Free Big City Jacks by Nick Oldham Page B

head dropping into hands, sobbing, ‘I know, I know . . . I loved the girl, she was fantastic . . .’
    â€˜Yeah, I know she was. Look, I’m really sorry, but we have to get this thing done. You know that.’
    â€˜I know!’ he bawled, wiping his eyes. He rose to his feet unsteadily, trying to regain control of himself, his chest heaving.
    â€˜Good man.’
    Troy shoved past Henry. ‘I need a coat.’
    Henry and Rik Dean stood in the middle of the living room, surrounded by other members of the family. The detectives eyed each other uncertainly, wishing they were out of there. They were encircled by hostility which could easily flip over into violence.
    â€˜Bastard cops,’ one hissed: a six- or seven-year-old lad in raggy pyjamas.
    â€˜Twats,’ said an older one.
    The scantily clad female teenager sent from the room earlier was with them, still so dressed. She looked coyly at Henry and raised the hem of her nightie.
    To Henry’s relief, the temporary head of the household reappeared. ‘I’m ready,’ he sniffed. Henry eased past him out of the room and took the opportunity to whisper, ‘Keep it up,’ into his ear.
    Blood seeped through the bandages, blossoming like some sort of flower. Bignall struggled to maintain consciousness and compos mentis.
    Lynch knew this could be big trouble and he was in two minds about what he should do for the best.
    He had a horrible feeling that Bignall would die if he was returned home, so he decided to do the decent thing. He drove through to the A&E unit at North Manchester General Hospital in Crumpsall, leaned across to open the passenger door and rolled Bignall out.
    â€˜Best o’ luck, pal,’ he muttered and drove away quickly.

Five
    P hil Whitlock’s journey had taken him across the breadth of Europe and back again. As far as Greece, then returning through Italy, France and finally up into Belgium to the port of Zeebrugge prior to the trip across the water and back home via Hull. All in all it had been a smooth passage with the usual and expected red tape and bureaucracy which Whitlock was accustomed to. He accepted it with equanimity, an inconvenient facet to his job as a long-distance lorry driver.
    The company which employed him, based in the north-west of England, were respected international hauliers with a sound, profitable business. No part of Whitlock’s journey had been undertaken without a container load of goods. From the UK he had delivered his first container – washing-machine parts – to a warehouse on the outskirts of Paris. At another depot he picked up a load of bonded cigarettes (millions of the fuckers, he thought – the cancer express) and delivered them to Milan. From there, with a load of hardware-type goods, he had driven down to Athens, dumped them, then virtually retraced his journey. He had dropped off a final consignment of medical sundries in Brussels and, very unusually, had nothing further to pick up. He contacted his firm who instructed him to return home empty, but could he be ready for a further trip in three days?
    Yesiree. He loved the job. He was proud to be a knight of the road. He enjoyed meeting people, passing through different cultures. It was wonderful. He had been doing it for twenty years. It’s what kept his marriage together, he often joked.
    The weather on the Belgian coast was horrific, gales and high seas preventing sailings across to England. All crossings were cancelled and rescheduled and Whitlock was informed by the port authorities that the soonest he could expect to get across would be eleven a.m. next day.
    It was six p.m. He had a night and a morning to kill.
    Best take full advantage of it, he thought.
    Whitlock had spent a lot of time in Zeebrugge over the years. He knew it well, where to eat and drink, where to find a clean prostitute, where to be entertained and where to get his head down, other than in his cab. Although he