It had been easy enough to spot Franks waiting at Piccadilly station. In amongst the harried commuters, groups of city-break tourists dragging their tiny suitcases along behind them and weary station staff in their dark blue anoraks, Franks stood out a mile. Maybe he’d been in London too long, maybe he just always stood out. Either way Dean had no trouble finding him.
Franks was stood beneath the departures board, furiously sucking away at a bright, red plastic vape pen, hopping from foot to foot. He was wearing the same all-black ensemble of tracksuit and ankle length padded jacket that he’d been wearing the day he’d been spirited out of Manchester under threat of death. Actually, something probably a lot worse than death.
Franks had every reason to look as nervous as he did. Franks was a grass.
Just over five years ago the police had reason to confiscate his electronic devices. What they found didn’t give them any more insight into how Franks fitted into the mid-sized, North Manchester drugs operation they were investigating but it did give them something – leverage.
In exchange for not ending up on the register and behind bars Franks agreed to cooperate with the Greater Manchester Police. That cooperation meant giving up every single member of the OCG he was a part of. The street kids below him who were making a few hundred a day moving product across the city. The guys just like Franks who had been put up in various properties which could be uses as stash houses one day and shooting galleries the next. And finally and most suicidally he’d given up Chris and Ryan Bain, the two brothers who with a little cunning and a lot of violence had set the whole operation in motion.
Chris and Ryan believed in a hands-on approach. That meant face to face meetings. Handshakes and verbal agreements. If someone stole they got a visit from one of the brothers. If product was coming in then it was one of the brother’s who’d pick it up. No one was trusted with anything that could bring the whole thing crashing down. The brothers were more than happy to get their hands dirty.
As the rest of the Manchester underworld began to realise that through their use of the encrypted network DLChat, the police had effectively hacked their operations top to bottom, the Bains, by keeping it old school, had kept off the radar. As their rivals fell one by one Chris and Ryan went from a pair of Salford scallies riding their luck to bona-fide kingpins almost overnight.
Until Franks gave up everything.
Dean kept a few paces ahead of Franks, checking every once in a while that the man was still behind him. He had his orders from Malton. Someone wanted to meet Franks. As far as he knew it someone wanting to give him job. Witness protection had spirited Franks down to London where he’d done about as well as any lad, born and bred in Eccles and dumped in the big city would do. That is to say Franks wanted to come home bad enough that maybe even the Bain brothers weren’t going to persuade him otherwise.
Franks wasn’t small. He was nearly six foot and easily sixteen stone, maybe more. His tiny face floated in the middle of a large, bald head and he had the misfortune to look like he was constantly in the midst of sneering laughter. It was the kind of face that was looking for a slap. But even Franks knew that coming back home was a high risk move. With his collar up and his vape pen firmly lodged in his mouth he scurried behind Dean, down the stairs to the undercroft where the black cabs waited and across the road to where Dean had discreetly parked just outside the entrance to Freight Island – the all year round, outdoor food court, doing its best to ignore the fact that for almost three hundred of the three hundred and sixty five days of the year, it rained in Manchester.
What had brought Franks back home wasn’t just homesickness but an offer to pick up where he left off. Running street dealers, bashing down product and making money hand over fist. The cosy, easy life he was forced to turn his back on lest GMP look too closely at his hard drive. A nonce and a grass. Dean felt his skin crawl as Franks instinctively hopped in the back of the car and settled into the seat as if Dean was nothing more than a mini-cab picking up another fare.
Dean wished it were that simple. The job offer was nothing but bait. While the Bains were looking at double digit sentences that would take them well into retirement it had become clear that there was a third figure in the operation. A silent partner if you will. Someone with money and reach who, in the Bains, saw talent and had watched his investment more than pay off. But now the Bains were going away that silent partner had begun to become a little worried about just what Franks had held back by way of insurance.
Dean’s job was to deliver Franks to the silent partner who in all probability would then make sure that it was Franks who was the silent one.
The car stank of Frank’s vape. He sat low in the back seat, cowering a little as he watched Manchester pass him by. Dean knew it must be disorientating for Franks. He’d been gone nearly five years. In that time the inner ring road had been populated with half a dozen new hotels reaching up into the sky. The city centre had been gifted a dozen more tower blocks while the Mancunian way’s overpass now sailed along, halfway up a string of new blocks of student accommodation. In the shortest possible time Manchester had changed beyond all recognition.
Dean was running to keep up. While Malton seemed to take it in his stride, quietly letting slip the tiny details that let Dean know he was already five steps ahead of the city he’d been operating in for most of his adult, Dean was out every night visiting new clubs and bars. Both keeping track of Malton Security contracts as well as networking and getting to know who was setting up where. Anticipating conflicts, theorising solutions to problems before they arose. The speed at which Manchester was changing made it a full-time job.
Franks craned his head upwards yet again as Dean drove him past the AO arena and the vast new university campus where the Boddingtons brewery had once stood. Frank’s head was kept on a swivel as on both side of the inner ring road they were thrown into shadow by the forest of new developments.
Franks goggled like a child, half scared, half in awe.
Franks was either very brave or very stupid because the one thing Dean didn’t sense from Franks was anything like fear. He’d fled the city into witness protection with a couple of Osman orders - the police notification of a serious threat to life - to send him on his way. But now Dean was driving him to his almost certain death and he suspected nothing.
Dean stopped at the lights at the junction which would take them out towards Salford and the derelict MOT garage in Langworthy which would be Franks final destination.
‘London’s got fuck all on Manchester,’ said Franks, finally speaking. In the rear view mirror Dean saw that slappable smirk wrapped around his vape pen. ‘True what they say, them Southerners? Bunch of stuck up cunts. The kind of shit they get excited about down there? Fuck me, I should never have left.’
Dean saw Franks was sitting up a little straighter, cowering a little less. Maybe it was being out of the city centre or maybe a ten minute drive was all it took for Franks to forget that he’d grassed up some of the heaviest criminals Manchester had to offer. Could he really be this stupid?
Dean began to get a deeply unwelcome feeling in his gut. A churning unease that he knew all too well. It was his conscience calling. Malton usually had a great knack at putting into context the kind of work they did. They solved crime for criminals. They didn’t touch the straight world. No one in their orbit was innocent. What Malton had set up was a modus operandi that didn’t take sides, didn’t judge and definitely didn’t dispense any kind of justice. What Malton did was simply move the pieces around on the board for whoever was paying him to do it. Every time it seemed like maybe a line had been crossed Malton had surprised Dean, revealing a final piece to the puzzle. A last flourish which saw balance restored and Malton’s hands clean.
This felt very different. This felt like leading a lamb to the slaughter. This felt like murder.
‘Look at that!’ marvelled Franks as they drove past the Salford University. What would have been a semi-derelict street of empty properties when Franks left was now a towering, albeit deserted, high street. ‘Tell you what,’ said Franks, cloying, white smoke tumbling out of his puckered mouth, ‘I cannot fucking wait to get back on it. London? Looks big? It’s fucking not. Hundreds of little shitty gangs fighting over little shitty bits of the whole fucking shithole. Manchester? Now that’s somewhere you can fucking get stuck in. Make your mark. No wonder they wanted me back.’
Dean felt like slamming on the brake. Turning the car around. Stopping and ordering Franks to get out and run for his life. Here he was marvelling at how he was going pick straight back up from where he left off. In reality he was about to be beaten, tortured and murdered by the silent partner. What was Malton thinking doing a job like this? Giving it to Dean?
It didn’t take long before the city gave way to the brown field backside of Langworthy. Driving up Langworthy road towards Dean knew that it was now or never. If he was going to do something he was running out of time.
But what could he do? Tip Franks off? Would Franks even believe him? Drop Franks at the wrong location? Let him wander about, give up and go back to London? While the silent partner took it up with Malton? But then Franks was a grass. Worse, he was a grass with a hard drive full of kiddie porn. If anyone deserved what was coming Franks’ way it was Franks.
Still, that sick feeling in Dean’s guts wouldn’t budge.
Dean’s brain was so preoccupied with trying to wriggle out of delivering Franks to his inevitable fate that he didn’t even notice as he pulled up in front of the derelict MOT garage.
Dean pulled to as top in the long grass in front of the closed shutters at the front of the garage. It was a little way from the terraced houses of Langworthy road. A spot of neglected land, a little too near the railway tracks for anyone to want to claim. It was there someone had once built the MOT garage. A squat, square brick building. Now covered in graffiti and weeds. It had laid abanonned and unloved for a couple of decades now. The perfect place to make a man like Franks disappear.
‘Out you get,’ chirped Franks from the back. ‘You’re coming in with me. Case something funny happens. I got Craig Malton’s word on this one. You think I’d come back without that?’
Now Dean really did feel sick. Malton’s word was probably the most reliably solid currency in the Manchester underworld. Malton didn’t sell drugs, didn’t rob or extort. He had stayed as neutral as it was possible to be. His word was all Malton had. So why would risk it to help off someone like Franks?
‘Not got all fucking day,’ said Franks getting out the back.
Dean’s head raced. Something definitely felt wrong as he got out of the driver’s side and joined Franks amongst the weeds. The constant rain had left he ground soft and the long grass brushed against their legs soaking their clothes. There was a faint smell of dog shit in the air.
Dean set off walking towards the garage. Ahead of him was a side door. The long grass approaching the door had been recently trodden down. Whoever it was who would be waiting inside for Franks.
Franks was back on his vape. The stink of it sticking in the wet air. Dean had seen some bad things in his time working for Malton but that didn’t mean he wanted to be there when whatever was behind that door befell Franks. He neither wanted to see the brutality nor the look on Franks’ face when he realised that Dean was complicit in it all.
Dean paused but Franks simply barged passed him and pushed on the door which swung open to reveal the dark interior. Franks paused on the threshold. For a moment the silence of the location enveloped both of them. Manchester was less than a mile down the road yet right now there was barely a sound. The gentle hum of distant traffic and nothing more. They felt like they were in the middle of nowhere.
‘After you,’ said Franks holding the door.
Now was the moment. The last chance for Dean to stop this slaughter. If he felt this bad now, how would he feel once he’d gone through with it? With the death of Franks on his conscience?
‘Fucking move,’ said Franks, a hand pushing into Dean’s back. A couple of steps and it was all academic. Dean was stumbling into the dry, stale darkness of the garage and Franks was right there behind him, excited for what he imagined was a lucrative offer to rejoin his place in the Manchester, criminal fraternity.
Inside the garage wasn’t quite totally dark. There was a dim light from a portable lamp in a far corner and standing in front of the light a man Dean didn’t recognise. With the light at his back he was in total silhouette, a black figure casting a long shadow across the concrete floor to where he and Franks stood.
Dean quickly looked around. There were several cracks of daylight through rotten bricks and damaged roofing but it seemed like the door they’d just passed through was the only way in or out. The lamp sat on the floor dazzling Dean but as his eyes got used to the gloom he felt sure that the only person there was the figure in silhouette. Maybe this wasn’t going to be a drawn out business. Maybe Franks would be getting the kind of quick death that perhaps Dean could live with?
As soon as the figure opened his mouth Dean realised that was simply wishful thinking.
‘I saw Chris and Ryan Bain come up as lads,’ said the figure.
‘You what?’ said Franks.
The door behind them slammed shut. Franks span back and ran to it, grabbing the handle. But it was already locked.
‘I taught them stuff,’ said the figure. He was moving towards them now. Dean wondered how on earth he’d ended up here. ‘And when I thought they were ready I gave them the money and the contacts to get started.’
‘You fucking cunt,’ said Franks turning on Dean.
Dean threw his hands up but before he could say anything Franks was back to the door, hammering away.
‘I made Chris and Ryan and then you came along and opened your fucking, little grass mouth.’
Franks span back round, his face was going through several moods a second. Fear, shock, despair.
‘I never. I never said anything,’ he whined.
Dean quietly started to back away into the gloom. He’d driven this man here, to his execution. And now he’d have to watch it happen. What had Malton made him do?
‘You did. You said everything. But I knew you’d come back if you thought you could just pick right up. Because you’re a fucking idiot like that. And now you’re fucking dead idiot.’
Dean instinctively span away from Franks as a gunshot rang off the hard, damp walls of the empty garage.
Dean kept moving, his feet taking him away from what his brain told him would be Franks body. He turned back as he moved, some part of that churning feeling in his gut forcing him to look at what he’d been a part of. But as he turned he saw the one thing he wasn’t ready for.
Franks was stood, just like him, half curled up, half turned away. But he was still alive. Shaking. A high pitched moan coming from him. Dean turned and there lying in the middle of the garage floor, splayed out and quiet dead was the silhouetted man. Now the light fell over him Dean could see him clearly. He didn’t recognise him. He was in his fifties, going grey but in good shape. He was overalls but from the look of him he wasn’t a big one for manual work. A few feet from him lay a gun that must have fallen from his hand. In the middle of his chest was large hole.
‘Fucking hell, you shot him,’ said Franks realising that he was still alive. He uncurled, slowly at first and then fully, the smirk returning to his face. ‘You fucking shot him! Nice one.’
‘I shot him,’ said a voice from somewhere in the darkness. A voice that sounded wet and muffled. As if the speaker was talking from behind his hands. A voice that Dean instantly recognised.
Behind them the door opened and two large men, dressed very similarly to Franks squeezed themselves into the garage. They stood blocking the door as out of the shadows strolled Danny Mitchum.
The dim light of the garage hung about the melted remains of Danny’s face. The result of a botched attempt on his life. The industrial brick cleaner that had been poured all over him disfiguring but somehow not killing him. Danny was left totally blind, his face a distant memory. It had barley slowed him down.
He walked into the middle of the garage, stood over the body and with a great deal of guttural throat clearing he spat a thick wad of saliva onto the corpse’s face.
‘Fucking steal from fucking me will you? Cheeky cunt.’
Dean saw Danny had his own gun. Danny was barely five seven and less than twelve stone. The gun he had in his hand would have dwarfed him were it not the for the immense, malevolent aura that Danny seemed to project.
‘You doing alright there Dean? The things you do for your fucking boss.’ Danny let out a shrieking laugh which was picked up by the two thugs in the doorway.
‘This is bullshit,’ said Franks sounding more outraged than afraid. ‘You said he was going to give me a job. You fucking set me up.’
He turned to Dean who couldn’t work out what threw him more – the dead body, Danny Mitchum or this whole situation. He was about to open his mouth when Danny jumped in.
‘Leave Dean alone you cunt. He was only doing what he was told. Bet you thought you were delivering this guy to get fucking killed?’ Danny started laughing again.
Suddenly Dean put it all together.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ said Franks angrily.
‘This wasn’t about Franks was it?’ said Dean warily.
‘Nope,’ said Danny smugly.
‘And Malton wouldn’t deliver someone to his death like that,’ said Dean, his voice gaining confidence as he finally saw the bigger picture.
‘Our Craig’s no fucking fun like that. With his fucking rules,’ said Danny. He’ll find the cunt for you but he won’t serve him up. Lazy prick.’
‘What the fuck are you two on about?’ said Franks ‘I came all the way from London for this.’
‘You came all the way from London to be bait,’ said Dean.
‘You what?’
‘This cunt,’ said Danny kicking the corpse, ‘has been robbing from me. Very discrete bastard he is too. I needed a way to get him out in the open. And if there’s one thing that would do the job, it’s getting to off a grass cunt like you.’
‘So where’s my job?’ said Franks.
Dean saw Danny shaking his head.
‘Fuck me, how a cunt like you stitched up the Bain brothers,’ said Danny sadly. ‘There’s no fucking job you fucking moron. You were here to draw out this bastard. Now he’s dead and you can fuck off back to London.’
That was the real job. Malton was working for Danny. Finding whoever it was who was now lying dead on the floor. Dean had simply been the driver. Malton had just been doing a job. He’d stayed neutral, kept his hands clean. True, he’d kept Dean in the dark but as Dean thought it through he couldn’t help but feel a little guilty for imagining that Malton would throw away his reputation so cheaply.
Franks turned to Dean and broke into his train of thought, ‘You cheeky bastard. Get me back to the station.’
‘But before you do, I got someone who’d like a word,’ said Danny, jumping in before Dean could speak.
The two giant men stepped aside and a couple more men, both in overalls like the dead man, entered the garage.
‘Malton wouldn’t serve a cunt like you up. Don’t mean I wouldn’t,’ said Danny. ‘I think you know these two. They tell me they used to work for you.’
Franks’ eyes were wide now. Even he was putting it together. He turned to Dean, ‘ What have you done to me?’
‘He’s not done a fucking thing,’ spat Danny. ‘You on the other hand.’
The two men in overalls advanced on Franks. From what Dean could see they were younger, thinner, hungrier.
‘I didn’t say anything,’ said Franks quickly. ‘Come on lads, you know me.’
The men in overalls didn’t say a thing. They didn’t have to.
‘Bye Dean,’ said Danny.
Dean didn’t need telling twice. Danny’s goons parted and Dean stumbled out into the daylight. The grass still wet, the earthy smell of dog shit still hanging in the dew. The garage door slammed behind him and by the time he was in his car and pulling away he could barely hear the screams.
Settle the Score, book Four in the Manchester Underworld Series comes out on the 27th of June.
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