by Pete Trewin
He paused for a moment to catch his breath, wondering whether or not to give up. He decided to give it one last go. He tried to be more careful this time, picking out a tree to aim for before moving on to the next one.
He forced his way through yet another thicket and stumbled out into an area with half-grown trees – mainly oaks about fifteen feet high. The oak trees near the edge had been much bigger. One oak was much taller and wider than the others, with a trunk maybe four feet across. This must be it. The area below the tree was almost bare earth with a scattering of leaves and sticks. He found a flat piece of wood to serve as a rough spade and scraped at the earth. Nothing.
Bramble bushes off to the left. Impenetrable. How long did bramble bushes live for? He sat down on a sandstone boulder and thought. He could hardly see. He would have to do something quickly.
He went back to the big oak and dug into the mould and the leaves in the base of the hollow trunk with the piece of wood. He dug for a long time, a rich but choking smell of decay and earth rising from the hole.
Then scraps of cloth. The stick slid across plastic. He cleared the muck away and pulled out a sealed bag. He took it to the boulder and cleaned it off, then put it on the ground in front of him.
The polythene had been twisted into a knot to close the top of the bag. It was stiff and cracked as he pulled the knot through. He took out a bundle of banknotes, as clean and crisp as if they had been freshly minted, the rubber band still springy and not perished. He noticed that the bag was heavier than it should be. He pulled the bundles of notes apart until he revealed a revolver in the bottom of the bag. A standard police-issue 38 calibre revolver. Five bullets in the chamber.
TWENTY FIVE
Chris woke in the car. Stiff and cold. M62 service area. Seven thirty in the morning. Grey cloud. A brightness in the sky hinted at sun. He stumbled out of the car and headed for the toilets. He swilled his face with cold water and joined a short queue of lorry drivers for breakfast. He took his breakfast tray to a corner well away from anyone else, took a swig of black coffee and opened his mobile.
‘Billy Whizz!’ Ed chortled. ‘What can I do you for!’
At the lodge there was no sign of Porky apart from a note on the table which read:
Two days now and no sign of any money. Your friend.
Chris carried out a quick search of the lodge. His fridge had been emptied and dirty plates were piled in a sink full of filthy, greasy water. The bin was filled to overflowing and empty cartons and wrappers were strewn across the floor. He gagged at the smell. In his bedroom, clothes were heaped on the bed, mixed with letters, bank statements and the like.
One letter lay on top. It was all crumpled as if it had been screwed up then opened out again.
Dear Chris
I was so looking forward to the holiday. Why did you pull out at the last minute? You said you had sorted the passport. I am so upset about this. I know you are hiding something. Whatever it is, we could have talked it over. I’m sorry, Chris. I thought we had something, some kind of relationship.
Lisa
He felt a flash of anger. It hadn’t been so crumpled when he’d put it away in the drawer of the desk. He would have to change the locks on the lodge. And maybe put in a couple of hidden cameras. But that would have to wait, now was the time to put in a shift.
He jumped into the van and drove over to Mossley Hill. The house was easy to find. He could hardly miss it. He caught glimpses of it behind the high sandstone wall and big mature trees as he drove along the road. A big two storey, sandstone Victorian mansion with a bay each side of a pillared entrance porch. It was every bit as grand as the Sudley Art Gallery, further along the road.
As he passed the entrance he caught a glimpse of a big Merc on the drive in front of the house. He drove down Mossley Hill Road until he could turn round and go back. As he neared the Mason property, the Merc was coming out. He speeded up and followed it.
It was always tricky when your target was aware of the possibility of being followed. It wasn’t too bad when it was busy, in the morning rush hour, say, with people speeding and pulling silly stunts just to get to work or drop the kids off at school on time. But when it was quiet it was more difficult. Especially here in Mossley Hill with its narrow roads and high stonewalls guarding Victorian villas. Too close and they notice you, too far away and you lose them. And a white van wouldn’t necessarily fool them.
The Merc speeded up a bit as the extension to Queens Drive went under a railway bridge. Chris was two cars back but both speeded up to match the car in front. The darkened windows meant that he couldn’t get a clear view of the driver but he looked to be about six feet high and six feet wide.
They dropped the kid off at a special school in Knotty Ash. He was about twelve-years-old. She was wearing blue jeans and a leather jacket. He checked his watch. A bit late to be dropping a kid off at school. She spent about half an hour in there. Then back along Queens Drive before eventually pulling into Penny Lane and then the car park of the Windermere Towers pub.
He got a couple of shots of the pub and the Merc with his camera.
The pub had only just opened and Alison was expecting to be the first customer.
There was one bored teenage girl sitting behind the bar, reading a mag. A group of four young men sat at the other end of the bar on stools, all drinking from bottles of Bud. Tracksuits. Leisure gear. Box-fresh trainers. Scallies. Drinking Bud when Kenny had gone to the trouble of getting casks of real ale trucked in from the other end of the country. Goodness knows what they were doing in a pub at this time of day. She looked around. An elderly man was sitting at a table with a pint and a newspaper.
‘I fucking told him, fuck off you cunt!’ came a loud voice from the group of young men.
She stood up and walked over to them.
‘Excuse me, lads,’ she said as pleasantly as she could. ‘This isn’t the sort of pub for bad language. Could you tone it down a bit?’
The barmaid was staring at her as if she’d had a shit on the counter.
The lads muttered apologies and she went back to her seat. She checked her watch.
‘So I says to the fucker,’ one of the lads said in a loud voice, ‘if the fucking fucker’s fucked, there’s nothing I can fucking do about it.’
She got out her moby.
‘Herbie. I need your assistance in here.’
Herbie strolled in with the easy stride of a champion heavyweight boxer approaching the ring for a defence against a much inferior opponent.
‘Right, lads,’ she said as she led Herbie over to the bar, like a mahout leading an elephant. ‘Could I introduce you to Herbie Titmuss. You might have heard of him. He knocked out Bonecrusher Smith and lost to Frank Bruno on points in the decider to fight Mike Tyson. Herbie, these lads need some help with their language.’
Herbie was built on a laughably different scale to the lads. The one next to him barely reached his chest.
‘Come on lads,’ Herbie said, taking the one nearest to him by the arm. ‘Time to make a move.’
After Herbie had shown the lads out, he came and sat down for a moment.
‘Sorry, Alison,’ he said. ‘It’s my back again.’
‘I’m not sure what to do about Sefton,’ she said. ‘It’s not as if we need the money. Certainly not in the form of so much cash. Cash isn’t a solution to anything, it’s a problem. I’m only insisting that he pays it back because of the principle. Once you let one get away with it they will all try it on.’
‘That’s spot on, Alison.’
‘The problem is I don’t even know how to go about hiring hit men. I could always ask you to give him a good hiding but would that do any good?’
‘It would be a pleasure.’
‘But he’s almost as big and you’ve got a bad back. And he might produce a knife or a gun. And if the latest piece of info that you passed on from that cab driver is true then Edward Sefton is a very naughty boy indeed. You can’t go around murdering ex-cop
pers by mixing smack with the crack. The plods will be onto it and the trail might lead to us. Sefton is too dangerous to be left walking the streets.’ She sighed. ‘The biggest problem in business is to do with staff. Retaining good staff and getting rid of the bad.’
She noticed Sefton swaggering in as if he was bang on time. She nodded to Herbie and he left them to it.
‘Well, I’ve got it,’ Sefton beamed as they sat down. ‘Thirty thousand. And three days early.’
‘Well done,’ said Alison, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice.
Sefton put a bulging carrier bag on the table.
‘Come on, Ed,’ she said. ‘Show a little discretion. You can’t just plonk a bag of money on a table in a pub. I don’t know where it’s been. Suppose the plods walk in now?’
‘Ah, they won’t come in here. What was all that about with Herbie and those lads?’ He took a note from the bag. ‘Mind if I keep one as a souvenir?’
‘Be my guest. As for Herbie, he’s helping them catch up on their education.’
‘And if they don’t want to be educated?’
‘I think you are aware of his fight record.’
‘Yeah but that was years ago and he’s not at his fighting weight now is he?’
‘I think he could manage to take you out, though, don’t you reckon, Eddie?’
Sefton gazed at her, the colour leaving his cheeks.
‘Can I have a look at one of those notes?’ she said.
‘Be my guest.’
‘Aren’t these tenners out of date?’
‘Not for a month, believe it or not. I looked it up on the Bank of England website. Once they’re withdrawn, if you try to deposit or change more than a thousand pounds, you have to take it in with evidence of your identity and your address. Then they run anti money laundering checks. Look, it’s got Mary Shelley on the back. The famous English writer.’
‘What did she write again?’
‘Frankenstein. We’ll have to launder it, of course.’
‘How can we do that in a month, Ed?’
‘We’ll manage.’
Alison pressed the button on her mobile. Two minutes later, Herbie came in.
‘Thanks, Herbie. I’ll be ready for the off in a couple of minutes. Just as soon as...’ She turned to Sefton but he had gone. The bag was still on the table. ‘OK, Herbie, you wait in the car. Put this bag in the boot. I’ll be out in a moment.’
She went into the Ladies. Deserted. She switched on her mobile, put a handkerchief over her mouth and dialled.
‘Bert Robinson? Never mind who I am. A feller called Simon Chester died of a heart attack recently at a Chamber of Commerce meeting. You know about it? Well it wasn’t a heart attack. His drug pushers gave him a speedball. Mixed his crack with smack. Check out a fellow called Ed Sefton. Know him? Good.’
TWENTY SIX
She came out about ten minutes after the do with the big chauffeur escorting the kids from the premises. Doubling as a bouncer at that time of day? And then Sefton arriving in his Jeep, taking in the bag of cash, as obvious as you like. No point in trying to replace the tracker. He was only in there for a few minutes before he came out, without the bag, and drove off. Chris followed the Merc back to the mansion and parked well away from the entrance. The day was warm and sunny. He wound the window down and settled into his seat.
Alison woke up lying face down on her bed in her clothes. Shit! They would be crumpled to fuck. Even though it was only blue jeans and a jumper. She checked the time. She’d been asleep for an hour. She went into the bathroom. God, this house was too big for a woman and a child. She dabbed her forehead with warm water, and drank some cold water, cupping her hands under the tap. She combed her hair and went back into the bedroom.
Her mobile went.
‘Alison Mason?’
She didn’t recognize the voice.
‘Who is this?’
‘Never you mind who I am. I believe you have some property of mine.’
‘Listen,’ she said. I haven’t got time for this kind of thing. I’ve got nothing of yours. So if you’ll just...’
‘Well one of your employees seems to think otherwise. He says you’ve get forty grand of mine.’
‘Who are you talking about?’
‘A Mr Ed Sefton. Least, that’s what you know him as. My name is Stroller. At your service, madam’
‘Look,’ she said, trying to sound as emphatic as she could. ‘Whoever you are. I’ve got nothing of yours. So go and sling your hook!’
She punched the off button.
Chris woke with a start. Rule one in surveillance, don’t fall asleep. He checked his watch. Fuck.
The Merc was on the move again. Chris started up the van’s engine and followed.
As the Merc neared Lark Lane at its junction with Aigburth Drive, a big black Jeep shot out of a side road and hit the side of Chris’s van with a glancing blow that knocked it across the road. The Jeep went straight into the back of the Merc with a startling metallic bang. Chris just managed to stop his van, screeching to a halt behind the two vehicles. He couldn’t see the driver of the Jeep behind its darkened windows. The driver revved the engine and the vehicle raced away.
Chris got out and ran to the Merc. The driver opened his door.
‘My back,’ he groaned. ‘It’s gone again.’
A rear door opened and Alison Mason got out. She was obviously shaken and blood oozed from a cut on her forehead.
‘Are you OK?’ Chris said. ‘That feller was a nutter.’
‘Did you get his number?’
‘It all happened so quickly. Do you want me to ring for the cops and an ambulance?’
‘An ambulance.’
The driver groaned and stretched out in his seat. His big round face was contorted with pain.
‘I’ll have to go to the hozzie, Alison,’ he said.
‘Well this car isn’t going anywhere soon,’ Alison said.
‘He deliberately crashed into both of us,’ Chris said. ‘What was he playing at?’
TWENTY SEVEN
‘I know you,’ Alison said to Chris as she came out of the Albert’s toilet. He noticed that she had washed the cut and stopped the bleeding, and that some of the poise was back. Not all of it. ‘You were at that presentation when Simon Chester died. What are you up to? Were you following us?’
Her mobile went. She opened it and listened.
‘Herbie’s being kept in overnight,’ she said. ‘So now I’ve got no driver.’
She closed the mobile then opened it again and rang a number.
‘Ah hello. It’s Emile Mason’s mum here. I was just wondering if he is OK.’ She listened. ‘No problems? Keeping to his contract? Right, fine.’
She closed the phone and sipped her drink. Mineral water with ice and lemon. Her hand was shaking. Chris took a sip of his pint.
‘That was no accident,’ he said. ‘That was Ed Sefton’s car. What’s going on, Alison?’
‘How do you know my name? And why didn’t you answer my question? You’re the one who’s been following Sefton and watching Snug as a Bug aren’t you? You work for Simon Chester. Well, worked. I was at that presentation. He’s dead isn’t he?’
Chris nodded.
‘Heart attack,’ he said.
He looked at her.
‘I know who you are, Alison Kirkpatrick,’ he said. Go for it while she was still shaky. ‘How come you’re a director of a company with your record?’
She stared at him for several moments.
‘I’ve got a criminal record but that’s on my maiden name,’ she said. ‘OK, the plods could soon track a name change but if you don’t have a formal job you can’t be easily tracked can you? And you don’t have to declare a criminal record to be a director of an ordinary company. Only if it’s a bank or an insurance company.’
‘I wouldn’t take what Ed Sefton says as gospel. It must have been him who just tried to kill you.’
She stared at him.
; ‘I’m not really involved in any of this gangster stuff,’ she said at last. ‘I’m just a businesswoman trying to earn a crust and feed her son.’
It was his turn to stare at her.
‘Why are you being driven round in Kenny Mason’s car by his chauffeur, then?’
‘Circumstances.’
‘Like?’
‘You wouldn’t be wearing a wire, now, would you?’
He pulled open his jacket.
‘Search me if you like. I was just following you. No time to put a wire on. So what are these circumstances?’
She swallowed.
‘Kenny, my partner, looked after all that kind of stuff. But he’s out of things for a while. I’m just trying to keep my head above the water. I don’t want anything to do with any rough stuff. Sefton’s one of Kenny’s men. A bagman. A loose cannon.’
‘Loose cannon? Like robbing the cash he’s supposed to deliver?’
‘Something like that. And now I’m getting telephone threats from someone called “Stroller”. Says I’ve got some money of his.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Are you going to turn me in?’
‘I’m hardly in a position to. Simon screwed everything up before he died. The company’s about to go pop and then I’ll be out of a job. I’m in the same boat as you. Sefton owes you money, doesn’t he?’
She nodded.
‘How much?’
‘Thirty grand.’
‘Hmm...I retrieved some money for him, forty kay. Was that for you?’
She nodded. ‘He was on the take. Sounds like he kept ten kay of it for himself. But the cash isn’t much use to me. The sort of man he is, why didn’t he just do a runner with the money? Where did it come from?’
‘A crime. Twenty years ago. We found this money. This fellow who was with us threatened to grass us up so Sefton did something very unpleasant to him. I don’t like to even think about it.’
‘Sounds like Mr Sefton’s style,’ she said. ‘You do realize that the money will be worthless in a month’s time, don’t you? It would have to be laundered. Mr Sefton is messing me around again.’