‘Plymouth has never done any time and he’s made more money than you could ever imagine. You look around this place and see a dive, he sees it as a good place to work from.’
‘Who is he anyway; I mean, why does Munroe want him out of the way?’
Seth tapped a finger to the side of his nose. ‘Keep that out, I didn’t ask you here so you could get on my bloody nerves, and if you want to come out of this with your nuts still dangling between your legs, then you need to put that smoke out and take this seriously, because Plymouth is not someone you fuck with.’
Corr dropped the smoke onto the floor and stamped on it. ‘I can take care of myself.’
Barker raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re not standing outside a boozer now, keeping the little kids from knocking one another’s teeth out.’
‘I know that, but...’
‘But nothing, if we do catch up with him then I need to know that you can be relied upon.’
‘Of course you can, I’ll take care of it.’ Corr flexed his massive arms, biceps bulging beneath the jacket.
‘No you won’t, you’ll act as cannon fodder and while Plymouth is trying to slice off your face I will be the one who does the business.’
Corr shrugged as if to say, ‘whatever.’
Seth sighed before heading out of the building and towards the car.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Rimmer sat behind the wheel and gnawed another fingernail to extinction.
Callum Green’s house stood at the end of a short lane, the imposing property lit by a myriad of security lights, a Jaguar and Mercedes parked on the driveway gathering snow. He grabbed the door handle and then snatched his hand away as if the metal was hot. For the last couple of days he had walked around in a kind of drugged stupor, every time his phone bleeped he had looked at it with a sense of dread. Expecting it to be Green again, demanding to know what he was doing about his dead brother and Jimmy bloody Butcher. At least he had managed to get rid of Spenner and Rigby before Green had lost the plot, the last thing he had wanted was the two rookies getting the wrong end of the stick or in his case the right end. He had lain awake into the small hours staring at the bedroom ceiling, convinced that he was living on borrowed time
When Bannister had called him into his office and told him about Munroe, Rimmer had seen a glimmer of light at the end of a very dark tunnel. Now he was sitting in the car trying to predict how Green would respond to the news and that was the problem, people like Callum Green were hard to predict. He may well pat him on the back and thank him for the information or he might totally flip and crucify the messenger.
He spat a piece of fingernail onto the dashboard and pondered what to do. The information was the only nugget he had to bargain with and if he waited, then Green might find out about Munroe himself and then he would have nothing.
Pushing open the door, he climbed out and winced as the bitter wind plucked at his clothing. By the time, he reached the front door he was shaking, though it had little to do with the weather. The floodlit garden was stark in the harsh artificial light, the trees bare and frigid with frost.
Swallowing his fear, he pressed the buzzer and waited.
‘Who is it?’ he recognised the voice of Tommy Speel, floating from the intercom on the wall.
Rimmer moved forward until his face was a few inches from the speaker. ‘It’s me, Rimmer.’
Silence, he could imagine Speel turning to Green. ‘It’s that toss pot copper.’
A few seconds later, the door opened and Tommy glared out at him. ‘Get in here.’
Rimmer shuffled reluctantly over the threshold, Tommy closed the door and strode away down the long hallway with the Detective Inspector hurrying to keep up.
Green was pacing the huge lounge and Rimmer swallowed when he saw the black look of anger on his face.
‘What the fuck do you want, Rimmer?’
‘Cal, listen, I might have a name for the man who’s been giving you grief.’ The words spluttered from his mouth and for a few seconds he was convinced that he hadn’t actually spoken aloud. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’
‘You had better not be fucking with me, Rimmer, because if you are...’
‘Honest, Cal, I wouldn’t do that.’
‘Name?’
‘Charles Munroe.’
Tommy frowned. ‘Munroe’s, the jewellers in town?’
Rimmer nodded his head vigorously. ‘Yeah, that’s the one.’
Green stormed across the room, until he was standing in front of quaking detective. ‘Talk.’
Rimmer licked his lips. ‘According to my boss, Munroe is a major player who started out in Glasgow but moved over to the Wirral four years ago.’
‘I don’t want his fucking life story.’
Rimmer held up his hands and Green suddenly lashed out and slapped them down.
‘OK, Cal, OK. He started moving into North Wales, he took over from a few minor dealers and started supplying big time.'
‘You’re telling me North Wales is fucking big time? You’re trying to mug me off...’
‘No, Cal, he was just putting out the feelers, then he took over the Wirral and Birkenhead, and according to sources he now has big chunks of the Pool under his control.’
‘Have you ever heard of this Munroe, Tommy?’
Speel shook his head. ‘Not a peep.’
‘Tommy knows everyone and he hasn’t heard of this prick and neither have I.’
If it had been anyone else then Rimmer would have pointed out that maybe they didn’t know as much as they thought, but the fury radiating from Green was enough to change his mind.
‘I don’t know about that, but it’s the truth, that’s probably why he’s opened a shop in the town centre.’
‘So you’re telling me this Munroe has been giving me all this shit and he’s a fucking shopkeeper!’
‘According to our sources you’re a haulage contractor.’
Green blinked and took a backward step. ‘Tommy, check it out.’
‘No problem.’
Then Green’s arms bolted forward, grabbed Rimmer’s jacket and hauled him in close. Rimmer could smell the sour scent of scotch and cigarettes on his breath. ‘If this turns out to be shit, Rimmer, then I will tie you to a chair and set fire to you, is that understood?’
‘Yeah, Cal, but it’s the truth.’
Tommy pulled the car keys from his pocket and headed for the door. ‘I won’t be long.’
Rimmer felt the grip loosen and then Green patted him on the shoulder. ‘No problem, we’ll wait here until you get back, won’t we, Rimmer?’
Rimmer nodded the acid burn of fear raw in his throat. ‘No problem, Cal,’ he croaked.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Lasser sat in the car watching as a bin wagon struggled down the side street, wheels spinning as the hapless driver struggled to find traction. When his phone began to vibrate, he fished it from his pocket and pressed the loudspeaker button.
Bannister’s voice suddenly filled the small space. ‘Where are you, Sergeant?’
‘I’m in town, at the Oak Hotel, apparently Plymouth signed out yesterday.’
‘Did you check the room?’
‘Yeah it’s as clean as a whistle.’
‘Right well, I’ve tried to do a background check on our friend and come up with nothing, so chances are he’s using a false name.’
‘That’s hardly surprising in his line of work.’
‘You mentioned the fact that he lived out on the North Wales border?’
‘That’s what he said.’
‘And I take it you’ve been to the shop?’
‘About an hour ago, the assistant had no idea when he would be back.’
‘I see,’ his boss sighed, the noise sounding loud in the confined space.
‘Is there any news on Craig Green?’
‘Nothing so far.’
The bin wagon slithered its way to the main road.
‘So what do you want me to do?’
&nb
sp; ‘There’s bugger all we can do, but sooner or later one of these idiots will come off the rails, but until then I’ll try and find out where this Plymouth character lives and take it from there.’
‘Very good.’
‘Hardly that, Sergeant, but it’s the best we can do.’
‘What about Munroe?’
‘Can’t touch him, the lads on Merseyside and North Wales have investigated him on a couple of occasions but you know what these people are like, they run a tight ship and no one is ever willing to point the finger in case they lose them all.’
Lasser grunted a response; it was obvious that sitting behind a desk hadn’t dampened Bannister’s little grey cells.
‘Right well keep me informed, Lasser, let’s see if Simms was right and you come up with the goods.’
The call ended and Lasser dropped the phone back into its resting place.
It was the same old story, it was obvious that the force in Liverpool and Wales knew that Munroe was a bent fuck, but actually catching them in the act was almost impossible. They had an army of people like Barry Collins and Shaun Miller doing all the risky stuff while they just creamed off the cash and lived the high life. Anyone who dared to get in their way was steamrollered into oblivion. Perhaps Callum Green would see off this latest challenge or maybe he would disappear, buried in the footings of yet another factory unit that would be built and never used.
He sighed and thought about giving Cathy a ring. He knew she was a strong willed woman, but being back at her parents would probably leave her feeling vulnerable, like a child again. She'd mentioned in the past that they'd never wanted her to join the force and now they would be able to point to this latest incident and force home their point that she had been lucky to escape with her life. Perhaps they were right and he was being selfish, maybe she would be happier living the life of a civilian, doing an ordinary job, rather than chasing bastards like Barry Collins for a living.
As he backed out of the parking space, he spotted Burgess stalking his way out of the hotel, his face set in an angry scowl.
Another tosser who thought he was above everyone else, a tin pot dictator who tried to rule with a limp wrist of iron.
Sparking up another cigarette, he pulled out of the gates and followed the slow moving bin wagon down the street.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
When Tommy Speel strode past the window of the coffee shop, Plymouth frowned in surprise, watching as Green’s right hand man crossed the road and peered in through the window of Munroe’s before heading inside.
Pulling out the phone he pressed the call button and placed the mobile to his ear, all the time keeping his eyes locked on the shop opposite.
Surprisingly Green answered on the fourth ring.
‘Ah, Callum, I’m glad you decided to open a dialogue.’
‘I know you’re working for some cunt called Munroe and when I’ve finished with him you’ll be next on my list of things to do.’
Plymouth laughed lightly; a couple of elderly women looked at him and smiled, what a pleasant young man.
‘You won’t be laughing when I’m done with you.’ Green hissed.
Plymouth stood up and weaved his way around the tables before heading onto the pavement. ‘I’m impressed, and here’s me thinking you must be packing your bags and yet it appears you’ve been busy ignoring my advice.’
‘Fuck your advice. If you thought I’d just disappear, then you obviously don’t know me at all.’
‘Jimmy did say you wouldn’t listen.’ Plymouth mused.
‘Where is he?’
‘Well, considering the situation I thought I’d do you a favour and get rid of the man.’
‘I don’t give a fuck...’
‘Language, Callum.’
Green laughed, a harsh sound, full of anger and bile. ‘You’re fucking laughable, all this bollocks about swearing.’
‘We all have our little peculiarities.’
‘Yeah well, I just want you to know that I’ll make you squeal for what you did to my brother.’
Outside, a weak winter sun shivered overhead, Plymouth checked the traffic and then crossed the road. ‘Don’t I get any brownie points for allowing your sister to live?’
‘You’ll get nothing from me, pal.’
‘Well that’s disappointing, maybe next time I won’t be as forgiving...’
‘There won’t be a next time and if you even think of...’
‘Stop your mewling.’
‘What did you say?
Plymouth could hear the disbelief in Green’s voice. ‘Last chance, Callum. Are you going to do as I ask?’
‘What the fuck do you think?’
Plymouth stopped and looked in the window of Marks and Spencer, his attention grabbed by a pair of black brogues. ‘Right, change of plan, I was going to kill you, but I suppose you already knew that. Now I am going to dispose of those closest to you. The sister you love will be gone and your mother...’
‘You...’
‘Will be taken care of.’
‘You’re a dead man, nobody threatens me...’
‘But first I’m going to take care of Thomas; Jimmy said you two were close, almost like brothers.’
‘Tommy can take care of himself.’ Green suddenly sounded unsure of his boast, his voice laced with a hint of underlying fear.
‘Well let’s see about that shall we, if you have anything you’d like to tell your oldest friend then I suggest you ring him now...’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘I’m watching him through the window of the shop. I dare say he’s acting on your behalf, just remember that when I open his throat.’
The line went dead as Plymouth pushed his way into the shop. Tommy was standing by the counter talking to Caroline who appeared agitated, her face flushed, her eyes confused and panicked, tension crackled in the air.
She looked up, a sense of relief flashed across her face, ‘Ah, Mr Plymouth.’
Tommy started to turn and Plymouth zipped forward, the big man stepped back and raised his fists. Caroline backed off, hands fluttering to her mouth. At the last second Plymouth glided to the left, his right arm flashing out in a tight arc. The knife slid across Speel’s throat, entering just below the left ear and bursting clear, three inches short of the right. An arc of blood sprayed over the counter, splattering the front of Caroline’s crisp white shirt. She looked down at the stain spreading across her chest and opened her mouth to scream. As Tommy began to topple sideways, Plymouth placed his hands on the counter and leapt over.
‘I’m sorry, Caroline, I really am,’ he slid the blade in low driving it upwards; the steel glanced off a rib before slicing into her heart.
Caroline gasped, the sound akin to an erotic intake of breath, her hands fell on his shoulders as if she was holding him in a shy embrace.
‘I...’
‘Just relax,’ he whispered.
Tommy hit the glass covered counter and demolished it, Rolex watches spilled onto the floor, some skittered away across the oak boards, others flattened beneath his dead weight.
Plymouth ignored the commotion and eased Caroline to the floor, keeping his eyes firmly locked on hers as she began to spasm, her legs kicked out, her right foot crashed through one of the few remaining panes of glass, the jagged edge slicing deep into her ankle. Leaning down he brushed a shard of glass from her forehead, she kicked once more and grimaced before lying still.
Plymouth stood up and headed outside; pulling the key from his pocket, he lowered the shutters on the window and door before moving back into the shop and snatching the blind down. Locking it, he made his way to the rear of the shop and ejected the disk from the security cameras. His movements, practical and unhurried, the sound of a mobile drifted in to the small room, crouching down he slid the phone from Tommy’s pocket.
‘I’m afraid your friend is unable to come to the phone, Callum.’
‘What have you done?’
‘Unli
ke some I could mention, I keep my promises...’
‘You bastard!’
Plymouth winced and pulled the phone from his ear, shaking his head he hung up.
Five minutes later, he exited the rear of the building and made his way through the litter strewn alleyways until he popped out on the main road. He was three hundred yards from the shop when he stopped in his tracks. Turning on his heels, he headed back down the road and walked straight past the jewellers before heading into the department store. Fifteen minutes later, he walked back into the cold, a bag swinging from his hand with the new black brogues inside.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Lasser found an empty office, sat down at the computer and logged onto the internet. It took him ten minutes to track down the Charles Munroe he was after. The first snippet mentioned the high-class jewellers in Chester, it even had an image of the shop and unlike the one in the town centre it was huge. Clicking off the image he flipped down to the next section, a magazine article featured in Cheshire Life talked about his philanthropic ways.
The cash he had thrown at a local polo club, the sponsored days at the races, when he came across an image of the man himself, Lasser leant forward to peer at the picture. It showed Munroe to be a huge man with a shock of ginger hair, his face ruddy, his eyes like piss holes in the snow. He was squashed into a tuxedo, a cummerbund stretched around his gargantuan waist, an arm draped around some woman who probably wouldn’t have given him the steam of her shit if he been a docker rather than a drug dealing millionaire.
The article talked about his generosity of spirit, about his good works in helping to keep a school for autistic children open when the place had been earmarked for closure. Lasser had never met the man but he took an instant dislike to him, the fact that he covered his tracks by helping the needy meant nothing. For every so-called good deed, there would be an endless chain of broken people left behind. Families ruined as parents became hooked on drugs that he supplied, kids going off the rails and ending up either dead or doing time. Behind it all was the fat bastard in the fancy suit smiling for the camera and dishing out relatively small amounts of cash to foster an air of respectability.
The Way That It Falls: DS Lasser series volume 2 (The DS Lasser series.) Page 25