The Rule

by David Jackson

  His legs became heavier. The pack on his back became heavier. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t know if he would ever leave.

  The torch came on again, shining directly into Scott’s eyes. He halted. He could hear himself panting.

  ‘Hello, Scott.’

  Ronan came down the slope towards him. When he was just feet away, he flicked off the torch. The light of the moon was enough for Scott to pick out the features that belonged simultaneously to one who had died and one who would kill. Either apparition was terrifying.

  ‘You got something for me?’ Ronan asked.

  Scott slipped one of the straps of the backpack from his shoulder, but kept the other in place. He tried to act as though his load was much more of a burden than it was.

  ‘Before we do this, I want you to know that you’re taking everything from us. This is all we have in the world. I hope you’ll understand that we’re not trying to—’

  ‘Cut the crap, Scott.’

  ‘W-what?’ He hadn’t anticipated an interruption. Heartfelt speeches weren’t supposed to be interrupted, especially when they involved appeals to humanity.

  ‘Just give me the fucking money.’

  Apparently, humanity wasn’t Ronan Cobb’s strong point.

  Scott kneeled on the ground while he opened the backpack. He withdrew the thick envelope, then stood again and held it out towards Ronan.

  Ronan put his torch back on, as if he needed the additional light to convince his disbelieving eyes.

  ‘Is that it? What else is in the bag?’

  ‘My flask. And my sandwich box.’

  ‘A flask and—Fucking hell, did you think we were going to have a picnic? Give me that fucking envelope.’

  He came over to Scott, snatched the package, walked back to his spot. He tore into the envelope and started pulling out its contents.

  ‘How much is here?’

  ‘Four thousand, three hundred and twenty-seven pounds and 52p.’

  ‘Four thousand, three hundred and twenty-seven pounds? Are you—?’

  ‘And 52p.’

  ‘Oh, 52p! Well, that makes all the difference, doesn’t it? I can do a lot with fifty-two fucking pence. For a minute there, I thought you were trying to take the piss. But now I know you’re serious, we can close the deal.’

  ‘I . . . Like I said, it’s all we have. I can show you my bank statement.’ He started to reach into the backpack again.

  ‘No, I don’t want to read your fucking bank statement, Scott. What do you think I am – the fucking taxman? What sort of game is this?’

  ‘No game. I’ve done my best. I have no more money.’

  ‘Four grand is chickenfeed. You owe me twenty-five. Where’s the rest of it?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know what you want me to say. I don’t have it. I work in a garage. My wife works part-time at a supermarket. We don’t own property or any valuables. We can’t get a loan from the bank. My car is only worth its scrap value. Please, I’m not trying to cheat you. I just don’t know what else I—’

  And then Ronan was tossing the envelope and his torch on the ground, and he was pulling out his massive gun and striding towards Scott.

  Scott put his hands up and tried to back away, convinced he was going to slip and that the sudden move would look like an attempt to escape, provoking Ronan to begin shooting.

  ‘Not good enough, Scott! Not anywhere near good enough.’

  ‘Please, I . . . Look, maybe I could pay you off more slowly. A chunk of my wages every month. How does that sound?’

  Ronan rubbed his chin like a theatre villain. ‘A monthly instalment plan? Interesting.’

  ‘Yes! And even if you wanted to charge a small amount of interest . . .’

  ‘Well, yes, of course there’d have to be interest, but I’m sure we could agree on a fair percentage rate.’

  He paused.

  And then suddenly dropped back into his normal persona.

  ‘Don’t be fucking stupid. Doesn’t work like that. How long do you think it would take you to pay back twenty-five grand with interest? I’d be an old man by then. I want my money now.’

  ‘And I told you I don’t have it. Please, you’re asking me to do something that’s not possible.’

  Ronan advanced again, his gun raised. ‘Everything is possible. You just need to try harder.’

  ‘I have tried. Please. Look at my bank statement. It’s—’

  ‘Which knee, Scott?’

  ‘W-what?’

  ‘I’m going to shoot you in one of your knees. I’m allowing you to pick which one.’

  Scott backed away again. He felt himself beginning to slide down the hill. He glanced quickly behind him, taking in the vast, empty space. Nobody to help. Nobody even to hear the shots.

  ‘Don’t even think of running, Scott. You run, and I’ll shoot you in the back.’ He cocked the gun, lowered it to point at Scott’s right knee.

  ‘Wait! Wait! Maybe . . . maybe I could get some more. I could try. Let me try.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re willing to give it a proper try now? Actually put some effort in?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure I could get some more. A lot more, probably.’

  They stood silently on the hill for what seemed an age. Scott could hear the pounding in his chest.

  Ronan lowered the gun. ‘Do it. Don’t say I never did anything for you. And remember why you’re in this mess in the first place. Your son murdered my brother, and then, then, you threw away his body and our money. Don’t you forget that.’

  ‘I won’t. Thank you. Just give me a few days, and—’

  ‘Twenty-four hours.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve got until tomorrow night. I’m not waiting any longer for my money.’

  ‘One day? I can’t possibly—’

  ‘No more negotiations, Scott. I’m being more than generous as it is, and you’re getting on my nerves. I’ll call you tomorrow to arrange a meet. Now get out of my face.’

  ‘Please, I—’

  But Ronan was already turning and walking away, picking up the envelope and torch, disappearing into the black shadows beneath the tree.

  When Scott got home, he moved as silently as he could. He wanted to shower, to remove the odours of sweat and cow dung that were clinging to him, but he didn’t want to wake the others.

  His family. His precious wife and son.

  He had done this for them.

  Done it? This wasn’t over. Not yet. Another long fearful day lay ahead.

  He doubted he would sleep, but he crept into the bedroom and stripped off his clothes and climbed into bed, if only to be near to his wife.

  Tears sprang from his eyes.

  ‘You’re home,’ Gemma said, her back still to him.

  ‘I’m home.’

  ‘And you’re safe? You’re not hurt?’

  ‘I’m not hurt.’

  ‘Did he accept the money?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Is that it? He just took it and went?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he’s not coming back? He doesn’t want more?’

  ‘No. I told him we didn’t have any more. There was nothing else to discuss.’

  She finally turned over in the bed.

  ‘Why are you crying?’

  ‘Relief. It’s been a tough day. I’m just glad it’s all over.’

  ‘Hold me,’ she said. ‘Hold me tight.’

  34

  Thursday morning. Breakfast time, but not like any other.

  She knows, Scott thought. Or at least she suspects. She just doesn’t want to say. Doesn’t want to stress the lie to breaking point.

  Because that’s what he was living now. A big fat lie. The guilt of it was already ballooning inside him. That big talk he’d had with Gemma about joint decisions, about being in this together – well, he’d thrown all that out of the window. He told himself he was doing it from the best of i
ntentions. If this all went tits-up, then the less Gemma knew about it the better. If she didn’t know the truth, there’d be nothing for her to cover up. He was doing this for her, and for Daniel.

  So then why did it feel so painful?

  Daniel was less reserved than his mother. ‘Did you pay that man?’ he asked.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Will he leave us alone now?’

  ‘Yes. He promised he would.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad to hear that.’

  ‘And I’m glad that you’re glad. Eat your toast, Daniel. It’s nearly time to go.’

  He looked across at Gemma, but she had suddenly found her cereal intensely interesting.

  His phone was still off. He didn’t want to risk a call from Ronan while he was with his family. They’d know.

  As he’d predicted, and despite his exhaustion, he hadn’t slept. Money was on his mind again. More specifically, how to get hold of some. He knew he couldn’t find all twenty-five thousand, but what if he could at least get into five figures? Ten grand is a lot of money in anyone’s eyes, right? Ronan would have to be pleased with that. And he’d already made a down payment, so that left only £5,700 to find.

  Only £5,700.

  Easy to say. Not so easy to do.

  But he had a plan.

  Marcel intercepted Hannah on her way out of the office.

  ‘Got a minute, boss?’

  She tried to read his expression. Tried to figure out whether this was good news or bad. If it was bad, she was going to kick someone in the crotch.

  She nodded. Marcel led her over to Trisha Lacey’s desk. Hannah decided that kicking her in the crotch wouldn’t be quite as effective.

  ‘What have we got?’

  ‘This is the CCTV from the tip,’ Trisha said. ‘We’re making good progress with the vehicles, but I wanted to show you this one.’ She moved the image on by a few frames, then pointed to a silver car.

  ‘Okay. What about it?’

  ‘Let me zoom in.’ Trisha tapped a key a few times, magnifying the rear section of the car. ‘See that plate?’

  Hannah squinted. ‘I can’t make it out. It looks like it’s covered in mud or something.’

  ‘Right. A few of the vehicles have had dirty registration plates, but if we can’t figure them out on the way in, we can usually get them on the way out.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This is from a camera at the entrance to the tip, looking inwards, so it captures vehicles just as they come in through the gates. Now, a few minutes later, we see the car coming out again.’

  Trisha worked her magic and found the same car on an image with a timestamp several minutes after the previous one. Now it could be seen from the front. Trisha zoomed in on the registration plate again.

  ‘Still unreadable,’ Hannah said.

  ‘Yes. Some of the characters are partly visible, but if they’re what we think they are, they don’t match anything in the system.’

  ‘You think this was done deliberately? A faked plate?’

  ‘It could be just coincidence. Maybe the car drove through mud and the registration was accidentally obscured. But there’s something else.’

  Trisha used her mouse to move the viewpoint to a higher position on the car, directly over the driving position.

  ‘The sun visor’s down,’ Hannah said.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. And I don’t know if you remember, but Sunday was a really cloudy day. There was no reason for anyone to lower their visor. Unless . . .’

  ‘Unless they were trying to hide their face from the camera.’ Hannah straightened up. ‘Right. Do we know the make and model of that car?’

  It was Marcel who answered. ‘Thought you’d ask that, boss, so we did our homework. It’s a Toyota Avensis saloon.’

  ‘Gold star for both of you. Draw up a list. Silver Toyota Avensis registrations, ranked according to distance of owner’s address from the crime scene.’

  ‘There could be a lot of them. And it’s possible that the owner doesn’t live anywhere near the scene or the tip.’

  ‘There could, Marcel. But unless you’ve got a better idea . . .’

  ‘No, boss. We’re on it.’

  ‘Thank you. Keep me informed. I want to know the minute you find anyone who seems the least bit iffy.’

  ‘Iffy. Right, boss.’

  ‘What the fuck is this?’

  Ronan had known this was coming. He’d put up his mental shields in advance.

  ‘It’s all he had. Every penny.’

  ‘There are coins in here. Actual coins!’

  ‘I told you. Every penny.’

  Myra glared at him. ‘And you just accepted it and sent him on his way?’

  ‘Course not.’

  ‘Then what did you do? Put a bullet in him? Break his legs?’

  ‘No. I told him it wasn’t enough.’

  ‘I see. And you thought that a verbal warning was adequate, did you?’

  ‘He got the message.’

  ‘Really? When you didn’t give him so much as a flick on his ear?’

  ‘Mam. I threatened him with the gun. He understands. But to be honest . . .’ He let it fade out. He wasn’t sure he should be injecting a note of pessimism into this discussion.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘No, go on. Make my day even more miserable than it already is.’ She tapped the black armband she was still wearing. ‘I shouldn’t need to remind you that your brother is never coming back to us. Not ever. Those sons of bitches took him away, and now they need to pay.’

  ‘With money?’

  Myra slammed her palms on the table. ‘With whatever it fucking well takes! With their worthless lives, if necessary. I’m not letting them get away with this, and I hope you’re not thinking that way either. So go ahead. Enlighten me. Let me know what’s on your mind so that I can set you straight again. Jesus, Ronan, I thought you were better than this.’

  Ronan considered staying mute, but anger drove the words from his lips.

  ‘I was about to say that it doesn’t matter what we do. That family don’t have any more money. I’ve been to their crummy flat. They don’t have a pot to piss in. We can threaten them all we want, hurt them all we want, but there’s no way they’re going to come up with twenty-five grand. So if you want me to go back there and leave the parents more brain-dead than their moronic son, that’s fine. But just accept that they’re never going to find the dough.’

  He found he was panting after his rant, but he felt so much better for it. Even his mother appeared surprised at how the worm had turned. She picked up her glass and sat back, a curious smile on her blubbery lips.

  ‘I know.’

  Ronan frowned. ‘Know what?’

  ‘That this Timpson bloke isn’t going to come up with the goods. Not without some help. That’s why I need him to believe we’re people he can’t mess with.’

  ‘Mam, what are you talking about?’

  She took a slug of gin, started pouring another. ‘I know what you think of me,’ she said. ‘You think I’m past it. That I’m just your old mum, drinking herself gaga and with no idea of what’s going on in the real world.’

  ‘Mam, that’s not what I—’

  ‘Well, let me tell you something. I’ve been ducking and diving since well before you were born. Your dad didn’t get where he was all by himself, you know. We worked together, and I still know a thing or two. So, while you’ve been pissing around like an amateur, I’ve been making some enquiries.’

  ‘What kind of enquiries? What’s this got to do with Joey?’

  ‘Everything. I’m not finished with those bastards who murdered him. Not by a long chalk. They don’t know what I’m capable of.’

  Even Ronan felt a little afraid now.

  ‘And what are you capable of ?’

  ‘Plan B.’

  ‘Plan B?’

  ‘Yes, lad. Plan B.’

  35

  Scott spent most of his
morning throwing furtive glances towards Gavin, waiting for the right opportunity. But every time he summoned up the nerve, the phone would ring or a customer would arrive, and the moment was gone.

  At just before eleven o’clock, he went over to the sink and filled the kettle.

  ‘Fancy a brew?’ he called.

  ‘Always,’ Gavin answered. ‘Have we got any chocolate digestives left?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t finish them off yesterday, so unless you’ve been rooting . . .’

  He poured water over two bags of Yorkshire tea. Two heaped spoonfuls of sugar in Gavin’s mug. Gavin was just finishing off on a Volkswagen. There wouldn’t be a better opportunity. It had to be now or never.

  Scott’s mobile trilled. He looked at the screen. It was Ronan.

  Shit.

  He hastened out of the garage as he answered the call. ‘Hi,’ he said, trying to sound jovial for Gavin’s benefit.

  ‘Hello, Scott. How’s it going?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Well, that sounds positive. Where are you up to with the money?’

  ‘I’m sorting it.’

  ‘You are? How?’

  ‘Just . . . Does it matter? I’ve still got the rest of the day, haven’t I?’

  A chuckle from Ronan. ‘You have. That’s why I’m calling. To set up the meet.’

  ‘All right. Where this time?’

  ‘I thought I’d make it easy for you and go with the same place as last night. Same time, too.’

  ‘You mean midnight?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean. Is there a problem?’

  ‘It’s late.’

  ‘What, is it past your bedtime? Sorry, pal. You’ll just have to drink lots of coffee or something.’

  ‘Can we make it earlier?’

  ‘Earlier? You want less time to find the money?’

  ‘Yes. Please.’

  A pause. ‘What the fuck is this, Scott? Have you got something in mind for our meeting? Something I wouldn’t like, maybe?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. It’s just . . . look, I haven’t told my wife about this. She thinks it’s all sorted. If I’m out at midnight, she’ll know something’s wrong.’

  ‘You haven’t—’ Ronan let out a whoop of laughter. ‘Un believable. So you really want to meet earlier?’