‘No way!’ Lee gasped. ‘Shit, man, we’re famous!’
‘Is that right?’ Sam asked, wide-eyed. ‘Who was doing it?’
‘That Liz Whatserface from the six o’clock news,’ Suzie told him. ‘She was right there in front of me, talking to a copper. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but there were loads of people there. Anyhow, that’s not the best bit,’ she said, bursting to tell them. ‘You’ll never guess what people are saying!’
‘What? What?’ the men chorused.
‘They’re only saying Pasha was battered to death by a load of guys with baseball bats!’ she told them, relishing her moment in the spotlight. ‘A woman in the shop told my mate Elaine – oh, she’ll be coming round sometime, by the way – anyhow, this woman said she’d seen them doing it! Can you believe it? Says she was in the phone box and watched the whole thing!’
‘Fuck me!’ Mal laughed, nudging Lee. ‘Couldn’t ask for better than that, could you, mate?’
‘What else?’ said Lee. ‘Did anyone mention me?’
‘No,’ Suzie smiled. ‘Not a single word. But they were saying plenty of stuff about Pasha that I thought might interest you.’
‘Like what?’ Sam asked.
‘Well . . . like he was dealing smack from under the counter, for a start. And that it was probably junkies who’d done him over, or his nephews.’
The men looked at each other and laughed.
‘What a beautiful world this is!’ Mal held his hand up for the others to slap palms.
‘Like a fucking rainbow,’ Lee said. ‘And we’ve got the pot of gold!’
Mal put an arm around Lee and Sam’s shoulders and smiled into their faces. ‘My brothers. I do believe we are home and dry. Let’s celebrate!’
Gathering the money together he put it to the side, then pulled the mirror back into the centre of the table and tipped another bag onto it.
Finishing her cigarette, Suzie settled back and closed her eyes. At last everything was going right – it must be if Sam was laughing. Always worrying about everything, he’d be the first to say if he had any doubts that they were in the clear.
Minutes later she was woken from her light doze by Lee tugging on her sleeve.
‘About this mate of yours who’s coming round. What’s she like, then?’
10
The Man had fallen asleep on the couch, and, rather than waking him when he got back, Jake had covered him with a quilt.
Waking up hot and sticky, The Man saw that it was light outside.
‘What time is it?’ he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
‘Going on nine,’ Jake said. ‘You feeling okay?’ he asked then, taking in the deep lines etched in The Man’s face.
‘Yeah, I’m cool,’ The Man said. Pushing the quilt aside, he sat up and stretched his legs out. His trousers were badly creased, and he could smell his own sweat from the restless few hours tossing and turning on the hot leather couch. ‘I need a shower!’ he muttered, wrinkling his nose.
Jake handed him a freshly made cup of coffee. ‘I’ll go get some eggs and stuff while you’re in there,’ he said. ‘I’m starving.’
The Man groaned. ‘That all you ever think about?’
Jake grinned. ‘Among other things!’
‘Oh, yeah . . .’ The Man stretched his arms, grimacing at the stench from his underarm. ‘Did you drop her all right?’ He peered at Jake from beneath his brows. ‘Didn’t get too heavy?’
‘Nah, man,’ Jake assured him. ‘We had a bit of fun, that’s all.’
The Man nodded. ‘So long as that was all. We can do without any more shit right now.’ Standing, he put his cup on the table and headed for the bathroom. ‘I’ll be ten minutes.’
Knowing full well it would be more like half an hour before The Man had scrubbed and scoured every inch of his body, Jake relaxed back onto his chair to finish his smoke. When the phone rang, he leaned across and pressed the hands-free button, growling, ‘Yeah?’
‘Yo,’ said Max. ‘Where’s The Man?’
Jake took a long drag before answering. ‘Tekkin’ a shower. ’S up?’
‘Got something I think he should know,’ said Max. ‘I’ll come round.’
‘Leave it half an hour,’ Jake told him. ‘I’ll be back then to let you in.’
‘Half an hour, then,’ Max said, then hung up.
Stubbing out the part-smoked spliff and leaving it in the ashtray for The Man, Jake grabbed his coat and the car keys and went out.
Max put the phone down and finished polishing the sleek matt barrel of his latest find. Folding the duster, he put it and the tube of polish back in the cupboard under the sink. Then, with a last loving stroke, he wrapped the gun in a square of black cloth and carried it down to the cellar to stash in the strongbox with the others.
Guns were his passion. Ever since he could remember he’d longed for one of his own. And now he had six. Six little beauties, picked up from various sources. The two he’d been lucky enough to find last night were very nice. Both were special, but the matt black .35 Magnum Colt was a real beauty. And very unusual. There weren’t many like that knocking about.
All in all, it had been a profitable night. Now all he had to do was give The Man the information he had, and – with luck – get paid for it, which would cap it off nicely.
Half an hour, Jake had said. He’d better get a move on. Pushing the steel bar firmly across the cellar door into its reinforced socket, he clicked the heavy-duty padlock into place and gave the door’s handle a couple of good hard testing pulls. He couldn’t take any chances with security, not with the little arsenal he had down there. Satisfied that it was secure, he dusted his hands down and headed out.
The sunlight hit him straight between the eyes, but it didn’t bother him. Despite just a couple of hours’ sleep, and the early-morning debt-collecting run, he wasn’t tired. Forty minutes snatched here and there was enough to reinvigorate Max. He was lucky like that. Always active, always alert – and always out for what he could get.
He took great pride in being clear-headed, never touching anything stronger than weed drugs-wise and just the occasional bottle of Budweiser. There were too many gouchers out there already. Too many druggies who thought they had it taped but couldn’t see what was staring them in the face. People like that always ended up losing everything they had. Junkies were the worst. They were stupid. Ignorant, blind scum. Stupefied by the drug they held so dear. Max would never be that dumb.
Closing his front door with a heavy slam, he locked it with the mortise, then bounced the hundred yards to the single row of garages. His was on the end, fortified with huge steel bars and padlocks. No thief was ever gonna get their filthy hands on his things – least of all his gorgeous silver BMW 325i. His pride and joy. His face lit up when he saw her. Nestling snugly inside the confined space, she looked to Max like an untamed silver panther, waiting for the love of her life to arrive.
‘Here I am, darlin’,’ he crooned, stroking her smooth, still-warm body.
Sliding onto his seat, he felt the heat spread through his loins as it always did when he entered her. Better than any woman! Firing up the engine, he flicked the concealed cassette player on, then backed her carefully out. Pausing only to jump out and relock the garage, he headed for The Man’s flat, singing along soulfully to Sade.
‘Mummy . . . mummy?’ The voice was insistent, creeping into Wendy’s brain like an invisible plague. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.
‘All right, all right – I heard you!’ she snapped, shrugging off the nurse’s hand.
‘Baby’s awake and looking for food.’ The nurse – a simpering idiot, in Wendy’s immediate opinion – smiled down into her face.
‘Well, give it a bottle then!’ Wendy snarled. She winced as a stitch snagged on the sanitary towel. ‘Jeezus!’ she howled, turning her back on the nurse. ‘Have I died and gone to Hell, or what?’
The ever-helpful nurse, fresh from lessons about coping with post-natal mothers, wheeled th
e baby around to the other side of the bed. ‘Look. That’s your mummy.’ She simpered into the perspex cot. ‘If you’re a good girl, she might pick you up and give you breakfast and a lovely little cuddle. Mmmm?’ She looked at Wendy for confirmation.
Wendy gave her a filthy look and rolled onto her other side. ‘Look, Little Miss Muppet,’ she spat. ‘Take baby away and give me a break, will you? I’m knackered.’
‘Oh dear, Mummy seems a bit upset,’ the nurse cooed at the squalling baby. ‘Never mind. We’ll go and have some breakfast, and when we come back, Mummy will be in a much better mood, won’t she?’
‘Oh, will you piss off!’ Wendy moaned, pulling the pillow up around her ears.
The nurse wheeled the baby away down the ward. Wendy waited until the awful din had faded before rolling onto her back. God! What had she done? She didn’t want the child anywhere near her. Maybe it was something to do with the way it had been forced upon her last night. There had been none of the joy she’d felt with the others – just pain and anger. Anger at shit-head Lee for bringing it on. And anger at her wimp of a husband for— For what?
For just being!
Grabbing at the bedside cabinet, Wendy hauled it around and threw the little top door open. Fuming silently, she pushed roughly through her neatly folded clothes for her cigarettes. All she wanted to do was go back to sleep and forget she was alive – forget the baby. But that was impossible now.
She decided to call Louise while she was having a smoke – make sure she was coping okay on her own, because no doubt Sam would have gone straight back to Mal’s. Pulling her purse out, she pushed the covers back and swung her legs over the side of the bed, grimacing as the stitches stretched tight. It hurt like hell. She hoped they’d done it properly, not left her scarred for life. She’d sue the bloody arse off the hospital if they had.
Stepping down gingerly, she hobbled slowly to the plug-in pay phone and dragged it into the day room. Making for the chair with the most padding, she dialled her home number and lit herself a much-needed cigarette.
Louise answered quickly, sounding as if she were on the verge of tears. Josh and Annette were fighting in the background.
‘Is Sam there?’ Wendy asked the distressed girl. ‘Huh! No, I didn’t think so. Well, has he rung you? Okay, that’s something, I suppose. Yes, I did. A girl. No, I’ve no idea. I was kind of banking on a boy, so I hadn’t thought of any girls’ ones. Still, plenty of time, eh? Right, love, I’m off. Can you cope for a while on your own? Oh, good. Well, I’ll make it up to you when I see you. Now, just make sure those little buggers don’t walk all over you. Tell them I said I’ll see to the pair of them when I get home if they don’t behave, all right? Yeah. Okay. Speak to you later, love. Bye.’
Pulling another couple of twenty-pence pieces out of her purse, she lit another cigarette from the butt of her last and dialled Mal’s number. Suzie answered.
‘Hello, Suzie,’ Wendy said. ‘Yeah, yeah . . . I’m fine, thanks. Yes. She’s fine too. Is Sam there, love?’
She pulled deeply on the cigarette as she waited for Sam to come on. When he finally did, she blasted him.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Why is Louise still looking after your kids? Get your arse back home and let the poor girl go home. Never mind me! What do I want to see you for? It’s the kids that need to see your stupid face, not me! Yeah? Well, make sure you do as well, ’cos if I’m the only one in this ward tonight without flowers I’ll bloody kill you when I get my hands on you. And bring me some more cigs. Right, yeah . . . Well, I’m going. Yes. She’s fine – as far as I know. What do you mean, what do I mean? I mean as far as I know! No, I haven’t. A nurse is feeding her. I’m going. See you later.’
She slammed the phone down angrily. Why wasn’t she feeding the baby herself, indeed! Why the hell should she? That was what the nurses were for, wasn’t it?
Getting up, she was about to walk out of the room when a picture of Pasha’s supermarket flashed up on the TV. Turning the sound up quickly, she sat back down to watch.
‘. . . sometime in the early hours, according to our sources. No details have been released as yet, other than the name of the victim: Mr Pashratar Singh, the forty-six-year-old owner of the supermarket.
‘It is believed that Mr Singh was attacked shortly after leaving the premises but, as yet, the police are uncertain of the motive. More details will be given on tonight’s six o’clock news, when we will show Liz Jardine’s interview with Detective Chief Inspector Jackson of Greater Manchester Police.’
Wendy watched avidly as the camera panned around the crowd. Off to the rear, she could clearly see Liz Jardine in conversation with a man. She scanned the locals, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone she recognized. Then she saw Suzie. What the hell was she doing there? Picking the phone up quickly, she dialled the flat again.
‘You’re on telly, girl!’ she laughed when Suzie answered. ‘No, I’m not joking. Channel three. Can you see it? Way to go, kiddo!’
Max sat on his usual chair, grinning broadly.
‘Well, what have you got for me?’ The Man asked.
Reaching into his inside pocket, Max pulled out a thick wad of notes and passed them across the table.
‘What’s this?’ The Man asked with a frown.
‘Have a look,’ Max said, leaning forward.
The Man turned the wad over in his hand. It looked perfectly normal. He looked at Max questioningly.
‘The eyes,’ Max told him, excited by his discovery. He hadn’t noticed at first, not until he’d counted it for the third time. Then, turning the notes so they all faced the same way when he stacked them, he’d suddenly noticed the smudges in the Queen’s eyes. At first he’d thought it was the trade-mark defect of a batch of forgeries, but when he’d looked real close he’d seen it clearly.
The Man scrutinized the notes carefully, and suddenly it was crystal clear. ‘What the fuck?’ he growled, sitting further forward and peering hard at the note in his hand. ‘Is that what I think it is? Jake, pass me my glasses.’
Max leaned back with a grin. ‘I wasn’t sure at first, but it sure looks suss to me.’
Jake passed The Man’s glasses to him and leaned over the back of the couch for a look. ‘What is it?’
The Man handed him a note. And there it was. One in either eye. The tiny identification marks that Pasha had used to mark out The Man’s money, separating it from whatever other money might make its way under his counter – for the back-of-the-lorry stereos, videos and suchlike that were Pasha’s business alone. ‘S’ in the right eye, ‘M’ in the left. A routine Pasha had adopted after his first and only mix-up. Barely visible, and something The Man had forgotten about because it had been so long since he’d felt the need to check on Pasha’s handling of their business.
‘Where did you get this?’ The Man shot at Max, agitatedly flapping the note he was holding.
He knew without a doubt it was part of his missing money. And it had to be part of the latest batch, because none of the money ever stayed in Manchester for more than a few hours once he had it. It went directly to his contact in London, and from there straight over the waves to Ireland, from where his dealer’s dealer operated his empire.
‘One of my dealers had it,’ Max explained, beginning to feel a little wary of the turn in The Man’s tone. ‘I went round there this morning to pick up a little debt he owed me, and this is what he had.’
‘Who?’ The Man snapped. ‘And how much did he give you?’ He folded the note back into the wad and stuck the lot in his shirt pocket.
Max opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it as The Man’s face darkened. He was just glad he’d only brought part of the money with him, or it would all be going the same way.
‘It’s just some little shit-head who teks an ounce or so of coke off me every week,’ he said at last. ‘No one big. He owed me some money and, truth to tell, when I went there this morning I expected to be kicking his arse for any of it. But a
s you can see—’ he waved towards The Man’s pocket ‘—he paid up.’
The Man jumped up to pace the floor, slapping a huge fist into his palm as he contemplated the fate of the man who’d been foolish enough to rip off his money.
‘Tek me to ’im!’ he demanded after a minute, turning to Max and glaring furiously. ‘The dude’s got some explaining to do! I’m gonna fucking kill ’im!’
Max saw his weekly turnover diminishing before his eyes. The Man would wipe Stevo out in one fell swoop, leaving Max to find another mug to offload his cut coke onto, and that wouldn’t do at all. He had a nice regular income from his dealings with Stevo, helping him to live a fairly legal life. That income would soon disappear if The Man whacked Stevo.
Apart from which, that money was Max’s. Stevo had owed him that. Now it looked like his big mouth was about to lose him the whole lot.
‘Hold up . . . hold up,’ Max said, squirming under The Man’s brutal glare. ‘Let’s not be too hasty. There’s probably a good explanation—’
‘Yeah!’ The Man thundered. ‘Like your boy stuck his nose in my bizzness! Claat!’ He leaned over Max, prodding himself viciously in the chest to punctuate his words. ‘And like he ripped off one of my best men and smoked ’im, tekkin’ my money, star! He can’t have no explanation to justify fucking with me!’
Cursing loudly, he turned and sat heavily on the couch, drumming his fingers and breathing fire. He needed to calm down and clear his head. Work out what to do with this information.
‘Why don’t you let me speak to him?’ suggested Max. ‘Find out what he knows? You said yourself there could have been thousands. If you go round, he’ll know you’re onto him and disappear. Let me check him, yeah? At least then you might be able to get most of it back. What do you think?’
Jake laughed nastily. ‘He’ll disappear anyway. Soon as he knows who he’s dealing with!’
Max shook his head, desperate to buy time. He’d as good as lost the two hundred The Man had just pocketed, but if he could get to Stevo before they did, he might stand a chance of recovering the ounce he’d laid on him that morning. He shouldn’t have got rid of too much of it yet.
The Front Page 13