Witness - [45]

Zak’s head was going to blow up so he sat down on the steps of the ladder and had a smoke. There was no way he could get back up to the skylights, no way. So, he’d have to find another way out. He was worried about Bess, she’d be getting hungry.

There was only one option, he’d have to get out through the roller shutters. Zak ate some fruitcake and drank some whisky while he strung together enough extension cables to reach the shutters that led to the loading bay. He plugged in the drill. His fingers were slippery with blood by now so he fixed up the cuts with plasters from a car first aid kit then turned on the drill. The drill snarled and sparked, dancing off the metal and sheering away, making a shrieking noise swiftly accompanied by the bowel-emptying scream of the alarm system. He kept going, the pain in his wrist gnawing like a cold burn, but the only impact he could make was a series of little scratches and pockmarks on the rippling shutters.

When he stopped he could hear the sound of an engine and Bess barking. He watched the shutters crank open and saw first the legs then the rest of an Asian guy, and two police officers, and Bess wagging her tail.

‘I can pay for the damage,’ Zak told the Asian guy. ‘Or work it off?’ The man swore at Zak in English and some other language and motioned for the police to take him. They arrested him and Zak kicked off, refusing to go anywhere without Bess, swearing that there was no one who could look after her. ‘You make me leave her and I’ll get the RSPCA on yer.’

‘She’ll go in the pound,’ one of the coppers said.

‘Fine, I can’t leave her here, can’t abandon her.’

They walked him round to fetch her and let her into the car with him. Zak told her she was a good girl and she licked his face. ‘It’ll be right,’ he told her. But he knew he was fucked.

They booked him in and put him in a cell and then took him to an interview room. He started trying to tell them that it was a prank gone wrong, that he just wanted a bed for the night, wasn’t after robbing ’owt.

‘The store has internal CCTV,’ one of the coppers said. ‘Light activated.’

The other one winked. ‘You’ve been framed.’

Zak imagined it: his plundering the shelves, the action with the lump hammer on the padlock.

He laid his head on his arms.

‘Sit up, son,’ the copper said. ‘I am charging you with breaking and entering, going with intent to burgle, attempted theft and criminal damage.’ Then he read the caution. He asked Zak if he had anything to say.

‘Will they put us inside?’ His throat was aching and his knee jigging all on its own.

‘Oh yes. You’ll not walk away from this one.’

He’d lose Bess. They’d put him in prison with all the nutters and the hard men. Lock him in. Zak couldn’t stop shaking.

‘Is there anything else?’ the copper said.

‘Yeah.’ Zak wiped at his nose, pressed his hands between his knees, rocking forward. ‘I want witness protection. I seen who shot Danny Macateer.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Mike

Vicky didn’t see the letter; Mike watched out for it after Joe Kitson’s call. The post didn’t come till lunchtime most days and by then Vicky was usually out doing The Perms. He’d been able to hide it and didn’t let on when she got in from work.

He needn’t have bothered. Granada Reports had it as the top story. Police have charged two men onsuspicion of the murder of Danny Macateer in Junelast year. Vicky turned to him. ‘Did you know about this?’

Mike shook his head slowly.

‘You’ll have to tell them now, Mike, that you’re stepping down, you won’t give evidence.’

Stepping down, Mike thought, sounded weird, like he had some smart executive position that he was giving up to ‘spend more time with his family’. What she should have said was running away. ‘I will,’ he said.

‘You’d better. Now it’s definitely on, we’re sitting ducks.’ She was paranoid again, her eyes like marbles, her face tight. ‘Ring them.’

‘They won’t be there, now,’ Mike told her, ‘I’ll go in the morning.’

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’

She was still looking at him sideways, her antennae on full alert.

‘I promise,’ he repeated, louder than he meant to.

‘No need to yell at me,’ she told him.

Joe Kitson kept him waiting fifteen minutes which Mike reckoned was fair enough given he’d turned up on spec and the man must be busy.

Joe came out and shook his hand then took him through and along a corridor past various offices and up a flight of stairs. A different place from last time. There were posters and noticeboards along the way: everything from car crime and property marking to first aid training and Drink Aware.

Joe led Mike into a small room. ‘Tea? Coffee?’

‘I’m fine,’ Mike told him.

‘Wise choice,’ Joe smiled. ‘How can I help?’

Mike had practised what he’d say, tried it out in his mind this way and that but not found any way to make it sound right.

‘I can’t be a witness,’ he said bluntly. ‘I can’t do it.’

Joe Kitson just gave a half-nod. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘It’s the wife,’ Mike explained. ‘First off, someone broke in, nicked the telly. Then she had this car crash, she reckons they were trying to run her off the road.’