by Shaun Baines
The plot was over twenty acres and littered with the bodies of dead cars. Engine parts hid from the rain under weathered tarpaulin. Tyres were stacked in columns, like the trunks of charred trees. Cubes of scrap metal waited to be collected and shipped abroad It was a declining income, but a useful one.
The main business was housed in a makeshift garage at the rear, out of sight of legitimate customers. Bronson liked to think it was a lucrative addition to an almost legal business, but it wasn't true. Business was drying up and he wondered if Daniel was right. Perhaps there was something happening on the streets they didn't know about.
Parking by the portacabin office, he stepped into a pool of dark oil.
"Give me a bloody break," he said, wiping his shoes on a clump of weeds.
"Isn't that supposed to be a sign of good luck?" Masani was in her fifties with a round body and drooping chest. She claimed to have burnt her last bra in 1977, the day she landed on British shores from her native Uganda. "Britain is the land of equality," she often said and Bronson didn't like to argue. She wore blue nail extensions and blue overalls, stained and patched with old curtain material. Cradled in her arms was a Benjamin Marauder air rifle.
"That's bird shit," Bronson said, "and the way my day is going, there'll be an ostrich flying overhead any minute."
Masani laughed, her ruddy cheeks rippling.
He pointed at her rifle. "Get much?"
Masani produced two dead rats, swinging them by the tail. Vermin were rife at any scrap yard. Without Masani, they'd be overrun.
"Come in," she said. "I'll make you a cuppa."
Bronson followed her inside and sat at his desk while Masani busied herself in the kitchenette. The portacabin was single walled and a haven for black mould, which they hid behind dinted filing cabinets and out-of-date calendars. The floor was made from tin, swept clean by Marvin at the end of every working day.
Masani's husband worked at his computer. Round like his wife, Marvin sported a halo of white hair around a white head. He wore a checked shirt and striped tie, and didn't seem to care. In thick glasses and still short-sighted, his face was all but pressed against his computer screen.
"Anything come in today?" Bronson asked, staring at his desk.
Marvin didn't look up. "Sprout brought in a heap of shit earlier. You better talk to that boy. His brains are where his balls should be."
"Anything else?"
Masani walked into the room with two cups of steaming tea. She handed the first to her husband, kissing him on his scalp and handed the second cup to Bronson.
"I've finished with that Jag," she said. "Needed a new carb and a few sparks, but she'll go."
"Is it clean?"
"Cleaner than me, you dirty man," Masani said with a snort. "But, yeah, it's untraceable."
Bronson faced his desk. It was empty and dust free. Marvin must have polished it before he came in. There were no papers to sign, no Post-It notes marked urgent. He sighed and got to his feet. "Has there been anything odd going on around here? Anything suspicious?"
"No more than usual," Marvin said.
"Any strange men hanging about?"
"Just you."
Masani and Marvin had run their business for years. They could recognise shifty from a mile off. They weren't hardened criminals, but they knew how to bend the law to make a buck. Bronson was decoration, a tired piece of tinsel on a well-maintained Christmas tree. The Dayton name had bought him a slice of their action and he was grateful. He had nowhere else to go.
"Well, I better have a word with Sprout, then." He made his way across the yard, avoiding oil slicks where he could. The doors to the garage were open and he stood outside looking in. The floor was poured concrete and wet from a leaking roof. The Jaguar was there. Its purple finish gleamed under lighting hanging from chains in the ceiling. He'd call the buyer later and tell him his getaway was ready.
There was copper wiring from the local Metro system and a cache of false number plates in a filing cabinet. Three empty wheel clamps leaned against the wall. Their stickers revealed a phone number to an automated service demanding an extortionate payment before the vehicle could be released. The clamps were a nice little earner, but only if they were used.
He found his trainee slumped in a sagging two-seater sofa. Arnie Brussel, nicknamed Sprout for obvious reasons, was eighteen years old, thin and covered with cheap tattoos that looked like they might run in the rain. As always, he was engrossed in his mobile phone, his fingers dancing over the screen as he sent another Facebook message or Snapchat or any other bloody thing he wasn't supposed to be doing during work hours.
By his feet were two empty polystyrene food containers from a local restaurant called Big Mackem Fries. Bronson recognised one of them from yesterday.
"What are they doing here?" Bronson asked, pointing at the wheel clamps.
Sprout jumped, his phone falling to the floor. He picked it up and shoved it into his tracksuit. "What do you mean, boss?"
Bronson's cheek twitched at the vacant face staring back at him.
"They're no good sitting there, are they? They're supposed to be out stopping parents taking their kids to school or pensioners getting to bingo."
"The phone number is broke. I've been clamping people and they can't get through to have them removed. We have to get it fixed."
Bronson kicked the takeaway cartons to the back of the garage. They slid into the pile from last week.
There was a tring from Sprout's phone and he made to answer it, halting under Bronson's glare.
"I see your phone is working fine," Bronson said. "Who's so important you have to be in constant contact with them?"
Sprout's face dropped and Bronson understood immediately. "Is it that girl?" he asked.
"Who? Kimberley?"
Scratching the corner of his eye, Bronson fought his rising irritation. "I thought her name was Julie."
"Yeah, yeah," Sprout said. "It was Julie. She's pregnant."
"I know she's pregnant and so did you when you hooked up with her."
The teenager groped for his phone, tapping on the screen. "She's really nice," he said. "Sometimes."
"Why don't you find yourself a quiet girl? Someone you can be with without worrying if her waters are going to break?"
Collapsing into the dirty sofa, a cloud of muck engulfed Sprout's sullen face. "I did once. Well, sort of. I met Kimberley at school, but – "
"It wasn't complicated enough?" Bronson asked, interjecting. "You kids love the drama, don't you? Gives you something to put on Facebook. So, have you found out who the dad is yet?"
Sprout's face hardened, but not at Bronson's question. His eyes narrowed and he looked over Bronson's shoulder to the yard. Bronson followed his gaze. There was nothing to see, except the rusting hulk of a Ford Cortina and gathering storm clouds.
And then, Bronson heard the rumble of motorbikes.
They stepped out of the garage together, listening to the snarls getting louder. Sprout reached for a crowbar lying by the door. Bronson patted down his pockets, finding them empty. He rushed to the wheel clamps and opened a box of six-inch nails they used when wheel clamps weren't insufficient. Returning to the door, Bronson and Sprout waited. Masani and Marvin came to the windows of the portacabin, their faces like Victorian ghosts in a haunted house.
The first motorbike was red, riding in on its back tyre as a second followed, spray painted in blue. It bounced off a pothole and sprung into the air. A third bike in white drove in slowly, stopping next to Bronson's BMW. The rider produced a baseball bat and shattered the brake lights.
The riders weren't wearing helmets. They wore black masks decorated in white skulls, but Bronson knew who they were.
He raced forward, the six-inch nails like daggers in his hand. Sprout was behind him. Masani smashed a window and pushed her air rifle through the gap. She fired indiscriminately, sending the riders fleeing.
Gravel spat into the air as the bikes leapt onto the shells of ca
rs, bouncing back onto the track at speed. The riders hollered like savages. Every time Bronson got close, jabbing the air with the nail, they banked and zipped away, peppering him with oily stones.
Protecting his face with a forearm, Bronson yelled at Sprout. "They're after the garage. Lock the doors."
Chapter Nine
Sprout launched a suspension coil at a passing rider and missed. He ran back to the garage, pursued by two growling motorbikes. Masani was out of the cabin, her air rifle chocked against her shoulder. The pellets winged the Red rider. He skidded, toppling from his bike into the side of the Cortina.
Bronson jumped on him, ready to use the nail. The material of the skull mask stretched as the rider screamed. Bronson ripped it clear and saw the face of a frightened middle-aged man, a tattooed skull by his eye.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," the rider said. "They made me do it. I needed the money."
Trembling under Bronson's grasp, the man squirmed to be free. His eyes twitched and Bronson's cheek twitched back. He gasped for breath, licking a dry tongue over his lips.
Bronson was unable to hurt him, no matter what the rider's intentions were. He was too pathetic and in too deep, but there was always a price to pay. Bronson held the nail aloft, pretending like he was about to bring it down. He scowled at the Red rider, scaring him into submission.
The White rider screeched to halt behind them and swung his bat into Bronson's wrist. There was a crunch and the nail flew from his hand. Bronson yelled, diving to one side. The White rider drove in the direction of the garage, leaving his cohort to scramble for the exit.
The pain in Bronson's wrist radiated up to his shoulder. He rolled to a crouch. "If they take the Jag, we're finished."
Masani was at his side, dropping to her right knee. She swung the air rifle left and right. A volley of shots kicked up dust between the two remaining bikes. "They're too fast," she said.
"Don't you have a bigger gun?" Bronson asked.
"I love you," she said, "but you're not worth killing over."
Sprout was at the garage, half closing the doors, half watching the motorbikes buzzing around the yard like hornets. The Blue and White riders converged and sped down a path, disappearing in a haze of exhaust fumes. Bronson and Masani followed, but lost them among the wreckage. The roar of the bike engines echoed off metal corridors, masking their location. They were close, but hidden in the rear of the scrapyard.
"Get ready," Bronson said. "They're coming back."
Masani took cover behind a creaking pile of pistons. Bronson ran to the garage, pushing Sprout inside. "Don't come out," he said and ran to the copper wiring. Using cutters, he snipped off a six-foot length and snatched Sprout's crowbar as he went back outside.
The Blue rider circled the garage, preparing to make a final assault. The White rider charged at Bronson, holding his bat up high.
Masani levelled her rifle and squeezed off a round. Two pellets made their mark, striking the White rider in his thigh. He swerved, sliding in a haze of gravel.
Bronson's fingers moved quickly as he tied the copper wire around one end of the crowbar.
The White rider made another pass, gathering speed. Bronson ducked under the bat swinging for his head and cracked his makeshift whip. The wire caught in the rear tyre of the bike, wrapping itself around the axle. The crowbar flew from Bronson's hands, embedding itself in the spokes of the wheel. The White rider was thrown, his bike somersaulting over his head. Its spinning front tyre struck his face and he dropped to the ground.
The Blue rider idled by a disused toilet block. He glanced toward something Bronson couldn't see and revved his engine. But he seemed to change his mind. Skidding to a stop, he dragged the White rider onto the back of his bike. Wobbling, they navigated the scrapyard and took their leave empty-handed.
"What the hell was that all about?" Bronson asked.
Masani cocked her air rifle and grabbed Bronson's injured wrist, rubbing it gently.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
He nodded and Masani smiled. "What would we do without you, eh, boss?"
Bronson gave her a half smile, returning his gaze to the toilet block. What had the rider been looking at?
He walked along a path around the block. It was wider than Bronson remembered, but it was the transit van he found more surprising. He studied it, looking through the windows. The seats were tattered and the floor was littered with food wrappers.
"Picked it up this morning," Sprout said, handing a set of keys to Bronson. "I know it's a shit heap, but it was just sitting there. Right outside my flat. The engine was running and everything. I pretty much had to steal it, didn't I?"
The riders were Maguire men. Bronson was sure of it. Skull masks were their hallmark, but no-one went to that much trouble for a van this close to falling apart. He kicked a tyre as if it might reveal the van's significance. It had to be hiding something. There had to be something inside.
Bronson unlocked the rear doors. The back was lined with wood. The interior light was broken, but he didn't need it to see the van was empty, save for a briefcase. It was unlocked and that was empty, too.
Bronson scratched his head, turning as Marvin crept up behind him.
"Where were you when we needed you?" Bronson asked. "Polishing the underside of your desk again?"
Masani stood in front of her husband, pushing Bronson back with a solid hand. "My baby is a lover, not a fighter."
Her eyes flared and Bronson lowered his gaze to the ground.
"They could have taken the Jag or the copper or anything," Bronson said, "so why this?"
"Is this the first time you've looked in here?" Marvin asked Sprout.
The teenager pocketed his phone. "I've been busy."
Marvin spat on the ground and went to the van. "You need to educate yourself, son." His fingers ran over the inner lining, stopping at a crack in the wood. Finding purchase, he tugged a section free. Silver packages spilled into the van coming to rest in a heap.
"The first place you look is behind what you see," Marvin said.
"What are those?" Sprout asked.
Marvin handed one of the packages to his wife. Masani brought it to her nose and her eyes glistened. "That's us back in the money. That's coke."
Sprout punched the air. Masani's face split into a grin. Marvin adjusted his ugly tie, his circular face glowing.
"Okay, get this stuff into the office," Bronson said. "Weigh it out. Let's see what we've got and when you're done, lock it away."
He turned his back on them, tracing the web of tyre marks in the dirt. He found the skull mask he'd torn from the Red rider's face. Dusting it off, he held it against the grey of the sky, watching it flutter like the flag of a pirate ship.
His motley crew laughed as they piled blocks of cocaine into their arms. Their luck was changing, Bronson thought. He just had to work out if it was good luck or bad. What was given could easily be taken away and if that happened…
By chance, they had stolen the key to the Dayton's return to power while also dealing a heavy blow to their enemies. The deal would have to be approved by Daniel, but his boss had been behaving erratically of late. He seemed more intent on spending money than making it, lavishing gifts upon his daughter while nurturing his paranoia and distrust. Daniel needed to take his head out of his arse and put it back in the game. They wouldn't survive another Maguire attack. Their luck was changing, but not by that much.
These were desperate times and Bronson wanted to help.
He marched to his damaged car, deciding to step over a line he never thought he'd cross.
Chapter Ten
Daniel stepped from the pavement to the road, wandering through the market stalls of Newcastle Quayside. The red faced traders shouted over the din of buskers and street performers. Daniel ambled by a stall of painted pebbles proclaiming messages of love. The trader next door, a round woman in a tracksuit, sold knock-off football strips.
Over the river, on the Gateshead side of t
he Tyne, was a concert hall called The Sage, housed in silver scales. The Baltic Flour Mill, a prestigious art gallery, was next door, but it was the bazaar of canvas covered scaffolding that drew the jostling crowds.
Daniel walked through the shoppers with ease, his size and demeanour parting them like Moses at the Red Sea. By the Millennium Bridge was a carousel where Eisha was strapped to a pink giraffe. He'd paid the attendant extra to keep her there while he pursued business of his own. Assuring himself she was still smiling and not overcome with motion sickness, Daniel slipped down a gap between two stalls and leaned against the black railings overlooking the river.
A man approached, an oily ponytail hanging down his back. His suit was cheap and shiny at the elbows. His aftershave reached Daniel before he did and under his arm was a manila file.
"I don't have to do this," the man said, handing over the file.
Daniel took a pebble painted with a picture of a heart and pitched it into the water. "Then stop losing your rent at the roulette tables."
Sliding a cigarette between his lips, DCI Spencer moved it to the corner of his mouth. He patted his pockets and frowned. He patted them again and rummaged through the lining.
"Stop fannying on," Daniel said. "What have you got for me?"
A rattle came from Spencer's trousers and he produced a crumpled box of matches. Lighting his cigarette, blue jets of smoke shot from Spencer's nostrils. "I could get sacked for this," he said.
Daniel weighed the file in his large hand. "Bit thin, isn’t it?"
"You didn't give me much to go on."
The papers in the file were yellow with age. Daniel was familiar with arrest sheets, but he couldn't see one there. He saw handwritten addendums to profile sheets and cover notes to case histories. Grainy, black and white photographs were pinned to a list of suspicions amounting to speculation.
Daniel thrust the file back into Spencer's arms. "There's nothing there. Tell me about the gaps in between."
Finishing his cigarette, Spencer ground the butt under his heel. "I don't owe you money. You can't summon me the way you used to."