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The man ignored him. His jaw muscles convulsed.
‘Maybe I can help you,’ Sam said. ‘It’s okay. I’m not going to try anything. My name’s Sam.’
There was a flicker in the man’s eyes, and he turned his head suddenly to turn that furious gaze upon Sam.
‘Sam?’ the man grunted. ‘Sam Tyler? DI Sam Tyler?’
Oh God, have I nicked him in the past? Sam thought, trying to place the man’s face. Has he got a grudge against me? Should I just grab that gun off him and pin him down before he makes a move?
‘Yes, I’m DI Tyler. Have we met?’
‘So … it’s you …’
An old lady turned round in her pew and shushed angrily.
Sam inched closer to the man: ‘Listen, why don’t you give me the gun and we’ll talk outside. There’s a café just across the road. I’ll get you breakfast.’
‘SHHH!’
The vicar had appeared, a small, round-shouldered man with pebble glasses. He took his place at the lectern and perused his Bible short-sightedly, oblivious to the drama playing out at the back of his church.
The man with the gun was shaking, his jaw muscles clenching, eyes glaring. Whatever he had come here to do, he was on the verge of doing it. Sam had to get him out of there right now. He’d give it one more go with the softly-softly approach but if that failed, he’d wrestle the gun from him by force and keep him pinned till back up arrived.
‘You don’t need that thing,’ Sam whispered, and he held his hand out for the gun.
‘It’s all because of you, DI Tyler …’ the man muttered.
‘I don’t know what you mean. Give me the gun and we can straighten everything out.’
‘It should be you not me …’ His voice was almost inaudible now. ‘You’re the one he wants … It should be you …’
‘The gun. Give me the gun. We can’t talk properly until you give me the –’
At once, the man raised the gun – and thrust it against the side of he own head. His eyes were wide and round and bloodshot. A livid vein pulsed along his temple.
‘Don’t do it!’ Sam yelled.
‘SHHH!’ hissed half a dozen old ladies.
The vicar peered up, mole-like.
‘My name is Detective Chief Inspector Michael Carroll,’ the man with gun declared, speaking loudly and clearly like he was giving a public address. ‘I worked for Manchester CID. I served this city for twenty-five years. I arrested villains. I made the streets safe. I am a good man!’
‘SHHH! SSSSSHHH!’
Sam’s mind was reeling. DCI Carroll. That name was on Annie’s list of corrupt ex-coppers from the sixties.
No coincidence, Sam thought, his mouth going dry. This is no bloody coincidence.
‘I am a good man!’ Carroll insisted, his voice growing louder. ‘I AM A GOOD MAN! I do not deserve this!’
The barrel of the gun was pressing deep into the side of his head now, his finger hooked tightly around the trigger. If Sam rushed him, Carroll would blow his brains out before he could do a thing.
‘What’s happening back there?’ the vicar called out, squinting through his glasses.
‘Those boys are playing cop ‘n robbers with a water pistol,’ a phlegmy man growled, not looking up from his prayer book.
‘Well take it outside!’ an old lady barked, banging the back of the pew angrily with her arthritic hand.
‘I’m a police officer,’ Sam announced. ‘I’m a real police officer.’ And then, with more hope than conviction, he added: ‘A situation is in progress but I have got it fully under control.’
‘You know my name, Mr Carroll,’ Sam said, fixing his attention on the man’s eyes, willing contact between them. ‘And I know yours. We’re acquainted. So let’s talk.’
‘I am a good man, and I should be rewarded as a good man!’
‘Yes, you’re a good man, and that’s why you’re going to do the right thing. You’re going to put down that gun.’ Taking a gamble, Sam added: ‘Let’s go across the road, sit down over a coffee, and talk about Clive Gould.’
The name had an instant and devastating effect on Carroll. His face contorted wildly as if he were suddenly in agony.
‘Clive Gould …!’ he snarled. ‘I told that bird I had nothing to say about Clive Gould!’
‘What bird?’
‘Cartwright’s daughter! She came asking!’
Sam’s jaw fell open.
‘Annie?’ he gasped. ‘You’ve been talking to Annie?’
The colour drained from Carroll's lined cheeks. His eyes screwed up and filled with tears.
‘I told her it weren’t me, I was nothing to do with what happened!’ he cried, his voice tight and constricted. ‘What the hell else could I say? And then, after she went, he turned up ...’
‘Gould. Clive Gould. He came for you, didn’t he?’
Baring his yellow-stained teeth like a wild animal, Carroll suddenly thrust the gun straight at Sam.
Sam froze.
‘What is going on?’ whinged the vicar, peering myopically.
Carroll glared along the barrel of the gun, grinding his teeth furiously.
‘I am good!’ he growled, his throat tight and constricted. ‘I’m not perfect, but I am GOOD! It should be YOU not me, Tyler! I do NOT deserve this!’
‘Deserve what, Mr Carroll?’ Sam said, in a voice that he fought to keep from wavering. He tried to look past the muzzle of the pistol that was pointing right between his eyes, and instead fixed his attention on the man’s face. ‘Tell me. I’ll help you. We’ll work together. What is it you don’t deserve?’
‘It’s you he wants, not me!’ Carroll snarled. ‘You and her! Oh, I’d blow your head off, Tyler, I’d blow your damned head right off and stop all this … but it’s too late … too late for Pat, too late for me …’
‘Please, Mr Carroll, put away the gun and talk to me. I understand more than you think. I can help you. Together, we can –’
But the vicar was marching down the aisle towards them, peevishly demanding to know what in God’s name was going on.
‘Stay back!’ Sam ordered.
‘I will do no such thing!’ the vicar snapped. ‘Not until you boys tell me what you think you’re d –’
In the next moment, Carroll had the vicar in a head lock, the pistol jammed against the poor man’s face hard enough to send his glasses skittering away across the stone floor.
‘I’m not going to end up like Pat!’ Carroll howled. His voice broke, making him sound like a desperate, wailing child. ‘I’m not going to end up that way! No, no, no, no ...!’
From outside came the clanging of police sirens. Carroll stopped howling and gritted his teeth.
‘Keep them out, Tyler!’ He barked. ‘Nobody comes in here! Anyone comes through that door, anyone so much as sticks his face at a window, and I start killing hostages.’
‘Hostages?’ an old dear piped up. ‘Does that mean none of us can go?’
‘I think it does,’ put in a lady with a hat like a giant powder puff.
‘Oh. Oh dear.’
The vicar struggled against the headlock and issued a series of muffled cries.
‘What is it you want, Mr Carroll?’ Sam asked.
‘Keep them out, Tyler!’
‘I’ll keep them out, Mr Carroll, but if you don’t tell me what your demands are I can’t help you.’
‘I just want to be safe!’ Carroll screamed, tightening his grip on the vicar. ‘I don’t want to be left alone, not with him after me! Now keep ’em out of here! Keep everybody away!’ And then, venomously, he cried: ‘God damn you, Sam Tyler, you bastard, it should be you not me! IT SHOULD BE YOU NOT ME!’
Sam opened his mouth to say something, but Carroll shrieked insanely, and for a moment it seemed that he was going to shoot the vicar and then turn the gun on everyone else. So Sam held up his hands and stumbled backwards, saying: ‘Okay, it’s okay, just stay calm, I’ll see no one comes in, I’ll make sure everything’s cool …’
He backed out into the churchyard, and at Carroll’s command pushed the door closed.
He’s seen Gould … but something happened, something terrible. It’s freaked him out. But what was it? What did Gould do? What did Carroll witness that drove him to this?
Would Annie know? She had evidently been to see him, following up leads she had unearthed in the police files. She was drawn to the story of PC Tony Cartwright, no doubt sensing that there was far more of a connection between her and them than the sharing of surname. Did she know yet that Tony was her father? She must surely be suspecting … and at the same time, she must be doubting her sense of reality, wondering just who she is and where she is.
He turned – and at once ran into a huge wall of camel hair.
‘Morning, Tyler – somebody call Siege-breakers?’
DCI Gene Hunt loomed over him, flinging open his coat to reveal his ridiculous leather body holster, one hand already resting on the grip of his trusty Magnum, ready to draw. Behind him, the road outside the church was filling up with patrol cars and uniformed officers. Men were bustling. Radios were crackling. Police tape was fluttering like bunting between the lamp posts, cordoning off the street.
‘Back!’ Sam ordered.
‘Forward!’ Gene growled, and took a manly stride towards the doors of the church.
‘I said back!’
‘And I said ruddy forward, and I’m bigger than you!’
Sam grabbed him by the lapels and thrust him back.
‘Don’t you shove me, Tyler!’
‘Back, Gene, back back back!’
‘The Gene Genie don’t have no reverse gear, you know that by now!’
‘You’re going to kick off a bloodbath mucking about like this! Now get BACK!’
Sam barged Gene away. The Guv’s face fell into an expression that mixed shock, rage, and explosive indignation into one. His eyes blazed. His nostrils flared. He thrust the Magnum back into the holster and put his fists up.
‘You wanna duke it out, you and me, is that it, Tyler? Well come on then!’
Raising his voice, Sam bellowed at the uniformed officers massing nearby: ‘Everybody get back! We have an armed man in there with hostages! Nobody is to approach the church, nobody is to look in the windows, nobody is to do anything! Back, back, back!’
He waved his arms, shepherding the officers away. Gene watched him, open-mouthed.
‘Ordering plod about is my jurisdiction, Tyler!’
‘For God’s sake, Guv, just grow up!’
‘Oh, so you’re calling me a kid an’ all now, are you? You’re picking the wrong day to tangle my todger. This is Sunday. I shouldn’t even be here. I am royally miffed! I should be home with me tinnies and me feet up waiting for The Big Match. The Genie doth resteth on the seventh day, an’ all that. It was only coz I was hunting in the Cortina for me spare fags that I caught news of this shout on the radio, and being the conscientious DCI that I am, I decided to –’
‘Stop whinging and get back along with everyone else. That fella in there’s on the edge. He’s ready to start blowing the heads off a vicar and his flock at the drop of a hat. So if you don’t want blood on your hands, Guv, get you and your off-white loafers right back!’
Sam shoved and elbowed Gene back through the church yard and onto the pavement.
Annie pushed her way through the bustle of uniforms to get to Sam.
‘You were mad running in there like that!’ she scolded him.
‘He were showin’ off,’ observed Gene, giving Annie a knowing nudge. ‘He’s got his sights set on the contents of your extra-large British Home Stores pants with the reinforced gusset. Different strokes, I suppose.’
‘I’m all in one piece,’ Sam said, ignoring Gene and focusing on Annie. ‘And I got a name. The gunman’s called Carroll – ex-DCI Michael Carroll.’
Hearing the name, Annie’s eyes went wide as saucers.
‘Carroll!’ she gasped.
Sam nodded. He desperately wanted to tell her that he knew she had spoken to Carroll – but in front of the Guv, he decided to keep his mouth shut.
Frowning, Gene looked from Sam to Annie to Sam again, and said: ‘Um, do you want to include your Uncle Gene in this private chinwag? I mean, I know I’m only your boss and superior officer and professional role model and all that …’
‘DCI Carroll’s one of the names on Annie’s list,’ said Sam.
‘Oh aye?’ grunted Gene. ‘Annie’s list of what? Blokes round the department she’s ready to gobble for a quid?’
Annie was too preoccupied with her own thoughts to even hear this. But Sam reacted sharply.
‘Jesus Christ, Guv, that’s bang out of order what you just said!’ he shouted. Then he glanced guiltily at the large cross standing boldly atop the church, backlit by the sun, and mouthed at it: Sorry. In a lower voice, he hissed at Gene: ‘Flippin’ heck, Guv, that’s bang out of order what you just said.’
‘Loosen up, Tyler. I understand the way it is. How else is Inspector Jugs going to get promotion if it ain’t on her knees?’
Sam kept his temper in check, took a moment to gather his thoughts, then explained patiently: ‘Mickey Carroll is a retired DCI. He was on the force back in the sixties. Annie’s been digging into the old records and reckons him and a couple of others were on the payroll of a local villain.’
‘And what’s Annie doing spending her time on cold cases, eh?’ Gene asked, narrowing his eyes and peering at Annie suspiciously. ‘Ain’t we got enough villains on the prowl to keep her fully occupied?’
‘I think there’s secrets hidden in them files, Guv,’ said Annie. ‘Nasty secrets. I got the strong impression that Carroll was corrupt – him and others. DS Ken Darby, DI Pat Walsh …’
‘Pat Walsh!’ Sam exclaimed. ‘Of course! Carroll mentioned the name Pat in there. It’s got to be Pat Walsh, his old DI. Guv, we’re uncovering something here. If Annie’s right, and they’re both bent coppers from the sixties, then I think there’s more than just coincidence going on here. We should track down Walsh – ten-to-one he can shed some light on what’s happening inside that church right now.’
‘Well this is all ‘appening a bit sharpish,’ said Gene.
‘You can thank Annie for that, Guv.’
Gene sneered: ‘Don’t lay it on with a trowel, Tyler.’ He pulled his coat straight and added: ‘Okay. This DI Pat Walsh. Where do we find him?’
‘57, Streeling Street.’ It was a uniformed officer standing close by who spoke up. Sam, Annie and Gene turned to look at him. The bobby added: ‘It’s a call that came through right before this one. Mrs Walsh, 57 Streeling Street, reporting a break-in and possible missing person – her husband, Patrick Walsh. Some of the other lads went to see to that one. I got sent here.’
Sam reacted at once: ‘Let’s get over there, Guv – pronto!’
He sprinted towards the Cortina where it sat amid the patrol cars, gleaming in the mid-morning sun. Annie ran with him. They leapt in, Sam in the front passenger seat, Annie in the back – and then waited while Gene sauntered arrogantly over, paused to light a cigarette, adjusted the leather strap of his string-back glove, then pretended to forget which pocket he’d put his car keys in. He was not to be rushed – least of all by his minions and flunkeys.
‘Come on, come on!’ Annie hissed from the back, glaring through the windscreen at Gene.
This isn’t a police investigation for Annie, any more than it is for me, Sam thought. Annie’s unearthing her own identity here – and all the dark secrets that identity contains. And as for me – this is the start of the showdown, the final face-off between me and Clive Gould, the murderer of Annie’s father, the Devil in the Dark itself …
Without warning, Annie leant forward and slammed her fist into the Cortina’s car horn.
‘Come on!’ she cried.
Gene’s expression changed. His cheeks flushed red. A cold, hard light glittered in his eyes. He threw away his barely smoked fag, stomped furiously over to the Cortina, and flung open the rear door.
‘Out!’ he barked.
‘Oh, let’s just get going, Guv,’ Sam urged him.
‘I said, out!’
Annie glared up at Hunt, and for a moment Sam thought she might suddenly launch herself at him in a ferocious attack. But no. She angrily clambered out of the car and threw her leather handbag down hard on the ground.
Gene stared into her face and said in a low, dangerous voice: ‘You honked my horn …’
He flexed his hands, making his black leather driving gloves creak ominously.
Annie stared right back at him, her mouth pulled tight, her eyes narrow and enraged. Then she picked up her bag and strode away.
‘Annie!’ Sam called after her, but her only reaction was to rip aside a cordon of blue police tape as she went.
Gene watched her go with an expression like a very pissed off lion – then, slowly, clambered into the driving seat next to Sam. Without saying a word, he fired up the engine, brushed a speck of imaginary contamination from the horn, and hit the gas.
CHAPTER THREE: ONE SPENT CARTRIDGE
The Cortina howled to a stop outside the bungalow at 57 Streeling Street. There was a patrol car parked by the front drive, inside which a WPC could just be seen, comforting a distressed woman. A PC lurked at the front of the bungalow, licking the tip of a tiny pencil and making notes.
Gene sat behind the wheel for a moment, staring ahead.
‘What’s the story with her, eh, Tyler?’ he asked.
‘Annie’s got things on her mind,’ Sam replied, refusing to be drawn into details.
Gene snorted in contempt: ‘Got things on her mind?! She’s a bird – minds don’t come into it!’ And before Sam could spring to her defence, he added: ‘Do me a big favour, Tyler. Get her sorted.’
‘She’s her own person, Guv.’
‘In her own little head maybe, but not in my department. Stompin’ about, telling me to get a move on, honkin’ my ruddy horn ...!’ A flame of indignation flickered anew at the memory. ‘I don’t know what her problem is, and frankly I don’t give a stuff. But if you don’t rein your tart in, Tyler, I’m gonna throw her over my knee and give her a damned good slippering. And I may not be speaking metaphorically.’
‘Just give her some space, Guv. She’ll be okay.’
‘It’s my horn, in my motor!’
‘I know, Guv.’
‘And I’m the boss! And it’s bloody Sunday and I’m missing The Big Match! Don’t my feelings count for nothing round here?’
‘I’ll have a little chat with her later.’
‘Do that, Tyler – before I have a little chat with her. And you know how my little chats tend to pan out.’
And with that, Gene threw open the car door and clambered out. Sam sighed and followed him.
They crossed to the patrol car. A toothy, rather ineffectual-looking WPC got out.
‘I’m trying to comfort Mrs Walsh,’ she whined. ‘But she’s gone a bit crackers.’
Gene had a look inside the car and was confronted by Mrs Walsh’s face, contorted and mascara-streaked, a bubble of mucus burgeoning in her left nostril as she blubbered and howled.
‘Holy Moly, somebody call an exorcist,’ Gene growled out of the corner of his mouth.
‘What happened here?’ Sam asked the WPC.
‘Mrs Walsh had been away for a few days, visiting her poorly Auntie Janet in London. She came back this morning on the Intercity and found the bungalow wrecked and no sign of her husband. And now she’s panicked and gone mental.’
Mrs Walsh suddenly banged on the inside of the car window and howled. There was lipstick smeared chaotically over her wrinkled mouth and a stalactite of thick snot wobbling from the tip of her long nose.
‘Sprinkle her with holy water,’ suggested Gene. ‘It’ll buck her up or melt her – either way, it can only be an improvement.’
Hunt marched up the little garden path towards the bungalow, Sam striding along beside him.
‘Anything to report?’ he asked the PC at the door, flashing his ID.
‘Bit of a mystery, Sir,’ the copper said. He indicated the front door, which was lying flat in the hallway. It had been ripped clear from its hinges. ‘Somebody came in here full wallop. And it’s no better inside. The place has been trashed.’
‘And what about Pat Walsh?’ Sam asked. ‘No clue what’s happened to him?’
‘Not that I can find,’ shrugged the PC. ‘His missus ain’t being much help, squawking away like that, but to be honest I don’t think she knows nowt anyway.’
Sam stepped inside the bungalow, walking across the wrecked door to reach the hall. Broken glass crunched under his feet. Pictures had been flung from the walls, windows had been smashed, lampshades hung in shreds about shattered bulbs.
‘It’s like a feckin’ whirlwind tore through this gaff,’ muttered Gene, peering about at the wrecked furniture and scattered debris. ‘Or else it was the boys from forensics on one of their piss-ups.’ With the toe of his loafer, he nudged at a carriage clock that lay amid the ruin, its face smashed, its hands twisted. ‘Whoever turned this place over must have been desperate.’
‘Yes, Guv – but desperate for what?’ Sam said, pointing into the bedroom. Mrs Walsh’s earrings and necklaces lay discarded all over the bed and floor. ‘Since when did burglars leave the jewellery behind?’
‘And what about these?’ Gene said, bending down to scoop up the playing cards scattered about all over the floor. ‘What sort of bloke would break in and leave treasure like this lying about?’
‘Playing cards, Guv?’
‘Not just any playing cards, Tyler.’
Gene presented them for Sam to inspect. They were porno cards, each one graced with its very own topless, spread-legged angel. It was all hitched-up denim skirts, brown suede boots, and glossily pouting lips.
‘Well I don’t think they belong to Mrs Walsh,’ observed Sam.
‘I can’t see that crabby mare putting up with these charmin’ lovelies,’ said Gene, perusing the cards one by one. ‘Gotta be Pat’s contraband, eh. His private stash. Fodder for a crafty J Arthur when the missus is off down the Wavy Line. Can’t blame him for that, a fella needs to stay sane. I mean, be honest, there’s no way he’s going to get the horn looking at her dried-up Boris Karloff boat race every night.’
‘Guv, you give whole new depth to the term ‘ungentlemanly’, did you know that?’
Gene suddenly thrust one of the cards towards Sam’s face. It was the four of clubs, depicting a young woman with straight blonde hair sucking her finger whilst unbuttoning a very tight pair of orange corduroy hotpants.
‘Here’s a question, Tyler – and tell me straight: if this bird were your sister … would you be tempted?’
Sam looked flatly at him for a moment and then said: ‘Guv – have you ever thought about being psychoanalyzed?’
Gene perused the card: ‘Got a better set of lungs on her than your Flatty Cartwright. Just think what you’re missing.’
‘Do you think there’s any chance we could conduct this investigation like professional police officers?’
‘Perhaps it’s you what needs his head shrinking,’ Gene said under his breath as he pocketed the cards. ‘A real fella would show at least a scrap of interest.’
Sam picked his way through yet more debris, finding broken tumblers lying about, and a discarded bottle of Scotch on its side, its contents leaking onto the carpet.
‘Let’s try and make sense of all this,’ he said. ‘Scotch bottle – glasses – porno playing cards. And the wife safely out of the way. That tells me Pat had a mate over – a bloke.’
Gene shrugged: ‘Most like. But that don’t get us too far, does it.’
‘It does if that bloke was Pat’s old DCI, Mickey Carroll.’
Sam was piecing things together in his imagination. He imagined Pat Walsh here on his own, his wife out of the house for a few days. Pat calls Mickey Carroll over, or perhaps Carroll just turns up. They need to talk, to spend time together. They have things on their minds.