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

by Martin Stanley

  The back garden was as overgrown as the front, but in amongst this jungle of tall grass and unkempt shrubs was the detritus of previous tenants; old hoses weaved through the grass like long, thin snakes; bike frames rusted into the damp soil; soggy takeaway boxes were picked at by rats that scurried back into the undergrowth when they realised they were not alone.

  I went to the back door, knelt down and started working the locks with my picks. Mark reclined against the wall and watched me. “For a man who’s mostly legit, you do seem to know a lot about criminal activities.”

  “Before I worked for Piper,” I said, working the torsion wrench into the bottom part of the tumbler. “I did a lot of jobs. Gas meter reader, van driver, but my longest job was as a locksmith. Learning how to pick these things is one of the main skills you need and it’s all on the up-and-up. You have no idea how many people managed to lock themselves out of the house because of these Yales.” Then I pressed the pick against the first pin, felt it rise into place, and did the same with the rest of the pins, then applied pressure with the wrench and turned the tumbler. Voila.

  I opened the door and walked inside. We went through the kitchen and into the living room. There was a half-full mug of tea on a glass coffee table in front of a two-seat sofa. I pressed the back of my hand against it and felt a faint trace of warmth. I looked at Mark and my brother. “The old guy was right. Don must’ve phoned this prick the moment we left the pub. Let’s search this place. Take a room each. Work it till there are no nooks and crannies left. Whatever cash we can find, we take it all. If there’s any jewellery, expensive watches, any of that shit, you grab it and we’ll sell it later.”

  ------

  I took the master bedroom and started with the most obvious places first. I checked inside the drawers, taking out all the clothes and unfolding them, to ensure that notes hadn’t been stashed in there, then I took out the drawers themselves and checked for money taped in place. Nada.

  I rifled through the wardrobe, checking pockets and folds for money. Again, nothing. Using my strength, I lowered the wardrobe down onto the bed and checked the back and bottom panels. When I realised that there was nothing to be found, I put the wardrobe back in its original position.

  Next it was the bed that came under scrutiny, lifting the mattress and checking it for holes, scouring the box frame for similar, turning it over to look for stacks of notes taped to the base. And still there was nothing. It didn’t make sense, this guy had cleared out in a hurry, too quickly to take all his money with him, which meant that there had to be something somewhere, unless Dandy was making his employees work for pittance.

  I went into the smaller bedroom and found Mark pressing his fingertips against the fabric covering of an overturned bed frame.

  “Anything?”

  He shook his head. “Not a fuckin’ thing. No notes, just loose change.”

  “This is bullshit. I’ve never been in a house where there’s no money.”

  “I’m gonna check the attic in a minute,” he replied. “There has to be something, anything, in this fuckin’ place.”

  I left him and moved downstairs, where I found my brother on the sofa smoking a spliff in silence. He’d torn the place apart; shelves had been wrenched from walls, stuffing had been pulled from chairs, and even the carpets had been torn up in places.

  “Don’t say a fuckin’ word,” he growled. “I’ve torn this faggot’s nest to pieces and I’ve not found owt, not a single fuckin’ penny. There’s nowt here.”

  I walked around the room and kicked at various objects.

  “Din’tcha fuckin’ hear what I said?” he snarled.

  “Keep your hair on,” I said. “I’m trying to think.”

  “Think someplace else,” he said. “I’m busy.”

  “Smoking joints? Hmm, that’s a productive use of your time.”

  He pulled the joint out of his mouth and extinguished it between his fingers. If he felt any pain it didn’t register on his face. “Hows about I spend my time kicking your fuckin’ peanut head around this room?”

  I lifted my t-shirt and showed him the butt of my gun. “That’ll be a neat trick without the use of your kneecaps,” I replied. “Now check this fuckin’ room again.”

  My brother’s eyes narrowed into a hate-filled glare. “Any other pointless fuckin’ tasks you’d like us to do, while you’re at it? Hows about I clean the back fuckin’ garden, too?”

  I stopped in mid-stride and looked at him. There must have been something in my expression, because he started grinning at me.

  “You think…”

  “Who knows?” I replied. “Maybe.”

  We went into the garden and walked around for a while. I heard the rats scuttling away to their dark hidey-holes, which were plentiful in the grass that brushed against my waist. Curling his lip in disgust, my brother stomped at creatures both real and imagined and kicked a can that rattled away down the garden. “There’s fuckin’ rats everywhere.”

  “Then keep your gloves on.”

  “There’s probably smack needles here as well.”

  “Maybe. Just be careful.”

  “Can rat bites give you AIDS?”

  “What?” I replied, staring long and hard at him. It was obvious by his worried expression that he wasn’t joking. “Seriously, what the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Steve Milton sez rats can give you AIDS.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Seemed plausible at the time.”

  “Plausible?” I replied with a shake of the head. “Were you all on drugs?”

  “Was sober, actually. On our way to do a morning collection for Piper.”

  “And where’d he hear this?”

  “Sez he heard it on the radio, like.”

  “Which station was this? Radio C.U.N.T?”

  “Naw, he’s deadly serious.”

  “He’s a serious fuckin’ idiot,” I said. “And so are you for believing him. Fuckin’ AIDS? That clown should spend less time listening to the radio and more time reading fuckin’ books.”

  “So they can’t give youse AIDS, then?”

  “No.”

  My brother nodded, hunkered down in the grass and started rummaging around. I let him explore a bit, before I added: “Now, if he’d said anything about Weil’s disease or Bubonic plague then I would’ve agreed with him.”

  My brother almost fell into the grass in his eagerness to get to his feet. He stared at his dirty gloves for a few seconds before directing his gaze at me. “You’re a right bastard,” he said. “You let me rummage around in this filthy fuckin’ shite.”

  I chuckled. “Just give your hands a good rinse.”

  “And what about the gloves?”

  “What about them?”

  “They’re fuckin’ ruined now.”

  “So?”

  “These are top-notch Italian leather designer gloves.”

  “Please. They’re fuckin’ pleather,” I replied. “And I watched you nick ‘em from a stall in Dundas Arcade – two pairs for a fiver, remember? The owner probably saw you and was glad to see them taken, because they’re shit.”

  My brother pointed at his left glove. “You owe us money for these. Real money.”

  “As opposed to what? Monopoly money? ‘Cause frankly that’s all they’re worth.”

  My brother’s complexion darkened and his jaw muscles tightened. “You owe me.”

  “Fine, I’ll give you two-fifty when we’re done.”

  My brother tore off the gloves and threw them on the ground. “You can stick your two-fifty where the sun doesn’t shine.” He rummaged around in his pocket and pulled out an identical pair, probably the other ones that he’d stolen. He looked at me as he put them on, almost willing me to say something, so that he would have an excuse for some violence.

  I shook my head at his audacity but remained silent.

  “You can look around on your own,” he said and spat on the ground. “I hope a rat bites y
ou and your fuckin’ arm falls off.”

  I waved him back into the house. Before slamming the door shut, my brother gave me the V-sign. I laughed as I imagined him rinsing his hands under the sink for several minutes like some sort of cut-price Howard Hughes.

  I stomped around and examined anything that looked like it might contain money. I knew that rats and mice liked paper, because it made good nesting material, so I hoped that if Gillan had concealed his money out here he’d at least done a thorough job of it and not just put it in a plastic bag that rodents could easily gnaw through. It didn’t matter though, because I found nothing.

  When I went back inside, my brother had his back to me and appeared to be looking through Gillan’s food boxes. I was about to congratulate him on his good thinking when I realised that actually he was putting his hands in Gillan’s food in order to pass on whatever imaginary ailment he’d contracted from the garden. When he realised that he wasn’t alone, he turned around. “Find owt?”

  “Nothing.”

  “This prick’s seriously pissing me off,” he said and went back to wiping his hands on Gillan’s food.

  I sat on a plastic dining chair and started thinking about hiding places that wouldn’t be immediately obvious to burglars or villains. The money obviously wasn’t in either of the two bedrooms, and it wasn’t in the living room or the garden, and it didn’t seem as though Mark would have much luck in the attic, so the kitchen seemed like the only logical place, assuming that Gillan had any money to stash away.

  Gazing around the room, I took in the details, studied the fixtures, and thought about places where I might consider hiding money. My eyes raked across the floor, the cupboards, the sink unit, the oven, the walls, and then I saw it. High up the wall, above the window, a ventilation grate. It was a relic from the days before kitchen extractor fans became commonplace. I climbed on to one of the units and studied the thing. It was aluminium with narrow down-facing slats. I put my hand against it and felt cool air brush against my skin. I tried to peer inside, but couldn’t really make anything out. I tested the screws with the blade of my pocketknife. They were looser than they should have been, which meant that they had been tampered with at some point. I unscrewed them and removed the grille.

  A metal tea caddy had been placed halfway along the ventilation shaft. I grabbed it, jumped down and opened the lid. A fat roll of notes wrapped in elastic bands had been wedged inside. A quick count revealed that it was just shy of four grand.

  “How much?”

  “Not enough.”

  My brother stopped contaminating Gillan’s food, went to the bottom of the stairs and shouted for Mark. Both men came into the kitchen. Mark looked at the unspooled roll in my hands. The disappointment on his face was plain to see; he could tell just by the size of the wad that it wasn’t enough.

  “We going to the girlfriend’s?” he asked.

  I put the money back in the caddy.

  “Doesn’t look like we’ve got much of a choice.”

  16.

  We parked around the corner from Lambton Street and approached it from the top end, through a cobbled one-car alley with a group of private garages to our left. Five teenagers, ranging from early to late teens, and dressed in similar tracksuits, had their backs against the garage doors. They watched us with beady eyes that became even more attentive when they realised we were approaching them.

  “Jog on, fella,” said the tallest of them, a gangly youth with pallid skin and greasy close-cropped hair, who stepped away from the garages with his fists clenched, ready to throw some hooks.

  I grinned. “Oh, then if you don’t want my money…”

  We walked away slowly, giving the kids enough time to hiss a series of foul-mouthed insults and demands at each other. As we were turning the corner, a voice rang out. “Ow, ow, fella. Ere, gadgie?”

  I winked at my brother, who was already smirking, and turned to face the gangly youth. “What?”

  “You a paedo?”

  My brother coughed a laugh into his hand and stepped around the corner, out of sight, where he cackled loudly. Mark grinned in my direction and also stepped out of sight, in order to laugh. I moved a few steps back in the direction of the garage.

  “No. Why?”

  “Not being funny, like, but we was all hanging round here not so long ago,” he said with a sniff, “and some fuckin’ paedos drove up to us and tried to grab Little Mikey over there.”

  The youth turned and wafted his hand in the direction of the main group. The smallest boy stepped away from the other teens and waved at me before one of them pulled him back into the fold and rubbed his head roughly. The boy laughed and tried to fight his way free. The rest of the kids also laughed and piled in, throwing soft punches at each other.

  “Hope you gave them a kicking?” I said.

  The gangly youth’s face took on a sad expression and he shook his head. “Nah. Never got the chance. Fuckers took off before we had a chance to nab ‘em, like. So, you can understand why we’s a bit cautious.”

  I searched my pocket and held up three of Gillan’s twenties. The youth’s eyes widened and he took a step closer. “Whaddaya want?”

  “Just some information.”

  “Oh, aye?”

  “Mary Clarke.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly, and a delicate smile curved the line of his lips. I had the feeling he knew her well.

  “Take it she’s a friend?”

  “Of a sort,” he replied, unable to control the grin that spread across his face.

  “What sort?”

  “Shagged her a few times,” he said. “Scary Mary. Proper filth, she is. Will do owt for the right price. Even popped Little Mikey’s cherry.”

  “Doesn’t look old enough.”

  “He isn’t. Just turned fourteen.”

  “Christ.”

  “Like I sez, she’s proper filth.”

  “You know her boyfriend?”

  The smile faltered. “Tony the tit? Yeah, I know him. His knuckles met my face a few months back.”

  “Over Mary?”

  The lad nodded. Another thin smile appeared.

  I thrust the money at him. “Sixty quid for her house number,” I said.

  He looked undecided about taking the cash. “You gonna hurt her?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “You gonna hurt him?”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

  He grinned and reached towards the cash, but at the last minute I pulled it out of his reach. The youth stumbled forward trying to grab the notes and nearly bumped into me. He backed off a step and stared in my direction with raised eyebrows.

  “Or how would you like to make another two-hundred on top?”

  His yellow grin widened.

  “I’d like that a lot.”

  17.

  The set-up was sweet.

  Mark lingered at the top-end of Lambton Street, watching the youths who waited for his signal, and my brother and I jumped a fence, went down a back alley and counted houses until we were at the tall rear wall of the girlfriend’s property. Once in place, we texted Mark and told him to give the kids the signal.

  Using the baseball bat we had given them, the kids proceeded to smash Gillan’s Fiesta, causing as much damage as they could in as short a space of time as possible. We heard them from the alley: the thud of the bat against bonnet and glass, the mocking cries of the kids, Gillan’s voice as he roared at them to stop before making more direct threats, the sound of laughter that faded quickly as the kids ran down the street with Gillan in pursuit.

  The text came in: TG out. Go now.

  We scaled the walls and dropped into the back yard. It was all brick and concrete without a single patch of green. It still had one of those old outdoor toilet cubicles, from the days when indoor plumbing was considered a luxury. I started to crouch at the rear door, in order to work the lock, but my brother pushed me out of the way. “Haven’t got time to start fannying about with yo
ur fuckin’ tooth picks,” he said.

  He took a running start, jumped and did a flying kick at the point where the Yale lock was. His foot hit the door, followed by the rest of him, and he landed in a heap on the floor. He wailed and hissed and rubbed at his knee.

  The door remained unharmed.

  I gave him a slow clap for effort. “Good show, Coco,” I said. “But it needs more practice for when the circus next comes to town.”

  He was unsteady as he got to his feet. “Get fucked.”

  I crouched down again and put the picks in the lock. I didn’t get much of an opportunity to work my magic. The door opened, and I found myself staring down the business end of a pump-action shotgun. The barrel looked familiar. I had the distinct feeling that I’d made its acquaintance earlier in the day, but this time it wasn’t an inexperienced junky holding the weapon.

  It was John Dandridge, and he didn’t look pleased to see me.

  “On your feet, fuck-stick.”

  I did as I was told, then looked at my brother. “If it isn’t the Dandy?”

  My brother smirked. “Was more partial to the Beano meself.”

  Dandridge smashed me in the face with the gun barrel. Warm blood filled my mouth and flowed down my throat. I spat a huge gob of it on the concrete and glared at him.

  A large, wonky grin spread across his face. “Next time you crack wise, gadge, they’ll be picking pieces of your fuckin’ skull outta this yard for the next six months.”

  A tall, stocky black man with a shaved head appeared from behind Dandridge holding the other shotgun, which he angled in my brother’s direction. It looked like they had got themselves set up while we were busy pissing around in Gillan’s back garden.

  “Did Don let you know?” I asked.

  “Don told Tony,” Dandridge replied. “Ged Holland told me that you were sniffing around.”

  A humourless chuckle escaped my lips. “Clever old cunt.”

  Part of me wanted to feel angry towards the old duffer, but couldn’t; I had too much admiration for the way he had played his hand. Taking money from all sides and still coming out of it clean was the mark of the truly gifted. Ged had stated that he was a joke without a punchline, but he was nothing of the sort. He was the one telling the joke and we were his punchline. I hoped that he and his wife enjoyed their warm winter.