The Dealer and the Dead

by Gerald Seymour

  No one answered him and no one came.

  He scraped up a handful of dirt and stones and threw it high over the gate towards the house, but knew it would fall short.

  Vern had been waiting, seemed an age, at the car. He’d endured boredom and anxiety alternately but had known the confidence that came from belonging to a top-rated team, and his brother was pick-of-the-bunch. At his feet there was a small mess of ground-out cigarettes, self-rolled ones, and he prided himself that he had learned in gaol how to make them narrow and firm so that the tobacco lasted longest. He had been halfway through smoking the fourth or fifth when they had come out of the lane, crossed the road, then come up the slope, away from the museum and the pub.

  He knew there had been failure. Body language told him: his brother’s head and the slump of the shoulders. Robbie still had the overalls on and – dear God, couldn’t believe it – he had in his hand something that looked the right colour for the balaclava. They didn’t run, but Leanne was trying to speed him up. He could see – but not yet hear – that she was pestering him with questions and not getting answers.

  How had it been every other time that Vern had done the driver’s role? He had been sitting or standing by the car and Robbie had materialised round a corner, never panting, never with a hair out of place, and had sauntered over, opened his door, lowered himself into the seat, slipped on the seatbelt and locked it. He had never looked fussed or troubled. Nothing to shout that he was stressed. Every other time Vern had eased the car away from a kerb or a supermarket parking bay and hadn’t screamed the tyres or burned the rubber, but had gone off main roads on to back doubles and rat-runs where there weren’t cameras. Didn’t quiz. Every other time he had let Robbie have his space and let him break the quiet in the car. And every other time there had been a half-wink, a slight nod or a wisp of a smile. They were near to him, and no reaction from Robbie, Leanne biting her lip and opening the big plastic bag from her pocket, and there in the street, but behind a tree, his brother peeled off the overalls and dropped them in, then the balaclava. She reached into the boot and had the lighter fuel out, was spraying his arms and trying to dab his face with cotton wool. Nobody came. The street stayed empty. The museum still had the closed sign up and the pub was shuttered. Seemed to take for ever.

  It was an untravelled road, new territory.

  He was in the car, twisting the ignition, when he heard the smack of the rear door closing. Then Leanne was beside him, her expression dead, as if shock had hit her. Her hands shook.

  ‘Where to?’ He was entitled to ask.

  Nothing from Robbie, except the stink of lighter fuel. Leanne said, ‘Just get clear.’

  ‘How fast?’ Needed to know – big speed or like nothing had happened?

  Robbie didn’t speak. Leanne did: ‘Out of here.’

  He had never peppered questions before because there had been no need. Was now. ‘What happened?’

  A little hiss of breath from Robbie. Leanne spoke for him. ‘It didn’t – didn’t happen.’

  Robbie accepted it – had no choice. Like the first time he’d been in an interview room, aged ten years and four months, and his mother was the ‘responsible adult’. She answered all the questions the big butch police cow had put. Leanne would be the mouthpiece.

  Vern ignored his brother. ‘He fired. That’s why we’ve done clothing and why we’ve this bloody smell. So what happened?’

  ‘He missed,’ she said softly.

  ‘He missed? Am I hearing right? How many shots?’

  ‘Two. He told me when I met him. I don’t know everything.’

  ‘He missed with two shots? What range?’

  ‘He said it was about three yards.’

  ‘He missed with two shots and three yards – nine feet? Not possible. How?’

  ‘He stood where some grass was dumped, off the track. There were rotten apples and wasps and—’ She spoke without expression.

  ‘He stood on a wasps’ nest – is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘He saw the target, with the dog, came out on to the track after him, and the target ducked as he fired first so he missed and—’

  ‘The target ducked? What’s the target supposed to do? Stand fucking still?’ He was close to losing the car. Head shaking, eyes big, hands off the wheel and over his eyes and—

  ‘He missed with the second shot because he had a wasp in his nose and a wasp in his eye.’

  Vern had control again of the car, had bumped the kerb and missed a tree, and was back on the road. ‘Yes – so?’

  ‘I don’t know much more, Vern. He fired twice, missed twice and quit. Vern, the target threw a flipflop at him.’

  ‘Was armed with a flipflop and threw it.’

  ‘And hit him with it.’

  And Vern – on new territory, milking the moment and maybe reflecting years of resentment at the kid brother who used him as chauffeur and messenger-boy, never as a trusted confidant – said, ‘Oh, that’s serious. Should we go to Accident and Emergency? What a prat – a tosser. What a—’

  An arm came from behind, and the hand was at his throat, closing on his windpipe. The skin on the fingers stank of lighter fuel, and he fought for breath. He hung on to the wheel and stayed off the pavement, and heard her voice, soft, speaking past him. The grip loosened. There were no sirens.

  He didn’t respond, wouldn’t have rubbed his neck or showed that it had hurt him. He didn’t apologise for what he had called his brother – a prat and a tosser – and could have called him worse. He couldn’t get his head round Robbie standing on rotten apples, stirring shit in a wasps’ nest and missing twice. No Cairns ever apologised, not his granddad or his dad, and he wouldn’t be the first.

  He turned off at a line of shops and went right, heading towards the high old buildings of the prison for young guys. He found a narrow entrance to an old quarry he had located when he had done his drive round.

  What he understood was pretty clear: his young brother had screwed up big. He didn’t know if, in Robbie’s trade, second chances were handed out.

  ‘Let him wait,’ she’d said. ‘Let him bloody wait and stew.’

  They should have had an hour, maybe more. If her husband took the dog right up to the Bill and had a coffee or tea at the café, it would be more than an hour. If he went the other way, took the path past the young-offenders prison and went all the way to the adults’ gaol, that would be an hour too. She had been standing behind the chair in the kitchen, and her hands had been on the man’s shoulders. She had been working the muscles, taking the tension from them when she had heard the shots. Then nothing, silence. Perhaps a little anxiety had eaten at her resolve. A couple of minutes had passed and her hands had been off his neck.

  She couldn’t have said what she wanted – for Harvey to walk into the house, soft-soled shoes and quiet, when they were in the kitchen, her hitched up on the table, or they might have been on the floor in any damn room … It was her dream, ever-present. But she jibbed a little at its fulfilment … she didn’t know how he would react. Fine if he was apoplectic, scarlet-faced, broke down in tears or threatened violence. Grim if he stayed in the doorway, watched the hips bounce and asked if there had been calls, then went off to his office.

  Two shots.

  In the early days, she had been with him to arms fairs where there were 25-metre ranges and customers were invited to shoot, the prizes champagne magnums. There had been a day out – four-course lunch in the officers’ mess – at the Infantry Training School’s firepower demonstration, when blank and live rounds had been fired.

  Her gardener did not know that her husband’s life was threatened and a contract taken, but would have seen him go out of the gates and heard shots. She strained to listen.

  A young man’s laughter, then a young woman’s, from behind the high wall that bordered the driveway and the patio. Must have been wrong, not shots. Could have sworn they were, though. She couldn’t ring Harvey because his phone was within arm’s reach.
Her hands had gone back to the shoulders, the rippling muscles, and her fingers slipped down into the mat of chest hair – and there had been his voice: If you two haven’t started shagging yet, let me in.

  There had been the fall of stones on the drive, and she could see the high gate rocking as if someone was trying to force it.

  Let him wait. Let him bloody wait and stew.

  A kiss, wet against the salt gathered behind an ear. There would be no more. She yearned for it, but wouldn’t have it – even though she had a condom in her pocket, and knew there was always one – ribbed – in his wallet. A good bet her Harvey wouldn’t care anyway. He used to tell her that in Belarus or Bulgaria, Romania or Georgia the whores would be queuing in the bar for his attentions. Skinny girls and heavy girls, tall and short, natural and artificial blonde patrolled the corridor outside his room in the hope he’d weaken and take the chain off the door. Implants, suspenders and HIV. Would have been easier for her, if she could have been the wronged wife because he took tarts into his room. She let go of the shoulders.

  From the kitchen, she watched Nigel go past his pick-up and walk to the gates. He fiddled with the pad, and let them open just wide enough.

  Harvey limped, might have been walking on coals. The dog bounded after him. His hair was dishevelled and his knees were scratched. Shock was etched on his face and his eyes were wild.

  He came into the kitchen and winced as his feet left blood smears on the vinyl. He looked into her eyes and said nothing, but his right hand slipped into his pocket and he dropped on to the table, scrubbed oak planking, two empty cartridge cases. They bounced and rattled, then were still. He went on through the inner door and towards his office.

  The sun, through the window, gleamed on the cartridge cases.

  Leanne waited in the phone box, heard the ring tone and lifted the receiver. She had called a neighbour of her grandfather in the Albion Estate, had given the number of the box, and the neighbour would have hurried three doors down the walkway to bang on his door. The connection was now via two public phones and the chance of an intercept was minimal: it was a reasonable precaution because Granddad Cairns’s home phone was a possible target under the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act and its reference to ‘interception of communications’. She could not be placed on the Isle of Portland.

  At the quarry down the road, long exhausted and with its tally of burned-out cars, a small fire would now be dying and all evidence of a firearm’s residue would have been eliminated from a set of overalls, a balaclava and lightweight plastic gloves. The lighter fuel had the dual purpose of speeding the conflagration and killing the remnants of the chemical discharge on firing from Robbie’s face and wrists. He had been led, half stripped, to a puddle where, without ceremony, his brother had scrubbed him.

  Leanne had realised that the relationships had changed, that an old pecking order was broken. Her younger brother had given no further explanation and had not complained at the harsh way Vern handled him: she barely knew him.

  Her grandfather was on the phone. She thought he might have been having his breakfast, working his way through the flat runners of the afternoon, when the neighbour had rapped at his door. He would have hurried down into the street and then, clutching a slip of paper with a number on it, gone to the station and found a phone that wasn’t broken. He would have dialled and expected the good news. She told it like it was. She didn’t shield her brother but relayed back what she had been told. A lie-up where there were rotting apples, wasps, a sudden duck as the first shot was fired, which had missed the target, a second shot, again off-target because of wasps in his face and a flipflop thrown. Twice she had had to repeat herself because Granddad Cairns had sworn and another time there had been a gasp of utter disbelief. One question: how was Robbie? She was succinct: ‘He’s bollocksed, on his knees.’

  Leanne loved Granddad Cairns, and held him in devoted respect. He was in his eightieth year, had skin the colour of old parchments she’d seen as a kid in the library, was seldom without a fag hanging from his mouth and coughed in convulsions most mornings, but she reckoned his brain was keen. She and Vern, certainly Robbie, were unused to catastrophe. None of them had known how to react other than to shed the clothing and destroy it. She heard her grandfather out, listened and absorbed, rang off and went back to the car to tell them.

  The voice was incoherent.

  Roscoe interrupted: ‘But you’re all right? You’re not hurt?’

  It had been a result, a brilliant one, the previous evening in Wandsworth. Three officers inserted into the shop via the backyard entrance and two builders’ vans out the front, well loaded with people, and the guns were in support. They had waited until the bad guys were on their way across the pavement, face masks on and pickaxe handles ready to knock out the display windows, and they’d done the ‘Go, go, go.’ Four on the pavement in custody and two drivers.

  ‘Yes, Mr Gillot … Of course I take this development most seriously. Two shots, yes? I confirm you’re unhurt.’

  One of the bad guys had spun, a dancer’s pirouette, then sprinted for the far side of the street and tried to lose himself in the traffic. He had gone straight into the arms of Mark Roscoe, who had brought him down and sat on him. Four hours to write up the reports, and afterwards the pub.

  ‘My superior will be consulting with relevant parties, Mr Gillot … There is no need to shout at me, sir. A very unpleasant experience, yes. My colleagues and I will be on our way … No, I doubt very much that he’s sitting outside your gate. I imagine he’s legged it. Try to keep yourself secure in the meantime, Mr Gillot.’

  The pub had gone on late. The minicab home had lost itself and he’d been asleep in the back, so he was into the bedroom later than … She wasn’t pleased. She’d not woken him when she’d gone to work. No note on the table but a box of Alka-Seltzer, and the windows were open, which meant that the room stank. He’d come in feeling fragile and was pottering, and his phone had rung.

  ‘No, Mr Gillot, I’m not suggesting you dig a bunker under the table … That’s uncalled for, sir, and I would remind you that you were offered advice and chose to reject it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I can get off the phone and start driving.’

  He put down the receiver and grimaced. Bill twirled the car keys and Suzie gazed at him with a degree of annoyance as if it was too obvious he’d been taking abuse from the bloody man and hadn’t slapped him down. What did Mark Roscoe think? Not repeatable in company, but something along the lines –watered down – that the world might have been a better place if the contract man had aimed a bit straighter and earned his money. He would never consider saying to a superior that the Tango didn’t deserve the care put into safeguarding a miserable second-rate life but he could think it. They’d made their bloody bed and they, husband and wife, could bloody lie on it.

  They hit the road.

  Coming out of the first turning, the junction at the lights, Bill turned to him. ‘Boss, don’t take any shit from Gillot. Don’t.’

  11

  ‘Don’t embarrass me, Mr Gillot, don’t go near her.’

  ‘Big talk for a bloody gardener – or am I just the last to be told?’

  ‘Just keep out of the way, Mr Gillot, and nobody gets upset.’

  ‘As long as we understand that for all your hard work this morning, and your duties as protector and baggage carrier for my wife, it’ll be she who pays you, not me.’

  ‘Cheap, Mr Gillot. I think she’s coming now so, please, don’t interfere.’

  Did he want a fight? Nearly did. The front door was open. Also open were the driver’s door and boot of her car, parked on the driveway. Beside it, loaded with the wheelbarrow and the rest of Nigel’s paraphernalia, was his pick-up. They would leave, he assumed, in convoy from the Portland front line, the Lulworth View salient. The gardener had inserted himself between Harvey Gillot and the front door. It was an hour since she’d said she would go. He had not begged. There had been none of the bent-knee-and-welling-
eyes stuff about his inability to see ‘this’ through without her.

  He heard the small but shrill squeal of the suitcase wheels.

  The cartridge cases had rolled on the kitchen table, which had been sufficient to start them off. She was not hanging about to have her head blown off by a gunman who might just, next time, get to aim straighter, with her alongside him. He was not about to miss her, and did she want some help with her packing? She was not considering setting down shallow roots in a god-awful ‘safe-house’ that was vetted by policemen. He had no intention of bugging out, as rats did. She had done nothing, but he had brought this on himself, through deceit. He had worked damn hard to put clothes on her back, and food on her table. She had called him a ‘cheat’ who’d reneged on a done deal. He had tried to laugh with irony, but made a poor fist of it, and had called her the cheat, the deal reneged on her marriage vows … which had concluded the shouting match. He noticed that the gardener had – step by step – positioned himself so that he could intervene if his employer had come at her with a knife from the kitchen block.

  She carried one case and pulled another.

  That left a dilemma for the gardener. He could do polite manners, pick up her bag and lug it to the car, leaving her without defence against her husband’s potential violence, or leave her to shift it. Harvey revelled in the moment. He reached past the gardener, took the bag she carried and murmured something about ‘always here to give a helping hand’.

  His wife, Josie, started it again: ‘It was your greed that did it, and you ripped off those people. You deserve what’s coming to you.’

  ‘As long as you’re happy – and safe – I have no other concern.’

  ‘Don’t you realise what a shit you’ve become, Harvey?’

  ‘Having gained that stunning insight, I’m surprised you lasted so long with me.’

  ‘And don’t go near my daughter.’

  ‘Your daughter? Of course, never in doubt.’ They were at her car. He could have flared into a response about the payment of school fees, the cost of holidays, the rent for the field where the horse was kept and so much else, but he couldn’t be bothered. Nor could he be bothered to get snide about the gardener’s ability to keep a woman used to comforts. He forced a smile. ‘You look after yourself.’