A Numbers Game (Mal & Jackie Book 1)

by RJ Dark

  I’d done a bit of research before I came out and it turned out one of the boys in Larry Stanbeck’s Scout troop was the son of a man I knew. Well, ‘knew’ is a strong word; he was an outreach worker for the homeless once and we came into contact that way. I’d never liked him much – he was a bit preachy and always trying to get me into church, which isn’t my thing – but if you have an existing contact, then it’s easier than getting someone to trust you from a standing start. So I rang him and he agreed to meet me near the urban park in the city centre at lunchtime. His name was Will Person, which is hilariously funny when you’re off your head on drugs and alcohol and still reasonably amusing when you’re sober.

  I think, anyway.

  Will was about my age and slightly thinner and taller which took a bit of doing. He walked with a slight limp – he’d always had it – and as he waved at me from the edge of the grass, Subway sandwich in one hand, I saw he still wore Harry Potter-style round glasses. A bit closer and I saw that his short hair was greying. It had been thick and dark brown when I knew him.

  ‘Malachite,’ he said. I wondered if he knew how much it annoyed me. ‘Are you well?’ He offered me his hand to shake and clasped my fingers before my hand fully engaged with his, giving them a squeeze. A cheap technique that he probably thought gave the impression he had a firm handshake. Not that a firm handshake meant anything, but some people were easily pleased.

  ‘I am, very well, William,’ I said.

  ‘Just Will.’

  ‘Just Mal.’

  He licked his lips. I’d always had the sense, back in the day, that he thought himself better than the people he was helping. He wasn’t helping because it was right, he was helping them because it made him feel superior. He searched my face, looking for who I was back then and not finding him.

  ‘Not using anymore then?’ he said. Which, to be frank, was rude.

  ‘No.’ I was tempted to ask if he was still being holier-than-thou but decided to concentrate on being the better man. Now I’d seen his face, more memories of him were surfacing and I thought coming here was a mistake.

  ‘AA, was it? You finally found your higher power?’ He took a rolled-up cigarette from a pouch of tobacco and put it in his mouth.

  ‘Could you not, please,’ I said. He stared at me, and I felt a little bit of pleasure in the flash of annoyance in his eyes. But annoying him, while fun, wasn’t going to help me. ‘I locked myself in a cottage in a damp room and sweated it out.’ Well, Jackie locked me in a damp room and forced me to sweat it out, but Will didn’t need to know that.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, the rollie bobbed in his mouth, and he almost lifted his lighter to it. Remembered not to. ‘You said you wanted to talk to me about something – I thought you might have needed to reach out.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s about Scouts, about your son’s Scout leader, Larry Stanbeck.’

  ‘Sad what happened to him.’

  ‘Yes.’ I let a little space develop in the conversation. Watched him wanting to light his fag and not being able to because he thought it would make him look weak in front of an addict. ‘Did you know him well?’

  ‘Not really, saw him at Scouts. I helped out a bit, you know. Most of the Scout stuff happens at the church on the Edge and I’m a lay preacher there – you should come along.’ He left a gap. I didn’t bite. ‘So I knew him from that.’

  ‘Nothing odd? Nothing off about him?’

  ‘Larry? No, I mean … you don’t mean he was messing with the kids? Cos no one …’

  ‘No, I don’t mean that. I just mean him. How was he? What sort of things did he like?’

  ‘He loved his bike,’ he said, and took the cigarette from his mouth, looked at it, then put it back in between his lips. ‘The only odd thing about him, was he was nervous.’

  ‘Nervous?’

  ‘Yeah, and him a Stanbeck and all. I mean, I know he didn’t get on with his dad.’

  ‘He didn’t?’

  ‘No, they fell out, about Janine, I think it was. But still, he was a Stanbeck – they’re generally pretty confident, you know – even if you’re not speaking to Trolley Mick, he still looks after his own. The only person who hurts a Stanbeck is another Stanbeck.’

  ‘He had anywhere he kept stuff, apart from the Scout hut? Somewhere the police might have missed?’

  ‘You looking for something?’

  It was too late to lie. ‘Yes. Nothing much, just a family thing. It’s lost and his wife asked me to find it. Sentimental value.’

  ‘Sentimental? Janine?’

  ‘Death changes people – you’re a preacher, you should know that.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ he said and looked away. He took the cigarette from his mouth again and removed a bit of tobacco that was stuck to his lips. Then he put the cigarette back in his tobacco pouch. Out of sight, out of mind. ‘If he had anything it would be at the Scout hut and the police emptied that. I know because I had the job of cleaning it up.’ He didn’t look at me, and I watched him as cars passed, hissing slowly along the road to the multistorey car park.

  ‘You said he was nervous,’ I said. ‘Do you think he might have been hiding something?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You know,’ I said, and scratched at my arm. Then he looked at me, his eyes washed-out blue, and I knew when I looked into them that he hungered for something the way I sometimes did. I knew what I wanted; I wondered what it was for him.

  A car passed.

  Another.

  ‘I never thought so,’ he said. ‘There were no tracks on his arms, he never turned up drunk, but there was something about him.’ He stared past me. ‘Like there was something in him that was empty and he couldn’t fill it.’ He pulled the cigarette back out of his pouch and put it in his mouth. ‘When he wasn’t nervous, lately, he was really up. I wondered if he was manic, to be honest. I’d spoken to the vicar about maybe giving Larry some time off from the troop.’

  ‘I bet Larry loved that.’

  ‘He wasn’t happy, no.’ He gave me a simpering smile. ‘But I have a responsibility to do what is best for the kids.’

  ‘I’m sure you do.’

  An uncomfortable silence came and sat on the wall between us.

  ‘You know, the church door is always open for you, Malachite.’ I wondered if he knew that was a good way to end a conversation with me.

  ‘You should shut it,’ I said, ‘or you’ll let out all the heat.’ I stood and walked away.

  He sparked up, and I turned. ‘You should quit smoking, or start vaping at least, not as bad for you. You’re a father – set an example.’

  I saw a flash of anger cross his face and I had to turn away to hide my grin. He’d always annoyed me and I wondered how I’d missed it before that he had been an addict too. Usually people were up front about that, especially those trying to help you out. I suppose they thought it created some sort of understanding.

  I wondered where I was going and what I was doing.

  Maybe I should go to church.

  St Jude’s, the church on the Edge that Will had been talking about shared a name with the Edge’s school. It was a multi-denominational church: C of E, Catholics and a number of fringe preachers worked out of it on different days of the week. There’d been an imam for a bit, but he didn’t last long: brown people were a rarity on the Edge. It was an ugly building, hexagonal, and built from concrete with a cross mounted on a short tower right in the centre of the constantly leaking roof. Inside, a corridor ran around the outside of the central space, which was impressive, and behind that were a couple of offices. It always smelled of damp and the walls were always crumbling as it had been made from cheap materials. I knew it well because my mother had been Christian, for a bit anyway.

  I’m a spiritual person, Malachite.

  Christianity was one among many ‘paths’ she had tried to walk, looking for a peace that she would never find; something to calm the shifting seas within her that coloured her moods and my child
hood. I spent more time in that church than I wanted to as a moody teenager, listening to the vicar drone on, or some helper attempt an uncomfortable conversation with me about music or try to convince me to cut my hair and wear less black.

  I’d hated it then, but it had also been a safe place. It was always quiet and after my friend Steve had died I’d gone there a lot, looking for answers that weren’t there from a God I was reasonably sure didn’t exist. I’d even had my own locker.

  I stopped walking.

  Turned.

  Will Person was smoking his fag and walking away from me, and I ran after him. He glanced back but pretended he didn’t see me coming and carried on walking. He was trying to look unhurried, as if he wasn’t speeding up to get away from me. I didn’t care whether he wanted to speak to me or not. I grabbed his arm.

  ‘Will.’

  ‘Yes, Mal?’ he blew out a plume of smoke.

  ‘Did Larry have a locker at the church? I just thought, as Scout leader, they use the church a lot, but the hut was over the other side of the estate. So it would make sense for him to keep some stuff there.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he shrugged.

  ‘You didn’t mention the lockers, Will.’

  He scratched his head. ‘I forgot, that’s all. And I don’t know if he had one.’

  ‘Who would know?’

  ‘The vicar.’

  ‘I’ll drop in and ask him later.’

  ‘He’s not in until this evening, and besides, the lockers have codes you put in yourself. Unless Larry wrote the code down you won’t be able to get in. The church will have to get a locksmith and we don’t have the money for that sort of thing.’ He took a drag from his cigarette and stared at the floor.

  ‘There’s no pass key?’

  ‘They were cheap lockers,’ he said. ‘We’re not a rich church.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll drop in and see the vicar,’ I said. ‘Is it still Reverend Scanlon.’

  ‘No, we have a new vicar now, Canon Armitage. He’s a bit less of a pushover.’

  ‘I’ll drop in and see him then.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said Will, and he smirked at me. I hate it when people smirk.

  I took the bus back to my office and got some chips from Mr Wan. When I’d eaten them, I got in my car and headed over to St Jude’s. I was wary about leaving my car on the Edge, but the church car park was about as safe is it could get, and as I only drove a Ford Ka, the effort of stealing it probably wasn’t worth the small amount of fun joyriding it might provide.

  There were more cars than I expected in the church car park; it was almost full. The car park had been planted with some big tubs of flowers and it looked they had been there a while without being stolen or vandalised. Maybe miracles do happen. It was still light, but the church had four big floodlights over the door, probably there to light the car park and stop people stealing the flowers. The people coming in were carrying things, bags and boxes, and the atmosphere was a jolly one. A woman near me dropped a carrier bag and food spilled from it. Another woman stopped to help her pick it up.

  I ignored the people and made my way into the church. As I passed through one of the two sets of double doors, a man stepped in front of me – big, dressed in black with a shock of white hair and a drinker’s red face. A white dog collar circled his throat. Canon Armitage, I presume.

  ‘If you’re here for the food bank, lad,’ he said, he had a Welsh accent as thick as cream, ‘then you’ll need to come back during the day tomorrow. We’re just sorting things out tonight, but if you’re starving, see Lisa.’ He pointed across the doors to a small, round and poorly dressed woman who had ‘do-gooder’ written all over her. ‘I’m sure she won’t let you leave hungry, eh?’

  ‘Do I look like I need a food bank?’

  He took a step back, looked me up and down. I saw his eyes stop at my boots, which were scuffed and worn.

  ‘A little,’ he said. ‘You’re a bit of a scrawny one.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘If you’re not here for the food banks, are you here to join the congregation?’

  I shook my head, he didn’t seem concerned in the least.

  ‘Then how can I help, young man?’

  ‘I’m looking into the death of Larry Stanbeck, for the family.’

  His face turned from one of benign peace to one of intense dislike.

  ‘I want nothing to do with the rest of that family – they are a blight on this estate.’

  ‘But not Larry?’

  ‘Well, even a family of black sheep can have one white one, eh?’

  ‘If he was.’ The canon stared at me.

  ‘I’ll not have you speak ill of the dead,’ he said.

  ‘I’m just trying to find out—’

  ‘I think you should leave’ – he took a step forward so he was in my personal space – ‘or I will remove you.’

  Rather than cause a scene, I removed myself.

  12

  ‘So you got thrown out of a church by a vicar?’ Jackie was in my clients’ chair, sitting at an angle with one muscly leg over the armrest, one arm over the top of the chair as he idly tapped the wooden back, making a really irritating noise.

  ‘I wasn’t thrown out, he asked me to leave, and I did.’

  ‘You got thrown out of a church by a vicar.’

  ‘A canon, actually. That’s more important than a vicar.’

  ‘So you got thrown out of church by a posh vicar.’

  I didn’t continue to argue the point with him. There wasn’t any advantage in that, really.

  ‘It is weird though, isn’t it, Jackie? Larry Stanbeck working for Russian Frank? I mean, it makes you wonder if something is going on.’

  ‘Even Russian gangsters need interior design, Mal.’

  ‘Do they? I thought gangster chic was just buy the most garish and expensive things you could.’

  Jackie rolled his eyes. ‘For their homes, yes. But it’s useful to have some legit businesses if you also run illegal ones. The Russians run loads, you know, takeaways and stuff.’

  ‘Like Spice ‘N’ Saucy?’

  Jackie stared at me but didn’t confirm or deny anything. ‘Anyway, if you have a legit business, and one that provides services for a legit business, like say, a builders and architects firm, and you also own a load of takeaways, then it’s a great way to launder money. You charge the takeaways way over the odds for the services provided by the builders. They get bills but no actual money is ever exchanged, it only ever exists on the books. That way the money is brought into the system and as a bonus you end up with a load of takeaways that are pretty good-looking, as you’re constantly refreshing the designs.’

  Something about that was ticking in the back of my mind but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  ‘But why let a Stanbeck get involved?’

  Jackie stared at the desk.

  ‘Maybe he was looking after family interests?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Well, if you’ve got a money-laundering machine, why not hire it out to others?’

  ‘You think the Russians were laundering money for Mick Stanbeck too?’ Jackie shrugged. ‘Maybe. Larry could have been there to keep an eye out, and if, as you say, he had a gambling problem?’

  ‘You think he was skimming from his dad?’

  ‘It’s not a huge leap for someone who is desperate. Mick does not look kindly on betrayal.’

  ‘So Mick killed him?’ I tapped my pen on the desk. ‘I’d believe it if Larry wasn’t a Stanbeck. But Mick has different rules for family – a punishment beating, broken bones maybe. But to kill his own son?’

  ‘Maybe he’d already had the punishment beating? Or maybe they didn’t mean to kill him? Maybe they were chasing him to give him a kicking and it went wrong.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘I’d still like to look at those lockers though. If the lottery ticket is in there, then I can forget all about this.’

  ‘Apart from who you give the ticket to.’

  �
��I was trying to forget about that too.’

  ‘Well, maybe you should think about that. We can pop over to St Jude’s – should be quiet now – and have a look.’

  I looked up, Jackie was holding something in his hand: a small and shiny key.

  ‘You’ve got a key to St Jude’s?’ I said. He nodded. ‘Why?’

  ‘To get in of course, keep up.’ He stood. ‘Well, you coming?’

  We drove over in an old Fiat Panda that sounded like it was in pain every time Jackie turned the steering wheel. Jackie parked it three streets from St Jude’s and passed me a black balaclava.

  ‘What’s this for?’

  ‘There are a lot of security cameras in St Jude’s. The key will stop the system calling the police, but I can’t stop them recording.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Useful legit business, remember?’

  ‘You put the security system in?’

  ‘Not personally,’ said Jackie. He lifted his hand. ‘These hands were never meant for manual work. Now, take your hat unless you want to make DI Smith’s night.’

  I took the hat.

  We skirted through the streets of the Edge in the warm evening. St Jude’s was in a better area; most of the houses were owned and the gardens were neat, some even had trees which made the place feel more luxuriant. We walked hurriedly and did our best not to look suspicious, keeping relaxed and chatting as we moved.

  The Edge was an odd place. There were areas near the Blade where you could walk through covered in blood holding a knife and no one would bat an eyelid; and even if they did, they definitely wouldn’t call the police. Where we were, it was neighbourhood-watch central; no one is nosier than someone who thinks they’re better than their neighbours. It was late enough that there were still stragglers coming back from the various pubs dotted around the edges of the estate. Some of the houses were lit up by flickering TV screens as life went on within them. We made our way up St Jude’s Street, along St Jude’s Avenue and up St Jude’s Approach to the church.