by Dan Latus
LIVING
DANGEROUSLY
Dan Latus
ROBERT HALE • LONDON
For Sandra, with love.
Contents
Chapter One
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
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
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
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 One
Jimmy Mack, my neighbour, said, ‘It looks like snow tonight.’
I looked at the sky, recalled the forecast I’d heard a few hours earlier and shook my head. ‘I don’t think so, Jim,’ I said confidently.
It snowed that night. It snowed heavily. In the morning the white stuff was two-feet deep across the North York Moors, and the drifts were deeper still. Whitby was cut off once again. I wasn’t worried about any of that, but I was troubled by the footprints all around my cottage. There was no easy explanation for them, and given what I do for a living there’s always people trying to get even, and looking to do me harm.
Someone, some solitary person, had made two or three circuits of the cottage and then trudged back along the track to the point where it joined the road. A vehicle had been waiting there, a heavy-duty machine. Probably a big four-by-four, judging by the tyre tread pattern. Maybe a pickup truck.
The footprints were small. Possibly a very small man’s, but I thought they were more likely to have been made by a woman. It could have been a youngster, but because of the vehicle I was inclined to rule out a child.
That was as much as I could tell. Having completed my early-morning inspection, I kicked the snow off my boots and went back inside to get some breakfast.
What could I say? Not much. Someone – possibly a woman – had walked round my home two or three times during the night. The footprints, the deep holes, had not been even partially filled in by new snow. So whoever it was had arrived after the snow stopped falling, which would have been sometime after three. That was when the rustling and whispering against my bedroom window had ceased.
And they had come before first light, a little before seven. I had been awake since then and would have heard a vehicle arriving or starting up again anywhere nearby.
So what had it been? A reconnaissance?
And who had it been, and what had they wanted?
I had no idea. Someone had left me a nice little mystery I didn’t really need.
After breakfast I made my way over to see Jimmy Mack, a virtually retired fisherman who lives in the neighbouring cottage here at Risky Point. There’s just the two of us on this isolated cliff top on the Cleveland coast. Our cottages used to be part of a hamlet peopled by ironstone miners and fishermen and their families, but coastal erosion has taken away all but Jimmy’s place and mine. One day it will likely take ours, too, as we both know full well. We live dangerously at Risky Point, like a few other people on the Cleveland coast.
‘So you were right about the snow, Jim.’
He gave me a pitying look, as if to say I was a fool for ever doubting him.
‘I could feel it in my bones. I can always tell.’
He was on about his arthritis again, I supposed, which seemed to be an infallible guide to all sorts of impending meteorological events.
‘You didn’t hear anything unusual during the night, did you? A vehicle along the track, say, or someone mooching about?’
He shook his head and looked at me with heightened interest, weighing my question up. ‘Come in,’ he said, sensing a diverting story and opening the door wide.
I followed him inside and shut the door after me.
‘Someone was about,’ I said, flopping into a chair in front of the fire. ‘There’s footprints all around my place.’
‘That right?’ He settled himself in the chair on the other side of the hearth and said with a grin, ‘Well, you’re the private investigator.’
I just scowled at him.
So it was a mystery. And there was little more to be said. Jimmy didn’t have the answer, and I wasn’t going to start speculating in front of him. I didn’t want him to start worrying.
‘That’s a nice bit of fire,’ I said, holding out my hands to feel the heat from the blaze of driftwood in the stone hearth.
He nodded and said, ‘I could do with collecting some more wood before winter sets in proper.’
‘I’ll give you a hand. I could do with some myself.’
I did wonder if he would still be able to get down the path to the beach. He wasn’t so good any more even on the flat, and that path was something special. You could do with roping up before you tackled it in wet weather. But I kept that thought to myself. I would go alone if necessary – like I had the last time, and the one before that.
‘I’m going to try to get into Redcar in a bit, Jim. Anything I can get for you? Or do you want to come with me, perhaps?’
‘Come with you?’ He shook his head. ‘What in? Your old tin can? No thanks! Anyway, I’ve got everything I need right here.’
Typical. Gratitude in spades. I sighed and got to my feet.
‘Old tin can indeed! That Land Rover was built for weather like this,’ I told him sternly. ‘It comes into its own on a day like today.’
‘Ice-box on wheels,’ he said with a chuckle.
He wasn’t far wrong about that, but I wasn’t going to admit it.
‘This might be him now,’ he said suddenly, fixing me with a concentrated stare.
‘Who?’
‘Your night visitor, coming back.’
I walked over to the window. A big silver vehicle was bumping gently along the track. There was nothing wrong with Jimmy’s hearing, whatever his other ailments. I made for the door.
‘Don’t let him in,’ Jimmy said with a chuckle. ‘That’s my advice. It’s probably trouble. Tell him you’re out.’
Two people got out of the car. A man and a woman. Potential clients, they looked like. No one else would have come visiting on a day like this.
They spotted me and stood waiting, standing a little apart; a well-dressed couple looking ill at ease about something. The man had his head up and was looking around with exaggerated interest, as if he had to have something to do. The woman seemed withdrawn, closed in on herself. Feeling the cold, perhaps. She had her head pulled down into her neck, and a big coat collar turned up over her ears.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Mr Doy?’ the man asked, turning to me with a polite s
mile.
‘That’s me, yes. Frank Doy.’
‘Can you spare us a few minutes of your time, Mr Doy? There’s something we’d like to discuss with you.’
‘Certainly. Come on inside. It’s too cold to stand out here.’
They followed me indoors, first taking the trouble to knock the snow off their shoes – a gesture I appreciated.
‘Nice and warm in here!’ the man said cheerfully, rubbing his hands together. ‘You can’t beat a wood stove. I’m Josh Steele, by the way. And this is my wife, Anne.’
We shook hands, and I smiled and ushered them to chairs around the stove. Warm as it was, the woman was slow to pull her head out of her collar. Frozen, probably. Perhaps their in-car heater was no better than mine.
‘Coffee?’ I queried. ‘Only instant, I’m afraid.’
‘That would be great,’ the husband said with fake enthusiasm.
I filled the kettle, switched it on and turned back to them.
‘What were the roads like? Any trouble getting here?’
‘Plenty of snow,’ the husband said, ‘but no trouble getting here. I’ve got off-road tyres on that vehicle – four hundred quid apiece. It will go anywhere, any conditions.’
I nodded and made the coffee, already fearing I wasn’t going to like him very much. But he obviously had money, which was something in his favour. I wish all my clients had money.
‘So what can I do for you?’
‘Well,’ he began cautiously, ‘we have a little problem you may be able to help us with. At least, my wife thinks—’
‘Oh, shut up, Josh!’ the wife said briskly. ‘We have a major problem, not a little one.’
I turned towards her, surprised. Potential clients don’t usually disagree with each other in the first few seconds of speaking to me.
My surprise grew as she turned down her collar, unbuttoned her coat and shook a little snow out of her hair. I realized then that I knew her.
‘Hello, Frank,’ she said with a sad smile. ‘Frank, we want you to help save our son. He’s in terrible danger.’
Chapter Two
The four men in the parked pickup truck sat quietly, waiting, watching the snow come down. The truck was stolen but only in the past half hour, too recently for the theft to have been reported. So they had a little time on their side.
Eddie, in the front passenger seat, took out a cigarette packet.
‘Put it away!’ snapped Blue, the driver.
Eddie turned, ready to argue.
‘Put it away.’
Sullenly, Eddie put the packet away. He remembered then that Blue had said DNA could be picked up off fag ends, which was a good reason for not smoking on the job. He knew that. It was just that he’d forgotten. The tension was getting to him.
‘He’s late,’ he murmured.
Blue shook his head. ‘Taking his time, that’s all. Relax.’
Blue right again, Eddie thought reluctantly. You couldn’t fault him.
Another three or four minutes of nothing happening followed. The street was dead. It was just industrial compounds and storage sheds and factory units. No houses or shops. No pubs. And at night, no people.
Plenty of light, though, Blue thought with a grimace. Enough security lights to illuminate an entire fucking city. The white stuff didn’t help either. It was like being on stage.
He didn’t say anything to the others but he knew they couldn’t sit here with the engine running much longer. Some sort of patrol would be along sooner or later, cops or private security. But if they left now they would have to abandon the job, for tonight at least. Logan wouldn’t like that. Blue smiled and shook his head. Logan. So what?
‘I don’t like the snow,’ Eddie said with a shiver.
Blue didn’t like it either, but he was thinking more of exposure and footprints than temperature.
‘I can hear something,’ Chas snapped from one of the back seats.
Blue wound the window down and stuck his head out. Then he heard it, too. A distant noisy engine, coming closer. He frowned. Something big, but it didn’t sound like a wagon.
‘It’s not him,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Relax, fellas.’
But it was. Half a minute later a double-decker bus careered round the corner fifty yards ahead. They knew it had to be Big Cyril driving even before it straightened up and came roaring at them without lights.
‘Jesus Christ!’ shouted Manny, the fourth man in the truck. ‘What’s he fucking doing?’
The bus raced towards them – at them! Blue instinctively braced himself for the collision. Then the squealing started as Big Cyril slammed on the brakes. The bus shuddered, swayed violently from side to side and finally stopped just a few feet away.
Blue shook his head, swore and threw his door open. Bloody Cyril! He heard a couple of the others laughing – with relief probably – but he wasn’t amused.
Big Cyril was. He was grinning his head off when he jumped down to the road. Everything was a game to him.
‘Where’s the wagon?’ Blue demanded.
‘Couldn’t get it started, boss. But I figured this would do just as well.’
Blue thought fast. The bus wasn’t what he wanted but it would have to do.
‘OK. Turn it round. Go in backwards, if you don’t want a concrete post through your chest.’
Big Cyril got back in the cab, found reverse and manoeuvred the bus until it straddled the road, its back end pointing at the high security fence on the far side. He leant out of the window and looked at Blue. Blue nodded. Big Cyril engaged gear, revved the engine and sent the bus hurtling backwards at the fence.
The first collision didn’t do the job. The wagon with the snow plough blade on the front would have gone straight through first go, and out the other side, but not this rickety, thin-shelled thing. Instead, the back end of the bus crumpled and a shower of glass flew through the air. Blue motioned to Big Cyril to pull out and try again.
On the fourth attempt the bus, now perceptibly shorter and probably an insurance write-off, went straight through the weakened fence and into the timber compound beyond. Blue waved the others forward. They ran into the compound with jerry cans snatched from the pickup and began sloshing petrol over the nearest stacks of timber.
When they were done, he waited until they were all back through the gap in the fence. Then he lit a primed rag and tossed it onto the end of a petrol trail, before turning to trot back to the truck to join the others.
They took off immediately, without waiting to see what happened. They drove at a steady, sensible speed back to where they had parked the car a couple of miles away. There they swapped vehicles, set the truck on fire, and sped off again, all in a matter of minutes, Blue driving.
He stopped the car on the other side of the river, from where they had a good view. They could see flames reaching into the night sky, headed by a towering column of sparks.
‘Like bonfire night,’ Eddie said with approval.
Blue grinned at him and said, ‘You can have that cigarette now.’
Chapter Three
‘Anne Fenwick,’ I murmured with a smile. ‘As was, that is. It’s been a long time.’
She nodded and gave me a wry smile back. ‘It certainly has.’
We had known each other when we were young, moving with the same crowd, enjoying the same music. Then the world had moved on, and I couldn’t tell you when I’d last seen her. Long before she got married anyway. I had forgotten about her, but it seemed as if she hadn’t forgotten me. Why else would she have been here?
‘So what’s this about?’ I asked.
Her husband took up the story.
‘I’m a businessman, Frank. Various strings to my bow. Lots of industrial properties. For some time now we’ve been experiencing a wave of vandalism, and other attacks of one sort or another. Arson, break-ins, thefts …’ He shrugged. ‘You know the sort of thing.’
I nodded. It was a common enough story, although much depended on what your business
was and where it was located.
‘You want me to look at your security?’ I glanced from one to the other of them and added, ‘I thought you said it was about your son?’
Anne grimaced and said, ‘It is. The other stuff doesn’t really matter.’
‘I’m just giving him some background,’ Josh said, sounding defensive. ‘There’s a vendetta against us. That’s what it amounts to.’
‘Are the police on it?’ I asked.
‘They are,’ he admitted. ‘Not that that’s done any good.’
‘And is this linked to your son?’
Josh nodded and took a sip of his coffee. I was ready to be apologetic about the coffee but I don’t think he even noticed what he was drinking.
‘Unfortunately, the lad got himself into a spot of bother.’
‘For God’s sake, Josh!’ Anne snapped at him. ‘He killed someone.’
‘Well …’
‘He killed someone,’ she reiterated, staring hard at him, challenging him. ‘Let’s not beat about the bush.’
He shut up then, not surprisingly. She had winded him. I felt inclined to wince on his behalf.
‘Tell me what happened,’ I said in a gentle tone, anxious to defuse the increasingly tense atmosphere. ‘Then I might be able to tell you if I can help.’
‘It was a road accident,’ Anne said. ‘Tom was just turned seventeen. He hadn’t been driving long, and he’d been drinking with his pals. On the way home, just over a year ago, he knocked another young boy over. The boy died.
‘Tom was convicted of causing his death, drink-driving etcetera, but because of mitigating circumstances he was given only a year in youth custody.’
‘And banned from driving,’ Josh added.
Anne shrugged, impatient with the qualifying remark, and said, ‘He’s just been let out.’
I nodded, and wondered what the mitigating circumstances could have been. His youth, perhaps? Or a good lawyer, more likely. Even so, it was obviously a bad situation.
But the way Anne had told the story was good. No flannel at all. Just a straightforward, simple and unemotional recital of the facts. Josh wasn’t up to that. He couldn’t help himself trying to put a gloss on things to make the bare facts look better.
Now all I needed to do was find out what had really happened, and why they were worried about their son. After that, I might be able to tell them if it was a job for me, or for somebody more like a psychiatrist – or a marriage counsellor.
