by Limey Lady
‘They aren’t.’
‘But what if they are?’
‘She’s saying they did most of their serious snogging outside, out of sight. Jamie’s saying it all happened inside, very much in sight, so their versions are different. At least one of them has to be fibbing.’
‘Only about one minor point, though.’
‘It may seem minor to you, but it seems pretty flipping major to me. Particularly when everyone else says they must have been somewhere outside together. Meaning Jamie’s the one who’s fibbing.’
‘I’d have thought Jayne would be the better fibber; her being a girl, and all.’
‘Now you are being sexist.’ Natalie scowled, making Matthew grin. ‘As it happens, Jamie’s a better fibber than any girl. He’s told me before how he practices it.’
‘Why would he?’
‘Oh he doesn’t call it fibbing. He calls it resisting interrogation or RTI. His wonderful Uncle Rick taught him. He picks a story as close to the truth as possible and never shifts from it. Not by an inch. That’s how he’s being about Jayne. When I told him she’d explained where they’d been . . . outside, on the path just behind the swimming pool . . . he shrugged and said her memory couldn’t be so good.’
‘Don’t call me sexist again . . .’
‘Okay, sexist.’
‘What if she’s just stirring?’
‘Your new, bestest best buddy?’
‘I like her, but I’m not totally naïve. She’s quite capable of winding you up for the fun of it.’
‘I know that. But she’s not trying hard enough. If nothing had happened, she’d be making more of it. Besides, Jayne might be as cool as a million cucumbers, but Jamie’s been on edge ever since we took Roger home.’
‘I thought he was a well-practiced fibber?’
‘He is, but he hasn’t got body language cracked yet . . . or abnormal behaviour. He couldn’t wait to get me out of there when we got back. And he was as rocky as a rocking chair when Jayne intercepted us on the way out.’
‘As rocky as a rocking chair, I like that.’
‘Well I don’t. I didn’t notice it at the time, but he was as nervous as a whore in church.’
‘Wow, that’s even better.’
‘Stop it Matthew. Or else I’ll beat you.’
‘Okay,’ he said meekly. ‘Although, whatever turns you on . . .’
‘I said stop it! You’re putting me off.’
‘Sorry.’ He grinned. ‘I think you were talking about Jamie being edgy.’
‘Well he was. In fact, he is. When we left the party he only went and thumped a drugs dealer in the street. Since then he’s been on pins all the time. God knows what it’ll be next.’
‘He’ll be thumping me probably; when he hears the rumour.’
‘
Don’t worry, he’s already heard it.’
‘And . . .’
‘He called you a rat fink. I told him you weren’t and we hadn’t . . . you know.’
‘What did he say to that?’
‘He was too busy covering his own backside. And he didn’t want us to have been gone long enough for our rumour to be true. The quicker we were . . .’
‘The less time he had with Jayne.’
‘Correct. You can bet I turned that on him. I soon got him to admit we couldn’t even have had a very quick quickie. And he withdrew the rat fink allegation.’
‘I hope he meant it. Although brutal thrashings aside, I would like to be a rat fink.’
‘He did mean it,’ Nat said, ignoring Matthew’s gentle persistence, ‘and it’s me he’s cross with, not you. For brow-beating him, I mean.’
‘He hasn’t . . .’ Matthew paused, almost gulped. ‘He hasn’t hit you, has he?’
‘No! Never! He never would!’ Natalie nearly burst into tears at the thought of it. ‘Honestly, Matthew, there is no danger of that. What sort of a guy do you think he is?’
‘I think he’s sort who wants to be at the heart of the British Army.’
‘Yes. The most honourable and valiant army there has ever been.’
‘Maybe it is . . . but it’s also the bloodiest and most violent.’
‘Nonsense, look at all the others. The Nazis and Napoleon’s French . . . and those Americans in Viet Nam.’
‘Look who always wins,’ Matthew said bleakly. ‘And he who wins writes the history books.’
‘Do me a favour Matthew. Don’t ever say that to Jamie. Even I might not be able to protect you if you come out with that sort of crap to him.’
‘It’s not crap.’
‘Don’t even go there.’
‘Okay. But isn’t my point sort of proved?’
‘I’m not sure what it was in the first place. Weren’t we talking about Jamie betraying me . . . or Jamie and Jayne betraying both of us?’
‘You’re using that word again. Why don’t we stop worrying about everyone else and just run off to Gretna Green? Become a proper “us” over the anvil, leave Jamie and Jayne to their own devices.’
‘Perhaps it’s because that would be far too easy.’ Natalie sighed again. ‘Don’t think I’m not remotely tempted, but we don’t have any money. And I’ll bet your mum’s car doesn’t have enough petrol to get us as far as Settle, never mind Gretna Green.’
‘I don’t even have loan of her car today,’ he admitted.
‘There you go then. You’re stuck with Jayne. I’m stuck with Jamie.’
‘Not forever though.’
Natalie had to smile at the expression on his face.
‘Nothing’s forever Matthew,’ she said. ‘Thank God.’
*****
It had got late. Angel was sitting on a bit of fallen-down wall in isolated fields off Cottingley Cliffe Road. It was a cold, clear night and the moon was out. He had no difficulty in seeing the unconscious shape lying on the grass at his feet. The drug-dealing twat wasn't grinning at all now.
‘Come on,' Angel growled, 'wakey, wakey.'
The dealer couldn't have answered even if he had come round; he had four giant Elastoplasts taped over his gob.
Angel lit another cig and stared moodily at the distant road. There was passing traffic, but far too far away to notice them. And the nearest houses were about a mile down the hill. Nobody would disturb them here.
Assuming the twat ever did come round.
Shouldn't have hit him so hard . . . however much he deserved it.
Incredibly, the dealer had stayed on Main Street all day, almost always in view of that same camera. Angel had kept an eye on him from a distance, getting madder and madder as it became obvious he was not going to go consult anybody. Probably didn't have any friends to go to. And his business was so slow it hardly happened. The guy was either dumb, desperate or blessed with the patience of a saint.
Around eight o'clock Angel had had enough. He'd already arranged for a clean set of wheels and had collected them from a disc parking slot on Unity Street South. When he did his drive past the dealer had finally moved downhill, into a CCTV blind spot.
Not completely dumb after all, Angel thought, taking in the dealer's customer, who was very young with hair so blonde it was almost white.
Parking up again hadn't been a problem at that sort of hour. Angel had left the motor close to the Parish Church and set off in attack mode. The plan had been to grab the little bastard, drag him through the archway behind The Fleece and then kick his head in. As it happened the dealer and the blonde had almost immediately appeared, walking towards him.
Quick as a flash, Angel had diverted towards The Old White Horse, as if he'd been headed there all the time. He'd waited in the short passage inside the doorway, counting to thirty, giving them space to move on before following them into the churchyard, padding along softly like a large, dangerous cat.
He had of course suspected what he would find, more or less, and wasn't disappointed. Still moving stealthily, keeping to shadows ten yards away, he bobbed his head around a corner and almost laughed. The
dealer was backed up against the church. The blonde was kneeling in front of him, noisily and very sloppily gobbling herself some extra discount.
Perk of the job, Angel supposed, can’t blame him for that.
All those unmistakable slobbering noises meant he hadn't had to watch. Two minutes and everything went quiet. Angel gripped his weighted length of piping and stayed in the shadows. Lucky for her, the girl left first. He had let her pass, bouncing along happily without spotting him, humming some cheerful tune, clearly not considering herself a victim at all. The dealer had been a long way after her, yapping into his mobile. The piping had crunched into his neck before he even began to guess he was in trouble.
And now here they were, an hour later in near enough the middle of nowhere.
‘Come on,' Angel growled again, 'wakey, wakey.'
There was no response so he took one of the dealer's hands and put it on a large coping stone from the fallen-down wall. For two seconds he considered using the piping. Then he took another, even larger coping stone and smashed it down as hard as he could onto the dealer's knuckles.
That woke him up.
Even better news: the Elastoplast worked. Although the dealer was in agony he could only express it in pathetic grunts through his nose; nobody else could possibly have overheard them.
‘In case you haven't worked it out, it's me,' Angel said, 'your friendly Gay Leather Man.'
That provoked more grunting, this time conveying terror as much as pain.
‘That's right,' Angel continued, 'and we're alone at last. How's your arse for spots?'
Probably thinking he was about to be raped, the dealer tried to scramble to his feet. But he wasn't fast enough. Angel instantly kicked him back down. And there were no thin trainers tonight; his hobnail boots had steel toecaps and kicking with them was a pleasure; once started he couldn't stop.
Take that, cunt. And that and that and that!
Before Angel knew it he was working his way around the little twat's body, using both feet, finding a rhythm that matched In the Navy. That was a good one; he kept at it until something snapped at the base of the dealer's spine. Then he treated himself to a couple of laps of Go West before finishing off with a rousing rendition of YMCA.
Then, panting for breath, Angel realized he'd killed the bastard. He hadn't necessarily intended to do that, but it had always been a possibility. That was why he'd brought him up here while he had chance, instead of doing him as planned down in town. He knew these fields from his youth. More to the point, he knew exactly where he could get rid of a corpse.
Not that anybody would come looking for this fucker . . .
Chapter Thirty-Eight
(Wednesday 7th January 2009)
Pat sat at his kitchen table and read DeeDee's text yet again.
HAD 2 GO 2 BRISTOL
URGENT!
B GONE 2 DAYS. WILL
XPLAIN WHEN BACK
LOVE U D
This was getting to be a habit. Although she was now officially Leeds-based, Bristol still ruled and Dee had plenty of history when it came to being called away at short-notice. In fact he’d tried to ring to express a bit of sympathy, but her mobile was switched off.
Never mind; it was just as well considering the caper Sean had roped him into for.
Pat sighed and put his phone away. Sean had got a bee in his bonnet about an allegedly un-nickable motor. As if any motor was un-nickable! All they needed was the key; that and the usual carefully planned routine. Apparently Harry Williamson thought the same and had plans to nick it off Sean’s patch. That so obviously could not be allowed to happen. Something had to be done and now, before the opposition got in there first.
Thing was, Sean didn't trust any of his regulars with so tricky a motor.
It followed that that meant one final job for the A Team.
Pat hated nicking things. He had spent a lifetime trying to keep out of Sean's dodgier dealings. While he’d no problem with violence or even drug dealing, nicking had always felt wrong. And, to make this one feel even more wrong, Sean had told him to make sure he came armed.
He looked at the Glock on the table in front of him. He’d never used the weapon in anger but had fired hundreds of rounds in practice. Sean was probably right: with the Williamsons likely to show up without a second’s warning, it was best to be prepared.
It was unsettling to be carrying though; the step between carrying and using wasn’t a big one.
That would be bloody typical, wouldn’t it? Me and Sean bumping into Harry and Jonjo in the dead of night, fingers itching on triggers . . .
Pat glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearly ten already. Sean would be here soon. He dropped the gun into his jacket pocket and added a spare magazine before pulling out a wrap of coke and staring at it. He hadn't touched the stuff for a while but definitely felt the need.
Strange tinge to it, but it’s from the usual place . . .
And I really do need a hit . . .
Sod it. He took the cocaine through a rolled-up tenner then wiped the table with a cloth. He couldn't have Dee coming home and finding traces of that in the house.
He sat a while, not noticing anything out of the ordinary . . . must be fighting it subconsciously.
No . . .
Wait a moment; that’s more like it!
*****
Buzzing nicely, Pat locked the house and waited for Sean by the private parking slots. He arrived perhaps five minutes later, driving an unremarkable, dark-coloured Focus. Pat got in without speaking and they set off over the tops towards Park Road.
‘Are you carrying?’ Sean eventually asked.
‘Yeah, have you got the plates?’
‘Yeah; they were a bastard to clone, but I got there in the end.’
Sean took them downhill a way then turned off and did a drive past. Their target was parked outside a large detached house, set in a sprawling garden, measuring an acre at least. The place reeked of affluent smugness, just like the rest of the properties down this quiet, affluently smugly reeking road. As far as Pat could see, there were security lights and an alarm, but no cameras. Maybe the owners were too rich and clever to need CCTV.
Of more immediate concern, there were lights on in two rooms upstairs. Sean calmly kept on driving, taking them on an hour-long mystery tour over the hills before finally returning to their target. This time the house was in darkness. He continued past a little, parking on the other side of the road, three properties farther down.
There was no need for words; they’d gone through this in detail earlier, aided and abetted by Google Earth. Still pleasantly buzzing and as wide awake as he’d ever been, Pat got out of the Focus and waited while Sean collected a few items and manually locked up. They had purposely stopped opposite the one empty house on this road. They now strolled across to a fancy iron garden gate and let themselves in, as if there wasn’t a FOR SALE board and they actually owned the joint.
There was a path running the full length of the property, passing the empty house on the blind side of the Maxwell residence. Pat followed Sean along it, past a lawn behind the house to a double line of trees inside a boundary wall. Turning right, toward the Maxwells’, they made their way through more trees and scaled another low wall into the garden next door.
That garden was full of smaller trees. The nearly full moon overhead made it easy to see it was an orchard, triggering instant nostalgia. Pat was suddenly twelve years old again, wishing there were apples on the nearest branches . . . wanting to demolish one with a couple of mighty bites, pips and all.
Except it was January and bloody freezing. The branches were bare.
Sod the apples. They went over yet another low wall, across yet another lawn and then paused at the final wall, taking stock. The Maxwells’ garden catered for kids. The grass had whitewashed markings and a three-quarters-sized football goal on it. There was a rope swing hanging from a sturdy, gnarled old oak. A basketball backboard and hoop had been fixed high on the r
ear of the house.
Sean went over the final wall and Pat went after him. They approached the house slowly and circled it clockwise, going under the basketball hoop. There was a gap of perhaps five feet between the far side of the house and a double garage. The gap was paved and clearly the main route between front garden and back. As they silently padded through Pat glanced in the garage, seeing a people-carrier and something small and sporty, quite possibly a VW Golf.
The flashy Lexus was parked in front of the garage. Pat took a screwdriver from Sean and changed the rear plate while Sean switched the front. When he had done Pat looked inside the vehicle. In a perfect world the keys would be in the ignition.
