One Last Hit

by Linda Coles

  Luke stayed silent, let him have his airtime.

  “Do you even know how to fire a gun, of any kind?” Clinton asked him.

  “I’ve shot a rifle and a shotgun, but not a handgun or revolver, no. Daresay I could learn, though. There’s got to be a gun club I can join somewhere, get some lessons.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure, actually,” Clinton retorted. “This is England, remember, not the US. It might be a tad more difficult than you think. And then there is the small issue of actually purchasing a gun.” Clinton picked up his phone and typed into his browser. “See?” He turned his screen towards Luke. “Since the Dunblane school shooting in 1996, all handguns are effectively banned from the ranges. Only rifles and muzzle-loading pistols are allowed.” Turning the screen back to himself, he added, “I’m guessing those are the really old ones like they used to use in duels.” He almost looked chuffed.

  “There’ll be a way to get some lessons,” Luke insisted. “Once I’ve got something to practice with, mind. I haven’t looked at the cost yet, or the availability. I need to research a little more.”

  “Like which one you actually need to start with. Calibre and whatnot – silencer, size, that sort of thing.”

  Luke smiled broadly at Clinton.

  “What?”

  “Listen to you. You were so freaked out a few minutes ago, yet here you are now, calmly chatting away about the best gun to get.”

  “Leave out the ‘we’, will you? I’m simply talking to you, having a conversation and nothing more. I’ve not agreed to anything yet. And I won’t be either, I expect.”

  He went back to his phone and Luke watched him silently. If he was going to get fixed up with a weapon, it wasn’t going to be with the help of Google; more likely a backstreet pub off a rough council estate tower. He looked down at his pretty-boy hands, hands that didn’t get dirty that often. His mother used to say his hands were nicer than her own, and they probably were. In any rough pub those hands would give their game away; he’d stick out like a nun at a disco and probably get himself killed in the process if he tried. And there was still the issue of funds. No, he really had no choice: he’d have to buy the gun when he’d secured his first client with his first advance.

  But he still had to make the enquiry.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Mrs. Stewart held out a plastic box for Jack as he left his house for work.

  “Here, a piece of iced lemon loaf for your mid-morning snack, and I’ve put a piece in for Amanda too. See she gets it, please.” She nodded knowingly at Jack. They both knew that there was every chance Amanda would never see the extra piece, but Jack’s waistline would. It had happened before.

  “I only did that the once, as you well know, Mrs. S,” he teased. “Though iced lemon is one of my very favourites, so I wouldn’t like to guarantee its delivery to the rightful stomach.”

  Mrs. Stewart smiled as Jack set off towards his car, which was parked on the driveway. She raised a hand and waved him farewell, waiting for him to fully reverse and drive away before she shut the front door behind him.

  Jack smiled as he drove off; he loved this little ritual of theirs. He blushed to admit it, but his life was so much nicer now with Mrs. S. in the picture. She was Jack’s housekeeper, and she cleaned and cooked for him three times a week, usually in the mornings. Since his Janine had passed a few years back, he’d been muddling along on his own, and the habits he’d got into had needed intervention from Amanda and Ruth. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been coping, mind; he’d simply become a little scruffy round the edges, and ate appallingly, and his health had started to suffer a little because of it.

  Janine had done everything for him when she’d been alive, bless her, and so through no fault of his own he hadn’t known how to do laundry properly, or cook a decent meal, or most of the important but mundane things that happened round a house in terms of cleaning and maintenance.

  After he’d fallen ill and been laid up in hospital, Amanda and Ruth had installed Mrs. S. on a trial basis to help him out. He had balked at first, of course, but it had turned out to be the best gift the two women could have given him. He now had three wonderful women in his life.

  Jack smiled to himself and looked across at the little plastic box on the passenger seat. No doubt about it: Mrs. S. made him feel better about himself – and made him look better too. His old work shirts with the fraying collars had vanished. Replacements had been bought and were laundered carefully for him.

  He stopped for a red light and reached for his phone. He tapped the Spotify app, pressed on his Time Capsule, and Simon and Garfunkel’s Mrs. Robinson filled the car. He listened to the words as he waited for the lights to change. “Heaven holds a place for those who pray…”. Janine had prayed, and so had Jack when she’d been diagnosed with cancer.

  “God bless you, Janine,” he said huskily, and wondered what she was doing right at that moment. A toot from a car horn behind him brought him back to reality and he drove on as Scarborough Fair began to play.

  Ten minutes later, he was parked up in the station car park and retrieving the little plastic box along with his old briefcase. Raj was parked up nearby and shouted his good morning as he too made his way towards the building. Jack liked Raj. He was young and polite, and had brains, though they didn’t share the same interest in music. Not many had Jack’s limited tastes – ELO, Rainbow and little else. They fell into step together. Raj nodded at the box.

  “More homemade baking?”

  “Keep your dabs off it or I’ll know exactly where it’s gone,” Jack said, though he meant no malice. “One piece has Amanda’s name on it and the other is all mine. Play your cards right, and I’ll ask Mrs. S. to cut you a piece one of these days.”

  “I wish I had someone to bake for me. Shop-bought is nowhere near the same. How do I play my cards right, then? What do I have to do?”

  Raj opened the glass double door and Jack slipped though. He followed.

  “Put a rush on those packets from the bin if you can. I’ve a feeling they might be the key to something bigger.”

  “Oh?”

  “Call it a feeling in my water, but I think we could be looking at something landing in our own backyard. Get some results for me today, and there’s cake in it for you tomorrow.”

  Jack increased his speed and Raj fell behind.

  “Done. Make it a big piece,” he called after him, and made his way to his own office and desk, no doubt to make the phone call.

  Amanda materialized from a doorway as Jack passed by. “Hey, slow down,” she said, struggling to keep up. “What’s the rush?”

  “No rush, just want to get on,” he said, and passed the box to her. She opened the lid as she walked.

  “Oh! Mrs. S., I think I love you.” She reached in and helped herself to a slice. She took a mouthful and savoured the taste before replacing the lid and catching Jack up again.

  “That’s supposed to be for later with your coffee, not right now,” he said as he reached his desk and hung his jacket on the back of his chair.

  “Can only eat it once, and I’ve saved some.”

  “Well, don’t let Raj see you with it. He’s after a piece. I’ve told him it’s his tomorrow if he can work his magic and get those packet results today.” He flung himself into the chair. Stale air escaped in a whoosh at the sudden impact. The chair groaned as he turned in it to face Amanda.

  “Sounds like too much cake to me. Even your chair is complaining,” she teased him.

  “Funny, Lacey. You’re just jealous.”

  “Probably, though I don’t need the extra calories right now.” She patted her stomach. “Married life brings a couple more glasses of wine here and there, though I’m not complaining.”

  Jack looked over her shoulder and got to his feet. She turned to see Raj striding towards them. From the look on his face, he wasn’t bringing good news.

  “Oxy and codeine. High strength,” was all he said.

  Jack’s face fe
ll. “Shit!”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “No surprises it’s a shell company that runs the van.”

  Raj had been digging most of the morning while Amanda caught up on some massively overdue paperwork. She looked up from the report she was typing. Raj stood by the corner of her desk. Dressed smartly as usual, he looked handsome in a pale blue check shirt that contrasted nicely with his dark skin. Amanda often thought he should have been a GQ model rather than a copper and not because he wasn’t good enough. No, Raj had a reputation for his diligence, but he also had a reputation for his good looks. She sat back in her chair.

  “Hmm. It’s never so easy, is it? Why can’t the criminals we have to deal with be a bit more obvious? Make it a wee bit easier for us just for once.”

  “Sorry, not this time. A bit more digging on this one, I’m afraid. Good old-fashioned leg work. Though I did pick up something along the way, a name. Not sure if it’ll lead anywhere but you never know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, from what I can tell, there could be a link to the north – Manchester, actually. One of the names that popped up in the background was linked to a bust some years back, though nothing came of it. Might be worth chatting to your buddies up there to see if they know of anything like this on their patch. I’m guessing a similar system with the food vans. There’s probably more of them up there than there are down here.”

  “Worth a chat. Give me the name.”

  Raj handed over a slip of paper and Amanda sat thoughtful for a moment. “Thanks Raj.”

  “Let me know, eh?” he said over his shoulder as he began walking back to his desk.

  Manchester.

  She knew a couple of the detectives in Manchester. She and Jack had worked on a case there together in the past. The infamous Sebastian Stevens had become a trophy for a different type of hunter, and the case had introduced her to DS Duncan Riley and DS Rick Black. The whole case had become a little too close for comfort when her friend Stephanie had become involved, though she herself had escaped unharmed. But both Rick and Duncan were competent detectives. In fact, Rick, who looked remarkably like Buddy Holly, was on a fast-track program to becoming a DI. He’d mused that he might find himself promoted to Croydon in the near future and become her direct boss. While she had no problem with him being younger than her, she’d wondered about his worldly-wise experience. Had he had enough to be a decent DI? ‘Dopey’ Dupin sprang to mind. His own youth hadn’t done him too much harm, though his nickname wasn’t particularly confidence-building or flattering.

  Her stomach growled like an old dog. Perhaps another bacon sandwich from a mobile van? She called over to Jack, who was fiddling with a coffee capsule that was stuck in the chamber. He had a knife in his hand trying to pull it back up and out. Amanda shook her head in amazement. For a fine detective, he found basic things a challenge at times.

  “I’ll buy you one. It’ll be quicker. Grab your jacket.”

  He didn’t need asking twice and left the offending capsule in situ for someone else to wrestle with. He hadn’t seen Dupin making his way in, mug in hand, but Amanda had. While Jack caught her up, she made her own quick exit out into the corridor, encouraging Jack to quicken his pace after her. He had the good sense not to yell at her to slow down. Perhaps he had seen Dupin on his tail after all.

  When they were both out in the car park, Jack finally asked where they were going.

  “Raj reckons this van might be linked to a set-up up north, around Manchester,” Amanda told him. “It seems a company name that was thrown up with his search was linked to another drugs case last year up there, but nothing was proved. My guess is the two are connected. No smoke without fire, or in this case no pills without pain. I’m going back for another look, see who’s working the counter. Might even mention I’ve a headache or something – you never know. Now we know there is probably something going on, we need to take a closer look and do a bit of fishing.”

  “You spoken to Manchester yet?

  “No. Thought I would after this. Needed a bacon roll anyway.” She turned and smiled at Jack, who was never one to turn bacon down. “Figured you’d like one too.”

  Amanda walked across to the van to place their order. Jack watched from the car, trying his best to take photos without being seen. As usual, there was a queue, and apart from an elderly couple, everyone else looked like regular business people. They all wore the same style of uniform, male or female: standard dark suit, pale shirt or blouse. The only thing that differed was age and shoe style. Amanda joined the back of the line and turned her ears up high in the hope of eavesdropping on a useful morsel. But nobody was talking, not to each other at any rate. The only conversation she heard was when an order was placed and the server asked about sauce colour.

  “Yes, love?” the server enquired, taking her away from her thoughts. The man was dressed in chef whites with a matching cap. “What can I get you?”

  “Well, if you could deal with my stonking headache, that would be handy.” She smiled up at him sweetly. The man looked unsure how to respond to her request. Amanda took the opportunity to study his face as he processed what she’d said. His eyes darted rapidly to his sidekick further inside the van.

  Amanda pressed on, this time in a hushed tone. “I don’t suppose you have any painkillers, do you? And I’ll have two bacon rolls wrapped separately as well.” That perfectly innocent smile again. Did his face register what she meant or was she mistaken? Hopeful, but maybe mistaken. Finally, he spoke.

  “Sorry, love, I don’t have anything,” he said, and turned to make up the two rolls, though not before she caught his glance again to his partner at his side. When the two bags were ready, she paid her money and turned to walk back to the car where Jack sat watching the proceedings. As she climbed in, she noticed him staring at a young man approaching the car. With a start, she realized he had been behind her in line. Amanda rolled her window down for him. He looked to both sides and then leaned closer to speak.

  “If you have a bad headache,” he started, “You’ll need to ask for something a little more specific, like special sauce. That’s all they need to hear. Too many pigs about; have to be careful.”

  Amanda slowly nodded her understanding.

  “Thanks. Good to know. What about payment?” She took a bite of her sandwich, carrying on with the pantomime.

  “Get the app,” he said briskly and walked away. They watched as he got into his own car and drove out of the layby.

  Jack raised an eyebrow at Amanda. “Well, if prostitutes have apps now, I guess it’s only natural progression drug dealers do too. Special sauce, eh?”

  Amanda, with a mouthful of food, could only nod in amazement.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Back at the station, Jack and Amanda made a bee-line for their desks.

  “I’ll get straight on to GMP, see what they know. You get on to cyber. Or is it drug squad? Could be either.” Without waiting for a response, she dialled Rick Black’s number. He picked up on the third ring.

  “DS Black here.”

  “Rick, hello, it’s DS Amanda Lacey from South Croydon. Remember me?”

  “Of course I do, Amanda. Not an easy lady to forget. Or case, for that matter.” There was laughter in his voice and she couldn’t help but smile a little at the phone. “That sounds ominous. What did I do to be so memorable?”

  “Kicked butt, if I remember rightly. Another madwoman behind bars. How are you, anyway, and what can I do for you?”

  “I’m great, thanks. Got married recently and I’m back busy at work as usual, which is why I’m ringing you.”

  “Congratulations, Amanda. Now what can I help you with?”

  “I thought I’d ask and see what your local drug dealers are up to currently, but not your old-school crack gangs. I’m talking the newer breed, the opiate pushers, oxy and the like. What’s happening on that front near you?”

  “Well, I can tell you there is definitely a market and a
distribution. Drug squad could tell you more. Can you be more specific?”

  “Just following a hunch, though we did find some little empty packets in a public rubbish bin that tested positive for high-strength oxy and codeine. I’m thinking a food van nearby might be involved. Orders are placed with a bacon roll, transactions paid for possibly via an app rather than cash. Know of anything like that on your patch?” Amanda could hear a clicking on the other end of the receiver. She imagined his pen tapping his desk, a habit she remembered he had. It stopped as he began to speak again.

  “What makes you think of Manchester. Something linking it back up here?”

  “Yes, two things, actually. You’re not far from the Irish Sea – not that we have any reason to think that’s how it’s getting in, but it’s convenient. We also traced a company, though rather tenuously, back to a name from your area. Not directly of course, but his name came up from a previous case that, as usual for him, went nowhere.”

  “Oh? Who’s that?”

  “Wilfred Day.”

  Rick let out a long whistling breath through his teeth and stayed silent for a moment.

  “Are you still there, Rick?”

  “Yeah, just thinking. He’s like damn Teflon that one. Nothing sticks to him. Slips around like a fried egg in a greasy pan.” Amanda smiled at the analogy. Why did detectives have such vivid imaginations when it came to descriptions? Jack was just the same.

  “What’s he like?”

  “You mean other than slippery?”

  “Yes, what’s he like generally? Hard man, local mob, what?”

  “He’s one of the most politely spoken, well-dressed blond-haired blue-eyed thirty-something men you could ever meet. To look at him you’d say he came from money, probably a finance background or similar, complete with diamond-patterned sweater, chinos, and nicely polished brogues. Your typical hard man stereotype he’s not. Far from it.”