‘Is everything okay with you two?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I mean . . . oh, I don’t know.’
She suddenly looked desperately unhappy. Rick instinctively wanted to hug her and make everything okay. He glanced round. The pool tournament was still in full swing. Jamie was mercilessly barracking Frank and Elaine, who were their closest rivals. There were at least three more games before he was due at the table again. He wasn’t even near being missed.
‘Go on,’ he said, pulling her towards a relatively quiet corner between the cig machine and bandit. ‘Tell Uncle Rick.’
It didn’t take long. When she’d finished he regarded her levelly.
‘Geoff really suggested you went elsewhere, because he’s old and tired?’
She wouldn’t hold his gaze but managed a nod.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Give me your mobile number.’
‘Rick! I told you I’m not taking up his suggestion.’
‘I don’t want it for me,’ he said patiently. ‘Just read out the number. You’ll see.’
She complied but looked unhappy. ‘You’re going to confront him, aren’t you? Please don’t; I hate confrontations.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not a GI. We Brits do softly, softly as well as crash, bang, wallop.’
‘You might do softly, softly, but I don’t think Geoff’s ever heard of it.’
‘I’ll take him to one side, so the kids don’t notice.’
‘Oh Goodness, I don’t like this. I wish I’d never said anything.’
‘Why don’t you go outside for a bit, away from all the smoke? And keep your mobile on.’
Rick waited until she’d gone then intercepted Big Bruv on his way back from the toilets, purposely catching him off guard. Then, forgetting all about “softly, softly” and using the privacy of the corridor behind the bar, he hit him with the full list of charges . . . hard.
Geoff was one of the few people Rick had never been able to intimidate. He listened in stony silence, his glare unflinching.
‘So,’ he said finally. ‘I’m a workaholic. I neglect my kids and won’t admit I’m stressed. And I’m being awful to my wife because I don’t love her anymore. Anything else?’
‘Isn’t that enough?’
Geoff tried to look defiant but couldn’t. Instead he visibly deflated.
‘Okay then,’ he sighed, ‘guilty on all counts. Except I do still love her, I just don’t seem to be able to do anything about it.’
That was a surprise. Big Bruv not intimidated, but definitely resigned.
‘Well you’d better get something done about it,’ Rick growled. ‘Otherwise you’ll lose her. And that’s the last thing the kids need. You do know that, don’t you?’
‘I know, I know. But I’ve had a bad year . . .’
‘Bollocks,’ Rick snapped, ‘fucking bollocks. A mate of mine’s had a bad year. He got his legs blown off in Iraq. Then his wife decided she couldn’t cope with him as a cripple and left. She took their kids to New Zealand, so he can’t even see them at weekends. And do you know what? If he was here now, he’d be telling you he’s the luckiest guy around. Two lads on his patrol died and he’s learning to walk again on prosthetics. Go tell him you’ve had a bad year. He’ll listen, but I fucking won’t.’
Geoff took a deep breath before speaking again. ‘Did Penny tell you I’ve been neglecting her, as well as the kids?’
‘Not in so many words. She said you felt old and tired. She left it for me to work out that you can’t hack being forty. And that you prefer Samantha’s ghost to her.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘No?’ Rick closed for the kill. ‘Telling her to find someone else isn’t the answer. She’ll have no shortage of offers if she ever tries. I bet she spends half her life fending off indecent proposals as it is. For the time being it’s you she wants, not someone else. Keep pushing her away and that’ll change.’ He dialled Penny’s number and held out his phone. ‘Here. It’s ringing for you. Sort it out.’
‘Where is she?’ Geoff was alarmed.
‘Gone,’ Rick said cruelly. ‘So get her back.’
‘Hi Pen,’ Geoff said into the phone, sounding calm but looking worried. ‘I’m with my baby brother. He’s just been pointing out what an idiot I’ve been. I’m ringing to apologize.’
Rick could have withdrawn but didn’t.
‘I love you,’ Geoff went on. ‘And I can’t believe things have got this bad. I’m going to see Henry first thing tomorrow. I’ll tell him I’m dropping the degree and don’t want a junior partnership after all. If he doesn’t like it, I’ll get another job. Whatever it takes, I’ll spend as much time as possible with you and the kids from now on. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll go see doctors, psychiatrists . . . you name it.’
Geoff stopped babbling and listened a minute, then he started to smile. ‘Of course I will,’ he said. ‘Although I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. I feel better that way already. Tell me where you are and I’ll come and prove it.’
He listened again then chuckled before ending the call. ‘Gone,’ he said, passing back the mobile. ‘She says she’s outside on the bench, getting some air.’
‘Had to keep you focused,’ said Rick.
He watched through the taproom window as Geoff went into the gathering darkness, hesitated, and then caught Penny as she flew into his arms.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Elaine wondered as Rick rejoined the pool players. ‘And why are you so pleased with yourself?’
‘Just thinking happy thoughts,’ he said, giving her bum a friendly squeeze. Elaine didn’t seem to mind this show of familiarity. She turned and gave him a big kiss, not sparing the horses.
‘Uncle Rick!’ Jamie said loudly. ‘I think you’re in there!’
‘Jamie!’ Sandy exclaimed while Becky and everyone else laughed.
‘That’s your Observation test passed,’ said Rick, ‘now for Tact and Diplomacy . . .’
* * *
The hookers might have gone but there were still plenty of dealers about. Green had grabbed one earlier and turned the screw. Without being too obvious, he’d extracted some facts. Got a feel for the way things now worked. Illegal Albanians, apparently, together with a sprinkling of local Pakistanis and hopelessly addicted white trash.
Sounded dodgy, but it was a dodgy business, wasn’t it?
Green’s current position was just off Lumb Lane, in a badly-lit side street that ran down to Manningham Lane. His attention was fixed on a derelict-looking building fifty yards away. He didn’t know if it was true . . . and the elders would have a fit if it was . . . but he’d been assured it was a bash house. According to the dickhead he’d grabbed, a big chunk of Bradford’s heroin was bulked and distributed out of that building.
Probably the best end to be on, Green thought. The streets are more dangerous than ever. Why bother with aggro at that level?
Although the planning was still happening inside his head, he was sure he was on a winner. Somehow he was going to muscle in and take over. Or make them pay protection. Or failing all else, rob the fucking bastards and sell their shit for millions.
At last, halfway through his pack of smokes, a door opened and someone came out; a tall guy in a suit, carrying an executive briefcase.
Green stayed where he was, watching the guy walk up the opposite pavement. It was hard to make out his face with half the streetlights smashed. Could have been any age, and Asian or white. Probably young, come to think of it; that hill was steep and he was fairly sailing up.
What do Albanians look like, anyway? Fucking bank managers?
Eyes flicking constantly from case to face, Green let the guy pass then crossed over and fell in twenty paces behind. Should he go for a snatch? No, too much of a gamble. Might only get away with this morning’s Daily Express and stale sandwiches. Best keep following. See where he went.
Then go for a snatch . . .
Whoever he was, the guy had balls. Reaching Lumb Lane he
turned right and strode on as if he was doing Oxford Street in broad daylight. Maybe law and order had been restored in these parts after all.
Or maybe not.
Green never did find out where the tossers came from. One minute he was walking along, keeping a steady distance, next he’d been swept off his feet and dumped in an alleyway. At least four of them, he realized, lying there pinned on his back, arms and legs held tight, head swimming.
‘Fuckin’ shut it, right?’
Make that at least five.
The alley had a solid, windowless bit of building on one side, a high wall on the other. There was some sort of security light burning beyond the wall. Looking up Green could see the outline of metal spikes and barbed wire. Down on the ground it was pitch black in contrast. He could see occasional silhouettes flitting over him but fuck all else.
‘Hey,’ he cried. ‘I’m just out of nick. I’ve nowt worth having.’
‘I said fuckin’ shut it; right?’
Green shut it. The voice wasn’t Albanian, he was certain about that. It was too Bratfud to be Albanian.
One strong hand blocked his gob while others searched him. Thank fuck he hadn’t got a shooter. He’d been delaying that because the Parole Board frowned on weapons, particularly after releasing the likes of him.
‘Right,’ the Bratfud man said, removing his hand. ‘Who are you?’
‘Johnny Green.’
‘What the fuck you playing at, Johnny Green?’
‘Nowt, I’m . . . argghh!’
The pain was massive. It felt as if something had chopped into his knuckles. His yell would have woken the dead . . . if he hadn’t had a hand blocking his gob again.
‘Listen, Johnny Green. What were you after this afternoon? When you gripped Fiaz?’
That eliminated the chance he was being mugged. Green still didn’t know who the Bratfud man was, but this afternoon’s dickhead had definitely looked like a Fiaz.
‘I was only talking,’ he said.
‘Talking?’
‘Look, don’t you know who I am? This was my patch.’
‘What? When dinosaurs ruled the earth?’
‘Ten years back. I was with Besty.’
‘Never heard of him.’
Several somethings fell deadly onto Green’s face. To his utter horror he realized they were his fingers.
‘Argghh!’
That strong hand muffled his protests once more.
‘So,’ the voice resumed. ‘Johnny Green’s come to reclaim his patch, has he?’
‘No! Listen . . . just let me go. You’ll never see me again.’
This time the massive pain landed on Green’s leg. It drove all the breath out of him. He couldn’t even gasp, never mind yell.
Two more hefty blows followed, hitting the same section of shin, sending shock waves up and down his body.
The bastards were trying to hack his fucking foot off!
‘No! Please! I’ll . . .’
‘Please,’ the voice mocked. ‘I’ll do anything!’ It laughed harshly. ‘You can’t do anything, Johnny Green. Not one thing.’
Chapter Thirty-one
Tinner stuck the captured weapon in his belt, grabbed the chart and then marched Peters at gunpoint toward the warehouse doors, ordering him to slide them apart and turn on the lights. The white van drove sedately inside, rolling slowly down a wide aisle between rigs without trailers and empty trailers without rigs, stopping near the partitioned office. Angel and Eric from Burnley got out and waited, watching while Peters shut the doors and was shepherded along to join them. Tinner gave Angel a quick update before making Peters sit on the floor and giving him a thermos of hot, sweetened tea.
Peters was not happy. He clearly wanted to be out of there. Tinner couldn’t bring himself to be bothered. Not much, anyway. Peters didn’t have any fight in him. He barely had enough strength to sip the tea, nothing like enough to try legging it.
Besides, he wasn’t going to get the sniff of a chance.
Angel and Eric were already wearing disposable gloves. Tinner pulled on a pair as Eric inspected the safe.
‘Exactly what I expected,’ the cracksman said. ‘It should take three or four hours.’
‘You’ve only got two, but don’t worry.’ Angel handed him Arthur’s kit. ‘It’s fifty-fifty up or down, innit? Like we said in the first place, it’s a bonus if you open the bastard. Just make it obvious you’ve had a go.’
‘That will be no problem,’ said Eric.
‘Will it not?’ Angel replied, guffawing.
Peters said nothing, seemingly oblivious. He held the thermos without drinking, using both hands, staring dumbly away into the distance.
No fight in him? It was worse than that. He had no life in him . . . already.
Eric beat the safe with ten minutes to spare. It was filled with bank notes and stacks of documents.
‘Just get the cash,’ Angel commanded. ‘Leave the paperwork.’
Tinner watched Angel hold open a small sports bag while Eric quickly threw in bundles of notes and then signalled to Peters. ‘Okay, mate, on your feet.’
The security guard got up jerkily, like a puppet with tangled strings. Still nowhere near with it.
‘Look,’ he mumbled, ‘I haven’t seen anything, okay?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Tinner said. ‘I know how it is. Just go in the office. My friend wants a word with you.’
Sweating heavily, Peters shuffled into the doorway and stopped short when he realized Tinner had stepped to one side.
‘Keep going,’ Tinner said, levelling his gun.
‘That’s right,’ Angel agreed. ‘Walk to me.’
Peters gulped and took a couple of shaky paces into the office.
‘Keep coming,’ said Angel, before shooting him three times in the chest, the exit wounds erupting bone and tissue in unholy pyramids. Peters’ body was thrown back against the doorframe then bounced forward again, ending up face down, a pool of dark blood immediately starting to form.
The former-biker’s gun was suppressed. Even in that echo chamber of a warehouse the shots were far from loud. The dull thud of the security man’s body hitting the deck was probably more likely to be heard from outside.
Not.
‘Lovely,’ said Angel, ‘very artistic, if I say so myself.’ Then, looking at Eric, who’d gone white as a sheet: ‘Stop bricking it. How many times do I have to tell you? You’re with the good guys.’
Tinner retrieved the thermos and threw it in the Transit before helping Angel pull Arthur out of the vehicle, into the office. He was in a bit of a state was Arthur. He’d keeled over hours ago and still showed no signs of coming round. Between them they lifted him and propped his arse on top of the safe.
‘Here,’ Angel said as Tinner produced the security guard’s weapon. ‘I’ll do it. Teach him to say I look like his fucking wife.’
He stood behind Peters’ body, taking aim across the room before blasting Arthur once in each thigh, clearly enjoying it all the more for the lack of silencer. Laughing as the echoes resounded around them.
Arthur’s brain didn’t seem to feel this new abuse but his body must have, because his legs crumpled and, in super-slow motion, he slid off the safe, crash-landing on his own safecracking kit.
‘Right,’ said Tinner. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘Let me do the job properly,’ Angel said. He fired once more, aiming at random and putting a large, very noticeable bullet-hole in the wall above the safe. Then he wiped Peters’ gun and placed it beside the dead security guard’s body, putting his own weapon in Arthur’s limp hand. Frowning critically, he took one of the stacks of documents and scattered them on the floor, as if they’d been dropped.
‘That’ll do,’ he said. ‘That’s the extra touch that means so much, innit?’
‘Correct,’ said Tinner, ‘you noisy bastard. Okay if we fuck off now?’
Angel grinned, ‘Why not?’
The three left, turning the lights off and p
ulling the warehouse doors to, letting the gates lock themselves.
It was six minutes past ten.
* * *
Déjà vu for Vic. She was lying back, squeezing her tits and trying not to cum while her fanny rocked and rolled with Heather’s. Heather (supposedly doing equal shares tonight but in complete control, as per normal!) was using the head end of the bed as high ground, somehow being aggressive and gentle at the same time. Their contact felt like the world’s sloppiest, warmest wet kiss. It was the most amazing sensation ever.
Ever, ever, ever.
Sex was never like this with Karen; never anywhere near.
‘My God,’ Heather moaned. ‘This gets better and better.’
And it did. Vic had set out to fuck the graduate trainee because of her startling good looks and because she obviously wanted to be fucked . . . or so it had seemed in the new products meeting and later, when she’d allowed herself to be mauled in the pub. Vic had never suspected she’d be the one on the receiving end and glad to be there. Or that a rapid-fire string of one-nighters could lead to . . .
Well, she wasn’t absolutely sure what it was leading to, not yet, but it did feel like something awfully big.
Never mind her plans and Heather’s True Confessions, the things they’d talked about! Starting with gushing orgasms and degenerating from there!
Vic couldn’t have had those conversations with Karen. She’d tried to debate the nuances between clit and G spot a few times but always got stonewalled. Karen, the woman who claimed she’d never been with anyone who could communicate, just didn’t want to know. Heather, by contrast, couldn’t know enough.
And Heather wasn’t all talk. She only wanted to know so she could improve. She had to be the most caring lover on the planet, as well as the best.
Vic had always admired strong, brave women, even though she usually ended up sleeping with submissive wimps. Finding one ready, willing and able to fuck her until she could hardly walk was both a novelty and not to be sneezed at. Being a banker, however, she never took anything at face value, not even when she dearly wanted to. So she’d gone on the Internet and found the old story via an archive service.
SCHOOLGIRL SOOTHES SAVAGE BEAST
UNCONSECRATED GROUND Page 37
