Craddick and Roche watched the car drive away.
‘Fish and chips, Roche?’
‘Sorry. It was all I could think of.’
‘In future leave the thinking to me,’ said Craddick, exasperated.
‘Do you reckon Stocker really has done something to Winslade? You got him all riled up, gave him a gun…’
‘I didn’t expect him to do anything,’ he snarled. ‘The man’s weak. They’re all weak. I had thought that Stocker might be able to help us get rid of Winslade eventually, to use his anger for my own ends, but not just yet. I thought he’d need a bit more working up.’
‘But maybe he got angry straight away… A man can do anything when he’s mad. Maybe he’s done it already.’
‘I haven’t got time for this. Get in the bloody car, Roche,’ he said. ‘I’m going to be late.’
‘And we’ve got the law watching us…’ Roche continued, taking up his position behind the wheel.
‘Are you getting cold feet? I hate people with cold feet.’
‘No, Mr Craddick. Just thinking that if Stocker has done something to Winslade and Lavery finds out, makes a link between you and him…’
Craddick thought about it for a moment. ‘I know.’ He tapped his thigh impatiently. ‘That idiot Stocker’s signed his own death warrant. Let’s get this meeting with Ginetta out of the way and then let me know how best you can get rid of Stocker, cleanly and with the minimum of fuss.’
‘You’ve got it, Mr Craddick.’
‘Now get me to Doncaster. If this Ginetta’s as powerful as Lavery’s made out then it might be best not to upset him. Not till I can get his measure.’
There was already a queue waiting outside the Silver Crucible Club. Mostly young women, he noticed, dressed reasonably smart, not like in some of the other clubs he’d been to where they were dressed cheap like tarts. The men were dressed casually, but there wasn’t a pair of jeans to be seen anywhere; all jackets and trousers.
Donnie Craddick went up to one of the two guys on the door letting people in, said he had to see Ginetta. The brawny man, dressed in a smart two-piece black suit and tie, nodded and said follow him inside. There were mild protestations from the queue about special treatment and Craddick shot a wink in its direction. The doorman took him to another guy, whispered something into his ear and then went back to the door.
‘Mr Ginetta is expecting you. If you care to follow me, I’ll show you to the table he usually reserves when he’s in town.’
The club was already in full swing. The music pounding out, the lights swirling around, drenching the dancers on the dance floor in a lurid wash of vibrant colours. Craddick was led through a maze of tables dressed in white cloth towards the back of the room. He was directed to sit on a plush red leather seat, another table in front laid out with white tablecloth and cutlery that sparked silver under the flickering lights. He was asked if he’d like a drink.
‘Where’s Ginetta?’ he asked, looking around him.
‘You were late and Mr Ginetta said he had other business to attend to. He told me to tell you he will be joining you presently and to have anything you like on the house.’
‘Does he own this place?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ the man replied. ‘One of many. That drink, sir?’
Craddick ordered and sat watching the dancers. He looked at his watch. The drink was brought to his table, but ten minutes went by without a sign of Ginetta. He was starting to get irritated when a woman sat down beside him on the leather seat. He stared at her.
She was slim, attractive, about thirty, he thought; black, figure-hugging dress, short enough to show her slender legs and black silk stockings. Her hair was black, too, at least in the club’s subdued light, and cut short. Gold flashed like tiny fires at her neck and ears. When she smiled, her red lips revealed a wonderful set of even white teeth.
‘Forgive me, I saw you from across the dance floor. Are you Mickey Craddick’s son?’
‘Who are you? Are you with Ginetta?’
‘Me? No! Not that at all. You’ve got to be Donnie Craddick, right? You’re the spitting image of Mickey Craddick when he was young. I’ve seen photographs…’
‘I’m sorry, Miss…?’
‘She put a hand to her chest. ‘Oh, please forgive me; you must think me a mad woman. My name is Susannah Storey. I’m a reporter for The South Yorkshire Chronicle, you know, the newspaper.’
‘I don’t follow you,’ he said. ‘What do you want?’
‘I have a column called Susie Storey’s People Stories…’ She cocked her head. ‘Yeah, I know it sounds lame, but I didn’t choose it. I write articles on people, prominent local people, important people, interesting people, that kind of thing. Thing is, I once wrote an article on your father Mickey. He was a councillor, a man of some importance in Overthorpe. He was very good to me, gave me all sorts of information, photographs, things like that. We got on really well.’
‘Look, I haven’t time for this,’ he said, pretending to study his watch. ‘I’ve got a meeting with someone soon. It would be great to reminisce about my father, but another time, huh?’
‘Actually, I wasn’t thinking about your father; I was thinking about you.’
‘In what way?’
‘I was sorry to hear your father had died. Such an important man to Overthorpe, but I was delighted to hear that he had a son who was in town. I was meaning to contact you, but so soon after the funeral I thought it insensitive. Then I saw you – I’m with friends over there – and I thought what the hell, I’ve got to come over and introduce myself.’
‘Nice to meet you, Miss Storey, but like I say, another time, eh?’
‘I’d like to run an article on you in the Chronicle. You know, how you plan to fill your father’s shoes, a bit of background on you, your plans for the future. If anything it’s guaranteed to raise your profile. It did with your father.’
‘Raise my profile…’ He mulled it over.
‘The Chronicle is one of the most widely read papers in the area. It will help put you on the map, so to speak. And I think people will be interested to learn about Mickey Craddick’s son.’
‘I don’t know; I don’t like publicity.’
‘Are you planning on running for councillor, like your father?’
He searched her eager face, brimming over with life, with ambition. A beautiful face. ‘Never gave it much thought,’ he admitted.
‘Oh you have to!’ she enthused. ‘That’s a sure way of getting you inserted into the establishment here. It would be marvellous to see Mickey Craddick’s son taking over from where he left off.’ She sidled up closer. ‘So what about that interview?’
‘I’ll think about it.’ He saw a man approaching, another bulkier shadow close behind him. ‘You have to leave now.’
She apologised profusely, rose from the seat as the man came closer. ‘Here,’ she said, taking a piece of paper from her bag. She scribbled on it with a pen and thrust it at Craddick. ‘That’s my private number; give me a bell if you’d like to take me up on the offer.’ She smiled sweetly at him, nodded an apology to the man who was now standing by the table, and scooted off to be lost in the crowd of people on the dance floor.
‘Attracting the ladies, Mr Craddick?’ said the man, his Italian accent thick. ‘So like your father!’ He chuckled and eased himself down onto the seat. Someone came immediately to take his drinks order. The minder stood some distance from them but close enough to keep an eye on proceedings. ‘I’m Roberto Ginetta. A pleasure to meet you,’ he said, though tellingly he did not hold a hand out for Craddick to shake. He rested his cane against the leather seat. ‘I hope you have been looked after. You were late,’ he said.
‘Unexpected delay,’ said Craddick.
‘I don’t like it when people are late,’ he said. ‘It shows disrespect. Respect is a thing of beauty and in short supply these days.’
‘It happens,’ said Craddick. ‘OK, let’s get down to business, Ginetta; you�
�ve got my money, I want it back.’
Roberto Ginetta’s face was impassive. He drew in a long, calm breath. ‘It’s Mr Ginetta, Mr Craddick. And I decide when we get down to business. In my house you follow my rules. Do I make myself clear?’
Donnie Craddick swallowed, his lips beginning to dry out. He sipped his drink. ‘Have it your way. But I’m no wet-behind-the-ears sap you can play games with.’
Ginetta’s lips spread into a slow, lazy smile. ‘And I wouldn’t have expected anything less of a son of Mickey Craddick. I admire your courage. Your father had courage, but it was often a courage that bordered on recklessness. I was rather hoping a man, privately educated like you, a man of means and taste, might approach things a little differently. But your father is always beneath the surface, no?’
‘I’m not my father,’ he said, getting heated up and failing to disguise it.
‘Oh but we all are, Mr Craddick. It is inescapable. My own father was a prisoner of war in England – kept in a village not far from here. He was a farmer, a poor man whose feet remained grounded in the earth he tilled. He met my mother, an Englishwoman, when he was let out to help on the land. She was a Land Girl. After the war he married her, went back to Italy, where I was born. But he saw how poor his own country had become, and saw an opportunity to better his life back in England. But he remained a poor, simple farmer at heart, with limited horizons and very simple expectations. Pride in your family, honouring your elders and betters, work hard to get what you want, these were all important to him. And so I am my father in these respects. We can never escape the influence of our fathers, Mr Craddick. It is in our blood.’
‘Well thanks for the trip down memory lane, Mr Ginetta, but let’s cut the bullshit, huh? We both know why we’re here. You’ve got my money.’
‘It is my money now unless I choose to let you have it back.’
‘Damn you!’ he said. ‘That’s my money and I want it!’
‘Keep your voice down, Mr Craddick, there’s a good man. Unfortunately, you can kick up a fuss and throw tantrums all you want, but the fact of the matter is that the money is now mine and you can’t do anything about that. However, I am willing to sell it back to you.’
‘What? You want me to buy back my own bloody money?’
‘Let’s not see this as a mere business transaction, Mr Craddick, but a marker.’
‘You’ve got to be joking.’
‘A marker of how we will operate in future.’
‘You expect me to become your lapdog?’
He shook his head. ‘Not a lapdog, Mr Craddick; that is so demeaning. But the underdog, yes.’
‘And maybe I don’t want to be the underdog. Maybe I’ve got plans…’
‘Very commendable. But those plans must be exercised elsewhere. Overthorpe belongs to me now, just one town of many, Mr Craddick, and in truth hardly worth my effort. But I have appearances to keep up. I don’t take kindly to interlopers on my patch. However, do not get me wrong, I’m not an unfeeling, ungenerous man; I’m offering you your fair share of the pickings – a little extortion, minor drug-running, that kind of thing. Who knows, as you grow older, more mature, perhaps you will have bigger and better things. But of course that’s only if you buy back the money and take it as the peace offering it’s intended to be. I’m not suggesting I take everything your father worked for – you have a birthright, I understand that – but that you show me the respect due to me. So, the cost to you of buying back the money and securing a productive and profitable future with me as your guardian angel, so to speak, is one hundred thousand pounds.’
‘What? Are you pissing up my back?’
‘Accept the offer, Mr Craddick. You stand to make a substantial profit still on what is, most assuredly, high quality merchandise.’
‘Accept that? Like hell I will!’
Ginetta leaned closer to him. ‘I warn you; you do not want to instigate a turf war here. I have by far the biggest guns.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ Craddick said, getting to his feet.
‘I warn you one last time, Mr Craddick. Either you accept my generous offer or suffer the consequences.’
‘Screw you, Ginetta,’ he said. ‘I’m going to be as big as my father – bigger even – and no over-the-hill wannabe Godfather is going to pull my strings for me.’
‘That’s a shame,’ said Ginetta. ‘But sobering to see that I was right; we can never escape our fathers.’
Donnie Craddick grunted and stormed across the floor to the exit.
Roberto Ginetta looked across at his minder. Passed him a knowing smile.
* * * *
15
One Last deed
It was late evening. Barry Stocker sat at the kitchen table under the glare of a bare light bulb, staring at an open can of lager, a box of paracetamols, and a handgun.
He’d bought the booze with money Donnie Craddick had tossed him, a ten-pack, and had already worked his way through half. It didn’t make him feel good to get drunk on Craddick’s money, but he didn’t have any of his own and he needed to blot things out.
Except it didn’t have that effect. Booze rarely did, he thought. He was one of those who didn’t get happy, didn’t get forgetful; he got morose, a cloud of dark thoughts stirred awake by the alcohol, flitting inside his skull like a murmuration of black-winged demons blotting out the light.
He picked up the handgun again. Studied the tiny scratch marks in the dull metal surface, evidence of age and use. It didn’t feel strange to him anymore. It rested in his hand quite snugly, as if they had been made for one another. He didn’t feel afraid of it either, or what it could do, the dangerous possibilities.
He let it fall to the table with a clatter that shattered the silence. Picked up his mobile phone and checked it to see if a message had come through from his wife. But it was as he expected; nothing. From anyone. Not a soul.
The doorbell rang. He hated that sound, thought about disconnecting it many times. He ignored it, drank some more. But the sound kept intruding. Drowsily he stuffed the gun out of sight into the belt of his jeans, got to his feet and staggered to the door, tripping over a pair of boots along the way and cursing.
‘OK!’ he shouted. ‘Keep your bloody hair on!’
It was Alfie Parker.
‘You look like crap,’ he said.
‘What do you want?’ said Barry shortly.
‘I came to see how you’re doing.’ Alfie brushed by him.
‘Come in, why don’t you?’ he said slamming the door. It refused to shut so he slammed it again and again till it finally gave in. ‘Damn place is falling apart.’ He followed Alfie through to the kitchen.
‘Been having a party?’ Alfie asked, seeing the empty cans of lager lined up like a crushed little army of despair.
‘Yeah, invited all my friends round…’ He indicated with his hand at the empty kitchen. ‘Oh dear, seems I don’t have any. Never mind, more booze for me.’ He flopped down into his chair again and picked up a can. His face was screwed up in pain as he did so, and he clutched his stomach.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Alfie, taking a chair opposite. He looked at the paracetamols.
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ he said. ‘Got a headache, that’s all.’
‘Strange place to have a headache, Barry.’
‘So you’re doctor Kildare all of a sudden? Give me a break.’
‘Has Craddick done that?’ He nodded at his midriff.
Barry drained the can, crushed it and set it beside the others. ‘What if he did? What do you care?’
‘You’re my friend, Barry. Of course I care.’
‘Yeah…’ he mumbled, taking another can out of the pack, popping the tab. ‘So you say.’
‘Look, hang in there, mate. Donnie Craddick will get his due.’
He laughed. ‘That’s so good to hear, Alfie. That’s made me feel a whole lot better. Suddenly my guts don’t feel half as bad as they did.’ His brows lowered. ‘Face it, he’s got us, Alfie. He�
�s got me. He’s got to Duncan, too.’ His face grew sad. ‘Have you heard from him? Has Duncan been in touch?’
Alfie shook his head. ‘He’ll be fine, don’t worry.’
‘It’s that bastard Donnie Craddick – he’s got to go, Alfie.’ He reached behind him, yanked out the gun and placed it on the table.
‘Christ, Barry! Is that real?’
‘Yeah, it’s real.’
‘Loaded?’
‘Want to see?’ He lifted it up.
Alfie put up his hands. ‘No I don’t! Barry, where’d you get that thing?’
‘Donnie gave it to me.’
‘Why, in Heaven’s name? Why’d you take it?’
‘I’ve got my reasons.’
‘Well give it back to him, you idiot. You can’t be seen with that.’
Barry peered down the barrel of the gun. ‘I’m going to take care of Craddick once and for all,’ he said.
‘Barry, that’s the booze talking, that’s not you. Put the gun away…’
‘I know what I’m saying, Alfie. Craddick’s scum. I ought to kill him.’
‘Barry! You bloody moron! Put that thing away,’ he said, reaching out to take the gun. Barry pulled it out of his reach. ‘Give it to me. I’ll get rid of it.’
He shook his head. ‘I mean it, Alfie; someone should kill him and it might as well be me.’
‘That’s absurd and you know it. You’d never hurt a fly. You’ve had too much to drink and you’re talking bollocks. You always did.’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Barry’s talking bollocks again. Poor, thick little Barry. Never quite got what it takes up here,’ he said, tapping his temple. ‘Not the avid reader like you, huh? OK, so you might have a wall of bloody books but just because I only ever read two doesn’t make me an imbecile.’
‘I never ever said that. You’re rambling and feeling sorry for yourself, that’s all. Now give me the gun.’
He put the gun back into the belt of his jeans. ‘Go screw yourself, Alfie. How could you, eh? How could you believe I did something to Duncan?’
‘It’s not like that, Barry.’
THE DOMINO BOYS (a psychological thriller) Page 12
