“You were inside for a long time, weren’t you?”
“Twelve years, including the time on remand.” While he felt regret about his past, Dom wasn’t up for showing it. That was what doing your time gave you.
“Why so long?”
“I was driving the car that injured a cop and ended his career. If you hurt the police, they generally lock you up and throw away the key.”
“I thought you were a good driver?” The banter returned to take the edge off the question.
“I am, but Dunstan fired the shotgun in front of my face. Blinded me, temporarily. I didn’t see the cop car and they assumed I’d rammed it.”
“You won’t be doing that again.” Her tone was light even though there had been some prying that he hadn’t seen coming.
“I’ll try not to.”
“So are you going to show me these driving skills then or are we just going to circle the estate at ten miles an hour?”
It had escaped Dom’s notice that he had in fact been driving circuits of the buildings at such a slow speed. Conversation seemed to have overtaken his intention to test his skills in the vehicle. Instead of dropping a gear and tearing up the tarmac, Dom pulled over, parking the performance car in a faded parking space. The paint that bordered the space had almost been worn away, weathered by many seasons since the abandonment of the estate.
Dom switched off the engine and turned toward Georgia. “So tell me all about you?” Dom asked, switching off the engine.
“I already told you everything.” Again, her tone was playful.
“You told me some things, not everything.”
“I told you enough – are you trying to impress me with your conversational skills or your driving skills?”
Dom clearly wasn’t going to be able to break through the barriers built on banter and witty repartee with his passenger. Maybe he had to use his real talents.
Without another word, the ignition was turned. The engine rumbled into life. Casting a glance to his left and flashing a wry smile, he stamped his right foot down on the accelerator and released the clutch with his left. The BMW twitched against the rubber biting into the gritty tarmac. The car launched itself forward, throwing its occupants back into their seats. Dom raced up through the gears, dabbing the clutch for a nanosecond, keeping the revs as high as possible. The inertia of acceleration through the turns forced Georgia to grasp her seat tightly.
Weaving the car effortlessly around the estate, Dom made short work of learning the car’s capabilities and his own skills in it; if he had any doubts, they had been quashed.
The roar from the engine, the screech of tyres, the smell of scorched rubber. It all put his mind into the state of nirvana he needed. This was where he felt most alive; behind the wheel. Without rules. Without limits.
Chapter 30
Happy just didn’t cut it. Happy was so far down the pecking order of Dom’s emotional rating system he didn’t even consider it. Elation was maybe the right word to describe his state. Euphoria could be in the ballpark.
Whatever it was he was feeling, he wanted more.
After tearing up the industrial estate with a car he had fallen in love with, he had taken Georgia back to her flat. He hadn’t fallen in love with her yet – there needed to be more than banter and good looks for that - but he could see it would be easy to do. She was everything he liked in a woman; confident, classy, intelligent and full of attitude. Her looks were a bonus. She had the full package. And she had a little something extra. She wasn’t a pushover.
Dom had had relationships in the past. He had even moved in with one of his ex-partners for some time. But they never lasted. If he had to analyse his past partners, he would have to lay the blame for the break-ups at his own door. He ended the relationships. Not because there was anything wrong with any of his exes, he had just become bored with them. It wasn’t because they were boring, Dom just needed to be kept on his toes at all times.
With Georgia, he already felt as though he was dancing the fine line between winning her over and entering the friend-zone. She was upfront and honest about who she was, but there was an intriguing quality to her. A lot of digging would be needed to break the surface, and she’d only let him dig if she decided she wanted him to; even then, he was betting the answers to a lot of questions would be too vague to encapsulate her.
When he had dropped her off, she leaned over and gave him a lingering kiss. What threw him off was it was a lingering kiss on the cheek. It was nice but not what he was expecting at all. Nothing she did was predictable.
But that was last night.
Halfway through the morning, he was summoned up to Tommy McQuillan’s office. Whatever delight he was feeling was stifled a little by being called in to see his employer.
He knocked the door.
“Come in,” McQuillan’s voice boomed the command.
It seemed there was a little room for trepidation in Dom’s emotional rating system as he entered the room.
“Take a seat, Dom.”
McQuillan was alone. No Richards this time.
“What can I do for you?” Dom asked, still perplexed as to why he’d been summoned.
“The race is coming up and I understand that Dick has filled you in with all the necessary for race day, yes?”
“Yeah. I’m racing under another name and that’s about it.”
McQuillan sat, nodding. “Are you ok with that?”
“Yeah, fine, I just want to drive.”
Nodding again, McQuillan looked at him intently. “Would you do anything if there was driving involved?”
“I wouldn’t want to drive a bus, but yeah, I’ll do anything that keeps me in the driving seat.”
“Well, one thing that Dick probably didn’t tell you is that I give my drivers a grand a race.”
“I’d do it for free but if you insist on paying me to drive, I won’t say no.” Dom was hoping to play favours, not wanting to look like he was into anything for the money. He also hoped that it would make him seem like a stand-up guy who just happened to have an interest in the daughter of the man making all the offers.
“Don’t worry, I’ll pay you.” McQuillan rolled his eyes to the right as though he were wrestling with something on his mind. “But here’s a question for you. How would you like to earn twenty times that for driving for me?”
Dom didn’t answer. His mind went to all the places he didn’t want to think about. Twenty grand for driving had the words criminal behaviour written all over it. He had said yes too easily, too many times before. Maybe maturity was something he possessed, or perhaps the thought of losing another twelve years of freedom was too much to ask. He needed to know the full story before he made any agreements.
“What’s the job?”
“We’ll get to that in a moment – I just need you to tell me something.”
“What do you need to know?”
“What went wrong with the job that sent you to prison?”
Dom rolled his eyes backwards as though he would see a series of multiple-choice answers appear on the ceiling. Selecting A, B, or C would have been preferable to telling the whole drawn-out saga of his greatest criminal failing.
“How much do you know?” Dom hoped he could relay the short version of the story.
“I know that you crashed the getaway car into a cop car, seriously injuring a cop. I also know that you are a skilled driver and it doesn’t sound like something that was entirely your fault.” McQuillan raised his eyebrows in expectation. “Something doesn’t add up. I know the basic facts – that’s all.”
“The car developed a fault, kicking it into safe mode. My speed was limited to forty miles an hour.”
“How did you crash if you weren’t speeding?”
“A shotgun was let off right in front of my face. I don’t know if it was the flash, or the powder, or maybe a combination of both, but I was blinded and couldn’t see the police car that had pulled across the road in front of me. I hit it �
� hard.”
“Who fired the shotgun?” McQuillan was asking as though it was the most normal thing in the world.
“The gang leader - Kevin Dunstan.”
“Ah, ok.” The cogs were working, and McQuillan paused until the thought materialised. “Where is Dunstan now?”
“Not a clue. Do you know him?”
Dom swore he could hear the whirring of McQuillan’s brain. Somehow the man was trying to construct a statement without giving too much away. Dom was smart enough to know the difference between somebody not knowing and somebody pretending not to know.
“I’ve heard the name before, that’s as much as I know.”
It was Dom’s turn to show caution with his words. “He’s a vicious fucker. What he lacks in intelligence, he makes up for in brutality. I’m glad that I didn’t spend any time inside with him.”
“Would he have made you his bitch?” McQuillan asked with a wry smirk.
“Me and half the wing, probably.”
McQuillan burst out laughing. The statement was glib, but it wasn’t funny. The laughter was for show.
“Do you know anything else about this Dunstan?”
“Not really. Had I known more I probably wouldn’t have gotten involved with him in the first place.”
“Hindsight is the best educator.” McQuillan nodded.
“Twelve lost years was all the education I needed.”
“You said that you didn’t serve time with Dunstan. Why was that?”
“He started his sentence in a psyche unit. The guy’s unstable – dangerously unstable. It took four cops to pin him down and cuff him.”
“People like that are a danger to themselves, and anyone around them. I don’t judge people for their ambitions, criminal or otherwise, I judge people on how they hold themselves together. Take you, for instance…”
Dom was slightly taken aback that he was a subject of consideration for his employer’s moral ramblings.
“Go on…” He was curious.
“Well, you committed a crime, you did your time and here you are back out in the world, working hard and doing well. To me, that says a lot about the kind of person you are. The doors of opportunity are always going to be open for you.”
“Thank you.” Dom was at a loss for what else to say.
“You’re welcome.” McQuillan’s large frame relaxed, his expression holding on to a broad smile longer than was normal. “I see some more doors of opportunity opening for you in the very near future.”
Dom shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He could smell a set up a mile away. “Really?”
“Like I said, I’d like for you to drive for me. That’s only if you would want to. The pay would be high and there would be some risk involved.”
As much as Dom would usually jump at the chance of some risky high-paid action, he still hadn’t left the ghosts of the prison behind him just yet. He didn’t want a sugar-coated story of epic proportions; the facts, nothing more, would be sufficient.
“What do you want me to do? What are the risks? What’s the pay?” Dom uttered bluntly.
He got what he asked for.
McQuillan went into some detail. Not the whole story, Dom knew that much, but all the appropriate facts McQuillan thought were necessary to let him make a decision. The job required someone to take six packages in an unmarked high-performance car to Southampton docks, drop off the packages with an agreed contact; report back and return the car. A simple plan, but one with significant risks. The risk was the packages themselves. McQuillan wasn’t about to explain the nature of the goods to a driver who might not take the job. In fact, McQuillan would be reluctant to tell anyone what they would be carrying, such were the stakes. But with high stakes came high pay. The price for the job was twenty thousand pounds. A year’s wages, tax free.
“When would this all have to happen?” Dom was curious, but more so about what he’d have to do to get a payday of twenty grand.
“Saturday night - Sunday morning,” McQuillan answered. His face poised, waiting for the penny to drop.
“That’s during the race.” The twenty-four hour race was set to start at midday on Saturday, finishing at the same time on Sunday.
“And that will be your alibi. You couldn’t possibly be taking part in a race event and driving through the night.” That wry smirk snaked its way onto McQuillan’s lips once more.
“I’m racing under a fake name – how is that my alibi?”
“Your name will still be on the crew list. I’ll be providing four drivers and a spare pit crew guy – you.”
“Have you asked your other drivers this?”
“I brought this to you first.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re the best.”
McQuillan wasn’t wrong in his assessment.
“I’ll sleep on it,” Dom said, getting out of the chair.
“You do that.” McQuillan nodded.
With information overkill blocking out all other thoughts and options, Dom reached for the door.
“Just one last thing, Dom,” McQuillan called.
Dom turned to his employer, waiting for another bombshell to drop.
“Yes.”
“My Georgia’s a big girl, I know, but if you mess her around, I’ll have your legs and arms broken.” The voice that delivered the message was deadpan. The face was neutral. It was a threat and Dom took it as such. He left the room to ponder his options.
Chapter 31
The lounge was hazy with copious amounts of cigarette smoke. Freshly exhaled tendrils of nicotine-laden air danced among the over-scented atmosphere of the house, tainting the clean air with its stench.
Reclining into the soft brown leather sofa, the Boss sparked yet another cigarette, drawing in to the capacity of his lungs before adding to the toxic air in which he wallowed.
Glancing at his phone for the fourth time in as many minutes, he willed it to ring. He had been waiting for a call from either of his henchmen. Gibbo was somewhere in St Pauls, applying pressure to a source. The source knew something about something and was willing to part with the information, but only for the right price. Gibbo didn’t pay for information. Gibbo twisted limbs and broke bones to get what he needed. Sometimes he kept going until bones were broken just to be thorough even after he was given the right information instantly.
The Boss took another huge pull of Benson & Hedges’ finest, while imagining the type of kicking the source would be getting on the other side of the city. It was not unusual for Gibbo to walk in with blood splatter on his shirt or a misplaced tooth jammed into the grips of his boots. The Boss liked Gibbo’s attitude to violence, but not his attitude to life in general. Gibbo could be a handful, defiant at some times and cocky at others. The Boss liked Wade more.
Wade was currently meeting a contact who was working for the Southampton Docks Company with information about incoming merchandise that wasn’t listed on any container manifest. Shrewd, ruthless, intelligent and ex-military, Wade was the man to get things done when more than just broken bones were required to obtain valuable information.
Heading into the kitchen for his umpteenth mug of strong coffee, the Boss broke the seal on his second pack of cigarettes for that day; it wasn’t even noon yet. He had awoken as the sun was rising and had immediately sparked up from the remainder of the previous day’s smokes while tucked up in his king size bed in his king size bedroom. The six hours between then and now had been a monotonous morning of chain smoking and espresso. The Boss wasn’t a doctor but he wouldn’t have wanted anyone taking his blood pressure today. The biggest score of his life was potentially just seventy-two hours away. The pressure was tangible.
With the water boiling, a frying pan with a half dozen rashers of bacon in was dropped onto the ceramic hob. To add to the gallon of super strength coffee and thirty-something cigarettes, the last thing he needed was a stack of greasy bacon sandwiches. But all the waiting around was making him hungry.
With a fresh m
ug in hand and a fresh fag glowing from between his thick fingers, the Boss stood in the centre of his entire criminal empire. His kitchen. Uber-clean white tiles contrasted against black granite counters, chrome stools with black leather seats lined up next to a breakfast bar, matching the rest of the décor.
In the grand scheme of things, the Boss was doing well for himself. He had money in the bank, but even more hidden in a safety deposit box at a local storage facility, just in case. There were three vehicles parked on his drive. A white Transit van, a silver Land Rover Discovery and a black Mercedes E Class; none of them were new but all were registered to various false names he had assumed years ago. Anonymity was a wondrous thing. Two dozen speeding tickets he’d never have to answer for because he would just change ownership of the vehicle to another fake identity; the culprit vanishing into the wastepaper bin, only to be resurrected when necessary.
In his world, people could be disposed of just as easily. Tossed away once their usefulness had expired. The Boss didn’t hold with the principle of recycling. Yes, people could be used over and over again, but in the criminal world, repetition led to either excellence or complacency. Excellence would be highly paid, while complacency would be removed, often by new excellence.
With that, excellence called.
He pulled a mobile phone from his jeans pocket. Wade’s name flashed on the screen as the device vibrated in the Boss’s hand.
“What have you got for me?” The Boss rarely greeted his employees, regardless of their abilities.
“The ship is coming into port on Friday night.” Wade’s voice had hints of so many different accents it was difficult to locate an origin for the man. “Our container is number three seven two.”
The Boss appreciated the use of the phrase ‘our container.’ Wade was appropriating ownership already and the ship was still out at sea somewhere.
“Good work.” The call was ended.
Information was passed as quickly as that. The less time spent on the phone, the less time someone had to hack the line or trace the call. Whether actions like that were at all possible, he didn’t know, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Keep it short and sweet at all times; the rules according to the Boss.
Cog in the Machine Page 9
