Read Online Big City Jacks by Nick Oldham - Free Book Online

with an ugly-sounding tearing of metal, then winched into place on the back of the recovery truck. He knew the garage had a secure compound in which the cars would be stored. He instructed the recovery driver to ensure that no one, other than himself and crime scene investigators, had access to the cars. Henry wanted to see if a bullet could be dug out of the stolen Escort.
    He phoned Anger as the fully loaded recovery vehicle was driving away. It was a very satisfying moment to hear the sleep-jumbled voice at the other end of the line.
    Just following orders.
    Well in that case, Mr Anger, I’ll follow them to the letter, Henry thought.
    His smile was warped as the conversation ended and Henry folded up his mobile phone.
    â€˜Right,’ he then said to himself, suddenly feeling a chill from the Irish Sea. ‘Let’s go and knock on a door.’
    Lynch and Bignall drove across the breadth of Lancashire and back into the Greater Manchester area without incident. Both men were at cracking point on the journey, not surprising as the dead body of Keith Snell, low-level low life, was folded up neatly inside the boot of their motor, covered by an oily blanket. One pull by a curious cop, one pull by a cop who wasn’t impressed by their credentials, would have ended the game for them there and then. Such a cop would have found a murder victim, the best part of £25,000, an injured passenger, a revolver and a shotgun. It would have made the cop’s career.
    But their journey was uninterrupted and no cops were even spotted.
    Lynch, at the wheel, mumbled angrily to himself for much of the way. He was annoyed at having to heave Snell’s body into the boot of the car with no assistance from his partner, who claimed that his injury prevented him from doing anything other than sitting there like a spare part, or as Lynch said, ‘Spare prat.’
    As spindly and light as Snell might have been, he still seemed to weigh a dead ton. Manoeuvring, dragging and heaving him into the car required a lot of effort and more time than Lynch would have liked to spend on the job.
    He was sweaty and panting when he finished and did not let up on reminding Bignall that he was a ‘soft, lazy, mardy-arsed twat’ for most of the journey.
    Wounded, hurting badly, pain increasing all the time, Bignall did not care. All he wanted was a doctor and some drugs.
    Lynch drove the full length of the M55, turned south on to the M6, then bore left towards Manchester on the M61. At the first junction he left that motorway and headed down to the M65, making Bignall stir from his torpor.
    â€˜Where we going?’
    â€˜We need to dispose of our chum in the back, don’t we? We’re not gonna take him home with us, are we?’
    Bignall groaned. ‘OK, OK.’
    â€˜I know just the place,’ Lynch declared.
    â€˜But you’re driving into Lancashire,’ Bignall said, protesting mildly.
    â€˜Yeah, but I’m gonna drive into Manchester another way . . . to somewhere quiet where we can dump him and then set fire to the fucker . . . I know just the place . . . Deeply Vale . . . peace guaranteed . . . which reminds me . . . need to get some petrol . . .’
    Bignall slumped down, now in agony. It was as though electrodes were being applied to him with shots of a million volts. He swore, felt weak . . . and passed out.
    Lynch shook his head with annoyance. Bignall was turning into a liability now. He sped quickly down the M65, exited at junction 8 and headed across the moors to the Rossendale Valley along the A56, a good fast dual carriageway taking him high above the old mill town of Accrington and towards Bury, which was back in Greater Manchester. Rain began lashing down as the car descended into Rossendale, driving as hard as the car, and also annoying Lynch.
    Before the A56 merged to become the M66 – a motorway which speared into the heart of Manchester – Lynch came off and drove towards