The Street Cleaner

By John S Haywood

A killer, dubbed 'The Street Cleaner' by the tabloids is systematically eliminating underworld crime bosses. D.C. Helen Carter begins her first day in the team headed by D.I. Danny Ward. C Division in Derbyshire is a typical rural police unit until The Street Cleaner begins to work his way further north. Helen Carter learns that both D.I. Ward and D.S. Craig Snow have history.
With the help of LAPD Detective Sam Kane on an exchange programme, she discovers that one of her colleagues could actually be the killer. Jack Salter, a London gangster has learned of the killer's true identity and sends a hit man. When he fails, Salter decides to undertake the task personally. Helen Carter is abducted by Salter to draw out the Street Cleaner. For everyone involved, it must end here. Helen carter has to make a decision which will alter the course of her career.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9780244926892

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The Street Cleaner

The Street Cleaner

©John S Haywood 2017

Published in 2017

The right of John S Haywood shall be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in a retrieval system, in any form, or by means, without permission in writing from the publishers.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead ,is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-0-244-92689-2

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I always welcome feedback from my readers. You are the inspiration for me continuing my story telling. I would like to take this opportunity to thank you all most sincerely for supporting me over the years. I will endeavor to reply to all your comments personally.

Kindest Regards

John S Haywood

CHAPTER ONE

He paused briefly under a street lamp to glance at his wrist watch: nine thirty pm. There was a distinct chill in the damp air despite it being April. A large man rushed by him almost knocking the holdall from his grasp then continued along the pavement without even a glance over his shoulder, let alone any form of apology as he disappeared into the mist.

Ignorant pig. the stationery figure hissed under his breath. Rudeness, and especially lack of courtesy were more than a pet hate with him, they were an obsession. He glared after the stranger through the moist air. The steady rain had been unrelenting during the past few days. Well. he said softly to himself with a half smile, this is England, and it is April.

Any other time, he would have pursued the oaf and confronted him, but not this evening, he was determined and needed to stay focused and alert. The window of opportunity was scarcely enough to complete his task as it was. But more than that, he could not afford to draw any unwanted attention to himself.

The south bank of England's capital city was familiar to him. He had spent much of his youth here, and knew every street, every open doorway and alleyway. He continued walking alongside the Thames with his back to the bright lights. The objective tonight was situated in a more shabby, back water establishment away from the tourist crowded night spots and brightly lit attractions. The night had overpowered the gloomy light of the day and the rain had all but stopped finally as he prepared himself mentally for the tenth time. This would have to be swift and precise. It had been rehearsed in his mind only, and was not something that could be played out beforehand.

The rain, coupled with the river, had blanketed the area with a dank and musty odour that seemed to cling to his clothing. A pause once more as he glanced over the retaining wall at the inky black silent Thames as it slapped with an unseen power against the old wooden wharf. Each ripple attempting to seek out weak spots and erode the wood even more. He looked up to see an old rusty sign on the end house of the street he wanted. A deep breath of the dank air preceded him making a right turn and walking along the old cobble stone surface. This street was basically a row of back to back terraced houses with more than half having boarded windows and doors. The front door of each house would have opened directly on to the pavement in their day. He saw in his mind's eye women stood outside each door talking with neighbours and occasionally shouting at the children. Others would be on their hands and knees meticulously scrubbing at the red painted stone door steps. He shook the memories from his vision and moved on but slowed as two figures ambled through the mist from the opposite side of the street and entered a pub half way down. The light from the open door illuminated the buildings directly opposite for a few seconds. They were old, in need of demolishing, but the council had received thousands of signatures on a petition to save the 'heritage' of the docklands. The authorities had relented, and were thought to be coming up with alternative plans.

But to him, he wished the whole lot could be flattened. These were not memories he wished to cherish. His childhood was far from idyllic. He was brought up in a street identical to this one. Fortunately, that particular street had been redeveloped into extortionately priced town houses.

The posh title for terraced. he scowled to himself as he scanned the misty street. Nothing: no sound or sight of anyone - 'perfect'.

A short distance before he reached the door to the pub where the two men had entered was a small alleyway to his right. He walked past and peered down it in case anyone was there. Not that he could see more than a few metres into the shadowy darkness of the tunnel.

It was little wonder the Victorian coppers lost many a criminal. he muttered, It's like a bloody rabbit warren in here. he found himself talking out loud. 'I really need to stop that practice,' he thought, anyone could be listening?

He stopped a few paces beyond the pub doorway and a quick scan through the window told him there were about a dozen people, mostly men inside the old drinking house. This place would have been packed with drinkers at one time, he thought, as he saw the middle aged men leaning on an old wooden bar. He imagined the huge cargo ships visiting the docks and giving their crews permission to go ashore and try the ale houses, and brothels in the late eighteen and nineteen hundreds.

He shook that image also from his mind and returned to the task at hand. Spinning on his heels, he walked back the way he had come. The alley was now on the left and he turned into it. At the far end there was a door in a wall which was slightly ajar. He quickly entered into a small yard with empty beer barrels and crates of all kinds. The dim glow of a grossly inadequate lamp struggled to illuminate the area. Another door presented itself which again was slightly ajar. Beyond it he could hear the echo of male voices from inside and knew exactly where he was. Most of these older public houses had an outside access to the toilets, this one was no exception. He stood for a few seconds until whoever was in there had returned to the bar then slowly pushed the heavy oak door and slid inside.

The overpowering stench hit him as he stood inside the doorway. The once white tiles in the Victorian brick formation were probably original as most were chipped and broken, others were missing altogether.

Directly in front was an old stone urinal with about twenty of those little blue square blocks in the bottom of the trough which were supposed to eliminate odour. They were either a cheap brand, or just fighting a losing battle. He pushed open the first stall to find the toilet overflowing with something he could not describe. The second did not fare much better and he was beginning to wonder if this was not such a good idea after all, until he opened the third stall which presented itself as something approaching clean.

Oh well, here goes. he whispered.

Twenty minutes elapsed since he closed the stall door with him regularly having to place his backside against the door every time anyone entered, due to the fact that there was nothing resembling a lock, or bolt of any description. Eventually the task was complete, all that was needed now was a mirror, a large mirror. The tiny make up mirror he had used was sufficient for close up, but a full length one right now would be a bonus.

He was pleasantly surprised though, for as he emerged from the stall, he was looking at a mirror, a huge mirror. It desperately needed cleaning so he decided not to touch it or the indescribable substance on it in case it lead to another plague. He stood before it and found a spot through which he could actually see and was pleased with what he saw.

An elderly Jewish man in a light grey, heavily worn suit, a crumpled tie and shirt complete with an old Fedora he had picked up from the flea market was looking back at him. It was no longer his face either. This other man had greying hair, a moustache and goatee beard. The false wrinkles had added at least thirty years to his appearance.

Confidently and with a satisfied grin, he stepped back from the mirror just as the door to the bar opened and a man in his forties unzipped his fly then hopped up to the urinal.

Awight mate? The man greeted in a slightly inebriated tone. The 'old' Jewish man decided to try out the authenticity of his disguise.

Shalom my friend, shalom. he replied. As he exited through the door to the alleyway, he heard the man in the toilets mutter, Bleedin Jews! and smiled once more. So far, so good. His target was a few streets away and would take about ten minutes for an old man. He had to play the part from here on. If someone saw an old Jewish gentleman running up and down the back streets of London, it may encourage a little interest, interest he did not need. He had to blend in, the change in appearance had been chosen well. A previous trip around this quarter had seen the indigenous population completely ignore gentlemen dressed in similar attire.

He did need to stash his holdall though, somewhere between here and his objective, somewhere he could retrieve it later. As he hobbled along the pavements, he saw the very thing. A skip, or dumpster as the Americans call them. It had some household items in it already, probably not the items it was supposed to have, due to the majority of its contents being building rubble. He looked all around once more, no one in either direction so he carefully removed the items he would need from the holdall then placed it in the skip. A  convenient piece of linoleum from within the skip hid the holdall to his satisfaction.

That done, he was now free to carry on and walked further west along the street. After five minutes there seemed to be more signs of activity. It was one of those places that many people would not dare to go after dark, but also one where certain people regularly did. He passed a few women plying their trade who did not approach him; another gratifying aspect of this disguise. The streets here were even more brightly lit now, and the rain had been replaced by an almost Jack the Ripper type of fog. It was by no means thick, more of a mist, but still gave an air of ambiguity.

By the time he reached the objective, several people were walking to and fro along the pavements. A very old red neon sign flickered above the door he was looking for. Half the lettering was either unlit or missing. It would have said 'Molly's Bar' at some point in history. Underneath it said, 'Members Only.' It was a throwback to the seventies, and probably the last time this place was renovated.

There was no large-suited, mean looking doorman outside as with the more upmarket clubs. He gathered that any and everyone would be more than welcome. No one gave him a second glance as he pushed open a creaky door to reveal a dark foyer. A woman sat behind a glass window on his immediate left. The red light was subdued, but just about adequate. The window had bars running vertically down the inside as an added precaution. The woman who sat in the tiny kiosk was in her fifties, or more likely her sixties. She was dressed in clothes someone thirty years her junior would wear. Her face resembled one of those Aunt Sally dolls with cheeks like a couple of Laxton Fortunes.

She wore a low cut top and no bra. Her straw looking blonde wig must have been hastily put on as patches of her own grey hair protruded in places. As he looked down at this person, he felt genuinely sorry for her. This lady was probably a very unpretentious person, but naive. Someone who may have fallen on hard times and had been drawn into the seedy underworld in a desperate need for cash. His appraisal began to change as she spoke.

Twenty quid granddad. her eyes were open but he was unsure which one was looking in his direction. Her voice was gravelly, due perhaps to the fifty a day she smoked.

I thought it was members only. he replied in his best Jewish accent.

Gimme twenty quid and you can be a member then Granddad, or you can piss off somewhere else. Her creepy smile showed a set of teeth which looked more like an old upright piano, only with more black notes than white. She went from being a poor, unfortunate girl, to an obnoxious cow in three seconds.

He slid the note under the small slit. The woman reeled slightly as she noticed his hand. It seemed to be made of some kind of plastic, or rubber. She stared for a few seconds, snatched the twenty pound note, then pressed a button underneath the counter. An audible click came from his right and he pushed the door open. It was clear that the no smoking ban was not in force here as the smell of tobacco and alcohol was overpowering. He took small breaths as he negotiated the door into a carpeted area.

The carpet itself looked Victorian, it had that sour, never been cleaned odour to it and was worn badly across the centre from countless feet. This area was probably a cloak room at one time, he construed. Now though, he doubted anyone would be foolish enough to leave anything of value in here. There were two doors leading from this small area. One straight ahead which had a sheet of A4 paper with the words 'club room' written on it, and the other to the right, 'strictly private'. He headed towards the door on the right but confirmed that he was alone in the ante room before pushing the door open. Aunt Sally was busy reading something, probably House and Home.

He was through the 'Private' door in less than two seconds, then silently closed it behind him. He found himself in a small area about a metre and a half square. Much of the plaster had succumbed to gravity and was on the floor, other pieces were hanging off ready for their turn. To his left was a staircase with about twelve treads, and walls on either side. They were bare wooden treads, all expense had been spared in this area. He stood on the bottom step and placed his hands on each wall to gauge the width and give himself balance. The stairwell was a little over a metre wide, so he did not even have to straighten out his arms, just be careful not to disturb the loose plaster.

He slowly ascended by placing his feet on the outside of the treads which would result in less creaking from the old wood. After twelve treads, he came to a small landing the same width as the stairs which turned to the left once more. He slowly placed both feet on this landing then paused. All he could hear was a faint hum and bass boom from the club room below. Two steps took him to the foot of another flight of ten steps to his left. He guessed that they led to a room above where old Sally was sitting, which would hopefully be the room he was looking for.

He was halfway up the second flight when the only door at the top opened to reveal a huge mountain of a man dressed in a suit that was protesting at every seam. His eyes widened when he looked down and saw the intruder.

What do you want? he snarled from under a flattened nose, in a voice lower than bass.

A word with your boss my good man. replied the stranger in an accent which complimented his appearance. He looked up at this huge man stood in the doorway who completely blocked out the frame. Either he was exceptionally large, or they built this place for the little people. The newcomer placed his foot on the next step, mainly for balance, but also he knew that he may need to be steady for what was almost certain to follow.

If you don't piss off, growled the giant man, I am going to knock your teeth so far down your throat, you will need to shove a toothbrush up yer arse to clean em. his suit creaked as he guffawed at his own well used jibe. That half second lapse in concentration was all the distraction the man needed. In the blink of an eye the bodyguard was looking down the barrel of a silenced handgun. The chuckling stopped abruptly. Suddenly this frail looking old Jewish geyser was not so old, or frail.

Now then blubber head, please hand me your weapon, or I will provide you with another nostril.

Also, all trace of the accent had now reverted to a well spoken, but threatening tone. The huge bodyguard had never been threatened before. His sheer size had always prevailed. What should he do? Go for his own weapon? but this guy showed no fear and looked like a pro, it was clear that he would pull the trigger. Should he shout for his boss in the room he had just exited? That action would also probably result in his demise. He decided to pursue the wisest course of action and slowly slid his hand down between his jacket and shirt.

Thumb and finger only tiny.

What do you want shit head?

I told you, a word with your boss.

How do you know if he is here or not?

It's just past ten, he is always here at this time. Now stop stalling and hand that over. the newcomer said pointing to the pistol. The huge man obliged and was careful to make it obvious that his fingers were nowhere near the trigger. The intruder snatched the weapon from him and placed it in his own pocket.

You aint Jewish! said the massive man with his arms held upwards.

Your powers of observation are astounding, have you thought of taking an Open University course? Now I would like to know just how many are in that room including your boss?

The huge man hesitated. The stranger glared at him, his eyes were dark, filled with hate. It does not matter to me. he hissed, I will just have to kill you and take my chances.

This man was definitely not bluffing, it was clear from his eyes that he meant every word. The bodyguard turned and slowly pushed the door open, he then held up three fingers.

Good boy. said the newcomer.

Have you forgot something Rodney? Came a voice from inside.

Rodney? bloody Rodney; you have got to be kidding me. said the intruder with a grin. Rodney turned back to him and shrugged his shoulders then walked back into the room followed by the stranger. As he walked in, the newcomer observed one man sat in an armchair to his left, and could see no weapon, but the man was also wearing a suit, and would most likely have one concealed. There was no one else to the left. To his right, a second man was sat behind a table with his shirt sleeves rolled up counting cash. He had no jacket, and did not seem to be anywhere near a weapon. Finally, a short, stocky man in his early forties wearing an expensive suit was seated behind a huge desk. Why do they always have huge desks?, thought the newcomer. No one paid particular notice to the re-emergence of Rodney until he stopped a few feet short of the desk.

The man behind the huge desk looked up at his body guard, then noticed a man behind him. His colour drained when he saw the weapon.

Who the bleedin hell are you? he shouted in an octave above his norm. Immediately the man on the left reached into his jacket. The newcomer could see the familiar shape of a pistol grip emerging and raised his own weapon then pulled the trigger twice. There was little sound apart from two pops, followed by the man falling back into the chair with two neat holes in his forehead.

Jesus, what the..... panted the man behind the desk who was now half stood with his hands on the surface. The intruder heard a rattling sound from his right and quickly turned his head to see the money counter moving towards a jacket thrown over the back of a chair. Two more shots rang out, and the money counter crumpled to the floor dead.

Ok ... ok... Jesus ... cried the man in the expensive suit, what do you want? he then flopped back heavily into his chair.

Be a good boy Rodney. said the stranger looking up at the huge bodyguard, and go sit in that chair over there. He pointed to an office chair by the side of the desk. Rodney obliged and squeezed his huge frame tightly into said chair.

Billy Johnson, in the flesh, so to speak. said the man with the silenced pistol pointing at the trembling figure now seated at the desk. Johnson looked at this frail old man who had just killed two of his bodyguards and knew that there was someone else under that disguise; a cold, calculated killer. Johnson felt weak and vulnerable even though he had beefed up his security in the light of recent events, but was now convinced he was about to die.

I know who you are. he spoke with a tremble, why are you doing this? Why are you targeting us? His elbows were now on the desk, his forearms flat. What have I done to you?

That is what I intend to find out Billy. I require the answer to two questions, and two questions only. The voice had now softened, but retained the deadly menace in the tone.

Then will you piss off and leave us alone? Billy was trembling even more and Rodney was looking for an opportunity to jump this little piece of shit.

I see your business is flourishing Mister Johnson. the man offered, pointing to the huge bundles of cash on the dead man's desk.

Money - money? bleedin hell, no problem. said Johnson, look, over where Jerry was. Johnson nodded towards the table beyond the body of the money counting employee. "There must be at least fifty grand on that table,