A Numbers Game (Mal & Jackie Book 1)

by RJ Dark

  ‘Keep your hat on just in case, but we shouldn’t have to worry about the cameras now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’ – he pointed at the box – ‘it’s an all spectrum jammer, stops the camera signal getting to the server.’

  ‘Have you just made that up?’

  ‘No, I paid a lot of money to someone for it. But even if it is working, someone will notice they’re not getting a signal soon. We’re on the clock, Mal.’

  ‘I’ll go through Larry’s desk first, you do those around him.’

  ‘Okay.’

  We did. Larry’s desk was empty, totally cleaned out. We found nothing in the surrounding desks either, just diaries with appointments, dull-sounding appointments.

  ‘I hate clear-desk policies,’ said Jackie. ‘Reckon you can hack the computers?’

  ‘No, why on earth would you think I could do that?’

  He shrugged. ‘I might know some people, but they don’t need to be here to get in.’

  He looked around the office. Behind him was the only other space in Maylin and Sparrow that may hold something: the manager’s office. Jackie stared at the door.

  ‘Get your lock picks out, Mal,’ he said. ‘While we’re here, we may as well see what Frank is up to.’ He pointed at the blue door and I set to.

  Inside the office was one desk – expensive, not run-of-the-mill office furniture like the rest of the place. I reckoned it was Victorian; nice workmanship, well polished. Behind it was a basket chair that had been altered so it sat on a pivot and could be reclined; modern changes to old furniture; done well, again nice workmanship.

  ‘Stop perving over furniture and open the locks on the desk, Mal.’

  I didn’t deign to give that a reply and set to work on the locks on the desk drawers while Jackie fired up the computer and attached something to one of the USB sockets. In the drawers, I found nothing of any interest; a lot of cards for local sex workers in one – looked like Frank had a thing for really big girls and feet. Another drawer held cigars, one was full of pens, but that’s normal; every desk has a drawer full of pens. My betting was that most of them were just on the cusp of being useless. Next drawer was general office supplies: paper, sticky tape, glue. With his bodyguard being a stationer, he probably got the lot as freebies.

  One pen with every ten severed digits.

  A cold shudder ran through me.

  The rest of the drawers were empty.

  ‘Anything on the computer?’

  ‘Dunno,’ said Jackie.

  ‘I thought you were hacking it?’ I pointed at the box.

  He shook his head. ‘Nah, told you, that’s a job for better people than me, but this PC isn’t networked into the rest. No wires.’

  ‘Could be wireless?’

  He nodded. ‘Could be. Anyway, I got the box I plugged in off my friend George, he calls it The Fuckenator.’

  ‘What does it do?’

  ‘Fuckenates things.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I stood, looked round the dimly lit office, nothing untoward here at all. The only other thing of interest was a plan of a house on the whiteboard. Lots of measurements and architectural shorthand, and when I stared at it I had this odd feeling that something about it was off. I just couldn’t place what.

  ‘Not sure whether perving over drawings of houses is better or worse than perving over furniture, Mal,’ said Jackie. ‘We should get out of here, really.’

  ‘There’s something wrong with that picture up there.’ I pointed at the drawing of the house.

  ‘It’s architecturally boring?’

  ‘No, more than that.’

  ‘‘sake, Mal – it really is time to go.’

  I snapped a picture of the drawing on my phone and we left. On our way out of the building, we passed four uniformed security guards coming down the corridor. We kept our heads down as we pushed the cart past them, and they didn’t give us a second glance.

  19

  FRIDAY

  Jackie used to trip me up.

  ‘I’m going to trip you up.’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘I’m going to trip you up, and I want you to try and stop me.’

  ‘I don’t know how.’

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  And he did. Teaching me to step over, to double step to catch my weight. But more importantly, he taught me how to fall without hurting myself. He taught me to roll, to relax my body, to aim for something soft. To take the hit on my knees or elbow or shoulders and protect my head, slamming my arms out to spread my weight. They were not fun lessons.

  But I learned them.

  I didn’t sleep well, because Jackie snores really loudly and I don’t like having people in my home. So, while Jackie – who can sleep anywhere at any time – slept the sleep of the just, I was prowling around my flat, waiting for a pair of noise-cancelling earphones to charge. Then I tried to read, but I couldn’t concentrate, partly because of the buzz of Jackie’s snoring and partly because of that drawing I’d seen in Frank’s office. I sent the picture to my printer and printed it out as a tiny square on a large piece of paper. Then I went back to my phone and messed about with it, trying to get it to print at the right size and becoming increasingly irritated by it, and by Jackie’s incessant snoring.

  I gave up on the phone and emailed it to my computer, then printed it out again, this time at a decent size. I thought the noise of the printer might wake Jackie, or at least disturb him enough to stop the snoring, but if he noticed, it didn’t put him off his stride or pull him from whatever dreamland he was currently occupying.

  He was right about the design for the house though; it was boring – though not normal. It was taller at the front than it was at the back and was clearly special enough that Frank had felt the need to trademark it. The letters TM were liberally sprinkled over the drawing, together with a load of other initials, but I didn’t know what they meant, builder stuff I imagine. It looked like the house was designed to be built on a slope. This was, as far as I could make out, a drawing of the finished article. It had all the pipework and wiring put in, bright lines of primary colour running through it. On the edges of the printout was some writing, but my printer was dodgy and it was too smudged to read. I went back to my phone and enlarged the picture, searching round the edges until I found writing.

  Blades Edge Regeneration Scheme: Tranche One.

  I wondered if this was how Frank laundered money. There was loads of space in a building firm to bill for services that were never made; cheaper materials bought when more expensive ones were specified. I wondered if this was the key to it. Everyone knew that the Blades Edge regeneration was bogged down in red tape. Had Frank banked on this building work coming through and was now stuck? Did he need the lottery ticket to clear his cash flow?

  It made sense. A sort of sense.

  ‘Are you still looking at that picture?’

  Jackie stood in the door, a halo of sticking-up sleep-hair around his head; he wore only boxers, and his tautly muscled body was laced with the darker lines of pocks and scars from his time in the army. He pulled the tie from his long hair and let it fall loose, then smoothed it down and bundled it up with two quick movements of his hands before tying it back again.

  ‘Jackie,’ I said, ‘who launders your money?’

  ‘I’ – he said grandly and with a flourish of his hand – ‘am a legitimate businessman.’

  ‘Okay, but if you weren’t a legitimate businessman, who would launder your money?’

  ‘Well, I was in the army with a guy called Pete Mac and he owns a chain of betting shops in Manchester. So if I wanted to launder money, which I don’t, that would be the way to go.’

  ‘But if you didn’t know Pete Mac and wanted to keep it local? Russian Frank, right?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure after the last couple of days …’

  ‘If you hadn’t put three of his men in hospital and you didn’t know Pete Mac and you were not a legitimate businessman, wh
o would launder your money? Russian Frank, right?’

  ‘Suppose so – he launders nearly everyone’s money round here.’

  ‘Even Trolley Mick’s?’

  ‘I imagine so. It’s a business after all.’

  I tapped my pen on the desk, wondering what was going on.

  ‘Frank stabbing Mick’s nephew. Mick burning Frank’s businesses. If it’s tied up in these houses and he needs it to go ahead then …’ I waved the picture at Jackie and he took the picture from me, studying it.

  ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘If they wanted this to go ahead that much, then Mick could just terrorise the people on the Edge who are holding on into selling up. He’d probably enjoy that.’ He peered at the picture, scratching his head. ‘These are going to be built on the Edge?’

  ‘Says so.’

  He nodded and handed me back the picture. ‘Look at it, think about the Edge.’

  I stared at the drawing, wondering what he was getting at, then it hit me.

  ‘Blades Edge is flat – this is meant to be built on a slope.’

  Jackie nodded his head.

  ‘So this was never meant to be built.’

  Jackie shook his head. ‘Not on the Edge, anyway.’

  ‘What about the other side, Blades Edge Hill – that’s steep?’

  Something dark crossed Jackie’s face and then was gone just as quickly. He never liked talking about Blades Edge Hill.

  ‘Green belt, innit, mate,’ he said.. ‘Can’t be upsetting the bunnies.’ He sat down in my clients’ chair, still staring at the picture.

  ‘What are we missing, Jackie?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m missing my bed, to be honest,’ he said. ‘But now I’m going to have a shower. You should too – you smell.’

  ‘Thanks, Jackie.’

  An hour later we were both showered and in fresh clothes. Jackie had filled a carrier bag with his dirty clothes and planned to drop them off at a launderette, because he was never a man to be seen without at least two changes of, often awful, clothes on his person. I’d made us scrambled eggs, which Jackie was eating at my desk. He had soaked his in Tabasco and ate without so much as breaking a sweat. I was still staring at the picture and the more I did, the more something bothered me.

  ‘Jackie, when I went through Larry’s stuff at his house, there was a work notebook. I think I’d like to look at it again.’

  ‘Wouldn’t she have given it back to his work?’

  I realised I didn’t know where the notebook was. I remembered putting it to one side to give to Janine but was sure I had never passed it to her.

  ‘Maybe, but I don’t think I gave it back to her.’

  ‘We’ll go over when I’ve finished my breakfast.’ He paused with his fork midway between plate and mouth, then lifted a finger in a way I knew meant, ‘Be quiet.’ He stood and walked over to the window, drawing back the heavy velvet curtain.

  ‘Aww, no,’ he said under his breath, which I knew meant it wasn’t that bad. When something really bothered him he liked to use Punjabi swearing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Police. DI Smith and DC Horseface.’

  ‘You should go out the back.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve not done anything wrong.’

  ‘We broke into a building last night.’

  ‘Yeah, but they won’t know that was me. Wait, did you take your mask off when we were in Maylin and Sparrow?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing to worry about then.’ There was a knock on the door. ‘Just get rid of them, Mal – she’s fishing and you don’t have to let her in.’

  ‘Go hide, Jackie.’

  ‘Why?’ he said, ‘we haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘We’ve done two burglaries this week.’

  ‘Just tell her to go away,’ he said, and leant back in my client’s chair.

  I sighed and opened the door. DI Esther Smith, all four foot three of her, filled the door; her partner stood behind.

  ‘Can I help, Detective Inspector?’

  ‘I’d like to come in, Malachite,’ she said.

  ‘I’m a bit busy,’ I said.

  She tipped her head to one side and said quietly, as if speaking to someone who was a bit simple.

  ‘I’d still like to come in.’

  ‘I think you need a warrant to do that. As I said, I’m busy.’

  ‘A warrant, or probable cause.’ She smiled, all sunshine and daisies. ‘Or to see a crime in action, or someone suspected of a crime.’ She grinned at me and raised her arm. ‘Hello, Jackie Singh Khattar,’ she said, and gave him a little wave, bending her fingers where they met her palm like a child would do.

  ‘Hello, DI Smith,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve got a warrant for your arrest, luv.’ She smiled, then it fell away, and she stared at me. ‘So I think I will be coming in then, eh, Mal?’ And she pushed past me.

  ‘What?’ said Jackie.

  ‘You’re coming with me, Jackie,’ she said. ‘Frank Khlopenko had four of his kebab shops burned down last night and he says you were seen at two of them with a Molotov cocktail.’

  ‘I do not burn down people’s shops, Detective Inspector. I am a legitimate businessman.’

  ‘Sarah, cuff this arsehole and get him in the car.’ Jackie shrugged and put his hands behind his back, turning round so DC Harrington could cuff him and read him his rights. That done she turned him round and started to lead him out the office.

  ‘You might want that bag of clothes, Officers,’ he said, nodding at the carrier bag. ‘It’s what I was wearing last night.’

  DC Harrington glanced at DI Smith who gave her a nod and she went over to grab the bag of clothes. While she did, Jackie stared at me.

  ‘Don’t do anything without me, Mal, Okay? Just stay safe.’ He whispered it, but DI Smith had ears like a cat, and as soon as Harrington had taken Jackie and his clothes out of the room, she turned back to me.

  ‘What does he not want you doing without him?’

  ‘We’re remodelling the upstairs of my shop,’ I said.

  ‘And that’s not safe, is it?’

  ‘I’m not a very practical person, Detective Inspector. Jackie thinks I’m likely to brain myself with a hammer if I attempt any DIY.’

  She let silence fall then stepped closer, her flowery perfume surrounding me.

  ‘Mal, I’ve got Jackie now. Two witnesses happy to pick him out of a line up. Got him bang to rights – he’s going down. It’ll be you next, you know.’ She reached up and touched my cheek. ‘So, have you anything you want to tell me about your friend? You should get on the right side of this now.’

  ‘Yes, Detective Inspector.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It wasn’t him – he was with me last night.’

  She shook her head, stared at the floor. Let out a theatrical sigh.

  ‘What about something true, Malachite, eh? Tell me what your friend really does.’

  I nodded, took a deep breath. ‘Okay.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Well?’

  ‘He is a legitimate businessman.’

  ‘So many arseholes,’ she said, staring at me, ‘so little time.’ Then left.

  I waited.

  I paced.

  I tried to sleep.

  Couldn’t sleep with Jackie in jail.

  I wanted a drink. How long could they keep Jackie? Twenty-four hours. Everyone knew that. Twenty-four hours and they had to charge him or release him. I needed to get out. I wanted to go to Janine Stanbeck’s, despite what Jackie said, but half eight in the morning was too early. I couldn’t just sit still. I needed to do something.

  Coffee.

  No coffee in the cupboard. Surely it couldn’t hurt to go to Mr Patel’s and pay too much for coffee – it was barely twenty steps.

  Go on, do it.

  I did it.

  No one attacked me or kidnapped me which was, so far, the best thing to happen to me in twenty-four hours. In Mr Patel’s shop, Cat Maudy was there, w
rapped in her fur coat, picking up her lottery ticket. Part of me felt like smashing the machine for the trouble it had caused, but Mr Patel would ban me from his shop and, despite the prices, it was near and I was lazy.

  ‘Mr Jones,’ Maudy said, and she took my hand; her fingers were brittle and cold, icy twigs wrapped in crepe paper. ‘We don’t usually see you in here at this time.’

  ‘I’m not generally a morning person, Maudy.’

  ‘Ooh, I am, Mr Jones,’ she said. ‘Will you do another trick for me?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Patel. ‘No ghosts in my shop!’

  ‘Oh,’ said Maudy, letting go of my hand. ‘He’s such a spoilsport, isn’t he?’ Then she headed out, stopping at the door. ‘I don’t think Mr Patel is a morning person either, Mr Jones. He used to call me and Mr Stanbeck his morning shift, didn’t you, Mr Patel? And he was always a bit grumpy about it.’ She smiled at him. Her lipstick had bled from her lips into the lines around her mouth. Her eye make-up had run as well; she wiped at her eye. ‘I miss him, you know, Mr Stanbeck. He was a kind soul.’ She nodded her head. ‘You should let me bring you that cat round, Mr Jones, he’d help you get up in the morning,’ she said. Then she left.

  ‘Mad old bat,’ said Mr Patel. ‘This is not weather for a fur coat is it? She will give herself heatstroke.’

  ‘If it makes her happy.’

  ‘What use is being happy if you are dead, eh? She has a perfectly good old coat. And she has been buying the gold label tea!’

  ‘Well, I’m buying own brand coffee so that should make you happy.’ He stared at me.

  ‘Own brand?’ he shook his head. ‘Have a bit of pride, Mr Jones.’

  I didn’t have much pride, so I bought my expensive cheap coffee and left.

  20

  Four cups of bad but very strong coffee later, it became clear I wasn’t going to stay in and wait for Jackie. What I’d thought was own brand was actually a brand called Soulja Pep! that promised four times as much caffeine as normal coffee and had a picture of an angry-looking Rastafarian on the front.