Mark turned around and stared through the rear window. “I knew he’d make a mess of things.”
“Well bully for you. Doesn’t help Thrombo though, does it?”
Mark shook his head. “I told you not to use him.”
“He got us outta there, didn’t he?”
“But at what price?”
Derek looked at his brother. “You know, if Thrombo’s fuckin’ carked it, that’ll save us a bob or two.”
Eric returned a glare. “You really are a cheap fuckin’ bastard, you know that?”
Derek looked offended, and held up his hands. “Naw, didn’t fuckin’ mean it like that. Just saying, if he’s fucked then he’s not gonna need the cash where he’s going, is he?”
Eric drove up Cargo Fleet Lane, casting quick glances in his rear-view. “I gave him my word. He’s getting that three grand, and it’s coming outta all our shares, right?”
The big lad said fine. Mark murmured his assent from the back seat.
“I don’t wanna hear another fuckin’ thing about it. If Thrombo’s dead then his girl-friend or whoever buries him gets the cash.”
“Fair enough,” Derek said.
Eric looked at the two men and smiled. “That’s not to say there isn’t opportunity here.”
“Whaddaya mean?” Mark asked.
“The Karagounis clan are out of the way,” he replied, looking at Mark in the rear-view. “We just seen John get carted off in a bacon wagon and the kids are gonna be spending at least a night in the hospital. Maybe more than that if Anthony’s arm was anything to go by.”
“So?”
“Means their breakers yard is there for the taking.”
Mark grabbed his shoulder. “You really do like taking risks, don’t you?”
“Far as I can tell this is about as risk-free as it gets.”
“And what about Evie and Ray?” Mark said. “They’re waiting on us.”
“They have your number.”
“Meaning?”
“You deal with it. We’ll see what we can find.”
“And if you don’t find anything?”
“Then nobody’ll be any the wiser, will they?”
A mobile phone ringtone started chiming. Mark took the phone out of his pocket and looked at it. “Speak of the devil. It’s Evie.”
Eric smiled. “Fine. Once we’re at the scrapyard, take the car and pick up Tommo.”
32.
Tommo stared out of the window at the trees being blown this way and that by the wind, their leaves rustling with a sigh. His breath fogged and faded on the glass a couple of times before he turned back towards Mark. He put a cigarette in his mouth and had a couple of goes at lighting it with a match, because his hands were shaking violently.
“Whaddaya want in exchange for these photos?”
“For you to disappear. And stay that way.”
Tommo’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“That’s my business.”
“I have family. I’ll be missed.”
“I don’t care.”
“Mebbe I do.”
“If you go back we release that shit. To everybody. You’ll be fuckin’ ruined, mate. Ruined. We’ll send emails to friends and work colleagues, send ‘em photo messages, the whole shebang. We’ll even upload the video to fuckin’ YouPorn, under your fuckin’ name.”
Tommo grimaced. “I’ll deny it.”
“Good luck with that. I’d pay money to listen to that excuse,” Mark scoffed and did a poor Tommo impression. “Er, that’s not really my arse he’s fuckin’ there. Might be special effects, like.”
Tommo’s eyes glazed over, like he wanted to cry.
“Even if they did buy your excuse nobody’d take you seriously anymore. You’d just be a pub footnote – that bloke who got overpowered and fucked by a gay guy. You’d be finished. A fuckin’ joke.”
Tommo shook his head. “This is bullshit.”
“Then disappear. And nobody need ever know.”
Tommo exhaled. “But why?”
“Because you’re a cunt. ‘Cause your uncle’s a cunt. That’s why.”
Tommo’s eyebrows rose. “The drugs. That’s what this is about.”
Mark leaned back and chuckled.
“You think you can get my uncle’s money?” Tommo said.
“We already have it.”
Tommo took another drag of his cigarette, but his hand shook so much he could barely get the thing in his mouth, and when he finally managed his teeth were chattering so much the cigarette looked like it was vibrating.
“He thinks you betrayed him. If you go back chances are he’ll kill you before you get an opportunity to explain your side of the story.”
Tommo’s eyes took on a haunted look, staring into a distance far beyond the confines of the car, and he breathed smoke at the car window.
Mark leaned forward and tapped Tommo’s shoulder with his free hand. “And even if he does believe you, we’ll make sure you’re the talk of the town. Either way, you’re ruined.”
Tommo took another long drag at the cigarette, his eyes glistening with emotion. He exhaled, and the smoke filled the car like a fog, rolling in dense waves towards the open driver’s window. He lowered his face into his hands whilst his body trembled slightly. When he eventually looked up his face was smeared with tears. “Was Al who told you about the deal, right?”
“That a question or a statement?”
“Statement, I suppose.”
Mark shook his head. “Actually, it was Al’s lad. Every time you and your idiot of an uncle shot off your fuckin’ mouths, Al went home and complained about it to Danny. You do know you told Al everything, don’t you? Because you thought he was harmless you thought you could get away with speaking your minds. Well, I guess you were wrong about that. Problem for you was that Danny was still smarting about what your uncle did to his hand, so he contacted the Stantons and told them everything he knew,” he said, adding. “He told them all about it – the time, the date, everything, really. All it needed for us was to find a way of making sure you took the rap for it.”
“And if I tell that to me uncle?”
“You know what happens then,” Mark said, raising his eyebrows. “Anyway, you might not live long enough for that to happen. Terry’s gonna be angry. The moment he sees you, he’s probably gonna see red.”
Tommo glared at him. “Mebbe I’ll take that risk.”
Mark smiled without humour. “Was afraid you were gonna say that.”
Tommo’s attempt to look like a man in control was scuppered by his shaking hands, which he clasped together in his lap until the knuckles were as cold as ice. “What my uncle did to Danny first time around’ll be nothing compared with what he gets next time. And there’ll be no place for you to hide, either.”
Mark let out a short, bitter laugh. “I told ‘em this wouldn’t work.”
Tommo stared at him vacantly. “Who?”
“The Stantons. Schemes work best when they’re simple, but they’re too fuckin’ stupid to see that,” Mark said. “The moment you introduce complexity into the mix, you’re adding an extra layer of fuckin’ trouble, you see? And trying to fit up a guy like you with something like this is more fuckin’ trouble than I need right now.”
Tommo took a deep breath. “Then let us go, and I’ll forget all about this.”
Mark leaned forward. “You just don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?”
Mark shot him twice in the head, and watched as he slowly slumped sideways with two small calibre bullets rolling around inside his skull. He prodded him twice with the gun barrel, even though he knew he was dead, and whispered, “Sometimes it’s less trouble just to end these things with a bullet.”
33.
Smooth concrete walls topped with broken glass and razor wire surrounded Karagounis & Sons’ scrapyard. The Stanton brothers paced the perimeter looking for a patch that was glass-free. There wasn’t any, so they looked for a patch where the glass was set back sligh
tly from the wall edge. When they found it, Derek lifted his brother onto his shoulders and hoisted him high enough to get a grip on the wall and cut the razor wire. Eric used the wire cutters to smash away enough of the glass to give his brother a decent place to put his hands, then he hoisted himself up and over.
The place was a maze of high walls of rusting car shells stacked precariously on top of each other, and the further they wandered into the heart of the yard the higher these walls became. Passing breezes made the hulking structures creak and groan as metal ground against metal. The stink of rust, petrol and corruption hung heavy in the air, and the reek grew stronger the further in they went.
At the centre of the yard were two mobile lifters, one a magnet and one a claw, and a small single-storey prefab office with two little windows and a door. To its right was an adjoining garage with a large metal door that had once been white but was now a patchwork of paint flakes and rust. Faint cries emanated from behind it, a string of mumbled consonants suggesting that somebody was wailing through a gag of some kind. Eric walked over to the door and placed his ear against it, shaking loose some paint flakes that drifted to the floor like dirty snow. He held up his hand and simulated a yapping mouth. Derek pulled a gun from his holdall. He covered the area whilst his brother worked the door lock with a couple of picks. It didn’t take him long.
He turned the handle and the door screeched like a wounded dog on its way up. The first thing they saw was a man bound by his arms and legs to a heavy-duty workbench. A mountain range of bruises and welts covered his face and his dirty-blonde hair was caked with dark streaks of crusted blood. An oily rag had been gaffer-taped into his mouth, though the tape was coming away from the skin in places because it was soaked with sweat and drool. Initially the man let out low wails of fear, but once he realised his visitors weren’t the ones he was expecting he began bucking his body up and down and his moans were high-pitched and excited. Eric pulled out the rag.
“Thank fuckin’ Christ. Thought I was a fuckin’ dead ‘un, like.”
“You still might be.”
Fear widened the man’s eyes. “Who are youse?”
“Nobody.”
“Seriously, mate, who are you?”
“Let’s just say I’m not John Karagounis and leave it at that.”
“That’s good enough fer me.”
“And you?”
“Gerry Bonner.”
“The thief?”
“Likes to think a meself as an entreper… enterprenur,” Gerry said, adding by way of explanation. “You know, like practical an’ shit.”
“So, a thief?”
“Yeah, basically.”
“So what’re you doing here?” Eric asked.
“The long or the short?”
“The one that doesn’t bore me and my brother rigid.”
“Owe Don Webber, dun I? Fuckin’ fat bastard sez he’s sicka waiting for us to pay. Told ‘im I had a thing coming up, an’ would gerrit for ‘im after I’d pulled it off, but he got all radged an’ decided he’d mek an example of us.”
Eric waved his hand at Gerry and the torture table that he was on. “Webber doesn’t pull this kind of shit on first-timers. How many payments you missed?”
Gerry huffed and screwed his face up, like he was trying to think of an answer. “Two?”
“Really?”
Gerry rolled his eyes and tutted. “Okay. Three.”
Eric arched his eyebrows quizzically.
“Four.”
Eric lowered his brows and smirked. “Sounds more like it.”
“Come on, lerrus go,” Gerald said, sounding worried.
“Why should I?” he asked and winked at his brother.
Gerald bit his bottom lip and jerked his head from one brother to the other. “You’ll improve your karma. Look, I was gonna leg it anyway. Gonna mek a clean break an’ all that. Might tek meself down to London, an’ see what happens.”
Eric told his brother to untie Gerald and walked towards a shelf that was loaded with plastic and glass bottles and other containers. He carefully scanned the labels on the bottles. It was a cornucopia of dangerous chemicals and other hazardous materials. “So, Gerry, have they got a safe in the office?”
“Yeah. I seen it on me way in. It’s big an’ looks the bollocks, but it’s a fuckin’ Fisher Price toy – a retard could crack it. I’ll helps you break it, if you like. No less than the fuckers deserve.”
Stanton shook his head and took a small Teflon container off the shelf. “No need,” he replied, looking closely at the label with a slight smile.
Gerry clambered off the table, hissed and rubbed the skin around his damaged wrists, which had swelled to the size of soup cans. Blood trickled down from the places where the flesh was torn. “I’m know me way around most safes. Can crack ‘em in no time.”
Stanton held up the container for Gerry to look at. “So can Fluorosulfonic acid. Only it’s a fuck sight faster than you are.”
34.
Gary Feldman looked at the face of the body wrapped in a sheet through the car window. He narrowed his bulgy eyes and leaned in because the face looked familiar. “It’s five hundred to dispose of the car and two grand for the corpse, and both are non-negotiable.”
Mark gave a quick jerk of the head. “Fine.”
Gary walked back and forth for a few seconds, like he was thinking about something, and cast an occasional glance at the body in the boot. His round toad-like face was set in an expression of concentration and he tapped a pencil against his protuberant lips every time he took a step. He stopped momentarily and rested his back against a towering stack of cars, which groaned as it took his weight. Like John Karagounis he owned a scrapyard, but on a much bigger scale – the walls of crushed cars, the cranes used to lift them, the walls surrounding the property, everything was grander – probably because he had bigger secrets to hide. His thick eyebrows hung down over his eyes, casting them in shadow, as he bit down on the end of the pencil and chewed. Then he pointed the pencil at the car. “Who is he?”
“Thought you didn’t wanna know about these things?”
“Normally I don’t,” he said, “but he looks familiar.”
“Terry Albright’s nephew – Tommo.”
“Fuck me,” Gary said and made a sound like a punctured tire. “How badly will he be missed?”
“Albright’s gonna look for him, that’s for sure.”
“I’m not liking this.”
“But when he inevitably doesn’t find him, he’ll give it up as a lost cause,” Mark said.
“Why?”
“The Stantons hit Terry tonight, and he thinks Tommo set him up for money.”
The line of Gary’s mouth twisted upwards ever so slightly. “Now why would he think something like that?”
“Because we told him.”
“Which means if he disappears…”
“It’ll be because his plan worked,” Mark added.
“So there’s not gonna be any police, then? That’s my main concern.”
Mark shook his head. “Not unless Albright fancies telling them about his side-line in heroin.”
“Which is unlikely.”
“Exactly.”
Gary held out a large, callused hand, palm up. Mark rummaged around in a holdall, counted the money off and approached him. As Gary made to grab the cash, Mark pulled it just out of reach. Gary looked at him, his raised eyebrows like question marks.
“The Stantons don’t need to know about this.”
Gary gave him a wonky, yellow grin. “Take it this wasn’t part of the plan?”
“Far as they’re concerned he’s been blackmailed into leaving.”
“Must’ve been some blackmail plan?”
“Too fuckin’ risky is what it was.”
“Blackmail usually is,” Gary said.
“This more than most,” Mark replied. “I’m all for minimising risk.”
“Says the man who’s just shot someone.”
; “Someone who’s about to disappear.”
Gary wrapped his leathery fist around the money. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Good.”
“By the time I’ve finished with him the only thing left will be the fillings in his teeth.”
35.
Dark smoke drifted quickly from left to right, pushed by a breeze that blew through the room. Both the office front door and the door into the garage were open; to speed up the process of clearing away the toxic fumes. Even outside in the chilly morning air the stench was acrid and overpowering, stinging their throats and nasal cavities; the Stantons and Gerry hung back and waited for the smoke to clear completely before daring to enter. Even when he did finally take the plunge, Eric Stanton took a deep breath, covered his mouth and nose with a rag, and rushed into the room.
The side of the safe where the lock had been was gone; melted away like it was ice in a heatwave rather than hardened steel. The acid had also eaten its way through the wooden table and was proceeding to eat away at the floor, although most of its potency had been expended on the safe. Eric pushed a plastic pen into the hole and used it to lever the door open. He put the rag down, quickly grabbed the cash, avoiding any areas touched by the acid, and rushed out of the room. Once outside he gulped down deep breaths and dropped the cash on the wet ground. His brother knelt down beside the bundles and did a basic count, although he seemed to be struggling with it and the going was slow.
“How much?” Eric asked, still trying to catch his breath.
Derek shrugged and said, “Mebbe six, seven grand. Mebbe a bit more. Not quite sure.”
“Put a grand aside for Thrombo.”
Derek’s eyes widened and his face screwed up like a used tissue. “Not being funny, like, but we’re already paying the idiot three fuckin’ grand. Why the fuck should we give him a penny more than we hafta?” he said.
Eric gave him a dead-eyed stare. “Because I said so, you tight bastard.”
“Whyn’tcha just give the rest to this fuckin’ doyle, while you’re at it?” he said, pointing at Gerry.
The thief raised his hands to shoulder height, took a few steps back and cracked an embarrassed grin. “Ow, don’t bring me into this, lads” he said nervously. “I’m just grateful to youse for cutting us loose. Don’t want no fuckin’ trouble.”
Bone Breakers (A Stanton brothers thriller) Page 10