by Linda Coles
Luke had read about some of the greatest criminal minds of the past; the best of them had been educated, clever and meticulous planners. And some had had values too. The infamous Ted Bundy, for instance. During his killing spree, where he had savagely mutilated and killed over thirty women including his wife, he had admitted he would never steal an uninsured car because he didn’t think it was right. He’d happily kill his wife rather than divorce her, but he drew the line at taking an uninsured car because that wasn’t fair. Go figure.
But prisons were full of the ones who had been caught, which to Luke’s mind meant they were either stupid or hadn’t given enough time and attention to the details. They had probably left evidence and clues like a trail of breadcrumbs for the police to follow.
But not Luke. He had no intention of being caught. He was the educated, creative one, and Clinton was educated and meticulous, so between them, they’d come up with the perfect plan.
After the toasty warmth of the night bus, the air outside felt like it couldn’t get any colder. Yet it surely would. The worst of winter was yet to come and even though London rarely got snow, it got bitterly cold, the wind chill making the mercury plummet. Luke rubbed his hands together as he walked through deserted streets, head down against the freezing night air, focusing on keeping his feet out of the random dog shit that littered the cracked pavement. He’d not been down these streets in years, not since Tommy had left; there’d been no need.
Most of the low-rise flat blocks had cracks of light peeking out from behind curtains, a signal someone was home, but some were still in darkness. Many others were boarded up with graffiti-covered plywood. Some of the plywood sheets had been wrenched away at a corner as someone or other attempted to break in, use the empty space as a squat, for a quick lay maybe, or somewhere peaceful to get a fix and lie low for a while. It was a dark, murky, mostly uninhabited world, left to fend for itself, unchecked, unregulated and rampant with crime.
Tommy had lived further up the street, on the tenth floor of a tower block with his mum. Luke had been there only the once and had tried not to stare at how little they had, at the decrepit state of what they did have. But Tommy’s mum had been a proud woman, and Luke smiled, remembering the big old blanket that had sat in pride of place on their sofa. She’d crocheted it herself, making the coloured wool squares out of wool from old unravelled jumpers or from skeins bought for a few pence at the market. How long it would have taken he’d no idea, but that blanket had covered every inch of the battered old sofa underneath. How sad it had been when she’d died and Tommy had to go.
As Luke approached the pub at the end of the street, he wondered once again about what Tommy would be doing now. He felt out of place and nervous in this part of town, yet Tommy had thrived here because he’d known nothing else. Luke hoped his aunt’s place had been a step up.
The pub’s entrance door opened while he was still a few steps away and a drunk made his way out, words slurring. Luke stepped aside as he passed and watched as he made it to the corner of the building before retching his liquid evening meal back up and depositing it on the concrete. A trickle ran from the splattered mess and Luke watched it roll away to the curb, feeling a little queasy inside himself. The man staggered off, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, going back the way Luke had come, back towards the darkness, the darkened homes of the derelict.
Reaching out a shaking hand, Luke opened the pub door and stepped inside.
Chapter Forty-Four
It hadn’t changed all that much in nearly fifteen years. Cheap Formica tabletops, faded once-salmon-coloured velour upholstery on the chairs and foam-covered built-in seating that ran around one half of the dim room. A long wooden bar stretched almost the length of the left side. The mirror above it reflected a roomful of wary eyes on the intruder. Luke heard the lowering of conversation as he approached the bar. A huge man in a cut-off denim jacket, with arms like Popeye and wearing dark aviator shades, slowly made his way toward him. Inside, Luke’s heart failed a beat and he swallowed involuntarily. Summoning courage from deep in his boots, Luke ordered half a bitter; it seemed the right thing to do. The man wordlessly grabbed a glass and slowly made his way back to a pump, lifted a brass tap. Luke watched it fill, a creamy head of about an inch forming on top of the deep brown liquid. It gave him somewhere to put his eyes; he dared not look up at the long mirror, where he knew he’d see so many eyes looking back at him.
Another man moved and stood next to him, too close, intimidatingly close, then another stood on his other side. Their body odour caught in his throat. The barman delivered his drink, and Luke handed over a note to pay, hoping it was enough, not really expecting to see any change. Luke was the only person who had spoken so far, though conversation in the room had resumed. With a shaky hand, he tried not to slop beer over the rim of his glass as he made his way, unaccompanied, to a vacant corner and sat down. So far so good, he thought uneasily, although it didn’t quite feel good; it felt terrifying.
He sipped his beer and tried not to catch anyone’s eye as he forced himself to look a little more relaxed than he felt. Whatever went on in the pub, the eyes he was purposefully avoiding would suddenly become blind, he knew – and stay that way. He glanced at the floor. The carpet underfoot had once been a deep pile, but over the years it had worn in places, almost to the thread backing in spots in front of the bar. In other spots, like up against the covered seating, it had plenty of years left in it. It probably had plenty of beer in it, too, and maybe even blood.
When he did eventually chance a glance up from the floor, nobody was looking his way. Everyone had gone back to their own business, back to more important matters. And as Luke relaxed a little, he thought about the business he’d come to this particular dive for – a weapon contact. He sipped and wondered how he might do that now he was here. What was he expecting? To see a dodgy bloke hanging his shingle out, a sign saying ‘Guns for Sale’? He found some change in his pocket and nervously walked back towards the bar and waited. A packet of crisps would give him something to do while he sat. He hoped nobody would spit in his drink while his back was turned. Popeye could well be glaring at him from behind his aviators; Luke couldn’t be sure. Popeye’s sour-smelling breath greeted him on his arrival.
“Salt and vinegar crisps, please, mate.”
Again wordlessly, Popeye reached into a brown cardboard box on the floor, one that had had the front cut out, and retrieved a packet. No need for shelf space when the box itself would do. He tossed the bag roughly onto the bar, and Luke handed over change for payment. Popeye checked the amount and tossed the whole lot into the till drawer, a drawer that didn’t close. Nothing was rung through the till, Luke realized. Nothing went through the books in this place. Once again, he felt eyes all over him and headed back to his seat to consume his packet of crisps. His beer looked untampered-with; there was nothing floating on the top that looked out of the ordinary. He took a long mouthful and lifted his eyes again, his glance connecting instantly with that of a man of a similar age over to his right. He was wearing grubby jeans and a hoody, like Luke himself, so he decided to start with him. If he was going to make some headway here, if this evening’s investigative journey was to be fruitful, he might as well make a start.
The chosen man didn’t look away, and neither did Luke. When the man eventually did turn away, Luke carried on looking in his direction as he finished his bag of crisps. He hoped it was a wise move and not a killer move. Suddenly, without warning, the chosen man slammed his drink down and strode over to Luke so quickly that Luke spilled beer down his front with fright. All other conversation in the pub ceased as every eye in the place focused, laser-like, on Luke. Shit, he thought. Here goes.
“Got a fucking problem? Cos if you haven’t, you’re gonna get one shortly!” The man’s face was screwed up like a discarded coke can, his eyes raging, his breath vile. Spittle flew as he leaned in and shouted into Luke’s face; a wet blob landed on his cheek. Luke desperately wanted to wipe it
off and tried not to grimace in disgust for fear of upsetting the man further. A fight was the last thing he wanted, and he had a feeling it would be the pub crowd against him. What had given him the crazy notion he’d be safe in such a place? Even dressed in jeans and a hoody, his oldest coat over the top, he still looked as out of place as a Chelsea supporter in the West Ham end of the stadium. And just as dangerous. Should he reply, he wondered, as if in a dream, and if so, with what?
“No problem, no. Just taking in the scenery.” As soon as he heard how it sounded to his own ears, Luke knew he’d said the wrong thing. He did his best to recover before he got punched. Or worse. Quickly, he added, “I mean, taking in the ambience of the place. A fine pub you have here.” He did his best to deliver a nervous smile and it must have worked because the man pulled back a little. Then he spoke, rather than shouting, for which Luke was grateful.
“What ya doing in here? I can see you’re not from round here. You a pig or something?”
“Far from it, actually. And you’re right, I’m not from here. But I am looking for something specific.”
“Not a pig, eh? Then what are you?”
Conversation in the rest of the pub resumed as it became apparent that nothing further was on the tables, no fight imminent. Luke tried to breathe normally again as he spoke to the pock-marked face looming over him. At least the guy was out of his face now.
“Call me a customer. Like I said, I’m after something.”
“Yeah? What, like a kebab or something?” the man said, unsmiling.
Luke lowered his voice as he said, “A piece, actually. Know anyone that can do that?”
“I know plenty, but what makes you think you can get one through this place? It’s a reputable business,” Pock-Marks said, waving his arms around the bar. He smiled at his own observation, showing caramel-coloured teeth that had probably never seen a dentist. Luke suspected the man didn’t get too many kisses with a mouth like that.
“Figured I’d ask.” Luke was feeling more confident with each sentence they shared. Taking a breath, he invited the man to sit. “Can I get you a refill?” Pock-Marks looked puzzled, and Luke gamely carried on. “Lager, is it?” Sometimes confidence was the best way to take control, particularly if you didn’t feel it. The man nodded and Luke stood to go and buy his refill. He hoped his legs would hold out as he walked; he didn’t dare to look back towards his seat and the man in case it ignited him again.
“You’re brave. Or stupid,” the barman said as he filled a pint glass with lager. Wordlessly, Luke handed over the cash and went back to his table. One thing he had learned was that most people appreciated the act of ‘breaking bread’ together before settling down to business, although tonight Luke’s version of ‘bread’ came in a pint pot. He set it down in front of the man and let him take a sip before speaking.
“So, can you help me, then?”
“Tell me what you’re after.”
Chapter Forty-Five
It was a night for seedy pubs.
Sam had asked Anika to sit for a couple of hours, which she’d gladly agreed to for two reasons: first, Sam had Sky TV, and second, as she’d had a bit of a bust-up with her boyfriend, she’d welcomed the change of scenery as well as the opportunity to drink the best part of a bottle of wine while she watched the girls.
“Take your time,” she’d said as Sam had left her sleeping children with a woman who’d soon be passed out, fast asleep in front of the TV. She’d never been able to hold her drink. Sam would throw a blanket over her later when she returned; no sense in her driving home drunk.
Sam closed the front door behind her and set out into a freezing cold Manchester night towards The Feathers. As her little car chugged gamely down Clumber Road, she wiped the misty inside of her windscreen with a gloved hand to see where she was going. The windscreen heater would kick in shortly, but for now, the back of her hand would suffice.
The streets were quiet. More sensible folks were inside with their central heating on full, no doubt curled up with hot tea, the biscuit barrel and Coronation Street, but not Sam. With her toasty Ugg boots on her feet and wrapped in a thick, fleecy jacket complete with fake fur hood trim, all she wanted was to get this done and then get back home and relax a little. She thought of the pills she’d swallowed just before she’d left, a little something to spur her on, take the edge off being nervous. They’d probably kick in about the time she arrived to find her target.
While she had a clear description of Sid from Anika, she still couldn’t quite visualize him. Hopefully she’d know him when she saw him. She reached into her bag on the passenger’s seat and pulled out a bottle of vodka, setting it between her thighs as she unscrewed the top off with her left hand, the right on the steering wheel. At the first available chance, when she knew she could toss her head back and swig, she did. She then tossed her head back again and rapidly guzzled down a couple more mouthfuls. Clear liquid leaked out of the corner of her mouth, spilling onto her jeans, making her look down for a split second. A car horn blared as she started to cross the central line, and Sam yanked the steering wheel back to the left and the relative safety of her own lane.
“Fuck!” she said, wiping her mouth and brushing uselessly at the liquid that had now soaked into her jeans. She made a vain attempt to screw the lid back on, then gave up and slotted the bottle into the drinks holder in the driver’s door; she’d secure it later when she got to the pub.
The pub.
Up ahead, the dour building came into view. There was not much in the way of inviting lighting, but then a pub with a reputation such as this one had, probably didn’t exactly go looking for new business. The whole place was overdue something, though not a refurbishment – more a demolition, Sam thought. She parked in the dark empty street slightly down from the front door and sat for a moment, car doors locked. The vodka had found the pills from earlier; a glow was starting inside her stomach like a hot potato keeping her warm on the inside. She capped the bottle securely now and slid it under her seat, not wanting to leave it on display and not wanting to take it with her. She’d be glad of another swig when this was all over and done.
The strong odour of cigarettes, old beer and piss from the gents’ toilets hit her full on as she stepped inside, and she did her utmost not to wrinkle her nose. Without making eye contact or looking round at all, she headed straight for the bar and ordered a bottle of lager from the woman on the other side. She was pushing sixty and was buxom with bright red box-dyed hair.
“Coming right up,” she said cheerfully, and Sam watched as her leopard print dress rode up far too much as she bent to the fridge behind her.
Pass the mint sauce, Sam thought cattily. She tried not to look at the woman’s legs; they were thick, with knobbly veins running up them like the M1 motorway. She needed support hosiery, badly.
The woman set down Sam’s beer and Sam passed her a £5 note, then turned her back to the bar and risked a furtive, sweeping look to see who was in. And if anyone was watching her. The sound of balls clacking together in the distance pricked her ears up.
“Your change, love,” the bartender said, and Sam heard the coins settle on the wooden bar beside her elbow. Absentmindedly, she scooped them up with one hand and slipped them into her coat pocket, then moved from the main bar room towards where the sound of clanking balls had come from, a room out back.
It wasn’t hard to spot the man she was looking for. He fitted Anika’s description down to a T. The dark roots had grown out to about four inches. He was still nervous-looking, and his jeans hung off narrow hips, exposing grey boxer shorts. He wore an old T-shirt with Begbie from Trainspotting on the front, layered over another grubby long-sleeved tee. Sid lined up with his cue and sank the black ball in one swift movement, then gave himself a little cheer. The youth he’d been playing left his cue on the table and headed for the toilets, shoulders slumped in defeat. Sid picked up the £10 note, his winnings, and pocketed it. Sam watched, taking it all in.
It
was time for her to make her move.
Chapter Forty-Six
The first thing Sam did when she got back to her car was pull the vodka bottle up from under her seat and take another couple of large gulps. Her mouth had dried up, even after the bottle of lager. In a few moments, she felt the vodka start to ease her tension and regulate her breathing again, though doing it was doing nothing for her shaking hands. The man, Sid, had scared her a little, though since she was nearly twice his size in terms of body fat, she doubted he’d have hurt her. Although of course that didn’t rule out a hidden knife up his sleeve or a knuckle-duster in his pocket. But she’d made contact, and that was all she’d intended to do.
For now.
There had been no point in making him suspicious and spelling out what she wanted at this stage of the game, so she’d simply bought him a pint and they’d played a little pool. She’d spent the time watching him, sussing him out as he eventually lost the game. Pool was one thing Sam was extremely skilled at. She’d let him keep his bet; there was no point antagonizing him. She wanted him to be glad to see her when it came time for her to return and make her purchase.
Sam smiled and took another swig of vodka. Yes, he’d been rough looking and she wouldn’t trust him as far as she could arm-wrestle him, but he had actually turned out to be a decent pool opponent and not bad company for the evening, although she was well aware that she wouldn’t want to meet his nasty side.
