GHOSTED
Manchester, May 2014
A night far enough in the past for stories to be told. But recent enough for those stories to matter.
An old industrial estate and lorry park in the badlands of Stretford. The buildings mostly empty and vandalised, the tarmac potholed, refilled with debris, broken glass and excrement, canine for the most part. The remaining lights stretched so far apart they looked stranded. The kind of place no one went to voluntarily. It was perfect.
Dean Foley sat in the passenger seat of the BMW X5. Its gleaming, black carapace stood out against its surroundings, as inconspicuous as an intellectual at a UKIP meeting.
Foley turned to the man in the driver’s seat. ‘What’s the time now?’
The driver checked his watch, tried not to look irritated. ‘Just gone ten to ten. They’ll be here. Don’t worry.’
‘Yeah,’ said Foley. ‘I know they will, I know they will.’
The tension in the car was palpable.
Foley looked like a bouncer on Love Island. Short and stocky, he wore expensive clothes that were all label and no style, his hair well-coiffed, teeth the colour of Egyptian cotton, skin the colour of mahogany. His muscle showed he could handle himself and he had a lightness of step that surprised many. He also had a charismatic, salesman’s smile that made you feel like you were an instant friend for life. But that smile could turn on a breath, become so fierce and snarling it would be the last thing you’d want to see. And for quite a few it had been.
Foley sighed. Tried not to pretend he was nervous. ‘You know,’ he said, resisting the urge to check his own watch again, ‘I don’t know why we bother with all this cloak and dagger shit. Meetings in the dark in shitholes like this. We should just do it in broad daylight. Get it over with. No one’s bothered anymore.’
‘You think?’ said the driver.
‘Yeah,’ said Foley, warming to his theme. ‘I mean, protection I’ve got, the amount of people on my payroll, I could walk into a pub on Deansgate – if they hadn’t all been turned into fucking wine bars or craft beer places or some shit – pull out a gun and kill someone. Right then and there. Bang. In front of thirty witnesses. And you know what? I’d get away with it. That’s how untouchable I am. That’s why all this is just bollocks.’
‘Yeah,’ said the driver, ‘that’s what the Krays said. Look what happened to them. And that was before CCTV.’
Foley turned to him, his smile a vicious slash in the streetlight. He snorted. ‘You’re a bundle of laughs tonight, aren’t you?’
The driver stared straight ahead. ‘Why would you want to murder someone in a pub on Deansgate?’
‘I wouldn’t unless they were asking for it, would I?’ said Foley, ‘Then I’d have to. Because that’s what it is. You cross me, that’s what you get.’
‘If they’ve crossed you they wouldn’t hang around drinking on Deansgate.’
‘Then I’d track them down, wouldn’t I? Get revenge. They wouldn’t get far.’
‘You know what they say about revenge,’ said the driver, ‘you go looking for it you’d better dig two graves.’
Foley stared at him. Then threw back his head and laughed. ‘Brilliant. Just brilliant. Mick, mate, if I go looking for revenge, I’ll need a damned sight more than two.’
Mick lapsed back into silence. Foley fidgeted, flicked looks like lit matches all round the lorry park. His gaze came to rest on Mick once more.
‘Why are you so miserable tonight, anyway?’ asked Foley. ‘It’s like watching Man U when Moyes was in charge.’
Mick sighed. More from professional exasperation than boredom. ‘Just want everything to go right. That’s all.’
‘Everything’s cool,’ said Foley, knee bouncing up and down. ‘It’ll go down fine. Why wouldn’t it?’
Silence once more. Both resisted the urge to check the time.
‘Hey,’ said Foley, eventually, ‘Just think if my old man could see me now . . .’ He shook his head at the thought.
‘Sitting in some shitty lorry park in Stretford? He’d love that.’
‘No, you prick, if he could see what I’ve done, you know, built. Achieved. One of the most successful businessmen in the North West. If not the country. Respected. And I’ve done it all myself, haven’t I?’
Mick nodded. ‘You have, Dean.’
‘Yeah. I have. If he could see what I’ve achieved . . .’
‘He’d still be a miserable bastard.’
Foley stared at Mick, the smile falling sharply away. Eyes as hard as stone. No one talks ill of Foley’s father, everyone knew that. Foley might have hated him but that didn’t give anyone else the right to join in. He was still Foley’s father.
Mick didn’t know which way the situation would go. He thought he was close enough to Foley, but the man was so unpredictable that he could have made a misstep. He tried to smile his way out of it.
‘Well he would be,’ said Mick. ‘You know he would.’
Foley kept staring.
Mick tried to shrug. ‘Just you and me here, Dean.’
Gradually the harshness left Foley’s eyes and the smile reappeared. He started to laugh, building up to a roar, the kind of coarse, loud laughter you only hear in films when the bad guy tries to convince everyone he’s a decent human being with emotions like everyone else. Mick smiled along.
‘Oh,’ said Foley eventually, mirth subsiding, ‘good one, Mick. Good one.’
Mick looked to the front, knowing he had dodged a bullet. Through the windscreen he saw activity.
‘They’re here, boss.’
An articulated lorry with a shipping container payload was turning into the park, headlights temporarily blinding them, playing along the buildings, making the shadows give up their secrets. Foley’s team suddenly visible.
Mick saw the cars too. Four by fours, like the one they were in. Predatory darkling beetles waiting to pounce. Dotted between buildings, waiting. Filled with Foley’s men. Mick looked through the windscreens, knew them all by name. Then, heart jumping, saw one person in a passenger seat who shouldn’t have been there.
‘What’s she doing here?’ he said, pointing at the vehicle that had slipped back into darkness once the headlights moved on.
‘Who?’ said Foley.
‘That girl, in the front seat, over there. What’s she doing here?’
‘Oh, Hayley. Yeah, she’s a good girl. Been proving very useful to the team. Very useful.’ Another kind of smile. The kind that turned Mick’s stomach.
‘She shouldn’t be here. She’s—’
‘Hey, what’s your problem?’ said Foley. ‘We make the trade, we go our separate ways, we head off somewhere and celebrate. Yeah, maybe Foxy shouldn’t have brought her but she’s a good kid, it’s cool. No problem.’ Another smile. ‘She’ll be around for the party afterwards. Maybe Foxy’ll let you have a go, if you want.’
Mick felt his anger ramping up. ‘She shouldn’t be here. What if something goes wrong? What if—’
Foley stared at Mick, eyes crinkling. ‘What you trying to say?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Just, she shouldn’t be here. That’s all.’
Foley shook his head. ‘Right.’ He smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.
The lorry pulled up, stopped dead with a hiss of air brakes. The sound dissipated to a tense silence.
‘Here we go, then,’ said Foley, opening the car door.
Mick did likewise.
Foley went round to the back of the car, opened the boot. Waited while the hydraulic door silently moved upwards. Then leaned in, brought out a huge duffel bag.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, handing it to Mick. ‘Carry that mate, bastard thing’s heavy.’
‘Thought they said it had to be you handing over the money in person?’
‘I’m here, aren’t I? Get moving. Haven’t got all bloody night.’
Another four by four pulled into the car park, kept its lights on. It parked next to the lorry. The doors opened. The backlit silhouettes of two men emerged.
‘Here’s the Romanians, right on time.’ Foley laughed, moving forwards. ‘Should get a quote for my new bathroom.’
Mick didn’t respond. They walked towards the two men. Stopped halfway between the two vehicles. The other men continued towards them. Stopped also.
Mick handed the duffel bag to Foley. He stared back at Mick.
‘Just put it down, what the fuck’s the matter with you?’
‘You take it,’ said one of the Romanians. ‘We want you to give it to us. So we know who we are dealing with.’
Foley’s eyes glittered in the dark. Clearly unhappy about being told what to do. But he picked the bag up, put it in front of his feet. ‘There. Now where’s my stuff?’
‘In lorry. We will get it. When we have checked money.’
He bent down, opened the bag. A smile returned to Foley’s face. ‘Doing it old school, yeah? Notes and that. Unmarked. Thought you’d be all electronic transfer these days. You lot and your cybercrime.’
‘We like old school,’ said the other Romanian. ‘Face to face. Know who you’re dealing with. Less to go wrong.’
The first Romanian stood up, satisfied that the money was all there. He nodded towards the driver of the lorry who went round the back, opened the double doors. They waited in silence while the driver came to join them, a clingfilmed bundle in his arms.
‘The good stuff,’ said Foley. ‘Let’s have a look.’ He took the bundle from the driver, took out a knife, dug it in. ‘It’s not like the films,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to put this up my nose. If it’s as pure as you say it is I’ll be off my tits for days. But I’m sure you won’t cross me. If you do, I’ll know where to find you.’
‘We not cross you. We want to deal with you. Deal?’
Foley put the package on the ground. ‘Deal.’ He stretched out his hand. The Romanian took it. They shook.
‘We all happy?’ asked Foley.
‘One more thing,’ said Mick.
Foley turned to him, irritation on his face.
‘What?’
‘Speaking of crossing . . .’ He reached behind his back, brought out a pair of plasticuffs, slipped them onto Foley’s wrists, pulled them tight. Foley was too surprised to react.
‘Dean Foley, I am arresting you on the charge of obtaining class A drugs with intent to sell. You do not have—’
Foley found his voice. ‘What the fuck are you doing? Mick? What the fuck are you doing? What’s . . . what’s happening? Mick, what the . . .’ He turned to the Romanians. ‘Fucking do something . . .’
‘We’re with him,’ said the first Romanian, voice now more Manchester than Bucharest. He drew his automatic from his side holster, pointed it at Foley.
Foley looked around, tried to see his men in their cars but he had been cuffed out of their eyeline.
The second Romanian spoke into a mic hidden in his jacket lapel. ‘Target apprehended. Letting you out now.’ He trotted round to the back of the truck, began opening the double doors.
Foley struggled in Mick’s grip, managed to turn and shout at the cars.
‘It’s a fucking set-up! They’re law!’
Foley’s men were on hair triggers. In response to his call they jumped out of their cars, pulling their guns from within their jackets. Mick dragged Foley to the ground as his men started running towards them, firing as they came.
‘Where’s that backup?’ Mick yelled to the back of the truck. He saw the second ‘Romanian’, an undercover firearms officer, swing the first of the double doors open, then spin and fall, face creased up in pain, as a bullet ripped through his side.
‘Shit,’ shouted Mick. He looked at the first Romanian. ‘Get him out of the line of fire, get those doors open. Get the men out, move . . .’ Mick’s training kicked in. He took his gun out, grabbed Foley, dragged him back to the BMW. Keeping covering fire going all the while. Turning on men who until seconds ago had been his closest friends. Or thought they were. Not thinking, just acting, reacting.
The fake Romanian ran round to the back of the truck, pulled at the door. Armed body-armour-clad police began disgorging. They assessed the situation quickly, found spots to shelter behind, take aim.
Then it was free fire.
The fake Romanian managed to drag his wounded comrade behind the car, knelt and returned fire.
The police outnumbered Foley’s men and outflanked them in professionalism, but Foley’s team were vicious, desperate. They had the chance to be the outlaws they’d always imagined themselves to be and they weren’t going to go down easily. At least not without taking out as many coppers as they could.
Mick ran, dragging Foley across loose gravel and broken glass, keeping up the covering fire, head down, dodging overhead bullets. He didn’t have the benefit of body armour like the uniformed officers did. He just concentrated on the task at hand, didn’t allow himself to be drawn into the firefight. Foley screamed all the way, kept up a litany of threats as to what would befall Mick when he got free.
The police were winning. It was an uneven fight. They found positions, attempted to pick off anyone who came at them. Foley’s men were reckless and young, brought up on a diet of video games and self-aggrandisement. They believed they were the indestructible heroes of their own stories. The officers, guns used sparingly, clinically, were proving them wrong. Foley’s men were the cannon fodder.
Some of them ran back to their cars, tried to get away. They wouldn’t get far. The police had stationed cars at all the exits to the estate. Armed response officers alongside.
As the fighting died down, Mick and Foley reached the BMW. Mick opened the hatchback boot and lugged a protesting, kicking, swearing Foley inside where the duffle bag had previously been.
‘You put me in here where you’d put a fucking dog? Would you?’
Mick ignored him.
Foley stopped shouting. He calmed slightly, panting from the exertion. Started asking questions.
‘So you’re law, are you, Mick? Fucking law? Since when?’
‘Since always,’ said Mick, getting behind the wheel and shutting the door.
‘What the fuck?’ Foley still had difficulty comprehending what he was hearing. ‘You’re my right-hand man, Mick. We did all this together. You’ve been with me fucking ages. How can you be law?’
‘Because that was my job. I played the long game, Dean.’
Foley fell silent. When he spoke his voice was more reflective. ‘Was it worth it? All the shit you’ve done? That we’ve done together? Brothers in fucking arms, was it worth it?’
Mick didn’t answer.
Foley’s voice took on a plaintive tone. ‘I trusted you, Mick. I trusted you . . .’
Mick couldn’t reply, couldn’t listen to any more. It sounded, if Mick concentrated hard enough, as though the man was almost crying.
He locked the car, walked towards the lorry, pulled a red bandana out of his jacket pocket, the previously agreed sign to mark him as police.
Bodies everywhere. Mainly Foley’s men, but a couple of police officers had been wounded beyond the reach of their body armour.
He found the duffel bag. It was where it had been left along with the block of cocaine. He stood beside it. It was clear to see who had won.
‘He’s in the BMW,’ he said to an armed uniformed officer striding over to him. ‘What’s the damage?’
‘Couple of them badly injured, couple of fatalities. The rest have either run or given themselves up.’
Mick nodded. ‘Good night’s work.’ Then remembered something. ‘There was a girl in one of the cars. Where’s she?’
Sadness always looked worse on the face of a professional. ‘Driver tried to get away, sir. Looks like she was in the line of fire. Got hit running, apparently.’
‘Who by? Who hit her?’
‘Don’t know, sir. Stray bullet, probably.’
‘What’s happened to her?’
‘Sorry sir, did you know her?’
Mick’s heart skipped a beat. Then another. His legs became water. He didn’t answer. ‘Get an ambulance, get her seen to . . .’
He tried to run over to where she had been. The officer tried to push him back.
‘You don’t want to see, sir. Believe me. It’s a mess.’
Others joined the officer, kept Mick away from the girl’s body. He fought them all the way but they were too many for him. Eventually the adrenaline rush subsided. His shoulders slumped. He felt defeated.
‘Was she important to you, sir?’ said the first officer.
‘My niece. And she shouldn’t have been here. She wasn’t supposed to be here.’
‘I’m very sorry sir.’ The officer looked around. He was being called. ‘Excuse me sir. I’m needed over there.’
Mick didn’t know whether he had replied to him or not. He just stood there, staring at the carnage. Ambulances were arriving now, their flashing lights adding to the chaos all around. He walked away, back to where he’d left the duffle bag. Stood beside it once more. Looked down at it.
He felt so, so tired.
Of everything.