Not that he ever would.
Charlie shook his head. Steve was all mouth and no trousers, which is why he hadn’t had it away with Blondie already.
‘She was up for the other as well, mate, trust me,’ Charlie paused to allow Steve to catch up. ‘So was Blondie. If you hadn’t had your dose of principles, you could’ve had her on a plate.’
The furrow in Steve’s thickset brow deepened. ‘How do you know she was up for it?’ he asked suspiciously.
Got him, Charlie thought, amused. As easy as offering crack to an addict. Steve went for it every time. ‘Her mate told me, didn’t she?’
Charlie paused to pass him a lager. ‘They’ve got a little thing going, see. Into threesomes, apparently. Love me, love my mate, she said, then quoted their pricelist.’ Charlie shrugged. ‘You’d think butter wouldn’t melt, wouldn’t you?’
Steve gawped at him, bottle poised at his mouth.
What a gullible git, thought Charlie.
‘Kayla wants to go to bed,’ Hannah announced, dashing back into the kitchen. ‘But she can’t even stand up straight. Could you help her—’ she gave Charlie a derisive glance ‘—please, Steve.’
Steve clamped his mouth shut and eyeballed Hannah, disbelieving.
Charlie suppressed a smirk. ‘Come on, darlin’, I’ll do it. Steve’s a bit busy.’ He turned to the door.
‘Don’t you bloody touch her!’ Hannah barred his way.
‘I wouldn’t touch her with a barge pole,’ Charlie retorted. Actually, he fully intended to, and with a barge pole wasn’t a bad analogy, but all in good time. ‘She can sleep it off on my bed,’ he offered generously. ‘And then you can both bugger off. I’ve had enough of your lip for one night.’
Hannah gave him two fingers.
Charlie wasn’t too happy about that either. No one, but no one, did that to Charlie.
He shot his hand out to catch Hannah squarely across the face. ‘Do not do that again. And do not, ever, tell me what to do!’ he snarled, clutching the front of her dress, and shoving her back, hard. ‘Got it?’
Hannah stared at him, dazed, a hand over her cheek. She turned to Steve, who stepped quickly towards her, then faltered. He looked her over, took a contemplative swig of his lager, and turned his back.
That’s that sorted, Charlie thought, with huge satisfaction. Now for the other one.
Charlie sauntered back to the bathroom where the other girl sat propped against the side of the bath, her head lolling. Looks like something out of The bloody Exorcist, Charlie thought grimly.
Sighing, he ran the flannel under the tap and wiped the gunk from her face. Gently though, didn’t want her throwing a wobbly and screaming blue murder.
‘Come on,’ he eased an arm around her shoulder and one under her legs, ‘up we come.’
‘Where we goin?’ She tried to focus her eyes as he carried her towards the bed.
‘For a little lie down,’ Charlie reassured her. ‘Feeling a bit dodgy, ain’t you?’
She nodded. ‘Can’t breathe,’ she mumbled, her head flopping onto his shoulder. Coming down, Charlie thought, knowledgably. She had a long way to go yet.
‘Sorry, Dad,’ she mumbled as Charlie lowered her on to the bed. Oh, brilliant, she only thought he was her old man. He unhooked her arm from his neck. Hope she doesn’t start banging on about him again.
‘Whoops.’ She giggled, reeling to one side.
Charlie straightened her up, giving himself a ten for persistence. She’d be worth it.
‘Sorry,’ she mumbled again, almost incoherent and swaying dangerously.
Charlie shoved her back and yanked her feet up. He was getting a bit fed up with this.
Bugger him if she didn’t bounce back up. Was she spring-loaded, or what?
‘But you shouldn’t have done it.’ She squinted at Charlie, her pupils like pinpoints, trying hard to meet in the middle. ‘She doesn’t want it.’
She waved her arm vaguely.
Charlie kneaded the back of his neck. ‘Oh, man. Give it a rest.’
‘And nor do I. So you …’ She prodded Charlie in the chest with a wobbly finger ‘ … can stuff your nine-hundred-however-many grand. So there.’
With that, she smiled a flat smile and fell back on the pillow.
Who the fuck does she think she is? Charlie glared at her coldly. Pokin’ me in the …
Stuff your nine-hundred-however many what!?
Chapter Nine
Following Mary Sullivan’s informative interview, DI Short had indeed despatched two officers to check out the last known whereabouts of Charlie Roberts, whose solicitor, should they get lucky and finally get something on him, would no doubt try to defend the little runt with the usual sob story: Poor deprived soul, born on the wrong side of the tracks, father a petty criminal, mother a lush, forced into crime etc, etc.
Deprived, my arse. DI Short banged his desk drawer closed and shoved another piece of Nicorette in his mouth. People had bent over backwards to try to help Charlie Roberts in his underprivileged youth. And what thanks did they get? None. Shafted is what they got for making Charlie’s acquaintance. The last set of foster parents who’d welcomed him into their home, had come back one night to find it relieved of anything worth flogging.
No, sympathy for Charlie Roberts was sympathy wasted. He was nothing but dirty drug-dealing pond scum. A nasty little parasite on the back of humanity. Kids weren’t safe with him out on the streets. Women weren’t safe, as attested to by Mary Sullivan.
As for Rachel Meadows …
Bastard.
DI Short wanted Charlie Roberts so badly now he could taste it. This Mary, the latest recipient of his affections, might just press charges. If she did, DI Short aimed to make sure they stuck. The cocky sonofabitch had slipped up this time. A firearm he’d got, apparently, stashed under his bed. Probably just an air-pistol. Charlie had been “shooting vermin” he had said, when someone had reported him taking pot-shots with one a while back.
Should have turned it on himself, cocky little bugger.
Course it would be under his bed. An original thinker, was Charlie. DI Short laughed contemptuously. His gear was also stashed rather originally, in a shoebox, according to Mary.
DI Short had the warrant he’d been waiting on. All he needed now was for the uniforms to report back. Where were they? He drummed his fingers agitatedly, and then buzzed through to the main office. Dammit, he should have gone out himself. But the timing wasn’t that crucial. They weren’t going in, even with the warrant, not unarmed. They needed more, enough to haul Charlie Roberts in and hold him. What DI Short wanted was Charlie kept under surveillance until the reason for his carrying became more apparent, and then his balls on a skewer.
This girl at the nightclub, the one Mary had rung in about after her interview. What was going on down there? It was probably no more than it seemed, a young girl unfortunate enough to fall under Charlie’s influence. But an irate father also searching for a young girl?
DI Short mulled it around in his head. Could be one and the same.
No hopes of tracing them now, though. He sighed. Not without a considerable amount of legwork. If it was the same girl, with a bit of luck, father might have caught up with daughter in Charlie’s charming company, and given him a good bloody bruising.
‘Sir?’ A WPC poked her face around the door.
DI Short rocked back in his chair and laced his hands over his midriff. ‘No news, I suppose?’
‘I’ll check, sir.’ She backed out. ‘Would you like more coffee?’
‘No, I would not like more coffee,’ he snapped irritably. His nerves were as taut as Nigel Kennedy’s violin strings as it was. Anymore coffee and they’d snap.
‘Thank you, anyway,’ he added sheepishly, and stuffed another Nicorette in his mouth.
The WPC was back post-haste. ‘They’ve called in, sir.’ She shuffled nervously by the door.
‘And?’ He tried to keep the agitation from his voice.
‘RTA on the by-pass, I’m afraid.’
‘Damn!’ DI Short dropped his head into his hands. ‘Damn,’ he repeated, disbelieving. ‘Well, see if someone else is available, why don’t you?’ he suggested, patiently.
‘Right. Will do. Straightaway, sir.’
‘No, wait.’ He scraped his chair back and grabbed his jacket. ‘If you need something doing …’
****
‘We’re out of here.’ Charlie almost fell through the kitchen door from the hall.
Blondie was still standing where he left her, nursing her bruised pride, and Steve was nursing his lager, po-faced. They hadn’t kissed and made up then. Good. Nipped that in the bud nicely, hadn’t he?
‘Come on, move it,’ Charlie said, irritated by Steve’s apparent moodiness.
Steve glanced at Blondie. ‘Move it where?’ He gulped the last of his lager and clanged the bottle noisily into the bin, which had Blondie almost jumping out of her skin.
‘We’re taking them home.’
‘Yerwhat?’ Steve looked puzzled. ‘You mean, now?’ He checked his watch.
‘Yes. Now.’ Charlie rolled his eyes and turned to the girl. ‘You, shift your arse and get your stuff. And you—’ He met Steve’s mutinous glare, and moderated his tone ‘—bring the car round, will you, mate? I’ll carry whatsername out. She’ll be better off at home.’
‘And what do we say to her parents?’ Steve asked incredulously. ‘Express bleedin’ delivery. Sign ‘ere?’
‘We don’t say anything. We just make sure she gets in safely. She wants to go home, Steve.’ Charlie adopted his best caring expression. ‘We can’t keep her here against her will.’
Steve ran his hand over his tattoo. ‘Suppose not,’ he muttered. ‘Come on then, you.’ He motioned Blondie towards the door.
‘Steve, I can’t.’ She tried to appeal to him. ‘Not at this time. My mum’ll go ape.’
‘Tough.’ Steve whipped up his car keys from the working surface and headed for the hall.
****
‘Shift over,’ Charlie instructed Hannah, depositing Kayla none too carefully on the back seat next to her. ‘Back inaminit,’ he said to Steve. ‘Forgot something.’
‘Bastard,’ Hannah mumbled to Steve’s Kanji-tattooed head.
‘Shut it, trollop.’ Steve eyed her angrily through the rear view mirror.
Hannah was shocked. Steve didn’t normally talk to girls like that, like that fuckwit Charlie. What was she supposed to have done to upset him? ‘Steve, what’s up?’
‘Nothing,’ Steve muttered, hunching his shoulders and clutching the steering wheel. ‘Just don’t hold with girls putting out all over the place, that’s all.’
‘Putting …’ Hannah looked at the back of his head askew. ‘Steve, I don’t know what that cokehead’s been saying, but—’
‘Forget it.’ Steve cut in. ‘And zip it, like Charlie said. He’ll be back in a minute.’
Like Charlie said, Hannah mimicked silently behind him. Twit. Little lapdog errand boy.
Charlie was back fast, throwing stuff in the boot and slamming the lid so hard, Kayla whimpered. Hannah tightened her arm around her friend’s shoulders and pulled her closer. Steve was a wanker; and a pusher. She knew he dropped a few Es, but this … Hannah wanted to put as much as much space between him—and that bullying cokehead—and them as she could.
Home was where she wanted to be, whatever reception she got from her mum. And to make sure Kayla got home, alive and intact, thankfully. She eyed Charlie disdainfully as he skirted around to the driver’s side.
‘Shove over,’ he instructed Steve. ‘I’ll drive.’
****
Good, DI Short thought, having established the rat wasn’t in its hole.
‘Right, come on, lads.’ He eyed the front door to Charlie’s flat and then motioned the officers behind him. ‘We’re going in.’
‘Sir.’ One of the PCs positioned himself for forcible entry.
‘No. No.’ DI Short sighed wearily, extending an arm to prevent the over-zealous PC from doing himself a permanent. ‘We’ll try opening it, shall we?’
He smiled patiently, produced a master key, fiddled the key in the lock and then led the way into the hall.
Blimey, what a dump. He’d thought it was on previous occasions he’d had the pleasure of calling on Roberts, but now, it was worse than ever. He noticed the peeling wallpaper adorning the damp-blackened walls. And the stench … Ugh. Insult to pigs to call this a pigsty.
‘Okay, let’s do it, lads, but …’ DI Short turned to the two officers, pointing a finger for emphasis ‘ … I do not want anything disturbed. If you move so much as a particle of dust, put it back. Understand?’
The officers nodded and then glanced at each other perplexed.
Confused they may well be, but DI Short knew what he was about. He hadn’t gained entry to put the wind up Charlie by making it obvious the place had been turned over. On the contrary, he was determined Charlie would have no knowledge of a police visit. If he got so much as a whiff of plod, Charlie would dispose of any incriminating evidence, and fast.
No, this search called for kid-rubber-gloves.
DI Short merely wanted to ascertain whether the incriminating evidence actually existed. He didn’t doubt Mary’s word. Types like Charlie were capable of anything, but it was always best to check these things out, he’d found.
‘Sod it,’ he muttered, on all fours as he peered under the bed a minute later. Nothing. Apart from a truck-load of rubbish. Hmm? Had Mary been making up fairy stories, he wondered. Hallucinating, possibly? He risked life and limb and ferreted deeper under the bed, sifting carefully through lager bottles, porno mags, and … a used syringe.
Hell! He glanced at the ceiling, then at his glove, which wasn’t nicked, thank God. DI Short curled a contemptuous lip, tossed the syringe aside, held his breath and went back under.
‘Aha!’ He surfaced, triumphant, seconds later. ‘A shoe,’ he informed the officers, who nodded and looked bemused at the shoe.
‘Not just any shoe,’ DI Short explained. ‘This …’ he waggled it ‘ … is a lady’s shoe.’
‘Well, I never.’ One of the officers smirked.
‘It’s Mary’s,’ DI Short snapped. ‘Which tells us she was here, in this bed.’
‘And under it.’ His voice drifted up from the depths, as he gave the officers the benefit of his rear end once again.
‘And what’s more,’ he said, emerging with a satisfied smile, ‘she was not dressing up her story in order to drop Charlie in it. A cartridge box.’ He offered up his next prize. ‘That’s wiped the smirk off your face, police constable.’
DI Short shuffled back on his knees. This meant that Charlie was indeed carrying. He pondered. It also meant …
‘Aagh! Shit!’ DI Short glanced down, and paled. ‘Oh, my … I’ve stabbed myself. ‘Punctured my bloody kneecap with a used—’
‘Silver drop earring, sir,’ one of the officer’s supplied, picking it up.
‘Yes, thank you,’ DI Short replied dryly, accepting the earring the officer proffered and holding it aloft.
Could be Mary’s. Equally, it could belong to any one of a number of women the lowlife had lured into his lair. It might be useful. DI Short cut his deliberations short and got to his feet, careful of his punctured knee.
The overriding concern was, the maniac was out there—with a firearm. And if he was, he’d use it. Charlie Roberts had about as much self-control as he had feelings. DI Short had to find him, fast. But find him where?
‘Tidy up, lads,’ he instructed, striding purposefully towards the door.
Meanwhile, he was off to have a chat to anyone who’d even so much as heard of Charlie Roberts, including those who wished they hadn’t. His last known contacts would have to be …
DI Short paused on the landing, plucked the silver drop earring from his pocket and studied it. Might it belong to the girl in the nightclub? Eyewitnesses had corroborated Mary’s story,
apparently, that the scumbag had indeed been paying particular attention to a young girl, probably a minor. In which case, that same girl was one of Dead-eyed Charlie’s last known contacts. She’d have to be located—he pocketed the earring—pronto.
Chapter Ten
Jo studied her novel, turned the page over, and hadn’t the slightest clue what she’d just read.
A waste of time was exactly what she was hoping to achieve, but this wasn’t doing it. Concentrating was about as impossible as sleeping. And the damn clock seemed to be ticking too loud in her head.
How often, she thought guiltily, had she dreamed of having time on her hands in the past. To pander to her own needs, rather than those of the kids and the demands of the boatyard. Well, now she’d got it, hadn’t she? Time in abundance. She could pander until her heart was content. Paint her fingernails and her toes. The trouble was, she didn’t want to. She unwound her towel from her hair, dropped it into the bulging laundry basket, and then remembered the clothes she’d stuffed into the washer-dryer earlier, which would now need the assistance of a steamroller to iron. Damn.
Sighing, she headed downstairs with an armful of washing. The prospect of the utility room with only the dripping tap for company didn’t thrill her, but it was something to do. She could always put on a DVD while she waited and have a drink … of cocoa, which would be warm and soothing, though she’d prefer a drink that was more sleep-inducing.
Good job she hadn’t got one then, wasn’t it? Annoyed with herself, Jo dragged the washing out of the machine and stuffed in a new load. Was she really ready to give in so easily? Reach for a crutch that actually did nothing to help her stand up and fight back? No, she was not. Resolutely, Joanne made her cocoa and tried to make herself comfortable in the lounge, where the DVD served to relax her about as much as reading had. She watched it and saw nothing, apart from a layer of dust an inch thick on top of the TV. Dusting though, she had no inclination to do.
The Edge of Sanity Page 11