He made his way to an empty office and picked up a phone.
‘It’s me.’
‘Any news?’
‘The car has just been reported stolen.’
‘It is a legit report?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you sort out the you-know-whats?’
‘I did — they’re safe and sound.’
‘Good. . keep me informed of any developments.’
* * *
By the time Keith Snell drove into Blackpool ninety minutes later, he was shivering and sweating and beginning to hallucinate. He needed something desperately — and he knew where he was going to get it. He came off the M55 at Marton Circle and drove down Blackpool’s back roads on to Shoreside Estate.
After a couple of fruitless drive-arounds, he found the house he was searching for and pulled up outside. He heaved the money bag on to his shoulder and stumbled down the short pathway to the front door, smacking it loudly with the palm of his hand.
Inside he could hear the TV blaring out loudly, and voices.
Eventually the door opened. A teenage girl stood there in a skimpy T-shirt exposing a diamond-studded belly button and tight shorts. She was chewing and sneered at Keith. ‘Yeah?’
‘Troy? Is Troy here?’ he gasped.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘I’m Keith Snell. . he’s a mate. I need to speak to him. .’
A figure appeared behind the girl and barked, ‘Fuck off out the way!’
‘Troy. . mate,’ Keith wheezed as the man shouldered the young girl out of the way.
‘What the hell are you doin’ here?’ There was suspicion in the voice.
‘Man. .’ Keith extended his arms, palms outward. ‘I need somewhere to doss, man, somewhere I can get my head together. . and I really, really, need some shit.’ The sports bag rolled off his shoulder and crashed to the ground, the zip bursting and revealing the shotgun resting on wads of cash.
It hit the spot with alacrity and immediately Keith started to feel mellow and warm, like he was sitting in front of a gas fire. It also pleased him he had not had to break into his own stash. He exhaled and relaxed for the first time in hours. His head lolled back and his mouth opened. ‘Jesus. . fuck. .’ he said slowly, then, ‘Ahhh. . this is good shit, man, real good.’ Gently he extracted the hypodermic needle from the well-accessed vein at his elbow.
Troy Costain stood at the end of the bed and watched Keith shoot up, then experience the drug which Troy knew to be — as Keith had indeed verified — very good quality indeed.
‘Nice one, man,’ Keith said coolly, rolling back on to the bed and closing his eyes dreamily.
Troy had bundled Keith away from his house and into his own car after instructing one of his cousins to dump the stolen car in which his friend had turned up. Troy had driven the increasingly nervous, almost delirious man down to North Shore in Blackpool where he knew he could find some accommodation. Troy knew exactly where to go and within twenty minutes had escorted his friend into a very dubious bed-and-breakfast establishment not far from the back of the Imperial Hotel on the promenade.
He had provided Keith with another free sample, remaining with him whilst he mainlined it.
Troy knew this would loosen Keith’s tongue. He was intrigued by the contents of the sports bag, particularly the money. It looked a substantial amount and his antenna had extended with interest.
He perched on the end of the bed as Keith continued to make orgasmic sounds whilst the drug permeated all points of his system. He watched with a sneer of disgust on his face. Troy dealt drugs, having recently gravitated from ecstasy to much more potent substances, but he did not use them himself. He was in the trade for profit, not for pain.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Good. . yeah,’ breathed Keith. ‘Like it.’
‘Do you want to talk?’ Costain suggested slyly.
‘About what?’
‘Why you’re in sin city, why you called on me, and why I’m helping you.’
‘No, no, it’s right.’
‘No it’s not, Keith. You need to be speaking to me because I think you’re going to need me, aren’t you? I can put two and two together.’ Troy’s voice was soothing and cajoling at the same time.
The Costain family lived and operated from a large semi-detached council house on the Shoreside Estate in Blackpool. They were numerous and claimed descendency from the Romanies and also had a stranglehold on the estate via their intimidatory tactics, burglary, thieving and now, through Troy, drug dealing. The youngsters in the family ran wild on the estate and two of them, Roy and Renata Costain, sixteen-year-old twin cousins of Troy, were being hounded by the cops, desperate to make the two little rascals subjects of Antisocial Behaviour Orders. It was to Roy that Troy had entrusted the dumping of the stolen Ford Escort.
Troy had given him specific instructions. ‘Just get it off the estate, dump it, fire it, and nothing else, OK? Do not fuck around, just do what I say, OK?’
Roy could hardly keep a smile off his face. ‘How much?’
‘Tenner.’
‘Oh — OK.’ Roy extended his greedy, grubby paw.
When Troy disappeared with his spaced-out junkie friend, Keith, Roy got into the car and twisted the screwdriver. He drove away with glee and cruised the estate until he found Renata hanging out with a group of like-minded girls on a street corner. ‘Get in,’ he shouted. Without a moment’s hesitation or one question, she was in the front passenger seat. Renata was the girl who had answered the door to Keith earlier.
‘Spin time,’ he said.
‘Yes!’ she responded, clenching her fists.
He stepped on the accelerator and skidded away from the kerb. ‘Bit of a shit heap,’ he observed, ‘but it’ll do.’ He veered back across the kerb, mounted the footpath and gunned the decrepit vehicle half-on/half-off the footpath.
Renata screamed with hysterical laughter.
When Troy Costain left Keith, his friend had slipped into a deep slumber. Troy had waited until he was certain Keith was well gone before peeking into the sports bag and inspecting the contents. His heart skipped a beat or two at the sight of all that money and the deadly looking firearm.
Troy, however, touched nothing — despite his urge to gather all the dosh into his hands and disappear with it.
Instead, troubled by what he had seen and what Keith had told him, he backed quietly out of the room, wondering if he could profit in any way from the knowledge he possessed. He walked slowly down the dingy, mouldy corridor of the guest house, his mind in turmoil, his loyalties being tested to the limit.
At four minutes past midnight Blackpool was buzzing with crowds of punters moving from pub to club, all watched over by the cynical eyes of a few pairs of patrolling police officers. One such pair found themselves parked on the promenade in the wide open space between the colourful entrance to Central pier and the tram tracks which ran north-south down the promenade.
For Blackpool it had been a fairly quiet evening, even though at the last count there were forty-two jobs outstanding on the log in the communications room. Most could wait, some needed attention, but even so, this duo of officers had told comms a lie (that they were busy) and had decided to chill out for a few minutes (by watching the ladies of the night tootle by).
Neither officer had been particularly motivated by their work that evening. Most of it had been boringly mundane and they were hoping that something interesting — and fun — might happen. A good fight, maybe; perhaps a sudden death or a good car crash. What they didn’t realize was that they were about to get a combination of the latter two.
They had sat in silence watching the crazy world called Blackpool speed past their windscreen as they faced the traffic lights at the junction of the prom and New Bonny Street, quite close to the central police station.