Best Served Cold

by Limey Lady

  ‘Apparently the wind was bad, so she can’t be far away.’

  ‘Are you telling me the truth, Jamie Rodgers?’

  ‘Cross my heart, hope to die.’

  ‘And will you swear to twenty months’ complete monogamy in the presence of your natural mum?’

  ‘I’d swear it in the presence of everyone I can think of. But she’s as good as anyone. So yeah, I swear it.’

  Natalie wiped her eyes absently.

  ‘That’s it then,’ she said, almost whispering. ‘To be reviewed . . .’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  (Sunday 11th January 2009)

  For just about the first time in his life Sean was stumped. From waking late Thursday morning he had not slept and didn't expect to sleep again anytime soon. Drinking didn't help. He had given Johnnie Red up as a bad job somewhere in the middle of Saturday, finally accepting he wouldn't get pissed. Since then he’d had the odd pint of cider and whiled away the hours by brooding.

  In his line of business shit happened. That was just the way it was. The real, un-stumped Sean Dwyer was able to deal with whatever came his way. He was very good at dealing with problems; if fact he was so good he was rarely taken by surprise. And when something truly unexpected hit him, he could always chart the best way through it. This time, however . . .

  Pat was scaring him. Over the years, Pat's had always been the voice of reason. It had been Pat who saved him when he attempted to murder that dreadlocked twat, Huyton. Locked him away for three days; that's what Pat did. Let the dust settle while he calmed himself down. It had worked a treat.

  Being sensible didn't work the other way round, though. Pat had sworn he was okay after . . . after the other night. He’d been shaken and pale-faced, but that was understandable enough. Once he’d sobered up he had seemed normal. He’d behaved himself Friday and yesterday, then . . .

  Sean still couldn't believe the call he'd got from Danny Painter. Fucking hell, the language he had used! Not to mention the accusations he had made!! Good old Reggie must have been spinning in his grave.

  Things couldn't get worse? Had he really thought that? In his heart of hearts, Sean knew only too well that Danny's ranting was spot on. Luckily however, his evidence was circumstantial, so far at least. That dealer of his had been seen talking to someone who might have been Patrick McGuire. Not that it started out as might, of course. No, at first it fucking-well was for sure. It had taken lots and lots of patience and persuasion to downgrade to might.

  Sean drained his latest Bulmers and got up from The Meeting Room Table. He'd told Danny a pack of lies, swearing that Pat had been with him in the Kings all day. Then he’d reminded Danny of their age-old allegiance and suggested that there was only one bastard crazy enough to pull a stunt like that. And that bastard was called Kyle, not Pat . . .

  Fuck knew how long he'd get away with it. And fuck knew where Pat was right now, come to that. He wasn't answering his mobile.

  Sean let out a massive yawn before opening the door into the pub lounge. Doing his best to maintain the usual, overly-confident strut, he approached the bar and ordered another pint.

  ‘You have one too,' he said. 'And take the money out of Bert.'

  “Bert” was more formally known as the Bert Kitson Memorial Trophy. Once awarded to winners of a bowls competition, Bert now sat on a shelf behind the Kings’ bar, serving as a dead-letter-drop between landlord and owner, as well as home for some petty cash.

  ‘Don't mind if I do,' Andy replied, grinning.

  ‘No sign of Pat?'

  ‘No. Moggs and Tinner are still out looking for him.'

  ‘What about Angel? Is he still moping?'

  ‘As if,' said Andy, 'he's still drinking. I copped him in the Ferrands an hour ago.'

  ‘Please tell me he's not smashing the place up. Enough's gone wrong already.'

  ‘Don't worry about it, he's charming the barmaid. Keeps telling her he's never been dumped before and needs a pair of tits to cry on; that sort of thing.'

  ‘Sounds very charming to me,' Sean said. He tried to return Andy’s grin but couldn't make it.

  ‘Talking about things gone wrong . . .'

  ‘Please mate . . . nothing too extreme.'

  Andy glanced around the pub. It was lull-time. Most of the regular afternoon boozers had gone and the evening regulars would be watching Manchester United on iffy Sky accounts, courtesy of that nice little Chinese guy.

  ‘I had to throw Kyle out last night. And I'm getting sick of having to do it. Next time he's going to get a kicking.'

  Now Sean did grin. While a lot of his customers thought they were hard-cases, Andy really was hard. Even Pat would have his hands full with Andy.

  ‘Don't ask for permission,' he said. 'Just let me know in advance. I'll hold your coat while you do it.'

  ‘I thought he was your blue-eyed boy.'

  ‘Not anymore he's not.' Sean hesitated. He shared all sorts of confidences with Andy, but lines were drawn. He didn't get to know everything. 'Don't bar Kyle . . . I might need a scapegoat at some stage. But don't take any grief. And watch your back later. He's a sneaky twat.'

  ‘You might need a scapegoat . . . what for?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. And it probably won’t happen. Not unless I find my thinking head.’

  ‘Okay. No worries. What . . .’

  The landline rang. Andy picked it up and rolled his eyes when he realized who it was.

  ‘You'd better take this. It's Harry Williamson.'

  ‘Just when I thought I’d heard all the bad news.’ Sean took the receiver. ‘Harry. What the fuck do you want?'

  ‘Just to remind you of something you once said to me: Bad day at the office, or what?’

  *****

  Alfie scowled at the two policemen and made no effort to remember their names. Denny sat beside him on the tatty sofa, looking worried, clasping her hands together between her knees.

  ‘Are you going to tell us where you've been?’ the first officer asked again.

  Oh sure! Thanks for asking nicely!

  Alfie stared doggedly at a point over the officer's right shoulder and gave the same answer . . . again.

  ‘Away. It doesn't matter where.’

  ‘It matters to us, Alfie. We want to make sure nobody's done bad things to you.’

  ‘I've hardly spoken to anybody. And I haven't let anyone touch me. End of.’

  ‘You've been gone over a week,’ the second officer said. ‘You must have spoken to someone.’

  Alfie didn't think that deserved an answer, so it didn't get one.

  ‘What did you do for money?’ the first officer resumed. ‘Your mum says you stole eighty quid; that can't have lasted long.’

  ‘Is that why you're here, to arrest me for nicking eighty quid?’

  ‘He didn't nick it,’ Denny said quickly. ‘He borrowed it.’

  ‘That's a new one,’ said the snottier officer, rounding on her. ‘You lent your son eighty pounds so he could run away from home. That's not what you told us earlier.’

  Alfie had never seen Denny blush before.

  ‘My head was stressed,’ she mumbled. ‘I probably came out with all sorts of crap.’

  The policeman turned back to Alfie: ‘Okay, so you “borrowed” eighty quid. What did you do when that ran out?’

  ‘It didn't run out,’ Alfie said. ‘I've still got some of it left.’

  ‘I don't believe you. You must have got more, somehow.’

  ‘I haven't been working as a rent boy, if that's what you're trying to say.’

  ‘I didn't suggest that you had.’

  ‘Well I haven't. And I haven't nicked anything either. So why don't you just leave us alone?’

  ‘We aren’t accusing you of anything, apart from causing trouble and concern.’

  ‘Trouble and concern . . .’ Alfie snorted. ‘Look mate, I’m not Mother Teresa. But I’m not Charles Manson, either.’

  ‘Sounds like a quote to me.’ The first policeman tried
a friendly smile.

  Alfie stonewalled him. It was one of Tyson’s, but he wasn’t going to explain that. Not when he felt like ripping these twats’ stomachs out and eating their children.

  ‘Not going to answer?’ asked the snottier cop.

  ‘No.’

  The two officers looked at each other then stood to leave.

  ‘You can expect Social Services to be calling. There’s a lot of concern about you. This is hardly your first time, is it?’

  When they had gone Denny launched into him.

  ‘They'll have you taken into care if you don't watch it. We’ll never see each other again . . . except maybe once a month, under supervision. Assuming I’m not banged up for neglect. Oh Alfie for God’s sake . . . why do you keep running off?’

  Alfie managed to contain a victorious grin. The weather had destroyed his hopes of another week up by the res. He’d stowed his tent before it turned into an igloo, gathered together his remaining provisions and trudged down towards Bingley, feeling pretty low, if the truth be told. That had been yesterday, round dinnertime, and the smell of the first chip shop had been irresistible.

  After cramming hot food into his face he’d taken stock: seventy-odd pence in change and three ten-pound notes. And his fingers were shaking as well as being angrily red, quite possibly through chilblains or frostbite. The intention had been to find somewhere sheltered to hide out . . . maybe a disused garage or shed. In a moment of weakness he’d found an un-vandalised telephone box and piled in most of his change.

  Denny had been ecstatic to hear from him. She’d had him in tears inside the first few seconds. She’d also been prepared to agree to anything to get him home.

  ‘It was Nigel.’ he said now, from the safety of the sofa, trying to look woeful. ‘He scared me. Now he's gone I won’t do it again.’

  ‘Did he . . . hurt you?’

  ‘No. He never touched me.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘What did he do to scare you, then?’

  ‘Nothing, it was just like . . . I don't know; like I was on his territory or something.’

  Denny had been crying on and off ever since he’d been back. Her eyes were puffy and red. Although she had put on a brave show for the policemen (politely thanking the bastards for harassing them at this time on a Sunday), she was losing it again.

  ‘That's been it every time,’ she wailed. ‘Unless I stop having boyfriends, you’re going to keep on doing it.’

  ‘Only if they aren't nice boyfriends,’ said Alfie, ‘and only then if they try to live here.’

  *****

  Harry laughed as he powered down his mobile.

  ‘Childish, I know . . . but what the fuck.'

  ‘Sounded like you were gloating, Jonjo observed.

  ‘I just said what he said to me after The Black Horse, while you were nearly bleeding to death. The cunt couldn’t resist having a dig.’

  Jonjo glanced at Barney then checked their neighbouring tables. They were back in the most remote corner of The Noble Comb which, at that moment in time, looked like the aftermath of a big party. There weren't too many customers to be seen but every eating and drinking utensil in the place must have been used in the last hour or two. A small army of bar staff were collecting glasses and plates, bagging a load of used napkins and all sorts of kiddie-crap, recovering abandoned cuddly toys from under the tables and chairs. There was no danger of anyone listening in.

  ‘Are you going to explain?' Jonjo asked. 'Or do we have to sit here, watching you being pleased with yourself?'

  ‘Can't you guess?'

  ‘It's to do with that shooting the other night,' said Barney. 'You've been like a dog with two dicks ever since.'

  ‘Very observant, Barnaby, remind me to give you a rise.'

  ‘Sure . . . if you ever start paying me in the first place.'

  Harry laughed again then leant forwards, speaking confidentially.

  ‘I only ever hoped to get Dwyer a day in court. Gussy's Lexus was supposed to be un-nickable. Well that's bollocks, isn't it? All you need is the key and you're away. That's what Dwyer specializes in. He has dozens of young twats who know how to get hold of the right keys. Then it's off to Manchester or Leeds or wherever, and Bob's your fucking uncle.'

  ‘"Gussy" is this August Maxwell, right?'

  ‘Augustus Maxwell. He's a barrister with a big gob.'

  ‘No,' said Barney, 'he was a barrister with a big gob.'

  ‘Yeah, well I heard him at the football, bragging about having an un-nickable car on Dwyer's manor. That got me thinking. What would Dwyer look like if we nicked it before he did? Like a cunt, that's what. So I got Peckover to tip him the wink. Told him to make sure Dwyer thought we’d be doing it soon. That's why Peckover had to go for a swim, by the way. He'd passed his sell-by.'

  ‘Hang on,' said Jonjo, 'there's got to be more to this than meets the eye. How's nicking a fancy car supposed to get Dwyer in court? And what's there to be scared of about court, anyway?'

  ‘That's the clever bit. I got Dwyer all hot and wet for that Lexus. Think about it: he screws our secret operation and makes a bundle at the same time. But Peckover never gave him Catch-22, because I kept that under my hat.'

  Jonjo could see Harry was proud of himself. And it was infectious . . . the element of amusement was, anyway. He hated Sean Dwyer as much as anyone possibly could.

  ‘Gussy didn't exactly want his car to be nicked.' Harry broke off to ask a passing barmaid to bring him three more pints, giving her a twenty before she could protest, saying she could keep the change. 'No, he didn't want that, but he was covered if it was. There was a brand-new, state-of-the-art tracking device in the fucker, wired to the cop shop. The Filth were standing by, ready to break records if the call ever came.

  ‘Just think about it . . . they’d score millions of bonus points for providing top-class public service, that kind of shit. The manufacturers had their advertising campaigns ready. Un-nickable car . . . best tracker in the universe . . . superb coordination with the police. And Gussy was going to sue whoever they nicked to Hell and back.'

  ‘It would have been some kid though,' said Barney, 'not Sean Dwyer.'

  ‘No, it was always going to be Dwyer. He wanted the credit for himself. And best of all, Gussy was to barristers what Gordon Ramsay is to chefs. They would have probably televised the trial. Dwyer would’ve been there right in front of the cameras. I'd have grassed him up if nobody else did . . . through discreet channels.'

  ‘So he'd get shown up,' said Jonjo. 'He probably wouldn't have got sent down though.'

  ‘Gussy always wins. Or rather, he always did according to Macka. Anyway, I wasn't relying on a jury to impose the death penalty. I was hoping you were right and Dwyer's mates from Manchester or Leeds would do that.’

  ‘Why would they?’

  ‘Because I was going to drop a few sneaky leaks before the trial; rumours about masterminds pulling Dwyer’s strings. Close to the bone; close enough to make them want to stop him testifying.'

  They all chuckled while the beer arrived and the barmaid scuttled off with her mega tip.

  ‘The stakes have risen from grand theft,' Barney said, sounding as laid-back as ever. 'How's that come about?'

  ‘Whoever went in for the key must have been a loony.' Harry shrugged. 'I must admit, I'm reluctant to do any grassing or leaking right now. No way do I want connecting with that . . . even if I haven't actually done anything.' He laughed yet again. ‘Was it the perfect crime or what?'

  ‘What's the plan then?'

  ‘Sit back and let the police do their job. They can't fail on this one. Not when they'll be spending most of the next five years' budget on it. This isn't bad guys killing bad guys, this is women and children.'

  ‘What if they fuck up?'

  ‘I'll find a way to subtly point them in the right direction. At the appropriate time, if the need arises.'

  Barney raised his glass, his face
positively glowing. 'Good one, Harry: respect!'

  Jonjo's brain was whirring, searching for loose ends. 'What about Kyle Cassidy?'

  ‘What about him?'

  ‘He still thinks he's on our books. Well, my books.'

  ‘You'd like to waste him, wouldn't you Jonathan?'