Free The Blue Notes by J. J. Salkeld

pump, so he didn’t have to move either of the men, and calmly filled up, just as he’d planned. Then he drove out of the yard, and left the gates open. He stopped a couple of streets away, dialled 999 on the phone with the £10 SIM that he kept in the glovebox, and said that there’d been a fight at Baker’s haulage yard.
    ‘So you want the police?’
    ‘No, ambulance. The losers are lying in there waiting for you, like.’
    He got out of the cab, dropped the phone down a drain, and drove on to the foodbank. He could see no reason to change his plans, especially now that the cops would be otherwise engaged for an hour or two.
     
    Letting himself in was as easy as ever, but then they still might not know that he’d been there three times before. After all, Hood thought, with different volunteers driving the vehicles on collection and delivery runs it was quite possible that no-one had noticed that their vans seemed to be running on air, or at least on charitable intentions. He parked exactly where he had before, out of the camera’s line of sight, picked the lock to the garage doors, and went back and wheeled in the barrel. When he’d finished fuelling the vehicles he rolled the barrel back to his truck, avoided glancing up at the camera, and started pushing the barrel up the ramp.
    ‘Stop. I’m a Police Officer.’
    Hood only needed one quick look at the tall young man to know it was true. No criminal would wear trousers that colour, for a start. So he didn’t even glance at the Warrant Card. He thought, just for a moment about putting the kid on his arse, but there was no point. He would already have clocked the van’s registration, even if he hadn’t been seen Hood’s Haulage in three-foot high letters on the side. So he held up his hands, as if in surrender.
    ‘I’m not nicking owt, honest.’
    ‘Normally I’d laugh my bloody socks off at that, but I already know that it’s actually true. You’ve been filling up the diesel tanks again, haven’t you?’
    ‘Aye, that’s right.’
    ‘And your name is?’
    ‘Davey Hood.’
    ‘I’m DC Henry Armstrong, from Carlisle CID. Hang on though, mate, where do I know your name from?’
    ‘One of your mates got herself into a bit of bother the other night, and I helped out a bit, like.’
    ‘DS Wilson, was that?”
    ‘Pepper, aye. Look, are you nicking me here, mate, or what?’
     
    Armstrong thought about it for a moment. ‘Move that van, get this place locked up, and then let’s you and me have a chat, OK?’
    Hood nodded, did as he was asked, and when he returned to the van having secured the gates he found Armstrong already sitting in the cab.
    ‘End of the street, turn right, park up where you can, please’, said Armstrong. Then he saw the blood on the side of Hood’s head, and the swelling to his face. ‘Christ, how did you get that? Did old Ted come at you with a bloody pick-axe handle, or what?’
    ‘Don’t be daft. I didn’t do that in there. And I’m fine.’
    ‘Are you sure? We should get down to A&E, right now. Hop out and I’ll drive.’
    ‘No, mate, I’m fine. Bit of a wash and a couple of pain-killers and I’ll be reet, that’s guaranteed.’
     
    Henry clicked his finger, and pointed at Hood. ‘Of course, now I get it. The two blokes that were scooped up from Baker’s yard an hour go, that would be your handiwork, I take it?’
    ‘It was self-defence. They came at me with bloody baseball bats. Are they pressing charges?’
    ‘Christ, no. They’ll not say a word, even when they’re fully conscious. You do know who they work for, I take it?’
    ‘Aye, I know.’
    ‘So was it a co-incidence that you stole the fuel from Baker’s?’
    ‘No, it wasn’t.’
    ‘Jesus. Did they recognise you?’
    ‘Aye, one of them did.’
    ‘Shit. I’d bloody arrest you right now, if only to get you off the streets, except we’ll get no crime report from Baker’s Haulage, you can bet your bloody life on that. And we’d be laughed