When the Night Ends Read online

  When the Night Ends

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  February 21, 2018

  Chapter One

  November 1, 2021

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  November 2, 2021

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  November 3, 2021

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  November 4, 2021

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  November 5, 2021

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  6 November 2021

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  7 November 2021

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  November 8, 2021

  Chapter Ninety

  Chapter Ninety-One

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  Chapter Ninety-Four

  Chapter Ninety-Five

  Two Weeks Later

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  Canelo Crime

  About the Author

  Also by M J Lee

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  For the lads: Dave, John and Pete.

  February 21, 2018

  Chapter One

  Sergeant Tony Saunders glanced at the clock on the wall facing his desk.

  3.24.

  He stood up from his chair and stretched, yawning loudly as he did. Night shifts could be long and tedious as a custody sergeant if there wasn’t much happening.

  Outside the confines of Redbury Police Station, past the automatic doors, the night was as black as a pint of Chesters Mild and the wind howled through the trees. Sheets of icy rain sleeted down, flooding the roads in pools of water, battleship-grey under the neon street lights.

  The last dregs of winter were blowing hard, scouring the estates and gardens and houses of suburban Manchester.

  ‘Rather be nice and cosy in here than stuck outside in a car. This weather would sink the bloody Titanic,’ he said out loud to the empty custody reception.

  It had been a quiet night for him so far. After twenty-one years on the force, he really appreciated the peaceful times. It hadn’t always been like that, of course. As a young copper, he’d been happy to volunteer for a Saturday night shift in the city centre, diving into the various rucks that formed as the pubs and clubs shut, giving as good as he got.

  Now, in one of the suburban nicks at Redbury, he just hoped for a bit of peace and quiet.

  He checked the custody board. Just two cells occupied. One DUI picked up on the M60 with a blood alcohol content level of 0.19 per cent, according to the breathalyser. The duty doctor was coming in later to take a blood sample from the driver. The other contained some thug who had beaten up a man in a pub.

  He looked across at the CCTV monitors, each camera showing a different view of the cells, the station and the common areas. The pictures changed every five seconds, revolving through the bank of CCTV cameras positioned throughout the nick. So different from when he had started. No cameras then, just more coppers in every station.

  He missed those days. Life, and the police, had seemed so much easier.

  He focused on the cameras in the cells. The driver was sitting on the concrete ledge serving as a bunk, his head in his hands, guilt stabbing through every bone in his body.

  Serves the bugger right, thought Tony Saunders, he could have killed someone instead of being locked up for the night. Most nights he had a DUI in the cells and he had no pity for them. Anybody who drinks and drives deserves everything the courts throw at them and more.

  The second cell, number four, was occupied by the thug who’d started a fight in a pub and then just waited for the police to arrive, slowly finishing his pint. His victim, a father of three, lay groaning at his feet with a broken jaw. When the coppers arrived expecting trouble, he’d just stood up and held his arms out in front of him, saying, ‘You’re taking me to Redbury, aren’t you?’

  He’d been quiet as a lamb when he was booked in, giving his name and address and asking politely to make a phone call to his solicitor. Expecting trouble, Saunders had put him in Cell 4, well away from the DUI. He was now in the cell with his back against the wall, staring into thin air.

  ‘Can you go and have a look at number four, Terry?’ Saunders used the intercom on his desk to ask the custody detention officer.

  Terry Rodgers, an officer from one of the private security firms so often used these days, replied immediately. ‘I only checked him half an hour ago.’

  ‘Well, check him again. He’s awake and I don’t like the look of him.’

  The CDO muttered something beneath his breath and pushed through the doors leading to the cells, now known with heavy irony as the custody suites. But to Saunders, they would always be the cells. He had lost track of the number of newsletters, emails, messages, pamphlets, refresher courses and quiet words in his ear he had received in the last six months on the latest custody guidelines from the College of Policing and his bosses. The last one had been about the use of language, of course.


  Thugs were now detainees.

  The cells were custody suites.

  Lowlife were now customers.

  It was almost as if his bosses were more concerned about the rights of the criminal than of the victim.

  The door to the custody area reception slid open and two burly coppers burst in with a small, surly man sandwiched between them, his arms handcuffed in front of him.

  ‘I’m telling you I want to speak to Detective Inspector Brett. Just call him.’

  ‘What’s up, Chris?’ Sergeant Saunders asked the leading copper.

  ‘We had a tip-off from a local he was dealing out of his car. We stopped him and had a look. Found these.’ The young police constable held up a large evidence bag full of smaller bags, each containing a crystalline substance like rock sugar.

  ‘Crack?’

  ‘We think so, Sarge.’

  ‘Has he been cautioned?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  Saunders stared at the small man in front of him. A stained leather jacket, scraggly goatee and eyes darting left and right like a rat looking for an escape hatch. The man looked familiar. Had he been here before?

  ‘Just call Mark Brett, he’ll sort it all out.’

  Tony Saunders ignored him, addressing the police constable instead.

  ‘Have you searched him and informed him of his rights?’

  ‘Already done, Sarge.’

  ‘No problems with the arrest?’

  ‘He put up a bit of a struggle, but no real issues.’

  ‘If you call Mark Brett, he’ll sort it out,’ the man said, speaking slowly and enunciating each word.

  Tony Saunders turned towards the man. ‘Never heard of him,’ he said.

  ‘He’s National Crime Agency, just call him.’

  The sergeant tapped his computer, opening up a new custody record. ‘Name?’

  ‘Mark Brett.’

  ‘No, your name, pillock.’

  The man closed his eyes and sighed. Finally, he opened them and said in a bored voice, ‘Ben Holdsworth.’

  ‘Date of birth?’

  Another long sigh. ‘January 12, 1982.’

  Sergeant Saunders checked out the man. He seemed to be standing upright and his eyes were clear and focused. His answers were delivered quickly and without slurring. ‘Address?’

  ‘27 Church Street, Redbury.’

  The policeman had begun filling in the boxes on the custody record when he realised the address was the same as the police station. ‘Very funny. Address?’

  The man stayed silent, simply shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

  ‘I’ll put down no fixed abode. Mr Holdsworth, are you feeling unwell, dizzy, or uncomfortable? Would you like to see a health professional?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you taken drugs or any other substances?’

  Another long sigh. ‘No.’ The man leant forward suddenly. ‘Just call Mark Brett, will you?’ He banged his handcuffed fists on the Plexiglas screen in front of Saunders.

  The two coppers on either side immediately jerked him away from the custody desk.

  ‘Right, Mr Holdsworth, I have reason to detain you under the 1994 Drug Trafficking Act with intent to supply a Class A substance.’ The voice became a monotone as he recited the words he had said a thousand times before. ‘I am going to repeat the caution to make sure you have understood. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention now something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  He paused, waiting for a reaction from the detainee. When there was none, he continued. ‘You have the right to a legal adviser. If you do not have one, one will be appointed for you.’

  The man remained silent.

  ‘Is there anyone you would like to be informed of your detention?’

  Again a sigh. ‘Just call Mark Brett.’

  ‘You are aware you will be under surveillance during your time in Redbury station. The details are set out here. You also have the right to consult the codes of practice.’ He picked up the laminated sheet, delineating the various rights of detainees. ‘Please read it and sign on the dotted line.’

  Ben Holdsworth glanced briefly at the sheet before stating, ‘I ain’t signing nothing.’

  Tony Saunders made a note of his refusal to sign on the custody record. He added the offence and the grounds for detention before finally asking, ‘Would you like to speak to a solicitor or inform anybody of your detention?’

  ‘Like I’ve said at least a thousand times, just call Mark Brett of the National Crime Agency. He’s in Warrington.’

  Saunders made a note of the request. ‘As it is now 3.40 a.m., the National Crime Agency offices are closed. However, I have made a note on the custody record and the custody inspector will evaluate your request as soon as possible.’

  ‘I want to call him myself. You have to let me call someone, and as you are not an inspector or higher rank, the right cannot be refused.’

  Tony Saunders raised his eyebrow. ‘We’ve got a right one here, Chris.’

  ‘Knows his rights, does this one.’

  Saunders narrowed his eyes. ‘Been here before, have you?’

  ‘Just let me call him.’

  Saunders pointed to the telephone on the left-hand side of the custody desk.

  The man picked it up and immediately called a number, waiting patiently as it rang. And rang. And rang.

  ‘I’d like to try again.’

  ‘Be our guest.’

  Again, the man tapped in the number.

  Again, no answer.

  ‘I’d like one more call.’

  ‘You’ve had two attempts already.’

  ‘They didn’t go through. I want to ring my mum this time. Let her know where I am.’

  Tony Saunders sighed. ‘Go ahead, but make it quick.’

  Ben Holdsworth dialled a new number. After three rings the phone was answered.

  Saunders could only hear one side of the conversation.

  ‘Hi, Mum, I’ve been nicked… yeah… yeah… don’t worry, I’ll be out in the morning… yeah… yeah… sorry, Mum.’

  He put the phone down, and, visibly deflated, shuffled back to face Tony Saunders.

  ‘Isn’t that heart-warming, Chris, a drug dealer who loves his mum?’

  ‘Enough to make you weep, Sarge.’

  ‘Would you like to make any other calls?’ asked Saunders sarcastically.

  Ben Holdsworth shook his head.

  As if by magic, two muscular detention officers appeared on either side of the detainee.

  ‘As you have been arrested on drugs charges, I am authorising a full body search.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  Saunders tapped on the keyboard. ‘I just have. Take him away, lads, and be careful to record his belongings. When you’ve finished put him in number three.’

  Terry Rodgers grabbed Ben Holdsworth’s left arm while the other detention officer, Lucas Harvey, took hold of the right wrist. ‘Come this way, and don’t give us any trouble.’

  For a second, the man struggled before the grip tightened and he was led to the search room.

  ‘We’ll complete the arrest logs and let the duty inspector know, Sarge.’

  ‘Thanks, Chris. Looks like a good collar.’

  ‘Bit of luck. The stuff was on the front seat next to him. Bloody idiot.’

  Sergeant Saunders checked the custody record twice, making sure every detail was correct, and completing the endless forms. These days, they could be pulled up for the slightest error. Better to be safe than sorry.

  As he finished, he looked up to the CCTV to see the door of Cell 3 open. Ben Holdsworth was shoved roughly into the cell by the detention officers, stumbling forward before turning and shouting something loudly at the closing door. Luckily the CCTV in the cells didn’t have sound – after all, what was there to hear except a torrent of abuse or a nightmare of snoring?

  Fo
r a minute or so, the man banged on the door of his cell before turning, stopping, kicking his foot against the concrete floor and falling forward against the wall above his bunk.

  Had he hit his head?

  Tony Saunders leant forward to look more closely at the monitor.

  The man lay on his bunk for a few seconds, before standing up, shaking his head and raising his middle finger towards the camera.

  Tony Saunders remembered the fierce anger in the man’s eyes.

  Where had he seen him before?

  His attention on the monitors was interrupted by the squawk of the radio on the desk.

  ‘Hi, Sarge, this is Dan Hampson, we’ve just caught four kids trying to nick a BMW from outside a house. Homeowner saw them and called us in. They tried to do a runner, but ran straight into Jamie in the other car, stupid choughs, ETA nine minutes.’

  ‘How old are they?’

  ‘Young, boss. I reckon none of them are older than fourteen, plus one is a girl.’

  ‘OK, I’ll warn child services. We’ll get the addresses and the parents down here when they come to the station.’

  ‘Word of warning, they’re a little feisty, Sarge. I reckon they’re on speed or something.’

  Through the radio, Saunders could hear Dan Hampson talking to one of the kids.

  ‘Keep still or you’ll be cuffed.’

  ‘Don’t touch me, copper, or I’ll have you,’ one of the young lads snarled.

  ‘What’s this?’ Another copper’s voice. ‘What are you doing with this relay amplifier?’

  ‘Science project at school, you arse.’

  ‘What’s up, Jamie?’ Saunders asked.

  ‘Looks like they’ve got a relay transmitter and an amplifier, boss. Obviously they were going to nick the car.’

  ‘Didn’t nick anything, you tosser.’

  ‘They’re using relay transmitters? How old did you say they were?’

  ‘I’d guess about fourteen, but they could be younger, Tony.’

  ‘OK, thanks for the heads-up. If they’re on drugs, I’ll check when the duty doctor can get here.’

  Tony Saunders scratched his head, feeling the thinning hair between his fingers. He seemed to be losing more and more every day. After twenty years on the job, his hair was starting to feel the pressure. He put it down to wearing the helmet for all the time he was on the beat. Bloody thing never did fit properly.

  The radio squawked again.

  ‘Sit still or you’ll get a backhander.’

  ‘You and whose army, copper? And you can’t hit us, we’re underage.’