The journey back gave me ample time to think about our new problem. As if Cartwright’s murder and the disappearance of our money, coupled with DI Clifford’s personal vendetta against us, wasn’t enough for one week, I now learned SOCA had got themselves a top grass in our firm. This could bring us all down. We kept on top of the law, following each new development as if we and the police were opposing superpowers in some new version of the Cold War. The Supergrass had been discredited by the abuses of the 80s, when grasses were often paid for duff info that was invariably chucked out on appeal. Lately though, they had come back into vogue, with the Met landing some high profile villains on the back of their testimony. The key was linking the word of the grass to other, more substantial evidence. That was how you got your conviction.
If a hit man, say, is caught, found guilty and handed down a longer-than-life sentence for multiple murders the police still aren’t too happy, because he is basically just a hired hand. It doesn’t get them any closer to the man who gave the order for the hits. The bloke who pulls the trigger, well he could be anybody and there are always plenty of others willing to fill his shoes. The police know this, so they offer the hit man a deal to rat out his boss.
One guy had a sixty-year sentence cut to four, so the story goes. If it all works out he gets a new ID and the Met get the crime boss they’ve been after for decades. The dubious morality of letting a hit man back on the streets looking for a job, when all he’s qualified to be is a hit man, is usually forgotten in all of the euphoria.
If SOCA were after Bobby and they had a man on the inside, I had to find him and fast. I couldn’t rely on Amrein to deliver that name. Even if he was really trying, it might take too long and I was sure there was something he wasn’t telling me. So, we were on our own.
‘What did Amrein have to say while you had your walk in the garden?’ asked Finney, once he realised I wasn’t going to volunteer the information.
‘He wanted to know why the Drop was late.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘I said we had a little local difficulty, that it was nothing to get bent out of shape over, that everything was under control.’
Finney grunted, ‘He believe you?’
‘Who knows?’ I said, ‘maybe.’
I wasn’t going to tell Finney what else Amrein had mentioned; the man SOCA had on the inside of our firm. Like I told Amrein, there were only half a dozen men with enough information to really bring Bobby down and Finney was one of them.
EIGHTEEN
I was expecting a sombre mood at the Cauldron and was more than a little surprised to hear the sound of raucous male laughter coming from the bar, which was closed to the public this early. We’d still got problems, big bloody problems and I wondered what was going on to make everyone so damned cheerful. I walked in to find Bobby, Jerry Lemon, Finney and Mickey Hunter all having a bottle of Newcy Brown together. Bobby spotted my incomprehension and walked over to me.
‘You’re back in my good books son,’ he said, slapping a huge hand on my shoulder, ‘for now.’
‘Really?’ I asked, trying not to sound pathetically grateful, ‘why’s that then?’
‘That little tip you gave me the other day?’ he said, eyes sparkling.
‘What?’ I asked, more than a little surprised, ‘the one you said was a non-runner?’
‘That’s the one,’ he nodded at me, then actually winked, ‘well it came in didn’t it, and at very long odds,’ and he smiled a beatific smile, before repeating, ‘very long odds,’ then he patted me on the back, ‘have some Geordie champagne,’ He thrust a cold bottle of Broon at me and, even though I don’t normally touch the stuff, particularly this early, I took a big swig.
I supposed I should have been delighted but I had mixed feelings. On the one hand I was glad that a plan I concocted for Bobby, to rob a casino that was a little less secure than it should have been, had come off. It was on the outskirts of town, in a side street, not many passers-by, and we knew they kept too much cash on the premises. Most importantly, the idiots weren’t paying protection money to us, or anyone else. I figured it was prime to be turned over at the end of a busy night. We put a lot of surveillance work into that place but when I initially went to Bobby, he rejected my idea.
He must have been desperate for some extra cash by now to replace the Drop, because he had been willing to take what he had seen as too big a risk. From the way Bobby was talking, it reaped us a better-than-expected dividend. There’s nothing like an earner to get you back on the right side of the boss and now he was all smiles – and the rest of the crew might even remember why I was on the payroll in the first place, now they had some money in their pockets because of me. I was an ideas man and none of them ever had an idea in their lives, except Bobby.
The thing was, even though he had given my plan the green light and set a heavy duty crew onto it, he had done it without telling me, which meant he still didn’t fully trust me. It continued to trouble me even as I downed my beer and laughed along with the rest of the boys.
‘I do like a successful day at the races,’ laughed Bobby.
‘Aye,’ said Hunter, ‘and here’s to our very own king of the tipsters,’ they raised their glasses to me.
I had to content myself that my plan had led to a successful job, with no casualties or arrests. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do for now.
Bobby did get round to asking me quietly about the missing money and I answered him honestly, ‘nothing conclusive yet, but we are turning over every stone, believe me.’ He just nodded but didn’t say another word.
I had a couple of drinks that day, more than a couple if I’m honest, as I moved from place to place trying to fathom what was going on around me. I got one of our lads to drive me around on the pretext of following up some leads but really it was just an excuse to leave Bobby, Finney and the rest celebrating on their own while I got the fuck out of it.
When I finally got back that evening, Laura had, as usual, opened a bottle of white wine. Before I met her, I only ever used to drink beer, now it was a nightly ritual to lose our stresses in the bottom of a bottle of Pinot Grigio. I chose one of our big wine glasses and poured it almost to the top, sitting down heavily on the couch.
‘Bobby still giving you a hard time?’ she said breezily, as if Newcastle had just lost again; another thing she didn’t seem to understand the seriousness of.
‘That’s one way of describing it.’
Laura leaned forward in her chair, tilted her head to one side and gave me her wide-eyed empathising look.
‘What’s happened?’
I wasn’t sure how to put it into words but then I figured I should try. There was something about her pitying, supportive look that spurred me into making an effort, ‘suppose you had an idea, a good idea but your boss rejected it as… too risky… in the context of an overall business plan?’
‘Right.’
‘Then, because things changed, he suddenly decided that your idea was worth the risk after all, so he went ahead with it and it worked.’
‘Right,’ she said, frowning, ‘but that’s good isn’t it? If it worked I mean.’
‘But… ’
‘There’s a but?’
‘There’s a but. He didn’t tell me about it, implementing my idea that is. Until he had actually gone ahead with it.’
‘Right,’ she kept saying ‘right’ but this time she said it doubtfully, ‘I’m not sure I… ’
‘Which means he still doesn’t fully trust me, don’t you see?’
‘Well,’ she thought for a moment, ‘not really. I mean could he not just have forgotten to tell you?’