Death & Back: (Charlie Cobb #2: Crime & Action Thriller Series)

by Rob Aspinall

  I open the boot to a spotless blue sky.

  Sunny but chilly. The sporadic roar of motorway traffic. I clamber out of the Volvo and traipse across the car park to the main services building.

  It's quiet inside. The usual mix of franchise outposts. The smell of coffee, warm muffins and McDonald's breakfasts. I head straight for a small WHSmiths. They're selling travel stuff. I buy some miniature toiletries and wash myself in the sink of the gents. They've got those ridiculous taps where you need to keep a hand on it at all times. Like you can't be trusted to turn it off when you're done.

  I guess some muppets can't.

  I clean my upper half with a cloth. I bend over double and wash my hair under the tap. Give it a quick blast under the dryer. I keep it short, so it's dry in no time.

  Next up, brekkie. I bypass the McMuffin and go straight for the Big Mac meal and a black coffee.

  I return to the Volvo with a bag of sweets and a bottle of water, roll up the sleeping bag and fix the back seats in place

  I consult the map I found inside the glove box. Prince's gaff isn't too far away. Only an hour up the road.

  If you're gonna raid someone's house, common logic says you're gonna do it at night. He'd have been expecting that, so I decided to rest up, clean up, get my head straight. Hit him when his guard is down.

  I pull out of the services, throw a strawberry Starburst in my gob and blast the Volvo down the motorway.

  Typical. The bastard's guard is still up.

  I roll past the tall steel gates to Prince's estate. He's got two blokes stood behind ‘em. Blokes in casual clothes. Weapons concealed, but they're armed for sure.

  I cruise a quarter of a mile down the street. It's lined by high stone walls and bushes, with the occasional millionaire mansion. I pull a U-turn and park up against the kerb. I stick out like a sore dick around here. The only car parked on the road. And somehow I doubt anyone drives a second hand Volvo estate.

  Think, Charlie, think.

  No one drives a maroon Volvo, no. But they do put their bins out. Bright blue recycling ones lined up for collection. And on the way in, I passed a spotless orange bin truck doing its morning rounds.

  Here it is in my rear view mirrors, stopping a hundred metres down.

  I run a quick weapons check. Two guns ought to do it. One in each holster. A double strap inside my jacket. I climb out and walk towards the bin lorry as it comes up the street.

  It stops while a couple of guys riding the back of it hop off to collect the bins. I open the passenger side door to the cab and climb in.

  The driver is wiry and silver-haired. "What, who—“

  "I need to borrow your truck," I say, flashing him the butt of a pistol.

  The man doesn't argue. He opens his door and jumps down from the cab.

  I slide behind the wheel and put it in gear. The truck lurches off along the street, leaving the collectors standing with bins in hand.

  I crank it into second. Third. Overtaking my car. Getting some speed up. The roads around here are smooth and wide. I swing out as far as I can to the right, then throw a sharp left as I come up on Prince's driveway.

  The thing about bin lorries—they're heavy. Not only from all the machinery on the back. They're full of recycling too.

  I accelerate as fast as it'll go, nose pointed straight at those steel gates.

  The two men on guard don't react fast enough. The truck slams through the gates with a bang, a whine and a snapping of metal.

  I mow the guards down.

  I head towards the house. The windscreen is cracked and half the gate dragging and sparking over the driveway. More guards come running. Gunfire rattles into the side of the truck. I duck low behind the wheel and head straight for the main entrance.

  I'm half thinking of ploughing through the front of it. But the closer I get, the more I realise he's built a fake bloody castle for himself. Stone walls, turrets and big oak doors with iron studs. The whole ridiculous lot.

  There'd only be one winner. And it doesn't collect empty tins of caviar.

  I pull the wheel to the right and slam on the brakes. The truck skids to a stop. I bail out of the driver's side and run around the back of the lorry. You could play snooker on the plush green lawns of Prince's place. They sweep down towards the road. A pair of suited and booted guards come running up the grass with automatic weapons.

  The only cover they've got is a bank of pink rhododendrons. I whirl out from around the truck and hit one with a round. He spins into a bush. His mate returns fire. I double-back around to the front of the truck and hit him in the neck. He drops to the turf, too. I pause a second and see the damage done. The gates lie in pieces. So do the men guarding 'em.

  I make for the entrance. The front door's locked, so I pick up a large clay pot with a plant in it. I tip out the plant and the soil. It's bloody heavy, but I heave it onto a shoulder and hurl it through a front window. A huge pane of stained glass crashes down. I climb into a large dining room with polished wooden floors, high ceilings and a long oak table and chairs.

  The guy must be into history or something, because everything is medieval and up its own arse.

  I come out of the dining room into a grand hallway with stone flooring. It's lined by tall iron candelabras and a varnished wooden staircase to my left.

  Another goon in a suit comes running. I catch him by surprise, grabbing a candelabra and whacking him in the face with the base. I drop the make-do weapon and march down a corridor. I poke my head in a few rooms.

  There's a large, luxurious living room with wooden beams overhead. Another room with a snooker table. And last but no less pompous, a library with a huge stone fireplace full of crackling, glowing logs. It has a wall full of old books I doubt the fucker's ever read and a desk on ornamental brass legs.

  I catch Eddie Prince stood by an antique chest of drawers. He's got a hand inside one of 'em. He pulls out a silver revolver and checks the barrel.

  "Don't bother, Eddie," aiming my gun at him.

  He sets the revolver down and steps away slow from the drawers. He's an average-sized man. Bald and freckled on top with a Costa-Del-Crime tan and what looks like a face-lift since I saw him last. He wears tartan slippers and a matching wool dressing gown left open. A pair of sky-blue pyjama bottoms and a white t-shirt underneath.

  He throws his arms open like I'm a long lost son. "Breaker," he says in his gravelled Essex voice. "What a nice surprise. See your communication style hasn't changed much. You should've called ahead."

  I keep the gun trained on him. He's a slippery eel. I can see the cogs turning in his potato-shaped head.

  I last worked for Eddie Prince around six years ago. Remember that north-south civil war I mentioned? Eddie Prince was the southern boss. A major player back then. Famous for cutting the throats of his enemies. Letting them bleed to a slow death.

  Prince Eddie, most people call him. A top of the line arsehole, I call him.

  "So Charlie," Prince says. "How much is this gonna cost me?"

  "Why does everyone assume I'm after their money?"

  "Because you usually are. And I could do with a new fixer, now Randall's on the slab."

  "He dead then?" I ask.

  “Got the call this morning. Police found him swinging. Dave called me n'all. Told me to expect you."

  "Well don't reach for your chequebook. I'm not looking for work."

  "What then? Revenge? I had nothing to do with that thing at the building site."

  "I bet you know who did, though. Don't you?"

  “No idea what you're talking about."

  "That's what everyone says. Right up until I find out they do."

  Prince's face darkens. His nostrils flare. He takes a step forward. "Are you threatening me, son? 'Cause I'm trying to be nice here."

  "Most people are nice when there's a gun on 'em."

  Prince paces left and right. "This isn't some small-time arsehole you're talking to here. This is Eddie Prince. Prince fucking E
ddie. I'm the ghost and the darkness, son." Prince works himself into a right frenzy. "I'm a fucking man-eater. King of the jungle. The antichrist and Jesus Christ. You're dealing with royalty here, sunshine. So if you're gonna shoot me, you'd better make sure of it. Or I'll click my fingers and that ugly head of yours'll be rolling around my lawn while Lucky uses it as a chew toy. You filthy piece of thick northern shit."

  Prince wipes a string of spit off his chin.

  I lower my weapon. Tuck it in my holster. "I'm not gonna shoot you, Eddie."

  The old slap-head calms himself down. Sniffs, face flushed red. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

  I grab the handle of a brass poker lodged in the fire. I pull it out and thrust the hot, glowing end into Prince's guts. He screams. I let go of the handle. He staggers back against his desk, the poker still in him.

  Now we'll see if he talks.

  45

  I peer around the back of Prince Eddie. The tip of the poker sticks out the other side. "Well look at that," I say. "It went all the way through."

  It takes a minute for Prince to stop yelping. His t-shirt stains with blood. I wait for the screaming to quiet to a whimper. He holds onto the poker handle, trembling, bent over the desk.

  "The antichrist, my arse," I say, lowering my voice and leaning in close to his ear. "Who's heading up the operation? I know it's not you. You're not bloody capable."

  "You don't know who you're going after," he says, voice breaking. "They're rabid dogs. They'll tear you to fucking pieces."

  "Then it's in your interests to tell me, isn't it?"

  Prince doesn't crack.

  I hear feet running into the room. It's Marla, Prince's wife. White satin dressing gown and fluffy pink slippers. Dyed black hair, fake lips and drawn-on eyebrows.

  "Eddie?" she says. "Jesus, Eddie!" She rushes over to her husband. "What have you done to him?"

  "Just a misunderstanding," I say.

  "I'll phone an ambulance," says Marla.

  I snatch the cordless phone away from her. "Not until hubby here talks."

  “I don’t care what you do to me,” Prince says through gritted teeth. "I'm not saying shit."

  “What about your wife?” I say, picking up a letter opener off the desk. “You care what happens to her?” I drive the letter opened into Marla's right shoulder, a few inches above the fake boob. She wails. I twist. She wails some more, blood pouring out of the wound.

  Prince isn't happy. "Get off her you fucking animal!"

  I hold up the phone in my free hand. "I can call her an ambulance right now, Eddie."

  He shakes his head. "They'll kill us both anyway."

  I keep twisting. Marla keeps screaming. "The less you talk Eddie, the more I twist."

  "Please, Eddie!" Marla cries.

  I sing the words to "Let's Twist Again" by Chubby Checker.

  Indeed I do twist again. Left. Right.

  Until the great Prince Eddie finally breaks. "Stop! Stop! What do you wanna know?"

  "Everything," I say, taking my hand off the letter opener.

  I find a pad of posh writing paper on the desk, along with a gold ballpoint pen. I click out the nib, pull Eddie over to the pad and shove the pen in his hand. "Names, details, how they operate, where they keep the refugees."

  Eddie hesitates. His hand shaking.

  "Come on Eddie, Marla's bleeding out over here."

  "I'm thinking! I'm thinking! I've got a fucking red-hot poker in me."

  I yank the letter opener out of Marla's shoulder. Blood spatters the desk. She yelps and puts a hand to the wound.

  "Now she's bleeding out faster," I say.

  "Alright, alright," Prince says. "But I don't know everything."

  As Eddie writes, something occurs to me. "On second thoughts," I say, dialling 999. I call an ambulance. Toss the phone in the fire. "You'll be alright love," I say to Marla. "Put a towel against the wound and find somewhere to sit down. It's a plush area, so the ambulance ought to get here before you snuff it." I grab Prince by the lapel of his dressing gown. "You . . . You're coming with me."

  I tear the top sheet of paper off the pad. I drag Prince away from the desk. Marla screams and wails. Eddie too. I ignore the pair of 'em and march him out of the house. I snatch a black key fob from a blue ceramic bowl in the hallway.

  I open one of the huge front doors and we walk down the steps. "I've given you what you wanted," Prince says.

  "I can't be sure you're not lying."

  "Come on, Charlie. You know me—"

  "Yeah, that's the problem."

  The key fob has a silver Rolls Royce logo on the back. I look left and right as we come out of the house. I see a shiny black Roller parked up a short walk to the left of the house. The locks pop as we approach. I open the rear passenger door and shove Prince inside.

  The poker catches on the seat as he gets in. He cries out. I slam the door, hurry round to the driver's side and get in behind the wheel.

  "Bloody hell, it's like The Savoy in here."

  I'm not exaggerating either. The front of the cabin is as big as a living room, full of hand-stitched cream leather and walnut.

  There's even an umbrella holder.

  A bloody umbrella holder.

  "Right Mr Prince," I say, starting the engine, looking at his scrawl on the paper. "Where can I find this place?"

  "What am I, a fucking TomTom?" he says.

  "The more you argue, the longer you'll have that poker stuck inside you."

  He arranges himself sideways on the backseat. "Put it in the bastard sat nav," he says, wincing.

  I take his advice. The route pops up. I steer the Rolls down the driveway, around the broken gates and mangled bodies of the men I mowed over. There are two streaks of blood leading all the way down to the front entrance. It's a messy business sometimes.

  I steer out onto the road. The neighbours out in their dressing gowns, gawping for England.

  "Fuckin’ hell," Prince says, "There's blood on the leather.”

  46

  "You stabbed him with a poker?" Cassie says, pulling a face in the passenger seat.

  "Will you stop appearing like that, Cass? Shits me up every time."

  "What do you want, a text?"

  "Might as well," I say, "You spend enough time on that phone of yours. And the slaphead in the back has done a lot worse than stab people with a poker."

  "Two wrongs, Dad."

  "Stop whining," I say. "You want me to sort these traffickers out or not?"

  "Not if you're gonna stab innocent women with letter openers.”

  I can't help laughing at that one. "Innocent? She once ordered a hit on a traffic warden."

  ”Yeah, but—"

  "She wears animal fur and conflict diamonds," I say.

  "Oh," Cass says, changing tune. "Well in that case . . ."

  "Sure you don't wanna stop off at the looney bin while we're out?" Prince asks from the backseat. "Northern nutter."

  "I can drop you off right here if you want," I say.

  "You do realise you're driving to your own funeral." Prince says, talking through the pain, holding the poker steady in the wound. "If I were you I'd turn around now. Drop me off at the hospital. No hard feelings."

  "And why would the notorious Prince Eddie be scared of another gang?"

  "Because they're not like us," Prince says. "We've got standards."

  I laugh.

  "It's true," he says.

  "Then why get into bed with ‘em?" I ask, steering the Rolls along a country road, through sweeping farmland dotted with cattle.

  "Times are tough," Prince says.

  "The price of fake castles gone up?"

  "People can get it all online nowadays," Prince says. "Coke, hookers, betting, stolen goods. You need to diversify."

  "And that means ripping off desperate people?" I say, turning off onto a narrow lane.

  "Oh sorry, Florence Nightingale. What other kind of business is there?"

  I let his commen
t bounce. Keep him talking. I need him alive as we roll through woodland either side of a small side road. "So what do these people need you for?"

  "Logistics. Contacts. Local knowledge," Prince says. "We pay off the Old Bill and customs. Move the merchandise from port. We take our cut and they do the rest. Easy money if you ask me . . . On the left here."

  An old army barracks pops up at us out of the trees. Long, high walls with rolls of barbed wire on top and surrounded by ploughed fields. There's a solid steel gate painted army green across the entrance. Signs plastered all over the gate: Property of VX Holdings.

  "Let me guess, VX Holdings is one of yours."

  "Government cuts, got the place for a song," Prince says, shifting forward on the backseat. Face turning white from the wound. I stabbed him in just the right place. No organs or major arteries in the way. The poker holding everything in place and a closed wound stopping him bleeding out too quick.

  "What's the set-up inside?" I ask.

  "How should I know?" Prince says. "I'm the landlord, that's all."

  "Right," I say, opening my door. "Well we'll have to wing it, as usual." I get out of the car and open one of the rear doors to the Rolls. I drag Prince out.

  "What are you doing?" he says.

  "I need you out of sight," I say, opening the boot.

  "You can't be serious—I've given you what you need. Now I need a fucking surgeon."

  I force him inside the boot and slam the lid. It catches on the end of the poker. Bloody thing won’t shut. I try it a couple more times. Prince yelping. It closes on the third go.

  I get back in the car and jam a fresh clip into both handguns. I holster the pair of 'em inside my jacket and drive up to the front gate.

  There's a steel pole sticking out of the ground with a small metal box to talk into. I push a button on the front of the box.

  "What?" a foreign voice asks. Eastern European. Tinny and crackling.

  "I've got Mr Prince."

  There's a discreet security camera to the top left of the gate. The windows of the Rolls are tinted. I hope this works.

  "What does he want?" the voice in the box asks. "We weren't expecting him."