The Man on the Street

Book 1: Jimmy Mullen Newcastle Crime Thriller

by Trevor Wood

Genres: Crime Fiction

Synopsis

It started with a splash. Jimmy, a homeless veteran grappling with PTSD, did his best to pretend he hadn't heard it - the sound of something heavy falling into the Tyne at the height of an argument between two men. Not his fight. Then he sees the headline: GIRL IN MISSING DAD PLEA. But telling the girl, Carrie, what he heard - or thought he heard - turns out to be just the beginning of the story. The police don't believe him, but Carrie is adamant that something awful has happened to her dad and Jimmy agrees to help her, putting himself at risk from enemies old and new . . .

Release date: October 31, 2019

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 339

Sample

1

Leazes Park, Newcastle, June 1, 2012

Jimmy didn’t have a watch. He liked watches well enough, but these days they were more use as currency. The last time he’d found one, in a bin behind one of the big houses in Jesmond, he’d swapped it for some dog biscuits. It didn’t matter because he could always tell what time it was – or near enough as made no difference. Like now. It was somewhere between 3 and 3.30 a.m. He used to be more precise, always within ten minutes one way or the other he reckoned, but since they brought in the late licensing laws, the mixture of noise and light from the bars and clubs had messed with his head a bit and he was sometimes out by an hour or more. It was easier here though, quieter. Leazes Park wasn’t his normal patch, but he liked to keep on the move. It was harder to hit a moving target.

His favourite spot when he first came back to Newcastle, five months ago now, was just behind Greggs in the main street. The warmth generated by the ovens seemed to stick around all night. When you were hungry, though, the lingering smell of cheese pasties could drive you insane. On the plus side, you sometimes found a few in the bins, past their sell-by date but good enough for the likes of him and Dog. Then some bastard put spikes in the ground to stop people crashing there.

This wasn’t a bad spot though. The late-night revellers tended to stay clear. No one wanted to walk home through a dark park, not even the nut jobs, so the chances of someone pissing on you in your sleep were pretty low, unlike on the street where you were invisible by day and a wanker-magnet at night.

He’d found a spot under an old beech tree behind the tennis courts where he and Dog could rest up where no one could see him. He could see them, though. There were others here, some he knew, some not. It used to be same old, same old, but new faces on the street were common now, more so during the day when the pretend beggars appeared, but even at night the numbers were growing.

He could make out a shape on the bench near the path that ran along the top of the bank, on the far side of the court, underneath the only lamp post still working. At least they hadn’t fucked with the benches. A lad from York had told him that the council there had bolted armrests onto the middle of them to stop people sleeping there.

Gadge reckoned one of the Polish lads used to crash in a tree on the edge of the park, for safety. Daft bastard broke his arm when he fell out. Good job the hospital was just across the road. Jimmy didn’t really believe that one; Gadge told a good story, but mostly that’s what they were, stories.

A crack from somewhere behind him made him jump. Jimmy sat up, hugging his sleeping bag around him and putting a restraining hand on Dog who was on his feet, growling softly. He looked around. Though the moon was hidden by thick clouds, his night vision was working well, one of the bonuses of sleeping like a . . . whatever the opposite of a baby was. An old man? A dead man? That couldn’t be right; dead men sleep great.

There was nothing to be seen. A false alarm. He patted Dog on the head and the mongrel terrier curled back down near his feet.

Jimmy watched as the figure on the bench stirred in his sleep and rolled over. It was Deano. The Cossack hat was a dead giveaway. Gadge called him ‘the Twat in the Hat’, but Deano didn’t seem to mind. He reckoned it was well toasty. Jimmy watched as Deano pulled his hat over his ears and rolled back, his face turned towards the bench, the hulking shadow of the football stadium behind him, towering over the four-storey town houses that flanked the park. That’s when Jimmy heard the voices. Men, at least a couple of them, laughing in the distance.

Sound travels miles in the park at night, so at first he wasn’t sure where they were, but then he caught a glimpse of two men through the trees by the lake, heading down past the derelict pavilion, their bright green, high-vis jackets standing out in the darkness. Coppers, Jimmy thought. The bane of his life – even though he used to be one, sort of. It was like they could smell him. He pulled himself further back beneath the tree, well out of sight of the path.

‘I wouldn’t touch her with a bargepole,’ one of them said.

‘You haven’t got a bargepole, mate,’ the other said, laughing, ‘more like a Twiglet.’

‘Piss off, Duke,’ the first man said. As they came closer Jimmy could see them more clearly through the mesh fence surrounding the tennis courts. Laughing boy seemed huge, like a wardrobe on legs.

‘What have we got here?’ the small copper said, spotting Deano on the bench. They were now standing underneath the lamp; Jimmy recognised the big one. He’d got previous. Dog started to stir again, but Jimmy calmed him with another pat.

‘You can’t sleep here, pal,’ the big copper said, nudging Deano with his baton. Deano didn’t move.

‘Oi!’ he shouted, nudging him harder. ‘Get up!’

Deano rolled over slowly and looked up at the pair standing above him.

‘Come on, cloth ears, get moving or you’ll get my boot up your arse.’

Dog growled again and the smaller copper turned and peered across, towards the noise. Jimmy edged even further back into the shadows, dragging a reluctant Dog by his collar, hoping he wouldn’t start barking.

‘Can I stay here just for now?’ he heard Deano say in his child-like voice. ‘It’s nice.’

‘No you bloody can’t,’ the big copper said, hauling Deano off the bench and, in one movement, hurling him down the steep bank into some thorny bushes next to the court fence.

‘Steady on, Duke, he’s just a kid,’ the other one said.

‘Just a kid, my arse; he’s as old as you.’

Deano clearly knew better than to complain. He scrambled out of the bushes, crawled up the bank and headed back to the bench.

‘Where you going?’ the big copper said.

‘Get my stuff,’ Deano said, pointing at a small rucksack tucked under the bench.

‘No you’re fucking not,’ the big copper said.

‘But I need—’

The kick caught Deano straight in the balls. As he fell, a second kick caught him on the side of the head.

‘For Christ’s sake, Duke,’ the smaller copper said, grabbing his friend’s arm. The other man shrugged him off, pulled out Deano’s rucksack and heaved it over the iron railing that edged the park. He laughed and glanced down at Deano who was quietly wiping blood away from his face.

‘Now piss off, you scrounging git.’ He aimed another casual kick at Deano, but the lad didn’t need telling twice. He leapt to his feet and legged it off towards the gate at the top of the path.

‘Have a nice day!’ the mean bastard shouted.

Jimmy watched as the two policemen headed off, to make sure they left the park. He’d learned the hard way that when you stick your head above the parapet it gets shot off. But the guilt of inaction still burned in his throat; even Dog had moved away from him.

‘Bollocks to you, Dog,’ Jimmy said. ‘Not my fight.’

2

The Pit Stop, Newcastle, June 4, 2012

The scratches were visible on the back of Deano’s hands. He hadn’t mentioned the kicking he’d got and Jimmy wondered if Deano knew he had been there, watching, doing nothing.

Gadge was telling one of his stories, something about a Salvation Army woman wanting to save him. Jimmy was only half listening, finishing his soup, which didn’t taste of anything in particular but was at least hot. The Pit Stop’s kitchen was open three nights a week and they sent a mobile van out on two other nights, so he never needed to go hungry.

‘So she gave us a Bible and said, “This will save you,’’’ Gadge said. ‘I looked at her and smiled. “That’s exactly what I need,” I said. You should have seen her face. It was whats-a-name . . . beatific.’

Deano nodded as if he knew what Gadge was on about. Over Deano’s shoulder Jimmy could see the small TV in the corner. On it there was a huge crowd of people waving tiny Union Jack flags, all standing in the Mall; Jimmy recognised it from back in the day, when he’d had to attend a Remembrance Day service in Whitehall. Doing his duty. Now there was a huge stage smack bang in front of Buck House. On the stage there was a fat man in a beefeater costume stamping his foot.

Gadge was on a roll now; there was no stopping him once he got going.

‘I took it off her – the Bible, that is – and opened it up, pretending to read it, like. She’s still smiling, as if the Lord himself had stuck his tongue up her fanny. “Thank you, missus,” I said, and gave her a big smile right back, all grateful and that.’

‘What did you do then?’ Deano asked. He’d probably forgotten that Gadge had told this story before. It was a Catholic priest last time.

‘What do you think I did, Deano? I ripped out a bunch of pages and threw them on the fire. “That’ll keep it going for the whole night,” I said, holding up what was left of the good book. The Sally Army lass was squealing like a pig, trying to grab the rest off us. You should’ve heard the language. Made us blush.’

Deano thought it was the funniest story he’d ever heard. Like he did last time. And the time before that.

On the TV Jimmy could see the Queen on stage, holding what looked like a giant diamond. She placed it in a stand and a huge flame shot up into the air. Within seconds fireworks had filled the night sky behind Buck House.

‘Am I boring ya?’ Gadge asked. Jimmy shook his head.

‘You’re boring me, ya gobshite.’ A new voice. From his right. Jimmy turned and looked at the speaker. Long, straggly light brown hair and black teeth. A smell of cheap lager and sausages. He was wearing a grey army greatcoat that looked like it had actually been through a war or two.

‘Is that right, Goldilocks?’ Gadge said to the newcomer. Gadge was practically square: short and wide, but muscular, not fat. The long beard made him look friendly, but he could look after himself. All around them people were starting to move away. A stainless-steel salt cellar was knocked off the table and rolled along the floor. One of the younger volunteers hovered, unsure whether to get involved.

Someone had turned the sound up on the TV; there was a loud bang as a huge firework exploded. Jimmy flinched.

‘Pussy,’ the stranger said.

‘Him or me?’ said Gadge.

‘Both.’

‘He doesn’t mean nothing, Gadge. You d-didn’t mean nothing, mister, d-did you?’ Deano said, his voice trembling with worry, his big urchin-like eyes opening wide – a look that earned him more money than most on the streets.

‘What if I did?’ Goldilocks said, and placed his hands flat on the table, as if preparing to leap across at Gadge. Another firework exploded.

‘You didn’t,’ Jimmy said, taking a tight grip on the man’s left arm. The stranger turned to look at him. Jimmy was holding a fork about eight inches above the man’s outstretched fingers. The man tried to pull his arm away but Jimmy was too strong. He stared at Jimmy for a moment, then looked down.

Jimmy let go of Goldilocks’ arm. He thought about saying something, something conciliatory maybe, to give the man a chance to save face, but he’d already done more than he should have, trying to make up for not helping Deano the other night, so he kept schtum. Defeated, Goldi­locks pushed his chair back, got up and moved away. The young volunteer breathed a sigh of relief and went back to wiping a table.

Gadge laughed. ‘Fuck off with you, Goldilocks, before my man Jimmy kicks off for real. You wouldn’t like him when he’s angry.’ Somehow Gadge always knew stuff. Jimmy didn’t have a clue how he knew stuff. But he knew stuff alright.

Jimmy reached over and grabbed Goldilocks’ left-behind plate. He made sure no one was looking and put it under the table where Dog leapt on it greedily.

Back on the TV the Queen was giving it her best Mona Lisa smile while behind her a thin, glamorous woman with dark brown hair grinned inanely.

‘Eeeh, look, it’s wor Cheryl with the Queen,’ Maggie, one of the older volunteers, squealed. ‘Isn’t she canny?’

One or two people glanced up from their food but no one cared enough to answer.

‘He’s filth, I reckon,’ Gadge said, nodding at Goldilocks, who was now sitting on his own in a corner of the room.

‘A copper?’ Deano said.

‘Aye, undercover.’

Jimmy thought about the man’s teeth. Gadge saw conspiracies everywhere, you name it: the moon landings, Princess Di, 9/11 – none of them what they seemed.

On the TV the fireworks had reached a crescendo, lights exploding all over the London sky. Someone, Maggie probably, had turned the volume up to the max and the room was filled with the sound of ‘Land of Hope and Glory’.

Jimmy hadn’t seen a sign of either for a long time.

3

Falkland Sound, 1982

The ship’s tannoy breaks the threatening silence.

‘Brace for impact.’

Jimmy has been expecting it. The Argy Skyhawks have been buzzing over them like deadly mosquitos all morning, but hearing the words out loud still comes as a shock. That morning, one of the lads in the mess had been banging on that ‘not knowing’ was the worst thing, but that was a pile of shite. Knowing is worse. Knowing is much fucking worse. The tannoy crackles back into life.

‘Brace, brace, brace.’

This time Jimmy reacts. He dives behind the ladder which leads up to the upper deck and wedges himself in, his back set firm against the bulkhead, knees pulled up tight to his chest, feet jammed under its base. For the first time in his brief life he’s glad he is a short-arse. Christ knows where Red is, but it’s every man for himself now. ‘Man, eh?’ he imagines Red saying. ‘You’ve barely started shaving.’

The impact of the first bomb hurls the stern up in the air. Jimmy shoots forward. He flings his right arm out to stop his head crashing into the underside of the ladder. Jesus, that hurts. The second explosion is bigger. The ship lurches violently to the right. This time his head smashes into the bottom of the steps. Inside his anti-flash hood he can feel blood streaming down his forehead into his eyes. Most of the lights have died, but through the blood he can still see thick black smoke pouring down the passageway towards him. It is getting so hot his ears are starting to sweat.

He jams his eyes closed and takes a deep breath to suck in some clean air before the smoke overwhelms him. A sickly-sweet smell – like burning pork – hits him. The gut-wrenching screams echoing down the passageway, from where the rest of the first-aid team are stationed, tell him exactly what that means. He puts his hands over his ears to drown out the noise of both the screams and the clanging alarm which has just started to ring.

The ship is vibrating noisily, like a giant tuning fork. A brief image of Bev in widow’s black flashes into his head. He mutters a prayer to a God he usually mocks, but before he has got to ‘Hallowed be thy name’ he feels a tug on his shirt. He opens his blood-sticky eyes. Red’s face is inches from his, his mouth opening and closing silently. Jimmy takes his hands off his ears. The siren has stopped. His friend’s high-pitched Scouse accent penetrates the hissing and crashing of the ventilation pipes collapsing around them.

‘Move it, lad, get up top.’

Jimmy shakes his head, but Red drags him out by his No. 8 shirt and pushes him around to the front of the steps.

‘Go! Fucking smoke’ll kill you.’

Jimmy clambers up, flinching as the heat of the handrail bursts through his thin gloves. He looks up. There is a sliver of daylight above him filtering through the smoke – the hatch cover has been ripped from one of its hinges and has fallen to one side. He squeezes through the narrow gap.

What the hell? There should be an airlock at the top with two doors but the inner door is lying on the deck and the outer has been obliterated, nothing but smouldering jagged metal, the grey paint bubbling and blistered. He lurches through the gaping hole and emerges on the port side of the ship. It stinks of sulphur and fear. Red pushes past Jimmy and races through the smoke towards the flight deck. Jimmy stands and stares over the side of the ship. A headless body is caught in the netting.

A muffled shout jerks him back into action. He turns and chases after Red who has grabbed a fire hose and is aiming it at the flames shooting out of what remains of the hangar. Water dribbles from the nozzle.

‘The fire main’s shot,’ Red shouts. ‘I’d be better off pissing on it.’

Amid the smoke Jimmy can see metal debris scattered everywhere. A brief gust of wind momentarily clears his view and he sees something else, something bigger, lying on the flight deck. He runs towards it but trips and falls, crashing onto the deck. He turns and sees a pair of overall-clad legs sticking out from a fallen section of the hangar roof: one of the flight crew. He jumps to his feet and tries to pull the poor sod out, only half succeeding. Both legs have been severed just above the knee, and whatever – whoever – they had been attached to is still under there somewhere. The vomit comes before he can remove his hood and half of it goes back down his throat. He rips the hood off and spits the rest out.

A feral scream comes from the back of the ruined hangar.

Red drops the now dried-up hose and runs towards the scream. There is a small pop and then an ear-shattering explosion. Chopper fuel.

A fireball hits Red square in the chest, shooting him backwards through the air like a blazing rag doll, crashing into the guard rail. For a moment he hangs there, a vaguely human shape in a haze of flame, a pair of orange and black arm-like shadows windmilling for balance. And then he’s gone.

4

The Quayside, Newcastle, June 5, 2012

Jimmy woke up with tears running down his cheeks. He didn’t know why. Dog was sitting up, staring at him, confused. Jimmy had probably been crying out in his sleep. Bev used to banish him to the spare room when it got too much.

He could see the names of various cities embossed on the side of the open roof: Hull, Antwerp, London, Malmö, Copenhagen. Places the ships used to go, when there were ships, when there were shipyards, right there, on the river, where his dad worked before he got laid off. Now there were only bars and expensive works of art, like this place, the Swirle Pavilion – a future folly, with its sandstone walls, a golden globe hovering above its open top like a satellite or something. It was one of Gadge’s favourite sleep spots, but he had a bed for the night, in a hostel, with real sheets and everything, so tonight it was Jimmy’s. The open roof could be a pain but it was June, so it was worth the risk.

Someone was talking, arguing even. He sat up and looked through a gap between two stone pillars. Two men stood about thirty yards away, by a two-bar rail that ran along the river, just down from the dormant cruise boats, their long shadows framed in the towering arc of the Millennium Bridge.

The man facing away from Jimmy was tall, over six foot, wearing a black donkey jacket, big boots, a black-and-white-striped bobble hat on his head, maybe a glimpse of a beard when he turned his face. He reminded Jimmy of a bricklayer friend he used to have, his shoulders somehow too big for the rest of him.

The other man, facing towards him, was shorter, about Jimmy’s height. He was slighter too, wearing a denim jacket and light-coloured chinos, longish dark hair, maybe a moustache, a black bag – like a school satchel – slung over his right shoulder. A social-worker type, Jimmy thought, and he’d met enough of them to know.

There was no one else around. The nearby bars and restaurants had long since kicked out their punters. About 4 a.m., Jimmy guessed.

The men were closer together now, talking, the smaller one shrugging occasionally, slightly unsteady on his feet. Jimmy wondered if it was a gay hook-up, but if it was, they were in the wrong place. Everyone knew Dog Leap Stairs was the place for that. Anyway, none of his business.

He lay down again, drifted off.

*

Flames everywhere. He’s in bed. An empty space beside him. Where’s Bev? Burning curtains fall to the floor, setting fire to the bed covers. He leaps up, naked, sweating. Where is she? The doorway is ablaze . . . and the window. A woman’s scream from somewhere. The stairs? He runs through the doorway, feeling no heat, no pain, straight into the back of Bev who is standing on the landing. But it’s not the landing. It’s the flight deck, the South Atlantic all around them. He spins her around. Her hair is on fire, lips and nose melting.

‘Get help,’ she whispers, locking him in a fiery embrace.

*

Jimmy woke again, bathed in sweat this time, heart pounding, ready to burst out of his chest like the Alien, his hands beating at the non-existent flames, his eyes searching for Bev but seeing only the stone pillars and the open sky. Dog stirred at his feet, disturbed by both his movement and the raised voices outside, angrier now than before. Fragments drifted over.

‘I saw you . . .’

‘. . . fucking incensed . . .’

‘. . . none of your business . . .’

‘. . . your system . . . it’s wrong.’

Jimmy took a deep breath and let it go, then another and another, until he felt his heartbeat start to slow. A cellmate had once told him that thinking of a happy place would help. ‘Like where?’ he’d asked.

Suddenly there was another shout, indistinct this time. Then a cry of pain and a muffled thud, something heavy hitting the ground. Jimmy froze, not wanting to get involved, still regretting his confrontation with Goldilocks. Whatever was happening, it was someone else’s problem. Under his breath, he started to repeat his self-taught mantra.

‘Not my fight. Not my fight. Not. My. Fight.’

The silence bothered him more than the shouting and he wished the voices would start up again. Then he heard another noise, a dragging sound, that same heavy thing being pulled along the ground. But not towards him, away from him, towards the river. Now he wished it was silent again.

‘Not my fight,’ he whispered.

To his relief the dragging sound stopped. The loud splash that followed was worse though. Jimmy took one more deep breath, sat up slowly and looked across to where he’d last seen the men. The bricklayer was on his own now, his back to Jimmy, standing at the rail and peering at the river. The other man – the social worker – had vanished, his satchel now lying on the ground. After a few minutes, the tall man turned, picked up the bag and left.

As soon as he was out of sight, Jimmy went to the rail, Dog at his heels, and looked over. There was nothing to see. Just the black waters of the River Tyne, still as a grave.

*

Bloody buskers. Jimmy opened his eyes and stared at the blue sky through the open roof. A seagull screeched. The busker continued to whine on about somebody he used to know. Jimmy seemed to hear that song every day. The sound of the summer, he’d bet people called it. Dog yelped somewhere nearby.

Then he remembered. The bricklayer and the social worker. A fight of some kind, maybe. A splash. He sat up quickly and looked out of the pavilion. The optimistic early-morning busker had set up in front of the cruise boats. A street sweeper was driving his truck slowly along the path and one or two over-keen commuters were making their way into work. A normal day. Not a crime scene. No dead body floating in the river. No police tape. Nothing had changed.

Dog was chasing the seagull. Or maybe it was the other way around. It was hard to tell: one swooped and the other leapt, meeting somewhere in the middle. Dog came off worse this time, tumbling to the ground before turning and running back to the pavilion. A tactical retreat. Jimmy grabbed a handful of dog biscuits from the front of his backpack and held his palm out to the grateful terrier. The seagull looked on, perhaps considering whether it could take the pair of them. To Dog’s obvious disgust, Jimmy tossed one of the biscuits to the bird, who caught it in mid-air and immediately gulped it down.

Jimmy stared at the water, the light bouncing off it to the Sage, a giant mirrored music hall on the other side of the river, and back again. He could smell coffee. Glancing behind, he saw that a mobile food van had set up shop on the road behind the pavilion.

He turned back and watched as a tall, balding man in a black jacket stopped next to the busker. The man dropped a coin in a biscuit tin on the ground, and then turned to walk towards the pavilion. Jimmy pretended to be busy with his bag, waiting for the man to say something, but he walked straight up the steps, past him, and out the other side, heading for the offices across the square. Jimmy watched him and wondered if it was the same man he’d seen in the middle of the night; wondered if he’d even seen a man in the middle of the night. He’d had stranger dreams, lots of them, but something told him this one was real.

The man stopped at the coffee van and ordered something, turning to look at the river as he waited, his elbows resting on the counter. Jimmy adjusted his position so he could keep an eye on him without making it obvious. The man was certainly big enough and the jacket looked similar, but it had been dark and he’d been half asleep.

Once his coffee was ready the man remained at the van, sipping carefully, occasionally glancing over at the pavilion. Gadge reckoned Jimmy was paranoid but he knew that people were always looking at him. He could feel it even when he couldn’t see it. And this time it wasn’t just a feeling. The man nodded as if to acknowledge him.

Jimmy began to gather up his stuff, ready to run, but there wasn’t time. The man had thrown his empty cup into a small bin outside the van and was walking back over to him. Jimmy stuffed his sleeping bag into his rucksack but the man was already at the steps, pulling something shiny out of his pocket, shiny like a blade. He walked up the steps and stopped, his black Doc Martens brushing against the edge of Jimmy’s rucksack, and dropped a couple of coins onto the ground next to Jimmy.

‘Get yourself a cup of tea, mate,’ he said.

5

Grey Street, Newcastle, June 8, 2012

Friday night. Jimmy and Gadge sat in a doorway staring at a middle-aged woman in a skin-tight pink dress taking a piss in an alley.

A moment earlier she had tailed off the back of a hen party, stumbled into the narrow gap between a karaoke bar and a low-rent fast-food joint, hiked her dress around her waist and squatted down. Four feet from the main drag.

‘Divvn’t fancy yours much,’ Gadge laughed.

The woman looked up.

‘Porvorts!’ she shouted, raising her middle finger at them, while still, somehow, maintaining her balance on her haunches. Gadge saluted her back with his can of Tennants.

‘Guilty, pet,’ he said.

The trail of urine crept out of the alley and ran down the pavement in a manky echo of the Lort Burn, an open sewer that followed the same route back in the day. Or so Gadge said. Jimmy didn’t do history.

‘You can’t escape history,’ Gadge said, ‘specially. . .