‘So you went out to verify this?’
‘Well no.’
‘You looked out of the window at least, saw him sitting there?’
‘No.
‘Why not?’
‘I didn’t think… ’
‘You didn’t think?’
‘No, well why would I?’
‘I dunno,’ I shrugged, ‘maybe because you were handing over a very large amount of Bobby Mahoney’s money to one guy, even though that same Bobby Mahoney had personally instructed you never to hand over a very large chunk of his money to only one guy. That’s why you might just have given it a thought.’
‘I had no reason to suspect Cartwright.’ he protested.
‘Why? Are you two old mates? ’
‘No, he is not my mate.’
‘Not your friend and not a blood relative or anything? He’s not part of the family?’
‘Don’t be absurd.’
‘Me, absurd? I’m not the one giving big wadges of cash out to people who are neither my friends nor my relatives. That’s fucking absurd. You realise nobody saw Geordie Cartwright walk in here or leave with the cash. So how do we know he ever received it from you? How can you prove you gave him the money when we don’t sign for anything?’
‘Now hang on a moment.’
‘No moments and no hanging on. You’re forgetting yourself Northam. I’m responsible for security in our organisation, whereas you are just a fucking bean counter with delusions of grandeur.’
‘Don’t you talk to me like that.’
‘I’ll talk to you anyway I want until you start giving me some answers. We are staying here until you can prove you gave that money to Cartwright and you had nothing to do with his murder.’ I didn’t think for one minute he was responsible for Cartwright’s death but I was enjoying watching the slimy little shit sweat.
‘Murder?’ that took the wind out of his sails, ‘this is ridiculous,’ he stammered, ‘I don’t have to… ’
‘Finney,’ I said quietly and Finney rose to his feet. Northam went white. When Finney pulled a flick knife from his pocket, pressed a button and a blade popped out, I thought Northam was going to keel over right there and then and have a heart attack in his own office.
Finney took a step forward, ‘Please,’ pleaded Northam, ‘don’t,’
Finney reached behind him, plucked the soft, Italian leather cushion he had been sitting on from out of the outrageously expensive sofa and plunged his knife deep into it, until there was a huge gash in the middle of the pristine leather.
‘Oh,’ Northam drew his hand up to his mouth in agitation but didn’t dare say a word in protest. I stood up and Finney reached for the cushion I’d been sitting on and gave it the same treatment.
‘I don’t know what you want from me,’ Northam pleaded. Only when I was convinced he had almost soiled himself did I give him any leeway.
‘Sit down Northam,’ and he almost fell into his desk chair, ‘now, let’s start again shall we? I want you tell me everything that happened that day. What time Cartwright arrived, what he said, what you said, what he was wearing, what mood he was in, what the weather was doing outside, what you had for breakfast that morning and if you had a dump afterwards. And if you go running off bleating to Bobby about us coming here I’ll drop you right in the shit with him, understand?’
Finney held up the knife.
‘Yes,’ whimpered Northam.
Finney folded the knife back up.
‘Go on then,’ I said.
Finney chuckled as we drove away, ‘I enjoyed that,’
‘It was a moment of light relief,’ I admitted, ‘and he had been holding out on us.’
Putting the fear of god into Northam had worked. He’d told us two things we didn’t already know; firstly Cartwright had taken the Drop a day early and of course he’d blamed that on me. I’d apparently told him to collect it twenty four hours before it was due. Because I was on holiday, Northam couldn’t verify that with me at the time so he just assumed it was legit, the idiot.
The other thing Northam remembered, when we took him through the meeting minute by minute, was that mild-mannered Geordie Cartwright had been carrying. He’d spotted the gun in Cartwright’s shoulder holster when he’d leaned forward to pick up the bag.
‘What would Geordie need a gun for?’ Finney wondered aloud.
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted, ‘but there’s a good chance he got it from Hunter.’
‘Yeah, probably,’ he said, ‘him and Cartwright go back years, to the old days.’
Doesn’t everybody in our organisation, I thought, except me.
‘I’m not sure how far forward we are getting here. Every time we learn something new it just throws up more questions. Why collect the Drop early? Why carry a gun when that isn’t your line of work? Why tell Northam that Barry Hennessy was waiting outside in the car when he wasn’t? Unless Barry was lying when you saw him after?’
‘Doubt it, we scared the shite out of him, literally.’
I didn’t want to think about that. ‘And Northam looked too scared to lie to us in there, so it was Cartwright telling porkie pies but why would he risk that?’
‘He was on the run with it?’ suggested Finney, ‘he knew we’d be after him if he lifted the money so he had the gun, just in case.’
‘I don’t think so. He’d know a gun wouldn’t do him much good and the Drop had to be handed over in twenty four hours or he’d be in the deepest shit imaginable, so what was to be gained by it? Anyway, we should go and see Hunter and I think it might be worth having another word with Barry Hennessy.’
Finney smirked to himself at that. He was clearly enjoying his day. I drove for a little while then a thought struck me, ‘why does Barry get called Maggot in the first place?’
Finney thought for a moment, ‘cos he’s a fucking maggot,’ ‘Fair enough.’
Our next stop was across the river in Gateshead; the Railway arches and an appointment with Mickey Hunter. The arches all had solid metal doors on them, emblazoned with the names of the small businesses that operated out of the offices and workshops within. If you could stand the noise and vibration from the trains that went whizzing overhead you could get a very good deal on premises right by the city.
Hunter ran a little body shop that knocked dents out of cars, put new bumpers and bonnets on for you if you’d had a smash, and might stretch to a respray, if you had the cash and didn’t mind him not declaring it. There was always a demand for low maintenance, cheap repair work and it was a lovely cover for his real business. That’s why he could afford to undercut the main dealers.
‘He wanted a piece.’ Hunter told me as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He was sitting back in his chair in the garage’s tiny office, which overlooked three dilapidated cars that were all being worked on at once by blokes in grease-stained overalls. Our conversation was constantly being interrupted by the high pitched squeal as wheel nuts were unscrewed, then an angle grinder screamed as someone sorted out some body work. Mickey wore overalls too but I never saw him getting his hands dirty. He was a tall, stocky bloke in his late forties and his dark hair was flecked with grey. He was also a bit boss-eyed. You wouldn’t notice at first. It was only when he was talking to you and was meant to be looking right at you that, instead, you suddenly realised he was staring at a space somewhere above your right shoulder. It wasn’t his fault his eye was a bit out of sinc but it made him look decidedly shifty nonetheless. Hunter had been with Bobby since he was a teenage tearaway, nicking cars, re-spraying them and selling them on. Now he was the firm’s quarter-master.
‘Geordie Cartwright wanted a gun?’ I still couldn’t believe it. I’d never even known him fire a gun much less carry one around with him, ‘what kind?’
‘Handgun,’ he said, ‘a Sig Sauer, one of those flashy pistols the cops have in the States.’
‘I know what a Sig Sauer is. Did you get him one?’
‘Of course.’