The four men, hands raised, filed round the crates and faced Lavery.
Ginetta wasn’t giving up. ‘You and Winslade have been like a pair of terriers, always on my damn tail. Well if you think you’ve won think again. I’ve got low friends in high places. Very high places.’
‘Can it, Ginetta,’ said Lavery. ‘You don’t know how good this makes me feel. It’s been a long time coming.’
Ginetta’s minder pulled out his gun, and in an instant levelled it at Lavery. He let off a couple of shots in quick succession, the blasts shattering the quiet and echoing around the empty room. Roche and Craddick, ducked down, their hands instinctively placed over their heads. The bullets missed Lavery and he aimed and let off a single round. Ginetta’s minder clutched his chest, a splash of red on his white shirtfront. He staggered backwards against the crates, groaning.
Ginetta had pulled out his own gun and he fired it at Lavery. The inspector was struck in the shoulder, rocked on his feet for a moment and then let off a few rounds in the direction of Ginetta. The Italian yelped in pain, his hand going to his stomach. Blood poured over his hand. But he brought the gun up to bear again as Lavery dashed forward. He fired twice and Lavery collapsed into a heap ten yards from Ginetta. They heard him cry out in pain, then release a long, gargling breath.
‘Jesus, he’s dead!’ cried Roche.
Ginetta slid down the crate to the floor. He looked up at Craddick. ‘Get… out….’ he said faintly, his gun falling to the floor with a dull clatter.
‘They shot and killed a cop!’ cried Roche. ‘Christ, we’re in a heap of shit!’
Craddick crouched down to Ginetta. He grabbed him by the lapels. ‘Where’s my case of money? Where’d you put my hundred thousand?’
‘Boss, the police will be here any minute. We’ve got to get out!’
‘I’m not leaving empty handed. Where’s my case, you careless bastard!’
Ginetta croaked out a string of garbled words that were barely audible. Then he gasped painfully, shuddered as if cold and closed his eyes.
‘He’s dead. Leave him. Let’s get out of here.’
Craddick screamed in rage and let Ginetta fall to the blood-spattered floor. He took one last lingering look at the crates and followed Roche as he bound for the door. They launched themselves into the BMW, Craddick taking the wheel. The car’s tyres threw up a cloud of stones and dust as he hit the gas and the car tore through the yard towards the exit.
* * * *
21
The Next Best Thing
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Stop your snivelling.’
‘It was like a goddamn slaughterhouse back there…’
Steve Roche’s face was deathly white and his eyes looked to be bulging from their sockets. Donnie Craddick studied him with contempt. The sunlight heated up the interior of the car and Craddick hit the button for the air conditioning. The fans blew out a stream of chilled air.
‘Direct me to the slurry pit,’ he said evenly.
‘What? The slurry pit? Why? We’ve gotta get out of here altogether.’
‘I’ve got Camellia to take care of. I need to see it.’
‘I’m not staying…’ He shook his head exaggeratedly. ‘No way am I going to hang around here.’
‘You’ll do as I say, Roche!’ Craddick roared, taking the man by the collar and yanking him close. The car swerved alarmingly.
Roche nodded, his lower lip bouncing loosely with the action as if made from rubber. ‘But we’ve gotta go…’
‘Later. I’ve things to take care of.’ He placed both hands on the wheel, his knuckles white and hard. ‘So make like a sat-nav.’
They drove in silence back to the outer fringes of Overthorpe. The mine had altered the land hereabouts forever. The great black spoil heaps had grown over the last hundred years, clawed from deep in the earth and dumped in a vast, dark and undulating lunar landscape. Some of the huge hills of slag had been planted with grass, but the spoil showed through in myriad patches, like a black skull losing its hair. The mine buildings had been hauled down a few years ago and in their place was a flat, concrete and rubble wasteland with no money to develop it.
The car tore across the uneven land and Craddick brought it to a halt beside a high wire fence strung between concrete posts. Beyond the fence the slag heaps rose dark and menacing. ‘Through there,’ said Roche. ‘Are you sure you need to see this now?’
‘I’m sure. Nobody comes here?’
‘No reason. It’s dead. You’ll have to walk some way to reach the slurry pits and sinkhole.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘It’s muddy.’
‘I don’t care!’ he said.
Roche vacated the car. Craddick reached across to the glove compartment and took out the gun. He slipped it into his jacket pocket.
‘This place is an eyesore,’ Craddick said, looking over the roof of the BMW as he slammed the door shut. ‘This entire town is an eyesore. Show me the way.’
Roche led him along the perimeter of the fence. Crows, as black as the land, cried high above them, the only sombre sounds. The man found the gap in the fence he was looking for, peeled back the wire and held it up for Craddick to ease himself through. He moaned that his shoes were already caked in a thick, gloopy dark-grey mud, but he thought it best not to look at Craddick who was breathing heavy close behind him. Roche instinctively touched the knife he kept at his breast, his nerves still in shreds from the violent events at the factory. He could have been killed in the crossfire, he thought gloomily. It was lucky they both got out of there without a scratch.
They took a path between two towering spoil heaps, broached a ridge and came to the edge of a sheer drop.
‘This is it,’ Roche said breathlessly.
It was like a small volcano, thought Craddick. A massive round crater filled with stagnant, oil-black water. The still, dull surface of the water reflected the sky, and for a moment, as the Sun came out from behind cloud, it appeared as though the pit was a giant, malevolent eye staring back up at them.
‘My father used this?’ said Craddick.
‘Yeah. Twice. God knows how many people ended up in that thing. It became the unofficial dumping ground for human trash.’
‘Never a truer word,’ said Craddick, taking out the gun. ‘You double-crossed me, Roche.’
Roche turned on his heel to see the gun aimed at his chest. ‘Wait! Mr Craddick! I didn’t double-cross you!’
‘It’s because of you I’ve lost both the counterfeit notes and my hundred thousand.’
‘It’s a lie! A damn lie! Put the gun away, Mr Craddick, we can talk this over…’ Roche had backed away, but found his feet on the edge of the sinkhole and staggered dizzily as he glanced behind him, down into the depths.
‘There’s nothing to talk over, Roche. Hand over the money Ginetta gave you.’
‘I don’t have any money.’
Craddick fired the gun and Roche jerked backwards a little, his eyes looking imploringly at Craddick. The gun fired again and Roche collapsed like a dead weight to the ground, his face sinking into the black earth.
Craddick bent down to him, turned him over. Roche was still alive, blood frothing from his lips, a harsh gurgling sound coming from his chest as he tried to breathe. His shirt was covered in blood and slag. Craddick peeled back the man’s jacket and took out the envelope. It was lathered in Roche’s blood. He opened it, looked inside.
‘This will do as compensation,’ said Craddick.
He put the envelope into his own jacket and grabbed hold of Roche.
‘Please…’ gasped Roche, his eyes screwed up in agony.
With one push Craddick rolled Roche over the edge of the sinkhole and watched as the man tumbled over and over down the steep side, till he splashed into the leaden water. He disappeared from view immediately, one or two large bubbles rising to the surface. Then the water settled, the scum closing back over the rent in the surface.
Donn
ie Craddick trudged back to the car, wiped himself clean on rags from the boot and drove back to Red House.
He went immediately to his father’s office, grabbed a bottle of vodka and swigged great gulps from the neck. He didn’t know what to do next. He needed to think.
Could they trace him to Ginetta? Put him at the scene of the killing at the factory?
What would his father have done?
Damn his father! He drank some more.
I need to get away from here, he thought. Need time and space to think. Go abroad maybe. And Camellia? Still need to take care of her. Can’t leave her alive, that much wasn’t in doubt. He could still use the sinkhole to dispose of her.
He drained half the bottle, his head starting to get a little foggy. He looked at his hands wrapped around the bottle; they were caked still in dirt and Roche’s dried blood. His jacket was filthy. He took out the bloodstained envelope of money, laid it on the desk. That’s all he had. It wouldn’t be safe to show his face for a while. He didn’t really have the hundred thousand to pay back the loan. He was hoping to sell the duff notes first, make a profit and then give them their money back. This was one hell of a mess, he thought glumly, taking out a wad of notes.
He thought he could almost hear his father laughing at him.
But something wasn’t right. He peeled off one of the notes and stared hard at it. Desperately checked it over. This wasn’t real, he was certain. Ginetta had most likely paid Roche in counterfeit notes.
He laughed quietly at Roche’s stupidity, but sighed in despair when he considered the fact that he didn’t have any real money himself.
OK, get your act together, Donnie, he thought, putting the bottle down. There is a way out of this. One thing at a time. Think it through. You can still use this money. Some unwitting sap will fall for it somewhere. Clean up the mess as much as you can, get out of here, get some space to think things over.
He screwed his eyes up, because his mind was starting to repeat itself.
Right, gather everything you need.
He took the key out of his jacket pocket and unlocked the drawer to retrieve his father’s red books. There were many names in there that would be of help to him. A seam of names that he’d only just begun to mine, a host of possibilities to exploit. He’d recover from all this. He wasn’t finished yet. He was only just starting.
The drawer was empty.
He yanked it all the way out, looked behind it as if somehow they’d all managed to fall out the back. He tossed the empty drawer to the floor and gave a screech of panic and incomprehension. He stood up, looked around him aimlessly. Then realisation crashed in on him like a cold wave.
‘No,’ he said, ‘that can’t be possible.’
He grabbed his mobile, found Susie Storey’s number and rang it. There was no reply. He rang directory enquiries, asked for the contact details of the South Yorkshire Chronicle newspaper.
‘I need to speak to Susie Storey,’ he said. ‘It’s urgent.’
‘Susie who?’ asked the voice at the other end.
‘Susie Storey. She’s a reporter at the Chronicle.’
‘I’m sorry. We don’t have a Susie Storey working for the Chronicle.’
Donnie Craddick gasped. ‘Yes you bloody do!’ he yelled. ‘Let me speak to her!’
‘It’s no use getting overheated, sir,’ the voice said patiently, ‘you’re obviously mistaken. Maybe this Susie Storey works for another newspaper. We certainly don’t have one working here.’
Craddick hung up, threw the phone across the room. Put a hand to his head. What the hell is going on? Why would she take the books? How did she even know about the books? Who was she?’
Confused, he lashed out at the desk, knocking off lamps and books and pieces of paper.
You’ve still got to get out, he thought. There’s an answer to all this somewhere, but that will have to wait. Get the hell out of here.
Got to take care of Camellia first.
His mind now focussed on this task he checked his gun and dashed upstairs to Camellia’s room. It wasn’t locked. Had they locked up the room when they left earlier? He couldn’t remember. He hadn’t thought it important at the time; she wasn’t going anywhere and there was no one else around to go snooping where they shouldn’t.
But the room was empty. Camellia’s bindings were strewn on the bed.
‘Shit!’ he said breathlessly. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’
He staggered out of the room, down the landing, throwing open the many doors, his gun at the ready.
‘Camellia! Where are you?’
Silence.
He sank down to his knees, his head bowed. This was a damn nightmare, he thought. It had all gone terribly wrong and he thought he’d planned things so well. He wanted to burst into tears, but the thought that his old man was staring down at him forced him to choke back his rising emotion.
That’s when he saw the crumpled fifty pound note lying on the carpet.
He frowned. Got to his feet and went over to it, picked it up. He checked closely. He wasn’t certain, but it looked like one of the counterfeit notes.
Glancing around him he saw another, some feet away. He went to it. This time he left it there, because some way from this was another. And another. A breadcrumb trail of duff fifty pound notes. Deliberately laid.
They ended outside a bedroom door way down the landing, in a part of the house little used.
He had his gun at the ready, flung open the door.
In the centre of the room was a pile of neatly stacked cardboard boxes. A lot of them. He peeled back the lid from the nearest.
It was filled to the brim with money. His own counterfeit money.
What the blazes is going on, he thought?
The sound of police car sirens from outside brought him to his senses. Terror pumped through him and he ran downstairs, heading for the rear door. Maybe he could scale the walls at the back.
But the door crashed open and two police officers barged in. Donnie Craddick raised his gun, fired blindly, three shots in succession, and ran back into the house. He heard gunfire at his back and his legs felt as if they’d turned to rubber. A cacophony of loud voices demanded he should throw down the gun. But he couldn’t. It was glued to his hand in panic.
‘I didn’t kill Ginetta!’ he screamed back at the shadowy figures that ran for cover. There were more shadows flitting at the windows, too. ‘This isn’t what it looks like. That isn’t my money up there!’
A window shattered and he turned in its direction, fired blindly. Then the gun clicked on empty. He shook the weapon, as if the action might do something about it. A gunshot rang out and he felt something thump like a mighty fist into his back. He fell to the ground immediately, his nose flattened against the carpet. The pain flooded in and he yelled out in agony. He was aware of figures entering the room, taking up positions all around him.
‘I’m innocent,’ he gasped faintly.
‘Like hell you are,’ a police officer’s deep voice rumbled near his ear. ‘You’re screwed, Craddick. On top of everything else you’ve done – suspected murder, kidnapping and holding a woman against her will, in possession of counterfeit notes, and the possible disappearance of Steve Roche – you’ve shot and seriously injured a police officer. We’re going to throw the goddamn book at you, Craddick. Your father managed to slip off the hook many times, but your luck’s just run out, and for us you’re the next best thing. We’ll settle for the small fish instead of the big one.’
‘I ain‘t a small fish!’ he screamed. ‘I’m a big fish! I’m a big fish!’
Donnie Craddick groaned as they cuffed his hands behind his back. Helplessly, he sank his nose into the carpet. The smell of carpet cleaning fluid from the fibres made him feel sick.
* * * *
22
Serious Business
Barry Stocker was sitting by the swimming pool sipping an iced drink. The hot Spanish Sun beat down on him. He’d slapped loads of cream on his bare arms a
nd legs, because he would burn very easily if not. The ripples of light on the pool’s surface was hypnotic, made him feel drowsy with it. The dappled light through the trees played over his paperback book, open on the floor by his chair. He thought he should pick it up and read, but his mind couldn’t concentrate. How long had it been now? Three hours? Four? Duncan should be arriving back at the villa soon, surely. How long did it take to drive to the airport and back? The waiting was murder.
He’d just picked up his book to try and force his way through another page when he heard Duncan’s hired people carrier coming up the hill to the villa. Stood up and watched it thread its way up the rough stone-strewn road, disappear behind dense vegetation. He went inside, the cool of the villa’s interior contrasting sharply with the heat outside. He opened the front door just as the car was pulling to a halt outside. Duncan Winslade waved at him from the driver’s seat, and Barry waved meekly back. Duncan cut the engine, clambered out. Four more people vacated the vehicle too. They grabbed suitcases from the boot and off the roof rack.
‘They’re all here,’ said Duncan. ‘Safe and sound.’
‘So it worked?’ said Barry.
‘Like a treat.’
Alfie Parker went up to Barry. He was grinning broadly. He had a suitcase in his hand, sunglasses on. ‘Barry, I’d like you to meet Roberto Ginetta, his minder, Susie Storey and Inspector Lavery.’
The tiny crowd of people came up to the villa’s entrance.
‘So it worked?’ Barry said again.
‘There’s an echo around here,’ said Alfie. ‘Of course it worked. Thanks to the Overthorpe Amateur Players and a few of its latest stars.’
‘And thanks to a brilliant script written by one Alfie Parker,’ said Duncan Winslade joining them. ‘Shall we sit by the pool, grab a drink before lunch?’ The suggestion was met by unanimous enthusiasm.
Alfie introduced Barry to everyone properly, using their real names. He was still in a state of shellshock. On the night he was taken by Inspector Lavery he was convinced he was being taken to the police station, only to find that it was his friend Duncan Winslade waiting for him with the news that he’d been an unwitting part of a sting planned by Alfie and him to rid Overthorpe of the Craddicks once and for all. After a brief explanation Duncan and he were on a plane the next morning bound for Spain, but Duncan refused to say more till it was all over and they were sitting by the pool.
THE DOMINO BOYS (a psychological thriller) Page 17
