Martin Dixon
Author
LIQUORICE STREET
A Thrilling Crime Drama of Theft, Kidnap and Murder
Old Man is a barber but he has a secret with a dubious and very lucrative sideline. His past, though, is about to catch up with him.
His son, Crispin, knows all about crime. It’s what he does. One problem: he’s about to get mixed up in murders and kidnapping not of his making.
A body is found washed up on the river bank. DI Dave Simmons investigates and discovers a trail of events and murders that he struggles to connect.
Crime boss Ron Draper is on the hunt for something - and those involved with it - and isn’t fussy how he achieves his goals. The results give Dave plenty to look at but nothing much to discover.
Dave has history with both Old Man and Crispy, which adds to the difficulty of an already complicated case. How do a watch collector, a pair of twins and a thrill seeking city banker fit into the scenario?
Struggling to make any progress Dave has to deal with an impatient boss while at the same time trying to make sense of what little information he has.
Progress is slow. Will any of those involved escape retribution or will Ron manage to eliminate all the loose ends, as he always has in the past, before the case is resolved.
An absorbing crime mystery that twists and turns its way to a surprising ending.
FIRST TWO CHAPTERS
1
If you could see him, you would notice straight away. He shook as though he was shivering with cold but sweat ran down his temples. Pacing, unable to stay still, with one thought in his head: I don’t want to die. Forcing himself to stop he leant against the wall. Efflorescence from the brickwork stained his clothes as he pulled his casual jacket tightly around him even though he wasn’t cold. Taking several deep breaths, he felt his breathing steady. Screwed up his eyes and clenched his fists. At this moment more than anything he wished he could turn back time.
After the outside brightness the space seemed dark and the distinctive smell of damp added to the thought he was in a dismal place. He absentmindedly rubbed his left arm; the arm he had landed on. A rough push had propelled him through the door to tumble down the short flight of bare wood stairs and crash onto a hard stone floor where he had rolled to lodge against the far wall staying still for quite a few moments. He let his eyes drift around the room. As far as he could see it was near empty. Crawling onto his knees he pushed himself up and stood as his eyes started to get used to the dimness, aware that he was being watched from the top of the stairs. Then the door slammed and he heard a bolt ram home. At least that man with the iron grip had pulled the sack off his head as he had shoved him through the door.
One chair and an old white enamel bucket in the corner. Just the one chair in the centre of the room. He moved to it. Rubbed his hand over the wood. Solid and old. A carver with a hard wooden seat. On the wood he could just make out dark staining and grimaced. Attracted by a thin ring of light he glanced up at the round hole in the ceiling above the end wall. The street wall he would guess. He could see a round iron cover at the top of a short shaft where it did not fit snugly after years of constant use. Even if he could somehow reach, the shaft was likely too narrow to crawl through. The brickwork on that end wall stained black. He recognised the smell mixed in with the damp. Coal.
He had no idea where he was but had a fair idea what the two men wanted and suspected he must have made the only seriously bad decision in his life. He had not expected to get snatched. Mid-afternoon and home was a short walk from the tube station. Crossing the High Street, he noticed the white van parked against the kerb on double yellow lines. Nothing unusual about that. The back doors open with two men looking in, maybe about to unload something. Nothing unusual about that either. He did not really look, otherwise he might have been more cautious. As he drew level the biggest man suddenly moved and grabbed him. The smaller one pulled the sack over his head. He had struggled but the big guy was one hell of a strong man: literally picked him up and threw him into the back of the van. The other slammed the doors. A few seconds is all it took. Too quick for anyone on the crowded pavement to intervene, that was assuming they had the courage. They might have taken the registration number but with cloned plates who cared. Then he was listening to the high revving engine and struggling to keep his balance as he was thrown about, sliding on the smooth wooden floor.
Now he slammed his hand hard against the brick wall and felt the pain, thinking of what was likely to come. Slipped down to crouch, his faded jeans pulled tight over his knees, resting his back against the damp brickwork. Head in his hands, he rubbed his face and pushed his fingers through his long dark hair. Suddenly stood; he had to do something. Had another look at the shaft. Being small and slim he could slither though very tight spaces. Glancing at the chair he instinctively realised it was not high enough. Climbed the short stairs and checked the door. Gave it an unyielding shove. Just the slimmest chance but it was secured fast.
Sitting on the bottom tread the hopelessness of his situation suddenly rammed home. Refusing to sit on the chair because of the connotation, he stayed put trying to work out how to play the expected interrogation. It didn’t take much thought. They would leave him to stew a while; let him work himself up into a compliant state of mind to make their task simple. He held out his hands trying to hold them steady. They needn’t have bothered to wait; he had no doubt about that.
Later, the bare bulb in the centre of the ceiling suddenly shone. The bolt slammed back and he looked at his watch. One hour exactly. Standing, he shuffled to the far wall, subconsciously as far from the door as he could get. The two men came slowly down the stairs. The short one bearing a grin that showed stained teeth. Tailored suit, shirt and subtle silk tie tucked into a deep red waistcoat. Polished shoes. Old, with pure white hair. How old it was hard to tell, suspecting he was one of those deceptive people with an overall fitness level that belied his actual age. Closer, he was not so short. Well groomed with a look of sophistication about him. The man knew who he was. He had not seen him before but there was no doubt. Ron Draper, a man with a reputation not to be ignored.
Ron stopped just to the left side of the chair. That grin was very disconcerting. The other was tall, wide and heavy. Short sleeved shirt that looked two sizes too small but was probably the biggest size made. Boulder fists clenched tightly. No grin. In fact, he looked like he probably despised any sort of humour. Not a gram of sophistication there. A few swift steps and the big guy scowled in front of him. Unclenched his right fist and grabbed the man’s shoulder. Roughly pulled him to the centre of the room and slammed him into the chair. Stepped back to stand in front, an intimidating one arm's length away.
Moving one step closer, Ron took hold of the man’s chin and pulled his face to look at him. Stared into his eyes for a moment then smiled and said, “You’ve got something of mine. You were spotted, son, all covered up in black but one of my lads recognised your style. We’ve some questions for you. Give the right answers and you can go.” He nodded towards the big guy, “Please, don’t hesitate or be deliberately evasive. It’ll upset Moose… It won’t work… The last fella… well, he didn’t want to cooperate but we got there in the end.” It was then that the big guy appeared to grin but the man interpreted the look as one of anticipated glee.
Moose clenched his right fist tighter. The man looked at the dark stains on the chair. He knew he wasn’t so tough. He knew, whatever he said or didn’t say, his outlook was bleak and, to avoid endless pain, he knew his only option was to answer any question they asked truthfully and without hesitation, then hope his destination was not going to be the mud at the bottom of the river.
2
Old Man stood at the window staring through the gloom as the sky gradually darkened. Across the street a lady, hand on hat, long grey hair whipping around her face, stooped low as she struggled home. The bag in her right hand appeared heavy with something green and leafy poking out of the top. It was a long time since anyone had used his proper name. So long that even Margie Barker, that old lady with her hand on her hat and the stooping walk, had probably forgotten. Yes, thought Old Man, she’s the last, everyone else has either passed on or moved.
A clock hung on the wall above the door. An old-fashioned clock that clicked with a stuttering drop of the hand signalling each minute. Big white dial secured within a round black Bakelite frame, black hands with fat pointers. A made en-masse clock that littered 40’s and 50’s school rooms with the monotonous tick that drove the kids, with their young sensitive hearing, sometimes to distraction. Old Man though, he looked up and smiled. Loving the click and the memories contained within. Of course he remembered vividly where it had come from and how he had obtained it. Sally with the long blonde hair had played a big part. His Sally. He sighed. Some things were not to be and those could leave a lasting scar. Literally.
The next click and four in the afternoon signalled the moment. Old Man was always precise. There might have been a queue starting from the doorway and stretching down the pavement but, regardless, he would never have opened until exactly four on any Tuesday. He would stand in his grey slacks and brown soft-soled shoes, white shirt and blue tie. The Windsor knot pulled up tight. Vacantly gazing at nothing it would seem but all the while he inspected. Searched amongst the impatient faces. Recognised some. Uninterested in most. Then would settle on a man somewhere in the queue. Maybe one, two… four heads back. Ruffled long hair, suit and a swagger. He would be one of interest. Old Man could always tell. It might be the cut of the suit or the way he stood or the manner of his walk. Perhaps just something in his face that gave him away. Talkers. They were the ones he was interested in. But only the talkers with something to say. He wanted none of that meaningless spittle of too many boring words, holiday talk or how the wife Old Man did not know or care about, was dishing out endless grief.
The time of the queues, when he had rented out chairs to the freelancers and took a percentage of their take, were past. Then they had been essential to fill the seats and he would pick and choose his customers leaving the others to deal with the everyday trade. Now, they were the last thing he needed. This evening he knew he might be safe. Any danger of one forming would be quickly blown away before it could establish itself, especially if the expected rain arrived.
He reached up and turned the sign to OPEN and flicked the light switch. Watched the back of Margie Barker struggle up the short path to her front door. Take her hand off her hat. To retrieve her key, Old Man supposed. And, it was gone instantly wrapped around the higher branches of a magnolia tree showing the first signs of budding. He saw her move inside and return with a long-handled broom to shake the branch. In a lull, the hat fell just like an autumn leaf fluttering in the wind. Old Man inwardly sighed with relief knowing he would not have to attempt her rickety, high stepladder. Glancing both ways and seeing no one else on the pavement he went to make tea.
Through the plain white door at the back of the shop. Stopped in the kitchenette to fill and flick the kettle on then to the sitting room at the rear. High ceilings gave the impression of a vast space that, in reality, was quite compact. The long room sparsely furnished. Two wide, high armed soft chairs. One facing the shop and the other the door to the rear yard. Soft blue fabric tatty with age. Between these sat a low coffee table, Formica topped and a throwback from the fifties. A tall, metal shelf unit against one wall was virtually empty; just a long line of black diaries on the top shelf. On the middle one sat a black tin box with a lock and a large outdoor key next to it and on the bottom a tall can of clear oil and a near clean soft white rag. In the corner beside the rear door in front of the window and facing the room a multi-gym and treadmill perhaps held the secret of his longevity.
Picking the soft cloth and oil from the shelf, Old Man moved to the multi-gym. Used the cloth to thoroughly rub down the two chrome runners and applied a couple of oil drops to each just above the weight stack. Sat on the seat with his feet hooked under the pads of the hamstring curl, grabbed the lat bar above his head but failed to pull it down. Grunted. Swore. Stood and moved to the back cursing his son’s strength. Pulled the pin from way down the stack and moved it up to under the first weight. Returned to his position, pulled the bar a few times spreading oil up and down the runners until the single weight slid smoothly. Returned the cloth and oil can to their shelf and went to make tea.
Returning, he placed the steaming mug on the waiting coaster on his side of the table. The one that faced the shop. Before he sat, he reached to the top shelf removing the last of the diaries and the pen sitting next to it. Put on his specs, opened the diary to today’s date, wrote the time he opened the shop and noted the appalling weather. Flicked back to yesterday’s page and stared at the code. A unique code from his boarding school days. Secrets that needed to remain… secret. Only four people knew the code. Three of them the same age. One had passed on, one was obviously him and the third… Old Man had not spoken to him in over fifty years but he was not forgotten. That was one thing Old Man would never do, forget that third man. Then there was the last. Someone much younger who was definitely on Old Man’s side.
There was something else that periodically nagged at him. Was there another? Old Man was not sure of the answer. There should have been if his best friend had had time to educate his son before trying to persuade a borrowed e-type Jaguar to take off over the humped back canal bridge. A feat at which he had succeeded with the unfortunate consequence of being unable to negotiate the following bend, leading to an argument with a stout oak tree which he had sadly lost.
Old Man sighed, knowing it was probably irrelevant but it still bothered him considering what his best friend’s son did for a living. Well, what will be and all that. He had things to do while he waited for customers who he suspected would be hard to come by considering the conditions.