding off in bed, thinking about Eleanor and what she'd said to him. Despairing about what she'd said. And now here he was, in front of the mirror that hung above the sink.

  The room was hot and steamy, the mirror's glass covered with vapour. At first, Jack took this as a blessing. Anything that obscured his reflection could only be a blessing. But then temptation seized him and he began palming away the vapour. Each stroke across the glass revealed more of his face. His unmarked face. He ran his fingers over his stubbly chin.

  'I need a shave,' he said. 'Need to look my best now I'm normal again. Need to be swish if I'm going to stand any chance of getting Eleanor back. Although God knows how I'll explain this.'

  A voice in his head whispered that is was a dream – it must be a dream. But he brushed this thought away, too engrossed in self-admiration.

  He picked up a razor and a can of foam from the window sill. Sprayed some over his palm. Rubbing it into his face, he savoured the smoothness of his skin, giving himself a white beard. He turned the hot tap on, half-filling the sink. Then he began shaving, moving the blade over the contours of his cheeks.

  'Shitbag!' he said as he noticed the white beard turning red. 'Idiot!'

  Jack tossed the razor away. Cupping his hands together, he scooped up water to swill his face. He rinsed away the foam, revealing a nasty gash that was oozing blood. He grabbed a wad of tissue. Padded the wound with it. The tissue became soaked red within seconds, so he got a white towel from the rail. Smothered the cut. As he was doing this, another cut appeared on his other cheek.
Deep and arcing, it opened wide as it moved down towards his jaw. Blood trickled. Slowly at first, then faster. Jack covered the lower half of his face with the towel.

  A third cut slashed across his forehead.

  Another appeared, down his temple.

  Then another.

  Another ...

  His eyes widened. His mouth opened as he moved away from the mirror. The back of his knees hit the bath and he nearly fell into it. Reaching behind to push himself up, he let go of the towel. It dropped to the floor, revealing his blood-soaked face, which was covered in gashes. He balled up his fist. Jammed it into his mouth to stifle a scream. Removing his fist, he moved closer to the mirror, taking in his ruined reflection.

  'Don't do this to me again!' Jack whimpered. 'For the love of God, I was back to normal!'

  He thought he heard someone knocking at the front door, but he was too busy being horrified to react. Not that he would have answered it. Not looking like this.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  ‘Go away!’ Jack yelled. ‘Just leave me alone and go away!’

  Bang! Bang! BANG!

  He woke with a start. Pushing his duvet back, he propped himself up on his elbows, snatching glances around the room. Once he realised where he was, he relaxed a little. He put his head back, focusing on the blank canvas of ceiling above, then breathed a huge sigh of relief.

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  Someone was knocking on the front door. Jack heard his mother's voice and rolled his eyes. He contemplated lying there, playing dead until she went away, but he knew it would be some time before she gave up. And if he did ignore her, she would keep calling the home phone and his mobile. If she still couldn't get him, she'd come back to his house. Resume knocking. Brenda Williams was not one to give up easily; especially where her son was concerned. Better to get rid now. Get it over and done with.

  BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

  Throwing the duvet back, Jack eased himself across the bed and sat on the edge. He pulled his pants on as he stood up, noting the time on the bedside clock – 07:15. He groaned. On numerous occasions he had told his mother never to darken his doorstep before eight o'clock. Yet here she was again. Trying to break down his door, from the sound of things.