‘That supposed to scare me?’
‘You’re here, aren’t you?’ he countered. ‘I want every carpet in every room cleaned. You’ve got a week to do it in.’
‘They look clean enough,’ said Alfie, stiff-lipped. ‘And do you know how many carpets you’ve got in this place? It’ll take me longer than a week.’
‘I don’t care how many there are, and I want them cleaner than clean,’ he said. ‘My fiancé is coming up to visit me tomorrow and it looks like a brothel as it is. I’ve got to be going; I’ve got a meeting with your friend, Barry Stocker.’
‘Why?’
‘Sorry, I make it a rule not to fraternise with tradesmen. One has a certain position to maintain.’ He made as if to leave the room.
‘You aren’t going to hurt him, are you?’
Donnie Craddick stopped. ‘My, my, Alfie, I do believe you care about him. I hope it won’t be necessary to hurt him.’
‘So what do you want with him?’
His smile lacked any warmth. ‘Time to tell him, This is Your Life, Barry!’ His face hardened. ‘Now don’t be annoying, Alfie. Just clean my carpets, there’s a good man.’
* * * *
8
Respect
When things look like they can’t get any worse, invariably they do.
There was a loud and very insistent knocking at Barry Stocker’s front door. When he answered there was a loud and very insistent man telling him he had to come for a ride in a fancy red Jag parked outside.
‘Sod off – do you think I’m taking a ride with a complete stranger in a strange car? My mother used to tell me about blokes like you,’ said Barry, slamming the door closed.
Except it didn’t slam, or close. The man put his foot in the crack, followed by an iron-hard fist that snaked through the opening, grabbed him by the collar and yanked him close to the door. ‘Don’t mess with me,’ snarled the man. ‘Donnie Craddick wants to see you.’
‘I don’t want to see Donnie Craddick.’
‘Tough.’ He looked down at Barry’s feet. ‘You aren’t wearing any socks and shoes.’
‘So? What business is it of yours what I do?’
‘So put them on, you slob, and get your arse in this car. Make it fast. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’
‘So where are you taking me?’ he asked from the back seat as the Jag growled through the streets of Overthorpe.
‘Mystery tour,’ he replied.
‘Who are you?’
‘Your tour guide.’
They came to a large patch of weed-strewn wasteland comprising the concrete remnants of a once thriving but demolished factory laid out in faintly recognisable rooms and yards, nothing remaining but their ghostly outlines. The car bounced across the uneven surface and came to halt beside a man who was standing with his arms behind his back, facing away from them. Barry immediately recognised him as Donnie Craddick, though he could easily have been the ghost of Mickey Craddick.
The man marched Barry across to Donnie. ‘He’s here, Mr Craddick.’
‘Thanks, Roche,’ said Donnie. He didn’t turn to face Barry. ‘You’ve met Steve Roche already, so I won’t introduce you. Needless to say he works for me and if he tells you to do something it’s me that’s telling you. Got that?’
‘Sure,’ said Barry.
‘My father got his first job here, as an apprentice engineer, did you know that?’
‘I knew that.’
‘Now it’s all gone.’
‘Yeah, whatever,’ said Barry. ‘What do you want?’
‘You’re going to work for me.’
‘I don’t want to work for you.’
He turned to face Barry. ‘You didn’t hear me right. You’re going to work for me. You don’t have a choice.’
Barry Stocker sighed heavily. ‘I’ve finished with that kind of thing.’
‘You don’t finish with anything until I tell you you’re finished. You used to be a gopher for my father, right?’
‘You could say that. I needed the money…’
‘Drove cars, made deliveries, picked things up…’
‘I don’t want any trouble, Mr Craddick.’
‘Life’s been shitty for you, hasn’t it?’ said Donnie, coming up to him and putting a hand on his shoulder.
‘It’s been shitty for a lot of people.’
‘I’ll look after you and give you a good job with good money.’
‘I ain’t a no-hoper, if that’s what you think,’ he said, his brows lowering.
‘A man’s got his pride, Barry. How old are you now, fifty-six, fifty-seven?’
‘Fifty-five,’ he said indignantly.
‘And what have you got to show for it, huh? On the dole, cast aside. It’s doubtful you’ll ever find another job, you know that, Barry?’
‘I’ll get by. But not working for you.’ He spun on his heel and began to walk away.
‘That security guy ended up in a wheelchair, didn’t he? The one that worked here, in this very factory, when it was a factory.’
Barry stopped dead. Closed his eyes. ‘What guy?’
‘The same guy that couldn’t take not being able to walk, so he topped himself.’
‘I had nothing to do with that raid,’ said Barry. ‘I was just the driver. I never knew what I was driving them to. I didn’t ask questions.’
‘You try telling that to his widow and kids.’
‘You can’t lay that crap on me!’ he said, his face colouring.
‘Admittedly, father wasn’t always the best man to choose his employees wisely. But in his defence the wages raid did appear relatively straightforward. The factory wages were in the safe, they had the safe keys copied from one of the guards, who’s going to make it easy for them, and all they had to do was waltz in and take the money from under their noses. But they change guards at the last minute and the new one puts up a fight, gets himself shot in the spine.’
Barry remembered it well, though he had tried to blot out the memory. Something Mickey Craddick was adamant he shouldn’t do.
It was close to midnight. He’d been told by Mickey Craddick to pick up and take three men to wherever they told him to go, to sit and wait in the car while they saw to business, then drive them back home, nothing more. He got a little worried when he parked up in a lonely country lane near a business park and the men put on balaclavas.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘Shut your mouth, Stocker, and stay put. We’ll be back in half an hour.’
The man lifted a leather bag onto his lap and Barry saw through the rear-view mirror the dull black shape of a saw-off shotgun being lifted out, like it was the birth of a grotesque black serpent.
‘That’s a gun!’ he said. ‘I don’t want anything to do with any guns. Nobody told me about guns! Look, I only did this for a bit of extra cash, that’s all…’
The man put the end of the barrel to the back of Barry’s head. ‘You want me to blow your skull off your shoulders?’ He pressed hard.
‘Barry shook his head. ‘No…’ he whimpered.
‘Then you know what to do.’
The men piled out of the car and ran into the dense undergrowth.
He sat there, nervous, shaking, thinking he should get the hell out of there. But fear had him transfixed. He only took the jobs for Mickey Craddick because he was desperate for cash and Mickey paid well for doing not very much. Now he was beginning to regret accepting Mickey Craddick’s offer of a bit of cash-in-hand work to help pad out piss-poor wages.
He was so nervous he had to get out and take a piss in the bushes. As he zipped up his fly he was in two minds about whether he should simply scarper and face Mickey’s wrath, or stay and take the hundred pounds he’d promised him. He should have known. That was a fair whack for a simple driving job.
But any thoughts of flight were crushed when the three masked men came stampeding back, throwing themselves into the back of the car, screaming, ‘Get the hell out of here! C’mon, c’m
on!’
Barry didn’t hang about. He threw himself into the driving seat and gunned the engine. In a cloud of gravel and earth the car sped away.
The next day he found out about the factory raid that had gone wrong, the security guard who’d been shot in the back. Barry knew the man. He came into the Coach and Horses. He played football for Overthorpe Town and was their leading goal scorer. He was going to be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.
They never fingered who carried out the raid. They believed it to be a gang from out of town.
It was from that moment on that Donnie Craddick had his claws well and truly sunk into him. He could never refuse anything for him now.
‘I need a gopher and you’ve got a good CV,’ said Donnie Craddick. ‘Look, you want money, don’t you? Respect? Where else are you going to get it?’
Respect? He’d lost that a long time ago, he thought dully. ‘You get whatever you want, Donnie,’ he said quietly.
‘There’s a good man, Barry. I knew you’d see sense. I want you to start working for me straight away. I need you to take us somewhere.’
‘Where?’ he said tiredly.
‘You remember some time ago, just before father got ill, you made a delivery for him. Seven large wooden crates.’
‘Yeah, I remember. What of it?’
‘Lung cancer gets you real quick – he was hospitalised in a matter of days, and dead before he could make arrangements to have the crates moved, and what’s more he was very cagey about where their location was. They’re still where he left them. Where you took them, according to his journal. I want you to take us to that place, Barry.’
‘Journal?’ he said.
‘I’ll explain on the way.’
‘So what’s in the crates?’
‘You’re only the driver, Barry, don’t overstep your boundaries. Get in the car and take us there.’
‘Now?’
‘Now. Don’t look so glum, Barry, I’ll make it worth your while.’
Steve Roche was grinning like mad. ‘Who the hell is this annoying guy?’ said Barry.
‘Like I say, you drive, I pay, let’s keep it at that.’
Reluctantly, Barry got into the jag, took his place behind the wheel and adjusted the seat and mirrors. ‘It’s about twenty miles away,’ he said.
‘That’s fine, just take us there,’ said Donnie.
* * * *
9
God’s Honest Truth
Barry Stocker turned the car into a sprawling business park, the kind where it’s easy to get lost, he thought. Lots of small-time businesses from plumbing to garages, each having their own lockup units, a lot of them having recently closed due to the recession. It looked deserted, not a lot going on. He circled the park a couple of times, taking a side road, then another. They all looked the same, he thought, getting worked up.
‘What the hell are you doing, Stocker?’ said Donnie Craddick impatiently.
‘I can’t remember where it is exactly.’
‘Well you’d better remember fast,’ he warned.
‘This all looks the same…’ He brought the car to a halt. ‘Let me think…’
‘What are you doing? Don’t stop here.’
‘I’m trying to remember the goddamn number.’
‘If you’re pissing up my back, Stocker…’
‘Sixty-something,’ he said. ‘Five or six, or maybe seven…’
Steve Roche reached from behind Barry and grabbed him by the neck, yanking him back, choking the breath from him. ‘Do as the man says, Stocker. Don’t waste time.’ He released him and Barry massaged his throat.
‘Sixty-seven,’ he croaked, driving off.
He found the unit, parked outside and the men got out. There was a considerably hefty shutter and a door, both locked. ‘Where are the keys?’ said Craddick.
‘I thought you had them,’ said Barry.
‘Jesus,’ said Craddick. ‘Take me to the site office.’
Barry drove them to a small hut-cum-office. Craddick got out and Barry saw him talking to a stout-looking man, his massive stomach ballooning out his shirt. It was only a matter of minutes before Craddick emerged, grinning. He got back in the car, tossed the keys at Barry.
‘It was number sixty-five, you pillock,’ he said. ‘Seems the bloke in there knew my father quite well.’ He laughed. ‘He was pissing himself when he saw me. Only too glad to let me have the keys to my father’s lockup.’
It wasn’t surprising, thought Barry; Mickey Craddick used either threats or money to get whatever he wanted, sometimes a subtle combination of both. Barry noticed the security guard, peering intently through the office window, looked terrified as he watched the car speed away.
Locating lockup number sixty-five Barry was made to unlock the door. He led the way in. The tiny office was empty with no evidence of use. They passed through another door and into the body of the unit itself. It was square, its walls made of bare brick, with an oil-soiled concrete floor underfoot. At the far end, pushed against the back wall, was a tarpaulin-covered stack.
‘That’s it,’ said Barry.
Donnie Craddick went over to the stack, grabbed the tarpaulin and hauled it away. There were seven wooden crates underneath, resting on a blue wooden pallet. ‘Get me something to prise this lid off,’ he said, running his hand slowly across one of the crates.
Steve Roche looked at Barry. ‘What are you waiting for? There are tools in the car’s boot.’
Grunting, Barry went back to the car, returning moments later with a canvas bag of tools.
‘This one,’ ordered Craddick eagerly, his eyes alight.
Barry took out a large screwdriver and began to lever off the lid. The nails gave an agonised squeal as the wooden lid came away. Donnie pushed him aside, reached inside and peeled back the cloth that covered the contents.
Craddick laughed. Roche went to his side, laughed too.
Barry leaned forward, peering over their shoulders to see what they were getting so excited about.
The crate was filled almost to the brim with neatly bound bundles of money.
‘Christ!’ he breathed. ‘Is that money?’
‘Of course it’s money, moron,’ Craddick returned. ‘But it isn’t real money.’
‘It looks real to me,’ said Barry.
‘That’s because this is quality stuff,’ said Steve Roche, reaching in and taking out a bundle. He held it to his nose. ‘It even smells like the real thing. Mickey told me he’d be taking a shipment of counterfeit notes, said they were quality. If I didn’t know better I’d say they were the real deal.’
Craddick took the bundle off him, peeled out a fifty-pound note, held it up to the light. ‘Christ, this is good,’ he said. ‘So, you think we can offload this safely?’
‘No problem, Mr Craddick,’ said Roche. That’s why your father employed me. It’s what I do best.’
‘There has to be thousands of pounds here…’ said Barry in a daze.
‘A million, give or take,’ said Craddick, throwing the money back inside the crate and putting on the lid. ‘Hammer it closed,’ he said.
‘A million… Jesus! That’s what a million pounds looks like.’
Donnie Craddick grabbed Barry by the collar and threw him against the crates. He reached inside his coat and pulled out a gun, put it under Barry’s chin. ‘You don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, you hear?’
‘You’ve got a gun…’ Barry stammered.
‘No kidding?’ said Craddick. ‘It belonged to my father. Do you like it?’
‘It’s OK…’ he said, closing his eyes as he pressed the metal harder into his flesh.
‘Here, it’s yours,’ he said, slapping it into Barry’s hand and letting him go. ‘I’ve got another. My father had a little collection.’
‘I don’t want it,’ Barry replied, holding it out. ‘Take it back. I don’t know how to use a gun. I don’t want to learn either.’
‘Keep it,’ Craddick insisted. ‘You might n
eed it one day.’
‘Never. I’ll never need this bloody thing.’
‘No?’ Donnie Craddick put an arm around barry’s shoulders and led him away from the crates. Roche began to hammer the lid back on and cover the crates up with the tarpaulin. ‘Let me tell you something, Barry; something that you might find enlightening.’
‘It’s a gun, Mr Craddick. ‘I don’t feel easy with this. Driving you around, being a gopher, that’s one thing; but this…’
‘You miss your sister, don’t you, Barry?’
He stopped, shrugged off Craddick’s arm. ‘What’s Sophie got to do with anything?’
‘A tragic death, I believe. Tell me how it happened.’
Barry stared at him but couldn’t work out what was going on behind Craddick’s calm eyes. ‘She was on holiday, went swimming…’
‘And she drowned.’
‘Yeah. She drowned.’
‘An accident.’
‘Yeah, an accident. I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘You really think that? Think it was an accident?’
‘Course it was.’
‘Did you know Duncan Winslade was being blackmailed?’
Barry frowned deeply. ‘You’re having me on.’
Craddick crossed his heart. ‘I swear I’m not. I’ll not go into detail, suffice to say that Mr oh-so-holy Winslade wasn’t as squeaky clean as he’d like to have you believe. He was as bent as they come.’
Barry shook his head vehemently. ‘Never. Not Duncan. He was a good and honest cop.’
‘And because an unscrupulous someone had discovered his indiscretions he was being tapped for a great deal of money. Money he simply didn’t have. So what could he do to get his hands on a goodly amount? Let’s see, your sister was heavily insured…’
THE DOMINO BOYS (a psychological thriller) Page 7
