29. – Owden
GUPTA’S EXPRESSION was blank, his eyes lifeless. “Think you’re mistaken, Bob,” he said.
“I don’t think so.”
Gupta remained passive. “Really?”
Bob cracked a grin. “Frenchy explained your little problem. Or should I say problems?”
Gupta picked up the Scotch and took a large gulp. He put the tumbler back down carefully, his expression still giving nothing away. “Raj, give us a moment,” he said, looking at the bodyguard. “Got summat we need to discuss.”
Raj turned in Jimmy’s direction, looked him up and down, as if to wonder why he was staying. Then he got up and closed the door on his way out.
Gupta fiddled with the Whisky glass. “What did the Frenchman say?”
“A mild case of fractured penis and partial torsion of the testes. Nowt that Frenchy couldn’t treat, and nowt you won’t eventually recover from, with a prolonged rest from chasing the opposite sex.”
Jimmy shivered at the mention of penis fracture and exhaled with discomfort. Bob turned towards him with a chuckle and a shake of the head. Then he focussed his attention back on Gupta. “What did the Stantons want with you?”
“Whadda they always want? Money, that’s what.”
“That’s as maybe, but that weren’t all they wanted, not in this case,” Bob replied. “Them lads wanted summat else. What?”
The sudden crackle of leather interrupted the conversation. Jimmy shuffled around continuously, as though trying to get comfortable. Bob gave him a fish-eyed stare. Jimmy stopped shuffling and went very still. Bob’s eyes locked on Gupta again.
“You were saying?”
Gupta’s shoulders hunched. “They want us to take off the hit,” he said, polishing off his drink. “They want Eddie Miles.”
“Why?”
“Because he was the one who ordered it.”
“What else did they take?” Bob said.
“When?”
“The night of the robbery. The night of the poker game.”
“I don’t understand,” Gupta said.
“Sure you do.”
“No. I don’t think I do.”
“You can play dumb as much as you like, but I know you’re no wazzock, lad. You’ve not made a stupid move in your life, with the exception of trying to run from a room while a lassie’s got a stranglehold on the family jewels. But I suspect most folks’d try and leg it when them two lads come through the door. However, don’t start making your second stupid move now.”
Bob held Gupta’s gaze for longer than necessary, longer than was comfortable, until he finally blinked. “Just money,” he said, his tone without conviction.
Bob was tiring of digging for information, of having to prod and needle. He wanted the full and unvarnished truth. And if that involved violence, or the threat of it, then so be it. “Look Gupta, I’m gonna ask you one more time. And if I get nowt back, I’m gonna hurt you badly, you hear? I’ll smash your face into the corner of that there desk you’re sitting at until there’s nowt left of it but pulp. And all the paid-for bodyguards in the world won’t be able to stop me. We clear?”
Gupta’s face finally showed some emotion. He looked like he wanted to cry.
“It was money. Five hundred grand of it, like. Money that McGarvey’s been withholding from the taxman for years. Money from sales that are kept off the books, money from…”
Gupta stopped talking suddenly.
“Money from what?” Bob asked
He shook his head. “Nowt important.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
Gupta’s fingers pressed against the desk top, the knuckles whitening, but his mouth remained closed.
Bob exhaled long and loud and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m gonna get up now and break summat important. Maybe a leg, or maybe both your arms so you can’t feed yourself.” He stood up and cracked his knuckles.
Gupta looked up in fear, then closed his eyes and said: “Importing drugs. Money from bringing in drugs.”
“A business that he shares with you, right?”
“No… I…”
“Don’t lie to me,” Bob said.
“I’m not.”
Bob grabbed the tumbler and squeezed till it broke. He felt the shards slice his flesh and draw blood. Gupta’s eyes went to the broken glass, then back to Bob.
“Look, I’m…”
Bob placed one of the bloodied slivers to the businessman’s neck.
“You were saying, lad?”
Gupta held his breath, tilting his head away from the makeshift weapon. “Me, Eddie, and Webber,” he whispered.
Bob grinned. “Ah, the poker club collective. It all seemed a little to good to be true.”
“We do play poker, Bob.”
He pressed the glass against Gupta’s carotid, relishing the little gasp of fear that came from the man’s lips. “Yeah, when you’re not stealing from me. When you’re not cutting me in on a percentage. You know how it works, lad – you do business in my town and I get my cut.”
It worried Bob how much he wanted to cut this little man’s throat, watch the blood spurt, hear the gurgles of pain and fear as the life ebbed from him. He hadn’t felt this keyed up and ready for violence in a long time. He needed to maintain control, not let his basest instincts get in the way of things.
Gupta swallowed carefully and angled his neck away from the glass. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think.”
“No, you did think, lad,” he replied, pulling the shard away slightly. “You just didn’t think you’d get caught, right?”
Gupta rubbed at his neck. “Summat like that.”
Bob placed the tumbler sliver on the desk, moving back in the direction of his seat. “So what do the brothers want from you?”
“They’re blackmailing me,” Gupta said, relaxing a little. “Got photographs of me going at it with Mary. They sez if I don’t give them Eddie, they’re gonna send those pics to me wife. The divorce would kill me.”
“No, lad. It won’t. But I just might.”
Gupta gave the door a long, wistful glance. Bob knew that he wanted to run for it.
“You’d never make it. Even without the injury you’re not exactly light on your feet. And forget about Raj – he wouldn’t get past Jimmy.”
Gupta rubbed at his scruffy little beard obsessively. Bob sat down and wrapped a clean handkerchief around his fingers. Bloodstains spread across the monogrammed fabric.
“What are they expecting from you?”
“They want me to arrange a meeting with Eddie. They’re planning to gate-crash it.”
Bob smiled. “But I’m suspecting a double-bluff, right?” Gupta would play one side against the other and wait to see who came out on top. If Eddie were to win, it would be because Gupta warned him beforehand. And if the Stantons were victorious, he would make it seem like it was down to him. Either way, he’d get the blackmail evidence back and his wife would be none the wiser.
Gupta didn’t reply. A slight smirk turned the corner of his mouth.
“I want to know when they contact you,” Bob said. “Time, place, the whole kit and caboodle. As you’re planning to to play both sides against the other, anyway, I want you to do it for me.”
Gupta shuffled around in his seat. He looked uncomfortable with this arrangement.
“Or, I can kill you now for cutting me out of what’s due to me.”
That stopped the shuffling.
“Until I say otherwise, you belong to me,” Bob said. “Until I feel you’ve paid me what you owe. And don’t you forget it.”
30. – Stanton
AFTER WE left the hospital we drove to Grangetown to see a guy we knew about some weaponry. We knocked on his door using a sequence of rhythmic thumps as code and waited for an answer. He didn’t do phones, emails, or referrals, and if he didn’t know your face then off was the direction in which you should fuck. And if you didn’t move in that direction fast enough he always had a vintage
.44 Magnum to help you on your way.
It took some time for the door to open. But when it did, the first thing to appear through the gap was a long, polished gun barrel. “Speak now or forever hold your peace,” a gruff voice said.
“It’s Eric Stanton. Open up, John.”
John Arnold’s tracksuited frame filled the doorway. He was a tall, middle-aged scarecrow of a man with long bony limbs, a sagging face that was as miserable as a wet weekend in Scarborough and cold blue eyes. He didn’t look pleased to see us, but then again he never looked pleased to see anybody. He brushed his free hand through the untidy mop of greying hair that went in several directions across his head. “Thought I’d seen the last of youse two the other week,” he said.
We’d needed his help when the McGarvey robbery went wrong, and called in a favour for free weaponry. He didn’t give up the freebies graciously, and there was a point when I thought he was going to turn us away empty-handed.
This time we were prepared. I wafted a handful of cash in front of his face and spread the notes until they formed an expensive fan. “This time we come bearing gifts.”
He appraised the money with a cold gaze. “Is that supposed to impress me?”
“Just hoping it’ll get us through the door.”
He poked his head out, scanned the street left and right and waved us into the house with the barrel of his gun. “‘Oway then, if you must. And take your shoes off when you’re inside.”
------
For such an unkempt man, John Arnold had an incredibly tidy home. His living room was expensively furnished and every surface was free of dust. The armchairs and sofa were perfectly parallel with the walls and the coffee tables were equally parallel with the chairs. Magazines, books and DVDs were neatly stacked, in alphabetised order, on shelving units and I’d never once seen an errant book or magazine littering the carpet. The chairs were fitted with clear plastic covers and placemats covered the tables. I’d often wondered what Arnold would do if anybody ever spilled drink or food on his immaculate looking shagpile carpets. I had a feeling it would probably end with him cleaning more than food and drink off the walls of his home.
As we sat on the sofa, Arnold’s face crinkled into a worried expression. I considered the possibility that he was going the way of Howard Hughes.
“So what are you after?” he asked.
“A nail gun.”
If Arnold had any questions he kept them to himself. He’d learned to mind his own business over the years, to keep everything as contained and tidy as his living room. He never assumed or judged those who entered his home. He just sold them the products they needed at a price that was right for him. Secrets told, weapons sold, drugs dealt, it was all just business.
He left the room for five minutes and when he came back he was carrying a large, black and orange weapon with a tapered black barrel and a ten-pin magazine at the end. He placed it on the arm of the sofa and disappeared again. Then he returned with another ten-pin magazine, which he placed next to the gun.
“I take it you know how to use one?”
We nodded.
“Good. That’ll save me from teaching you. It’s fully automatic and this little lot’s good for twenty shots before you need to run out for more nails. Best thing about it is that normally you have to have the barrel pressed against something for it to fire – stops you from inadvertently plugging your co-workers. But that’s been disabled on this. You can fire it like a regular gun.”
He waved his hands at the sofa. “And it’s a grand for the lot.”
My brother started to haggle, but Arnold talked over him. “This isn’t a car boot sale, and I’m figuring you want it for more than nailing planks of wood together. You might be able to get it cheaper at a DIY store, but that’s not my concern. The price is the price, lads, and if it doesn’t agree with you I suggest you leave now before I lose my temper.”
“The price is fine,” I said, glaring at my brother.
Arnold nodded his head once, which meant he was happy, or as happy as he’d ever be. “And by now you know the drill. Once you use it, wipe it down and get rid of it, preferably somewhere where it won’t be found. But if you do get caught with it, you didn’t get it from me.”
31. – Owden
JIMMY DROVE along the dark and winding country roads in silence. He knew the routine. Loud classical music blared from the stereo for a reason – so that his boss wouldn’t have to waste time and energy on inane conversation. The music helped Bob think.
At that moment, he was putting together the timeline of the Stokesley Slaughterhouse together in his head, mixing what he’d already worked out with new details that Gupta had provided. It didn’t make for pleasant thinking:
The Stantons rob McGarvey’s poker game and make it look like a random act, deflecting the attention from the real reason why they’re there – to bleed his safe dry. They bring in G-Max to crack the safe, not knowing that he’s already planning to betray them. He has also planned his one-way escape visa with John Hollis. But what G-Max doesn’t know is that Hollis plans to keep the money for himself – why take a portion when he can have it all? He just needs to make sure that Gerald disappears permanently.
The robbery goes well, so well that McGarvey doesn’t realise his safe has been robbed until the next morning, but at some point G-Max goes through with his plan and betrays the Stantons. It doesn’t take much extrapolating to realise that he also betrays his partners at some point, too.
Now, Gerald’s a bright lad, but he makes two big mistakes. First, he leaves the Stantons alive, which any drug dealer with anything more than sponge for a brain could tell him is a HUGE error. Second, he gets seen in public with Hollis, which gives the Stantons something to work with when they inevitably go on the warpath to get the money back.
Somehow they hook up with G-Max’s former partners.
How? Who knows? And ultimately who cares?
The important fact is that they do, and they all pay Hollis a visit.
They catch him in the act of cutting up G-Max’s corpse and try to coerce him into giving up the money, but somehow it goes wrong and G-Max’s former partners start shooting, but they’re matched shot-for-shot by Hollis’ heavies. The police report says that four people fired shots. The Stantons, and their partner (maybe Dave Lockhart?), stand back and wait till the last shot is fired, then they take the money and make their escape over a back wall – as seen by Larry Eldridge.
This lead to a few questions:
Who told them about McGarvey’s money?
The obvious answer was Rose. The divorce was acrimonious, until she took a smaller share of his wealth for full custody, and she would know about any secret stashes of money that couldn’t be reported to the police. She had motive, an intimate knowledge of the house and the safe, and she wasn’t exactly afraid of illegal activities. The only other possibility is that McGarvey bragged about the money to one of his salesmen. Not impossible, but less likely.
If the Stantons have the poker cash and a cut of McGarvey’s money, enough to last for a long time in any number of countries, why haven’t they left town yet?
That had been their modus operandi for years. They hit a dealer, a thief, a pimp, or a whole bunch of them, gathered up enough money and then left Teesside for months on end. Now they had enough money to leave for a lot longer than that, so why were they still hanging around? The answer eluded him, so he moved on to other questions that the timeline threw up.
Did McGarvey have Rose cut?
Did he get Eddie to do it?
Did Eddie get carried away with the task and do the kid, too?
Or was it the Stanton brothers?
If Rose was behind the robbery, was Jimmy also in on it?
Bob’s train of thought was disturbed when the car pulled up outside the tall gates of his home and Jimmy turned off the radio. Bob felt the throb and purr of the stationary engine in his bones, along with a creeping sense of unease.
It troubled hi
m that his right hand man might have worked an angle that had set his business back months or even years. In the past, Bob would have had Jimmy killed and disposed of and worried about the consequences later. But being legitimate came with a whole new set of problems. People could still be made to disappear but, nowadays, murders had to be worked out carefully and disposals needed to be meticulous, especially in the spotlight of the Hollis debacle. The police, councillors and local MPs he paid to ensure that his empire ran smoothly would all think twice about taking his money if well known figures like Jimmy just started disappearing.
So, he needed solid evidence that the man was involved. And if he was involved, any revenge that Bob planned would need to be quiet and precise and with no dangling loose ends to tidy away later.
“You gambling again, lad?” he asked.
Jimmy cut the engine, so the silence was absolute, and stared at him. “Why’d you ask that?”
“You’ve been off your game for a while, Jim,” he replied, watching his enforcer’s face for tics and twitches. “But I’ve been too preoccupied to notice. You were moping around before Rose got sliced, but all this insanity with Hollis made me forget that I’d seen the warning signs. The last time you were like this were when you owed Chris Harris fifty grand and couldn’t repay.”
Jimmy turned away and looked out of the window at the rural darkness. He sighed. “And you made me sell the house to pay him.”
“You had to pay him, lad. You work up a debt, so you pay for it – that’s the way the world works. The last time I bailed you out, I warned you that I wouldn’t pick up the tab for your debts ever again.”
“Then you needn’t worry,” Jimmy replied. “‘Cause I’m not gambling again.”
“Whyn’t you try looking at me when you say that?”
Jimmy spun in Bob’s direction, his face impassive.
“I’m not gambling again.”
Bob scanned Jimmy’s face and eyes for a momentary flicker of guilt, but it was like trying to read a stone. He stopped studying him and opened the passenger door. “Fine. That’s good enough for me.”
The Glasgow Grin (A Stanton Brothers thriller) Page 13
