Bob knew better.
Jimmy had picked the lock and waited for his victim to come home – a tactic he’d used many times in the past. Then he’d crept up behind the man quietly and put a silenced small-calibre round in the back of his head. Then he’d calmly cleaned up his mess, locked the door behind him, told his new bosses that the job was done, and drove home.
The quiet kill was Jimmy’s speciality. He was the Picasso of that particular dark art. The police would be lucky to find any physical evidence at the scene.
But as cold as Jimmy was, as nonchalant as he was about killing, he wouldn’t be happy about having to rack up the hits to pay off this debt. So, if there were another way that he could pay it off early then Bob had no doubts that he would do it.
Jimmy and Rose sitting in a tree, pulling a job to set him free.
Bob knew how it had to play now.
Once he had dealt with the Stantons, he’d make sure the next corpse for disposal was Jimmy’s.
41. – Stanton
MCMASTER DECIDED to accept our offer, so we invited him back to Piper’s place. He quickly made himself at home and took the third bedroom. He said he was knackered from the drive from London and decided to turn in for the night.
My brother and I stayed up, watching TV, mostly in silence. The cultural highlight was an idiotic reality show featuring a gaggle of orange Geordies staggering drunkenly around the Bigg Market. Occasionally my brother broke the silence to berate them. About the most incisive comment he managed before drinking himself into a whisky sleep was: “This fuckin’ programme just proves what I always thought was true.”
“Which is?”
“That Geordies are the spawn of the Jocks who were too fuckin’ stupid to climb back over Adrian’s wall.”
“It’s Hadrian, you fuckin’ idiot.”
“Whatever.”
Later, whilst my brother slept on the sofa, I grabbed McMaster’s keys and took the car for a spin to visit Eddie Miles.
------
Eddie’s place was situated on one of Nunthorpe’s less expensive streets. It was a pale brick semi with oversized feature-windows and a small garage that jutted out towards the road. Six pimped-up cars spilled off the drive and onto the pavement, creating an obstacle. A dog walker stepped into the road to get around the vehicles. He gave the cars a long hard look, then shook his head as he walked away.
Eddie was keeping his men close, probably as bodyguards against my brother and me.
Several large silhouettes moved behind the living room curtains. Smaller, slimmer outlines also glided past, which meant he was using a few of his girls to keep the bodyguards entertained. A loud bass line thumped its way out of the house and shook the car. Faint shouting and laughter and a few girlish shrieks could be heard beneath the subwoofer rumble. They were having lots of fun in there. I hoped for the girl’s sake that Eddie wasn’t keeping them on site permanently; I didn’t fancy having to deal with angry prostitutes whilst McMaster went about trying to crack Eddie’s safe.
I heard a woman wailing in one of the neighbouring properties, followed by a slamming door. A tall fat man from two houses down strode towards Eddie’s place and pounded on the door with his fist, his bulldog face set in an angry expression. When nobody answered, he kicked the door and started shouting. Then he moved to the living room window and thumped it with both fists until the curtains opened and Eddie looked out. The fat man pointed at the pimp and gestured him outside.
Eddie opened the door and stepped on the drive. The fat man charged up to him and prodded his chest with a firm finger, screaming spittle-flecked insults in his face. The pimp took the finger and the abuse with surprising calmness, his scarred face remaining serene and unreadable throughout.
The curtains opened fully and Eddie’s private army grinned out. Six men jostled for a view of the fun and games, along with a couple of women who poked their faces through the gaps. Two heavily bearded bruisers laughed, punched each other on the arms and pointed at their boss. I recognised them immediately. Anthony and George Karagounis, a couple of scumbags whose capacity for sadism was matched only by their rapacity for money. They were exactly the kind of men who would slice up a kid for profit.
The fat man went nose-to-nose with Eddie and screamed more insults. The pimp showed no emotion whatsoever, even when the man shook him by his T-shirt collar. He was the fucking Zen master. Then suddenly his face changed and he bared his teeth in an animalistic expression of rage. He grabbed his attacker’s thumbs and bent them until they snapped. The man squealed, staggered back and looked at the crooked digits in shock, unable to comprehend what had just happened.
Eddie didn’t wait for that moment of comprehension to arrive. He shuffled forward and slammed his forehead into his opponent’s face. The man pawed at his nose in a panic and fell to his knees. Blood spilled through his fingers and over his forearms.
Eddie stepped forward with fists clenched, casting a large shadow over his opponent. Although blinded by tears of pain, the man looked in Eddie’s general direction and wailed for mercy. But mercy was in short supply. He slammed a couple of left-right combos into his face, putting him on his back. The man spat blood and teeth.
Eddie dropped to his knees and hit his opponent with another couple of haymakers. More teeth, more blood. Then he grabbed the man’s balls and twisted until he screeched.
Eddie’s army slammed their open palms against the window, roaring him on. The Karagounis brothers were getting particularly excited, steaming the windows with their encouragement.
Then Eddie was done.
He stood up, wiping bloody hands on his jeans, his expression blank and calm again. It was like nothing had ever happened. He looked down at the man and told him to get off his lawn, then he walked back to the house and closed the door.
The volume of the music got louder. The curtains closed.
The fat man tried to get off the floor but couldn’t. He wobbled every time he got to his knees and flopped on his stomach again. After several attempts he gave up and crawled in the direction of home. Every few seconds he stopped, hung his head and cried with his entire body.
The front door of the man’s house opened and a small, tearful middle-aged woman watched him from the doorstep. She wailed something and took a few faltering steps forward, but he looked up and shook his head forcefully. Even at his lowest ebb he still wanted to look like an alpha male in front of her. He tried to get up and walk again, but collapsed on his stomach and started crawling along the pavement.
I’d seen enough – watching this man’s pain and humiliation made me feel like a voyeur. I started the car and pulled away from the kerb. As the car passed, the woman’s eyes locked on mine. I saw the silent plea on her face: Why didn’t you do something? Why did you watch?
There was no answer to that. I turned away and concentrated on the road. When I looked in the rear-view she was still looking at me, the same expression on her face.
42. – Stanton
I DIDN’T need a watch to realise it was getting late in the day. The grinding gears sound of my brother’s laughter had been rasping for a good couple of hours.
I blinked a few times and opened my eyes.
Pallid blades of sunlight forced their way through the gaps in the curtain and slashed at the shadows. I sat upright, thinking long and hard about getting out of bed. The smell of frying bacon with an underlying hint of freshly brewed coffee made reaching that decision easier. I took it as my cue to go downstairs and face the world.
McMaster was handing my brother a tray with two large steaming mugs coffee and a plate of bacon sandwiches. Both of them turned their heads and looked at me.
“It’s alive,” my brother said, picking up one of the sarnies.
I looked at the steaming mug in McMaster’s hand as he sat down on the sofa beside my brother. “It’ll be more alive when it’s had coffee,” I answered.
McMaster smirked and hitched a thumb towards the kitchen. “There’s a fresh
pot.”
I thanked him and poured myself a mug of black. I downed most of it on the way back to the living room. I sat in one of the armchairs and finished the rest. The caffeine boost did little for my tiredness.
On the TV, a fat man with skin the colour of rancid milk was sitting on a chair in front of an audience whilst Jeremy Kyle lectured him on morality.
“Where’d you go last night?” my brother asked.
“To see what we’re facing.”
“And what are we facing?” McMaster said.
“Eddie’s got at least six fellas there, maybe more. He had some women over too – pros, I think – but I don’t know if they’re a permanent fixture or some temporary company for his bodyguards.
“I also think I know who helped him slice up Rose’s kid,” I said, focusing attention on my brother.
“Take it they’re old friends?”
“Really special friends.”
He shook his head. “Still not narrowing it down, like. We got a lotta those.”
“These two are family.”
“It’s getting narrower.”
“And their Dad’s getting bummed in prison.”
“It’s like a supermodel’s waist now.”
“Because of us.”
My brother made a pinging sound. “The Karagounis sisters.”
“Anthony and George?” McMaster asked.
“Take it you know ‘em?”
McMaster shrugged. “Not directly. Knew the old fella though,” he said with a grim expression. “A right fuckin’ psycho.”
“Like father, like sons.”
McMaster sat back and supped his coffee absentmindedly, his eyes like slits.
“Penny for ‘em?” I said.
“I thought he ran a bloke down?”
“He did,” I answered. “But he ran the bloke down because of us. Then he decided to get in a ruck with some bystanders, which went badly. Badly for them, I might add.”
McMaster smiled slightly as he brought the mug to his lips and swallowed. He lowered the mug again and said: “Heard his business went under not so long ago.”
“It did. Unpaid taxes, apparently. Guess the boys were better at kneecappings than they were at balancing books,” I said. “Last I’d heard they were scaring money outta housewives for Don Webber, but I guess they must’ve taken up with Eddie instead.”
“What are we going to do if Eddie doesn’t take the bait?” McMaster said.
“Believe me, he’ll take it,” I replied. “He wants revenge, same as us. He’ll take most of his goons with him. But if he does have money at the house, he’ll leave a few behind to watch over things.”
“Then we’re all going to need weapons.”
I grinned. “Funnily enough, I was thinking the same thing.”
43. – Owden
BOB LEFT the office and drove for ten minutes until he saw a public phone box. He parked nearby, entered the booth and dialed a number he’d burned deep in his memory.
After three rings, a voice like gravel rolling around a cement mixer asked: “Who is it?”
“Lee, it’s Bob.”
‘Nutty’ Lee Regan, the man he turned to when he couldn’t use Jimmy. The man who took the really bloody jobs, who didn’t draw the line at killing women, and who did the ugly stuff so well it occasionally sent his brain for a loop – hence the nickname. Bob just hoped for his sake that Lee wasn’t going through one of his strange periods.
“Boss man, how goes it?” He sounded bright, cheerful. That was a good start.
“It goes – just.”
“I take it it’s the just you’re calling about?”
“Summat like that.”
“Well, you know me, boss man, always happy to take on the work.”
“You free tonight?”
“That’s a bit short notice.”
“Can’t be helped.”
“If you’re buying, I’m selling,” Lee replied.
“I’m buying.”
“Okie dokey, boss man. Gimme the details.”
“I need you, two other guys, and a Transit van over near Highcliff Road tonight. Semi-autos, silencers, plastic on the floor and walls of the van. And five, no, make it six body bags just to be on the safe side.”
“Christ. Sounds like Stokesley Slaughterhouse: the sequel.”
“Don’t even joke about that, lad.”
“Too soon?”
“It’ll always be too soon.”
“Sorry,” he said. “Still, that’s a lotta bags to fill?”
“Needs to be done.”
“Your word’s golden, boss man, always has been. Consider it done.”
“Will you have any trouble with the men or the van?”
“Will you have any trouble writing the cheques?” Lee replied.
“Open cheque book. Spend what you need.”
“Then there won’t be any trouble.”
“Good. I’ll call you later with more details, but let me know when you’ve got everything you need.”
------
When Bob arrived back at the office, his secretary, Janice, looked up from her monitor and nodded in the direction of the main office. “You’ve got a visitor.”
Bob sat on the edge of her desk and pretended to make conversation. He kept things light and breezy to disguise the fact that he was staring down her cleavage. She was in her twenties, very pretty, and smart enough to know when the boss was eyeballing her. Sitting back suddenly, denying him an easy view of her assets, she flicked stray blonde hairs from her forehead with a sweep of her right hand.
“You’ve forgotten your visitor, Bob.”
“He’s not going anywhere.”
She locked her big green eyes on his for longer than necessary. His dick throbbed into life and stiffened slowly. He shifted his weight so that the bulge didn’t show. Janice’s eyes angled down to his crotch regardless, then drifted back to his face. She stood and smoothed imaginary wrinkles in her pristine skirt. “But I am,” she replied. “He’s one of them.”
That was code for criminal.
“I’m off for a walk and a late lunch.”
Janice always made herself scarce when the criminals showed up. It was one of the things that made her the perfect secretary, and the main reason why Bob never did anything other than flirt with her. Relationships came and went, but a perfect secretary was irreplaceable.
She exited the office, leaving a floral scent in the air. Bob raised his nose and breathed deeply, taking in as much of her as he could, then went into his office.
A tall middle-aged black man in figure hugging jeans and t-shirt sat in front of Bob’s desk, checking his mobile phone. He looked up, curled a slight smile, and tipped a nod in Bob’s direction. “Boss.”
“Barn’. What gives, lad?”
Bob knew it was serious because Barney Allinson rarely left his girls for any length of time. He was an old-school pimp who believed that well-watched pros were well-behaved ones. Some card had nicknamed him Sauron a few years back, because little was missed by his all-seeing eye. If the girls misbehaved, or a John got handy with his fists, Barney would know almost immediately and put a hurt on them that they wouldn’t forget in a hurry. It was uncommon for him to bring trouble to Bob’s doorstep, because there were few problems he couldn’t deal with on his own, which meant that this was likely to be unpleasant news.
Barney put his phone away and sighed. He flexed his big arms, making the women inked on his biceps dance, and tried to think of how to word his woes. Bob began worrying – Barney was never at a loss for words.
“Been sitting on this a while,” he said. “Cossa all that shite you’ve been going through with Hollis, but I gotta talk to somebody.”
Bob rounded the desk and sat in his chair. “You look conflicted, lad.”
“You could say that, like.”
“I am saying it,” Bob replied. “We both know you’re no shrinking violet, so quit your mithering and tell me what’s going on in that he
ad of yours.”
“Well, it’s about summa the stuff that’s been going on recently.”
“What stuff?”
“Noticed about a month ago that the take’s been way down,” he said. “Fuckin’ nowt to do wi’ me, an’ nonna me girls had been slacking, far as I could tell, but the take was still well down. So I started checking round, all quiet an’ that.”
“And?”
“There’s new girls.”
Bob sat forward. “What new girls?”
“Quite a few of ‘em, as it happens,” Barney said. “Been showing up on the corners an’ over the border. Young stuff mostly, late teens, early twenties, working for Eddie Miles an’ his associates. An’ there’s definitely summa them down in Lenny Coles’ strip club, too, splaying the pink an’ brown on stage. I even seen some fresh fillies in Jack Samson’s stable, which is like some kinda fuckin’ miracle in itself, ‘cause that tight bastard’s been peddling the same tired cooze for years.”
“Who are they?”
Barney shrugged. “Dunno. But I had one of me lads crawl one of the new girls. He tried talking to her.”
“And?”
“An’ nowt,” he said, raising his shoulders again. “The lad sez the bitch sounded like Borat an’ knew three fuckin’ words total – pussy, blow an’ anal, which she pronounced annal.”
“So, Russia or that neck of the woods?”
“Dunno. Maybe. Russia, Ukraine, Kazakhstan, there’s a lotta neck to those woods, but from that continent, for sure. She musta been fresh off the boat, too.”
“Why?”
“He sez her holes were still tight as fuck.”
Bob cringed.
“Soz, but you did ask.”
“Who’s bringing them lasses in?”
“Dunno, but whoever’s bringing ‘em through in’t just peddling ‘em round here,” Barney said and let out another sigh. “Got on the blower to a few fellas I know, to see if this shit’s isolated.”
“And?”
“An’ it’s not exactly commonplace, just a few here an’ there, like, but they got ‘em up in Durham an’ Sunderland, an’ a gadgie I know sez he’s seen some new Borat bitches as far south as Leeds.”
The Glasgow Grin (A Stanton Brothers thriller) Page 17
