‘I tell them no,’ she replied automatically.
‘Make sure you remember that, because if I find out different,' he shrugged. 'Well, I don't need to spell it out, do I?’
She swallowed and stuffed the cash into the pocket of her jacket. ‘Can I go now?’
Tommy stood to the side to let her pass. ‘Nice doing business with you, Kirsty.’
She smiled as she eased past, simply because it seemed the right thing to do.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Charles Munroe wasn’t averse to calling in favours, it was all part of the business world, you scratch my back I’ll claw yours. Seth Barker sat opposite him at the huge desk, a look of concern on his grizzled face.
‘You want Plymouth taken care of?’ It was said with more than a hint of disbelief.
‘He’s become unstable.’
‘Jesus, Charlie, he’s always been unstable.’
Munroe peered through the cloud of cigar smoke. He’d known Barker for over twenty years and he was probably the only person in the world he would allow to get away with calling him ‘Charlie.’
‘Yeah well, I don’t like it.’
‘So when do you want it doing?’
Munroe looked through the window; he could see Hoylake Golf Club in the distance, white and undulating, blanketed in white. Part of him was tempted to leave it for awhile, after all he had paid Plymouth to do a job and he had no doubt that the blonde haired man would complete the task to everyone’s satisfaction. Though the truth was he was still furious about the way Plymouth had ignored him, no it was worse than that, he felt disregarded as if Plymouth no longer realised who he was working for. He had shown a level of disrespect that was unacceptable, and if he knew it, then chances are others would also have noticed, and that was something that Munroe could not tolerate at any cost. Running any sort of successful business required an element of respect for the man in charge. When you were at the top of the food chain, it always paid to remember that those below you were simply waiting for the opportunity to take advantage of the slightest chink in your armour.
‘As soon as possible.’
‘I thought he was sorting out the business in Wigan?’
‘He is, but that’s almost over and done with, besides we can take care of Green ourselves.’
‘So why don’t you let Plymouth see it through and then take care of him?’
Munroe smiled. ‘I’ve considered that, but I can’t take the risk. I’ve tried to speak with him, but he’s not taking my calls.’
Barker shifted in his seat, his leather jacket creaking like old bones. ‘Come on Charlie, you know what he’s like, it’s just the way he works.’
‘I don’t give a fuck how he works, I don’t trust the man.’
Seth nodded. ‘Fair enough,’ he knew the Scotsman well enough to realise that trying to convince him to change his mind would be a fruitless exercise.
‘You know me, Seth, I’m not an unreasonable man, but Plymouth takes the piss.’
‘But he gets the job done.’
‘Men like him are ten a penny if you know where to look.’
Barker kept his mouth shut, it didn’t pay to contradict Munroe, but if he thought that Plymouth was your bog standard hard men then maybe the wheels were starting to come off the Munroe wagon. In the past, he had tried to curb Charlie’s natural instinct to conquer and rule, after all there came a point when you had more than enough money in the bank and Munroe must have reached that point years ago. That was the reason Barker now lived six months of the year in Portugal and the rest tucked away on a huge farm in Yorkshire.
Over the last couple of years he’d taken great pains to distance himself from Munroe, because Seth knew the bigger you got then the harder it became to keep your eye on the ball. Like any business, the drugs world worked best when you had a handful of like-minded people you knew you could rely on.
‘So you’ll sort it?’
‘Is he still living in that poxy little cottage?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘Right well I’ll send a couple of lads around to take care of it...’
‘Not a chance.’
Barker shifted in the chair again, he had been hitting the sun beds trying to keep his
Costa-del-sol tan topped up. Only trouble was he’d overdone it and now his back crackled with prickly heat.
‘I’ll make sure they’re good guys, Charlie.’
Munroe jabbed a finger across the table. ‘I want you to take care of it, personally.’
Barker snorted. ‘Leave it out; I don’t get my hands dirty anymore...’
‘You owe me, Seth.’
Barker raised a hand. ‘I know I do and believe me I’ll make sure the job gets done.’
Munroe stabbed the cigar out in the ashtray. ‘You’d better, that means if you do send some monkeys to do the job then you go with them.’
‘OK, OK, chill, mate.’
‘Don’t spout your hippy shit at me.’ Munroe spat.
Seth kept his lips clamped shut; it made him shudder to think how easily his plans of retirement had come unstuck. All it had taken was a phone call and he had been dragged back into the thick of it. ‘I'll see to it, personally.’
Munroe looked hard across the table and then broke into a wide grin that strangely made him look ten years older. ‘That’s what I wanted to hear.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Plymouth packed his belongings into the small suitcase and slid it into the boot of the car. He looked into the corner of the barn, where Jimmy was now keeping his brother-in-law company, both sharing the small space beneath the wet straw, closer in death than they had ever been in life.
He frowned as an image of Tammy Green came into his head; he had spent his last night in the cottage thinking about how she had looked when he had entered her home. In any other situation, she would have been terrified, what woman wouldn’t, a stranger forcing himself into your private space and dragging your husband out of the door.
Yet she hadn’t come after him, hadn’t chased him down the street demanding to know why he was taking her partner away. Instead, she had cowered at the foot of the stairs, a woman who no longer had the faculty to care what was happening either to herself or anyone else. Slamming the boot, he climbed in and started the car; Green wasn’t a stupid man, by now he would know that Plymouth had gone there to grab his sister. It was all about pressure, turning the screw, making the person realise they were vulnerable. People like Green were no different to anyone else; all the uncertainties were there buried beneath years of bravado and misguided confidence. Now he would be having to revaluate his basic instincts, his brother was dead, and he knew that if Plymouth had wanted, his sister would have followed the same fate.
He backed out of the barn and drove down the narrow lane without giving the house a second glance.
The gritters had been out on the motorway keeping two of the three lanes clear. Plymouth set the cruise control at fifty-five and relaxed. He could imagine Green marshalling the troops, everyone running around like headless chickens trying to discover who was responsible for the damage done to the great Callum Green. Plymouth smiled and headed onto the M6, ten minutes later he was cruising into Wigan town centre. As far as he was concerned, the town was no better or worse than a dozen others he had worked in, the commonality they shared was a sense of desperation in the people that lived there.
He thought of Tammy again and wondered where Green had whisked her off to, perhaps he had sent her abroad until all this was over, or maybe he wanted to keep her close. Pulling up outside the shop, he climbed from the car and pushed the door open.
Caroline smiled at him in surprise. ‘Hello, I didn’t expect to see you today.’
‘Morning, Caroline, busy again I see.’
‘You’re the second person through that door in almost,’ she checked her watch, ‘two hours.’
‘Has anyone actually bought anything?’
‘Well, the woman who came in
was insistent that she wanted to buy her son a sovereign ring for his twenty-first and she had the grand total of twenty pounds to spend.’
He unravelled the scarf from around his neck. ‘So you didn’t manage to flog her a Rolex?’
‘From the look of her I doubt if she could even tell the time.’
Plymouth grinned and headed towards the back room.
‘And the other customer was looking for you.’
He stopped and turned to her. ‘Me?’
‘Mm, it was that detective sergeant who called when we first had the robbery.’
‘Did he say what he wanted?’
‘No, he asked me if I had either a contact number for you or Mr Munroe.’
Plymouth felt a prickling at the nape of his neck. ‘And what did you tell him?’
She frowned. ‘Well nothing, I mean, I don’t have your number.’
‘No problem, did he say if he intended calling back?’
‘I don’t think so.’
He flashed a smile. ‘Right, I’ve time for a quick brew; do you want tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee please, two sugars.’
‘And how about a couple of those biscuits you keep hidden in the cupboard?’
‘You know about those?’ she blushed.
‘Believe me, Caroline, I know everything.’
She frowned at his back as he disappeared through the door.
CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN
Burgess was younger than he’d expected and bristling with anger, he sported a grey tracksuit with red stripes running down the arms and legs, a pair of tinted sunglasses pushed up onto his head.
‘Mr Burgess?’
‘I thought I told you I would be here within the hour!’
‘Yes well, I’m sorry I was detained, but I’m here now.’ Lasser flashed him a smile that contained no warmth.
‘Yes, but you’re over an hour late.’
‘Do you have the key to Mr Plymouth’s room?’
Burgess folded his arms. ‘I think you owe me an explanation before I go handing out keys, don’t you?’
Lasser sighed, another officious prick, he could see the look of self-importance in the managers eyes, the familiar; I am in charge expression on his face.
‘Mr Burgess. I realise that you’re a busy man and I apologise for disturbing you on your day off, but this is a police matter...’
‘Well you say that, but I haven’t seen any form of identification.’
Lasser dipped into his pocket and pulled out his warrant card, Burgess held out his hand and took a few seconds studying the image before reluctantly handing it back.
‘And can I ask why you are interested in Mr Plymouth?’
‘Well you can ask, but I’m not going to tell you.’
Burgess blinked.
‘Now I have others things to do today, so if you would just get me the key we can get this over with.’
Burgess didn’t reply, he simply turned and grabbed the key from a hook. ‘If you don’t mind I’d like to be in attendance while you search the room.’
‘Why do you think I’m going to do a runner with the complimentary mints?’
Burgess scowled, lifted the flap, and headed across the foyer with Lasser in pursuit. The journey to the top floor was conducted in silence; the small lift filled with the overpowering scent of floral disinfectant. By the time the doors slid open Lasser’s eyes were watering at the onslaught.
Burgess turned left; a few seconds later, he slipped the key into the lock and pushed the door open. The room was small and as soon as he walked over the threshold Lasser realised he would find no clues here. He could feel the animosity coming off Burgess in waves.
‘As you can see the room is spotless, as soon as a guest departs we make sure we do a deep clean.’
Lasser walked to the small bedside cabinet and slid the drawer open, a crumpled Twix wrapper and an empty plastic cup lay at the bottom. Lasser picked the cup up and turned. ‘I see your deep clean doesn’t include emptying the cupboards’.
Burgess took a backward step, as if Lasser had suddenly produced a turd from the drawer.
‘I...’
‘Don’t worry, Mr Burgess, I’m sure there’s a rational explanation.’
‘There is no explanation for sloppy work, Sergeant, and when I find who is responsible they will be disciplined.’
‘Quite right,’ Lasser checked the wardrobe, empty, apart from a line of red plastic hangers. He turned away hiding a smile before heading to the bathroom, as he opened the door a light came on and began to flicker, the elements in the strip bulb pinging and clicking. It was like being at an eighties disco with the strobe light in full effect. Looking over his shoulder, he raised an eyebrow and watched as Burgess’s face darkened in anger.
A quick look around the room and Lasser pulled the door closed and sighed. ‘Right well, thank you for your time, and...’
‘Is that it?’
‘Unless your rooms have any secret doors I should know about?’
Burgess snorted in disgust. ‘Well, that was a complete waste of my time.’
‘I’m sorry you feel that way, but I’m sure you can appreciate that we all have our jobs to do.’
‘Dragged halfway across town for this,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘I mean, you’re getting paid for this while my day is ruined.’
‘Well, try to see it as your good deed for the day.’
‘Ridiculous,’ he hissed and moved out onto the landing.
Lasser followed, the trip back consisted of Burgess sighing heavily and throwing black looks at Lasser, who kept his face neutral.
As soon as the doors slid open, the manager strode out and stormed toward the door marked for staff only.
‘Right well, thanks again for your help...’
Burgess disappeared, a couple of seconds later Lasser could hear raised voices, Burgess in full flow, no doubt taking his anger out on some unsuspecting minion.
Pausing for a moment, Lasser placed his finger on the buzzer and pressed down, keeping it there until the door shot open, Burgess, his face red with fury, spat at him. ‘What do you want, now?’
‘Just out of curiosity, do you have any idea what type of car Mr Plymouth was driving?’
‘We are not in the habit of spying on our guests, Sergeant.’
‘I know, people come here for the relaxed friendly atmosphere...’
Randall popped his head around the doorway. ‘It was a black Mercedes, C class, top of the range.’
Burgess spun around, his face apoplectic with rage; Randal tried a sickly smile that only seemed to infuriate the manger further.
‘You don’t happen to know the registration?’ Lasser asked.
‘Sorry, no, but it definitely had private plates.’
Lasser rubbed his hands together. ‘Thanks for that, Mr Randall.’
‘That’s OK,’ he vanished back behind the door before Burgess could unleash his pent up fury.
‘A good man, that, you should keep hold of him, it’s rare these days to find someone who likes to go the extra mile.’
Lasser treated Burgess to a big smile and headed for the door.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Seth closed his eyes and tried to imagine he was on a beach in Spain, yet the howling wind made a mockery of his imagination. He looked back at the cottage sitting squat in the middle of the snow-smothered field, the ground was iron hard beneath his feet.
What a dump, though he could see why Plymouth had chosen the house, it was sufficiently secluded but close to the motorway network. The inside had been Spartan, no creature comforts; the man hadn’t even own a television.
He had met Plymouth on two separate occasions and both times the man had left him feeling unnerved. Seth Barker had been dealing with hard cases all his life, people who would do anything as long as the money was there. Yet Plymouth had seemed different, firstly he hardly looked the part, no scars on his face and no bulging muscles fed by overuse of steroids. In truth, he looked more l
ike a catalogue model, someone who spent his time preening in the mirror and making sure his clothes were just so. It was only when you looked into his eyes that you got an inkling of the real man, there was a coldness there, which could not be faked. He gave the impression that he was always in the middle of some complex calculation, as if constantly absorbing information and storing it away for future reference.
‘He’s done a runner, Seth, no doubt about it.’
Barker turned, Steve Corr was at the upstairs window, hands resting on the window ledge, looking down at him.
Seth sighed. ‘OK, get down here.’
Corr vanished from view and Seth looked at the snow packed ground. Twin lines of tyre tracks led from the barn and down the lane. Barker headed toward the stone building with the asbestos roof and bulging brickwork, his feet crunching through the snow feeling the solid ice beneath. The handle of the sliding door was freezing to the touch and he grimaced as he slid the panel back. Inside, the air was musty with the rich smell of old diesel, oil and cow manure. Pale light lanced down from the holes in the corrugated roof, an ancient workbench filled one-wall, empty tins of paint lay on its surface, gathering dust and cobwebs.
‘I think we just missed him.’ Corr was slipping and sliding his way toward the barn, his thin leather jacket flapping in the wind. Clattering through the door, he started to rub his hands together, trying to infuse them with warmth.
‘Mm.’
‘What a shithole.’ Corr gave the place the once over, before pulling out his cigarettes.
Barker ignored him and moved deeper into the building.
‘I mean, this guy must be making plenty of cash and yet he chooses to live in a place like this, how the fuck do you work that one out?’ Corr asked.
‘While you drive around in a big flash car and spend half your life getting pulled by the filth.’
Corr grinned. ‘Well yeah, but at least I go home to a warm house with a decent plasma.’
‘Or a six by eight cell with a bucket to shit in.’
The smile slid from Corr’s face. ‘I ain’t done any time in years.’
The Way That It Falls: DS Lasser series volume 2 (The DS Lasser series.) Page 24
