Danger by Association: The Riverhill Trilogy: Book 3 Read online

  The sound of Julie’s voice made her jump. “Bloody hell, Rita,” she said, as she turned to face her. “You’re edgy, aren’t you? Are you sure you’re OK? You’ve gone really pale.”

  “What? Yeah sure, I’m fine.”

  Rita didn’t want to share the thoughts that were troubling her, not even with her best friend, Julie. She didn’t like to cause overdue concern. She’d coped with the flashbacks before, and they’d gone away eventually.

  She couldn’t understand why they had returned after such a long time. But she guessed it was something to do with being back in Manchester. The place where her sister died. And concerns over Daniel weren’t helping, especially in view of Raeni’s feelings on the subject, and what her aunty had said.

  “Stop worrying about everything,” said Julie. “If you don’t want to take Daniel to see Raeni, nobody can force you. She has no rights over him.”

  “I know, I know, it’s just … bad memories, that’s all.”

  Julie covered Rita’s hand with hers, “I understand. But it’s all in the past, Rita, and nobody can harm any of you now.”

  Rita forced a smile. Julie was right. It was just her imagination playing tricks on her. She needed to put it to the back of her mind and try to enjoy her visit. Providing they stayed away from the Riverhill, nobody could harm them. After all, nobody even knew where they were.

  ***

  Wednesday 12th June 1996

  They led Maurice James past the cells while the other prisoners were locked in. Two burly officers flanked him. The prisoners knew who he was. As soon as he stepped outside the first cell, the disturbance began. Hissing and yelling abuse. ‘Beast’ and ‘fuckin’ monster’ were among the words used.

  Then they walked him across the prison yard. The commotion built to a climax. Angry faces glared through the windows, huge fists were waved and instruments were banged against the cell walls and doors. Maurice kept his head down low, avoiding eye contact with his accusers. The officers ignored the disruption, which would die down once he was processed and released.

  When the officers delivered him to the relevant area, and handed him over to another officer, they left. Maurice looked at the officer whose job it was to deal with his release.

  “Name and number?” asked the officer.

  Maurice gave him the requested information and watched him enter some data onto a computer screen, take up his keys and open a locker. His manner was professional and detached, but Maurice suspected that he detested him as much as the prisoners did. He could tell by his body language; all the little signs that Maurice had learnt how to spot.

  The officer plonked a package on the desk in front of him and handed an envelope to Maurice. “This is your discharge grant,” he said, handing the envelope over. Then, nodding towards the package, he added, “These are what you came in with. Changing area’s over there.”

  The clothes looked alien to Maurice; it was so long since he’d worn them. For the last five years he’d been used to prison issue clothing, which he now removed and cast aside, slowly, reluctantly, as though removing his protective armour. He’d remained in segregation during his time in prison to protect him from the other prisoners. But now he had to face the world, fearful of what awaited him on the outside.

  To his consternation the clothes no longer fitted. While he’d been behind bars, he’d transitioned into early middle age, and he had the paunch to show for it. To preserve his modesty, he put the prison garments back on before approaching the officer.

  “They’re too tight.”

  An imperceptible grin grazed the officer’s lips. “Try the box over there. Here’s a bag to put your stuff in if you want to take it home with you,” he said, placing a plastic carrier bag on the desk.

  Maurice approached the box, a large open container full of dusty garments. He pulled them out, one by one, checking them for size and quality. All second-hand, he guessed, as he rejected each in turn.

  “Come on, we haven’t got all day!” shouted the officer. “I’ve got other prisoners to process.”

  Maurice settled for a pair of jeans with the button missing, and a sweatshirt, which was faded round the cuffs. He grabbed his old belt, hoping it still fit so the jeans would stay up.

  After a few minutes, he emerged from the changing area wearing the shabby outfit. It was his final humiliation, courtesy of HM Prison Service. The officer didn’t say another word as he unlocked the doors and led Maurice to the prison gates.

  Maurice stepped outside Strangeways Prison clutching his release papers. He was thankful to be on the other side of the prison walls despite his trepidation. He clung on to his meagre possessions, placing his release papers inside the bag, out of view.

  Then he headed towards the centre of Manchester. As he progressed along Bury New Road he cast his eyes back to the imposing nineteenth-century building, its ventilation tower standing tall and foreboding, acting as a bleak beacon of the evil contained within.

  After five years inside, he viewed his release with a mixture of relief and apprehension. At least he would no longer be forever worried about the threat from other prisoners. The constant fear that he would be got at, like those poor buggers in the riots of ’90. And to think, they called his sort animals. The things the other inmates would do to him if they ever got their hands on him; it didn’t bear thinking about.

  He’d served out the last two years of a five-year stretch at Strangeways, now known as HM Prison Manchester since it reopened in 1994. If it hadn’t been for the prison shutting after the riots, he could have served the whole of his term there.

  Now that his sentence was behind him, he could live in relative liberty, although he knew that he would never really be free. For a start, he was under the supervision of his probation officer, which meant that he had to report regularly. Fair enough, the PO had got him fixed up with somewhere to live, but subject to certain conditions.

  Apart from the probation service, the housing people would want to make sure he didn’t step out of line. Then there were the police. He knew from experience that they would haul him in for questioning whenever the opportunity arose.

  Still, according to his probation officer he should be grateful. He had somewhere to live, which was better than living on the streets. Having an address meant he could also sign on. And it wasn’t a million miles away, within easy reach of the centre of Manchester too.

  He looked down at the piece of paper with the address written on it. Yes, he just needed to get to Piccadilly now so he could find out which bus to catch. He continued down Bury New Road towards Deansgate in the city centre. As he walked along, he planned his cover story ready for when he met his new neighbours on the Riverhill Estate in Longsight.

  After a good fifteen to twenty-minute walk, Maurice reached Piccadilly Gardens and sat down on a bench. He took time to rest before he set about finding which bus to catch to the Riverhill. It was a warm, sunny day and he decided to take advantage of it; after all, he hadn’t seen much sunshine during his time inside.

  He sat there breathing in the city air and absorbing everything around him: the greenery, the bright flower beds, people rushing about their business. It all seemed so new and different. He was clammy from his walk and he gazed across at the fountain in the middle of the gardens. So welcoming and inviting. But adults didn’t jump under fountains; not in the centre of Manchester, anyway. And he didn’t want to do anything that would make him stand out.

  He noticed some children racing around the fountain and squealing with glee as their lithe little bodies enjoyed the cool sprays of water. Maurice envied their ability to do as they pleased. He continued watching them lasciviously. It was OK to look; no one could stop him looking. As long as he didn’t touch.

  Chapter 4

  Wednesday 12th June 1996 - Evening

  “Where you goin’ at this time of night, Jamal?” asked Raeni, her rich Jamaican accent still evident after more than thirty years in the UK.

  “Out.”


  “Out where?”

  “What’s it matter? What’s your problem? I’m twenty-two, for fuck’s sake! I don’t have to tell you everywhere I go.”

  “Don’t you come at me with that language! I’ll tell you my problem,” Raeni replied, her voice rising. “My problem is what you gettin’ up to at eleven o’clock at night. I wouldn’t have no problem if it wasn’t for the police at my door night and day asking their questions. And what’s that you got in your hands?”

  “Chicken, why?”

  “My God! That’s our tea for tomorrow,” said Raeni, eying the chicken drumsticks that Jamal was devouring. She had spiced and cooked enough for two meals, saving money on a bulk purchase. The remainder she had intended to add to a casserole the following day. “What am I going to do now?” she asked.

  “I dunno, get some more or summat. God, woman, you need to chill.”

  Raeni knew it wouldn’t be as easy as that. There wasn’t much food in the house, and she couldn’t buy any more until her benefits were due. She supposed she would have to go scrounging to the neighbours again.

  “I can’t get no more, I’ve got no money. And you speak to me with a bit more respect, boy!”

  But she was wasting her time. Jamal was already out of the door, slamming it behind him as he left. His behaviour was becoming more erratic and she was convinced he was taking drugs. Although lots of young men rebelled, Jamal’s behaviour was outside the norm, and she worried about him constantly. Raeni turned to her other son, Devan, who hadn’t been home long himself and had sneaked in looking suspicious.

  “What’s going on, Devan? What’s he up to?”

  “I don’t know, do I?”

  “You boys will be the death of me. All you bring me is worry every day. I been through this already with Leroy. No good will come of it. Are you listening to me, boy?”

  Devan was busy thumbing through the keys on the TV remote control so Raeni prodded him to get his attention.

  “What?” he shouted, backing away but glaring aggressively at her.

  “Don’t ignore me when I’m talking to you. Where you been tonight, anyway?”

  “Out with my mates.”

  “Well I hope you haven’t been up to no good.”

  “Give it a rest, will you? I’m sick of hearing it.”

  Raeni knew it was no use. If she pursued the matter, it would only result in a row, and Devan wasn’t the worst of her worries. Jamal was causing her the most concern so it wasn’t really fair to take it out on Devan. A row was the last thing she needed; it would be hard enough to sleep as it was. She knew she’d be tossing and turning half the night wondering what Jamal was up to, and expecting the police to come knocking on the door at any minute. Defeated, she went up to bed and left Devan watching the TV.

  ***

  Thursday 13th June 1996 - Evening

  John examined his equipment one last time. Dressed in full kit, he was ready to go out on a raid at a drugs den in Harpurhey. He tested the strapping that held the holster for his Glock handgun around his thigh, made sure his body armour was securely in place, and checked that he was carrying a good supply of ammunition in the compartments fastened round his torso. Then he checked his shotgun once more.

  “It’s the bloody waiting I can’t stand,” he said to his colleague and best friend, Tony. “I’m hyped up and ready to go. I just want to get it over with, now.”

  “I know what you mean, mate. I’m well psyched up to sort the bastards.”

  “Only if we’re under threat though, eh Tony?”

  “Oh yeah, course. I know the bloody protocol by now, John. I just mean, get the job done.”

  John smiled ironically at his friend’s familiar zeal. “Just checkin’, that’s all.”

  “I know, but you know as well as I do, John, they don’t call us in unless there’s a threat. A lot of these dealers are tooled up these days. Fuckin’ would-be gangsters, that’s the trouble with ’em. If it comes down to it, I won’t hesitate. It’s them or me, and I’m not losing my life to some low-life scum because I’m trying to talk him round when he pulls a gun on me. Fuckin’ deserve all they get.”

  John didn’t respond to his friend’s rant. He could have said that a lot of the ‘would be gangsters’ were just kids who’d taken the wrong path in life, but he would have been perceived as weak and that wouldn’t do. In this job you had to have confidence in each other, and know that you had each other’s backs should the need arise.

  He understood Tony’s point of view but wished he wasn’t so blasé about the possible loss of life. Like his friend, Tony, John would also do what needed to be done; they both knew that. But it didn’t stop him feeling bad about it.

  He thought back to the young lad in Iraq, then swiftly tried to dispel the memory from his mind. Now wasn’t the time for thoughts like that when he was due out on a raid. He had to stay focused so he could remain impassive if a threat occurred. That way he could carry out the job he was trained to do, without hesitation.

  They were different, him and Tony. He didn’t always agree with Tony’s views but, apart from his overzealousness in the face of opposition, Tony was a great guy. They had spent time together in the forces, and it was Tony who had given him the tip off about Greater Manchester Police recruiting for a special task force.

  It came at just the right moment, when he had grown tired of spending time away. He was getting no younger and was becoming ready to settle down. Thankfully he met Paula, his soulmate, not long after he returned home.

  While they were waiting, an attractive, twenty-something Detective Constable called Janet walked through the office, and Tony gave John a meaningful glance.

  “Morning lads,” she greeted. “You look ready for action.”

  “Always ready, me,” Tony quipped.

  Janet gave a flirtatious giggle as she made eye contact with John, then continued past them.

  Once she was out of earshot, Tony grinned and said, “If you ask me, she’s still up for a repeat performance, mate.”

  “No chance,” said John. “That’s all in the past, and that’s where it’s staying.”

  Tony was referring to a brief fling that John had with Janet not long after he joined the police force. But it hadn’t lasted, despite Janet’s enthusiasm. John soon realised that the relationship didn’t have long-term potential. So they’d remained good friends, and agreed to keep it that way. Then he’d met Paula, and he knew within weeks that she was the one.

  “Oy, daydreamer!” shouted Tony, breaking John out of his reverie. “It looks like we’re set to go. Here comes Smithson to give us the OK.”

  ***

  Thursday 13th June 1996 - Evening

  They were instructed to raid a third-floor flat. When they received the order to enter the premises, John, Tony and several other officers rammed down the door and charged inside. As soon as John was inside the property, the pungent smell of cannabis hit him.

  While other officers raced through the flat, John and Tony took the first room they came to, accompanied by two other officers. They dashed inside, ready to arrest the occupants and seize any illegal drugs.

  John gave the usual command, “Police, stay where you are!”

  There were five people already in the room: three men and two women, all in their early twenties. John approached them, prepared for resistance, but, unlike other raids, the occupants remained calm and unflinching.

  The five people were seated around a coffee table on gaudy beanbags and cushions, forming a circle. In the centre of the circle, the focus of their attention was a large bong mounted proudly on the coffee table. One of the men was taking a hit from the bong while the others waited for their turn.

  “Stop what you’re doing!” ordered Tony, pointing his Glock in the man’s direction.

  To John’s amazement, the man continued to inhale deeply from the bong. John stepped in and grabbed the bong. The man staggered back onto his cushion, his face a picture of pure indulgence as the cannabis e
ntered his system.

  “Cuff ’em!” ordered the sergeant who had just stepped into the room.

  John and the rest of the team carried out their orders. The men and women allowed themselves to be led outside, their bodies slack and their manner impassive. John flashed Tony a knowing look, as he realised that their detainees were so stoned that they were indifferent to their fate.

  Once they had them in the van, John left two officers guarding them while he went to check out the rest of the flat.

  “Take a butcher’s at the middle room,” said one of his colleagues.

  As John approached the room, the pungent, sweet stench of cannabis became stronger. Now he understood why he could smell it as soon as he entered the flat. The whole of the room was being used as a cannabis farm. Once he was inside, not only was the smell overbearing, but the heat and humidity were oppressive too.

  It was a sophisticated set-up. The room was crammed full of pots containing cannabis plants, a sea of green with their pointed fern-shaped leaves protruding in every direction. John could feel the warmth from enormous lamps, which shone down onto the plants, flooding the room with their powerful rays.

  Overhead, the ceiling was lined with foil, which reflected the light and heat, increasing the intensity. The windows were covered in sodden black canvas, and condensation streamed down the walls. Several fans were also attached to the walls.

  “They’ve cut into the mains,” said John’s colleague, indicating the power source while John looked around the room in awe. “Is it the first one you’ve seen?”

  “Yeah,” said John. “It would be impressive if it wasn’t so bloody stupid.”

  “I know. It’s a pity they don’t make better use of their talents.”

  “No wonder they were so stoned. There’s enough here to keep all of Harpurhey going, I should think.”

  “Oh yeah, and by the look of it they’ve been doing a roaring trade. They’ve got a load of equipment in that other room. Looks like they’ve been drying and curing it, and then bagging it up to sell.”