He had been planning this since the age of sixteen.
He checked his watch and frowned. It was getting late and not all the money had arrived.
Marty and Crazy were sitting reading magazines by the front door, keeping a check on the CCTV monitor fixed discreetly over the front and rear doors of the premises. The street outside was deserted.
‘Haven’t heard from Dix, yet,’ Ray said. ‘He’s usually pretty good.’
‘Maybe he’s done a runner with the loot.’ Marty chuckled, not lifting his head from his magazine.
Ray grabbed Marty’s face and squeezed it hard. ‘Not fuckin’ funny,’ he snarled.
Marty jerked his head out of Ray’s fingers and glared at him.
‘Hey, hey, hey,’ cooed Crazy soothingly. It was apparent that both brothers were still up in the sky and agitated from the day’s events. Even Ray, despite having got laid, was still buzzing and could not stay still. On the way over from Blackpool he had relived the shooting time and time again for Crazy’s benefit. Crazy had listened calmly, wondering if he was the only one with a cool head, even though he was called Crazy. But he did realize that he was the only one of the three with no direct blood on his hands, so he could be chilled. . to a degree.
‘He’ll be here soon. Dix is a good lad,’ Crazy said.
‘Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, Mart.’
‘Whatever.’ The younger man’s eyes returned to the magazine, but inside he was seething. Apart from the congratulation after the shooting, Ray had said nothing more to his half-sibling. It was as though Ray had done all the work, and yet hadn’t he, Marty, also wasted one of the miscreants? Marty’s teeth grated like sandpaper, but then he glanced up from his reading and became entranced by the sight of the wads of money being counted in the room. His breath shortened, his heart raced.
An hour later all the money was counted, stacked and wrapped in thin bricks of a thousand, each wad put into a plastic wallet. Ray’s earlier estimate of a quarter of a million was about right. In fact there was just over that amount, all neatly piled up, ready to be packed into one large sports bag for the next stage of its journey. The women who had done the counting were paid off, warned to keep their mouths shut — a warning received every time they counted — and sent on their way. The only people left in the place were Marty, Crazy and Ray.
And they were still short of the money that Dix should have collected and dropped off by now. Ray strutted angrily round the room. Marty and Crazy watched him nervously. He looked as though he was about to explode.
‘Where is the fuck?’ he demanded.
‘Ray, c’mon, cool it,’ said Crazy. ‘Gimme your phone.’ He waggled his fingers at Ray. ‘Let me call him.’
‘He shouldn’t need bloody calling. He should be here NOW!’ Ray jabbed his finger towards the floor. ‘Here.’
‘Phone,’ Crazy said. ‘Gimme.’
Ray wrenched it out of his back pocket and tossed it over to Crazy. ‘Make sure you dial one four one first.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know.’ It was the first rule of making a phone call when you were a crim. Make sure your number doesn’t end up on anybody else’s phone. ‘He’ll be here,’ said Crazy confidently as he dialled. ‘He’s with Miller anyway, so there’ll be a good reason for being late. . bet you.’ He put the phone to his ear and listened to it connect.
Because Jane Roscoe had only been posted to Blackpool for a short time, she’d had little opportunity to get to know any of the town’s high spots. When she had been transferred there several months earlier — unwittingly taking Henry Christie’s position as DI — she had been immediately embroiled in the murder enquiry which had resulted in her kidnap, then had subsequently decided to take a career break. On her return to work she had been very fortunate to get straight back as a DI at Blackpool, because no guarantees were ever made to officers returning from such breaks that they would get their old jobs back.
Henry, who had spent more years than he cared to remember trawling through the jungle that was Blackpool, knew all the best places, all the best people and he saw that evening as a bit of an educational opportunity for Roscoe.
He was also on the lookout for one of his best-kept secrets — an unregistered informant by the name of Troy Costain who might be able to tell him one or two things if the price was right, or pressure was exerted where it hurt.
With those things in mind, he dragged Jane on a whistle-stop tour of the less salubrious hostels in South Shore.
Obviously Jane knew a lot of detectives, many of whom bathed in the afterglow of their reputations, real or imaginary, but Henry Christie was different from anyone else she knew because he really did have a reputation which preceded him like a fanfare, but seemed unaffected by it. She knew that he’d had to kill a man, that he had battled, and won, against the Mafia, a KGB hit man, dishonest cops and child killers, yet none of it seemed to affect the way that he was as a person. He remained quiet, unassuming and, on the face of it, very ordinary. Those were some of the qualities which attracted her to him. He was the main reason she had returned to work so quickly. There was just something about him and she had fallen in love with that ‘something’. She had thought about him constantly, and her desires often made her shudder at their implications.
Now here she was, investigating a murder with him — and loving every moment.
The first pub Henry took her to in South Shore was a huge double-fronted monstrosity, with a rock band pounding out some up to date guitar music. The place was heaving and Henry had to jostle his way through to the bar where he had to shout for two halves of lager.
After he had been served, he and Roscoe seated themselves at the back of the room where there was a little space, but no chance of talking. The band was deafeningly loud.
Henry seemed to be enjoying the music, but when Roscoe surreptitiously glanced at him, she saw he was actually scanning the bar area, inspecting every face, sometimes pausing as a thought struck him.
She looked round, too, and noticed several people eyeing Henry with a mixture of suspicion and hate. They were no doubt some of his previous customers, she thought. It was as plain as day he was well known in these circles, and though this was sometimes a disadvantage and a danger, Roscoe felt safe and comfortable next to him even though some of the characters looked like they would have been happy to smash their beer glasses and grind them into his face. Henry did not seem unduly perturbed by their attention.
‘Seen anybody you know?’ she asked him, being forced to repeat the question an inch from his ear as the band cranked into the latest Oasis rocker.
‘Only fifty per cent of them.’ He laughed. ‘This is one of the big low-life hang outs, but there’s never really much trouble. A bit like a watering hole in the Masai Mara. Some are hunters, some are prey, but here there’s a kind of truce between them.’
There was no doubt in Jane’s mind as to which category Henry fell into.
‘Here — hang on to this. Just need to pay a visit.’ He pushed his glass into her free hand. Before she could say anything, Henry had ducked into the crowd and was heading towards the toilets.
He had seen someone he needed to talk to.
‘Ten minutes.’ Crazy hung up.
‘What the hell has he been up to?’ Ray demanded.
‘Had a few probs.’ Crazy shrugged. ‘He’ll tell you when he gets here.’
‘Well I don’t know about you, but I’m effin’ starvin’,’ declared Marty with a stretch of his limbs. ‘I need some sustenance and I’m gonna get some chips. Anybody else want any?’ The other two shook their heads. ‘Suit yourselves.’ Marty stood up. ‘How’s about putting the kettle on anyway?’ He peered at Crazy and raised his eyebrows, hoping to galvanize him into some movement. Crazy did not move. ‘We’re gonna be here till Dix lands and then we’ve got to count the cash. . yeah?’