Costain took a deep, frightened gulp, then blurted out the names, ‘Ray and Marty Cragg.’
The exact same names Henry was thinking of.
By 5 a.m. Ray, Marty, Crazy and Miller were back on the coast at a flat in South Shore, one of several Ray owned in the resort. It was nothing more than a bedsit, but was well equipped with everything needed to lie low for a few days: food in the fridge and freezer, tins of food, cooker, microwave, toaster, kettle, satellite TV and video, a settee and a half-decent bed with clean sheets. He had flats like this all over the resort and in other places around the county. He ensured they were always well maintained and serviced because you never knew when you would have to go to ground.
However, that morning, Ray had no intention of lying low.
He had taken enough trouble to cover his tracks all day long and believed himself to be safe. All he wanted to do was get home and climb into bed and sleep. He gave the others keys to similar flats should they want to use them. But whatever they chose, he wanted them back in action by noon. Particularly Crazy and Miller. He wanted them to start hunting down the people who had tried to rob him and had survived the shooting.
The last thing he did before going home that morning was to telephone Lancashire police and tip them off about two bodies which could be found in a flooded quarry in Greater Manchester. He knew the message would be passed on immediately. He needed to know the names of the two dead men and the sooner the cops were on the case, the sooner he would find out.
They went their separate ways. Miller drove himself home while Crazy dropped Ray off at his home and then Marty at his own flat. Marty gave him a wave and watched him drive away. When he was sure he had gone, he called a number on his mobile. A groggy voice answered.
‘Can I come round?’ he asked.
‘Now?’
‘Yes — now.’
‘Will it be safe?’
‘Yeah, he’s gone to bed and I need to see you.’
‘Come round then.’
‘Be there soon.’
Henry handed over the contents of his wallet to Troy Costain. Fifty pounds was all he had, but he promised him more soon. Costain took the money grudgingly and got out of the car. He disappeared over the sand dunes into the dull grey morning. Roscoe climbed across from the back seat and plonked herself down.
‘Use of unregistered informants is against Home Office guidelines,’ she said disapprovingly. She was feeling mean and crusty. Henry looked at her stonily.
‘I wouldn’t register him if he was the last informant on earth,’ he said. ‘When I was on CID here and then on RCS as it was, he gave me more run of the mill prisoners on Shoreside than anyone else. It would ruin him if he was registered and if you blab on me I’ll never ever speak to you again.’ He stuck his tongue out.
She leaned over and kissed him. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’
Marty left his car on the outskirts of the small estate and walked the last quarter of a mile or so to the house, skulking round to the back door so he would not be kept waiting at the front door in open view.
A woman opened the door. She was wearing a short dressing gown, exposing her long, tapering legs.
‘Come on in.’ He stepped into the kitchen and they fell into each other’s arms, kissing greedily. Her gown fell open, revealing a lithe, tanned body. She pulled his shirt out of his trousers and expertly flicked open the buttons, her hands going to Marty’s hairless chest, pinching his nipples hard. A moment later her hands were at his belt buckle, unfastening it, zipping his jeans open. She eased the jeans and underpants over his backside and erect penis, then slid to her knees in front of him. She looked up dirtily as she took his member in her hand and eased it away from his belly.
Seven
‘If you ask me, it’s bloody odd,’ said Ray Cragg. ‘That river’s nothing more than a stream, even if it was swelled up by the rain. Four days and nothing!’
‘He’ll turn up,’ said Marty. ‘Dead as a duck.’
They were sitting in a restaurant on the seafront at Lytham, a premises which Ray had no connection with, which he had never tried to muscle in on and never would. There had to be some places left untouched. They were in the dining room, overlooking the wide green towards the windmill and the Ribble Estuary.
Jack Burrows was sat with them, snuggling up to Ray.
Marty had his girlfriend with him. He had not really spoken to her or even acknowledged her presence since coming into the restaurant. She did not seem to mind. She ate and drank whatever was placed in front of her and spent the rest of the time, long thin legs crossed, filing her already perfect nails. Her name was Kylie and she was seventeen.
‘And what about all that money?’ Ray whined pitifully, very depressed.
‘You can kiss that goodbye,’ Marty said. It was said without humour, more with an air of despair.
‘Are we sure Dix is dead?’ Ray asked. ‘He could easily have got out the river and done a runner with the cash.’
‘Course he’s dead,’ said Marty. ‘If he wasn’t, he’d have brought the money back.’
‘I don’t know. . unless it was him that set the whole thing up, unless he got tempted. Even the best of us get tempted, Marty.’
‘I need to go and powder my nose,’ Jack Burrows announced.
‘Have a slash, you mean?’ said Ray in an ungentlemanly manner.
‘If you like,’ she said, very pissed off. She stood up, her eyes catching Marty’s for a split second.
‘Dix has a bird, hasn’t he?’ Ray asked.
‘Yes, she lives in Fleetwood,’ Marty said.
‘Can you find her? Ask if she’s heard from him? Put some pressure on her?’
‘Pleasure.’ Marty’s eyes sparkled at the prospect.
‘Wonder how Crazy and Miller are getting on?’ Ray pondered, changing the subject slightly.
Marty’s insides churned. ‘Dunno. . I need a piss too.’ He patted Kylie’s exposed knee and headed for the toilets.
‘You’re gonna file your fucking fingers away,’ Ray said to Kylie with a sour, disdainful look on his face. He looked out towards the windmill.
The police in Greater Manchester announced the identities of the two murdered men found floating in a flooded quarry just inside their boundary three days after discovering them. They had identified them quite quickly, actually, but had wanted to give themselves a couple of days’ uninterrupted investigation before telling the world at large who they were.
It was as a result of that public announcement that Crazy and Miller travelled to and began to trawl the streets of Stockport, the home town of the two men.
Their plan was extremely simple: go in feet first, annoy people, ruffle feathers and see what bugs came skittering out.
Marty came face to face with Jack Burrows in the corridor leading down to the toilets. ‘Is there anybody in there?’ Marty nodded towards the ladies’ toilet.
‘It’s empty,’ she said.
Marty took her by the hand and yanked her to the door. On his right he saw a disabled person’s toilet.
‘Even better,’ he said gleefully, opening the door. ‘More room.’
He swung her into the room and locked the door behind them.
‘Marty, we don’t have time for this,’ she warned him, aware of the danger. However, there was a look of mischief on her face.
He winked at her. Suddenly they were in an embrace, kissing passionately, their hands running up and down each other’s bodies.
‘I’d rather have sixty seconds of this than nothing,’ he breathed, his lips slavering up and down her neck.
‘What are we going to do, Marty?’
‘Don’t know, don’t know,’ he said, his mouth moving up and down her sweet-smelling neck. ‘I’ll figure something out.’ He pushed her away from him reluctantly. ‘We’d better get back.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ she said, smoothing her skirt down.