by Alfie Robins
Ever since Robbo heard on local radio about Joey, he’d gone into a depressive mood and started hitting the bottle a lot more than he usually did. He genuinely liked the lad, and to say he felt sorry for him would be an understatement. Time and time again he went over the conversion process in his head, he couldn’t fathom what the hell he was doing wrong? He couldn’t talk about it - who could he talk to?
Several times Dooley tried telephoning the hospital to see how Joey was doing, but some jobs worth at the other end of the line wouldn’t tell him anything unless he was a relative.
He swore to himself he’d never, ever convert another pistol, but he knew it was only the booze talking, who was he kidding? Nobody but himself, the money was too good. But he was worried, very worried - he hoped to Christ, Joey would keep his mouth shut?
He had a steady day planned, he was going to spend a few hours on his restoration project, the Triumph motorcycle. Then back home for lunch and then he was going to try and con his way in to visit Joey in hospital. ‘Bye, love, see you later,’ Robbo shouted over his shoulder as he stepped out into the street, shutting the door behind him. Head down he trudged toward his workshop, unaware of the Ford Focus, parked up just down the road from his house.
‘That him?’ The Focus’ passenger asked.
‘Yep.’
‘Don’t look owt special.’
‘He isn’t, he’s a shit brain.’
Robbo walked, it wasn’t far, only a couple of hundred metres to the garage block. The driver of the Ford Focus watched Robbo turn the corner, then he eased the car away from the kerbside - slowly they followed, the occupants watching Robbo’s every move.
Parked up at the entrance to the communal garage block, they watched him unlock the garage folding door, slide it open and go inside, closing the door behind him.
In the Focus the passenger opened the window to let out a plume of stale, blue tobacco smoke. ‘We doing this now?’ He asked as he took a pull on his fag.
‘Na.’
‘Why not, it’s perfect, no one hanging around?’
‘We’ve just been parked up practically outside his house for the past hour, you plank. Don’t you think some busybody has clocked us already?’
‘Suppose. When then?’
‘Soon, very soon.’
Chapter 14
For the next twenty-four hours, Mouse, who now kept trying in vain to revert to his given name of Sebastian, pulled in every favour he could to find out everything there was to be known about Robert Dooley.
The sun had long gone down, but the heat of the day was trapped beneath the now dark clouds, threatening a storm. Every now and then heavy drops of rain splashed onto the windscreen and spread like spider’s webs along the glass. The Focus was parked up by the kerbside, giving the occupants an uninterrupted view of Robbo’s house and the approaching side roads. The curtains were drawn closed on the pebble-dashed council houses. Homes arranged in blocks where the occupants sat glued to the latest reality show or enthralled in their latest soap episode.
The council described the layout of the housing estate as courts, but the further you went into the estate, the more akin they were to ‘rat runs’. The estate had been built in the 1960s to house the families affected by the west Hull slum clearance. The council in their wisdom had thought it wise to move the residents of the tight knit fishing communities to a sprawling estate on the northern edge of the city. Progress came during the Thatcher era when many took the advantage and sought the opportunity to buy their homes, and the legacy lived on, with many descendants of the original families still living there. These were the lucky ones, facing onto open fields with views toward Cottingham.
Inside the car Sebastian, AKA Mouse and Albie sat waiting patiently, smoking and listening to music. It was quiet. This was after all, the time of evening when most people were indoors settled in front of the box after a busy day at work.
Mouse, sitting in the driving seat of the Ford, took out his pack of smuggled duty-free cigarettes, placed one between his lips and lit up. He didn’t offer one to his companion. ‘Tonight’s bingo night,’ he said as he opened the car window to let the smoke escape. He glanced at his watch. ‘His missus will be home any time now.’
‘How come you know so much?’
‘Been asking around, haven’t I?’
The amateur gunsmith had a predictable routine, it soon became clear his schedule was a simple one. Altogether he led a very mundane ordinary life, work, home, bed, and an occasional visit to the betting shop. Saturday, was shopping with his wife, with the week broken up with a visit to the pub on Saturday evening, not forgetting bingo night.
‘And him, this Robbo?’
‘Pub, always goes for a pint while the missus is at bingo. He usually comes home shortly after her, brings fish and chips with him.’
‘So, we’re really doing this tonight Mou…’ Albie quickly corrected himself, ‘Seb?’
‘Yep, that’s what the boss wants.’ He put his arm through the open window and pointed with his fingers, gun like. ‘Boom.’
‘Here she comes now, bang on time.’
‘Bang on time, yeah, I like that.’
‘Grow up, this is serious shit, man.’
In the distance Mrs Robbo was walking toward them. She wasn’t alone, she walked arms linked with her sister and bingo partner.
Mouse and Albie sunk down in their seats out of view, watching. The two women reached the corner of the street, and stood chatting for a few minutes more before saying their goodnights and going their separate ways.
‘Why is it that women still have something to natter about, even when they’ve been together for the last couple of hours?’
Mouse ignored him.
‘Won’t be long now. Remember do it exactly as I told you.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it.’
He reached under the seat and produced a Baikal, the very same gun he’d hired from Robbo. His boss thought it was symbolic, poetic justice that he should be cut down with his own pistol, regardless of how much he had to pay for it.
‘Then tell me one more time,’ he demanded.
‘Hell, you’re as bad as the boss. He’s walking towards us, I have the gun, we drive towards him, you slow down almost stopping, I poke me arm out the window, I point and put two in his chest. Okay?’
‘You sure you’re definitely up for this? We can’t afford any cock-ups.’
‘I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.’ He was, and showing no sign of backing out.
‘It’ll be a piece of piss, first one is always the hardest. Now we wait.’ Mouse removed the magazine from the pistol and made pretence of checking it was okay and wiping his prints clean with a rag before sliding it back into position. Still holding the weapon in the rag he then passed the weapon over to a nervous Albie, who was keeping his apprehension well hidden.
The wait wasn’t a long one. Ten minutes later Robbo came into view walking on the opposite side of the road. With a couple or three pints inside of him, he didn’t have a care in the world. Dooley sauntered on, a plastic carrier bag containing their fish and chip supper in his right hand. Albie sat fidgeting nervously, keeping his finger well away from the trigger of the Baikal. This was to be Albie’s first kill, and he was determined not to bottle it, he needed to prove himself. He was a thug, breaking legs and heads didn’t bother him one iota, but this was the big one - and he was ready.
The field was clear. Curtains were still closed and no dog walkers, no possible witnesses that Mouse would need to take care of later. He turned the key in the ignition and the engine purred. Gently, he eased his foot down on the accelerator pedal. ‘Ready?’ Albie didn’t speak, just nodded and wound down the window. Mouse smoothly put pressure on the accelerator pedal and the Focus moved steadily away from the kerb. Robbo came closer and closer, oblivious until an outstretched arm thrust through window. There was no time to react, a quick burst of two bullets ripped into his chest, bang, bang, from almost point-blank
range. As Robbo fell to the concrete in a heap, the Focus accelerated, took a left turn at the end of the road and was away.
Lights in the neighbouring houses came on, curtains twitched and front doors opened. Robbo lay on the pavement, legs twisted beneath him - hands clutching his chest as a dark pool of blood spread through his fingers, pooling beneath and around him. The fish and chip supper spread over the roadside. Albie put the weapon in the foot-well and closed the car window. Sitting back in his seat he laughed like he’d gone crazy - he was wired, hyper with the adrenaline rush.
‘Man, oh man, that was so fucking cool,’ Albie shouted out loud, as the Focus joined a line of vehicles on Orchard Park Road. ‘You see him go down? Bang, bang,’ he gestured with his fingers. ‘Fucking hell, he went down like a bag of shit.’
‘Calm down, man,’ Mouse urged.
‘Yeah but …’ Albie started to protest.
‘Yeah but, nowt. Just get back in your box and pull yourself together. If the cops see you acting like a loon we’ll be pulled over, know what I mean?’
Albie took heed of Mouse’s warning. He was right. Getting pulled over was the last thing they wanted.
The evening traffic along Beverley Road was light and all the traffic signals were in their favour. Beverley Road had changed over recent years, this was a time when all the shops would normally have been closed for the evening, but now there was an abundance of early opening – late closing Eastern European convenience stores and supermarkets. Mouse took the journey at a steady rate, making sure he drove within the speed limit and pulled the Focus down by the side of the Rose.
Albie was still hyper but managing to hold it together. ‘Right,’ Mouse took his mobile out of his jeans pocket, ‘time to let the boss know it’s done.’ He sent a very brief text message, one word. Done.
‘What about the gun?’
Mouse looked him in the face. ‘You keep it.’
‘Thanks, man.’
Albie thought all his birthdays had come at once, but there was method in Mouse’s action. Should there be any comeback, anything at all that would lead the police to the weapon, it would be in the possession of Albie and the only prints they would find would be his. If Mouse should be implicated, all he had to do was to hold it together, deny everything and let Albie take the fall.
‘No problem, mate, you can buy me a pint.’
Chapter 15
It had been a long day, Warren hadn’t left the station until 9.30 p.m. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and his stomach was grumbling for England, there was only one thing for it, he stopped at the local take-away and bought himself a very predictable pepperoni pizza.
Home for Greg Warren was a large three bed-roomed terraced house along Alliance Avenue, he’d bought the house shortly after moving to Hull, after a brief period of living in rented accommodation. With the pizza box on his lap, he sat on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table, watching the evening news. He reached down to the floor for his bottle of imported lager, noticed the pale bleached patch in the carpet pile and shook his head, remembering, not one of his finest moments. That was the exact spot where he had put a bullet through Bob’s foot, Bob being one of his ex-masters at Gemmell Stratergies. As it turned out Bob was one of the good guys. Still balancing the pizza box on his knee he retrieved the bottle and sipped. That was when his mobile scurried across the table top. He swapped the bottle for the phone and recognising the caller ID he pressed the accept key.
‘Yep,’ he said into the handset.
‘Greg, you busy?’ said a voice down the phone line, it was the Duty Inspector at the nick.
Warren knew it wouldn’t matter if he was busy or not. ‘Nope, what can I do for you?’
‘There’s been another drive by shooting in North Hull.’
‘Christ, what’s going on? It’s getting more and more like London and Manchester by the day.’
‘Yeah, well this one’s still alive, just. He took two bullets to the chest and by some bloody miracle they didn’t damage any vital organs. My lads on the scene thought he was a gonna but the Paramedics found a pulse - just.’
‘Anyone we know?’
‘Robert Dooley, not on our radar.’
‘Okay, I’ll get myself down there.’
Warren looked at the empty lager bottles, should he call a taxi? Na, he’d only had the two, there was no way he’d be over the drink drive limit. He pulled on his trainers, grabbed his jacket and left the house, not before giving Trish a call and spoiling her evening. The pizza would have to wait.
The journey from Warren’s home to the Hull Royal Infirmary was a short one, just a couple or three miles away. At least at the late hour parking at the Hull Royal Infirmary would be no problem, or so he thought. He gave up looking and parked up on double yellows and placed a police sticker on the dashboard.
The three story apartment building on the Victoria Dock was built on a premium plot, with direct views overlooking the River Humber. The exclusiveness of this imposing block with magnificent location had been reflected in the buying price when the Victoria Dock complex was completed.
The third floor was even more special with only four apartments, each occupying a corner location, one of which was owned by Neil Powers. Powers was pleased to call the apartment home, many times he reflected on his past, who would have thought a rag tag kid from the slums would ever be in a position to own such a place. Every time he thought about it, he had to smile to himself - he’d made it.
This was a place he could escape to, a place where his business dealings didn’t encroach on his private life. Yes, once the door was closed on his Victoria Dock home he could turn off the worries and woes of the day - most of the time. This particular fine evening the French windows were wide open, a gentle salty breeze blew along the Humber. He sat on a bistro chair, bottle of expensive craft beer in hand, and let his thoughts wander as he enjoyed the view from the narrow balcony. The setting sun over the river reminded him of the time he was stationed in Kenya, a far cry from Victoria Dock.
He sipped his beer and deliberated as to whether he should enter business discussions with the man he knew as Raymond Cole. His credentials were good but first impressions hadn’t been favourable, Cole seemed so sure of himself, cocky to the point of being arrogant, but then again, so was he, it was the only way to be in their business.
He put down his bottle on the bistro table and picked up his mobile, the untraceable Pay-As-You-Go. Warren’s number was still in the call log, he was just about to dial, faltered and put the phone back on the table and picked up his beer. Unsure, he stared out over the river, the tide was turning, a coaster was heading out to the North Sea. In for a penny he thought and picked up the mobile once again, after all if things turned pear shaped, well - he was, after all an arms dealer.
Trish was already waiting outside the Infirmary Intensive Care Unit when Warren arrived. ‘You look how I feel,’ she said as Warren walked up.
‘Yeah well,’ he replied, ‘just got sat in front of the telly with my pizza and half way through my second lager then the phone rings, I was in half a mind to ignore it.’
‘Nature of the job, can’t expect to have a private life.’
‘You’re telling me. That the wife?’ Warren asked, nodding towards the woman sitting on a tubular framed chair outside of the ITU department.
Mrs Dooley looked to be in complete shock. A slim woman, pale faced with short dark hair cut in a bob, she looked as if she’d rushed out in a hurry, she was still wearing her slippers.
‘I take it you’ve had a word already?’
‘She can’t tell us anything of use, she was at bingo with her sister, came home around 10pm. The husband always goes for a couple of pints and comes home with fish and chips. She put the kettle on and buttered some bread ready for when he arrived. Next thing she knew there was a knocking on her door, one of her neighbours coming to give her the bad news.’
‘So, what’s the position with the husband?’ Warren cupped his hands on
the glass as he tried to peer through the blinds into the ITU.
Trish opened her notebook. ‘Robert Dooley, walking home from the pub, around 10 p.m. last night, neighbours heard two loud bangs, of course they ignored it, saying they thought a car was back firing.’
‘When was the last time you heard a car back fire?’ Trish shrugged her shoulders, ‘modern cars don’t back fire, fact.’
‘Anyway, nobody saw anything, one of the curtain twitchers saw him lying there, called the emergency services then went to see if she could help.’
‘Nice that, at least one person not afraid to get involved.’
‘Yeah, considering she’s eighty-two. Two bullets to the chest and he’s lived to tell the tale.’
‘Shall we?’ Warren asked, as he squirted antibacterial hand wash onto his hands, then held his warrant card against the glass and rattled on the door to be admitted. The charge nurse gave him a stern look through the glass. ‘That’s me told,’ he mumbled as she opened the door and allowed them to enter. It was all too familiar, first it was the antiseptic smell, then the bleeping of the monitors, IV lines hanging from stands ran into the backs of his hands, all with one purpose - keeping Dooley in the land of the living.
‘I’m afraid he’s in no condition to answer any questions, he’s not long out of surgery,’ the nurse who’d given Warren the stern look told them.
‘This is getting to be a bit too frequent,’ said the nurse, inclining her head towards the patient.
‘Tell us about it,’ was the reply from Warren.
‘He is going to be alright?’ Trish asked.
‘Oh yes, he had two bullet wounds to the chest but fortunately they missed all the vital organs. To be honest I’m amazed,’ she replied, as she checked the monitor. ‘He’s still got a long way to go yet, but he’ll live.’
‘Don’t suppose you know anything about the bullets they took out of him?’