by Pete Trewin
‘That’ll lern yer! Get back to yer cherch!’
‘Church? I don’t go to church!’ the preacher yelled. “I believe in Jesus!’ The preacher pointed to the kid. ‘He died for your sins!’He pointed to Jimmy sitting in his taxi. ‘And for you!’
The preacher opened his coat, grasped his shirt, and ripped it open.
The crowd gasped and flinched away as if he had turned into a large, destructive animal. A startlingly white hairless chest was criss-crossed with strands of barbed wire. Fresh, red cuts and partly healed scars.
‘Wherever you sinners are hiding it will do you no good! Vengeance is mine!’
‘You are a nutter, mate,’ said Jimmy. ‘That’s the sort of thing they did in the olden days. People don’t do that sort of thing now.’
The preacher turned as he knelt.
‘While I’m doing it, they’re still doing it.’ His voice was deep and resonant, as if he really was an Old Testament prophet. ‘Fact is, we’re going to do it more than they ever did in the old days. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.’
‘Right,’ Jimmy said. ‘I’m getting on the blower to the busies.’
TEN
Stroller went for another bench press. A hundred and fifty kilos was close to his limit.
‘Go for it, Stroller!’ his partner shouted, ready to catch the bar if Stroller failed.
Stroller’s eyes bulged and his teeth gritted together. The veins on his arms stood out against the tattooed skin. The bar inched upwards until his elbows locked out and he dropped it with a resounding crash and clank of metal onto the supports. He sat up and wiped his face and neck with a towel. The gym would have graced any sports centre: more weights than you could lift in a month, state of the art rowing machines, mirrors everywhere.
‘This is the thing about special hospitals, P,’ he said as they swopped places. ‘They label you as a “criminal psychopath”, with the highest ever score on the Hare Checklist, yet they allow you to train and become as strong and as fit as you like.’
P wasn’t quite as honed as Stroller was but he still had fifteen stones of hard muscle on a six-foot frame. P’s head was shaved which seemed to be all the fashion in here but Stroller preferred his own ponytail. A shaven head made you look like a psycho.
‘And they allow you to train on computers,’ Stroller added. ‘Supposedly to help you get a job on the outside. The thing is, I don’t just have an aptitude for being a mad evil bastard, I also have a talent for anything to do with IT and the Internet.’
‘I still can’t understand how you managed to hack your way into the medical files.’
‘Not too hard when the security protection is pathetic. You almost need a medical degree to understand what they’re talking about, mind. Like so-and-so is a “delusional schizophrenic”. A more accurate term would be “fucking nut job”. And a more accurate term for my own condition would be “mad, evil cunt”.’
‘So how many people have you killed, Stroller?’
‘Two. And I’d like to kill two more. I shot a security guard in the Darlington heist all those years ago, and in Durham prison I killed another idiot who tried to mess me about. The first was business but the second was for fun. The twat got right on my wick. Which was why I am in here now, isn’t it?’
‘So what happened?’
‘The first one was an accident. We were throwing down the bags from the railway car when this guard appeared out of the darkness shining his torch. I didn’t mean to shoot him. The gun just seemed to go off in the confusion. The judge didn’t believe me, of course. Sentenced me to life. A few years earlier it would have been the rope. The old bugger would have creamed his trousers if he’d been able to pass that sentence. He’d obviously been told by the powers that be to make an example and deter others. And the money not being recovered didn’t help. The papers made out that it was another Great Train Robbery. When the reality was that one of my mates noticed this Post Office railway car left on the sidings. It was just a clerk making a mistake. I only brought the gun along as an afterthought. I got it in the first place because of the threats from rival dope pushers and I only meant to scare people with it. I forgot that there was one up the spout.’
‘So what happened with the second one?’
‘That took just long enough for me to savour and enjoy it. Sent out a message loud and clear to the other prisoners: don’t try it on with old Stroller. Problem was, it also sent a message to the authorities: this man is a psycho and should be in a secure hospital rather than a prison.’
‘You’re a mad, evil cunt all right, Stroller.’
‘True. But I won’t be in here for long. These cuts have meant a review of all the long standing cases. I worked my way through my case notes, noting the diagnosis according to the Statutory Manual of Mental Disorders. I know more about the condition than the quacks do. I’m supposed to be without a conscience. That’s not strictly true. I would never wack anyone if it wasn’t business or if they didn’t have it coming. I worked hard on showing that I was reformed and rehabilitated. And I want my money.’
There was a silence.
‘Once,’ continued Stroller, ‘that money would have had to be shared three ways but the other two are long gone, one sitting on a shit-splattered bog with a needle in his arm and the other to lung cancer. That money is my chance to escape from a life of crime, prison, hospital, cheap rooms and signing on. It’s my money. And I want it back.’
‘I’d want it back myself. You earned it. So where is it?’
‘If I knew I wouldn’t tell you, would I? I found an interesting record in this place’s system. At first I thought it was a cock and bull story. The authorities obviously thought so. But there were several details that only me and this person would know. And two names. I carried out an internet search for them. No result. The pair had obviously changed them. I tried some obvious places. NHS, tax, National Insurance records. Nothing. Until I checked the deed poll people. One turned up under a new name based in some God-forsaken shithole near Liverpool. No address or postcode. It’s so frustrating, him being so close. The railway station isn’t far from where we are now. You could walk it or jump a taxi. And then it would be fifteen minutes or so into Liverpool. I could soon track down the fucker if I was free.’
He flexed each hand into a fist.
‘That’s all I want. A hand on each throat.’
P laughed, a big grin spreading across his face.
‘You are a mad evil cunt. I’m not like you, Stroller.’
‘No, you get your kicks in a different way. It’d be a boring world if we were all the same. You’re a more subtle kind of psychopath. More twisted if I remember right. Your diagnosis is…’
The door opened and Johnson, the senior nurse, popped his head in.
‘Bashing the metal again, are we, Stroller? You’ve got enough muscles as it is. Well, it’s your lucky day.’
Stroller stared at the nurse. He had a long-standing fantasy of head butting the sarcastic cunt. There was beauty in a well-executed head butt. Getting the right spot on the bridge of the nose where the cartilage would crack under the momentum of your head and the hardness of your skull. Blood and snot everywhere. Great.
‘Oh, why’s that, Mr Johnson?’ he said, not showing his true feelings. You got good at that in this place. If only Johnson knew.
‘Emergency review meeting. Hour’s time. Word on the ward is that you’ll be out of here faster than those tree trunks you’ve got for legs can carry you.’
He nodded at P.
‘Wait for it, Prowler, you’re not getting out of here that easy. In fact, with your record you’re never getting out.’
Tracking alert. Chris pulled the van over to the side of the East Prescot Road. He opened the laptop and clicked the GPS tracker. Sefton was on the move. Chris watched the dot on the digital map as it left Frodsham, crossed the M56 then moved onto the Runcorn bypass. The Runcorn Bridge. The dual carriageway to Liverpool. Moving quite fast.
He s
tarted up the van’s engine and indicated to pull out. Heavy traffic. An old gent in a clapped out Volvo estate slowed down and flashed his lights. Chris waved his thanks and set off for south Liverpool, keeping an eye on the dot on the laptop screen. By the time the dot reached Aigburth Road, he was on Queens Drive. By the time he was at Childwall Fiveways, the dot had stopped on Dovedale Road near Penny Lane. Five minutes away.
ELEVEN
Alison was beginning to wonder if the whole thing hadn’t been a big mistake. A chain of brew pubs in South Liverpool where the money was had once seemed like a great idea. Kenny’s idea. But according to the figures on the spreadsheet she had got from the managing agent this pub was losing money. She made a copy of the spreadsheet on the laptop and entered some figures from the notes she had been making. She had a menu with all the prices of meals and drinks. And she had made an estimate of the numbers of people in the place.
She opened the spreadsheet for the Albert. OK that place was usually a little busier and the prices a bit lower. But things should average out. According to the spreadsheet that place was making a healthy profit. Something was wrong here.
She looked around. It was towards the end of a weekday lunch time, well into the afternoon. The place didn’t seem that busy. All dark wood and mirrors. No sign of the manager. Windermere Towers had cost a fortune to do up. With listed buildings you had to use the right materials and designs. No cutting corners. Which was how she wanted it. If you wanted to go legitimate then you had to abide by the rules. And, anyway, if you did it properly you got a classy end product.
She took a sip from her drink. Mineral water with ice and lemon. On the wagon for two weeks now. They had the best wine and real ale here too. Though maybe they had got the pricing wrong. Four quid a pint was a bit steep. The idea was to keep out the scallies and the alkies. Today it looked like it was keeping out everyone. She checked the mirror. Yep, she looked like a proper businesswoman in her dark blue, hand-tailored suit and short blonde hair. She would stun them on Dragon’s Den. Bring in some real glamour.
A door opened at the side of the bar and someone clattered glass and banged metal, whistling loudly and merrily as they did it.
Alison jumped in her seat. It was just like mealtimes in prison.
A big man came ambling into the bar. Looking around. He had a huge head and a big belly. Local hood written all over him. He saw Alison and came over.
‘Hi, Eddie,’ Alison said as warmly as she could in the circumstances. ‘Have a seat.’
She beckoned the waitress over.
‘Drink?’ Alison said.
‘A pint of Stella, if you don’t mind.’
‘Not going to try the real ale? They’ve got a good choice here.’
‘Nah, last time I was in here I had a pint of that stuff and I had to take it back. Tasted like vinegar. I would have spent the next week sat on the bog.’ He grinned at her. ‘You know what you’re getting with Stella.’
‘A pint of Stella,’ Alison said to the girl. ‘Fancy a bite?’ she said to Ed.
‘Too right, I’m starving,’ said Ed, leaning over too close as he looked at the menu and staring too obviously at Alison’s thighs. Alison turned her face away as she caught a blast of bad breath. She pulled her skirt down.
Sefton ordered the special mixed grill – steak, liver, kidneys, sausages, bacon and black pudding. Alison ordered the goat’s cheese tart with salad.
‘Where’s the manager?’ she said to the girl. ‘It’s getting busy. I’d have thought he’d be keeping an eye on things.’
The girl laughed. ‘Jokin’ aren’t yer? He’s where he usually is at this time. Upstairs, sleeping off the hangover.’
‘Did you know the Beatles used to hang out here?’ she said to Ed when the girl had gone. ‘It’s listed. 1820s.’
He didn’t reply. She glanced at him. He was playing with his moby.
‘So what happened at Snug as a Bug?’ she said.
He clicked the phone off.
‘I made the delivery and as I went back to the car I noticed this van in the car-park. The feller in it was watching and taking photos of the people coming in and out. When he left I followed him but I lost him on the motorway.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Late afternoon. He’d been there most of the day. Never moved. Even when Hardy went for his lunch in a local pub. Fat bastard drives everywhere. Must be twenty stone.’
‘Why would they be counting people going in?’
‘I dunno. That Hardy’s up to something. He’s working some sort of scam but I haven’t been able to figure it out. He has sixty five staff on his books but nowhere near that many seem to turn up for work.’
She thought about this.
‘Well,’ she said at last. ‘Down to business. That’s what this is about; business. I’ve known you a long time, Ed. You’ve done some good work for us. Which I thank you for, most sincerely, but any business that stays the same dies. You’ve got to diversify, legitimize. Move away from the naughty stuff and into the normal stuff. How are you getting on with running down the naughty stuff?’
‘Still got a bit of the last consignment.’
‘OK, but get rid as soon as possible and then get out.’ She paused. ‘Let me ask you something, Ed. What is the most important thing in business?’
The food arrived and Ed tucked in with relish. Alison ate daintily, trying to ignore her companion’s table manners.
‘Come on, Ed,’ she said, ‘what’s the most important thing in business?’
Sefton had speared a whole kidney which he was about to pop into his mouth.
‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘Ermm....making money? Profit?’
‘Important, true. No, the most important thing in business, and this surprises many people, is trust. Business relies on trust. If you develop mutual trust with a client or a customer they come back for more business.’ She paused. ‘Which is where the problem lies here.’
Ed finished chewing the kidney and swallowed the whole thing like a heron swallowing a big fish.
‘Sorry, Alison, you’ve lost me there.’
She sighed.
‘I carried out an internal audit recently and I discovered that the figures on your side of the operation don’t add up. It’s about thirty grand, Ed. What have you been up to?’
He stared at her. The fork in his hand.
‘At one time in this kind of operation,’ she said, ‘you’d have been dead by now, Eddie, my old son. Now obviously we don’t go in for that kind of Al Capone stuff now. Look at me; I’m half your size. I wouldn’t know where to start.’ She laughed.
Sefton was still staring.
‘What did you spend thirty grand on, Eddie? We pay you well.’
Sefton stared at her for a long time.
‘It was the online betting,’ he said. He looked down and stared at his half-eaten meal. ‘It got out of hand when the wife left. I could manage when it was the bookies but the Internet made it too easy.’ He looked up at her. ‘I’ll pay it back, every penny.’
Alison sighed.
‘Come on, Eddie. Where are you going to get thirty grand?’
‘I was involved in a robbery years ago. In Middlesbrough. I’ve recently found out where the cash is hidden. Enough to cover it.’
‘This isn’t a movie, Eddie. How do I know you’re not making it up?’
‘Honest to God, Alison.’
She sighed. She looked at her watch.
‘Oh dear, is that the time? OK, Eddie. I’ll give you a week. Please don’t let me down. We’ll keep an eye on you, of course. Trouble is, we’re not into getting rid of people these days. We’d have to get some out of town boys to sort you out. And I don’t really want to go down that avenue if I can help it, do I?
TWELVE
Rain hammered onto the roof of the Merc as they waited in Snug as a Bug’s car park. Herbie had parked at the side, out of the way but giving Alison a good view of the entrance to the factory, a standard box clad in pla
stic sheets. The car-park was half full. The rain was filling the potholes.
Herbie had the engine running and the air-conditioning going at full blast but the windows still kept steaming up. He filled the driver’s seat so that she had to stretch to see past him. Alison was relaxed but it was best not to fall asleep.
‘Herbie?’ she said.
He half turned. His big round face was hardly marked even though he had taken the best shots from the toughest heavyweights around. But now it was contorted with pain as if he’d just taken one of those shots in the groin.
‘Are you OK?’ she said.
‘It’s my back. I did it in the Bruno fight.’
‘You almost won that one didn’t you?’
‘Decider for a shot at Tyson.’
He turned and slumped in the seat, facing forwards.
‘You would have been famous,’ she said.
‘Yep,’ he said, his voice without emotion. ‘I could have been a contender. Rather than a chauffeur.’
‘This Hardy,’ she said after a while. ‘He was a rugby player wasn’t he? How tough is he?’
‘He’s had a lot of hot dinners since he last played rugby, Alison. I wouldn’t worry.’
Hardy came out of the main entrance and walked quickly through the driving rain, hopping and skipping to avoid the deep puddles. He really was overweight. Maybe the professional rugby player stuff had been made up. But, no. Professional sportsmen often went to fat when they retired. She grinned as she watched him. Like a hippopotamus jogging down to the hollow for a wallow.
She opened the car door.
‘Roger. Could we have a natter?’
He stopped, bewildered.
‘What?’ he said, water pouring down his face.
‘Come on, get in out of the rain.’
‘How’s it going then, Roger?’ she said as he got in, trying to be as friendly as possible.
‘Great.’ He filled most of the space next to her. She could smell his sweat. He stared at her.
‘Ed Sefton tells me you’ve been under surveillance,’ she said.
He thought for a moment.