The Curious Case of the Missing Moolah (A Stanton Brothers thriller)

by Martin Stanley

  “It took me five fuckin’ years of scrimping and saving to get that cash. I’ve had to do some shitty things to earn it, but most of what I did was legit. And if you think I’m gonna throw away that money bringing Alan in to solve our problem you’ve got another fuckin’ thing coming.”

  What Mark didn’t realise was that being in debt to Alan was only part of the problem. He was naïve enough to think that there would be a best-case scenario where we’d still have jobs. Losing that kind of money would result in immediate dismissal, but it would also result in loss of reputation. The funny thing was that I didn’t care so much about the job; it was the loss of status that concerned me.

  The only thing a good debt collector really has to his name is status. It’s status that gets his foot through the door. It’s status that makes people hand over cash that without putting up a fight or spitting in his face. It’s status that stops those same people from glassing him in a bar or knifing him in a dark alley when the eyes of the world are elsewhere. It took a long time to get the kind of reputation that allowed me to walk into a flat and get money without a comment or a snide remark – years of screaming abuse in faces, yanking people around by collars, slapping cheeks, punching chins and stomachs, damaging ligaments, breaking bones – and I sure as shit didn’t want to lose it now that I intended to leave that world behind. Reputation would open doors to opportunities that might otherwise remain closed. If I wanted to make money quickly, I’d need all the reputation I could get.

  Mark looked out of the window again and narrowed his eyes. “Anything strike you as odd about the robbery?”

  “Quite a few things.”

  He turned and faced me. “Such as?”

  “It was amateur hour.”

  “Why?”

  I smiled. “You already know why.”

  “Then humour me.”

  “First off they didn’t tie us up,” I said. “If it’d been me that’s the first thing I’da done.”

  “Tying somebody up takes time.”

  “Of course it does,” I replied. “If you’re a cunt.”

  Mark laughed and slapped the table hard. The other two diners looked in our direction.

  “You use zip ties, have ‘em pre-prepared,” I said, “and you can have somebody tied up in thirty seconds. Christ! You work up a pre-prepared rope knot and it’s just as fast. Preparation is everything, and they weren’t prepared. Also, they didn’t slice up the tires. Why not? They would’ve been home free if they had. They took my phone and my keys, but I was carrying a penknife, my wallet, and some other random shit. Why didn’t they take those? Why didn’t they pat us down?”

  “You’re right,” he agreed. “But there was summat else.”

  “Oh, you mean the set-up?”

  Mark took a slug of coffee and nodded.

  “They’d been following us for a while,” I said.

  “Which means they knew the routine,” he replied.

  “Maybe they did,” I said, thinking about this for a few moments.

  “And maybe not.”

  I considered the options. “If so, it was an inside job.”

  “Maybe.”

  “A disgruntled ex-employee, possibly? There are plenty of people who hate Alan’s guts,” I said. “In fact, most of them still work for him.”

  Mark chuckled. “Maybe.”

  “And... maybe not,” I said, having a Eureka moment, a moment of clarity that almost took my breath away. I put the morning’s events together, assembling and disassembling them in as many ways as possible, but only one answer made any sense. All I needed now was confirmation.

  I took some coins from my pocket and put them on the table. Mark stared at the change for a few seconds and finally asked me what it was for.

  “I need to make a phone call,” I said, picking up the money.

  I walked out of the café and went across the road to The Crown, a huge pub set inside a grand old building that had once been a cinema. There was a payphone near the entrance. Somebody had scrawled some graffiti on the wall near the phone, which read: Susie Bunn loves it up the shitbox. Dial now. Satisfaction guaranteed, and then there was a local phone number. I allowed myself a brief smile as I wondered just how many drunken, lonely men had dialled that number at the end of the night in the vain hope that Susie Bunn might answer. Part of me felt very sorry for whoever was at the other end of that line. Chances were high that it wasn’t somebody called Susie Bunn.

  I picked up the receiver and dialled a number from memory.

  “Whosis?”

  I told Alan who it was.

  “Why you calling from a payphone?” he said.

  “’Cause I’ve lost my mobile.”

  “Where?”

  “Well, if I fuckin’ knew the answer to that I wouldn’t be calling you from a payphone, would I?”

  “Youse are well fuckin’ late. Where’s me money?” he said, his voice getting progressively louder and angrier.

  “Don’t worry about that. Had to go on a little detour.”

  “Detour? With my fuckin’ money? Not being funny, like, but you’re supposed to be setting the newbie a good example, not swanning around Boro with me fuckin’ dough in the boot. Whass with the detour, anyways?”

  “My brother.”

  “Christ! Whass he done now?”

  “I’m not gonna get into it over the phone,” I said, trying to be enigmatic.

  “So why call us then? Or was it to wind us up about your magical fuckin’ mystery tour?”

  “No,” I said. “Was wondering if you’re still going to Molly’s this afternoon?”

  “Molly’s?” Alan replied, sounding non-plussed. “Why the fuck would I be going to hers?”

  “I dunno. That’s just what she told me earlier. Anyway, I left my house keys at hers by accident.”

  “Why’d you leave your keys at hers?” he asked with a hint of suspicion.

  “Because the envelope was wedged in my pocket. Had to take out the keys to get at it. I put ‘em down on her coffee table. Think I must’ve been in such a rush to leave that I forgot to pick ‘em up again.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, I dunno why she said I’d be going round to hers. Mebbe she’s on the rag or summat,” he said. “Who knows what shite goes on in women’s heads when they’ve got the painters in?”

  “Cheers,” I replied. “Suppose I better go back and pick them up.”

  “Mebbe you should gimme me money first?”

  “Don’t worry, Alan. You’ll get it.”

  “Oh, I know I will. And if youse don’t have it to me by six this evening I’m gonna start charging you interest too.”

  I said my goodbyes and hung up the receiver. I walked out of the dingy entrance into the daylight, thinking things through, working them out. The longer it took for me to do something decisive the further away the money would be. Tension tightened my stomach again until it felt small and dense. Sour bile stung the back of my throat. Dodging past the traffic, I crossed the road and stood outside the café looking in. Mark was at the counter, paying for our food and drink. He told the waiter to keep the change and approached me with a slight smile on his face.

  “Guess you’ve already worked it out,” I said.

  “Let’s pay that bitch a visit.”

  9.

  We parked a couple of streets away from Molly’s house and took a roundabout route that brought us to the rear of the property, ensuring that we were unseen. I opened the gate and crept up to the back door, with Mark following closely behind. I sneaked a look into the kitchen, which was empty, and turned the door handle slowly. I rested my weight against the wood and moved forward. The door began to open, which meant that Molly hadn’t bothered to lock it after we’d left. She had arrogantly assumed that there was nothing to fear.

  We took our shoes off and crept across the lino on tip-toes. It was doubtful she would have heard us anyway, because of the dance music that came from the living room at full blast. I edged up to the doorway and pe
eked around the frame. Molly was reclining on the sofa with her head propped against one of the arms, her back to us, typing something on a netbook, as she nodded in time with the beat. Sneaking upon her, I noticed that she was messaging a friend on Facebook – telling her that she was thinking of leaving town for a while (no doubt with some of this afternoon’s proceeds).

  I wrapped my left arm around Molly’s neck, clamped my hand over her mouth to stifle the screams and pulled her upright. Mark turned the music down so we could make ourselves heard, but kept it loud enough to disguise any loud crashes or cries that might be made in the next few minutes. Molly kicked and struggled like an angry animal – hissing and clawing at me, raking her heels down my shins – until I tightened my arm around her neck. The tighter my grip the less she struggled, until she stopped completely and loosened up. Releasing my grip, I gently lowered her back down on the sofa. She wasn’t unconscious, but her eyes were heavy-lidded and she didn’t seem to be aware of her surroundings. I pinched the skin behind her left tricep and slowly twisted until the pain brought her eyes back into focus, then clamped my left hand over her mouth.

  “Scream and you’ll regret it.”

  Tears welled up at the corners of her eyes, beading up against her thick lashes before dripping onto my hand. Small spots of pink formed over her cheekbones and slowly spread across the skin until her entire face was flushed. I could feel her body tremble, though it was hard to tell if it was because of anger or terror or both. Before releasing my hand, I said, “I’ll say it again, if you scream you’ll regret it.”

  I released my hand and pulled back. Mark dropped in beside me.

  “What the fuck’re you two idiots playing at?” she said, trying to hide the fear with bravado.

  “As if you don’t already know,” Mark replied. “Did you happen to take a look out your back window when we left your place earlier?”

  She paused and deflected the question. “D’you fuckwits know what Alan’ll do when he finds out about this?”

  “Whyn’t you pick up the phone and tell him?” I replied.

  She shrugged. “Wouldn’t want to get you both in trouble,” she said, as if not making the call was doing us the favour.

  “Why?” I said. “After all, we’ve just broken into your gaff, I’ve put you in a chokehold. Sounds exactly like summat you should be doing.”

  A nervous smile parted her lips. “’Cause I’m a fair person, that’s why.”

  “Or maybe a guilty one,” Mark countered.

  I turned towards the coffee table, picked up her mobile phone and presented it to her. “Like all accused, you get one free phone call.”

  After folding her arms, Molly turned her head away. I grabbed her by the jaw and manipulated her until she was facing the phone again.

  “Type in your passcode and dial.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  I dropped the phone and slapped Molly hard across the face. The whip-crack connection was loud enough to be heard above the music. She blinked in shock for a few seconds, her eyelids fluttering rapidly, sending tears cascading down her cheeks. Several different expressions twisted her face, until it was hard to tell exactly what she was feeling. Her body shook, as the skin around her cheek began to swell and turn pink.

  There’s nothing quite as devastating as a slap in a villain’s armoury. It does no lasting physical damage, but the humiliation penetrates the skin, the muscle fibres, the blood vessels, the bones, and into the nerves until it hits the brain, where it scrambles everything up, turning white to black and up into down. If you slap a tough guy, he frames the action as a slight, as a comment on his manhood, and his anger kicks in, making his response sloppy and ineffective. One of the best bar fighters I ever knew always started his fights by slapping his opponent several times. Each slap made them a little more angry; and the angrier they became the more wildly they swung, allowing him to pick them off with controlled combos. And when you slap a woman it jars all her notions about security and self-preservation. The momentary pain brings up feelings of humiliation, defencelessness and a sense of being exposed and naked. Take away a woman’s security blanket and she’s yours for the asking.

  I crouched down, picked up the phone and dropped it in Molly’s lap. She stared at it through her tears and sniffled.

  “Don’t make me tell you again.”

  She typed in the code and threw the phone to her left, where it bounced along the cushions and came to a rest near the arm of the sofa. I picked it up and checked through the messages – dozens of them detailing the set-up, the robbery, the split. Molly’s seduction was all about preventing us from leaving early, so that her brother could get into position. Text messages told him that we’d arrived, others told him where we’d parked (she must have looked whilst we were asleep), another told him that she’d send us out the back way.

  And I made it all so easy for her.

  You want to know what happens when you follow your dick instead of your brain?

  You act like a dickhead.

  “Where’s the money?” I said.

  She sighed. “With Hen.”

  “Your brother?”

  Her gaze was cold and contemptuous, her lips thin and tight. “Yes.”

  “And where’s he?”

  “What does it matter?” she said. “The money’s probably gone now, anyway.”

  “It matters.”

  “To you, maybe.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you that you’re stealing from Alan?”

  She sneered. “Why should it? The bloke comes here maybe once a week, if I’m lucky, fucks me in the arse, tells me some bullshit lie about how he’s gonna leave his missus, then tells me he can’t live without me, how everything’ll be different soon, that he loves me, but nowt ever changes. Been hearing that shite for three years straight, and I’ve grown sick of it. There was once a time when hearing Alan tell me that he loved me made my heart skip beats. But now I know they’re lies, the sound of them just makes my stomach turn.”

  “He gave you those envelopes. That means summat.”

  She let out a loud scoff. “Enough for my rent, some groceries. Big fuckin’ deal. And for a long time now those envelopes have been getting smaller. Alan knows that I can’t go anywhere if he narrows my options by keeping money tight. He has me over a barrel. I haven’t worked in three years, since he set me up here, in fact, ‘cause he wants me at his beck and call. D’you know I was working as a waitress when I first met him?”

  “He mentioned it,” I replied.

  “Every time I mention going back to that, earning some money for myself, he gets all radged, starts laying guilt on me. Tells me that if I’m a smart girl I should be able to make ends meet on what I get from him.”

  “For someone struggling with money you do go out a lot.”

  She gave me the kind of patronising look one might give a simpleton and chuckled. “Please, I’ve barely paid for a drink since I was seventeen.” Her eyelashes fluttered like butterfly wings and her eyes went wide, so I got a good look at her big baby blues. “If you’re pretty enough, show enough leg and bat enough eyelid then most blokes can’t buy you drinks fast enough.”

  Mark coughed to get my attention. He tapped his watch. “The longer we do this the more likely we are to lose the money for good.”

  I nodded and turned back to Molly. “Where is he?”

  “He comes here,” she replied. “I’ve never visited him.”

  “Don’t make me slap you again.”

  Her face tightened and she flinched. “All I know is it’s a squat in South Bank. No electricity, no running water, unless you count the rain coming in through the roof.”

  I grabbed Molly’s elbow and pressed my fingers into her funny bone, waggling them about for extra pain. She winced and tried to pull free, but I used my weight to pin her against the sofa. “Don’t lie to me,” I snarled, digging my fingers in deep.

  She squealed the address and begged me to let her go. I released my grip, allo
wing her to pull away, and she drew as far back as she could, making herself small against the arm of the sofa, and rubbed at her aching elbow. She wore the kind of pout that a toddler would be ashamed of. A couple of tears made tracks down her face.

  Not having time for petty theatrics, I told her to turn around and put her hands together. Despite her whining, she did what she was told. I hacked some strips from the hem of her dressing gown with my penknife and used them to bind her wrists. She winced and moaned that it was too tight. I told her I didn’t care, made her lie on her stomach and bound her feet just as securely. Then I threw her over my shoulder and took her upstairs. I put her down on the big king-sized bed that dominated her bedroom and leaned in close.

  “We’re going now, to check on this address. If it’s on the up and up, we’ll come back and let you go, giving you a head start over Alan. But if you’re lying, I’ll let Alan know where you are and tell him why you’re in the predicament you’re in.”

  “I need to go to the toilet,” she said.

  “Tough. You’re going nowhere.”

  I went to the bathroom, found a towel and cut it into strips. Coming back into the bedroom, I noticed that she was already struggling with her bindings. I turned two of the towels strips into a makeshift rope, tied it around her body and bound her arms to her back, making it that much more difficult to struggle. I stuffed a piece of towel into her mouth and turned it into an improvised gag by taping it in place. Then I rolled her up tightly in the duvet and folded it beneath her body so that it would make it more difficult to move.

  I stood back and looked at her, laying on her stomach, wrapped up like a bloated mummy, her face turning red with a combination of anger and physical effort. “You’ll be a lot more comfortable if you stop struggling,” I said. “I’ll be back before you know, just go to sleep for a while. If you’re telling the truth you have nothing to worry about.”

  10.

  Mark pulled away from the kerb and started accelerating, the houses whizzing past at ever-increasing speed.