Inside Straight

by Ray Banks

  I didn't say anything. I stared out of the window. My throat hurt. I cleared it and made a noise that sounded too high-pitched to have come from a grown man.

  "Do you understand?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Now keep it shut and ride this out."

  "Okay, but I—"

  He killed the call. I listened to the dead line for a few seconds, then looked at my mobile. Outside, a woman dashed past, using her umbrella as a battering ram. A gust of wind scattered rain across the front window like stones, startling the young woman in front of it. She jumped, clasped one hand to her chest and laughed it off with the rest of the young mothers. Their conversation faded into a murmur as I stared out of the window. I watched people pass by without really seeing them. I saw the rain, I heard the wind. These days it felt like there was nothing else.

  And as the man said, the only way to combat the rain was to make your own sunshine. Which was precisely what I planned to do.

  21

  I couldn't force the Manchester Met to forget about the investigation. I couldn't even point them in the right direction, not really. I knew that as soon as I voiced an opinion about who I thought was responsible for the robbery, it would be taken down and perhaps used in evidence against me later on. They weren't stupid, these men. They might have looked it, might have acted like it, but they weren't. They were used to people thinking they were smarter than them. They were used to being treated as simple-minded bobbies, all knees bent and what's going on 'ere then, and so they could play that to their advantage. I knew that Kennedy, for all his cheeky Scouse chappie demeanour, was suspicious of everyone in that club, most of all me and Jacqui. We were, after all, the ones in charge. We were partly responsible for the way things had played out. And the more I got to thinking about it, the more I thought that Kennedy probably had me in his sights all along. I don't know why. Something just told me that was the case. The way he zoomed in on me at the hospital, perhaps. Maybe I caught a flicker when I talked about the second driver, I don't know.

  Even if he wasn't on to me, I still had to be clever about this.

  The HR office was open during the day, even on the weekends and even though Big Heather the HR manager didn't work weekends. Big Heather wasn't fat – far from it – but she was big, well over six feet tall and broad in the shoulders. The rumour was that back in the day she used to slap on a leotard and show grown men her armpit until they choked out or slapped the canvas. Apparently there was an old video floating about of her in her wrestling glory days, but I doubted it. I just thought it was a cruel joke at her expense and a nickname that said more about those who had come up with it than it did about Heather. She had a lovely disposition, would make someone a fantastic giant wife one day, but she was lax about security. To be fair, I don't think anyone in the club expected that security lapse to be abused – after all, everyone knew pretty much everything about everyone else in here, from wages down to cup size – and I was the last person they'd suspect of doing it.

  I'd received a call from Jeremy Blake at Regional the day before. He was coming up to Salford, and did I have a free half-hour to discuss the robbery and any needs I might have? Blake being Regional, he didn't care that I was working night shifts now, and arranged it for four o'clock the following afternoon. So I had an excuse to be in early and, once I'd managed to skirt Dave Randall, it wasn't difficult to nip into the HR office, close the door behind me, boot up Heather's PC and then search the HR files for dirt on Stephen Laird.

  Stephen Laird had been with me for a while. I didn't know him, never met him, but he was always in the back of my head, urging me to go on and take that risk, leave the country and enjoy a life where the rain didn't fall quite as much or quite as hard. So on a very basic level, I was interested in the guy.

  On a less basic level, I thought that I'd found an inside man in the making, and when I pulled his file, that thought was confirmed.

  The information on Stephen Laird was scant and objective, but sixteen years in the business allowed me to read between the lines and make some pretty detailed assumptions. He was like me in the sense that he came into the business when he was old enough to deal and made up for a lack of academic qualifications with hard work. He stayed a dealer for a good long time, and only managed senior inspector before he left, which meant that he was one of those guys with no ambition and pockets like Swiss cheese – as soon as they got their pay, they drank or gambled it away, much like Clive. In fact, much like most of the staff. Every club I'd ever worked in, a majority of inspectors and dealers were borderline alcoholics when they weren't engaging in less legal activities, and there were very few of them who didn't gamble in some way, whether it was after hours poker games, sports betting or the dogs or horses. Something about the vice had drawn them to the job, and something about the job compounded the attraction to the vice. They thought because they knew the games, that they were somehow better than the average punter, when the only difference was that they didn't have to pay for the shirt on their back. Outside of work, they were just as thick-headed, petty and impoverished as the countless others who wore our carpet to threads.

  So Stephen was a professional inspector, and while he'd had the odd job with the odd other company – I spotted a year with the Whitworth Street Grosvenor casino – he'd always ended up back with Sovereign, and it was odd, then, that he'd just decided to up and leave without telling anyone. Disgruntled staff always made their feelings known well in advance of any disappearances. Perhaps Stephen here was just another voice lost in the noise, or maybe there was something else behind his departure.

  I printed out his record, carefully folded the paper. Then, before I forgot, I looked up Jacqui Prince and wrote down her address and phone number. I didn't want to ask for it from the likes of Nash or Dave – that would be an open invitation to spread all kinds of gossip. I just wanted to see how she was, and maybe if she fancied getting a coffee some time. That was all. She could hardly say no, could she? I'd saved her life. And, besides, it would be interesting to hear what she'd told Kennedy, assuming he'd interviewed her in the first place. If she'd noticed anything she shouldn't have then I needed to know about it. I folded the paper, slid both sheets into my jacket pocket, then shut down Big Heather's computer and left the office.

  I was three steps up the corridor when I saw Dave Randall and Jeremy Blake come in from the floor. I stopped in my tracks and beamed at Blake. He was a ball of dung in a suit, balding and tanned, and when he leaned forward to shake my hand, I noticed the series of ostentatious rings that made his fingers look like prize-winning chipolatas. "Graham, how are you?"

  "Fine, Mr Blake."

  He made a show of checking his Tag Heuer. "You got a minute now?"

  "Absolutely. Lead the way."

  He did. I looked at Dave Randall as I passed. He stared at me. I'd probably interrupted his schmoozing and he hated me for it. I lowered my gaze to the carpet. He could hate me all he wanted. He probably had his reasons. My chat with Blake would no doubt give him a few more. Because I no longer had much to lose when it came to Dave Randall, and I intended to prove it.

  22

  "So, Graham, how are you holding up?" Blake sat behind Jacqui's desk, the chair pushed back and his hands laced across his round belly like a little Buddha.

  "I'm fine." I shrugged. "I mean, you know, you just get on with it, don't you?"

  "You're coping, then."

  "When you've been in the business as long as I have you learn to roll with the punches."

  He tucked his chin into his chest. It was an expression designed to relay concern, but it looked more like indigestion. "Still, it was quite a night, wasn't it?"

  "Yes, you could say that."

  "Stressful."

  I nodded, said nothing. That word was an invitation to something I didn't want to discuss, something that had been planted by Dave Randall. I kept my hands in my lap, palms down.

  "And you know, these things, they don't always manifest themse
lves right away. Look at Jacqui Prince."

  "Well, Jacqui was injured."

  "Not seriously, though." Blake raised his head and attempted a half-smile. "At least that's what she told us. But she needs some time to process what happened and we're more than happy to let her take as long as she needs." The smile turned up to a full beam, showing teeth. "You know, we're more than happy to let anyone take as long as they need, Graham."

  "I know."

  He leaned forward in the chair, tugged it towards the desk. "So if you feel under pressure at any time, or you just feel like you want someone to talk to, we have counsellors who can help."

  "That's very useful. Thank you."

  "For your own well-being."

  "I'll bear it in mind."

  "You know, after your recent experience at the Palace—"

  "No."

  Blake looked confused. "I'm sorry, I don't—"

  "I don't need counselling. Not at the moment. Thank you, anyway."

  "That's okay." He waved a hand at me, that half-smile back. "You don't have to make a decision now. Just think it over."

  "I don't need to think it over. Really. Look, I know you have to come down here and offer counselling after something like the other night. I understand that. But I think you've been misinformed about the state of my mental health, and I'd like to set the record straight if I may."

  Blake moved his head, stretched his neck. He cleared his throat and opened one stubby hand at me. "Very well. Go ahead."

  "You know how long I've worked for Sovereign, Mr Blake?"

  "I don't have the exact—"

  "Just over sixteen years. I started with the company before I was legally old enough to work the tables."

  "Is that right?"

  I nodded. "I started as a valet, and then I worked my way up to dealer, then inspector, then senior inspector, and then pit boss. And in those sixteen years, I think I must've taken like three or four days' sick leave in total. It's true. Until recently. And you've probably looked at my file, and you saw the incident at the Palace and those days I took off, and you probably thought that I wasn't very stable. No doubt Dave confirmed that for you. But I didn't want to take those days off, Mr Blake. I was told to. Not because I was ill or because I was under any kind of stress, but because my manager wanted someone to blame for the incident."

  Blake watched me. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, looked uncomfortable. He'd been prepped, alright. Dave had sold him my instability with everything he had. Phrases popped like fireworks in my head. Repression. Depression. Stress. Counselling. Didn't matter that it was rubbish, Dave's story presented Regional with a helpful, easy-to-understand narrative that might, just might, put me out of commission for good while he was filling in for Jacqui Prince.

  Blake rubbed his damp lip and gestured at me to continue.

  "I wasn't to blame, Mr Blake, and neither was stress. It was an unfortunate series of events that could have been mitigated had my manager been available and monitoring the pit."

  "I see."

  "I don't know where he was at the time. I have my suspicions, but I wouldn't want to voice them without evidence to back them up. I think we both know how damaging rumours about a man's personal life can be."

  He nodded. He also knew how those rumours very often turned out to be true. Except, of course, when they were about me.

  "Anyway, that's all I really wanted to say. I don't want to take this any further, and the only reason I mention it now was because I didn't want you or the rest of Regional thinking that I'm playing the martyr here. I really am okay." I smiled. "I can do the job, Mr Blake. And I will continue to do it as long as I'm able."

  Blake matched my smile and threw in a few extra teeth for good measure. He nodded slowly. It didn't look genuine, but it was better than nothing. "Well, I want to thank you for your candour, Graham."

  "You're welcome."

  "And I'm glad to see that you're in better shape than I'd been led to believe." He leaned forward and offered his hand. "Let me know if there's anything I can do for you in the meantime, okay?"

  I stood and shook his hand once, firmly, the way a man was supposed to shake. "I will. Thank you, Mr Blake."

  I left the office feeling electric and more than a little vindicated. Blake probably wouldn't do anything about the situation – if I was stable, then there really was no situation – but it was good to get it off my chest and onto the record. I'd been living under Dave Randall's cosh too long. We'd never been friends per se, but our professional relationship had always remained cordial. Of course, what I hadn't realised was that he'd been waiting for his opportunity to get rid of me, something that hadn't properly occurred to me until now. He had an angle, a narrative he could use to drive me out, and he intended to use it to the bitter end. I hadn't even thought about why he would do such a thing. He knew I was an asset to the company, so it was purely personal. And someone like Dave didn't take an active dislike to someone unless they posed a threat to him. I didn't think it was because I was an excellent pit boss – as Pollard had said, Dave could easily keep me in that role with a few well-placed rumours, and it wasn't as if I was that keen on rising to management level, anyway.

  No, this was something else, and the more I thought about it, the clearer it became. He wanted to destroy me.

  Dave appeared in the corridor as I made my way back to the pit. He smiled at me. "Everything go alright?"

  I nodded. "Tickety-boo, Dave. You going in there now, are you?"

  "Yeah, I need to talk to Jeremy about a few things before he heads off. Where are you off to?"

  "Kevin Nash is in the pit, isn't he?"

  "Yes."

  "Thought he might want a hand."

  "Really?"

  "I might as well make myself useful."

  "Hey, be my guest. Best pit boss we have, right?"

  I laughed and went to the staff door, where I turned to see Dave heading into Jacqui's office. I heard the dull timbre of Blake's voice and saw Dave close the door behind him. I pushed out onto the floor to find a slow pit and Kevin Nash perched on his inspector's chair.

  He smiled at me with half his face as I approached. "I wasn't expecting you for another three hours, Graham."

  "Had to talk to the brass. How you doing, Kevin?"

  "I was about to ask you the same thing."

  "I'm good. See you're still in the chair." I took the pit sheet from the desk. "Not a lot of movement today."

  He turned a little in his chair. "It's been dead since we opened."

  "Let's hope it picks up. Nothing worse than a silent night. Here, listen, you haven't talked to Jacqui again, have you?"

  "Yeah, I did the other night."

  "How is she?"

  Something quivered in his face. "Taking it easy."

  "She said anything about the robbery?"

  "No. Why?"

  I shook my head. "Nothing really. I've just been thinking about it. I mean, I haven't heard anything from the police, have you?"

  "Why would I?"

  "I mean, rumours floating about here. I don't really pick 'em up when I'm on the nights. Too busy. Besides, I don't think people want to talk about it when I'm around. I don't know why. Maybe they think I'm going to have a flashback or something, lose my mind." I leaned against the pit desk, gestured to the empty tables. "But when it gets like this, people talk."

  "Yes, they do."

  "So, you heard anything?"

  "No."

  He was lying. He'd heard plenty. He just didn't want to share any of it. "Because I was thinking, like I said. I mean, one of the reasons I came back to work so quickly afterwards was so that I wouldn't spend all my time thinking about it, but you know how quiet it can be round here ... Anyway, I got to thinking about that keypad."

  Nash frowned at me. "What do you mean?"

  "Well, you'll know – when was the last time the code was changed?"

  "I don't know."

  "Do we keep a log anywhere, d'you think?"<
br />
  He shrugged. "I've never thought about it. And I don't get why you're—"

  "They came in through the back, didn't they?" I looked at him, waiting for him to fill in the blanks. When he didn't, I had to keep talking. "Which meant they had the code. didn't they?"

  "Oh, right, I see."

  I laughed a little and it almost sounded genuine. "I mean, I don't want to start anything here, Kevin, but if the robbers got the code to that door, then I'm thinking ..." Another laugh and I waved it away. "Doesn't matter."

  "What?"

  "Really, it's just daft."

  "Graham."

  "Alright, promise you won't laugh." I looked around the pit, then moved closer to Kevin. It wasn't pleasant, but I had to do it. I lowered my voice. "I'm thinking maybe it was an inside job."

  He looked at me. I backed off and held my hands up.

  "I'm just saying. I mean, I haven't told the police any of this. This is my own theory, and it's probably nonsense. I don't know the place, I don't know the protocols or anything, so it could be that Jacqui changed the code just before I got here, but I've got a sneaking suspicion that it hasn't been changed since the place opened."

  "You think it was Jacqui?"

  "No. God, no. Not Jacqui."

  "Because she wouldn't do something like that."

  "Of course not. I mean, it wouldn't be someone who still worked here anyway, would it?"

  Kevin was shaking his head, his mouth hanging open. I'd hooked him. "I really don't know, Graham."

  "Well, I don't think it's likely, anyway. I don't know about you, but I wouldn't have the nerve to hang around after something like that."

  "No."

  "So I'm thinking it's someone who left the club recently. Someone with money problems, maybe." I smiled again and opened my hands. "But I don't know, Kevin. It's all up in the air. Like I said, it's just a theory, so I don't really know—"