‘I got one for yers all like, how about you lot giving me a bloody girlfriend!’
That elicited a few half-laughs, though nobody was quite sure what the fuck he was on about.
Mac fleshed out his idea.
‘They probably wouldn’t buy me being interested in anything beyond the weed, that’s the problem with our working man thing - got me pegged as too straight for that but me with a scrubber girlfriend in tow with a taste for the heavy gear. That might work.’
Young liked it and so did DI Bowden.
‘Hmmm what about Judy Crouch? She’d scrub up well.’ Bowden said.
Mac nodded along to the suggestion, ‘aye, she’d be good for the job our Jude.’
Bowden delegated Young to make the necessary calls and they moved on briefly to the Quays.
‘Our lads are in there tomorrow,’ Bowden told them, ‘ready to go in there as soon as the prick makes his tracks to the warehouse. There’s no land-line so we’ll have to use a general voice and movement activated mike. Not ideal, but the tapes will be ready to run in the Portakabin.’
Bowden nodded over towards a lugubrious sergeant by the name of Lumb who was overseeing the technical side of the operation.
‘Tapes will be picked up, replaced and then transcripted on a daily basis,’ Lumb said, which was almost a speech for him. Mozzer referred to him as ‘the embalmed one.’
Darrin was on duty at the Quays on the Friday and back on with Mac on Saturday, which would be the night that the ‘girlfriend’ would be introduced. Apparently, Judy was a jock from up Aberdeen way so that would pre-empt the problem of any local association.
Bowden wrapped it up and, before he left, he had a brief chat with Mozzer who’d gotten past his shittiness and was even starting to be a little enthused by the energy of the team. He would have to be, because Bowden and Young wouldn’t be prepared to carry a plump middle-aged rooster that no longer crowed. Moz would have to piss or get off the pot.
Anyway, they were paired up on the Friday - him on camera, Moz on headphones.
‘Butch and Sundance,’ according to Young, which brought a few laughs.
‘Stan and Olly more like,’ said Mac, which got a lot more.
The ribbing didn’t bother him - Darrin was part of the team and that, for the moment, was enough.
He’d left the car at home and walked home via the old man’s gym. Maybe Tommy Cochrane would be in again and they’d have another spar. He owed him one for the bruised right temple that was still a little tender to the touch. He’d jab his fucking head off this time.
Well, so much for celibacy and single life. Donna had called him late on a Thursday and invited him over for a drink and a chat at her place. They managed to kill the bottle without once mentioning the passion killer that was the kid. She had given him a look then reached over and stroked his thigh and then kept on reaching. They had fucked in the lounge - hungry and hi-energy, even on the dining room table - a work out.
Satiated they’d dragged themselves up to her pristine double bed and lay there and talked at length in the balmy night. He had one ear on the insistent sound of an owl in the nearby park - she’d never heard that before, she told him, maybe it was an omen, she said without saying of what. That made him think briefly of Bonnie. She loved her signs and portents did Bonnie, to her everything was personally relevant and everything was interconnected. He smiled at the memory and realised that he missed her a little. Donna caught the smile and mirrored it, her hand languidly stroking his abdomen.
‘Feeling good babe?’
‘Hmm, it’s hard not to be.’
Her hand circled a little lower.
‘Tired?’
‘I was, but maybe not so tired now,’ she laughed and bit him gently on his ear.
He woke to the sound of her in the en-suite, showering and singing softly to herself. He’d have to get moving and, this time, he definitely needed a change of clothes.
Tommy went in the bathroom and spoke to her through the fog of the shower unit, she popped her head out and they kissed then made some tentative plans for the next few days.
Weekend was off, the kid would be there and he’d let her tell him what he wanted to hear about that one. That, for her, it was best if they kept it separate, the two of them. That was more than jake with him. It meant he could put Uncle Tommy back in the cupboard. He said he’d call her and then he made tracks home - a body wash, a change of clothes and back out to work.
There was a staff meeting on today, Pauline bringing to the table the possible scenarios if they didn’t get the grant. Pretty much everybody would have to go part-time including herself. He didn’t mind really, he had the thing with Sonny up his sleeve and enough in the bank if he had to carry it for a while. Besides, it looked like the summer was kicking off early this year. Hot, slightly humid days and a storm predicted for the upcoming Sunday.
Sonny popped into the meeting to let them know about a couple of incidents that had happened over the weekend, it was the usual litany of urban woe. A female Asian shopkeeper abused and pushed over by a couple of white teenage girls and a school kid attacked and given a - possibly retaliatory - kicking by a group of Asian boys. Hmmm, Tommy thought, long days, school holidays and, according to the media in the irritating parlance of the day, the prospect of a barbecue summer. All of which could be a recipe for a lot of shit going down over the next couple of months. Sonny had had a chat, again, with the Asian community leaders who were confident they could keep a lid on it from their end.
Tommy’s mind left the room for a while. He and Jimbo were planning a trip to York for a bit of culture leavened with a night on the turps. Jimbo reckoned there were easy pickings to be had over there, ‘even for old farts like us.’ Divorcee Central according to Jim, although how he gathered his data was a mystery, Tommy was pretty sure that Google didn’t stretch that far. Anyway, it would be a change of pace and a visit to a town that he had always enjoyed. Summer was usually his favourite season.
Pasquale had planned to go to his Mum’s but he had put it off for another week. She’d given him a couple of chances to change his mind but he’d knocked it back both times. He could tell that the second refusal had irked her a little but she kept it to herself. The predicted storm had hit hard late Sunday evening and Jess and Neil had made a right fucking meal of it - egged on by the fact that Wendy was genuinely shit scared. He’d loved it though - it was a feast for the senses, he’d sat out the back of the refuge in the wild clamour of the noise and the flashes of light only being forced back inside when the rain had arrowed in under the awning that covered the tables and chairs. Five seconds of that and he was pissed wet through. Wendy had chided him for being ‘a dill’ and she’d told him to dry off and get changed.
He didn’t have to accommodate Lurch any more as he had gone off to live with an Aunty, pin dick Al had moved out just a couple of days after Lurch, fostered out to a couple over near Liverpool somewhere. So, it was just the four of them now and that felt great, good company when he wanted it and the luxury of his own space too.
Pasquale took his time with the shower then joined the others for a rake of left over butties, remnants of Wendy and Neil’s traditional Sunday lunch with all the bollocks thrown in - delicious. It was X-Factor night and for once he didn’t mind watching the drama unfold. As he watched the box he kept one ear on the now receding storm, which was moving eastwards away towards the tops.
His mum rang the following evening, just after eight. They had talked about his day, he was doing well with his work even his maths and science was picking up a bit and they had chatted a little about the storm too. It had done some damage to the house, she’d found a leak in her bedroom and bathroom, it looked like the winds may have shifted a couple of slates. He feigned interest, but he was focussed on the upcoming days, he’d seen the weather forecast for the next few days, fine and sunny, perfect for him and Junior to crack on with it.
Later in the week Pasquale saw the flash car again c
ruising through the Coleshaw. Dwayne had turned to give the driver a wave. The guy had nodded in return but hadn’t stopped, turning straight into Sycamore. Dwayne had watched the car for a couple of beats but had made no comment and Pasquale didn’t pay it too much attention either, the car’s novelty was starting to wear off a little. Dwayne gave them the five-minute mark, off to the alley and two packs each, weed and the heavy stuff, £130 in the bin. That meant he’d have £600 or more for the tin.
They pulled out of the alley just as the car was pulling out of Sycamore, the Jag swung out to the middle of Oak and the guy kept it slow, cruising on besides them. He slid down the passenger window to give him a quick look and a smile. Pasquale dredged up a smile in return and the guy turned his attention back to the road. He put his head down and picked up his pedalling - for once leaving Junior in his wake. His heart was pumping hard in his chest but not through the exertion. Junior reeled him in, quickly catching up with him at the intersection and they turned left together down towards the Barrington. The car was in a line of traffic already a couple of hundred yards ahead of them. Pasquale realised that its engine had barely made a sound.
On their first night together down the Quays, Darrin and Moz had spent fours hours in the Portakabin - ten till two a.m. It was a warm evening that had slowly turned into a cool night. They had to put the blow heater on to take the chill off.
There was no sign of Dalton until just after one. Tonight, Dalton was home alone with only some takeaway food as company. The flat door opening had activated the mike and Moz didn’t bother with the headphones so that they could both listen in to the show.
It was just kitchen sounds at first, the tap being run, cupboards opened and closed, the chink of plates and then a microwave being kick started.
The mike was good alright, they could pick up his heavy breathing and the odd sigh and fart. He’d made a call on a mobile that was both brief and perfunctory - to family by the sounds of it. There were a couple of questions about his mum to his sister and a whinge about some cousins who were coming ‘across the pond,’ in the next month or so. From his tone it sounded like Dalton was looking forward to that event as much as a dose of the crabs.
They could hear Keithy tucking into his food, sounds of lip smacking contentment that made him aware of his own hunger - they’d killed the last of the butties over an hour ago. There was plenty of accompanying squeaks and creaks as Keith moved his bulk around on the leather sofa. Ten minutes later, the sound of the sliding of the balcony door and then the single click of a lighter. Dalton making a few self-satisfied there you go then Emperor of the Universe noises out on the balcony. A few minutes silence then a loud snort and Dalton’s rasping bark of a laugh. Dalton had then stepped back into the lounge and busied himself clicking off the lights. There was the sound of a door closing then a few seconds of nothing and then another click and the bug in the bedroom picked him up. Dalton caught on tape pissing like a horse on a rock in the en-suite bog and then, after some brief ablutions, heavily hitting the hay. A prolonged silence, a couple of chow-mein farts, a little bit of tossing and turning and Keithy was out like a light, his shallow breathing becoming slow and heavy. Then they heard a light snore, Keith Dalton lying peacefully in the arms of the Sandman.
He and Moz gave each other a look - quarter to two and that was it, all wrapped up. They were both suitably impressed by the clarity of the mikes, both hungry and starting to get tired. They agreed on a late night kebab and a bit of a debrief. Mozzer was still a little sceptical as to the value of it all.
‘Too fucking smart he is Darrin, no land-line see. No names on the mobile, unless he brings somebody back there, and then they start talking business. What the fuck are we going to get from it, apart from the soundtrack of him enjoying the good life?’
Moz shrugged irritably at it all.
Darrin focused on his kebab and let Mozzer wind down.
‘Remember what you told me Moz - patience, patience.’
For once Moz offered no riposte and then he nodded at him with a rueful smile.
‘You’re right son, taught you well then, din’t I Dazzle boy?’
Darrin saluted him with the remainder of his kebab, ‘that you did Moz that you did - now eat yer bloody grub.’ No harm in keeping the prick happy now was there?
York had been a blast and Jimbo had been right, Quasimodo would have pulled in that town. They had pulled two women as light and easy as the Artful Dodger picking a pocket or two. The four of them had finished the evening cosied up in a smart little semi somewhere on the edge of town and they’d had a little private party. After the consensuals they had a couple of hours sleep and then a taxi back to the B and B to make sure that they didn’t miss the fry up.
The weekend had satiated him, he didn’t feel in any rush to call Donna and he didn’t feel any guilt about it either. He would give some time to catching up with the old man instead. In fact it felt good to be more measured with her, after all, steady as it goes had not been his normal modus operandi and he’d too often had to repent his haste at leisure. For most of his adult life he had oscillated between the two ends of the spectrum, plenty of meaningless but usually enjoyable sex, interspersed with longish, monogamous relationships in which the possibility of marriage, settling down and kids had always been there, shimmering somewhere in the mid-distance but, ultimately, proving to be just a trick of the light. He’d felt that familiar compulsion with Donna, to love and be loved, get in there boots and all. The old, old pattern but the enforced time out because of dramas with the kid and her subsequent pulling away had established parameters that he was happy enough with.
She called him on the Thursday at the Centre. She’d had a bit of roof damage from the weekend’s storm and had suffered a leak that had slightly stained her en-suite wall. She’d booked a roofer to come around tomorrow morning, a friend of a friend, she said.
That evening they went out for a meal and he boxed smart and brought a change of clothes, which meant there would no rushing around before work and it would also give him the opportunity to find out if her en-suite shower unit could comfortably accommodate two adults.
His mum had called him on Friday to say that she couldn’t pick him up and could he get a cab over to her place tomorrow morning. Pasquale arrived there at about eleven and knocked briskly on the door. She opened up, well grim faced. No hello, no embrace, no kiss. He followed her into the lounge and saw the issue in hand before she had to refer to it. His money tin was on the dining room table - lid off and conspicuously empty.
Pasquale looked at her and waited and she did the same. He was conscious of the click of the kitchen wall clock and the fact that he couldn’t keep his right foot still - it silently percussioned out a jittery tattoo on her beloved carpet.
The fucking storm! He thought, cursing his luck.
Her eyes gestured towards the tin, ‘well Pasquale?’
He didn’t know what to say, he was caught inertly between offence and defence.
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Where did you get the money - tell me?’
‘Ermmm, me and Junior we been…’
She raised her eyebrows, no prompts to help him get there, no gap filling.
‘Working,’ he finished.
‘Working! Working doing what exactly Pasquale?’
The game was up but he stayed quiet - silence seemed to be the best fall back position.
There was no way off the hook though he knew that he was fucked.
‘You and Junior are doing what, to make that kind of money Pasquale?’
He shook his head at her, his eyes filling slightly with the frustration.
She did a little half turn and swept the tin off the table. It bounced off the sofa and hit the radiator under the lounge room window - she was as mad as hell.
‘Tell me, or I’ll call the police and you can tell them instead.’
That snapped him out of it.
‘OK, OK we were doing errands.’
<
br /> ‘Errands?’
‘Yeah, moving weed around on our bikes from the Coleshaw to the Barrington.’
He shrugged his shoulders - what’s the big deal?
Her eyes went inward slightly.
‘Who for?’
He shook his head.
‘Who for Pasquale? It’s me or the police - choose.’
‘Alright, alright. A guy called Dwayne, Junior knows him. For fucks sake!’
‘For fucks sake!’ She yelled back. She slapped him, hard, across the side of the head. The blow knocked him off balance and it dizzied him too.
Pasquale steadied himself, his arms rigid at his side his fists curled and pulsing.
The tears came then and the anger.
‘You can fuckin’ talk!’ He shouted.
‘What do you mean?’ she hissed. Her eyes flicking towards the nearest neighbouring wall.
‘You, you did it for years. How did we get that first house eh? You only ever did cleaning work. You think I’m daft you do. You made it that way, why not me?’
She sighed and took a step towards him but he backed away.
Her face had softened, slightly.
‘Listen love, listen. You are putting yourself at risk Pasquale. You are putting everything at risk, your future love, your future.’ She looked down and shook her head. ‘I’m not proud of what I did Pasquale but I had less choice than you do now, you understand that don’t you?’
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