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  Snake Pass: A Resurrection Man Novel © 2015 by Colin Campbell.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2015

  E-book ISBN: 9780738744797

  Cover design: Kevin R. Brown

  Cover illustration: Dominick Finelle/July Group

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  For Donna:

  more than an agent;

  not just a friend.

  Thanks.

  There’s always a way of getting the job done. Nose to the grindstone trumps thumb up the arse every time.

  —Jim Grant

  21:50 hours

  Jim Grant was pissed off long before he got to Snake Pass on Thursday night. Before the snow began to fall and the entire world decided to shoot it out at the Woodlands Truck Stop and Diner. He was already pissed off three hours earlier when he parked his patrol car across the mouth of Edgebank Close and turned the engine off. Ravenscliffe Avenue stretched out behind him like a nighttime runway with half the lights missing. Ravenscliffe woods bulked up against the night sky beyond the houses in the cul-de-sac. He was four hours into his ten-hour shift, a half-night tour of duty that started at six in the evening.

  Being pissed off meant he wasn’t going to make it until four.

  PC Grant adjusted the stab vest under his uniform jacket and drummed the fingers of his right hand on the steering wheel. He stared at the house at the end of the short, stubby street. He looked calm and relaxed and completely un-pissed off on the outside. That was one of his strengths. It was why Sergeant Ballhaus had made him a tutor constable and why the fresh-faced young constable in the passenger seat didn’t know to keep quiet.

  “But isn’t that unethical?”

  “What?”

  Constable Hope was carrying on the conversation they’d been having for most of the shift. Being eighteen years old and in the first six months of his service meant he didn’t know when the subject was closed.

  “Ignoring a crime just because you’re off-duty?”

  “I’m not saying you should ignore it. Just don’t go charging in waving your warrant card with no radio and no backup.”

  “But your warrant card gives you authority as a police officer throughout England and Wales.”

  “Doesn’t give you shit-all in a pub fight with no baton and stab vest.”

  “But—”

  Grant held up a hand for Hope to be quiet.

  “Case in point. Young copper I knew goes for Chinese down at Mean Wood junction. Pubs are shutting. Lot of drunks ordering takeaway. Trouble brews. A fight ensues. Young copper whips out his warrant card and orders them all to cease and desist. What do you think happened?”

  Hope tried to keep the hero worship off his face. Listening to a legend of the West Yorkshire Police recounting tales of derring-do was like manna from heaven for the young probationer constable. He answered with a question.

  “They didn’t cease and desist?”

  “They did not. He got the shit kicked out of him and spent three days in the hospital. The riot he provoked wrecked the Chinese place and two shops on either side of it and put everybody on double shifts for a week. Point is, drunks fighting each other are par for the course. Serves ’em right if they’ve got sore heads and a few bruises the following morning. It’s no big deal.”

  “What about theft?”

  “What about it?”

  “Should you ignore a theft?”

  Grant let out a sigh. This kid never gave up. It was one of the things Grant liked about him. He could be exasperating at times, though.

  “Judgment call. Another example. Inspector Speedhoff was down at the supermarket with his kids, aged two and four. Spots some dickhead nicking citric acid for his drug habit. Wades in to make an off-duty arrest. What do you think happened?”

  Hope smiled.

  “He got the shit kicked out of him?”

  “In front of his kids. They had nightmares for weeks. Citric acid isn’t exactly the great train robbery. Let it slide. Or, if you feel strongly, tell the store detective. But don’t go wading in without communication or backup. Off-duty is off-duty.”

  The engine purred. Exhaust fumes plumed into the cold Yorkshire air. The cul-de-sac was quiet. The house at the end of the street was mostly in darkness, apart from a light in the upstairs landing. Hope displayed why he was a prospect for the future and had been paired with Grant.

  “Don’t you think we should communicate for backup before we go in?”

  “We’re not off-duty.”

  Grant smiled at his protégé.

  “And it’s only an address check. We won’t need backup.”

  Grant turned the engine off and looked at the house through the windscreen. Hot metal ticked and popped under the bonnet as the engine cooled. The veteran had been here many times before, but he examined the front of the house again anyway. Standard procedure before going into action, address check or not.

  The house was a run-down three-bedroom semi, the left-hand half of the pair across the end of the cul-de-sac. The front aspect had a wide living room window and a narrow front door. Above them were the main bedroom window and the smaller spare room. Round the side of the house there was only a kitchen window and the upstairs landing window—the one with the light on. The kitchen door was in the rear aspect, hidden from view, but Grant knew what it looked like. Upstairs was the rear bedroom and the bathroom at the top of the stairs.

  Lee Adkins could be hiding in any one of those rooms.

  Grant stopped drumming his fingers and got out of the car. Hope got out of his side too. Both closed their doors quietly, making barely a click. The boy had smarts. Steam bloomed around his head in the cold night air as he waited for Grant’s instructions. Standard deployment for a house search was one covering the back in case the suspect tried to escape. An address check was much more low-key. It didn’t matter if someone jumped out of the back window. Except this wasn’t really an address check.

  “Go cover the back. You remember what I said?”
/>
  Hope nodded. “Stand at least six feet away from the house at the corner so I can see two aspects at the same time—the back and the side. But I thought this was just an address check?”

  Grant pulled his black leather gloves on.

  “Always best to be on the safe side.”

  “Everyone knows Lee Adkins lives here.”

  “Intelligence is only as good as the last time it was checked. You have to constantly update it. I’m updating it tonight. Now, get round the back.”

  Hope’s shoulders sagged.

  Grant was sorry he’d sounded so harsh. It was nothing personal. He just didn’t want the young lad with him when he went in. Some things you don’t need witnesses for. Some things you don’t want to burden your probationer with. He watched Police Constable Jamie Hope walk down the side of the house and disappear into the gloom, then took the bloodstained bus pass out of his pocket. The shaved head and surly eyes of Lee Adkins stared out from the plastic wallet. The blood smeared across the plastic wasn’t his.

  The slap across the face knocked Sharon Davis off her feet in the foyer of the rugby club on Harrogate Road. The second slap wasn’t a slap at all, it was a punch, and it was probably the blow that broke her nose and closed one eye. She kicked out in vain. Lee Adkins stepped in and thumped her three more times while she was on the floor. She stopped crying out after the second punch.

  The club reception miraculously emptied. The few customers waiting to pass through into the lounge bar vanished. The old-age pensioner manning the signing-in book behind the counter went into the office. Nobody witnessed the assault. That’s what the old man told Jim Grant when he responded to the report of a disturbance twenty minutes later.

  Grant crouched beside the shivering mass of blood and flesh that had once been the prettiest teenager on the estate. Nineteen years old going on ninety. Grant comforted her as best he could until the ambulance arrived. She feigned memory loss, but Grant knew she wouldn’t point the finger at the biggest thug in Ravenscliffe. The burgling, drug-dealing scumbucket Lee Adkins. Everyone was afraid of him. Everybody knew he was Sharon Davis’s boyfriend.

  After she’d been taken away, Grant let Hope take the report from the old man. A barebones affair that would be needed to write off the IBIS log back at the control room. There was enough evidence of an assault to record a crime, but with nobody willing to come forward as a witness and a complainant who was refusing to name her assailant, the statistics boys on the third floor would want to downgrade this from a Section 47 assault to a noisy disturbance. Meet the target figures for reducing violent crime.

  Grant made enquiries in the office. The CCTV cameras that covered the club inside and out weren’t recording tonight. There’d been plenty of recordings the night the club got burgled three weeks ago. That didn’t surprise Grant. He’d been trying to nail Adkins for eighteen months, but you couldn’t get a conviction without evidence or witnesses. Holding the estate in a grip of fear was the best protection the thieving bastard could have got. Except tonight he’d made a mistake.

  The plastic wallet had been lying under Sharon Davis’s crumpled body. Grant had picked it up when she was being carried to the ambulance. He flicked it open now while Hope finished taking the report. The cardboard bus pass was sealed inside the plastic. The shaved head and surly eyes stared up at him from the photograph. Lee Adkins’s face was covered in blood, the fresh redness smeared across his image. Grant slipped the wallet into his pocket and smiled. He could sense a tactical address check coming on.

  Grant closed the plastic wallet and put it back in his pocket. Hope was now safely out of the way. The house was still in darkness, apart from the light from the landing window. Grant flexed the fingers inside his leather gloves and took a deep breath. He let it out slowly, the cloud of vapor hiding his face for a moment, then strode down the garden path towards the front door.

  He threw one last glance to make sure that Hope hadn’t snuck down the side of the house. Some things you don’t need witnesses for. It was an adage that Lee Adkins lived by. Grant was simply using the villain’s strength against him. He raised his heavily booted foot and kicked the front door open.

  22:00 hours

  Adkins was in the bathroom. Through the open door at the top of the stairs, Grant could see the bathroom light spilling out onto the landing. The front door smashed backwards against the side of the hallway, its frame splintered to oblivion. Shards of wood stood out like porcupine quills around the lock. The house was clean and tidy, in contrast to the drug addicts’ homes that Adkins supplied. It smelled of soap and air freshener. Radio traffic squawked on Grant’s shoulder, the rest of the shift going about its business, unaware of the drama unfolding at 5 Edgebank Close.

  Grant flicked the hall and landing lights on and took the stairs two at a time. Speed was key once you’d forced the breach. Speed and light. He didn’t want to be stumbling through the shadows with his target holding the high ground. He might have been here many times before, but you had to expect the unexpected. The roller skates on the stair bed or the tripwire across the risers. He reached the landing before the front door had stopped quivering.

  Adkins stood up from the sink, his face dripping water.

  Grant leaned on the bathroom doorframe.

  “Cut yourself shaving?”

  The water swirling down the plughole was pink. Splatters of red dotted the washbasin. Adkins held a white towel in one hand, the knuckles stained with Sharon Davis’s blood, the towel painted in the stuff. Grant leaned forward, turned the tap off, and put the plug in. He snatched the towel out of Adkins’s hand.

  “You missed a bit.”

  He indicated the blood splatters on the side of Adkins face. He’d beaten the girl with such ferocity that the blowback had spread way beyond the knuckles that caused the damage. Blood that would tie him to the assault and prove the case if Sharon Davis hadn’t been too frightened to bring a case against the burgling drug dealer. Grant made a snap decision. The blood on the towel and Adkins’s knuckles would be enough.

  He whipped his free hand up and grabbed Adkins behind the head. The leather glove snatched a handful of hair and slammed the burglar’s face down into the sink. His nose and lip exploded. One eye swelled shut immediately.

  “How do you like it, fuckface?”

  Adkins was about to reply but Grant smashed his face into the sink again.

  “That was a rhetorical question.”

  Adkins’ knees buckled, and he flopped to the fluffy beige carpet that was now speckled with fresh blood. Grant was thinking clearly. He saw the drug dealer kneeling on the floor and the stripped pine bath panel in the background. He’d tried to get a search warrant for this house a dozen times but couldn’t get the paperwork past the magistrate. There had never been enough evidence to prove that Adkins was involved with all the crimes he was involved in. The spoils of those crimes were hidden in this house. The drugs and the money.

  Grant back-heeled the bath panel.

  “Oops.”

  The top of the panel opened slightly, leaving a two-inch gap. The preferred hiding place for drug dealers ever since the toilet cistern had been exposed on too many TV shows. Grant heard footsteps charge through the front door and made another snap decision. He didn’t want Hope getting caught having to lie about Adkins’s injuries. He pressed the transmit button on his shoulder.

  “Stop resisting.”

  Adkins threw Grant a confused look from the bathroom floor.

  Grant kept his finger on the transmit button and spoke into the open mike.

  “Put the weapon down. Don’t—”

  He turned his face to one side and head-butted the wall. The porcelain tiles cracked and cut his forehead. Releasing the transmit button, he reached down and grabbed Adkins’s right arm, twisting it behind the fallen burglar’s back. The footsteps bounded up the stairs. Grant could hear Hope sho
uting into his radio.

  “Officers need assistance—5 Edgebank Close.”

  He didn’t need to say urgent. Jane Archer knew that an officer-needs-assistance call was always urgent. The radio controller relayed the request over the airwaves, and every copper in Bradford stopped what they were doing and headed towards Ravenscliffe. That’s the way it worked on the frontline. Grant felt a pang of guilt at setting that in motion, but he was already looking at the bigger picture.

  Jamie Hope burst into the bathroom.

  Grant held up one hand to calm the probationer’s approach. He got to his feet, dragging Lee Adkins with him. He caught sight of his reflection in the wall mirror. Blood trickled down the side of his face from an ugly swelling above the right eye.

  Hope’s mouth dropped open.

  “Are you all right?”

  The most ridiculous question but also the most obvious. Grant decided to cut Hope some slack and not fire a sarcastic reply. He simply blinked his eyes instead of nodding, then jerked his head towards Adkins.

  “You should see the other fella.”

  Hope regained his composure. “I can see the other fella. What happened?”

  “Resisted arrest.”

  Hope showed again why he was a prospect for the future. He moved so that Grant blocked Adkins’s view and lowered his voice.

  “Arrest for what?”

  Grant pointed at the gap in the bath panel and pulled it open another couple of inches, careful not to disturb any fingerprints that would prove Adkins had opened the panel before. The rolls of banknotes were barely visible through the gap, but the bags of white powder stood out even in the dim bathroom light.

  “Eureka.”

  Hope proved he had a sense of humor to match his smarts.

  “Wasn’t that to do with water displacement in the bath? Not hidden drugs underneath it?”

  Grant wiped the blood from his eye.

  “Calculating weight by measuring displaced water—something like that. I’ll bet there’s enough weight in there to send this little bastard back to Her Majesty’s school of hard knocks.”