As she waited for them to finish their fry-up, her stomach rumbled. She shuffled to the kitchen with her blanket around her shoulder and found some chocolate at the back of the highest cupboard. As if Jason thought he could hide it. She hoped the stash would last until his return.
Amy returned to AEON, chocolate in hand, and checked the location of the car. Still in situ. Amy flopped down into her chair and absently checked her Jason monitor. He was in a different part of the prison now—D-wing. There were far more cameras there, but she still didn’t have direct vision on his cell. She would have to write to the governor.
She flicked back to her CCTV feed. And something marvellous happened.
A traffic warden was sauntering down the street, checking all the cars. And there was the stolen 4x4, parked in a disabled space without a ticket. Beautiful.
He reached the vehicle and checked the windscreen. Amy cackled to herself like a slightly unhinged witch and, as the warden started making out the ticket, she picked up her phone.
“Bryn? Hi. There is a traffic warden on Salisbury Avenue in Cathays writing a parking ticket for a stolen 4x4 that has Damage Jones’s phone inside it.”
Her news was received with stunned silence.
“Bryn?”
“Give me the licence plate.”
Amy read it back to him, watching the traffic warden, who was still meticulously writing his note.
“I’ll call Dispatch. Stay on the line.”
Amy hummed an approximation of the terrible hold music, watching the scene unfold. The traffic warden finished writing his ticket and tucked it under the wiper. He lifted his radio receiver to his mouth.
The two heavy blokes emerged from the café and tried to barge him aside. One of them ripped the ticket from the windscreen and tore it into tiny pieces. Was that a crime? Probably. Amy made a screen grab.
In a moronic show of bravado, the traffic warden attempted to get between the men and the door of the vehicle. Amy held her breath. What happened next all depended on whether the gang lads could keep their cool.
Not a chance. The nearest bloke sized the warden by his jacket and pushed him up against the jeep, leering into his face.
Amy hung up on Bryn and dialled 999. “Police please. Hi, yes, there’s a traffic warden being beaten up on Salisbury Avenue. Next to Ramon’s. Yes, I’m watching it right now. My name? Ada Lovelace.”
She disconnected and took another bite of chocolate. Really, she should’ve gone for popcorn, but she didn’t want to miss a minute of this.
Before the cops could show up, a group of middle-aged blokes in Cardiff City shirts, a motley crew in blue and red, appeared. One of them, apparently the ringleader, tried to intervene.
A Chuckle punched him in the face. Amy crowed in victory as a brawl unfolded before her, the poor traffic warden taking refuge with one of the concerned football mob who was more lover than fighter.
The Black Marias finally showed up and police spilled out onto the street, subduing everyone they could lay hands on. After a couple of minutes of handcuffs and headlocks, a familiar unmarked car pulled up and Bryn and Owain tumbled out.
Her phone rang. “Quite a show.”
“I told you to stay on the line.”
“Who do you think called the police?”
Bryn craned his neck to look at the mass of arrested brawlers. “Which ones?”
“The non-football ones. There’s a third guy still in Ramon’s. No, he’s just coming out! Right now!”
The third guy slipped past the police officers and bruised amateur boxers, heading down the street calmly and casually—with his face in plain view. Amy hurriedly captured it.
“Which direction?”
“Towards town. That bridge by the Student Union.”
Amy tried to follow him, could hear Bryn attempting to do the same in person. She had him as far as the corner, but then he turned down the road behind the shop. “He turned left before the bridge. I don’t have eyes on him.”
Bryn appeared in her field of view. “Here?”
“Right there.”
He also disappeared. Amy felt tense, her shoulder blades drawing together. She had sent Bryn after an unknown man without backup. Shit, what was she thinking?
“Bryn—”
“Are you sure? There’s no one here.”
Amy didn’t know whether to be relieved or angry. “I’m sure.”
Bryn reappeared on her monitor and returned to the 4x4, which Owain was guarding. A riot van had arrived and the troublemakers were being loaded up. She heard Bryn have a muffled conference with Owain.
“They’re denying it’s their vehicle.”
“They did nick it. But the...uh...” Amy tried to find a distinguishing feature between them. “The one with his face smushed into the bonnet. He was driving, had a key and everything.”
“Where’s Dai Jones’s mobile?”
“It was in a black holdall bag. But they could’ve taken it out.”
“Ta, Amy. We’ll take it from here.”
Amy threw her phone across the desk and finished her chocolate bar. The uniformed officers patted down the Smushed Face Chuckle and triumphantly produced a set of car keys.
Owain carried them to Bryn like the Holy Grail and the detective pressed a button. The jeep obligingly flashed. Bryn leaned down to talk at the Smushed Face Chuckle, while Owain opened all the doors and the boot.
And produced a black holdall.
Today was a good day. Amy toasted herself with the chocolate bar wrapper and fetched herself a cup of tea.
Chapter Eighteen: Blood Brothers
Alby announced his intention to watch the last day of the season at four o’clock. Jason ignored him. He couldn’t care less about football, although he was pleased when Cardiff went up into the Premier League. He couldn’t take any more gloating from Dylan. Originally a Swansea boy, Dylan was determined to point out at every opportunity that the Swans had beaten the Bluebirds to the top flight by two years.
He was surprised his old friend was speaking to him at all, after the canteen incident. But Alby seemed to be acting from a desire not to get his head kicked in and, whether Jason had earned that fear or not, he would rather not spend his days here arguing. Silence was preferable all round, and he was used to it. Amy could go hours without speaking to him, just making vague noises about caffeine or sustenance when prompted. Shit, she was never going to remember to eat without him there. He hoped she wouldn’t lose the precious few pounds he’d added to her bones since he’d taken control of her kitchen.
By the time four o’clock rolled around, Jason had the gym mostly to himself and was able to work up a sweat. He had lost most of his physique working for Amy, having to fill his days with household chores instead of gym dates. He could probably sneak a rowing machine past Amy, to add to his free weights and exercise bands. He was developing a distinct middle.
He headed for the showers, hoping there wasn’t a queue, but it seemed most folks were glued to their televisions. A couple of other blokes were finishing up and then Jason had the luxury of a five-minute shower without interruption.
If he ignored the slime of the shower gel, and the lukewarm water, he could imagine he was back home, washing off the dust and grime from a rare trip to clean AEON’s servers. When he was clean and dry, he would share Amy’s sofa and they would watch an old action movie while she fiddled with her iPad. If it was cold, he might get a corner of her blanket. It was a tatty old thing but Jason washed it less often than everything else, because it smelled of her, the distinctive earthy musk with a faint overlay of citrus from her shampoo.
Shit, he must be getting the Bang-Up Blues if he was thinking about Amy’s scent. He shoved the shower to freezing and spent thirty seconds shivering under the water before turning if off. There w
ere places where thoughts about your boss didn’t belong, and a prison shower was definitely one of them.
Jason grabbed his towel and dried himself off, stepping out to check the clock. Fifteen minutes to dress up and get back to his cell—no bother. He gathered up his sweaty gym kit and headed to find his clothes.
Gone.
Jason cursed himself for a moron. He was out of practice with prison life, had forgotten that anything that wasn’t nailed down was as good as lost. He would probably get scolded for wearing his gym kit to his cell, but his mam was meant to be sending in his clothes any day now.
He pulled on his boxers and threw aside his towel. And then he saw them, lined up like Terracotta Warriors, holding a bunch of makeshift weapons—a sock stuffed with God-knows-what, a pool cue, the glint of a shiv. They were still their own little gang, and Jason was a traitor.
Jason’s eyes found every one of them. Alby, smug as a pug with a bone. Rat, taller and leaner, but still vacant and hollow-cheeked. That kid who’d replaced him, the getaway driver—Mark? And finally, Lewis.
“You killed my brother. Time to die.”
Lewis came at him like a battering ram, spearing him into the wall with his shoulder. Jason’s breath was knocked out of him, the old cracks in his ribs throbbing with the impact.
Jason got his hands up to try to force Lewis away, but he was solid muscle and none of it would give. He didn’t want to hurt Lewis. He would give anything not to hurt him. But fuck, he didn’t want to die at the end of a shiv today.
Jason kicked out at Lewis’s knee. Lewis yelped and let up a fraction—and that was all Jason needed. He planted his hands in the centre of his chest and shoved him backwards, getting his back away from the wall.
Lewis threw a punch at Jason’s jaw, which Jason ducked. Lewis’s aim might have improved, but he had always telegraphed his moves. That was how Jason had always beaten Lewis in a fight.
They circled each other, watching.
“You’ve gotten tough,” Jason offered through gritted teeth.
“You’ve gotten fat.”
Lewis backhanded Jason’s mouth, splitting open his lip. Jason recoiled, and Lewis moved in for the kill. He clawed at Jason’s face before throwing him down on the bench.
Jason’s back spasmed as it smacked against the wood, his face bloody and swelling. Lewis leapt on him, wrestling him to the ground and punching him again and again. Jason got his elbows up, trying to throw Lewis off with his hips.
His vision sparked with the blows to his head and he knew he was going to black out. And then what Lewis would do to him...
He had to get through. Somehow, he had to get Lewis to listen.
Jason reached up and seized Lewis’s T-shirt and pulled him forward. Caught off balance, Lewis fell forward and Jason held on, until they were staring at each other nose to nose.
“I didn’t kill him. Do you hear me? It wasn’t me!”
“The fuck it wasn’t!”
Lewis tried to punch him in the ribs, but Jason continued to hold him, shaking him. “Fucking listen! There were gangsters there, boys out to do him harm. I found him, Lewis.”
“You’re a fucking liar! You’re a traitor and a murderer!”
“I never dobbed you in! Your bastard Mark came off the fucking road. How was that my fault? You didn’t need my help to get nicked!”
Lewis struggled to get away from Jason’s grip. “Stop lying to me! Damage is dead. He’s dead, Jay.”
Jason saw the tears form in his eyes, felt one salty drip on his cheek, heard Lewis’s voice quaver. And Jason’s heart broke, as if it had been waiting to grieve, to find someone who understood.
“I know.” His voice shook, and his hands trembled on Lewis’s shirt. “He was my little brother too.”
Lewis made an odd sound in the back of his throat, as if he was choking. Then he broke down, his whole body limp and racked with silent sobs. Jason released his shirt and wrapped him up in his arms, the way lads weren’t meant to, the way they both needed.
Lewis pounded against Jason’s chest with weak fists. “You weren’t here. You weren’t fucking here, Jay.”
“M’here now.”
The bell rang to end Association. Lewis scrambled to his feet, scrubbing his eyes on his sleeve and staring down at Jason on the floor.
“You look like shit,” Lewis said, wearing a wobbly smile, before reaching down.
Jason took his hand and Lewis pulled him to his feet.
“Alby, give him back his clothes.”
“Lewis—”
“Just do it!” Lewis glared Alby into submission before turning to Jason and shrugging. “Shit for brains,” he muttered.
Jason didn’t laugh, but something eased in his chest, something dark and twisted that had needled him for two long years. The weight of Lewis’s anger was gone, the burden he had borne since his best friend tried to hit him with his broken arm. He felt like he could breathe again.
Though his ribs were killing him, Jason just about caught the clothes Alby threw at him and dressed without wincing.
The boys left him, heading back to their cells, and Jason took thirty seconds to splash the worst of the blood off his face. There was no way his face would go unnoticed, but he could hopefully avoid another report. He suspected that even Joseph would struggle to sell that to the court.
But he was free from his debt to Lewis, the treason conjured up by Lewis’s anger, and Jason wore the biggest smile as he ran back to his cell. He had never felt freer.
Chapter Nineteen: The Price of Doing Business
Any relative of Stuart Williams was bound to be a cocky shit-for-brains thug, but Gerry was the class’s finest example. If Zook weren’t here on business, he wouldn’t touch the scum with a barge pole.
He would prefer to view the ugly bastard from behind a sheet of cheap glass at the zoo, or perhaps poke him with a long stick through the bars. Any road, he didn’t want to be meeting him at Liverpool’s finest dockyard in the middle of the night.
Zook was dressed in a suit and a trench coat. Gerry wore a hoodie and ripped jeans, the hem of the jumper failing to disguise the firearm stuffed in his waistband.
“I’m only meeting yer because yer one of Stu’s. And he’s my boy, see? So I’ll put up with the likes of yer only because of him.”
“I’m here to do business. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Gerry sneered. “Posh wanker, aren’t yer?”
Zook gave a tight-lipped smile. A sign that Gerry’s death wasn’t yet guaranteed. “I cultivated a gentleman’s accent to get on in this world, Mr. Williams. Perhaps you might consider it.”
Gerry laughed and the two goons behind him echoed it. Trained monkeys, evidently. “I get on just fine in this world, Mr. Zook. Now what were yer coming here begging for?”
Zook affected a humble expression, but the sense of distaste was entirely real. He hated bowing and scraping to this jumped-up little shit, but some humiliation had to be borne for the greater purpose. “I hear you have some fine product up here. I came here for a taste.”
Gerry snorted. “Yer came to buy my stash. Or the name of my man, the dago. Yer a piss-poor liar.”
“I never lie, Mr. Williams. You expect me to bid for your drugs without knowing the purity.”
“It’s one-hundred-percent—”
“Bollocks it is.” Zook was calm, matter-of-fact. “I anticipate you cutting it to at least seventy before selling it on, to me or your punters. So my bargain depends largely on the purity of the batch your South American friend brought you—and how much you wish to chance my ire.”
Gerry said nothing, possibly because he did not understand one word in ten, but gestured to one of his clowns to bring forth the requested sample.
Zook wet the tip of his pinkie finger with his t
ongue and dipped it in the proffered baggie. He brought it to his lips for a taste. “Hmm. Sixty percent. Disappointing.”
“What? That’s eighty percent, that is.”
“Are you trying to deceive me?” His voice was quiet, barely audible above the crash of water against wood.
“I’m telling yer it’s pure.”
“If you believe that, you’re a bigger fool than you look.”
Gerry rolled up a sleeve.
Zook smirked. “Is this how you win a debate? With your fists?”
Gerry swung for him. Zook caught his fist and twisted him arm up behind his back, forcing him to his knees. “Mistake.”
The silly child reached for his gun. Zook kicked out at it, breaking three fingers and sending the gun skittering across the dock.
And then his friends came out to play.
They invaded like a barbarian horde, like the English had always feared them to be, and the feeble delegation was subdued within moments.
Mickey sauntered over and lit a cigarette. “Want one of the boys to do him over?”
Zook looked the terrified Gerry in the eyes and merely nodded.
Nineteen minutes later, the game was up. That had hardly been any fun at all. Zook sighed with disappointment and turned to Mickey, as his boys were gleefully loading up packets of coke.
“There is just one more thing I need from you.”
Mickey cocked his head to one side. “Yeah?”
“Hit me.”
* * *
Amy must’ve gone to bed at some point, because when she heard Bryn’s voice carrying through the flat, she was under the duvet. Without Jason to carry her there—a regular occurrence when she fell asleep with AEON—she wasn’t entirely sure how that had happened. She tried to puzzle it out as she shrugged on her dressing gown and made her way to the living room to find out what the detective wanted. It must be important if he’d let himself in with his voice imprint—he usually rang the doorbell first, an attempt to rouse her from sleep. Of course, he might’ve done exactly that. Whenever Amy finally passed out from exhaustion, she was dead to the world.
Code Runner (Amy Lane Mysteries Book 2) Page 11
