The Honey Talker

CHAPTER ONE

May 1st 1997 10.55pm

City centre, Manchester

It was time to leave. It was all getting too hazy, all conversation now just a buzz dulled by alcohol, the noise and the song, that song repeated for the umpteenth time. It was always in the background.

Richard lifted his pint. ‘Well, that’s that then, goodbye to the grey man and the bunch of back-stabbers.’ He drained his glass. ‘Another?’

Aidan shook his head. ‘Not this time.’ He stood up. ‘I have to get to bed. We’re going to be busy in the morning.’

Richard shrugged; his eyes on a loud, large group of women on the other side of the bar. ‘Lightweight,’ he said. ‘The night’s still young.’

Aidan followed his gaze. ‘I’d only cramp your style. See you tomorrow, Rich.’

He was up and away before Richard could protest. Richard might have fifteen or more years on Aidan but his capacity for alcohol and women were legendary, so he’d learned to his cost not to try to keep pace.

‘Things can only get better…’

The strains of the song that had been on repeat all night faded away as he left the bar.

Aidan laughed to himself. Yes, of course they could. They couldn’t get much bloody worse.

But still, jaded as he was, this did feel like a new start, a change, the sweeping away of the old inertia, corruption, sleaze, of the lack of progress or ideas.

Maybe it would rub off on him.

A branch of Curry’s had all the TV’s on in the window. All said the same thing: Exit Poll predicts New Labour landslide. Blair’s picture everywhere, grinning, waving.

Everyone was happy. People were laughing, partying. Let Richard do the same.

He knew what the election result meant for him; a lot of work. He’d be told to get quotes from the business world on how the local property industry was going to cope with Blair and Brown.

He reached his car. He only intended to get his coat out of it but now he was here and it was tempting to just get in and drive home. He shouldn’t, not with what he’d put away this evening, but he was expected to be in work first thing. If he took the tram and bus, it could take an hour. In the car, it would be fifteen minutes, tops.

Sod it, he thought. He’d just drive carefully. He was sure the police would be too busy with other stuff tonight anyway.

He got in and made the usual prayer as he turned the key: please start. He’d bought the Spyder on a whim, seen it on a car lot in Salford, had been seduced by its curves and bright red paintwork but the polish had concealed a myriad of problems that had plagued him from day one. Tonight, though it started at the first pull. He smiled; maybe things were really getting better.

He pulled out without checking the mirror.

There was a blaze of lights, a car’s horn was held down. Shit, whoever it was had really been moving.

‘Stupid fuck, you shouldn’t have been racing, should you?’

He wound down the window and gave the driver a middle finger, then put his foot down.

Time to get away. The Alfa was beautifully nimble in the city and by the time he’d reached the next straight street, a classic double row of Manchester terraces with cars parked on either side, there was no sign of the other car.

His relief was only momentary.

Brilliant blue-white headlamps appeared behind him, on full beam, then flashed as the car rushed up right behind him, the driver seemingly unaffected by the limited space caused by the unbroken line of cars lining each side of the street.

'What’s wrong with you?' Aidan shouted into his mirror. ‘Just fuck off.’

The sweat was pouring off him, the car's interior was bathed in light; it was as if the headlights were giving off heat like a pair of mini suns. Even with dipping his mirror, the light penetrated his retinas, cutting though them like razorblades. He could hardly see to drive.

There was a bang; one of his mirrors had gone, smashed against a parked car. Then there was another as his pursuer hit his rear bumper. It had to be something big and hefty chasing him, the impact briefly lifted the rear of the Alfa up, the engine racing as the wheels were robbed of the torque of the road surface.

‘You bloody nutter!’ Aidan fought to get the Alfa back under control when it landed.

That had done some damage, he was sure, but he wasn’t going to stop to check. He was soon going to have bigger problems; here the other car couldn't get by but at the end of the street was a main road, wider with room to overtake.

He should stop now and face them down.

He shook his head.

No way. He didn’t want a beating.

He would take his chance; maybe the police would see them, stop them. Sod the breathalyser, he’d take that now.

He turned right, towards the Quays. The other car followed and immediately tried to get by. Aidan was ready for him; he swung right to block him. He received a blare of the horn for his cheek and felt a slight nudge as the car hit his rear bumper again, at an angle this time. Momentarily, Aidan thought he was going to spin but he caught the slide and floored the throttle. The speed rose rapidly, 40, 50, 60...

This couldn't last, Aidan knew that, he could hear the gruff roar of the other car’s engine over the scream of the Alfa; its power was obvious. It would get by.

There was a slight bend in the road. Aidan registered lights coming towards him. Small, quite dim, candles compared with the brilliant monsters that rent the darkness behind him. A small car. Close. He heard the almost timid parp of a horn. He pulled the Alfa to the left, out of the way of the oncoming car.

The next brief moments were a jumble of confused images but remained oddly clear.

The small car framed in the brilliant headlights.

A small Fiat.

Two people in it, a bearded young man and a girl, their eyes wide open in terror.

The nose of the car - for the first time Aidan recognised the make; a Bentley - appearing next to him, overtaking.

The driver looking across.

The impact with the Fiat.

The crash of metal against metal.

A dull, heavy, ominously violent thump. Breaking glass.

Then it was all snatched behind him as Aidan sped on and away.

CHAPTER TWO

May 1st 1997, 11.35pm, Salford.

Aidan was stunned, unable to do anything other than keep driving.

The sudden darkness after the harshness of the headlights was like being plunged into icy water. He was going to be sick, yet drove on as if on automatic pilot.

The traffic lights onto the main road were on green. He turned right, though the direction didn’t matter; he just needed somewhere to stop. He was shaking so much he could barely hold the steering wheel. If he continued, he was sure to either have an accident or be stopped as a drunk driver – which, of course, was exactly what he was.

There was an office building to his left, the entrance to the car park a few yards further on. Aidan signalled even though there were no other cars around and turned into it. In the car park he turned away from the building and found a space in the farthest, darkest corner and turned the engine off then sat quietly for a full two minutes before opening the door and threw up onto the tarmac.

He got out and squatted on his haunches, shaking like he had the flu. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, a few minutes at most. He got back inside, realising that he would likely attract attention the longer he stayed. In the car’s glovebox, he found a packet of tissues and cleaned up his face as best as he could, then sat in the driver’s seat and stared straight ahead.

What should he do?

He’d left the scene of an accident an offence in its own right.

He should go back - but what if he’d been seen? The police would breathalyse him; he’d be well over the limit. The car was also missing a wing mirror and its MOT had expired at least two months ago. He’d meant to sort it out, book it in but hadn’t got around to it. It was a ‘do it tomorrow’ job.

As usual with Aidan, tomorrow had never come.

The police would be there. He’d be in pretty deep trouble if he went back. There were at least three strikes against him.

They’d throw the book at him. He’d lose his licence. Lose his job.

Yet he had to go back. Common humanity required him to go. There could be people injured – in fact at the speeds involved there had to be – it was shameful not to, he was a witness.

More than a witness, he was involved.

There was one more thing: He was a reporter, yeah a pretty crap one, just a business correspondent but a reporter nonetheless. He should report and investigate. It was his job.

What a fool he was! That gave him a legitimate reason for being at the crash. He’d be there to do his job.

Maybe that would cover him.

In the distance, he heard a siren; that was it. Help was on the way. They’d be all right.

However, there was still the job.

He should go back.

Shouldn’t he?

He should forget it, drive home. Let sleeping dogs lie. He still had work in the morning. A lot of work.

Yes, just leave it.

An ambulance, lights flashing, went by on the main road. Was it heading towards the accident?

Sod it. He had to know.

If he were careful, he would be fine. It surely couldn't hurt.

He started the car and followed the blue lights.

* * *

A police Astra closed off the road. A police officer in a fluorescent yellow jacket was stopping cars and sending them down a diversion through one of the side streets. Aidan didn’t bother to be redirected; he turned down one of the other streets. No point in pushing his luck.

He managed to find a gap in the rows of cars and squeezed the Alfa into the space. He was in front of a boarded up house. On the metal covers over the windows and doors was stencilled the same message over and over again: All items of value removed.

It was not the only house in that state, there were half a dozen; grim and grey and utterly joyless.

Things could certainly only get better.

‘Yeah, Tony,’ he muttered. ‘Good luck with that.’

He locked the car, uttered a silent prayer that it would still be there when he got back and walked towards the accident.

He couldn't get close but no one seemed to be interested in him. That was a plus.

There were three police cars, two ambulances and a fire engine. Their lights illuminated the scene in an unsynchronised symphony of pulsing blue. The ghostly light shone on the faces of the bystanders attracted from their TVs by the free show outside their doors. The light made them appear other-worldish, ghoulish, and hungry for other peoples’ suffering to provide them with entertainment.

It made him shudder.

He looked away from the crowd towards the accident.

The two cars had finished some distance apart, the Bentley closest to him. The damage to it was remarkably light given the speed of impact. The offside wing was smashed, the headlights destroyed, the bonnet crumpled and fluid was leaking out from somewhere underneath. The airbags had gone off and hung, white and obscenely flaccid, from the steering wheel.

There was no sign of the driver but the impact looked like one where the occupant would simply walk away shocked, bruised and burnt from the airbags, but otherwise unharmed.

The emergency workers clustered around the other car. What he saw made his stomach tighten.

If he had not seen it before the accident he could not possibly have identified it as a Fiat.

The driver's side had taken the brunt of the impact. He was too far away to see in detail but it looked as though the engine had drove right back into the driver's footwell. Significantly, the fire and ambulance men were ignoring this side of the car and something dark, a coat perhaps, draped over whatever was in there. They were working around the woman in the passenger side.

She wore an oxygen mask, a smear of blood on her cheek. A green-clad paramedic was crouching next to her holding her hand whilst the fireman cut away the metal that trapped her. At that moment, they lifted the roof off, carrying it carefully between four men and putting it to one side.

'Poor thing. She looks proper poorly,' observed one of the women alongside Aidan. Dressed in straining black leggings her baggy t-shirt over the top emblazoned with the sparkly logo of Pineapple Dance Studio.

'There's a baby too. Oh the poor lamb,' said someone else.

At the car, a paramedic gently cradling a small bundle that was wrapped in a hospital blanket. As he reached the ambulance, the sound of lusty crying reached them, which suggested that there was not too much wrong with the child.

'Bastard who did this should be fuckin' well locked up for life.

'Where is he... er... the driver of the other car?' asked Aidan.

Suddenly he was the focus of the crowd. It seemed that every face turned to look at him with deep suspicion in their eyes.

'Who the fuck are you then?' said a youth with the England top, his eyes wide, his face sneeringly aggressive.

'CID. Narc, that’s who he is,' said a freckly, red-haired boy who looked about twelve. Aidan felt the hostility rising.

'I'm not a cop,' he said. 'I'm a reporter. I was just passing and saw the blue lights.'

The lie almost stuck in his throat.

'Yeah, right, 'course you are,' said the woman.

Aidan took out his wallet, extracted his press pass and showed it to the woman. She squinted at it through piggy eyes in a way that suggested that she needed reading glasses. The red-haired boy elbowed rudely in, stuck out a grubby hand, and grasped the card. There was a brief tug of war before Aidan won.

'You pay for stories then?' said the woman.

'No. Well not usually but...'

The sound of revving power tool drew the crowd's attention. They’d lost interest in Aidan. He was not going to get anywhere with them so he left the crowd and tried to get closer to the Fiat.

He managed to get right up to the officer operating the diversion, around fifty metres from the Fiat. Two firemen were working down in the passenger footwell, one with his torso inside the car. The sound of a hacksaw blade on metal. The other held a floodlight and shone it into the void. The paramedic was still holding the woman’s hand and was talking reassuringly to her, telling her that she was doing fine, that the baby was OK and that she would soon be out. The woman looked to be in her early twenties. She had long, straight, mousy hair, her eyes held the look of a frightened, cornered animal. Beyond the girl, he could see a hand protruding out from under the coat laid over the driver’s remains. A trickle of blood ran down the hand and drip, dripped into the darkness of the footwell and onto the remains of the gearstick.

Aidan felt sick again. He'd been part of this. He was responsible. Partly at least.

The fireman holding the light looked up into Aidan's eyes. There was look of pure contempt on the man's face.

For a moment he almost panicked, almost ran. Then common sense took over; he can't know, he just thinks I'm a rubbernecker. Still he'd seen enough. He turned and walked away.

It was then he saw him.

One of the police cars parked on the side of the road suddenly illuminated from within. Someone must have cracked open one of the doors and the courtesy light had come on. It revealed a handcuffed man sat in the back seat of the car whilst two officers sat in the front.

It was the driver, he recognised him despite only glimpsing him in the moment before the crash.

Aidan wasn’t sure what he was expecting him to look like. A businessman perhaps; but not this.

He was short, stocky and powerful. He looked like a bouncer, someone you’d see outside a pub or club.

Well, whatever, he'd been arrested and rightly so. . Aiden hoped they threw the book at him.

Heartened by this sight, but not wanting to be seen by the man in case he recognised Aidan in turn, he continued to make his way back to the Alfa.

Deja vu. Headlights, blindingly bright, Xenon headlights were coming down the street towards him. He stepped back into the shadows as another Bentley passed him driving slowly, clearly looking for somewhere to park.

His curiosity was now piqued. This had to be more than a coincidence. Two top-of-the-range limos around here? Not a coincidence, surely they had to come from the same place? If so then the psychopathic driver had to have real power and money. So who was he? A footballer? No, too old. How about a manager or a football agent then? If not that then somebody in the media? Something vaguely familiar about him niggled at Aidan. Was he an actor? He was not an avid soap watcher but it was almost impossible not to get some exposure to them. Had he seen him on one of those and his memory been triggered?

This meant that there might be a story here and a big one at that. Moreover, he was in the right place at the right time, whatever the circumstances.

Aidan turned back the way he had come, following the Bentley.

It soon stopped. There was nowhere to park with the end of the street now blocked by the ambulance. The rear door opened; there were two men inside, both looking down the road. The driver was in a grey suit, he had a peaked cap on. A chauffeur.

Interesting. More confirmation that there was serious wealth involved here.

Aidan stepped back into the shadows. Not many of the street lamps were working; probably because people objected to them shining into their bedroom windows Aidan surmised. Anyway, at least it gave him some cover.

The rear door of the Bentley opened fully and the passengers stepped out. Again, they were not at all what Aidan expected, certainly not some high-powered executives. One was a lean bald man, mean looking, in a white t-shirt and leather jacket. The other nondescript figure was fair-haired, his receding hairline giving him a distinct widow’s peak. His weedy build, gaunt face and pale weak mouth, was dressed in cheap jeans with a creased blue polo shirt.

This