by Lee Stevens
Riley climbed out the Merc and met up with Purvis under a sky that looked heavy with potential rain.
“You okay, Riley?” Purvis asked as they shook hands. “Good night’s sleep?”
“Good three hours or so,” he replied.
“I didn’t even get that.”
“It looks like it. How are the girls?”
Purvis sighed.
“They were asleep when I left this morning. I just sat on the couch all night, drinking and thinking.”
“That’s a dangerous combination,” Riley replied. “So you were you there when Nash got home this morning?”
“Yeah, discharged himself as soon as he woke up and called a taxi. He came in with his arm in a sling and before I could say anything he just said ‘Get the boys together. I want a meeting at twelve’. Didn’t ask how Sandra or Wendy were or anything. He just went into the bedroom and slammed the door behind him. He seemed more mad than upset. So I left and sent a text to the all the boys.”
Riley looked up at the window to the flat. The blinds were pulled down, blocking out the outside world.
“I take it he’s not here yet.”
“No,” Purvis replied. “Turner’s picking him up. Should be here any minute. McCabe and Howden are inside hitting the whisky and playing pool. My head’s throbbing enough without listening to their shit so I came down here for a bit fresh air.” Purvis looked over his shoulder. Checked the door to the flat was closed. “Speaking of McCabe, are we still...?”
“Keeping things to ourselves?” Riley said, keeping his voice low. “Yeah. Has he said anything about last night?”
“He reckons he’s got some information but he’s keeping it to himself until Nash arrives. Probably gonna tell some lies to cover his own arse.”
“Yeah, maybe,” said Riley, still unsure what to think until more evidence came his way. “But if he’s got some info that points the finger at someone else then Nash will want them taken care of. We can’t stop that.”
“We can if we show him the footage from last night.”
“No,” Riley said flatly.
“I can’t understand why you don’t want Nash to know,” said Purvis. “A whole load of shit is about to go down that could be nipped in the bud if McCabe was cornered with the evidence and made to confess.”
“And what would that do?” Riley asked. “McCabe would be taken care of, Nash would go after the shooters and then he’d continue on as normal. We’re back to square one.”
Purvis frowned. Looked behind him, checking the door to the flat was still closed before going on.
“What are you up to, Riley?”
“Nothing - yet.”
Purvis looked even more confused, so Riley expanded on his comment, keeping his voice low so that neither any passers-by could hear nor could his words be heard if they drifted up to the upstairs window.
“Look, you know I don’t like what I do. For the first couple of years I thought I’d landed on my feet, a nice little job that paid well. Nash seemed a decent bloke and Turner and McCabe and Howden made me feel welcome. I felt part of something. Like a family. We looked out for each other and I assumed the rest were just like me - that they didn’t like some of the things they had to do but they did them because they were necessary for the firm to be successful. The people we hurt were as bad as us and that was fine by me. But when certain things happen you begin to see people in a different light.”
“Certain things?” asked Purvis. “You mean that shit with Thornton and-”
Riley held up a hand to silence his friend.
“Yes, that was the turning point.”
“None of it was your fault, Riley.”
“Maybe not,” he said, “but I was part of it. Anyway, I’d been having second thoughts about working for Nash for a while before all of that happened. I saw how much he craved the power and the money. I saw how much Howden enjoyed dishing out beatings and how much McCabe enjoyed hurting people in even more violent ways. I saw how all of them didn’t give a shit about anyone else as long as they got paid, and I suddenly realised that I wasn’t the same as them. I don’t get a buzz from knocking on doors and seeing the terrified look in people’s faces because they owe money or because they’ve pissed Nash off for some reason and I’m there to give them a kicking. I don’t like covering for some of the doormen who are in control of what drugs get sold in the bars and clubs and beat the shit out of customers for nothing at all. And I certainly don’t get a thrill out of being shot at in the presence of women and children. I stay with the firm because after the things I’ve done I don’t have a choice. I don’t deserve to walk away and forget about everything and live happily ever after and I can’t turn grass because that’s just not my way. Besides, even if I did go to the police there’s no real evidence of Nash’s involvement in most of what we’ve done and he’s probably either blackmailed or bribed half of the high-up coppers and judges in Thirnbridge so that they wouldn’t want to nick him even if he walked into the nearest station and confessed to his crimes himself. I have no loyalty to him or any of the others – not anymore. But you’re a friend, and that’s why I want you to stay out of this. If McCabe is behind this then the firm is about to implode. If he isn’t, then someone powerful like Dainton has marked Nash as a dead man. Things are about to get bloody. And even if we get through this, the day will finally come when the firm goes tits up and we’re all arrested or worse, and I want to be here, ready and waiting to accept any punishment that comes my way as long as Nash and the others go down with me.” Riley smirked, feeling a little better after his speech. “And, after last night, I don’t think that day is very far off.”
“It sounds like you want things to end,” Purvis said, grimly.
“Maybe I do,” Riley said. “That’s why you and Sandra need to run soon. Stick to your plan.” He then used his key to unlock the door to the flat. “Anyway, you want to come up?”
Purvis shook his head and said, “No, but I guess I have to.”
Riley led the way up the narrow staircase and into the flat. In what should’ve been a sitting room, there was a bar, a pool table and several chairs. The walls were painted white and a series of sporting photographs adorned them.
“Look, it’s Bond, Riley Bond,” Howden said, clutching a cue as McCabe leant over the pool table and took a shot. “License to get himself fucking killed.”
Riley smirked and sat down on a bar stool. Purvis went behind the bar and fixed him and Riley a drink – a whisky (with coke this time) and a plain old water.
“I hear you totalled the Aston Martin.” McCabe laughed as he potted a stripe. “You crazy fucker. We could’ve been burying you along with Michael junior.”
At the mention of Nash’s son, the atmosphere in the room suddenly became heavier. More oppressive. It felt like they had gathered for a funeral. McCabe stopped laughing and lined up another shot.
“Did you tell the police you chased them?” Howden asked.
“Yeah,” Riley said. “But that was about it?”
“So did you see who they were?” McCabe asked.
Riley thought carefully before answering. If McCabe was involved then he’d know exactly what went down; the car chase; smashing through the window; trying to drag the black guy out. If he lied McCabe would wonder why.
“No,” Riley said. “I nearly had them but they got away.”
“I’m surprised the filth didn’t do you for dangerous driving,” McCabe then said and when Howden laughed the room felt lighter again.
“Anyway,” Riley said, “didn’t either of you two find anything out? I heard you went out asking questions.”
“Oh, I got some answers, alright,” replied McCabe.
“Like what?”
McCabe lined up the black. “You’ll hear when Nash arrives. See what he makes of it and what he wants done.”
As McCabe struck the white ball, a voice from the doorway said, “You want to know what I want done?”
The white
hit the black and it missed the corner pocket and rolled into the centre of the table.
Everyone turned to the doorway where Mike Nash was standing.
“I want revenge.”
22
For the first time that Riley could remember, Nash was dressed in a tracksuit.
Usually he wore a suit, sometimes just trousers and a dress shirt, but nothing less casual than that. Riley considered that maybe the light fabric was more comfortable for his injury, the sling holding up Nash’s left arm obviously there to ease the weight on his shoulder that had taken a few bullets. Or maybe he just didn’t care to wear his best clothes today. He certainly didn’t look his best in terms of health. He looked pale and tired and his eyes that usually burned with vigour and strength appeared weakened somehow. They just stared... as if looking right through you. Maybe it was the painkillers. Maybe it was the grief. Then again, maybe the marble had rolled off the table and he’d lost his mind and gone mad. A loss as big as he’d suffered could do that easily. Whatever it was, Mike Nash looked crazed.
He strode into the room, followed by Turner. McCabe and Howden laid their pool cues against the wall and took a seat, like school children settling down when the teacher entered the classroom.
Purvis handed Riley his drink and sat down as Nash stopped next to the pool table. He gently rolled the black ball into the corner pocket with his free hand and smiled.
Game over!
“You want a drink?” Turner asked him.
Nash shook his head.
Riley sipped his water as Nash stared at each man in turn. He knew that look well, had seen it many times at work in the eyes of drunks and drug addicts and people who weren’t in control. People who were unpredictable. People who were dangerous. Nash obviously wasn’t in the right frame of mind for dealing with the situation right now. But he was in charge. He was the boss. What he said went. As always.
“Okay,” Nash then said to himself. “Good.”
McCabe and Howden exchanged looks of confusion. Riley and Purvis did the same. Only Turner acted like Nash hadn’t spoken and took a seat in the corner of the room, rubbing his brow and looking like the energy had been sapped from him. He’d probably realised on the way over here that Nash had flipped.
Nothing was said for what seemed like minutes before Howden opened his big mouth without thinking of what to say first.
“You alright, boss?”
Nash’s head snapped round. He stared the bigger man straight in the face as if he wanted to kill him. But when he spoke, his voice was soft and controlled. Like a drunk trying to walk straight, Riley could tell Nash was concentrating on sounding calm rather than it coming naturally.
“I got shot,” he said. “But I’ll be alright.” He looked at Purvis who suddenly seemed nervous. “Thanks for watching the girls last night.”
“No, problem,” Purvis replied.
Nash then turned to Riley and said, “Thanks for going after them. You did good. You tried.”
Riley nodded. Didn’t say anything. He wanted to see where Nash was going with this little ramble as he turned to McCabe.
“Turner tells me you got some info.”
“Yeah, boss,” McCabe said.
Nash sat down. Crossed his legs and settled into his leather seat. Then he said, still eerily calmly, “So do we know who these fuckers were?”
“More than that,” McCabe said. “I took a trip over to the north side of the river. I know a few people over there who I can trust who have no links with Dainton. A few of them had heard rumours about these two dumb fucks who apparently had just accepted to take you out for five grand. Brian Wilcox and Marlon Tennant. No one thought to say anything because the two guys were bullshit druggies who were known to tell a lot of porkies. Well, I got their address, but when I turned up there guess what?”
Nash shrugged, as if he wasn’t interested. His eyes were gone.
“Place was up in flames,” McCabe said. “Two fire engines there, police, the lot. It’s been on the radio this morning that two bodies were found inside. You can bet your bollocks it was them.”
“At least they got what they deserved,” Purvis said before glancing at Riley. He obviously assumed that McCabe had taken care of the loose links as soon as possible. It made sense. This Wilcox and Tennant had failed. Maybe getting torched was punishment, and that kind of punishment was the kind McCabe dished out. But if he was behind this then what was he planning for his next move since Nash had survived?
“So who got to them before us?” Riley asked, playing dumb.
“Dainton.” McCabe said. “It looks like he wasn’t happy that they missed.”
“He’s not gonna be happy that they missed,” Turner said. “He’s going to regret paying them to do this in the first place.”
Strangely, Nash giggled at this. But the giggle didn’t die out. It stopped abruptly and his face fell straight in an instant.
“Yes, he is,” he said.
“So, what do you want us to do?” Turner asked.
Nash got to his feet. Reached over the bar and grabbed a bottle of brandy. After pouring himself a large measure, he downed half of it and held it in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. He swished the rest around the glass.
Riley, along with everyone else in the room, waited patiently for him to answer the question.
“I want it made it clear to Dainton that his days are numbered,” Nash finally said. “Just a warning for now.”
“You want a message sent?” asked McCabe.
Nash nodded. Stared off into the distance, like he was deep in thought. When he spoke, his voice was again soft and flat, the words falling out with little emotion.
“I want Dainton to feel what I’m feeling,” he said. “I want him to lose something close to him. Then I want to destroy his businesses. Then I want to make him live in fear, knowing that I’m coming after him. Then, after...” Nash struggled with the words. His lip quivered. He drank more brandy, as if it would give him strength. “... after Michael’s funeral, we take that fucker down and make him wish he’d never been born.”
“So what Kind of message do you want sending?” Turner asked.
The messages Nash liked to send could stretch from a verbal warning to a brutal torture depending on the crime. Shooting his son was definitely up there with the worst possible things to do and Riley assumed the message wouldn’t be a nasty phone call.
Nash poured another drink.
“He killed my son,” he said and giggled again, as if he found it funny because it sounded so unreal. Then his face turned serious. He stared down at the floor. When he spoke again, his voice was no longer soft. The words came out in a growl. “I say we take an eye for an eye.”
23
Detectives Davison and Burns had spent most of the day interviewing friends and neighbours of Wilcox and Tennant to try and find a link between Dainton and the two of them, anything to suggest that he was the one that paid them to do the drive-by. Wilcox and Tennant were both known to the police and both had died suspiciously the same night Nash was attacked. There was an obvious link.
They had no luck, however. Nothing. All lips were sealed and all eyes were blind. Nobody had heard any rumours about a hit on Nash and neither man had let anything slip before becoming crispy bacon in the fire. No one had seen anyone leave the flat just before the fire broke out either. “Aaah the fuckers wos probably pissed an’ left a fag burnin’” was how one wonderfully drunken old man who lived a few doors up had put it. It seemed that everyone around here suspected nothing but an accident and the investigation had hit a bit of a dead end.
But then forensics called with some news.
Wilcox and Tennant’s flat hadn’t been totally gutted by the fire. The door to the bathroom had been closed and the flames hadn’t taken hold before the fire and rescue service had arrived and doused the flames. Forensics had found hairs on a sponge and in the plug hole, hairs that could match some of those found in the abandoned Peugeot.
They’d also found two razors and had tagged them as evidence and whisked them off to the labs to search for traces of blood on the blades to see if they could find a match to the blood in the passenger seat.
Davison was pleased. She knew Wilcox and Tennant were the shooters. She didn’t need proof of it. But the hair and blood would match and make them prime suspects, and their previous links with Dainton’s firm now gave her an excuse to pay the man himself a surprise visit.
So, as the time neared three o’clock, the two detectives decided to make one last call of the day, and as the car followed the curve of the river towards the coast, the DS was glad to be away from the tatty flats and run down council estates and was looking forward to see how the other half lived.
Quayside Manor was a luxurious housing complex not far from the harbour on the north side of the river. Set back from the main road and accessed via a private tarmac track, the properties were all detached, set in their own private grounds, boasted up to six bedrooms and three bathrooms and sold for well over a million pounds.
As they pulled up in front of the huge iron gates that protected Dainton’s property, Davison ran her eyes over the house and wondered why a single, elderly man needed so much space and security.
The modern looking mansion was set in three acres of garden and the walk from the perimeter gates to the front door would probably take someone close to five minutes. The house itself was white bricked, built on three levels and seemed to have more windows on its facing wall than a whole row of terrace houses combined. Off to one side was a smaller building that Davison assumed to be a guest house. Off to the other, there was a giant conservatory that she assumed held a heated swimming pool. Tall trees ran around the perimeter of the garden, as if to hide the house from the neighbouring properties.