‘Well, well, well, my little informant, Troy Costain,’ Henry beamed cruelly. His hand continued to search inside and under Troy’s jacket. His fingers touched something cold tucked into his waistband. Their eyes met. Henry glared ferociously at him and extracted a two-inch-barrelled revolver. ‘Troy, you carry a piece,’ said Henry in disbelief, holding the offending weapon between finger and thumb.
Troy was caught and desperate. ‘Just a frightener, Henry, I wouldn’t fuckin’ use it, you know that.’
‘Is it loaded?’
Troy nodded.
‘You stupid, stupid bastard.’ Henry grabbed hold of Troy’s shirt with his left hand and dragged him across the car park back to the car on which his possessions were displayed. ‘What’s here?’ He kept hold of Troy whilst using the gun to sift through the items. A fat wallet, packed with money. ‘How much in here?’
‘Dunno. . fifteen hundred?’
A bag of tablets. ‘E?’
Troy nodded.
‘How much do you make a week?’
‘Two grand-ish. . enough.’
Henry wanted to hit him very hard indeed. ‘Got a motor nearby?’
‘This one.’ Troy nodded at the car he had been almost plastered all over. It was a BMW, white, tinted windows, alloys, spoilers, ‘G’ registered.
Henry chuckled despite himself. ‘You fuckin’ stereotype. Let’s go for a little ride.’
‘You are in very big trouble, Troy: carrying, dealing, fuck me. This is very big shit indeed. The way the courts are backing us up now, I’d say this is worth six to eight. . years, that is.’
Troy was driving, keeping his face firmly forward. Henry saw Troy’s Adam’s apple rise and fall. He knew he was sitting next to a very frightened man.
The gun and the drugs were in the footwell at Henry’s feet.
‘Eight years in a cell. . OK, let’s be generous — five years for good behaviour and all that. . five years being buggered daily whilst performing oral sex at the other end. That would be you, wouldn’t it, because you’d have no clout at all in the nick. You’d be bottom of the ladder, pal. And your fear of confined spaces. Banged up every night in a cell with a couple of other guys, all of whom will fuck you in turns. Way to go, Troy!’ Henry was remorseless. ‘Why the hell are you carrying a gun, Troy? Why?’
‘Protection.’
‘Oh, good one. Always goes down well in court, that one. Not.’
‘I’m in a dangerous business.’
‘You’re in an illegal business,’ Henry corrected him. ‘Pull in here and let’s have a one-to-one, a bit of a cuddle.’
Henry had directed him up along the promenade and then on to the public car park next to the Blackpool central police station.
‘Take a look at the nick, Troy. With this gun and those drugs you wouldn’t walk out of there again. In fact, the next time you stepped out of a door would be when they release you from Wymott Prison in, say, 2010, give or take a year or two.’
Troy looked ill.
‘I would ensure that all bail applications are refused,’ said Henry, really rubbing it in. He smiled at Troy. ‘So while you were waiting to go to court you’d be in custody all the way.’
‘Bastard.’
‘That’s me. Love it to bits.’
‘OK, you’ve made your point. What do I have to do? That’s obviously what all this is about. You come looking for me, threaten me and I give you some gen. . which is?’
‘The deal is this: you do what I want to my complete and utter satisfaction and I’ll consider giving you a verbal warning for the gun and the drugs. Obviously they’ll have to be destroyed, but that’s a small price to pay for getting some information to me and staying a free man, wouldn’t you say?’
Troy shrugged like he could take it or leave it. The hard man.
‘Ever heard of Andy Turner?’ Troy nodded. ‘I want to know where he is. I want to know within twenty-four hours.’
Troy shook his head sadly. ‘That might be difficult.’
‘Why, because he’s legged it?’
‘No — because he’s dead.’
Henry fell silent as his brain chewed that over. ‘Dead?’
‘Word is he got whacked a couple of years back.’
‘Who by?’
‘No idea.’
‘Find out.’
A guffaw shook Troy. ‘Easier said than done.’
Henry pointed down between his knees. ‘This is easier done than said. Eight years in the slammer. Very easy for me, love. . Now find out the truth, OK? I also want a list of addresses for Turner and his friends and associates, business partners.’
‘All in a day? You’re nuts.’
Henry looked at his watch. ‘Less than a day now.’
‘Twat.’
‘Am I! Let’s drive back down south.’
‘I don’t know where to start, man,’ Troy whined.
Henry knew the Costain family had a string of nefarious contacts right across Lancashire and down into Greater Manchester. He therefore knew Troy was lying.
‘Fibber,’ he said.
Ten
Armed with a revolver and a bag of drugs, Henry Christie felt very peculiar indeed. He had made Troy drop him off two streets away from where the Astra was parked, then watched his source drive away before trudging to his car, gun in one pocket, drugs in another. He hid the items in the hollow where the spare wheel should have been, hoping that Troy didn’t have the brains to blob him in and call the cops anonymously. If Henry was found in possession of a gun and drugs, he’d have a hard time explaining it and could easily end up going down for it, rather as he had described to Troy, maybe for longer.
He drove back to town. It was 10.45 p.m.
As instructed, he parked around the corner from the youth club and sauntered back to stand across the road in a shop doorway where he could watch the club entrance. A few kids were hanging round the door. They were giggly and high spirited, but not in the same way as the youths he’d watched congregating around the shops in South Shore. These seemed much nicer, stepping out of the way for other pedestrians, and were polite too.
The youth club door opened. There was a blast of coloured lights and loud dance music from the disco inside. A couple of youngsters came out, one went back in and the door slammed shut.
Henry saw that one of the ones who came out was Charlotte Wickson. She was staggering about drunkenly, falling against the walls and the window of the charity shop next door. Henry’s mouth went dry. Drunk? Drugged? She fell back against the window again and shouted an obscenity. The other kids laughed at her and suddenly the little gang seemed much darker and less friendly.
He started to wish that Leanne would come out, so he could take her back to the safety of home.
From around a corner a youth appeared on a mountain bike.
Henry gasped.
The same one who had dealt drugs to the gang down on South Shore. His name was Kevin Long and he had been dealing for a couple of years around Blackpool. Henry had never had any direct contact with him, but he knew Long well enough. His MO was to deal on the hoof from his bike and to evade capture by using his extensive knowledge of the backstreets and short cuts around town.
Long cruised up to the group outside the youth club door and stopped.
Charlotte Wickson pushed herself up from the wall and staggered up to him. He handed her a package and she shoved something in his fist. Then he was away around the corner.
Bursting with anger, Henry moved. He ran hard across the road.
Long saw him coming. He was always switched on for the surprise appearance of the cops. He clicked up a few gears, rose high on the pedals and tried to get some speed up.
Henry was almost on him.
Long pushed down — and his right foot slipped off the pedal. Before he could recover, Henry got him and drove him off the bike, smashing him bodily into the building line, against a clothes shop. He was easy meat, being all bone and no weight. Henry punched him hard in the lower gut. Long gasped and fell forwards, clutching his abdomen. Henry then swiped him hard across the face with the open palm of his right hand, sending the dealer spinning down to his knees. Henry flat-footed his ribcage and Long sprawled out, hurt and wheezing.