They smirked at each other, knowing the truth.
‘If they don’t get a move on, they’ll have to buy something,’ Miller said. ‘Oh-oh, here it comes!’
The two men went into a kind of huddle, then sprang away from each other, spun round and revealed they had each put on a mask, similar to the Hannibal Lector face guard worn by Anthony Hopkins in the Silence of the Lambs, designed to prevent him from biting the throats out of unsuspecting people. The masks made them look frightening and dangerous. Each pulled a gun out of his waistband and ran towards Miller and Crazy, kicking stools out of the way, scattering other customers.
Crazy saw it all happening in reflection.
He and Miller rose together, their chairs tipping backwards.
Crazy twisted round low, smoothly extracting the pump-action sawn-off which had been concealed under his jacket. Miller had a Glock 9mm in his hand. They moved rapidly and precisely. Crazy dropped to one knee, Miller stayed high, tactics they had determined at the beginning of the day.
Their two adversaries were openly startled by this concerted movement and both hesitated. Something not wise to do.
Other customers watched the unfolding scene with open-mouthed astonishment and disbelief. Some dived for cover. Some simply stood there. The staff all ducked behind the counter. There was a scream.
Crazy pulled the trigger on the shotgun. The boom was ear-shattering in the confines of the building.
The first man went down clutching his groin and thigh as the shot blasted into him. He staggered against a pot plant, dragging it crashing to the floor, writhing in agony on top of the scattered leaves and soil.
The second man stopped in his tracks. More fatal hesitation.
Crazy racked the shotgun.
Miller shot the man in the chest. The 9mm slug drove into his right lung. Miller had shot people before and was always amazed by the different effect taking a bullet had on folk: some toppled over like skittles; one man he shot in Northern Ireland, a suspected IRA terrorist, just walked to a nearby seat, sat on it and started to cry while nursing his wound. This man, today, did not even stagger back. He looked down at his chest, looked up accusingly at Miller and opened his arms in a gesture which seemed to ask, ‘Why me?’ His gun dropped to the floor and he sank to his knees, both hands now covering the hole in his upper chest from which pumped blood.
Without a word, Miller and Crazy headed for the exit. They walked purposefully, not too quickly, not in any sort of panic. They shouldered their way past people, did not touch anything, stared ahead of themselves, making no eye contact with anyone. Once outside, their walk turned into a brisk sprint to the Mercedes.
By the time they were out of the car park, the first public-spirited member of the public ran out and tried to take their registration number, but she was too late. They were gone.
Their lovemaking was long and slow. Afterwards they held each other tight. Henry could not stop kissing her, nor she him.
‘You’re pretty good at bonking,’ he told her.
She grinned. ‘Only with the right person.’ She kissed him and sucked his bottom lip and sank her teeth into it. He gasped and squeezed her bottom hard. ‘And you feel like the right person.’
‘Mmm,’ he agreed, was about to kiss her again when the inevitable happened: her mobile rang. ‘Hate those things,’ he said. She clambered across him, ensuring her breasts brushed across his chest, then lay at an angle over him and answered the phone. Henry did not take much heed of the conversation. He was too engrossed in running his fingertips up and down her spine, caressing her buttocks and rubbing her shoulders. She ended the call then lay unmoving, revelling in Henry’s touch.
At length she said, ‘That was the office. There’s been some sort of shooting incident at McDonald’s, Yeadon Way. . Ahhh,’ she breathed as Henry slid his hand between her legs and into her cunt. ‘They want me to turn out to it. . I said I’d be there asap.’ She dragged herself up, straddled him, kissed him and reached for his cock, slowly easing herself down the shaft. ‘I’m not sure what asap means, though,’ she confessed.
Dix took a chance. He phoned Debbie again on the new mobile, this time calling her mobile number. She answered and he could tell from her voice that she was now more in control than she had been earlier.
‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes. . look, Harry, what’s going on?’
‘Don’t talk — listen,’ he said firmly.
For the moment Marty was being patient. Under the present circumstances there was no point in being otherwise. It was the only way. He had to stay focused and cool. No need to panic. Just play things nice ’n’ easy. Wait for the moment and pounce. Dix was sure to show himself and the best way to get him, Marty believed, was through the sweet Debbie.
Marty was parked two streets away from her house, waiting for her to make a move. She had to drive past the end of the street he was on in order to get to the main road, so he was certain he would not miss her when she set off to meet her beau.
It was just a matter of time.
He was fiddling with the in-car CD when she whizzed past him. He gave her a few seconds, then followed. Marty concentrated hard on keeping on Debbie’s tail, ensuring he was always a few cars back, trying not to spook her. Unfortunately for him, he was so wrapped up in this that he forgot the first rule of survival in the world of the professional criminaclass="underline" ‘Always look over your shoulder.’
Eight
Although Dix had warned Debbie to be on guard, to check if she was being followed, she really did not know what she should do, or what she should be looking for. There were cars behind her, but how could she tell if any one of them was after her? She had no idea about antisurveillance techniques. It never entered her head to loop round roundabouts or to stop in lay-bys or to retrace her steps. All she could think of doing was to look in her rear-view mirror.
In truth she knew little about what Dix did for a living. She had an idea that he operated on the fringes of criminality, but his reassurances that he was only a debt collector — or taxman, the term used in his circles — always calmed her down. They calmed her down because she loved him, couldn’t get enough of him and truly believed that when they got married, as surely they would, she could change him and his ways.
She checked the mirror. Two cars behind her at the moment. Had one of them been there before? She could not be sure.
Suddenly and painfully she had started to learn something more about Dix and his world. She knew about Marty Cragg. Dix had taken her to a nightclub in Blackpool once where he had bumped into Marty and a few hangers-on. After a few drinks had loosened his tongue, Dix had told her that Marty was a drug dealer and a pimp and that he enjoyed knocking women round. Marty had frightened her. His eyes, fuelled with alcohol admittedly, looked wild. It worried her when Dix told her he worked for Marty and his brother, Ray, who was far meaner than Marty. How could that be? she wondered naively.
That had been a while ago. Dix had never mentioned Marty since and she had stopped thinking about him. Now she could not erase him from her mind.
What the hell had Dix done?
He had refused to tell her anything over the phone. He just made her listen to some instructions which, when the phone call ended, she began to follow with a feeling of incredulity.
She had gone into her kitchen as instructed and emptied the cupboard underneath the sink. With shaking hands she lifted the bottom shelf out and peered into the dark space below, reached in cautiously and pulled out a plastic carrier bag. She replaced the shelf and the items from the cupboard before turning her attention to the bag, one from Safeway’s supermarket.