by Paul Finch
‘Well, that’s the price you pay, Michael. For selling yourself body and soul to an organisation that really doesn’t give a shit about anyone.’
‘Mouthy cow you are at times.’
‘Yeah, well, I wonder why!’ She rounded on him. ‘Could it be anything to do with the fact that what you’ve just told me amounts to another load of underworld secrets I’m now obliged to keep from my superiors? You think I enjoy doing that? You think I’m happy being some kind of unofficial repository of gangland knowledge … a helpless spectator while you and the rest of your pathetic brood rape and pillage the whole fucking world!’
He glanced sidelong at her, surprised by the anger in her voice.
‘I’m not onside!’ she shouted. ‘Okay, Mick? I’m not one of you! I’ve got one interest only in what’s just happened to Frank McCracken, and that’s in who shot him.’
‘You don’t need to worry about that.’ He gave a sneering smile. ‘That’s already being taken care of.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
He made no reply.
‘And that’s all I get?’ she said. ‘Nothing? After telling you everything?’
‘You should be happy, shouldn’t you? Proves that I still think of you as a cop.’
‘I need to get back to the hospital … my car’s there.’
‘That’s where we’re headed,’ he said, though at present he looked nonplussed. Having barely seemed to know where he was driving prior to learning that McCracken was going to be all right, it seemed he’d steered them onto a maze-like housing estate and now was having trouble finding his way off it again.
‘Just as long as you know, Mick … you and your bloody mates turn this thing into Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show and I won’t help you.’
‘Like we need your help.’
‘I’m telling you, pal. The Crew gets involved in a shooting war in Crowley, and November Division will come after you with everything they’ve got. Me too.’
‘Shouldn’t you be doing that anyway?’
She couldn’t reply to that.
How could she?
It was true.
Chapter 31
Miles O’Grady would probably have been the first to admit that he hadn’t been thinking straight. On reflection, the obvious thing would have been to accept Frank McCracken’s offer, a 50 per cent split between himself and the Crew. But he doubted he could ever have lived with that easily. It just wasn’t his thing to be an underling. How would he ever get rich when he was basically working for someone else? How could he ever rub those GMP fuckers’ noses in it if he just became another gangster? But as he parked the Golf outside Dashwood House and clambered hurriedly out, hair sweat-soaked, clothes clammy and dishevelled, a briefcase clenched under his arm, it still occurred to him that he might have handled this thing better.
He tucked the Taurus into his belt and pivoted 180 degrees, scanning the full length of Long Acre. It was deserted, as it should be at this time of night, but only one streetlight was in operation, so that meant there were lots of hidden crannies. He backed towards the building, fumbling for his keys. There wasn’t much of value in the office, but what there was he had to take with him, and he had to do it quickly.
He closed the door behind him, locked it and hurried up the darkened stairs.
The problem was that, though he’d hit McCracken and the dolly bird, he’d missed the bodyguard. In fact, as soon as the bodyguard had pulled a gun of his own, O’Grady had flown. He’d been in such a blind rage, so infuriated to see his schemes come crashing down so quickly and easily that it had briefly overwhelmed all common sense. He’d had one aim only; to teach the bastards a lesson, to show them that he wasn’t someone to be screwed with. You threaten my business, I take you out of the game altogether – that’s the O’Grady way. But the plan had never involved suffering bullet wounds himself. In fact, it had been a very nasty surprise to see that gun. It had never occurred to him that they might be packing heat on their way to a restaurant. To a restaurant, for God’s sake!
Either way, he’d run. Of course he’d run.
And now he was back here, still not entirely sure what he was going to do next.
Even when he’d been absolutely certain that punching McCracken’s ticket was the only way forward, he hadn’t thought this far ahead. Not that it was possible now to sit down and think things through carefully. Because that gigantic bodyguard had seen him, and if he didn’t already know who O’Grady was, he’d doubtless be able to put two and two together and come up with his employer’s most recent target, Walderstone Enquiries Ltd.
So the only thing that mattered at this moment was getting out.
He drew the blind on the window, turned the office light on and threw the briefcase onto the desk. Opening the bottom drawer, he took out his laptop and stowed it in the case, then lifted the carpet in the corner, moved the boards aside and tapped his combination into the electronic panel on the circular steel door beneath. Usually, he kept nothing in the under-floor safe except petty cash, but the last couple of days had been such a whirlwind of fury and fear that he hadn’t really had time to figure out the best way to feed the sixty grand that was his cut from the Dean Chesham job into his normal day-to-day finances, and so had stuck it down here. It was currently taped into six ten-grand rolls. The petty cash was down there too, in a small plastic bag, probably about five grand’s worth. He took it all, fishing it out item by item, and throwing it into the briefcase.
When that was done, he stood up and turned around, wondering if there was anything else he needed. Nothing came to mind, because the truth was that he didn’t even know where he was going yet. There were one or two hotels in different parts of the country where he could probably hole up. If he could pay cash on arrival, no one would even need to know his real name. How long that could realistically go on for, he didn’t know. But he had to get away from here, at least for a few days.
Would he be able to negotiate with the Crew? He didn’t know that either. But neither did he think it would be out of the question. With one of their key players dead, they’d now be scrambling to fill that void, no doubt feeding on each other as their type always did. But there was no reason why O’Grady couldn’t pitch his own hat into the ring – from a place of safety, of course. As the executioner of the Crew’s chief taxman, he could make a case that McCracken had been fucking him over. Maybe had been trying to fuck the Crew over too. That he’d been into O’Grady for huge amounts of money which he didn’t intend to share with his bosses. Maybe that he’d been O’Grady’s secret partner, and they’d been doing a number on the Crew leadership for months now, with O’Grady suddenly deciding that enough was enough. That O’Grady wanted to make things straight with the house, and that McCracken wouldn’t go along with it.
Who would there be to say any different?
A lump-of-meat bodyguard so brainless that he hadn’t even been able to protect his employer from an assassin’s bullet?
O’Grady switched the light off, grabbed the briefcase and hurried back down the stair.
It still seemed like a long shot, of course, but he was certain he could pull it off. He’d be offering them a regular and lucrative scam. This gig he had going, blackmailing the city’s playboys, could be worth millions in the long run. Surely, even the Crew wouldn’t turn their noses up at that. Of course, if they got fully involved, it would mean there’d be no place for Roper and Stone. But O’Grady wasn’t sure that worried him any more.
At the bottom of the stair, he halted behind the closed door, opened it a crack and peeked out. Long Acre was still deserted. As before, only about half of it was visible, the rest lying in shadow, but there was no sound. It was so late now that even the usual hum of night traffic was absent.
Roper and Stone were likely dead anyway. Even if they hadn’t said they were ditching him, any efforts O’Grady might make to protect them would be useless. He couldn’t offer any kind of deal to the Crew for a few days at least, maybe for a few week
s. In the meantime, they’d be looking for him, and as they wouldn’t be able to find him, they’d settle for going to his ex-partners. God alone knew what would happen then. McCracken’s personal team would doubtless want full-on revenge, but if they took that out on Roper and Stone, rather than on O’Grady himself … well, he wasn’t complaining.
There was one other loose end, of course – and this only struck him as he hurried out to his Golf.
Megan.
The realisation almost stopped O’Grady in his tracks.
Bizarrely, all through this intense little melodrama, he hadn’t once considered his wretched wife. But he had no choice but to think about her now.
Possibly, there was nothing to worry about. He could simply call her from whichever hotel he found and tell her he was away on business for a few days. She’d think it odd, sure; that he hadn’t taken a change of clothes or any toiletries, and that he hadn’t mentioned anything about this beforehand. But she had at least some idea that he got embroiled in nefarious activities from time to time; and if she followed form, she wouldn’t ask any real questions so long as he could guarantee there’d be a pay-off at the end.
The other alternative was to swing by Broadgate Green now, on his way out of Manchester, and try to persuade her to come with him – but that just wouldn’t happen in the time he had available. She’d have too many queries, too many objections.
He switched the engine on, the car rumbling to life.
If he left Megan at home, of course, the Crew would do something. They wouldn’t just leave her alone because she was a woman. But hopefully they wouldn’t go for the jugular straight away, and it would only be a quick Q&A before they realised that she didn’t know anything. If nothing else, it meant that he’d have to get back to them quickly, to explain his situation and to make his offer.
Despite the narrow confines of the Acre, he pulled a three-point turn and drove towards the entrance. Only to find himself hitting the brake much harder than he needed to, given that he was only doing about ten miles an hour.
An HGV had appeared from nowhere and was now parked there. It was a huge thing, its trailer laden with goods covered in green tarpaulins. Its nearside wheels were on the pavement; it wasn’t blocking the entrance entirely – there was room to get past in a car like a Golf. The problem was that it hadn’t been there before.
O’Grady sat stiffly, trying to detect any sign of movement, and initially seeing nothing.
It was entirely possible that someone had legitimately left it. But in the last hour or so? When it was nearly three o’clock in the morning? Beyond Long Acre, an access road followed a circular route around Crowley Bus Station. It wasn’t the most obvious place for a long-distance lorry driver to pull up and grab himself forty winks.
O’Grady glanced at the briefcase on the front passenger seat, and then pulled the Taurus from his belt and placed it on top of it.
What? some inner voice asked. You’re just going to drive on past it? And if someone opens fire as you do, you’re going to engage them in gun-play?
It was ridiculous, of course. There was no sign anyone was there, but the back of the lorry was covered. And if he edged past it, which he’d have to do slowly because it would be a tight fit, there’d be nothing to stop them opening up on him with maybe three or four weapons from near point-blank range. They’d have raked his entire vehicle before he could return a single shot.
‘Fuck!’ he hissed. ‘Shit!’
He threw the Golf into reverse, fresh sweat damp on his brow. There was no real question. That wagon had appeared from nowhere, at the dead of night. And it had parked virtually at his door. There was no point pretending this might be a coincidence.
The Golf juddered backward until he was level with the office again. He stopped, climbed out, walked round to the passenger door, opened it, snatched the Taurus, tucked it back into his belt and grabbed the briefcase.
He closed the car door quietly and left it unlocked, concerned that to hit the fob would set the sidelights flashing, which might attract attention.
Unless he was prepared to chance the HGV, there was no way out of the cul-de-sac on wheels. On the face of it, it seemed like madness to attempt a getaway on foot, but they might not be expecting that. Plus, the Crew were central Manchester-based. They wouldn’t know every highway and by-way in Crowley. He could still outfox them. He stood close to the side of the building, where he was hidden in shadow, turned and strode in the opposite direction.
There was at least one ginnel leading out of Long Acre. He wasn’t sure where it led to. But his local knowledge had to be better than theirs.
He walked increasingly briskly, his confidence growing. Glancing back, he could see the HGV, but still there was no movement there.
The entrance to the ginnel came up on the right. It was nothing more than a gap between overlarge buildings, an archetypical inner-city backstreet, unevenly paved and strewn with litter. He hurried down it anyway, mopping his brow with his sleeve, continually glancing backward. No figures intruded into the receding rectangle of streetlighting behind him.
‘This is good,’ he muttered, daring to hope that he’d slipped the net.
But then he reached a junction of passages. This was something he’d feared. He was pretty certain that he’d be able to work his way through to one of the main roads eventually, but where to go from here? The route on the right curved out of sight. There were no doors along it. The route on the left, however, was broader and ran straighter. Wheelie bins were ranged along it, which meant that it ran behind shops or industrial units. If he went that way, there’d likely be a cut-through to the main road.
He headed left, still walking quickly – but when he was forty yards along, a set of headlights sprang to life just ahead of him.
O’Grady skidded to a halt.
He couldn’t see what the vehicle was, but it was already advancing on him, its engine rumbling. For what seemed like several seconds, he was totally frozen, his back stiff, his feet leaden. It couldn’t possibly be them. They couldn’t have known that he’d try to escape this way. They couldn’t have covered this eventuality because they didn’t know this place.
But nor do you, Miles, that mocking internal voice now told him.
With a clank, the vehicle changed gear and accelerated. A bin hurtled sideways, its putrid contents exploding; sure proof that this wasn’t just some late worker heading home.
Instinctively rather than deliberately, he pulled the Taurus from his belt and opened fire – wildly, blindly. By luck, at least one of the slugs struck the nearside headlamp, putting it out.
That might have been a result, had O’Grady been able to follow through with further shots, but he’d first obtained the Taurus when he’d confiscated it during a raid several years ago. He’d never declared it, opting to keep it for himself, even though it had only contained four rounds. And now he’d fired them all.
But maybe he’d bought himself a little time.
He ran back along the alley.
With a clatter, the vehicle changed gear and accelerated again. He heard another thundering impact as a second bin was knocked out of its way. A small mercy, as the tone of the engine altered, the vehicle shifting down to avoid hitting too many more obstacles.
O’Grady carried on running, galloping along the next passage. He didn’t think the car, or whatever it was, would be able to fit down this one, and risked another glance back. The single remaining light had stopped at the junction. As he saw this, the arched entry to another passage came up on his left. He slid to a halt, seeing thirty yards of black tunnel, and at the far end of that unrestricted streetlighting.
He hurried down there, now aware that he was an unsightly mess – sweaty and panicking, with a firearm in his hand. He could discard the gun, of course; just release it. It was no use now anyway. But his fingerprints were all over it. Suppose the police married that one with the gun that had been used to kill Frank McCracken and his girlfriend? Suppose it had b
een used to kill other people before O’Grady had come into possession of it?
He shoved it into his coat pocket as he staggered out onto the pavement of a main road, which he recognised as Bakerfield Lane. His normally impeccable hair was now a wringing mat, his breath coming in wrenching sobs. But the luck that had saved him from the ambush in the alley was still holding, because a couple of dozen yards to his left, a night bus, a double-decker, idled at one of its stops. Both sets of its doors, front and middle, stood open as it awaited last-minute customers. Walking quickly towards it, straightening his tie and the lapels of his coat, O’Grady climbed on board.
He was the only passenger downstairs, so he found himself a seat easily.
All this was good, in fact excellent – his pounding heartbeat began to slow – except that, no, on second thoughts it wasn’t good at all; the bus was well-lit and if someone came around the corner now, he’d easily be spotted.
O’Grady got up again, walked to the spiral staircase, and ascended to the top deck.
Up there, he wasn’t alone. There was someone seated at the very front. But that was okay. He went to the back and sat down. Someone had slashed the seating, so all the stuffing hung out, but he didn’t care. Again, that was normal. Everything had to be normal now … ordinary, innocuous. He placed the briefcase on his knee and waited, though fresh sweat seeped from his brow as he wondered how long it would be before the bus set off.
Glancing down through the grubby window, he saw a Bakerfield Lane now bare of traffic and pedestrians. He looked to the front again, feeling tense. They had to make a move soon. What was the point in sitting around? There was no one else here, no one was rushing to catch a bus at this ungodly hour.
With a jolt, the vehicle lurched from the kerb.
