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

by Martin Stanley

  Bobby smiled. “Did he have a combover?”

  My heart skipped a beat. “Yeah.”

  “I’ve seen him around. Tony Gillan, a new guy. Started working for Dandy about two months ago. A fuckin’ savage by all accounts, though that’s just hearsay. I heard he’d tortured some junkies who’d missed a couple of payments a few weeks ago. Sliced up the soles of their feet with a scalpel. Cut a little finger off one of them and made the other eat it. Big lad, hard as a pornstar’s dick and he’s fast becoming Dandy’s go-to-guy for bone breaking.”

  My brother let out a rusty scrape of a chuckle. “That sounds like my evening’s entertainment’s sorted.”

  “You know where he likes to hang out?” I asked.

  “I seen him in The Saxon – when I got told the scalpel story – but otherwise I haven’t a Scooby where he goes or where he lives, before youse ask.”

  “Well I guess that’s us done, then,” I said and nodded at my brother.

  He rummaged around in the holdall and pulled out a length of rope. Manning looked at it, rolled his eyes and sighed. “Look, lads, I’m not gonna say owt.”

  “Oh, I know that. This information’s worth money to people – you know it and I know it. And if we don’t do this you’ll be on the phone with Piper or Dandy before we’ve even started up the car engine. Now, you can either be tied up willingly or my brother can make you do it. Either way’s fine by me.”

  “Please gimme a reason to fuck you up,” my brother said. “I fancy breaking summat.”

  “You’ve already done that once today,” I replied.

  My brother gave me the evil eye. “Well, I’ve gotta get summat outta this mess, haven’t I?”

  “You mean in addition to nearly a grand and a half of my money?”

  “You’ll get it back.”

  “From you? That’ll be the fuckin’ day.”

  “Whassat supposed to mean?”

  “Means when you’re not gambling, you’re as tight as virgin’s chuff. I’ll never see that fuckin’ money again.”

  My brother looked at Manning and hooked a thumb in the junky’s direction. “Can we not do this in front of him?”

  Manning put his hand on my brother’s shoulder. “Come on, mate. Swear down, I’m not gonna say owt.”

  My brother looked at the hand like it was a massive, steaming pile of shit. “Take your fuckin’ wank hand off me shoulder before I tear it off at the wrist.”

  Manning swallowed loudly, turned around and put his hands behind his back. My brother trussed him tightly, then pushed him onto his stomach and did the same to his legs. He picked up Manning one handed by the waistband of his jeans and threw him on the mattress. The landing winded the junky, who coughed violently and groaned until he got his breath back. My brother cut a strip of cloth from Manning’s t-shirt, stuffed it into his mouth and taped it in place.

  “We’ll be back once this is done-and-dusted,” I said.

  Manning mumbled some angry-sounding vowels into the rag and started rocking back-and-forth, as though he was trying to loosen his ropes. I got on my hands and knees and glared at him.

  “If you’re free when we get back, I’m gonna let my brother kick fuck outta you. Maybe I’ll let him break summat after all. We clear?”

  Manning nodded and his body relaxed.

  “Now just lie there and think of summat nice. Have a sleep. You’ve earned it.”

  14.

  The Saxon was a large building that dominated the corner of a cheap redbrick estate near Easterside. Years ago, one landlord had given the place a white paint job to make it stand out from the houses and bring in the trade. It had been given the nickname The White House; although over the years this had been changed to its current, and more accurate, nickname, The Shite House. It was a villain’s pub – the sort of place you didn’t visit unless you had something illegal to sell or trade or procure. University students sometimes referred to it as Mos Eisley, because you sure as hell wouldn’t find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy outside of Stockton High Street.

  We drove past the building and parked down the street near a patch of grass where some sallow youths in shell suits were sitting and smoking. They eyed my car briefly, probably noting the make, the value and the smashed passenger window, before deciding that it wasn’t worth the time required to steal or raid it. When we got out of the car I noticed that the kids were listening to the sounds of Gangsta rap through the tinny speaker of a mobile phone, nodding in time with the beat. They watched us as we walked up the road.

  I really hoped that the car would be there when we returned.

  When we entered The Saxon the locals didn’t quite stop drinking and stare at us but it wasn’t far off; hard guys looking for a fight sought our gaze, thieves and pickpockets worked out from the cut of our threads whether we were worth robbing, and the landlord, Don, wondered if we were about to cause him more trouble than he wanted that evening. He was a big man with the kind of physique that can only come from twenty years of lifting weights, followed by twenty years of avoiding them. Judging by the size of his gut the only heavy lifting he did now were pint glasses and Ginster’s pies.

  I reached the bar first. A hefty barmaid with sunbed skin, a tight black and white uniform that showed off her folds, and teeth that were too big and white for her face waddled in my direction, but was shunted away by Don at the last minute. He stood in front of me and gave me a smile that was purely theatrical; his grey eyes had all the warmth of a Middlesbrough spring. His mottled drinker’s complexion darkened from deep red to puce as he decided on the best way to deal us.

  “What can I get you?” he asked, playing nice for now.

  “Three lagers, please. Carling.”

  He mulled the request over by pursing his lips. He pulled at the roll of flab beneath his chin and looked at the Carling pump. He picked up a pint glass and placed it over the handle. “Sorry, mate, just out.”

  “Oh, that’s a pity,” I said. “I’ll take three pints of Bass then.”

  The pursed lips relaxed into a smirk. His eyes turned in the direction of the Bass handle that was being pulled by the barmaid. He ran a hand through his greasy grey mop of hair and made a tutting sound. “Mmm, not your evening, is it? Just out, fella.”

  “Doesn’t look like it,” I said.

  He puffed out his chest. “You calling me a liar?”

  My brother leaned in next to me and said: “No, fat man, but I fuckin’ am. You wanna make summat of it?”

  Don breathed out and took a step back from the bar. His gaze rested on something beneath the counter, undoubtedly a weapon, and he thought about reaching for it.

  “Just leave, lads,” he replied. “And we’ll call it quits.”

  My brother reached behind his back, towards the gun wedged under his belt, and grinned at the landlord. “Let’s see how fast you are.”

  Don’s eyes rose to meet my brother’s. They locked stares for an unhealthy amount of time before the landlord sighed and pointed at the barmaid. “Three pints of Bass for these gents. Then they’re on their way.” He moved backwards until he was resting his shoulder against the spirit bottles.

  The barmaid watched us as she pulled the pints, occasionally casting a nervous glance in her boss’ direction. Her hands shook as she put the drinks on the counter. She didn’t look the nervous type, rather the opposite, which meant that we had probably walked into the middle of something: a deal being made at one of the tables; a conflict over territory; or maybe somebody’s life was about to be terminated over a handshake. Whatever was going on, the atmosphere was palpable, an almost physical presence that seemed to be pushing us out of the place.

  I scanned the room for Gillan, but the only faces I saw were ones that belonged in a police line-up – most of them staring straight back at me. In the corner, near the window, was a family sized table that was overloaded with people who weren’t family, or even friends for that matter. On one side were three big lads in powder blue shellsuits, n
ot unlike the ones worn by the kids outside. On the other side were three older men all dressed in smart casual clothes with similar trendy hair. A giant of a man stood with his back to me at the side of the table, near the centre, so that there was clear separation between the two parties. I recognised one of the smart casual men – a drug dealer called Barry Ogden.

  I nudged my brother. “Look who it is.”

  “Oggie, well I never. Mebbe we should go over and say hello?”

  We had raided one of his weed dealers a few months back and got away with two grand’s worth of spending money and a small bag of hash. Of course, Oggie didn’t know that. If he had we would have already been kneecapped for our troubles.

  “Another time, maybe.”

  Barry looked in our direction, eyes narrowing, as he tried to recognise where he’d seen our faces before, but when he realised that we were no threat to the deal he resumed his conversation with the blue shellsuits. I turned back towards the bar and the landlord. “You seen Tony around?”

  The fact that Barry had noticed us and said nothing was enough for Don to relax slightly. He stepped away from the spirit bottles and poured himself a pint. I noticed that he didn’t pay for it.

  “Might help if you was a bit more specific. I’m a landlord, I know a lot of people, a lot of Tony’s.”

  “Gillan,” I replied.

  He paused very briefly before shrugging. “Who?”

  I threw my hands up and acted like I didn’t care. “No worries. Just talked to a mate earlier who said he’d seen him in here not so long ago. Had a business proposition for him, but it’ll keep.”

  “What kinda proposition?”

  “Whaddayou care?”

  Another shrug. “If it’s worth money to broker a meet, that benefits me.”

  “A bit of smuggling.”

  “Of what?”

  I gazed at him with a wary expression. “I think I’ve said enough.”

  “Go on,” he said. “What goes on in here stays in here, know what I mean?”

  I shook my head, playing hard to get. “Nah, I’ll leave it, thanks.”

  Don supped his pint and leaned into the counter. “Your funeral, I s’pose. But I get the distinct feeling that it isn’t legal?”

  “You get that feeling a lot?”

  Don scoffed. “In this place, all the time.”

  “Forget I mentioned it.”

  An elderly man with a deeply lined face the texture of tissue paper slurped the dregs of his pint and put the empty glass down with a thud. He wrapped a thick grey scarf around his neck and buttoned up his grey wool overcoat. He nodded at Don, who turned towards him. “You off, Ged?”

  “Aye. Gotta get back to my missus. She’s got the tea on. Better get back while it’s still hot.”

  “Fair enough. Wouldn’t wanna piss her off now, would we?”

  The man chuckled. “No. We most certainly would not.”

  “Ah, what would we do without ‘em, eh?”

  The man smirked. “Live happily.”

  Don put his head back and roared laughter at the ceiling, his body rocking, then he reached across and patted Ged on the back. “See you tomorrow?”

  Ged bobbed his head. “Same as ever.”

  As the elderly man passed, his eyes sought mine, locked on and held my gaze. At first I thought he was looking for a fight, but then I realised that it was something else entirely. He wanted us to leave and follow him. I downed my pint and looked at my brother and Mark. “Let’s not outstay our welcome.”

  Both men shrugged and necked their drinks.

  “Thanks for the pint,” I said.

  Don gave me another theatrical smile. “You’re welcome,” he said. “Hope you have luck finding this Gillan bloke.”

  “If it’s not him, it’ll be someone else. No worries.”

  We made for the exit when a man blocked our path. He was a pub-standard hard man, with a distended beer gut, heavily jowled face, and flattened, scarred knuckles that had broken and bruised far too many jaws in their time. His two carbon-copy friends backed him up from a distance – close enough to curry favour and far enough to turn tail and run if it all went wrong.

  The man’s first mistake was blocking our path. His second mistake was putting his right hand on my brother’s chest. He didn’t get the chance to make a third mistake, and say the little speech he’d prepared in his head the moment we first walked through the door.

  My brother grabbed the man’s fingers and bent them back. They went snap, crackle and pop as they broke. The man let out a high-pitched squeal that my brother quickly silenced with a forehead to the face. He started to fall, but my brother grabbed him by the collar, pulled him forward and used the momentum to slam the man’s mug into the bar counter. Then my brother turned away before his victim had even hit the ground. The man’s two friends slunk back into the murmuring crowd, keeping their heads low as we passed.

  We exited into the car park, and I began looking for the old man. He stood about two hundred metres down the road, out of sight of the pub, smoking a cigarette. He didn’t look in our direction, but I could tell that he knew we were there because he suddenly dropped the fag on the pavement, ground it out, and began walking away from us slowly. I moved in his direction with Mark and my brother close behind. We caught up with the man and turned the corner into another street.

  “Walk and talk,” the man said, picking up speed.

  “Ged, right?”

  He didn’t look at me. Pulled his jacket around his body and shivered.

  “That’s right,” he answered. “You’re after Tony Gillan?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, you won’t find him at home. Not no more.”

  “And why’s that then?”

  “‘Cause the moment you stepped out the door, Don will have phoned him. If he knows you’re after him, he’ll go elsewhere.”

  “Why’re you helping us?”

  “Who says I’m helping?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  He shook his head. “I’m conducting a business transaction. Your little sideshow in there wasn’t exactly subtle. Don’s not an idiot – he knew you were after Tony the moment you popped your question, and not for no smuggling racket either.”

  “So whaddaya want?”

  “What do people like me usually want?”

  “How much?”

  “Two hundred quid buys you his girlfriend’s address.”

  “That’s a bit pricey.”

  “It is what it is, mate,” he said, glancing at me for the first time. “I’ve gotta supplement my pension somehow. Houses don’t heat themselves.”

  “Actually, they do. They call it central heating.”

  Ged glared at me. “Be a funny fucker on someone else’s time,” he said. “Another wisecrack and the price doubles.”

  I told him that I’d talk to my partners and dropped back to where my brother and Mark were walking in silence. I rummaged around in my wallet and pulled out a couple of twenties along with a few pound coins. I told them the price of the information we needed. Mark gave me the contents of his wallet and my brother, after some complaining, emptied his wallet, too. It was just over half the amount we needed. I picked up speed again and sidled up to Ged. We turned another corner.

  “We’ve only got a hundred and ten.”

  “That’s a pity,” Ged said with a sigh. “That wasn’t what I asked for. But then again, I suspected you wouldn’t have it all.”

  We turned another corner and I realised where we were. Ged had taken us on a walk to Marton Road. There was a small supermarket across the road with a cash machine in the wall next to it.

  “The price hasn’t changed,” he said.

  I jogged across the road, used my card to take out a couple of hundred quid and jogged back again. I handed him the money. He folded it, put it in his inside coat pocket and pulled the jacket tight.

  “He’s got a girlfriend, Mary Clarke, over in Normanby. Lambton Street. But
if you want to know where he rests his head, then you can go and check his place on Eden Road. I doubt he’ll be there by the time you arrive, but you never know.”

  I asked him for the house numbers. He gave me the Eden Road number, but said he didn’t have the girlfriend’s, only the street name. I figured I’d just look for the house with a crappy brown Fiesta out front. Every time I looked at the old man I was surprised by the lack of fear on his face. He was unfazed by this, like betraying another villain was nothing.

  “You not worried?” I asked.

  Ged shrugged. “About grassing up Gillan? Couldn’t care less. I’m seventy-five next year and my wife’s seventy-three,” he said. “I don’t see nobody else lining up to look after us, so it’s up to me to earn a crust. If that means selling out pieces of garbage like Gillan then so be it. Anyway, even if Gillan realises that somebody gave him up, they probably won’t think it’s me. I’m a collection of stories now, told by people who weren’t there. Does it matter that less than thirty years ago I was cutting off fingers for some of the area’s top villains? Nope. Does it matter that I’ve still got full use of my faculties? Nope. Old age has wiped my sins clean. I’m a joke without a punchline. And even if Gillan does work out it was me, I’ve got a gun, a machete, and some very large knives at home, I won’t make it easy for him.”

  “Well, he won’t hear it from me.”

  Ged nodded and walked away at a fast clip. He pulled his jacket around him, turned the corner and was gone. We jogged back to where the car was. I was relieved to find that it was still there, although the youths were gone.

  When we got in the car, I realised why they had disappeared. They had taken my car stereo with them.

  15.

  We drove to Eden Road, did a swift drive-by, parked around the corner and walked to the address that Ged had given us. It was a pebble-dashed semi with an overgrown front garden and a path full of broken paving slabs that led to a rotten front door. At the side of the property was a tall wooden gate. We went through it and into the rear of the property.