‘Cool, by the time they phone the coppers–’
‘The coppers will take an age to get here, I know. But the shitty part of the deal is if we haven’t got them all out of the way in that thirty seconds, the dye-packs go off.’
Pikey thought about it. ‘Bollocks.’ He took a step back, hand rubbing his face through the wet balaclava. ‘What about the wiring? Can’t we cut it, or freeze it or melt it?’
‘I dunno, I’ve never played with this stuff before. Chances are the wiring is well routed behind the cassettes – the wiring we need anyhow. And if we fuck up, the job’s over.’
‘What about the dye-pack wiring? Can’t we cut that?’
‘It’s at the front of the cassettes. No chance.’
‘Bastard!’
‘And even worse, I don’t know when the thirty seconds begins.’
‘I ain’t going back empty-handed. He’ll kill us. I’d rather go back with dyed notes than nothing at all.’
‘I mean, I don’t know if the tamper circuit operates after I’ve cut through the first, or as I begin cutting through the first.’
‘This gets better.’
‘Look, I could probably be through one lock in four or five seconds. I just wanted you to be aware of the risks.’
‘The risks? What risks, other than ten years in the clink?’
‘It’s why you do it, isn’t it, the risk? I mean, you’re not short of a bob or two.’
‘You reckon you can slice all three locks in less than fifteen seconds?’
‘With a new blade, yep.’
‘Fit a new blade, let’s crack on.’
Ste was scared shitless.
He was on parole, was due at the parole office in eight hours, and if he didn’t turn up, he’d be straight back to Parkhurst. If a copper took a peek inside this van right now, at two-thirty in the morning, did a name check on him and found him to be outside of his curfew, he’d be heading south in a matter of hours.
If he went back to prison, it would be the last time he’d see his kids, she’d already told him that. And he knew she wasn’t bullshitting. He looked at the radio, wondered whether to call them back. He could say he’d seen the law. That would get them back out in no time, and they’d be forced to abandon the job and he could go home and keep his appointment. And he could keep his freedom and keep his kids. Sounded good.
But he’d be in the same boat again next week or next month.
Ste shook his head, played with the volume knob on the radio and wondered why he’d ever agreed to this shit. There were other things–
‘Fuck!’ There, up ahead, on Harehills Lane. A cop car. He turned off the wipers and leaned across the seats, getting low. ‘Oh, please, no, go straight on, don’t turn down here.’
Through the rain, Wasp could make out a youth walking towards him, maybe 150 yards away. No threat right now. Well, he was just walking this way, actually, not specifically towards him; Wasp couldn’t be seen from the pavement up there. No chance. But it was the way the youth ambled that spooked him. It was pissing it down, and this guy was just walking along like it was seventy degrees out there, and he didn’t have a rush in the world. Must be out of his fucking tree, Wasp thought.
He crouched, focused his attention entirely on the youth. He left the cigarette lighter in his pocket alone, and instead, he curled his hand around the gun. And then he saw it, further up Harehills Lane, a cop car cruising slowly this way. He scanned right, towards the parade of shops, towards the shuttered windows of the Turkish tearoom. If the cop car kept coming, straight towards him, he would relax, but if it turned off the main drag towards their little triangle of glass-strewn tarmac around the back of that block, he would have to call it in.
Wasp watched.
Wasp listened to the incessant rain beating the pavement.
Wasp watched intently up the road.
He should have spared a glance behind him too.
Jagger stood close to the machine, angle grinder in hand, ready to go. ‘I want you to count out loud,’ he said. ‘Thirty seconds after I touch the first lock, drag my arse away from here.’
Pikey nodded.
‘Okay, here goes.’ He flicked the switch, and the grinder roared. One last look at Pikey, who nodded again, and he went forward, the spinning wheel contacted the lock and inside his own head, he began counting. The blade bit, and he was making good progress through the first lock. Sparks flew.
Wasp was wide-eyed and unblinking, as through the rain he saw the cop car turn off the main drag and head towards their triangle. The deep muffled scream from the teashop had resumed, and on top of that, the youth who was gently sauntering towards him, continued to do so, now less than fifty yards away.
‘Fuck.’ Wasp grabbed the radio and almost got it to his mouth, when he noticed a disturbance in the rainfall to his right, some change he’d not been aware of before. It made him turn just in time to see the grimace on the face of his killer as the knife sank into his throat.
Ste could hear the muted sound of the angle grinder over the constant pandemonium of the rain on the van roof. He peered through the rain-smeared screen as his worst fear began to materialise before him. He shrank even lower, lying across the seats as the police car’s headlamps lit up the front of the van. He brought the radio to his lips. ‘Stop, stop, stop. Coppers.’
Pikey grabbed Jagger’s shoulder. But Jagger had heard Ste’s message too, had flicked the switch and driven the blade hard into the lock to stop it spinning.
Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.
He was most of the way through the second lock, and it seemed their luck had run out.
Jagger swallowed. Waited.
Eighteen.
Benson looked across at Cooper and said, ‘I hope to Christ that’s just a routine patrol.’
‘It is, he’s not slowing.’
‘Why do they always show up–’
‘Ssshh,’ Cooper pointed, ‘who the hell’s that?’
Behind the police car by thirty yards was a black youth scurrying towards the blue van.
‘What’s he up to?’ Benson said.
Cooper keyed his radio. ‘Imaging unit, are you getting this?’
‘Yup.’
— Seven —
‘So tomorrow, take the crew and tell ’em what you found. You do a search of all the accountants south of Leeds. And you find her,’ he warned, pointing a finger. ‘I want her, and I want her alive. When you do find her, you let me know, and you take her to the lock-up under the arches. Clear?’
Tyler nodded. ‘What about my collections?’
‘Don’t worry ’bout them. This takes priority.’
— Eight —
The cop car slowed a little as it drove by. Ste was shaking, and he craned his neck to watch in the passenger mirror as it left the triangle and drove away up towards Cherry Row. Ste closed his eyes and breathed a sigh, even allowed himself a smile before bringing the radio to his lips. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘They’ve gone now.’
Ste held his hand out in front of him, and even in the pissy light of the streetlamp, he could see it shaking. He laughed and sat up. ‘Fuck me–’
There was a gentle tap on the driver’s window, and Ste, smile still on his face, turned to see a man holding a gun almost up to the glass. The man smiled wide to show nothing but gums as he pulled the trigger.
Twenty-three.
The voice crackled in Jagger’s ear.
‘It’s okay, they’ve gone now.’
Twenty-four. The Stihl growled into life again and was through the second lock in a whisper, then tore chunks out of the third.
Pikey grabbed the handle of the lower cassette and as soon as the blade ripped into thin air, he yanked it free, followed by the second cassette. Jagger threw the angle grinder on the floor with the blade still spinning, tore the final cassette free and slammed the wooden door just as a loud crack spat red dye. The alarm sounded, a sharp, shrill noise that pierced Jagger’s thoughts.
/> He looked around, breathing rapidly to see Pikey throwing both cassettes into the holdall, and keeping it wide open for Jagger to do the same with his.
As soon as it landed in the bag, Pikey zipped it and headed for the door. ‘Hurry up,’ he shouted back.
Jagger rested his hands on his knees, panting through his damp balaclava, and looked around to make sure he’d left nothing of himself behind, squinting through the noise. Leaving the saw and the jemmy bar and the spare cutting blades was fine – they’d torn off or obliterated all labels and serials anyway; he just wanted to make sure he’d left no masks or gloves or whatever. It was all too easy to get complacent at times like this.
The alarm shrieked behind him.
As soon as Pikey exited the broken door and was outside in the rain and the puddles, he knew something was wrong. The fact that he couldn’t see Ste’s ugly silhouette through the side window of the van because it was covered in some black fluid alerted him straight away. But then his gaze was captured by a youth who showed himself at the front of the van.
Pikey reached inside his jacket for the gun he carried, pulled it out and flicked off the safety catch all in one liquid movement. But he was so captivated by the youth that he didn’t see the other one to his right until it was a fraction of a second too late to react properly.
There was a loud crack, and suddenly, Pikey found himself lying in those puddles, wondering what the hell had happened. He looked up as a man reached down and took the holdall from him. Pikey mouthed something, but only a small groan came out, and his dulling eyes were filled with confusion and misunderstanding as his mouth opened and closed.
The man walked away with Pikey’s bag, and a second later, the youth from the front of the van joined him. Pikey had lost the gun somehow as he’d hit the ground, and he could see it now, over there, only a few feet away, and well within reach. He lunged for it, and the pain ripped into his chest, and suddenly, he couldn’t breathe any more.
He was dying, he knew that now. They’d finally got him. But he grabbed the gun anyway, even as his lungs filled up with his own blood and his vision began to blur. He pointed the gun towards the two men and let all eight rounds go, hoping to Christ to meet one of the bastards on the other side.
‘What the fuck just happened?’
Cooper screamed at Benson, ‘Go! Go, for fuck’s sake.’
‘What? I’m not driving into a fucking gun battle.’
‘Go!’
‘Are you mad?’
Cooper looked at Benson, thin lipped. ‘Get on the radio, then, and get my ARVs here. Now!’
Jagger took a breath and had begun to walk across the gritty, sticky floor, feeling pleased with himself, when he heard the distinct report of a shot over the shrill alarm. He flinched, quickly turned off his head torch and headed for the doorway. He crouched and took a quick peek outside but could see nothing. The van was still there, that’s all he knew.
‘Fuck,’ he whispered. He edged out into the rain, made it another two feet before he saw the van window covered in a dark liquid that was streaking slowly down the glass, and then he saw Pikey face down only ten yards away, firing a gun.
Jagger ran to his side in time to see the weapon drop to the ground, still gripped by Pikey’s lifeless hand. He felt a tug on his trousers, felt heat in his calf muscle and then heard the report. He turned to see two men climbing into a taxi; one was grunting, clutching his side, helped aboard by the other who had just shot him.
The taxi almost stalled in the driver’s haste to be away, and Jagger chased it for close on fifty yards before it pulled away into the night, and his leg finally gave way. As it did, he got a good view of the injured passenger who turned and faced him, screaming in pain. He appeared to have no teeth, just black gums.
Jagger stumbled toward a lamppost trying to get his breath back and hissing at the pain in his leg, when he saw the Toyota nearby. He could have sworn there were people inside it and squinted against the rain trying to get a better look.
24
— One —
‘Monty, it’s Jagger. Come and pick me up.’
‘Why, what’s happened?’
‘We got jumped. Everyone’s dead.’
‘What do you mean, ‘“everyone”?’
‘Everyone. There’s only me left.’ Jagger bit down on his lower lip. ‘Hurry up, mate; I’ve been shot in the fucking leg.’
‘Go get their mobile phones. I’ll be at the top end of Spencer Place in half an hour…’ There was a pause, a muffled sound as though Monty had his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Where’s the money?’
‘They got it.’
The line clicked off.
Jagger put the phone away, unsurprised by Monty’s last question, and searched among the dumpsters for a decent bin bag. He found one that just had cardboard in it, rather than food scraps, and emptied the card out. He slid his wounded leg inside, tying it above his knee. And then he headed for Pikey, as quickly as he could, wincing with each stride.
— Two —
The bag rustled in the wind, flapping about like a black flag, rain whipping it, and plastering Jagger’s hair to his screwed-up face. Hands in pockets, arms tucked into his side against the wind. He leaned against a tree up at the top end of Spencer Place, feeling conspicuous, taking the weight off his injured leg, shivering from the shock or from the cold, he wasn’t sure which. Maybe both. He listened to the sirens, saw the odd streak of blue light and cringed as a car pulled up alongside the tree, wipers scooting across the screen, Monty’s face just visible by the dash lights.
With much effort, Jagger climbed aboard and slammed the door, and let out a gasp as the pain in his leg bit.
‘Why the bag? Monty asked.
‘No blood trail.’
Monty engaged gear. ‘Good; I don’t want blood in the car.’
‘How’s Slade taking it?’
‘He’s dancing round the fuckin’ lounge.’
Jagger closed his eyes. Sometimes, he hated this job.
Jagger sat in the kitchen chair. He could see himself reflected in the mirror by the archway into the lounge. His face had been washed clean by the rain, except in the creases, the depth of which appeared amplified by the rusting metal dust embedded in there. More tiny metal particles from the safe door that had sprayed his clothes had turned brown with rust and streaked down his sweater. His hair was a ragged mess, and his clothes were wet through, and still, he shivered.
The bag was still tied around his leg, and it could stay there too; he was reluctant to even look at it, fearing the worst.
Slade sat across the table from him, cup of tea on the mat, small cigar smoking in a glass ashtray. Slade’s arms were folded, and all he did was watch Jagger. Jagger swallowed.
By the archway, Tyler stood silently too, also watching.
Monty filled a plate with biscuits and then put the kettle on again.
‘In this life,’ Slade said in a quiet voice, ‘you have to grab what you can.’ He stared. ‘You come into this life with nothing. Nothing at all, except maybe the love of your parents. If you’re lucky. But you haven’t got nothing. And really,’ he continued, ‘you go out pretty much the same way. The old people,’ he waved over his shoulder, ‘I mean, the ancestors, they used to bury all their shit with them, see. They believed you could take it with you. But you can’t.’ He stared.
Monty fixed himself a coffee. Then he joined Slade at the table, munching on his biscuits.
‘And there ain’t no such thing as judgement day, son. Never worry about that shit; it’s lies, like Father Christmas and the Tooth Fairy.’
Jagger looked at Monty, getting ever more confused. Monty ate biscuits.
‘What I’m trying to say is you take what you want in this life. And you give as little back as you can get away with. If it means hurting folk to get stuff, then you hurt ’em. Simple as that. You go from life to death, from A to Z, in as much comfort and style as you can fucking muster.’ Slade took a drag on the ciga
r, sipped his tea. His eyes never left Jagger. ‘You don’t fret about the afterlife or about no judgement day. You live for the now; fuck the past, and never look forward. Am I right?’
Jagger looked at him. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Yes. I am. So, them people that ripped me off tonight. I don’t blame them. They’re only trying to get from A to Z in style, see.’ The room was quiet.
Slade smashed his fist into the table.
Everyone jumped. Monty’s biscuits hit the floor along with the ashtray and cigar.
‘Except they don’t take from me!’
Jagger swallowed and had to look away.
‘I do the fuckin’ taking!’ he screamed.
The room paused.
And then he smiled at Jagger as Monty put the ashtray complete with cigar back in front of Slade. His eyes shone at Jagger. ‘Now I have to decide whether I believe you…or not.’
Jagger looked confused. ‘Believe me? Why wouldn’t you believe me?’
‘Because it’s very convenient that you stayed behind in the Turkish place to make sure you’d not forgotten nothing. As Pikey was being shot to death twenty yards away.’
‘I haven’t taken your money!’ He realised that he was being incredibly brave – he refused to think he was being foolish. He had to defend himself, and with conviction too; if Slade detected anything in him, it had to be a feeling of being insulted. ‘I worked fucking hard–’
Monty back-handed him around the face and stared at him. ‘Watch your lip.’
‘I got shot, Slade,’ he whispered, peering up at him across the table, head bowed, hand massaging his stiffening leg. ‘And I’m no grass either.’
‘So how did they find out?’
‘I don’t know. Honest.’
‘Told you we couldn’t trust him. I fucking said–’
No Time to Die_a thrilling CSI mystery Page 16