‘I told you to be quiet,’ he said. With one lightning, stunning and expertly executed blow, he hit Tara with the stock of the shotgun across the side of her head.
Tara toppled over, unconscious and bleeding.
Both Henry and Wickson rose from their chairs, but Verner was already covering them again, a look of dare on his face.
‘There was no need for that,’ Henry said.
‘I make the rules, Henry.’
Both men sat back down, horribly aware of Tara bleeding heavily from the deep wound inflicted by Verner’s blow.
Verner circled away from them to the opposite side of the table.
Coulton had stopped moving now. There was no more twitching and dancing.
‘Good shot, eh?’ Verner commented. He pulled a chair out, spun it round and sat on it, resting the shotgun across the back of it.
‘Cops’ll be here soon,’ Henry said.
‘And that’s supposed to give me the frighteners, is it?’
Henry shrugged. ‘Just stating a fact.’
‘Thanks.’ Verner turned his attention to Wickson, who was probably having the quietest, most withdrawn period of his life. He was terrified and it showed. ‘Now then, Mr Wickson. You have deeply upset the people who employ me. I don’t know much about it, to be honest, not my business, but I do know they helped you out of some financial difficulties and now you want to turn your back on them.’ Verner cleared his throat. ‘Not acceptable. You owe them and you want to welch on payment.’
‘I owe them nothing,’ Wickson whispered.
‘Tell him, Henry. He doesn’t seem to have grasped the concept.’
Henry tried to play it dumb, wanting to string this out for as long as possible. ‘I assume that the people who employ you are the Mafia?’ Verner nodded. ‘In that case, John,’ Henry said to Wickson, ‘once you’re in debt to them, they don’t let go.’
‘Exactly.’ He winked at Henry. ‘You know your stuff, don’t you?’ To Verner, he said, ‘All they want to do is share in your business. Only a small percentage.’
‘Fuck ’em,’ Wickson said.
‘No. Nobody ever fucks with us. Look, all they want is a few measly per cent of your legitimate business, which, as we know, has great expectations.’
‘What’re those?’ Henry said, latching on with interest.
‘The future of Blackpool,’ Verner said. ‘The Las Vegas of Europe. Big plans for this place. . and Mr Wickson, as we know, will be very much involved in the demolition and reclamation of buildings and land when all the new casinos go up along the sea front. He’ll make about fifty million, rough estimate — won’t you?’
Wickson stayed immobile and said nothing.
‘But he would never have been in a position to do that had my employer not assisted him to remain solvent in the first place, isn’t that the case?’
‘I helped you out once, paid my debt to you and found other ways of keeping my business afloat until the Blackpool dream comes true.’
Verner laughed uproariously. He turned to Coulton. ‘Did you hear that, Jake? The Blackpool dream!’ The dead man did not respond.
‘It doesn’t work like that, John,’ Henry said. ‘I presume you mean the fuel laundering out back?’
Wickson nodded glumly.
‘No doubt they want a piece of that, too,’ Henry said. He was looking at a desperate man, someone who had steered his business into deep trouble and in an effort to save it had turned to the wrong people, people who would never let go. They had saved him from bankruptcy and then he had found a new, illegal way of keeping going — by laundering fuel. It all fell into place for Henry now. The dilapidated farm buildings at the back, the articulated fuel tanker Henry had dodged the other day.
Wickson had obviously seen fuel laundering as a way to make quick money. Henry knew the profits from it could be immense. It was a relatively new type of illegal activity in the UK, becoming more and more prevalent. It involved the conversion of red diesel into a fuel which appeared to be normal diesel. The excise duty rate of just over three pence per litre on red diesel (which contains a red chemical dye) contrasts with a rate of almost fifty pence levied on ordinary diesel fuel. This equates to a profit somewhere in the region of?14,000 per tanker of fuel. Good money by anyone’s standards. ‘How many tankers a week leave here?’ Henry asked.
‘Four.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Henry, doing a quick add-up in his head. Over?50,000 a week. ‘You know that they’d never let you give that up, don’t you? Even when you’re making legitimate money from the Blackpool dream, they won’t even allow you to stop laundering fuel. You naive arsehole.’ Henry shook his head.
Wickson’s face screwed up as though he was about to vomit again. He started to retch, then hurled up on to the kitchen floor, which was covered with a variety of substances which it had never thought it would have on it. His head went down between his knees, then came back up. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his dressing gown.
‘Well — cosy chat over,’ Verner announced brightly. ‘I’ll let you into a secret,’ he went on conspiratorially, tapping his nose. ‘I don’t always kill people with bullets. I like to vary things if I get the opportunity — like tonight, Henry and John. That’s why we are now going for a short stroll. I have an excellent idea for the both of you, which in terms of evidence left behind, will be nil. Up and out of the kitchen door.’ Verner waved the shotgun. ‘Don’t do anything foolish or I’ll revert to type and blow you both to. . heaven. . or, in your case Henry, hell. It’s not too late for your souls to catch up with Mr Coulton’s here. Wonder which way he went? Up or down?’
‘You’re mad,’ Wickson said.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Come on, John,’ Henry told Wickson. He stood up on very shaky legs, but Wickson could hardly move. Henry assisted him to his feet and Verner directed them outside the house. The door opened on to a patio. ‘We’re going to the stables, which, incidentally, I burned down. But I bet you already knew that.’
‘And mutilated a horse?’ Henry stated questioningly.
‘And that,’ he confirmed. ‘Shoulda seen his eye pop. Go on, get walking. Keep together and keep your hands on the top of your heads.’
Henry and Wickson walked ahead of him.
‘Why are we going this way?’ Wickson asked.
‘You’ll see, you’ll see.’
They emerged from the back of the house and went down the short lane to the stables. The rain had stopped but the ground was wet.
Henry looked ahead and said, ‘Jesus,’ under his breath. He realized why Verner was taking them this way. ‘Jesus,’ he said again.
‘OK, you two, stop here.’ They had only walked a few feet. ‘Step apart, now. . bit more. . say five feet apart. . that’s it, good. . now, whilst we are going to walk to the stables, we are going to do it three in a line, shoulder to shoulder. I’ll be in the middle. Henry, you’ll be on my left, John you’re my right-hand man.’ The two captives looked puzzled. ‘Just good practice,’ Verner said. Henry understood. He was covering himself. If he had walked behind them, he would have been exposed, but by walking between them it gave him a degree of safety. Henry also understood why he had been chosen to walk on Verner’s left. Verner did not see Wickson as a threat. He was just a blubbering idiot, whereas Henry was a danger. Keeping Henry to the left meant that, being right-handed, Verner could keep the shotgun pointed at him naturally as they walked. ‘Right you guys, by the left. .’
Henry needed to know some things before he died, just for peace of mind in the afterworld.
‘Did you kill the undercover FBI agent and Marty Cragg?’
Verner cackled with laughter. ‘You think I’m going to confess all my sins to you, Henry?’ They walked on in silence for a few yards, then Verner said, ‘Course I did.’
Ahead of them at the end of the path was the excavator and the crusher.
Charlotte Wickson had lain terrified at the top of the stairs, straining to listen to the confrontation taking place in the kitchen: the harsh words, the threats, the blast of the shotgun; then the arrival of Henry Christie, then more shouts, then the front door opening again and a man she did not know entering the house with a gun in his hand. She remained in the shadows on the landing, hidden from view.