by William Shaw
DEADLAND
DEADLAND
ALSO BY
by william shaw
The DS Alexandra Cupidi Investigations
Salt Lane
Deadland
The Breen and Tozer Investigations
A Song from Dead Lips
A House of Knives
A Book of Scars
Sympathy for the Devil
The Birdwatcher
TITLE
DEADLAND
William Shaw
COPYRIGHT
This ebook edition first published in 2019 by
An imprint of
Quercus Editions Limited
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © 2019 William Shaw
The moral right of William Shaw to be
identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Lines from The Wasteland by T.S. Eliot quoted with permission from Faber and Faber Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Hardback 978 1 78648 660 8
Trade Paperback 978 1 78648 661 5
Ebook 978 1 78648 662 2
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Ebook by CC Book Production
Cover design © 2019 Andrew Smith
www.riverrunbooks.co.uk
DEDICATION
With much gratitude to Jon and Rose
CONTENTS
PART ONE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
PART TWO
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
PART THREE
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
PART FOUR
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
THANKS
PART ONE
The Cruellest Month
ONE
The first time they tried stealing a phone, it went arse-tit. The second time, much worse.
It was a Friday. Two boys, both aged seventeen, sitting on a borrowed scooter, one behind the other, helmets on. The first time they waited twenty metres away from the entrance to the town’s poshest hotel; not so close that people would notice what they were up to. Amazing how many people walk out of a hotel door with their phones right in their hands for everyone to see.
‘What about him?’
‘Nope. Shit phone.’
‘You can’t even see it.’
‘I can. iPhone 5. Wouldn’t get twenty for it.’
‘That one. There.’
‘She’s got a baby with her, douche.’
‘What?’ With helmets on, neither could hear much the other said unless they shouted.
‘You can’t do people if they’ve got a baby.’
Right. ‘Him?’
‘Scary-looking one? You mad?’
‘We’re on a bike. He’ll never catch us.’
Enough hesitation for the man to disappear again, out of view, behind a crowd of hen party girls.
Sloth sat at the front of the scooter, Tap on the pillion.
‘I’m bored,’ said Tap after ten minutes. ‘This is pointless.’
‘You’ve got no ambition, bro. No aspiration.’
‘Kind of thing your mum says, Sloth.’
‘Shut up. Her?’ said Sloth. Woman, maybe forty, quite posh in heels and shades, hair still wet from a shower, coming out of the hotel.
‘Let’s do it.’
‘Sure?’ They had been sat on the bike outside Snack Box for what felt like ages now, hyped and twitchy. Way too long. Now or never.
‘Samsung Galaxy. S9.’
‘Reckon?’
‘OK. Her.’
Sloth kick-started the engine. ‘We doing this?’
‘Serious.’
‘We sure?’
‘Frick sake. Go, you’ll miss her,’ urged Tap and slapped Sloth’s helmet.
Sloth kicked the scooter into gear, releasing the clutch so quickly Tap almost tipped off the back.
‘’Kin’ hell.’
The tiny engine screamed. Way too fast. They were on the woman so soon Tap had no time to think. She was negotiating the brick paving of the pedestrian zone with careful high-heel steps. Tap had just time to glimpse her open mouth as she looked up at the noise of the bike, phone still at her ear as his outstretched arm sped towards her.
But Sloth was riding so hard Tap didn’t have a hope of getting his gloved fingers round the phone. Next thing they were past her and, through his visor, Tap could see the shiny device spinning in the air in a long arc.
Never saw where it fell.
Already, Sloth was zig-zagging, avoiding startled pedestrians with buggies and shopping trollies on the narrow street, and Tap was clinging on to his waist again, until they could cut down Market Place and get a bit of real speed up for the getaway.
Sloth wove through cars crazily, leaning this way and that, finally skidding a left into the dead-end lane beside the disused video shop. Engine still puttering, he removed his helmet.
‘Get it?’
Heart still thumping from the buzz, he slapped Sloth’s bare head. ‘That was way too fast. Bloody hell.’
Sloth punched Tap back. ‘Oh I can’t believe you missed it. You’re just too slow, bro.’
They burst out laughing.
‘I don’t know,’ said Tap. ‘Maybe we call it a day.’
‘Douche.’
‘Seriously.’
‘You give up way too easy, bro. Too hectic there anyway. That was the issue. I know somewhere good we could try,’ said Sloth, putting his helmet back on.
*
Second time was definitely a better location. There was no CCTV on the cut-through from the station down to TK Maxx.
‘See?’ said Sloth.
He was right. They arrived there as a local train pulled
in. Coming off the platform, exactly the same thing, everyone pulling out their phones. ‘I’m home, love.’ ‘Need anything from the shop?’ Made it easy.
But by the time they’d figured out the area, everyone from the first train had gone, so they had to wait for the next one from London to pull in. They found a spot to hide this time, tucked out of the way beside the Chinese takeaway.
‘Spliff?’ said Tap after fifteen minutes.
‘Nah.’
‘Might slow you down a bit.’
‘I don’t need slowing down, bruv. Stay woke, not broke.’
‘Deep. Just keep it nice and subtle this time. All right?’
‘Like a girl asking me not to be rough with her.’
‘’K off. You wouldn’t even know what that’s like.’
Neither of them would, as a matter of fact.
A train arrived. Sloth started up the motor again. The first commuters were too tightly packed together to bother with. It was like lions, you had to wait to pick off stragglers.
They both saw him at the same time. Ordinary-looking bloke. Jeans and brown jacket. Balding slightly. Earring. Holdall in his left hand, phone at his right ear. The man’s face was red, as if he was flustered. From where they sat, out of view, they couldn’t make out what he was saying.
‘What’s he got?’
‘Can’t see.’
And then, as if just to oblige them, the man held out his phone, looked at his screen, then returned it to his ear and continued talking.
‘iPhone X,’ said Tap, quietly. ‘Look. For sure. Get a few hundred for that. Easy.’
‘Reckon?’
‘Got to be. Look at the size.’
The man paused by the gate. They could hear him talking now. It sounded like ‘Keep your hair on. You still get to keep your half, I just get all the rest.’
‘Come this way, come this way,’ whispered Sloth.
Tap was suddenly unsure. There was something odd about this man, the tightly wound way he gripped that bag at his shoulder, the redness of his face. Later he would wonder if he should have said something, told Sloth to leave it, but in front of him on the bike, Sloth seemed so sure.
The man ended the call, reached down, opened the bag, and placed the phone inside.
‘See that?’ said Sloth.
‘Yep.’
This time Sloth did everything right. The moment the man was past them, walking across the expanse of litter-strewn tarmac, Sloth kicked hard on the pedal and launched the bike forward off the stand, out of the darkness at the side of the old takeaway restaurant. The man didn’t have a chance. In the second that he heard the sound of the motor coming up behind him and stopped to turn, Sloth braked a touch, slowing the bike just for long enough.
Afterwards, they roared down the ramp onto the pavement, bumping onto the carriageway, Tap clutching the stolen holdall to his chest and shouting, ‘Got it this time, bro.’
And Sloth accelerated round a white BMW 218i Sport, shouting, ‘Sweetness.’
The feeling was mad; the fear and thrill like being on the wildest theme park ride, only better.
*
Uncle Mikey opened the door to his council house, looked at the two grinning teenage boys, one black, one white. An old black moped was parked on its stand, motor still puttering next to his bright red Suzuki GSX.
‘Hey, Uncle Mikey,’ said the white one.
The other one turned to switch off the engine, not by turning a key, but by plugging in the kill switch, so they’d obviously nicked it.
Mikey shook his head. Benjamin wasn’t his real nephew but he had had this on–off thing with his mother for years and liked the lad as if he was his own. Sloth, the black kid, was super-short for his age, only five three. Benjamin was almost a foot taller and milky pale. A right pair.
‘Yeah, yeah. What this time?’ Mikey, himself six foot tall, an ex-merchant navy man who tapped fags on a packet before he smoked them; still the Paul Weller haircut, though his hair was grey now and thinning at the back.
‘iPhone-fuckin’-X. Mint condition.’ Sloth held up the holdall like a prize.
Mikey shook his head. ‘Oh, boys. Why are you doing this? Get a bloody job.’
‘How much?’
‘Are you addled? Jesus. Not interested. I’m straight these days. Get out of here.’
‘Honest to God, Uncle Mikey,’ said Tap. ‘It’s proper.’ They’d called Benjamin ‘Tap’ at school ever since Year 5 when Mr Parker said he must have been tapped on the head too hard as a baby.
‘Don’t bloody care. Did you switch the phone off?’
Tap and Sloth looked at each other. ‘No.’
‘Benjamin Brown. You are unbelievably dense. Beep beep beep. Right now that phone is telling people exactly where it is. The feds can be on you in ten minutes. Bet they’re on the way now. Get out of here. I don’t want them coming to my door causing me aggravation. I’ve had enough of it.’ He paused, looked them up and down. ‘How’s your mum, by the way, Benji?’
Sloth yanked Tap by the sleeve. ‘Let’s go somewhere else. He’s not bothered.’
‘She’s using again, I think,’ said Tap. ‘Drinking, anyway.’
‘Very sorry to hear that. I’ll come round. See what I can do. OK, mate?’
‘Appreciate it.’ Though Tap wondered what Mikey ever saw in his mother.
‘You’ve got to look after her, Benji. I know you think she’s a pain, with all that. The thing about growing up is learning who you care for. OK, mate?’
Tap nodded.
‘Deep,’ mocked Sloth.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Mikey. ‘True, though. You’ll figure that out one day. Took me long enough. You got to learn it, Benji. Nobody tells you the rules in this game. You got to work them out for yourself.’
‘Very, very deep.’
‘Get lost.’
‘Can’t you wipe it? iPhone X. Mint. Worth hundreds,’ said Sloth. ‘Show him, Tap.’
Tap delved in and pulled out a small black Alcatel.
‘You are such failures,’ scoffed Mikey. ‘That’s some cheap pay-as-you-go shitbrick. Is that some kind of attempt at a joke?’
‘Yeah,’ said Sloth, smiling. He took the phone and put it in his pocket. ‘Now show him the other one, Tap.’
Tap pulled out the second device: a brand new iPhone. When they had stopped to examine the bag, there had been two phones in it. One worthless, the other a top-of-the-range device, barely used.
Mikey hesitated, looking at the device, then said, ‘Bollocks. I don’t want it. Take it away.’
But, as Tap held it, the screen lit up and the phone vibrated. A message appeared on the lock screen. Mikey reached out and took the handset.
Tap leaned forward to read the words ‘Pls give what you stole back £5000 reward no questions’, followed by a phone number.
‘Christ in a bucket,’ Mikey said eventually.
Sloth pushed past and read what was there too.
‘Frickin’ hell.’
‘Is that five grand?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Five grand? You could get another five frickin’ iPhones for that.’
Sloth giggled. ‘He’s going to pay us five grand?’
‘Sure there’s nothing else in the bag?’ asked Mikey.
Tap shook his head. ‘Nothing. Searched it.’
‘Must be something extra-bloody-special on the phone.’
Tap held out his hand. ‘Give us it back. It’s ours.’
‘Actually, technically speaking, not,’ said Mikey, holding on to the phone.
‘It’s our phone. It’s our money.’
Mikey smiled. ‘Yeah? OK. I’ll give it back to you.’ But he didn’t. ‘And what if it’s a trick? What if the police put the message on there and when you turn up to get your reward –’ pronouncing the word ‘reward’ with heavy irony – ‘they’re all waiting for you? Bloke knows two lads on a shit moped nicked it from him. I can say I just found it, accidental. They can’t prove anything, c
an they?’
Tap hesitated. ‘Five hundred for you. If you go instead of us.’
‘Nope. Fifty–fifty.’
‘You are joking? Two-and-a-half grand for being a delivery man? We took the risk nicking it.’
‘And I’ll take the risk taking it back.’
‘That’s shit,’ said Sloth.
‘That’s business. Don’t I always tell you, lads? Think about the weekend you’ll have.’
They thought about that for a second. ‘What you reckon?’ muttered Sloth.
‘Five grand, man. We did the work.’
Mikey shrugged. ‘Ten minutes ago you’d have been over the moon if I’d given you a hundred for it.’
‘True.’
‘I think it’s shit,’ Sloth complained.
They stood for another minute on the doorstep, before Mikey called the number on the screen.
‘Here’s a thing. I found this phone,’ he said. ‘Apparently there’s a reward.’
The voice at the other end of the phone spoke.
‘Yeah. I know it. Up by the river.’
Tap looked at Sloth; he had that frown on his face, lips pursed tight, like when he was about to start going off. ‘It’s OK, bro,’ he whispered. ‘I trust him.’
‘Make it twenty minutes. I’ll be there. Yeah . . . and the bag. I’ll bring it.’
When he’d ended the call, Mikey said, ‘Come back this evening. If he’s on the level, I’ll give you half.’
‘Right,’ Tap said. ‘Two point five?’
‘If that’s what I get.’
Sloth rolled his eyes.
*
Helmets off, they rode a little way to the edge of the estate, then stopped, puttering on the footpath.
‘Don’t believe him,’ said Sloth.
‘He’s OK. He’ll give us the money. I promise.’
‘Yeah, but reckon the one we stole it off is going to give him the money for real?’
Tap shrugged. ‘I’m over it, anyway.’
‘How can you be over it? You just give up so easily. Douche.’ He thumped his friend on the arm.
Tap dug in his jacket and pulled out tobacco and some spliff. ‘Don’t know, mate. Just need weed.’
‘We should follow him,’ said Sloth. ‘See if he gets the money.’
‘Give us a break, mate. You’re always on it. Just relax. It’ll be fine.’ It’s why they had called him ‘Sloth’ at school. Because he wasn’t one. It was better than the one he had before, which had been ‘Donnie Darko’, or mostly just ‘Darko’.