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

by Martin Stanley

  The police wouldn’t bust a nut trying to find out what happened; dead junkies didn’t feature highly on their list of priorities; plus, ODs on Fentanyl and horse were commonplace, so it would be written off as misadventure.

  “We need to find this prick before he disappears,” I said.

  A cursory search of the rest of the building confirmed what we already knew. The third man wasn’t there and there were no traces of anything from the robbery. We left the place the same we came in and hunted around for the Micra.

  It had been parked a couple of streets away. I picked the locks and rummaged inside. All I found were some sweet wrappers, a couple of discarded Coke cans, and little else of note. The car was far too clean to have been Henry’s. Once the habit takes hold a junky will sell anything to ensure the constant flow of their narcotic of choice, so I made an educated guess that it had been stolen. I locked up and we made our way back to Aire Street.

  12.

  We argued all the way to Grove Hill about what our next move should be.

  Mark wanted to have a second pop at Molly, find out what else she knew about the robbery, but I favoured a different approach, which was to visit a smackhead I knew and ask him instead.

  And as I was driving the car, I had the final say.

  The junky grapevine might not be as fast as social media or the Internet, but certain information travels as fast as an outbreak of HIV or Hepatitis. It only takes a few of them, sitting around a lighter and a bubbling spoon – shooting the shit, literally and metaphorically – and by the end of the week they know where to find the cheapest dope, who’s offering money for off-the-books work, and which hospitals have lax security and supplies of gear worth stealing.

  But some junkies are smarter than others, and know that this information is often worth money to the right people. So they travel around and draw up the dirt like a hoover. Then they sift the information until all that’s left is the good stuff. They might tell landlords about an illegal squat, or snitch a dealer to the police in exchange for cash, or they might curry favour with debt collectors. They do whatever it takes to survive.

  I parked outside the house of a man who was smarter than most. Bobby Manning had been a dealer, and a pretty successful one at that, before he’d decided to break the cardinal rule and sample his own collection. His brain still functioned at a high level when it needed to, and it needed to more often than not, since it played more angles than a dodecahedron. For the price of a few hundred pounds, he’d give us the information we needed; but as we didn’t have a few hundred pounds, I decided that we’d use a more time-efficient method of getting the name we wanted.

  Manning opened the door and stared through me for a few seconds. His eyes were unfocused and his jaw was slack, like he’d recently injected or inhaled. When he realised who we were, Manning’s features became taut, his eyes aware. He instinctively rubbed at the dark track marks that ran along the inside of both arms, then tried to tug down the sleeves of his Tee to cover them. Fat chance.

  “What brings you to my door?” he said, trying to sound cocky. Manning was a coward, and could see that we were serious, which meant that this piece of theatre was for the benefit of his house guests.

  “Whosit, Bob?” asked a gruff voice.

  “Nobody.”

  “How can you say that, Bobby,” I said, “after all we’ve been through?”

  “Fucksakes,” he hissed, now sounding completely sober. “You tryna get us killed, like?”

  We stormed past Manning into a darkened living room. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the flickering light from the candles that were dotted across fireplaces and shelves, and my nose to the sharp, vinegary reek of freshly cooked heroin.

  Two men sat on a dirty mattress that had been placed beneath the heavily curtained front window. One of them was a big, older man with a ruddy face, wild hair, a thick black beard, and ragged clothes that had been carefully sourced from all the finest charity bins in Teesside. He was holding a spoon in his right hand and a lighter in his left. He turned off the lighter and dropped it on the ground, but put the spoon down carefully, making sure that he didn’t spill its contents. The other man was a small, skinny hipster in geek glasses and tight, trendy clothes. He might have been in his twenties but, judging by the youthful appearance of his face, he probably hadn’t been in them for long. His right sleeve had been pulled up over the bicep, exposing the clean, white skin beneath. That made him either a first-timer or inexperienced. He let out a loud, girlish shriek and huddled against the big man who patted his head. That definitely made him a first-timer.

  I clicked my fingers at the big man. “Ow, Dumbledore,” I said. “Take Harry Potter here, and your spoonful of potion, and fuck off back to Hogwarts before you get hurt.”

  “Who the fuck d’you think you’re calling Dumbledore, you? You fuckin’ cheeky cunt.”

  “Well, I don’t see any other beards trying to show a young boy some magic.”

  “You calling us gay, like?” he said, sounding outraged.

  “If the condom fits…”

  The man struggled to his feet and swayed a little, but he was a solid six-two and, judging by the battered and scarred knuckles of his fists, had seen a few fights in his time – in other words, the cunt looked handy.

  “Fancy saying that again?” he said. “Come on, say it again, you fuckin’ shithouse?”

  “I could but I’d just be repeating myself.”

  The big man took a step forward.

  I curled my fists in readiness, but at the last second my brother pushed me aside. “Look, Grizzly Adams, he asked youse real fuckin’ nice to do one,” my brother said. “So do one, before I poke me big snout in.”

  “And who might you be, like?”

  He grinned. “The unfriendly brother.”

  The man sneered, turned his head to take us both in and narrowed his eyes, as though comparing us. “Thought youse looked like brothers,” he said, then laughed. “Both look like you came outta the balls of the same gyppo.”

  My brother craned forward slightly. “What was that?”

  “You heard.”

  My brother made two big fists. “Just for that, I’m gonna break summat.”

  “I’m fuckin’ quivering.”

  My brother moved forward. “Let’s stop talking.”

  Dumbledore swung a fast right. My brother snapped his head back and avoided it by a few inches. Then he danced forward a couple of steps, feinting into Dumbledore’s body, forcing him on the back foot.

  The bearded man responded by taking a couple of side-steps and throwing an angry left hook. It was wide of the target by a couple of feet.

  My brother stepped in and caught the man’s chin with a left jab. Dumbledore shook off the blow and came forward again. He was wheezing now, and sweat dripped off his brow. He ducked low and released one of the wildest hay-makers I’ve ever seen. It missed by a good few inches and sent him staggering off balance in my brother’s direction. He waited until Dumbledore was close enough for a body shot, and surprised him with a soft, open-handed blow to the windpipe.

  The bearded man lurched backwards, clutching his throat, gulping down air with wheezy gasps. He stumbled over the young man’s feet, fell against the windowsill face first and landed on top of his companion. The pain from hitting the sill was enough to make him forget about the blow to the throat. Dumbledore rolled off his companion and curled into a foetal ball, holding his face and groaning.

  My brother crouched down and turned the bearded man on to his back. He tried hitting my brother a couple of times, but the attempts were weak and he blocked them easily. Then my brother placed his left knee on top of Dumbledore’s windpipe. The man tried fighting again, but my brother increased the pressure until his opponent’s eyes bulged and he stopped swinging his hands around with quite so much force.

  A malicious grin spread across my brother’s face – a nasty look that brought the childhood memories flooding back. I remembered
the kids in school running in fear from that grin, long before my brother grew as big and strong as he was now, and as well they should, because that particular smile always resulted in a moment of horrific violence.

  My brother took the fingers of the Dumbledore’s right hand and bent them back. The man stopped worrying about the knee on his neck and started flailing at his attacker with his left, trying to catch him with a lucky hit. When the fingers were at 90 degrees with the back of his hand, Dumbledore began to shriek. It was an awful high-pitched sound, though not quite as unpleasant as the sound of the fingers when they broke – a dull crack that brought me out in goosebumps. Dumbledore shrieked again, louder this time. But my brother wasn’t in the mood for mercy today, and kept pushing the broken digits until the fingertips were touching the back of the man’s hand. Dumbledore’s eyelids began to flicker and then he passed out.

  My brother didn’t realise this, such was his focus on hurting the man, and he made moves to do the same to the other hand.

  I tapped him with my foot.

  “He’s out.”

  My brother wafted his hand at me, his way of saying leave me the fuck alone, and then grabbed Dumbledore’s left. I kicked him properly this time, a real connection with his left thigh that brought a yelp out of him. Hissing, he rubbed his muscle and glared at me. “What the fuck’s that for?”

  “For going all Charles Manson on us.”

  “Whassat supposed to mean?”

  “Means you don’t need to break any more fingers.”

  He looked back at Dumbledore, finally realising that the man was unconscious, stood up and moved to the wall closest to the fireplace. He rubbed at his thigh and sent a final scowl in my direction.

  Manning drifted out from the shadows and into the light. He took two attempts to place a cigarette in his mouth with shaking hands and then tried to ignite it with a Zippo lighter. Flicking the wheel brought nothing but sparks, and with every failed snick of the lighter his panic increased. Manning’s bottom lip trembled and his face screwed up every time useless sparks jumped from the top of the Zippo. Tears ran down his cheeks and glistened in the candlelight. The solution to the problem was all around him, only he was too scared to see it.

  “Bobby.”

  He flicked the wheel constantly, a thin wail escaping him, his face tight with anger and fear.

  “Bob.”

  Another flick.

  “Fuckin’ look at me,” I shouted.

  His head snapped up from the lighter. Sweat glistened on his forehead and in his brows. “What?” he said, barely able to articulate the word.

  “The candles, Bobby. The candles.”

  13.

  Manning got the big man, whose name turned out to be Adam, and the youngster, Brian, out of the house, by giving them a couple of free rides on the horse. Neither man looked particularly happy with this arrangement, but kept their displeasure to themselves because they were afraid of my brother.

  We watched Brian as he attempted to keep Adam upright – despite the six-inch height and five stone weight disadvantage the youngster had – and walk him down the street. They swayed and staggered until they were finally out of sight. Manning closed the curtains and turned towards us.

  “You shouldna done that.”

  I shrugged. “Why?”

  “That guy knows people,” he said.

  “Bully for him,” I replied.

  “Real people.”

  “As opposed to the imaginary ones?”

  Mark tutted. “Those imaginary ones are the worst.”

  Manning shook his head. “Youse don’t understand.”

  “And we don’t wanna understand,” I answered. “Because the amount of fucks we give equal zero.”

  “That prick can make me life a fuckin’ nightmare, if he has a mind to.”

  “So can we,” my brother growled, leaning towards the junky. “Remember that.”

  Manning twitched, grimaced and pulled away. “What’s all this about?”

  “We need to pick your brains,” I said.

  Manning lit another cigarette, this time without shaking.

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “The continued use of your legs.”

  “What kinda deal’s that?” he replied. Manning seemed shocked that we hadn’t at least offered him money.

  “The best one you’re gonna get today.”

  Manning nodded, his lips drawn in a tight, thin line, dropped his barely smoked cigarette on the carpet and ground it out. “This is wrong.”

  “You give us this,” I said. “And maybe we can give you some cash afterwards.”

  “Give you what? I don’t even know what the fuck it is youse want yet?”

  “You know Henry Green?”

  Manning frowned. “Hen? Yeah, I know him. Why?”

  “His path crossed ours.”

  “Didn’t know he was into Piper, too,” he said. “Thought all those fuckin’ loan sharks talked to each other?”

  That set my alarm bells ringing. “Who does he owe?”

  “What’s he done?”

  “Never you mind.”

  “Oh, come on. At least gimme that much.”

  “He robbed us.”

  “Of what?”

  “Weekend takings from the Miner’s Lamp.”

  Sudden laughter erupted from Manning. He apologised and covered his mouth, but couldn’t control his hysterics. His body shook, so he tightened his muscles and tried to fight it. Eventually he gave up the fight, leaned back against a wall, threw his head back and cackled for several minutes, tears rolling down his face. When Manning finally managed to keep his mirth in check he turned towards me. “Oh, that’s fuckin’ priceless,” he said. “Youse’re gonna owe your own fuckin’ boss. Genius. Piper’s gonna rape youse on the interest rate, too. You’re fucked, mate.”

  “Not unless we can get the money back first.”

  Manning wiped away tears. “And how’re you gonna do that, like?”

  “By finding it.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Who does he owe?”

  “It’s common knowledge that he’s into Dandy for over three grand.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  “That’s whose help you’re gonna need to get yourselves outta this shite,” Manning said, enjoying himself.

  John ‘Dandy’ Dandridge was the kind of bloke who’d ignore his own mother even if she were on fire. However, he’d be only too happy to loan her money afterwards, at eye watering interest rates, to pay for skin grafts and suchlike. But God help the old bird if she failed to pay on time. John Dandridge was also the kind of bloke who’d tear the new skin from her bones when push came to shove.

  He was that kind of man.

  A cunt.

  Dandridge’s speciality was loaning money to people on their arses (gamblers were a speciality, but he would make exceptions for clean-looking junkies and alcoholics) and then waiting for them to default. Once the inevitable occurred, he would swoop in with an offer: pay the money immediately, forfeit their kneecaps, or work for him and pay off the debt in increments or one big lump sum.

  Most people took the final option.

  So they became drugs mules, bringing home hauls in their stomachs or rectums, or they pulled armed robberies in other areas with teams that Dandy assembled, or occasionally they pulled hits for him, taking out those who had caused him offence in one way or another.

  “Why’d he give Henry three grand?”

  Manning smiled. “Henry had a wild idea to make money. Woulda worked, too, if his partners hadn’t fucked him over.”

  “What idea?”

  “He knew some guys over in Amsterdam could make amber Cannabis oil. Now, any fucker’ll tell you that that’s no mean feat. Most of that stuff comes out the colour of diarrhoea and smells like sweaty arse crack. This stuff, though. Christ, this stuff was like liquid fuckin’ gold, really high purity, so just a drop’d put most regular smokers on their backs. Anyway, Henry ca
me up with a way of smuggling it through.”

  “What way?” I asked.

  “The stuff was a dead ringer for hot oil; you know, that shit women put in their hair? Was the same colour, consistency, everything. Well, he knew how to open those things up, drain ‘em, and put in the new stuff and heat seal ‘em.”

  I grinned, “So customs wouldn’t get a whiff of it. ”

  “Well, it weren’t perfect, know what I mean, and even with the heat seal most dogs would smell it like it were a fresh turd, but it was way fuckin’ good enough to fool the panty sniffers at customs. They did test runs, nobody ever caught on.”

  “Then how’d Henry end up in hock to Dandy?”

  “One of his partners skipped with the main load when he landed in Newcastle, leaving Henry holding his cock along with a considerable debt. Obviously, with Hen’s limited earning potential, paying off three gees was always gonna be difficult.”

  “So he decided on robbery instead?”

  “Summat like that,” Bobby said with a shrug. “Dandy probably din’t give him much choice.”

  “Or maybe he was in on it from the beginning?”

  Bobby’s eyebrows arched. “That’d be some crazy shit to pull,” he said. “‘Specially if Piper was to find out about it. That’d be like declaring war. Dandy’s a tough cunt, but I wouldn’t back him against Piper.”

  “Which is why Henry and his partner are dead.”

  That got Bobby’s attention. “How?”

  “OD. I’m figuring somebody slipped ‘em a Fentanyl surprise.”

  “That’d stop ‘em talking.”

  “Permanently.”

  “You think…”

  “Don’t think anything. I know it. Henry and some other smackhead —

  “Probably Jonno McConey.”

  “— cleared us out with shotguns and drove off with a bag just shy of ten grand. But when we found them not so long ago, all they had was a needle in their veins, along with a bad case of mortality. No guns, no balaclavas, nowt incriminating, just two smackheads dead off a bad batch. There was a third man; he must’ve cleared everything away. I saw him. Was driving a crappy brown Fiesta. The prick had a head like a massive football and a tiny little pinched face. The ugly cunt...”