‘Oh bugger,’ he said. ‘I’m screwed.’
‘We can do something, Barry. It doesn’t have to be like this.’
Barry gave a brittle laugh. ‘What the hell can we do, Alfie? He’s got us all. He’s got the town in his pocket.’ Then his mind worked over things. ‘Has he got one for you, Alfie? That why you’re here?’
Alfie turned away sheepishly. ‘Maybe.’
‘But not you, Alfie – what the hell can he have on you? You’re not that kinda guy.’
‘Everyone’s got secrets, I guess. Something we’re not proud of.’
He nodded ponderously. ‘Seems so.’ He stood up and went to the door. ‘Alfie, I did something bad last night…’
Alfie Parry’s eyes widened in concern. ‘How bad?’
He sighed deeply, as if sighing up his very soul. ‘I went round to Duncan’s house last night. We had words. I got all heated up.’
‘What about?’
‘Stuff, money, Sophie…secrets…’ He wiped fingers over his neck, chaffed by the collar and tie. ‘Things turned bad.’
‘Don’t worry, Duncan’s not one to bear a grudge. We’ve all had words before. We’ll get through it. We’re friends.’
‘It was different this time,’ he said wearily. ‘I don’t think things can ever go back to how they were. Not after what I did.’
‘What did you do exactly?’
He shrugged. ‘Never mind.’
‘You want me to see him?’ Alfie had always been the go-between when it came to Duncan and Barry. It had almost become expected of him.
He shook his head quickly. ‘Nah, it’ll only make things worse. Just leave it, eh? I just wanted to say…’ He settled the case in his hand. ‘Never mind. I’ll be seeing you.’
‘Barry,’ said Alfie. ‘I mean it; we can’t let Donnie Craddick get a hold on our lives like his father did.’
Barry smiled thinly. ‘Too late for that, Alfie. He’s got a bloody tight hold on mine. There’s nothing I can do about it, mate.’
He left Alfie staring at the empty doorway.
It was late afternoon when he decided to call it a day, tiredly loading his equipment back into his van. He told Donnie Craddick he was leaving. The man was getting cosy to a young woman on a sofa, laughing at some anecdote or other. They both turned to look at him as he said he’d be back in the morning.
‘This is the man who is making all the noises and the smells, Camellia,’ said Craddick. ‘I’m having the place cleaned. Got my man Alfie to do it. Nobody cleans carpets better than Alfie.’
‘Nice to meet you, Alfie,’ said Camellia.
‘She’s going to be my wife,’ Craddick added. ‘Quite a catch, huh?’
Alfie nodded. Unusual catch, too, he thought. Not what he expected. She looked a decent sort, for one thing.
‘Alfie brings a little artistry to carpet cleaning. Has to come out someplace, doesn’t it, Alfie? See, he’s a bit of a closet artist. Produces amateur plays, don’t you, Alfie?’
Alfie raised a shoulder, just wanting to get out of there.
‘That’s great,’ said Camellia with genuine interest. ‘Maybe we should come and see one, one of these days.’
Donnie Craddick shook his head. ‘I don’t go in for that amateur stuff. Usually they’re just so unconvincing and lame.’
‘That’s not fair, Donnie,’ she countered. ‘I’ve seen some really good ones.’
‘Not in Overthorpe, I imagine,’ he said. ‘A little dickybird tells me that when you were a kid you wanted to be a writer or an artist or something, Alfie.’
‘Something like that. A long time ago.’ How the hell had he found that out? Was nothing sacred?
‘Seems the lure of the shag pile was stronger, eh?’ he grinned.
‘Seems so.’
‘OK, time for you to be off then,’ he dismissed with a peremptory flick of his hand. ‘See you tomorrow bright and early.’
Alfie uttered a noise that sounded like goodbye and went out to his van. He sat behind the wheel, fuming like mad. Eventually he gunned the engine and was glad to leave the place. But he couldn’t get over what Barry had told him about his little altercation with Duncan. So instead of heading home he went round to Duncan’s house.
He knocked loudly, rang the doorbell, but there was no reply. He thought that he must be out, but didn’t think Duncan’s injuries would allow him to go very far just yet, so he tried the door handle. The door was unlocked. He pushed it open, calling, ‘Duncan, are you in, mate? You OK?’
He was greeted by silence.
It was late evening. Camellia Lucas was in her bedroom standing at a large bay window and looking out across the stark manicured grounds of Red House. She’d seen Barry Stocker finish his shift, enter the Jag and drive it away to park in the garage. She told Donnie she was tired, it had been a long day, and he’d tried to kiss her. She could read in his eyes what he wanted, hoping, no doubt, that by getting her up here all alone he’d finally be able to have sex with her. But she’d fobbed him off with the excuse that that wasn’t to happen until after they were married. She was an old-fashioned girl, she said, with old-fashioned values. He nodded begrudgingly, like he always did, and she peeled away his fingers from her arm, smiled sweetly at him and went upstairs.
She turned from the window and locked the bedroom door. Next she lifted the suitcase onto the bed, unlocked it and lifted the lid. She took out a pile of neatly-folded clothes, a thick paperback, MP3 player, a cosmetic bag, and laid them carefully on the bed. At the bottom of the case she grasped a bundle wrapped in a checked woollen scarf, and tenderly unfolded it.
She studied the contents. Blew a speck of wool from it before wrapping it back up again, her face one of profound calm.
Soon, she thought. Very soon…
* * * *
11
Ginetta
For Steve Roche things had never been looking as good as they did right now.
He downed his short, rapped the glass on the bar for the barman to fill it up again. He liked the way the man eyed him with uncertainty. In a small town like this news travelled fast, and already the locals knew he was in partnership with Donnie Craddick. Well, not exactly a partnership – Donnie still called all the shots – but it wouldn’t be long before he’d raise himself up in the young Craddick’s eyes, like he had with his father.
He took some satisfaction from the way some of the locals glanced in his direction, then glanced away quickly. It was a case of respect by association. The barman filled up his glass.
‘On the tab?’ asked the landlord. They both knew the tab would not be paid off.
‘Sure,’ said Roche, his face flushed from the few shorts he’d had. ‘It’s Pete, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. So where are you staying?’ asked Pete, more from a pretence of politeness than anything.
‘Donnie got me a little house to rent. He’s looking after me.’ He raised the glass in a salute and drank half the whiskey. He licked his lips.
‘Planning on staying in Overthorpe long?’
‘What’s it to you?’ he snapped. Heads looked up.
‘Making conversation, is all,’ he said, holding up an apologetic hand.
‘Well maybe I don’t want to make conversation with you.’
Pete went to serve someone else. Roche winked at a young barwoman, who remained tight-lipped and distant. Bitch, he thought. Well one day they’d have to show him even more respect. Donnie Craddick was nothing but a young whippersnapper, who thought he was big like his father, but he wasn’t; he was wet behind the ears still. Steve Roche thought all it needed was a bit of patience and he could bring his own mob in to rule the roost, kick the young chick out of the Craddick nest like a bloody cuckoo. He smiled at that. Sipped his drink as if tasting a sweet, bright, promising future.
It grew late, and as he thought he should turn in for the night the landlord came up to him, leant on the bar close to him and whispered. ‘Mr Roche, someone wants to see you out back.’
His eyes flitted to the others in the pub to make sure nobody else had overheard.
‘Yeah, like who?’
‘I can’t say. Not here.’
‘Screw that. Tell whoever it is to come out here and see me,’ said Roche.
‘I can’t do that. Mr Ginetta won’t like it. You have to see him.’
‘Who the hell is Mr Ginetta?’
Pete’s eyes widened. ‘You’ve never heard of him?’
‘Should I have?’
‘Look, Mr Roche, I can’t be discussing this out here. Trust me, if Mr Ginetta wants to speak to you then you’ve got to speak to him. You can’t argue.’
‘Where is this guy?’
‘He’s downstairs, in the cellar.’
‘What’s he want?’ Roche asked uncertainly, though his interest had been sparked.
‘He didn’t say exactly. Someone as big as Ginetta isn’t likely to tell me anything.’
‘Big?’ He was doubly intrigued. Roche slipped off the stool and shrugged his coat into place. ‘OK, show me the way, Tonto.’
Pete led Roche out to the back of the pub and down the cellar steps. The place was in almost total darkness, a strong smell of beer pervading the cool room. The silver casks reflected the faint light. At the far end, in half-shadow, was a seated man, dressed in a black suit and sporting a black trilby. Another man stood by his side, big and burly with his hands clasped behind his back.
‘What’s going on?’ said Roche walking up to him.
‘That’s far enough,’ warned the standing man, holding up a hand.
Roche stopped. He squinted in the gloom. The seated man was about the same age as him, but had a square jaw, neat grey beard, eyes lost in shadow. He had a black cane in a leather-gloved hand. ‘So who are you, what do you want?’ said Roche.
The suited man reached into his pocket, pulled out a silver cigarette case. He slipped a cigarette out, put it into his mouth and nodded for his bodyguard to light it. He offered the case out to Roche. ‘Smoke, Mr Roche?’
The accent was Italian, or Spanish, or something like that. Steve Roche was never good at accents. ‘Sure,’ he said, taking one. The big guy lit it with a fancy lighter. ‘So you’re Ginetta,’ he said, puffing out smoke.
‘Mr Ginetta,’ he corrected.
‘So who exactly is Mr Ginetta?’
The man snapped the cigarette case closed and put it away. ‘We have lost so much elegance, don’t you think, Mr Roche? I still like my cigarettes in a case. Some people call me old-fashioned, but that’s no bad thing these days. I don’t care much for the shock of the new. I’m a traditional man.’
‘Cut to the chase, Ginetta,’ he said.
The bodyguard put a hand to the inside of his jacket pocket and Roche felt suddenly very uncomfortable. Ginetta put up a finger and the man let his arm drop again. ‘I shall say it only once, Mr Roche. Politeness to ones elders and superiors is also one of those things that is fast dissolving and something I insist on at all times.’
Roche swallowed. ‘Sure, sorry. Mr Ginetta.’
‘That’s better. Now we understand each other.’
‘What do you want with me?’ asked Roche.
‘You used to work for Mickey Craddick, right?’
He nodded. ‘Sure. He never told me about you.’
The man smiled. ‘And hardly ever likely to. Worms only hear the footsteps above, never see who’s walking.’
‘What’re you saying? You saying I’m a worm? Well I’ve got news for you.’
‘Regrettably, yes, you are a worm, Mr Roche. But I suspect you wish to be something more. Is that true?’
‘How’d you know about me?’
‘Let’s say Mickey Craddick and I had a close former relationship, dividing Overthorpe between us, as indeed we divided many towns over the years. I know all about Mickey’s little business ventures. I know where you fit in.’
‘Yeah? Like hell you do.’
‘Now you’re the worm on his son’s line, aren’t you, Mr Roche?’
‘I told you, I’m more than a bloody worm. Who do you think you’re talking to?’
‘Face it, Mr Roche, once Donnie’s finished with your services he’ll dump you, and the end result won’t be pretty. You know too much about too many things, but he needs your contacts just this once to shift the dodgy notes he’s got stashed. Once that’s over… Well, I needn’t spell it out. I know the Craddicks better than you.’
Roche backed away, but he heard the door shut and a key being turned in a lock. ‘How’d you know about the notes?’ He grew edgy.
Ginetta chuckled. It was a deep, menacing affair. ‘I know everything that happens in this town. I also know that young Craddick is set to step into my territory, tramp on the deal made between his father and me. I can’t have that. You see, as dear old Mickey Craddick’s life ebbed away he left his territory to me, lock, stock and barrel. Unofficially, of course; it not something you can go to a solicitor’s to draw up a will over. But I have a problem; his son – a man who did not get along with his father – comes along and wants to take over where his father left off. But I cannot allow that to happen. Needless to say, anyone who stands in my way, or who displays misplaced loyalty to him, will be removed quickly and without fuss. Do I make myself clear?’
Roche’s mouth was desert-dry. ‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Actually, I have a business proposition, Mr Roche.’
He cocked his head. ‘Business? What kind of business?’
‘You were a loyal and trusted employee of Mickey Craddick. That kind of reference goes a long way with me, Mr Roche. Now, at my age, and with such a wide territory to take care of, I can’t be shooting here, there and everywhere to keep my eye on every little thing, so I need good people around me who can do it for me. I need someone to manage Overthorpe and its environs.’
Roche gave a snort. ‘You’re forgetting Donnie Craddick. He’ll have something to say about that when he finds out about it.’
‘He won’t ever find out. Your father never talked very much to his estranged son, so he doesn’t know about me or my operation here. But I want him to learn real fast. And I need someone to help me. Which brings me back to the counterfeit money. How much is he paying you to shift it for him?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘Is that the way to speak to your future employer?’
‘Maybe I don’t want to work for you, ever thought that?’
Ginetta paused, closed his eyes in thought. ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘I never did think that, as it’s unthinkable for anyone not to do as I ask. How much is he paying you?’
‘Five thousand pounds.’
Ginetta laughed, turned to the other guy who also joined in with a gritty chuckle of his own. ‘As little as that? Do you know what he stands to make by selling that lot on? He’s taking you for a mug, Roche, and I think you’re better than that.’
‘OK, try me; how much better?’
‘I’ll give you one hundred thousand pounds if you let me know where the money is and let my boys take it.’
Roche let out a whistle. ‘Christ, Mr Ginetta, that’s very tempting, but he’ll kill me if he finds out.’
‘I’ll watch your back for you. I have people everywhere.’
‘So what’re you going to do with the counterfeit notes?’
‘That’s my business. You’ll go to Donnie Craddick and tell him the money’s been stolen. Then leave it to me.’
‘He’ll be as mad as hell.’
‘Tough.’
‘You’ll contact him?’
He nodded. ‘I’ll do a deal with him, let him have it back for a tidy sum. He’ll get a little rap on the knuckles and learn a salutary lesson, know I mean business, you’ll get a substantial reward for your loyalty to me, and when I finally quash Donnie Craddick – because trust me, one day I will – you’ll be my manager in Overthorpe, running operations for me and earning far more than Donnie Craddick is even capable of paying you.’
&nbs
p; Steve Roche bent his head in thought. ‘I don’t know, this is dangerous stuff, Mr Ginetta. I know Donnie Craddick – he’s not one to take things lying down. He’ll put up a fight. I’ve seen how mad he can get. Are you sure you can protect me?’
He gave a low laugh. ‘Mr Roche, I am the only one who can protect you. I can also make sure you pay very dearly if you double-cross me, or tell Donnie about any of this.’ He dropped the half-smoked cigarette to the floor and crushed it under his highly polished black shoes. ‘This meeting remains a secret, do you understand? You do not mention my name to anyone. Not even in passing.’
‘Can I think about this?’
‘No. Either you are quick-witted enough to recognise a good deal when you see one or you are not the man for me.’
Roche bit at his lower lip. ‘OK, Mr Ginetta, you’ve got a deal. But I need your protection till this comes off.’
Ginetta gave a slow nod. ‘You have my word, Mr Roche. Now, first things first; how do I get my hands on that money?’
* * * *
12
Bad Heir Day
‘He died intestate.’
‘What?’
‘Your father died intestate, Mr Craddick. It means – ‘
‘I know what it means!’ Donnie Craddick said, his voice going up an octave. ‘Are you telling me my father didn’t leave a will? Are you serious?’
‘That’s about the size of it, Mr Craddick.’
The solicitor’s office reminded him of the headmaster’s study at his old prep school, all dark oak and shelves lined with leather-bound books nobody ever moved except to dust. The solicitor reminded him of a teacher, too – a body well-padded and pushing at his suit, a round moon of a face, weak and faintly flushed in the cheeks, shiny bald head, pink lips, a man that probably used to get beat up as a kid, he thought.
‘That’s impossible…’ he said.
‘Are you all right, Donnie?’ asked Camellia Lucas at his side.
‘No, of course I’m not all right!’ he snapped, then thought better of it. ‘You’d best wait outside,’ he said. What he’d assumed was going to be a mere formality was turning into something quite different. He waited till Camellia closed the heavy door after her. ‘Have you checked?’
THE DOMINO BOYS (a psychological thriller) Page 9
