‘That twenty quid you just picked up from the floor.’
The familiar girl turned and glanced at Lasser, she looked to be about seventeen, mousy brown hair framing a thin face, her eyes flitted about nervously.
‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘That girl just dropped a twenty and you stuffed it into your pocket.’
Burger van man, leaned over the counter holding out the girl’s chips and burger. ‘Here you are, love.’
She broke eye contact with Lasser and handed over the money before grabbing the bundle, a moment later she was pushing her way through the crowd.
‘Hang on, love, what about your change?’
She ignored the caterer and tried to move forward but the queue moved along forcing her back a few steps. ‘Keep it,’ she shouted over her shoulder.
‘Listen to her, keep the fucking change, who do you think you are?’ The girl who had nicked the cash plucked at her sleeve, the scowl turning into a sneer of hatred.
‘Hand over the money, or you're coming down the nick with me.’
She looked at Lasser as if she had forgotten he was there. ‘What the fuck are you on about?’
Dipping a hand into his pocket, he whipped out his warrant card and shoved it forward. ‘You swear one more time and I'll take you in. Now give me the money.’
She glared at him and then thrust out her hand, the fingernails like vivid red talons. Lasser plucked the crumpled note from her fist and set off after the girl. By the time he made it clear of the crowd she was hurrying along the pavement, head bent, the packet of food lodged under her arm.
He didn’t bother shouting but broke into a jog. When he was twenty feet away, she glanced behind, her eyes widening in shock when she saw him racing toward her. Lasser tried a reassuring smile and held up the money. For a moment, she stopped and then spun back around and set off running, he watched in surprise as she darted down a narrow back alley and vanished.
Chugging along the pavement he stopped and looked down the alleyway, the cobbled stones shone in the moonlight. The shortcut led to a myriad of back streets, he sighed and looked toward the all-night Tesco, perched on the edge of town. Even at this late hour, the car park was full with late night shoppers, probably getting the food shop in for Christmas. When he felt the first spattering of rain, he decided enough was enough, shoving the money into his pocket, he headed for home.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
'I want him found.’ Callum Green sloshed more whisky into his glass before passing the bottle to Tommy.
He took it and placed it on the coffee table. Since finding out that his grandmother had died, Callum had been filling and emptying the glass with clockwork precision.
‘Don’t worry, mate, everyone’s out there doing the rounds.’
Cal looked at him with bleary booze-soaked eyes. ‘So why haven’t they found him yet?’
Tommy shrugged. ‘Most of the clubs will be closed by now.’
‘I’m not interested in what time the bloody clubs close, I want people out banging on doors. I mean, this twat ran up Market Street in the middle of the Christmas rush. People saw him, Tommy; they saw him mow her down!’ He ran a trembling hand through his hair, the frustration building.
‘I’ll let the lads know. Sooner or later someone will fess up.’
‘Well it’d better be soon, Tommy, because right now I’m ready to blow my fucking stack.’
Tommy looked around the room, his mind travelling back over the years. They'd both grown up on the Lancaster Road estate, the houses had been prefabs built on the cheap and it showed. The top half of the dwellings had been erected using corrugated metal sheets, the paint peeling showing the rust blooming beneath. The streets were all uniformly drab; the gardens in most cases were a hotbed of weeds.
It seemed like a lifetime since they'd been running wild breaking into local shops to steal cigarettes and booze. By the time they were eighteen they'd been running drugs for Paul Mather the local supplier. Encouraging the habits of kids from the estate and building up an impressive portfolio, including a couple of teachers, a local doctor and a seemingly never ending stream of teenagers all looking to get high on cheap drugs.
Eventually, the two of them had decided to cut out the intermediary. Mather had been almost sixty, maybe twenty years earlier it would have been different and he would have put up a fight. Yet there was something about the two young men, which had convinced him to leave the area while he still had the use of his legs.
Cal’s mobile began to ring and he snatched it from the table.
‘Hello, yeah speaking.’ Tommy got up and headed for the kitchen. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
The tone of Callum’s voice stopped him in his tracks.
‘Well why the fuck didn’t you put a stop on the account?’
Cal’s face, flushed before, was now turning puce with rage. ‘So, let me get this straight, you’re telling me that some ponce has been running around town drawing all the cash from her account?’
Tommy could hear someone mumbling apologies down the line. ‘She was eighty-five years old, do you think someone that age would be trawling the streets at two in the fucking morning!’
A moment later Cal slammed the phone down on the walnut coffee table, bits of plastic ricocheted around the room.
Tommy kept his mouth shut, although they'd been friends for years, they had also had more than their fair share of arguments that had ended with fists thrown.
‘Fucking coppers are frigging useless...’
‘What’s happened?’
‘That was the credit card company; according to them someone has drawn nearly seven grand out of Charlotte’s account in the last four hours.’
‘What!’
Cal swiped a hand across the table sending the remnants of the phone onto the floor. ‘The prick knocked her down killed her, but some other bastard stole her bag while she was on the fucking deck!’
‘Well, did the filth not mention it when they told you about your gran?’
Cal shook his head. ‘I want you to find out who is in charge, Tommy. I want to know why it slipped their mind.’
Tommy frowned. ‘Are you sure that’s wise? I mean, do we really want that lot sniffing around?’
‘Don’t argue with me on this, Tommy.’ His voice was low, eyes darkening with anger.
Tommy held up his hands. ‘I’ll see what I can do.'
CHAPTER TWELVE
The meeting in Chester with Charles Munroe had been the stuff of nightmares. He had wanted to know why the shop had been open before the alarm system was up and running. Foster had felt the sweat trickling down his forehead but hadn’t had the nerve to wipe it away. Munroe had looked at him across the desk, his face serene, though his eyes had been flat and hard like the eyes of a circling shark.
‘So, let me get this straight, Stephen. I left the running of the new shop to you, you were in sole charge, am I right?’
‘Well yes, Mr Munroe, but...’
‘No buts. I thought you could be trusted...’
‘But you can trust me, sir. I mean, what happened was terrible and I swear it will never happen again, but...’
‘No excuses, you fucked up.’
Stephen Foster had felt his jaw come unhinged; he had never heard Munroe swear had never seen him as anything but a picture of calm. He'd tried to meet his boss’s stare and found it impossible; there was something in the pale green eyes, a barely controlled violence that terrified him.
Back at the Wigan shop he chewed a fingernail to extinction and looked out of the window. Occasionally, a shopper would walk past without even giving the expensive jewellery in the window a second glance.
For the first time Foster considered the possibility that being in charge of this particular shop could be a disaster for him. The place in Chester would be busy by this time, full of eager shoppers with plenty of money to spend. He worked on a commission basis and the thought that he could match his previ
ous sales in this godforsaken backwater seemed laughable.
A street cleaner pushing a grubby bin on wheels walked past the window, then stopped and peered in at the display, a grotty looking muffler covering the lower part of his face, like some would-be highwayman. Tufts of wiry grey hair sprouted from the sides of his ridiculous flat cap. Stephen got the sudden urge to shoo him away. A couple of seconds later, the man shook his head and continued on his way.
The galling thing was; he had pushed for this opportunity, spent time ingratiating himself with Munroe. He had been the first to open the shop in Chester; in early every morning making sure the display looked immaculate and had always been the last to leave at night. On late night openings, he would be there till ten. Now look at him, stuck in an area that seemed to consist of nothing but petty criminals and street cleaners. An image swam into his head, the Porsche being carted away on the back of a transporter, handing back the keys to the luxury apartment in the city. He could feel the anxiety gnawing at his nerves, all the years of striving swept away because he had wanted to run his own bloody shop.
Lost in his own world of disappointment, he jumped when the door opened and a man with close-cropped blond hair entered. In an instant, Stephen took in the expensive jacket and handmade leather shoes, the whiff of money as familiar to him as expensive cigars or the interior of his leased Porsche.
Straightening his shoulders, Foster slid the smile into place like a quick-draw specialist.
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Stephen Foster?’
Stephen blinked, the smile flickering like a faulty light bulb. ‘Yes.’
‘My name's Plymouth. Mr Munroe asked me to call.’
‘Mr Munroe?’
‘Mm.’ Plymouth walked over to the counter and looked down at the display of Rolex watches. ‘I'll be calling in over the next few days, just to make sure everything is running smoothly.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t quite follow?’
The blond haired man shrugged. ‘You don’t have to,’ he looked up and smiled, his teeth flashing white in the glare from the halogen spotlights. ‘Now why don’t you put the kettle on and we can have a little chat.’
Stephen swallowed and did as he was asked.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lasser looked at the closed sign and sighed, the shop was in darkness. Metal shutters covered the windows, the door plated with galvanized sheet metal. It resembled the kind of building you saw on the ten o'clock news with bullet holes in the walls and the clack, clack of heavy artillery in the distance.
He knew people who were now sitting in empty houses because they had traded in all their possessions to the local pawnbrokers just to put food on the table. A few weeks earlier, he'd been involved in a dawn raid at one property, looking for stolen goods. They had found nothing; in fact, the family was down to removing the doors and burning them to keep warm.
It had been almost two in the morning when Lasser crawled into bed, the central heating cranked up full in an effort to warm his freezing bones, the thump, thump of drum and bass still ringing in his ears. While he lay there waiting for sleep to arrive, he decided that in the morning he'd pay a visit to the pawnbrokers in town. After all, robbing one or two chains was one thing, but this particular thief had taken twenty, so perhaps he was nicking them to order.
‘Ah, a customer, give me a moment, sir, and then we can get out of this atrocious weather.’
Lasser turned; the man was huge, a wide smile on his cherub like face. He slipped a key into the lock and the shutters began to rattle upwards.
‘Mr Weisman?’
The man bore a remarkable resemblance to Oliver Hardy; his suit appeared at least a size too small. Rolls of fat spilled over the top of his trousers, held in place by a pair of black braces. His hair looked as if a child with a big wax crayon had drawn it on top of his head.
‘Yes, how can I be of assistance?’
‘My name is Detective Sergeant Lasser, I wonder if I could have a word?’
Weisman looked over his shoulder; a single frown line furrowed his brow. ‘Of course, Sergeant,’ he fumbled with a large set of keys, a few seconds later he bustled into the shop flicking on the lights as he went. ‘Now what can I do for you?’
It felt colder in the shop than out on the pavement; Lasser could see his breath billowing out in front of him. The counter encased behind thick Perspex glass, the surface scratched and pitted.
Lasser slipped his hands into his pockets in an effort to generate some heat. ‘I’m after some information.’
Weisman pulled out a box of Swan Vesta’s and lit one, before leaning over and lighting the elements on an ancient looking Calor gas heater. Turning it up to full, he stood with his back to the flames warming his legs, his face bright red with the effort.
‘Information about what exactly?’
‘Gold chains.’
Weisman rubbed at his backside. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant, but you'll have to be more specific.’
‘Yesterday one of the jewellers in the centre of town had twenty gold chains stolen.’
The pawnbroker shook his head, his jowls wobbling like a smacked arse. 'I’m afraid I closed early yesterday, I had some shopping of my own to do.’
‘Yes well, it was the new shop at the bottom of the hill.’
‘You’ll have to excuse me, Sergeant, but I rarely go into the centre of town.’
‘I can’t say I blame you. Anyway the thief made off with twenty gold chains.’
‘That’s unfortunate; but I don’t see how I can help,’ the flame popped and then vanished as the gas bottle ran out; Weisman looked at it with a sorrowful expression.
‘Well, I was just making the rounds, I’ve already called at one or two shops in town and you were next on my list.’
‘Well of course I'd like to be able to assist, but as I’ve already explained I closed early.’
Lasser looked around the grim room. ‘Do you keep much stock on the premises, Mr Weisman?’
He shrugged. ‘Well I have a safe in the back room but I try and keep anything above a certain value at home.’
‘I see, well under normal circumstances a crime such as this wouldn’t be high on our agenda.’
‘Well to tell you the truth, Sergeant, I would imagine the thief spent the night selling them in the pubs and clubs, apparently they are a hot bed for receiving stolen goods.'
Lasser looked keenly at the pawnbroker, unsure if he was taking the piss. ‘I don’t doubt it, but you see, as the man ran from the shop he happened to knock down an elderly woman.’
Weisman looked pained. ‘What is the world coming to, Sergeant?’
‘Apparently, she won’t survive the attack which of course, potentially, turns this into something more serious than a mere smash and grab case.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, but once again I fail to see...’
‘Have you heard the name Callum Green, Mr Weisman?’ For the first time, the pawnbroker looked nervous. Lasser cocked his head to one side. ‘Mr Weisman?’
‘What... oh sorry, yes the name is familiar to me, but...’
‘The woman knocked down was his grandmother.’
‘His...’
‘Grandmother.’
Weisman suddenly seemed to find his shoes interesting, when he did look up his face had lost most of its colour. ‘Well, like I said, I am most sorry to hear this sad news. Now if you will forgive me I have things to do.’
‘Of course, I can see you’re rushed off your feet.’
Weisman scowled and then shrugged off his coat. ‘Of course if I hear anything on the matter I will ring the authorities immediately. I mean, things like this mustn’t go unpunished.’
‘Well, knowing the reputation Callum Green has for excessive use of violence I would imagine he will be looking to dish out his own form of punishment.’
Weisman swallowed, his piggy eyes appeared to shrink back into this head.
‘Quite so.’
Lasser smiled
brightly. ‘Right well, thanks for your help.’
He let himself out; the wind had died though the rain still hammered down. A double-decker bus rumbled past sending a mini tidal wave onto the pavement, he took a step back into the shop doorway and waited for the water to retreat.
It was hard to tell whether Weisman knew more about the chains, but at the mention of Green the pawnbroker had looked sick with terror.
Then again, Green’s reputation was enough to instil fear in most people. Still it might be worth calling back in a few days, by then Weisman would probably have had a visit from one of Green’s ‘representatives.’
Crossing the road, he headed back toward town. Ten minutes later, he was sitting in Burger King munching on a breakfast meal. He pulled out his phone and frowned, three missed calls from Cathy. Punching in her number he slapped the mobile to his ear and popped a few chips into his mouth.
‘Hi, Cathy, did you want me?’
‘Good morning, I take it you’re just crawling from your pit?’
‘Absolutely not, if you must know I was out early trying my luck at the pawnshops...’
‘I’ve told you I don’t mind you watching those DVDs, as long as you do it on your own.’
‘Ha bloody ha.’
‘Anyway, I’m just letting you know Charlotte Green died during the night.’
Lasser wiped his greasy fingers on a napkin. ‘Rimmer said she wasn’t expected to pull through.’
‘So, how did last night go?’
‘I tell you I felt like an idiot, every pub and club was heaving with teenagers.’
‘Oh poor you.’
‘You could try and sound more sincere.’
‘So, what time will you be finished?’
‘Hopefully about five, we could see what’s on at the flicks, if you like?’
‘Cool, listen I’ve got to go. It seems someone spent last night breaking into every charity shop in Hindley.’
‘Well good luck with that.’
‘Now who sounds insincere?’
Lasser finished his burger and fries and headed back into the rain.
The Way That It Falls: DS Lasser series volume 2 (The DS Lasser series.) Page 4