by John Harvey
Sheena snatched the notes and stuffed them down into her bag. “Tomorrow, right?” she said, opening the door. “You better have somethin’ sorted.”
Raymond was on his feet now, staring at her, not bothering to hide the bulge in his jeans. As Sheena told Diane and Lesley over Bacardi and Coke in the pub, she’d as soon go down on the Alsatian dog next door as give Raymond Cooke a blow job.
Raymond, back from the bathroom and still giving himself a good scratch, weighing up the implications of what he’d just seen: Jason Johnson’s picture, all snuggled up, lovey-dovey, with Sheena Snape, a strip of them, there in her bag; Jason, who everyone knew was stuck up in Queen’s, after nearly getting his brains blown all over the Forest by some shooter who was rumored to be Drew Valentine; and, nestled up next to the photos, this gun that somehow Sheena had laid her hands on; Sheena, who’d been sitting there in the car, knickers round her neck the story went, when the gun went off against her boyfriend’s head.
Raymond chewed on the fleshy inside of his mouth and wondered what the odds were on the gun in Sheena Snape’s bag and the one that’d nearly killed her boyfriend being one and the same?
Like his Uncle Terry would have said, whatever the situation, Ray-o, what you have to do, think careful, figure out how you can make things work out best for you. Least risk, most profit. Most times that’s the way. Once in a while, though, what it pays to do, up the ante, risk a little more, capitalize on what you’ve got. Nothing ventured, Ray-o, nothing gained.
Standing there, Raymond could feel the damp gathering in the palms of his hands.
Thirty
Lorraine had been going through the motions at work, going through the motions at home. She would catch Sandra looking at her curiously every once in a while, but that aside, the children seemed to have settled back into their argumentative selves. And Derek was taken up in a flurry of paperwork as the firm’s owners prepared to launch a new range of colored papers in the coming autumn. Fifty classic and contemporary shades, each one available in a range of finishes, including several stunning new embossings.
In the kitchen, she scraped away the remains of the evening’s ready-to-eat lasagna and slotted the last of the plates into the dishwasher. The kids were upstairs pretending to do homework. Derek had taken his coffee back into the dining-room with his charts, closing the partition door behind him. Lorraine’s coffee remained near the sink, barely touched. She tipped it away and reached inside the fridge for the opened bottle of wine. Maybe later there’d be something she could watch on TV. Wind down. Something that would make her laugh.
She glanced up suddenly and saw him. Standing at the end of the drive, just beyond the far edge of the lawn, staring in. The glass fell through her fingers and she screamed.
Derek came running from the other room. “What? Whatever is it? What’s the matter?”
Her skin had frozen and now her eyes were closed.
“Lorraine? What …?”
When she opened her eyes again, there was no one there.
Somehow the glass had broken against the sink and blood was spooling from the fingers of Lorraine’s right hand.
“Lorraine …”
“It’s nothing. I saw … I thought I saw …” Sandra stood in the kitchen doorway, Sean pressed close against her side.
“Saw what?”
“There was somebody … someone …”
There was only her own face, reflected in the glass. Derek seized a hammer from the drawer beside the sink and went outside.
“Mum, what is it? What’s happening?” Sandra asked, frightened.
“It’s all right, sweetheart, it’s just your mum being silly.”
“You’re bleeding,” Sean said.
“Am I? Yes.”
Derek was on the pavement, looking first toward the field, then back along the street.
“What’s Dad doing?” Sean asked.
Despite herself, Lorraine smiled. “Being brave.”
After he’d come back in, she let Sandra pull the tiny slivers of glass from her hand with the tweezers and stood, patient, while Derek dabbed on Savlon with a ball of cotton wool, then smoothed three small plasters across the breaks in the skin.
It wasn’t until later, upstairs in bed, that Derek said: “It was Michael, wasn’t it? That’s who you thought you saw?”
“Don’t be daft, how could I? He’s miles away.”
“I know, but that’s who you thought it was, right?”
She rested her head against the fleshy warmth of his upper arm. “No, Derek, no. I swear.”
He didn’t believe her, of course. Lorraine’s imagination working overtime. With a small sigh, he leaned over and kissed her head. And Lorraine, she was certain whom she had seen and Michael it was not: it had been that prison officer, Evan, hands in the pockets of his blue zip-up jacket, anxiously staring in.
Raymond had been sniffing his way, rodent-like, from one dark corner to another. He finally tracked Tommy DiReggio to the drinking club on Bottle Lane. Tommy was sitting at a corner table behind a three-card straight, king high, and he wasn’t about to shift for anyone, so Raymond ordered a lager and black, and perched on a stool as patiently as he could.
When Tommy had pocketed his winnings and promised in twenty minutes he’d give them all a chance to get even, he went with Raymond into the back room and listened to his proposition. A Beretta, was that what Raymond had said? Well, Raymond nodded, just, say, for instance. Yeh, of course, Tommy laughed, for instance. Understood. And sure it was possible, a couple of hundred for a clean shooter, no history; without that guarantee the price dipped a lot, but still not below three figures. When Raymond pushed him a little, Tommy agreed he could maybe find a buyer himself for only a twenty per cent commission.
So Raymond downed his lager and scuttled out into the darkness, other agendas pressing on his mind, and Tommy DiReggio filed away the information, something to be passed on for a price, a promise of advancement, a debt needing to be squared.
On the corner of Thurland Street and Pelham Street, Raymond paused outside the entrance to a small cellar club he knew was frequented by Anthony Drew Valentine. And word was that Valentine was back on the street.
Raymond shuffled into the doorway of a shop selling discount jeans and suddenly he was remembering when he had stood outside that club before. A night-what? — a little over three years ago.
Four of them there’d been, coming for him out of the dark: white shirts, loud voices, threats and curses. At first, it had been punches thrown, the toe of a shiny shoe driving in. Then the glint and flash of a blade. The pain that jarred along Raymond’s arm, sharp, when he drove his Stanley knife hard into one youth’s face and met bone. And then this other guy, older, well-dressed, some Paki poking his nose where it wasn’t wanted, out to impress his girl. “All right, put a stop to this.” Unbelievable, the feller trying to grab hold of them, pull them apart. The whole gang had turned on him then, Raymond included, beating him to the ground and then the boots flying, going in hard. To this day, Raymond could never be certain whether he’d heard the man shout out he was a police officer before he’d slashed the Stanley knife at his head and caught his throat, severing the carotid artery with a single swing.
Bastard! Once in a while, still, Raymond woke in a muck sweat remembering. Wasn’t as if the copper’d even been on duty. Why couldn’t he mind his own business like everybody else? Stupid Paki bastard, no more than he deserved.
He tugged at his collar and crossed the street toward the club entrance, joining a small line slowly shuffling forward, waiting for admission. On the door, two bouncers, one black, one white, both wearing shiny black blouson jackets bearing the insignia Gold Standard Security, vetting everyone carefully, patting them down before letting them past.
There was no need, he reasoned, to speak to Valentine himself, not now. If one or two of his cohorts were around, maybe Raymond could plant a seed in the right ear. After all, if the weapon Sheena Snape was offering him was
indeed the one that had almost terminated Jason Johnson, then Valentine might be willing to pay a lot more than it was worth on the open market. Double, at least. Nothing ventured, Ray-o, nothing gained.
Thirty-one
The only thing, Preston thought, that had changed about motorway services all the time he’d been inside had been the prices. Otherwise, especially at four in the morning, they were the same sad, scruffy places, smelling of grease and disinfectant.
He’d parked Maureen’s car close to the entrance and glanced around for any sign of Cassady; no idea, of course, what kind of motor he drove now, but sensing that the Irishman had still to arrive. Maureen, snug in the bedroom where he’d left her; hopefully the rope wouldn’t be biting too deep into her wrists and ankles. No matter how much you trusted people, you could only ever trust them so far.
He took a leak, then stood in line in the cafeteria behind a longdistance haulage driver from South Shields, making his way back from carrying a load of copper wiring to Germany. In no hurry, Preston waited while the man ordered his plate piled high with everything from chips to black pudding. He ordered two slices of toast for himself and a large tea to wash them down. Someone had left the previous day’s paper on one of the tables, and Preston picked it up and dropped it on his tray, heading for the elevated area off to one side. The tea was weak, the toast thin but fresh; he was surprised at how many names in the paper he recognized, how many he did not. Although he made a point of watching the TV news once in a while in prison, you were so removed from what was happening nothing you watched seemed real: a shock, almost, then, to realize those stories about fat cats in business, soap stars and royals, millionaire Lottery winners were true.
He spotted Cassady before Cassady saw him. Shorter than he remembered, his features, even at that distance, decidedly older, his gaze uncertain as he paused and looked around.
Then he was heading straight for Preston, a grin brightening his face as they shook hands, Cassady punching him playfully on the shoulder, once and once more again for luck. “Jesus, Michael, you’re looking good. You really are.”
“Just as well one of us is; you look like shit.”
Cassady laughed and stepped away. “What can I get you? Another-what? — tea, is it?”
“Tea, yeh, thanks.” Watching him, then, as he crossed between the largely empty tables, circling jauntily around a tall Asian slowly mopping the same area of floor, a different man already from the one who had walked in.
A few minutes later, Cassady took a quarter bottle of scotch from his side pocket and tipped a generous shot into his cup. He offered the bottle across to Preston, who shook his head.
“So,” Preston said, “I hear you’ve gone legit.”
“Not so’s you’d notice,” Cassady replied with a sly grin.
“Security, isn’t it?”
“Clubs for the most part, pubs. Couple of shopping centers, out of town. Nothing grand.”
“Money in it, though?”
“Oh, yes. Especially with a little-what is it? — creative accounting.”
Preston looked at him over the top of his cup. “Money enough?”
“Ah, never that, is it? And, besides, sitting in that poxy office every hour of the day, having to be polite to people down the telephone-sure, that’s not me.”
Preston still looking at him, staring now.
“Oh, I see, Michael. Yes, I get your drift. It’s a loan you’re wanting. Well, of course, I’ll do what I can. I …”
But it wasn’t a loan. Preston’s hand was quick, gripping Cassady’s fingers till the knuckles were white. “Miss it, don’t you? The buzz. Going out on a big job, tooled up.”
“Course I do.”
“Well …?”
“Ah, Michael, things change. All that cash, used to be running around, there for the taking, it’s not the same. Big firms, these days, they’re as likely to transfer wages electronically, one account to another. I don’t know. It’s as if money, your actual money, never sees the light of day.”
Preston lowered his voice even farther. “I need one big score, maybe two. And soon. You in?”
Cassady leaned back and, for a few moments, closed his eyes. He’d seen it coming, of course he had. What else would Preston have wanted with him? You take risks like this just to reminisce? And Cassady had been thinking for some little time now, things were ripe for moving on. A little overripe maybe, overextended, that policewoman coming round earlier, for instance, questions she was asking never quite the ones she meant. Yes, pastures new. Jacky would jump at that now, sure she would.
“Yeh. Yeh, of course I’m in, but where? I mean …”
“You’ve been outside, eyes open. That’s what you’re supposed to be telling me.”
Cassady lifted his cup with both hands. Through a wall of plate glass, lights blistered and flickered along the length of motorway. “Drugs, then,” he said. “Got to be.”
Preston sat back and shook his head. “I don’t want to be messing with all that shit. Buying, selling, it’s not what I know. I don’t have the time.”
“No.” Cassady leaning closer now, the whole thing coming to him, seeing it, even then, playing out before him. Working Planer and Valentine, one against the other, while they slipped away through the middle. “It don’t have to be that way. The money, that’s what we want, right? The cash. You know how much some of these monkeys have, making unsightly bulges in their shiny new suits? Do you?” The old grin was back on his face, wider than before. “And one thing they’re not doing, keeping it all in the Midland at five point nothing per cent, rest assured of that. All we have to do, find out where they’ve got their stash, hit ’em at the right time. Bob’s your uncle.” He laughed at the simple joy of it. “What’re they going to do? Go runnin’ to the police, is it?”
“But finding out, it can’t be that simple, right?”
Cassady was smiling fit to bust.
“What?” Preston said. “What’s with that stupid grin? You can do that, is that what you’re saying? Set it up, what?”
Cassady tipped a little more scotch into his tea. “My boys, Michael, working the clubs, they get to know a lot. Well, that’s where a lot of this stuff is sold, moved on. Where a lot of these deals are made. Sometimes they’re paid to turn a blind eye, that’s fine. Some of them, the smarter ones, they’ve got these little deals going for themselves. Likely think I don’t know, but of course, I do. No skin off my nose. But I watch what’s going on, well, you know me, always have done. Ask me who the big movers are, the ones making the serious money, I know. Liam Cassady knows. One of them especially …” He held up his hand, one finger hooked over another. “Like that.”
“And you reckon you can set something up? Fast? Couple of days?”
“Well, now, Michael, I don’t know, I was thinking more like a week. You know, to be certain, get everything into place …”
But Preston had hold of his hand again, squeezing tight. “Two days, Liam. Three at most. That’s what it’s got to be.”
“Plans, then, have you, Michael?” Cassady trying not to grimace, acknowledge the pain. “Spot of traveling, I expect that’s on your mind. Now that the heat’s died down a little, what? Get away. God! I wouldn’t mind getting away myself.”
Preston looked round at where the sky was beginning to lighten. “One last thing, I’ll be needing a fresh place to stay. Just till this is through.”
Cassady nodded. “No problem. Is there anything else?”
Preston punched Cassady’s arm twice, not hard. “You won’t let me down, Liam, I know that.”
“Sure, sure. That’s right, that’s right.”
Thirty-two
Sean was playing some kind of private game with his cereal, carefully pushing as many pieces toward the sides of the bowl as he could, then placing his spoon in the center and twirling it fast to send the cereal spinning. Milk, not surprisingly, covered his end of the table in a fine spray. Sandra, doing her best to ignore him, was tucking into
toast and peanut butter while concentrating on the problem page in Smash Hits. Derek, standing, white shirt, tie as yet unfastened, second-best suit trousers, cup of tea in hand, was listening to the traffic reports on local radio; one of the new reps was making his first call on a major customer in West Bromwich and Derek was going along to smooth the way.
“That was weird,” Lorraine said, coming in from the hall.
“What’s that?”
“Your sister, Maureen. That was her on the phone.”
“This hour of the morning?”
“I was just about to shout you, but she said she wanted to speak to me.”
Derek gave the tea a swirl round inside the pot and freshened his cup. “What about?”
“Some stuff she’s got, clothes, you know, for the shop. A dress and … oh, I don’t know, things she’s taken on part-exchange, she reckons they’d be great for me, just my size …”
“Sean,” Derek said sharply, “just stop doing that.”
“Anyway, she wants me to go round there, this evening. Try them on. Says she could let me have them really cheap.”
“So go. What’s the problem? I’ll be back round six-thirty, seven. I can look after the … Sean, I thought I just told you …”
“Yes, I will. I said I would. Just strikes me as a bit funny, that’s all.”
“How come?”
“Well, in all the time she’s had that shop …”
Sean overdid his exploration of centrifugal force. The bowl skidded away from under his spoon, careening across the table and splashing milk and soggy cereal over Sandra’s magazine and down the front of her school blouse. Sandra jumped back and yelled, and her last piece of toast landed face down on the floor. Derek clipped Sean round the back of the head and then, once again, harder, for good measure.
“Derek, don’t …”
“I warned him.”
Sean was cowering behind his chair, wondering whether or not to cry. When she thought no one was looking, Sandra gave him a quick kick in the back of his calf and went up to her room to change.
