by Shaun Baines
"Could be worse."
"Lapsen Saalis means child in Finnish."
"I thought she was Latvian."
Simon wiped a bead of sweat from his temple. "That's what she tells people."
"Why?" Bronson asked.
The heat was building in the tent, the sun cooking them to a boiled mess. The macaroon in Bronson's hands melted, staining his skin with grease. He let it slip to the floor and covered it with his foot.
Simon produced a pink handkerchief with the flourish of a magician. He gave it to Bronson, who used it to clean his hands.
"Her past is murkier than I thought," Simon said. "I get the impression she wants to tell me, but she can't find the words."
Bronson thought of Daniel and even in his imagination, he cast a shadow over Bronson's face. "Must be difficult."
"She's been acting strange since you turned up," Simon said. "There's a history between her and the Daytons. It's unravelling her."
"The Daytons have never worked with the bikers. The Sheriff wouldn't allow it."
Simon's face looked pained, as if one of his cakes had sunk.
"Are you telling me different?" Bronson asked.
"I found this," Simon said, returning to the deckchair. "In her office."
From the same pocket he'd produced the handkerchief, Simon withdrew a folded piece of paper. It was yellow with age and spotted with black mould.
"You just found it? Lying around?" Bronson asked, taking the paper. It crackled in his touch and he opened it carefully. With his tongue pressed between his teeth, he read the spidery text, a frown appearing on his brow.
"Why would she hide it from me?" Simon asked.
Bronson couldn't answer him. It was an invoice of some kind and had obviously been hidden for a while. Judging by the yellowing paper, it was decades old.
He checked both sides of the paper expecting a revelation, only to be disappointed.
"I don't see the big deal," Bronson said.
Simon seized the paper and held it up to the light. "The writing is faded. Look closely."
Grey scratching appeared and Bronson leaned forward. He squinted, trying to decipher the text through narrowed eyes. "Does that say 'cargo'?" he asked.
Simon jabbed the paper. "And next to that it says 'Dayton.'"
Bronson ran a finger over his scarred upper lip. "That can't be us. You're being paranoid," he said, stamping on Simon's macaroon.
Folding the paper, Simon squeezed the creases between white fingertips. "You don't hide something like this unless it's important."
"All couples have secrets," Bronson said. "It's what makes a marriage."
"So I should put it back in her office? Keep it to myself and not mention it?" Simon turned his back on Bronson, folding his arms. "That's rich coming from you."
The temperature in the tent dropped to a chill. The crushed macaroon was stuck to Bronson's shoe and he attempted to scrape it off, but he only succeeded in smearing it further up his leg.
Simon's paranoia was contagious. To be a Dayton man was to be okay with their secrets, but Bronson was not okay. When loyalty met self-preservation, it was a conflict he couldn't ignore. Daniel was hiding something. The Sheriff was hiding something.
Bronson stroked his twitching cheek.
But was it the same thing?
***
Daniel crouched in a stationery cupboard, hiding in the dark. The warped wooden shelves were buckled under a smattering of supplies. Cobwebs hung from light fittings, but the spiders were long gone. He had no idea what the warehouse had once been. Some sort of office based business, perhaps selling insurance to Newcastle residents before they realised the worst had already happened. Maybe it was a travel agent offering them a chance to escape. Whatever had been going on here, it was over.
Daniel ignored Kockley's whimpering. He'd brought the farmer to identify the Motorheads when they arrived. As far as he was concerned, there was no need to engage with him any further than that.
Checking the time on his phone, Daniel bit his lip. Eisha was in school for three more hours with no-one to pick her up. Everyone he knew was stationed around the warehouse, ready for the ambush. Daniel was the only gangster he knew whose crimes were organised around child care.
He'd called his mother, thinking she'd like to spend time with her granddaughter, but there was no answer.
And while it was true his mother had been a regular visitor to Five Oaks, Daniel had often found her alone. In rooms she had no reason to be in.
"I used to live here," Liz had said as way of an excuse. "This was my home."
She'd been in empty spaces and dust ridden closets, but Daniel had hidden the memory stick well. He had known what she was doing from the start. Standing in the Hancock museum, his mother's ulterior motive was clear. The mention of the secretive files had dimmed her eyes. Line at corner of mouth. Rapid heartbeat. Daniel recalled the signals she'd beamed at him, like a light house at midnight.
Daniel wasn't worried. He was smarter than her. Liz's visits had decreased of late, evidence he took to mean she had finally given up.
His thoughts were interrupted by the whelping of Kockley. The farmer tottered on a wooden box. His head was duct taped to a window overlooking the car park.
"Not long now," Daniel said, shaking the stiffness from his legs.
The box creaked. "You didn't have to do this, you know?" Kockley said. "I would have stood here on my own."
His words were muffled from the crowding of jowls over his mouth and Daniel took a moment to decipher them. He wasn't going to let the farmer free range. Daniel needed him to identify the Motorheads. There were some unhinged people waiting to greet them and he didn't want to surprise innocent shoppers by mistake. He also didn't want the farmer alerting the Motorheads ahead of the ambush. For those reasons, and because the chance discovery of duct tape had stoked Daniel's imagination, Kockley was now secured to the window.
"Concentrate on the car park," Daniel said, gnawing on a fingernail.
While he wasn't worried about his mother's actions, Daniel was concerned with the Sheriff's lack of them. She hadn't returned his calls, either.
Kockley wriggled on the box, his cheek squeaking on the window pane.
"What is it?" Daniel asked.
"Someone's coming." Kockley slapped his hand against the wall, his feet dancing a desperate shuffle. "They can see me. They can see me through the window."
Daniel peered over Kockley's shoulder before stepping back when the pig smell hit him.
"Is it the Motorheads?" he asked.
"Get me off here," the farmer said through his flapping jowls. "They'll kill me."
Daniel clamped his hands either side of Kockley's head and yanked him clear.
Kockley howled as he tumbled backward and Daniel took his place. An estate car meandered down the road. The sun bounced off the windows, obscuring the occupants. They were taking it slow, scoping the scene before committing themselves.
Daniel's heart quickened.
"Make a sound," he said to the farmer, "and I'll tape you to the ceiling."
Kockley sobbed and held his pig pendant like a security blanket.
The car stopped, but kept its engine running. The driver stepped outside, his eyes scouring the car park for signs of life. Seemingly satisfied he wasn't being watched, he went to the rear of his car, popping open the boot.
Daniel strained for a better view as the driver disappeared. Seconds passed and he remerged dragging a stained mattress from his car. He wrestled it to the ground and jumped back behind the wheel, speeding off in the direction he had come from.
"You have to protect me," Kockley said, his voice high-pitched and whiney. "If they see me with you, I'm dead."
Daniel slammed his fist against the wall for silence. Dust cascaded from the ceiling.
"Relax," he said. "It was just someone dumping their rubbish, which is exactly what will happen to you if you don't shut up."
Had the Sheriff been there,
she could have alerted Daniel to the false alarm. Her role had been to vet all oncoming vehicles and prevent him from accidentally killing fly-tippers.
Wherever she was, Daniel hoped she was enjoying herself.
Because the next time they met would be the last.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The Sheriff's hair streamed behind her. She weaved between cars and trucks so fast, they appeared to stand still. Her eyes were razor cuts, protection against rushing air forming tears on her cheeks. What sight she had was focused on the Ducati up ahead.
It drove as recklessly as she did. Despite its superbike status, it emitted a constant thread of grey smoke. Viper was crushed low to the handlebars, his black helmet tucked into his shoulders, making him and the Ducati as aerodynamic as possible.
The Sheriff had spent an uncomfortable night at the Bull and Cart. Her stomach had been twisting like a hurricane. She was due to meet Daniel in the morning and it was a bleak prospect. If things went well, they'd bust the Motorheads wide open. The Sheriff needed the Daytons' help, but once she'd recovered her son, all bets were off.
Being around Daniel was too risky. How could anyone stand the company of a man so dedicated to the truth?
Instead, the Sheriff had sat at the bar sipping fizzy water and watching Viper's every move. He was also sitting alone, hunched over a beer can. If someone strayed too close, he'd take his drink to another table. Like a sheep corralled by dogs, he eventually found himself trapped in a corner, forced into unwanted conversations about bikes or meat.
When the talk died down, Viper had mumbled his goodbyes and left the bar.
The Sheriff had gone to his table and sloshed his can of beer. It had been full. Viper hadn't touched a drop.
Leaving the bar, she had straddled her bike in time to see Viper overtake a line of lorries. She screeched after him to the blare of car horns. Her tyres ate up the tarmac and the Sheriff quickly caught up, following Viper into the Bede Estate.
She parked behind the rusting hulk of a skip, giving her a clear view of the skatepark her son had visited before his abduction. The numbers seemed down with fewer teenagers loitering by the entrance, but the music was just as loud.
Viper stopped in a disabled bay, chaining his helmet to his bike. He stormed toward Board Sick and the teenagers at the door parted as he approached.
The Sheriff jogged to the entrance. Inside the foyer was a reception desk in the style of a Hawaiian beach bar. Board Sick was daubed in illuminous paint over a roof made from dried fronds. The owner was a forty year old man called Fox Rider, who wore a pony tail and a tie-dye T-shirt. He lounged behind the desk, but jumped to attention when the Sheriff entered.
"I've told you everything I know," he said, backing away.
The Sheriff slapped a five pound note on the counter. "I'm going in," she said.
Fox Rider cleared his throat. "It's ten pound, but – "
His voice faded in her ears as she marched into the park. The Sheriff was greeted by a cavernous warehouse. Fibre glass ramps were curved like frozen waves. There were metal bars for grinding and drops to leap over. The music was louder, the bass thrummed in the Sheriff's ribcage. Multi-coloured lights flashed from the ceiling, as if the place had been illuminated by a police helicopter.
Groups of teenagers huddled together, their skateboards idle by their side. They talked in hushed whispers, glancing from left to right. A handful of skaters used the ramps. The rest stayed in gangs of their own.
The Sheriff scanned the warehouse for Viper, but he had vanished in the music.
"I'm looking for a man," she said to a nearby group of teenagers.
They sniggered and made jokes behind their hoodies.
The Sheriff pointed to her neck. "He has a tattoo."
The smiles dropped from their faces and a girl around sixteen years old peeled away from her friends, kicking her skateboard into her arms. She was heavy set with a purple fringe and defiant gaze.
"How do you know Viper?" she asked.
The Sheriff had decided she didn't know Viper at all. He'd turned up at the Bull and Cart requesting Hang-Around status. A few of her bikers knew him from another club. He was vouched for and quickly became part of the tattered furniture. The Sheriff was preoccupied with other things. After her son had lost his arm in the motorcycle accident, Crash had grown argumentative and distant. It was eight months before the Sheriff even registered Viper's presence, by which time he'd graduated into an Associate. She'd asked him to do a cigarette run and he'd returned from Calais loaded with contraband within the designated twenty-four hours.
He'd passed the test.
But then she'd started hearing rumours. He wasn't maintaining his bike. He didn't ride it at weekends and he showed no interest in moving up the ladder, in becoming a Prospect. Worst of all, when he wasn't at the club, he was often in the company of teenagers.
The Sheriff looked to the girl. "I just want to speak with him."
"You're too old. He won't speak to you," the young girl said. "You're lucky."
"What you mean?"
The rest of the girl's herd gathered around and a boy came forward, old enough to sport fuzzy facial hair and too young to know he should shave it off. "This place is gonna close soon. Everyone is staying away."
The girl flicked her purple fringe. "If you're looking for Viper, he's in the Cool Out Room, but be careful."
"Do I look like I'm afraid of him?" the Sheriff asked.
The girl shrugged. "I'm just saying. This place is going under because of him."
The boy with the fluffy facial hair linked arms with the girl. "Everyone who meets him in the Cool Out Room, leaves through the back door and they're never seen again."
The gang faded under a barrage of blinking lights. Beams lanced through the warehouse, landing at the Sheriff's feet, chasing her along the warehouse wall. She didn't need a spotlight for what she was going to do. Her fears had been confirmed.
As she found the door to the Cool Out Room, the Sheriff checked her pocket. The taser was fully charged and she took it in her hand.
Viper was going to give her some answers or die trying.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Cool Out Room was circular and lit with naked lightbulbs. The walls were pitted with craters where the plaster had fallen away. Names and mobile numbers of teenagers filled the spaces in between. The couches and armchairs were an eruption of stuffing spilling through the seams.
There was one sole occupant in the room. A broad shouldered teenager was hunched over an iPhone in the corner. A hood covered their face and a skateboard lay at their feet.
The Sheriff lingered by the door, rubbing a thumb against her fingertips. She crept closer, doubts building with every footstep. The teenager appeared male, but he was too big. His clothes were too tight. He was a man dressed as a child.
Drawing out the taser, the Sheriff prepared to use it. "Viper?" she asked.
But he didn't respond.
"I know why you're here," the Sheriff said. "I know it was you."
She closed the distance between them and stood over Viper, ready to push the taser into his tattooed neck.
His phone shook in his hand and the Sheriff realised it was switched off.
"Stay where you are."
The voice came from behind her.
The Sheriff span on her heel in time for a fist to connect with her jaw. She staggered. The taser slipped from her grip, skidding into the darkness of the floor.
Viper shot a glance at the boy. "Get out," he said to him, "and remember what I told you."
The boy whipped down his hood, revealing thin lips and a fresh face. Maybe skateboarding was more physical than the Sheriff understood. It would explain the muscular gait, but despite his size, he was clearly scared. The boy leapt to his feet and scuttled out of the room.
"Why are you following me?" Viper asked.
The Sheriff's eyes were trained on the blade in his hand. "You were part of our club," she said.
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"It didn't feel that way. You treated me like shit."
"All associates are treated like this. You move up the ranks. You get less shit, but you didn't want to earn your patch, did you?"
Viper drew the blade across his palm, checking its sharpness. He winced when he accidentally pressed too deep. "I wasn't there to earn my patch."
The Sheriff had no intention of talking her way out of this. She still aimed to use her taser, brutally and repeatedly, but until she could retrieve it, there was little she could do.
"Better things?" she asked with a sneer. "Coming here to steal away the children?"
"You think I'm a Motorhead?" Viper asked. "With your history?"
Her mouth dropped open and her skin turned to ice.
Viper swished the knife through the air, making it whistle. "That's right. I asked about you. I know more than you think." He moved within striking distance, forcing her backward.
"Simon told me about your name," he said. "Lapsen Saalis. He said it meant child."
The Sheriff pinched at her chin. She loved Simon. When her son had been taken, he'd been her rock and her punching bag. Not once had he complained, but Simon was indiscreet. He was too needy. He didn't understand the power of a secret. It was one of the reasons she never fully explained how she came to be in the UK. That, and the shame of it.
Levelling the knife, Viper drove the Sheriff further from the taser. "It does mean child. I checked," he said, "but that's not all, is it?"
"It was a long time ago," the Sheriff said.
"People like you make me sick," Viper said, spitting out his words.
"I think you didn't like our club so you joined another."
"I'm not a Motorhead," Viper said again.
"Why are you here then? Surrounded by all these children?"
The knife in Viper's hand quivered. "It's not what you think."
"The Daytons have arranged a meet with the rest of your Motorhead friends at the edge of the Team Valley estate," the Sheriff said, "but they're not interested in talking. It's over for them and while you're here with me, it's over for you, too."
Viper squinted at the knife glowing in front of him. "I'm the one holding all the cards."
