by Linda Coles
The chosen man didn’t look away, and neither did Luke. When the man eventually did turn away, Luke carried on looking in his direction as he finished his bag of crisps. He hoped it was a wise move and not a killer move. Suddenly, without warning, the chosen man slammed his drink down and strode over to Luke so quickly that Luke spilled beer down his front with fright. All other conversation in the pub ceased as every eye in the place focused, laser-like, on Luke. Shit, he thought. Here goes.
“Got a fucking problem? Cos if you haven’t, you’re gonna get one shortly!” The man’s face was screwed up like a discarded coke can, his eyes raging, his breath vile. Spittle flew as he leaned in and shouted into Luke’s face; a wet blob landed on his cheek. Luke desperately wanted to wipe it off and tried not to grimace in disgust for fear of upsetting the man further. A fight was the last thing he wanted, and he had a feeling it would be the pub crowd against him. What had given him the crazy notion he’d be safe in such a place? Even dressed in jeans and a hoody, his oldest coat over the top, he still looked as out of place as a Chelsea supporter in the West Ham end of the stadium. And just as dangerous. Should he reply, he wondered, as if in a dream, and if so, with what?
“No problem, no. Just taking in the scenery.” As soon as he heard how it sounded to his own ears, Luke knew he’d said the wrong thing. He did his best to recover before he got punched. Or worse. Quickly, he added, “I mean, taking in the ambience of the place. A fine pub you have here.” He did his best to deliver a nervous smile and it must have worked because the man pulled back a little. Then he spoke, rather than shouting, for which Luke was grateful.
“What ya doing in here? I can see you’re not from round here. You a pig or something?”
“Far from it, actually. And you’re right, I’m not from here. But I am looking for something specific.”
“Not a pig, eh? Then what are you?”
Conversation in the rest of the pub resumed as it became apparent that nothing further was on the tables, no fight imminent. Luke tried to breathe normally again as he spoke to the pock-marked face looming over him. At least the guy was out of his face now.
“Call me a customer. Like I said, I’m after something.”
“Yeah? What, like a kebab or something?” the man said, unsmiling.
Luke lowered his voice as he said, “A piece, actually. Know anyone that can do that?”
“I know plenty, but what makes you think you can get one through this place? It’s a reputable business,” Pock-Marks said, waving his arms around the bar. He smiled at his own observation, showing caramel-coloured teeth that had probably never seen a dentist. Luke suspected the man didn’t get too many kisses with a mouth like that.
“Figured I’d ask.” Luke was feeling more confident with each sentence they shared. Taking a breath, he invited the man to sit. “Can I get you a refill?” Pock-Marks looked puzzled, and Luke gamely carried on. “Lager, is it?” Sometimes confidence was the best way to take control, particularly if you didn’t feel it. The man nodded and Luke stood to go and buy his refill. He hoped his legs would hold out as he walked; he didn’t dare to look back towards his seat and the man in case it ignited him again.
“You’re brave. Or stupid,” the barman said as he filled a pint glass with lager. Wordlessly, Luke handed over the cash and went back to his table. One thing he had learned was that most people appreciated the act of ‘breaking bread’ together before settling down to business, although tonight Luke’s version of ‘bread’ came in a pint pot. He set it down in front of the man and let him take a sip before speaking.
“So, can you help me, then?”
“Tell me what you’re after.”
Chapter Forty-Five
It was a night for seedy pubs.
Sam had asked Anika to sit for a couple of hours, which she’d gladly agreed to for two reasons: first, Sam had Sky TV, and second, as she’d had a bit of a bust-up with her boyfriend, she’d welcomed the change of scenery as well as the opportunity to drink the best part of a bottle of wine while she watched the girls.
“Take your time,” she’d said as Sam had left her sleeping children with a woman who’d soon be passed out, fast asleep in front of the TV. She’d never been able to hold her drink. Sam would throw a blanket over her later when she returned; no sense in her driving home drunk.
Sam closed the front door behind her and set out into a freezing cold Manchester night towards The Feathers. As her little car chugged gamely down Clumber Road, she wiped the misty inside of her windscreen with a gloved hand to see where she was going. The windscreen heater would kick in shortly, but for now, the back of her hand would suffice.
The streets were quiet. More sensible folks were inside with their central heating on full, no doubt curled up with hot tea, the biscuit barrel and Coronation Street, but not Sam. With her toasty Ugg boots on her feet and wrapped in a thick, fleecy jacket complete with fake fur hood trim, all she wanted was to get this done and then get back home and relax a little. She thought of the pills she’d swallowed just before she’d left, a little something to spur her on, take the edge off being nervous. They’d probably kick in about the time she arrived to find her target.
While she had a clear description of Sid from Anika, she still couldn’t quite visualize him. Hopefully she’d know him when she saw him. She reached into her bag on the passenger’s seat and pulled out a bottle of vodka, setting it between her thighs as she unscrewed the top off with her left hand, the right on the steering wheel. At the first available chance, when she knew she could toss her head back and swig, she did. She then tossed her head back again and rapidly guzzled down a couple more mouthfuls. Clear liquid leaked out of the corner of her mouth, spilling onto her jeans, making her look down for a split second. A car horn blared as she started to cross the central line, and Sam yanked the steering wheel back to the left and the relative safety of her own lane.
“Fuck!” she said, wiping her mouth and brushing uselessly at the liquid that had now soaked into her jeans. She made a vain attempt to screw the lid back on, then gave up and slotted the bottle into the drinks holder in the driver’s door; she’d secure it later when she got to the pub.
The pub.
Up ahead, the dour building came into view. There was not much in the way of inviting lighting, but then a pub with a reputation such as this one had, probably didn’t exactly go looking for new business. The whole place was overdue something, though not a refurbishment – more a demolition, Sam thought. She parked in the dark empty street slightly down from the front door and sat for a moment, car doors locked. The vodka had found the pills from earlier; a glow was starting inside her stomach like a hot potato keeping her warm on the inside. She capped the bottle securely now and slid it under her seat, not wanting to leave it on display and not wanting to take it with her. She’d be glad of another swig when this was all over and done.
The strong odour of cigarettes, old beer and piss from the gents’ toilets hit her full on as she stepped inside, and she did her utmost not to wrinkle her nose. Without making eye contact or looking round at all, she headed straight for the bar and ordered a bottle of lager from the woman on the other side. She was pushing sixty and was buxom with bright red box-dyed hair.
“Coming right up,” she said cheerfully, and Sam watched as her leopard print dress rode up far too much as she bent to the fridge behind her.
Pass the mint sauce, Sam thought cattily. She tried not to look at the woman’s legs; they were thick, with knobbly veins running up them like the M1 motorway. She needed support hosiery, badly.
The woman set down Sam’s beer and Sam passed her a £5 note, then turned her back to the bar and risked a furtive, sweeping look to see who was in. And if anyone was watching her. The sound of balls clacking together in the distance pricked her ears up.
“Your change, love,” the bartender said, and Sam heard the coins settle on the wooden bar beside her elbow. Absentmindedly, she scooped them up with one hand and slipped th
em into her coat pocket, then moved from the main bar room towards where the sound of clanking balls had come from, a room out back.
It wasn’t hard to spot the man she was looking for. He fitted Anika’s description down to a T. The dark roots had grown out to about four inches. He was still nervous-looking, and his jeans hung off narrow hips, exposing grey boxer shorts. He wore an old T-shirt with Begbie from Trainspotting on the front, layered over another grubby long-sleeved tee. Sid lined up with his cue and sank the black ball in one swift movement, then gave himself a little cheer. The youth he’d been playing left his cue on the table and headed for the toilets, shoulders slumped in defeat. Sid picked up the £10 note, his winnings, and pocketed it. Sam watched, taking it all in.
It was time for her to make her move.
Chapter Forty-Six
The first thing Sam did when she got back to her car was pull the vodka bottle up from under her seat and take another couple of large gulps. Her mouth had dried up, even after the bottle of lager. In a few moments, she felt the vodka start to ease her tension and regulate her breathing again, though doing it was doing nothing for her shaking hands. The man, Sid, had scared her a little, though since she was nearly twice his size in terms of body fat, she doubted he’d have hurt her. Although of course that didn’t rule out a hidden knife up his sleeve or a knuckle-duster in his pocket. But she’d made contact, and that was all she’d intended to do.
For now.
There had been no point in making him suspicious and spelling out what she wanted at this stage of the game, so she’d simply bought him a pint and they’d played a little pool. She’d spent the time watching him, sussing him out as he eventually lost the game. Pool was one thing Sam was extremely skilled at. She’d let him keep his bet; there was no point antagonizing him. She wanted him to be glad to see her when it came time for her to return and make her purchase.
Sam smiled and took another swig of vodka. Yes, he’d been rough looking and she wouldn’t trust him as far as she could arm-wrestle him, but he had actually turned out to be a decent pool opponent and not bad company for the evening, although she was well aware that she wouldn’t want to meet his nasty side.
Time to get back to her girls.
As she’d suspected, Anika was spark out on the sofa, the empty wine bottle on its side on the carpet and a drained wine glass alongside it. A half-eaten pizza slice lay on a plate on the coffee table; the morning’s mail lay unopened next to it. In the kitchen, the pizza box lay on the work surface, the lid open, three full slices untouched. Why Anika had bought such a big one if she hadn’t been that hungry Sam had no idea, but Anika’s loss was her gain. She took a slice, biting the now soggy crust covered with cold melted cheese. Pizza was one of the few takeaway meals that tasted good cold as well as hot, and Sam stood staring out of the window again, munching absentmindedly as she pondered. A rapid movement caught her eye – a cat probably, darting through the back garden. She blinked and it was gone as quickly as it had come.
Just passing through.
Like life itself, she thought glumly – all of us are given just a short space of time as we pass through on the way to someplace else. Where, nobody quite knows. She helped herself to a second slice of pizza while she thought about the big decision she’d made. Would Duncan feel anything when the time came? She didn’t want him to suffer, but she did want him out of her life. And the girls’. And she did want the insurance money and widow’s pension, so really, there was no other way to get exactly what she wanted.
The great outdoors was still and calm. The temperature had plummeted as she’d driven home; her neighbours were all tucked behind thick curtains, too busy staring at their televisions to notice her departure or return on such a night. There was no one to tell Duncan she’d been out, and since Anika was passed out on the sofa, she’d have no clue what time she’d finally got home.
Sam quietly made her way up the stairs and checked on the girls. She dragged the quilt off the bed in the back room and went back downstairs, where she gently covered Anika over as she lay on the sofa. She stirred a little but didn’t say a word or open her eyes. Sam collected the unopened mail and leaned over Anika for a moment.
“Thanks for your help,” she said softly, and turned the lamp out, plunging the room into darkness. Closing the living room door on her friend, she made her way up to bed then sent a quick text to Duncan warning him Anika was on the sofa asleep. She didn’t want him barging in, turning the lights on and scaring her to death when he came home later.
How many more nights? she wondered. How many more did he have? She slipped into her pyjamas and sat up in bed for a while, her body still full of pills and vodka though the adrenaline rush had since faded. Soon she’d crash – she always did – but until that point came, she wanted to run her developing plan back through her head once again, trying to iron out the kinks.
Like where was she going to get the cash from?
She remembered the unopened mail that was waiting on the chest of drawers. She padded over. There were three envelopes in total, and she collected them and took them back to bed, where she ripped them open in turn. Electric bill, magazine subscription reminder and bank statement. Didn’t anyone write letters anymore? Wouldn’t that be a nice change from junk mail and bills?
But as an idea crept into her head through a disused back door, she smiled to herself at the simplicity of it.
She could forge his signature and get a bank loan.
And the sweetest part?
He’d never know anything about it – he wouldn’t be around to find out.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The alarm blared like a ship’s horn and Sam woke with a jolt. Duncan lay next to her. He stirred as she reached over, hit the snooze button and settled back down.
“What time is it?” he said groggily.
“A little after seven. Want a cuppa bringing?” Sam was doing her best to be the perfect wife.
“That would be lovely. Thanks.”
She watched as he rolled onto his side, facing her, his hair mussed up, eyes barely open.
“What time did you get home? I didn’t hear you come in.”
“A little after midnight. We’d had a solid lead on the child abductor in the afternoon and the team went in last night. Nabbed the pervert but we’re still uncertain where the two children are. He’s not talking.”
Sam slipped out of bed as the alarm blared again and switched it off, grabbing her robe at the same time.
“Well, it’s good news you have him. He’ll talk at some stage, won’t he?”
“I’d like to beat the shit out of him to get him to talk, but you can’t do that these days. Bloody politically correct crap. If politicians worked with what we saw day in, day out, they’d damn well change their minds.” He rubbed his eyes wearily.
“I’ll go and get your cuppa and give the girls a nudge. You stay put and rest.” She bent over and kissed the side of his head gently before she left the room.
When Sam returned ten minutes later, she was carrying a tray with two mugs of tea and a plate of hot toast for them both. Duncan was sat up in bed, still bleary-eyed. She noticed the softness of his upper body, the paleness of it. He’d used to be so fit, so strong, when they’d first got together, but age and lack of time and energy had changed all that. And she was no different, she knew. Two children did the same to a woman’s body, though at least she had an excuse.
“Thought I’d have breakfast in bed with you,” she said with a smile. She passed him a mug then slipped back in under the covers. “The girls are eating cereal downstairs. They’ll probably come and say hi in a minute or two. Toast?” She offered him the plate and he took a slice. She set the plate on the quilt in front of them both. “We’ve not had a picnic in bed since before the girls were born, I don’t think,” she said, almost reminiscing.
“I meant to ask, why is Anika on the sofa?” He took another bite, greasy butter making his lips glisten.
“She cam
e over last night, drank too much and fell asleep. They’d had another row, so she needed to drown her sorrows. Then I covered her over. She was still asleep when I went through.” Changing direction, she enquired, “What’s your plan for today, then. Back in to work?”
“Yes. I’ll have this and grab a shower. We’ve left him to stew in a cell overnight. His lawyer will be back in later this morning, I expect. Maybe then he’ll come to his senses. Good timing, really.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Well, because I’ve got that tactical training course. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to go, but now he’s safely in the nick, it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“I’d forgotten about that. When is it?” Sam felt a prick of alarm in her gut.
“Day after tomorrow. Just one night away then back home. I could do with the rest here, really.”
He munched quietly as an idea percolated in Sam’s head. Could this be the opportune time? Could she organize herself and get her plan actioned this week? There was a lot to do.
“So, I’d better get a move on, get back in to work,” he said, flinging the covers back. He held the edge of a piece of toast in his mouth. Sam watched as he pushed the remainder in, chewing, and left the bedroom. The sound of the shower running, then the girls’ feet running up the stairs, brought her thoughts back to the practicalities of the day ahead.
With Duncan’s revelation that he would be away in two night’s time, she knew this had to be her window of opportunity. While he was away in another town all on his own, she’d be out of the frame for sure, sat snug at home in front of the TV with the girls, alibi sorted. Perhaps she’d invite Anika to stay over too. Yes – that would be the perfect alibi.
