by Nick Oldham
‘No, you don’t … business loan,’ Flynn said.
‘You could’ve emailed me.’
‘I need an instant response, bit like a payday loan but without two-thousand-per-cent interest. Free, in fact. Not a loan.’
‘Just tell me, fuck d’you want?’ Carter said, impatient now.
‘I want to improve your business for you.’
‘And how would that be – by destroying my car?’
‘Look, pal, I don’t want to get into huge dialogue with you … just to say I need cash and I need it now.’
‘Wonga, then,’ Carter said.
‘You’re my Wonga.’
‘Go fuck yourself.’
‘It works like this, my friend,’ Flynn said patiently. ‘Me and you now go to one of your counting houses … ah, ah, shut it … I know you have six dotted around the Fylde and I know the location of each one. You will take me to the one where you have the largest balance of cash and you will simply give me a holdall full of it … Shush!’ Flynn said as Carter opened his mouth to protest. He withdrew the revolver from his waistband and let Carter see it. ‘I’m a desperate man, Mark Carter, but I know this will be of interest to you.’ He shoved the muzzle into Carter’s cheekbone, just below his left eye. ‘I need operating money and you are my fairy God-banker. Thing is,’ he went on mock-affably, ‘if you don’t agree to do this, several things will happen.’
Carter stayed tight-lipped.
‘I will personally visit each counting house, burn them down after stealing all the money and destroy everything in them. You will watch me do this. Then I’ll take you home, Mark. I’ll burn your house down like I burned your car, but not your girlfriend – who looks well pretty, by the way. What I’ll do to her will be far worse. You’ll watch me do this. Then we’ll come back here to the zoo and, one way or another, I’ll throw you into the tiger enclosure and watch you get mauled to death. Now then, Marky-boy, is there anything you don’t quite understand?’
Flynn screwed the muzzle deeper into his skin.
Carter shook his head.
‘Is there anything in there you think I won’t do?’
He screwed the muzzle. Carter shook his head.
‘Good. Take it from me, I mean every word.’
‘How is this a business loan?’
Flynn leaned in close. ‘Who is the bane of your life?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Who keeps treading on your toes?’
‘Cops?’ Carter suggested.
‘No, bad guys. Which bad guys are moving on to your turf? Who is giving you more grief than all the others put together?’
Flynn saw something dawn in Carter’s eyes.
‘Bashkim,’ he breathed.
Flynn nodded.
Carter said, ‘You’re one of the Bashkims?’ completely misunderstanding.
‘No, dimwit. I am going to bring them to their knees. I’ll get them off your back and off the back of a ton of other shit dealers and then your loan to me will look like money well spent.’
‘Who the fuck are you?’
Flynn gave Carter what he hoped was an enigmatic smile.
In reality, Flynn had been bluffing. Firstly, he did not know the location of any of Carter’s counting houses, those usually well-hidden, well-guarded premises where income from drug dealing was amassed, counted and then filtered into the money-laundering system in a variety of ways. Sue Daggert had told him how many houses she thought Carter owned but not where they were.
Secondly, he had no intention of subjecting Carter’s girlfriend to a fate worse than death.
All other promises, however, were for real.
If Carter hadn’t fallen for the bluff, the addition would have been breaking his fingers one at a time and, if that hadn’t succeeded, he would have been big cat food quickly and Flynn would have re-thought his strategy.
He was sure Carter believed him to be as good as his word, having already laid the ground rules with a spot of arson and a soupçon of kidnap.
‘Who will we find in here?’ Flynn asked.
Carter was in the passenger seat of the Focus, fastened in by his seat belt, his hands still tied uncomfortably behind him and his ankles bound. He had directed Flynn to the basement of a terraced house in South Shore close to the Pleasure Beach. Like many houses in this neck of the woods, it was huge, well built and had once been a genteel hotel. Now it was a hive of grotty flats above the basement, all apparently owned by Carter, and was no doubt a collection point for the money accumulated from the drug dealing that was a feature of life in certain sections of South Shore. There was a lot of money to be made in the area.
‘Two guys.’
‘Who?’
‘Cheech and Chong, I call them.’
‘What? Chinese guys?’
‘Nah, just a pair of dim brothers from Blackpool. Dim but loyal – and handy.’
‘How much money?’
‘Last delivery was midnight. Something north of forty grand, I guess.’
‘All in pounds sterling?’
‘Dunno. Usually about ten per cent in euros.’
‘Is the place secure?’
‘Fort fuckin’ Knox.’
‘And the monkeys? Are they armed?’
‘Yuh. They’re looking after the cash until I pick it up later this morning. They got a handgun each. And knives. And knuckledusters.’
Flynn nodded and looked at Carter. The gash in his head had stopped bleeding, though it remained open, the skin flapping. The blood had dried on his face, having streaked down his neck, back and chest like war paint.
He was being cooperative for the moment but Flynn didn’t trust him. He knew he would take any chance given and that he, Flynn, would have to be wary.
Carter waited for Flynn to speak.
‘It’s a simple trade,’ Flynn said. ‘Your money or your life.’
Carter swallowed. ‘You’re a bull in a fucking china shop.’
‘Been said before, but just remember you’re the china shop, pal. So we get out, walk down the steps, you do your secret knock and tell your two chimps to throw out a nice bag full of money, say twenty grand, then we reverse away and I’m gone, you’re a free man and, sometime in the near future, your business will be trouble-free.’
Carter grunted with scorn. ‘You really think you’ll bring down the Bashkims?’
‘Already started,’ Flynn said. In his previous run-in with the clan he had razed three of their brothels to the ground. It was therefore no boast.
‘OK, whatever you say,’ Carter said with disbelief.
Flynn got out, walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. Carter swung out his legs. Keeping the gun aimed at Carter’s face, Flynn tugged at the bindings around his ankles and the quick-release knot unfastened with one pull. Flynn pulled him to his feet, then pushed him forwards and down the basement steps.
Carter faced the door. Flynn stood at right angles to him and placed the muzzle of the revolver against his ear. He cocked the weapon and said, ‘Very sensitive trigger, this,’ as a warning. ‘I don’t know how much you know about guns, but the slightest twitch of my finger will fire this weapon and will remove most, if not all, of your brain. Nod if you get this.’
Carter nodded. ‘How am I supposed to knock?’ His hands were still tied behind him.
‘Got feet, haven’t you?’
He glanced down and saw his bare feet. He kicked the door.
Flynn listened, could hear movement inside.
An eye-level letter box flipped open and a pair of eyes looked through the rectangular hole, like a speakeasy from the days of prohibition.
‘Open up, Cheech.’
‘Boss? Is that you?’ came the voice from behind the door.
‘Open the door, Cheech – and don’t do anything stupid.’
The eyes flickered left and saw the barrel of the gun shoved into Carter’s ear. The letter box clattered shut.
A key turned in a lock. Bolts were dr
awn back. The door opened inwardly. Flynn could see that the inner surface of the door was reinforced steel plate and industrial-sized hinges, probably capable of stopping a shotgun blast.
The door opened but the men inside stayed well back from the threshold.
‘Whaz going on, boss?’ Cheech asked.
Flynn stepped smartly behind Carter, keeping the muzzle in place. Carter’s face was set in a permanent wince.
‘Shit,’ Cheech said.
Flynn saw the two men inside. The door opened directly into a living room combined with a dining room furnished with a shitty three-piece suite and a rickety-looking kitchen table and chairs. Beyond was an open-plan kitchenette. Sparse and grim.
There were two Nike rucksacks on the table.
‘Put the bags at my feet,’ Carter said.
Flynn watched the men, both young and slim, with deep eyes and unkempt features. Each had a gun at his side.
‘Drop your guns first,’ Flynn called over Carter’s shoulder.
Neither man complied until Flynn banged the muzzle of his revolver against the side of Carter’s head.
‘Just do it, guys,’ Carter said.
‘Boss, you just drop down to your knees and we’ll take this cunt out,’ the heavy standing next to Cheech said. This must have been Chong, then.
Flynn’s mouth came close to Carter’s ear. ‘You can if you like, but then all three of you will be dead.’
Carter nodded slightly. ‘Gently toss the bags out, Cheech – after you’ve dropped the guns.’
Neither liked what they were doing. Cheech bent down and placed his gun on the floor, as did Chong behind him, then stood slowly back up. Flynn did not like either of these two and was certain they would chance their arm if they could. Neither did he completely believe that two handguns were the only weapons in the room or even on their persons. They looked sly and dangerous and the least time spent in their company the better, Flynn concluded.
Cheech took hold of the nearest rucksack and hefted it across the gap, where it thudded in front of Carter’s feet.
‘How much is in it?’ Carter asked.
‘Twenty-two grand, and some,’ Cheech informed him.
‘All sterling?’
‘About five in euros.’
Carter nodded and asked Flynn, ‘That do?’
‘Get down on your knees,’ he ordered Carter.
‘But you said …’
Flynn pushed him down by the shoulder. He sank to his knees. Flynn grabbed the rucksack and pulled it to one side, his eyes staying with the two henchmen. He fumbled with the zip and opened the main compartment, revealing it to be packed with rolls of bank notes. He re-zipped it and said, ‘Back on your feet,’ to Carter.
The drug dealer pushed himself upright as Flynn slung the bag over his right shoulder, having to slot his gun hand through the strap as he did and heave the heavy bag into place. But he slightly misjudged the weight – heavier than he’d anticipated – and the strap slid back down his arm, catching the revolver, which was the moment Carter had been waiting for.
Seeing the very slight struggle and Flynn’s eyes momentarily distracted, Carter hurled himself through the open door of the basement, screaming at his two men to get their weapons and kill Flynn.
They scrambled for their discarded guns as Carter lurched sideways once in the room, so as not to be in the line of fire.
Flynn cursed, dropped the rucksack and spun into the doorway.
Cheech reached his weapon first, scooping up the gun, trying to get it into his grip, although it seemed to have a mind of its own and want to jump out of his hand like a slippery bar of soap.
The voice inside Flynn’s head wanted to shout at them not to be so stupid.
But they were and he didn’t have time to reason with them now.
He fired at Cheech as the man jerked up with the gun finally in his grasp. Flynn’s old gun, with the hammer cocked, blasted loudly, and Flynn braced his wrist for any recoil because he was holding the gun with only one hand. The bullet tore off most of the right side of Cheech’s face, his cheek and ear, spinning him around.
By this time Flynn had readjusted his aim to Chong, who had also managed to retrieve his gun, but was flinging himself behind one of the armchairs for protection.
Flynn shot through the piece of furniture twice, punching holes in the upholstery and, as soon as he had done it, he brought his aim back to Cheech, who had fallen heavily against the edge of the table, grabbed it and tipped it over.
Flynn put another bullet in his neck just as Chong slumped sideways from behind the armchair with a look of horror and surprise at the two black holes in his chest, in his heart, from the two slugs that had passed through the furniture.
Neither man then moved.
Flynn stepped into the room.
Carter watched him, now fearful.
‘You could have avoided this,’ Flynn said.
He raised his gun and fired the remaining two bullets into Mark Carter’s head.
TEN
Despite eating painkillers like smarties, the ever-growing throb of pain in her neck and shoulders kept Molly from sleeping at all. There was no remotely comfortable position in her figure-hugging mattress, or place to rest her head on her fancy pillows without agony.
In the end, she got up, realizing a visit to A&E was a long-overdue necessity now, just in case there was something more serious than whiplash to contend with.
She swallowed another Co-codamol, then poured another large shot of whisky which she sipped as she eased herself down into the armchair and stretched out her legs on to the edge of the coffee table.
She checked her mobile, now crammed with missed calls, text messages and voicemails.
Some were from Alan but most were now from friends and family wanting to catch up with her. She wanted to respond to them all individually really, but instead she composed a text stating she was fine and would be in touch soon and thanks for asking. She sent it off to all.
She had hoped to find one from Flynn, but there was nothing. She was amazed and cross with herself at the same time that this fact disappointed her so deeply. She placed the phone on the chair arm, but it slipped down between the arm and the seat cushion, so she retrieved it and at the same time found Alan’s phone in the same place.
Sipping the whisky, she considered the phone with narrowed eyes and then found that the curiosity bug eating her insides needed to be fed.
Because he’d been promised that the Focus was clean, Flynn fought his instinct to set it on fire, because that would just draw in the cops too quickly and they might start to make links with the killings at the counting house. Instead, hoping that the likelihood of any witnesses coming forward was fairly remote, he simply parked up a few streets away from his former marital home and left it there. He walked back with the two hefty rucksacks over his shoulders and Asda carrier bags in his hands.
Once back at the house, he went in through the front door and closed it behind him, standing still on the rubber welcome mat where he stripped off all his clothing, including shoes and socks and underwear, and stuffed it all into a charity collection bag he had noticed behind the door on his first visit. He did the same with the clothing he had taken from the man he had shot in Stable Wood. It seemed an ideal way to dispose of clothing worn during the commission of a crime and he felt a flush of charitable pride when he tied the knot in the bag. It was due for collection the next day.
Taking the Asda bags with him upstairs, he then went for a shower. Before venturing out he had turned on the immersion heater and the water was hot and reviving. Also, because the combi-boiler wasn’t in use, there was no external evidence of him being in the house from emissions via the flue.
He washed thoroughly, several times, having wrapped one of the carrier bags around his thigh to protect his leg wound.
He emerged with crinkly skin and found a large bath sheet which he tied around his middle. When dry, he got dressed in the clothing he had bought from
Asda on his way to Mark Carter’s house. New underpants, socks, jeans and a T-shirt, plus new trainers, then went down to the kitchen and took the rucksacks with him, which he placed on the table.
He’d bought some bread on the Asda trip, which he toasted, lathered with butter and ate with a can of chicken soup heated in the microwave. Then he made a mug of tea, sat at the table and tipped out the contents of the rucksacks.
He looked at the piles of cash, about £40,000 in total, knowing he didn’t need so much. It would be difficult to carry around and conceal in such bulk anyway, and getting it through customs would be problematic, even though technically it shouldn’t be. Stuffing a few pockets with it would be the only practical option really, maybe carrying five or six grand, half in euros, which would probably see him through. He did intend to keep the remainder but decided it needed a good home to go to.
His problem at that moment was, besides being on the run, the lack of a passport.
Taking a second brew up to Faye’s bedroom but keeping fully clothed, trainers included just in case he had to do a sharp exit, he lay down, sipped the tea, finished it then fell asleep pondering the passport predicament.
‘He’s out on a job,’ the detective constable, whose name was Johnny Connors, told Molly.
It was ten a.m. and she was back at Blackpool Police Station, having gone via an early call at A&E for a doctor to check out her whiplash, which was giving her real pain. She could hardly move from the perpendicular and was walking as though the proverbial broom handle had been shoved up her bottom. Her neck had been X-rayed but there was nothing untoward showing despite the pain. The serious painkillers the doctor had palmed to her were having some effect, though.
‘In fact, everyone’s out on a job, except me. I’m dealing with the overnighters,’ Connors whined.
Molly glanced around the CID office, which did have the look of the officers’ mess of the Mary Celeste.
‘What’s the job?’
‘Mark Carter’s met his maker,’ Connors said. ‘They’re already calling it the counting house killings,’ he added creepily.
