Between Two Thieves

by Solomon Carter

  “What’s this?” said Eva.

  “There was no pricing on your website,” said Lauren. “But from what you’ve achieved, I guess hiring you can’t be cheap. That’s a thousand to get us started.”

  “Lauren, we’re still just talking.”

  “But I need you on board. Now, is that enough?”

  Eva looked at the envelope. “We’d need to fill out some paperwork. To make it official. I’ll need to know everything there is to know.”

  “Fine. You’ve got my email somewhere. Email me back and tell me exactly what you need.”

  Eva swallowed and looked at the crisp white envelope..

  “Take it,” said Lauren. “You’re going to earn it anyway, so you may as well take it. Please.”

  Eva left the envelope where it was a moment longer before she looked up and saw the imploring look in Lauren’s eyes. She took it off the table and slid it into her handbag to take back to the office safe. As soon as Eva took it, Lauren’s eyes gleamed. Eva pursed her lips and nodded by way of thanks. From the look in Lauren’s eyes, it seemed her hope had been restored. But Eva sensed there was something else in those eyes too. She was now beholden to the friend who had cut her dead and that ancient history was still there between them. The sensation chilled

  Eva, and she felt a pang of regret at taking the advance, but told herself it was just the past intruding on the present. The past was gone.

  “Two or three days,” Eva repeated, keeping what little control she had left. But money had changed hands, and services were owed. Lauren smiled and drank her wine.

  “I can hardly wait,” she replied.

  Eleven

  Dan parked the Egomobile at the side of Warrior Square’s large tree-edged green. Tucked just behind the high street, Warrior Square was a place the junkies and the alkies liked to pass their idle hours in the hot sunshine. The beach was just a half mile away yet the green was always busy. The reason was simple enough. Whatever they needed, booze, heroin or crack, it was always just around the corner. Bliss on tap at low, low prices. And what was convenient for the addicts of Warrior Square was convenient for Dan too. The busy tower blocks and the food bank weren’t far away, making the area a key hotspot for finding people who might have known about Clancy’s missing treasures, Renton’s whereabouts, or about one dead market trader known as Norman Peters.

  Dan stopped and looked across the green. He recognised a few of the distant ne’er-do-wells who lounged in their circle at the high street end of the square. One was the big bodied awkward-squaddie known as Suitcase. Dan knew he had to be careful with that one. Suitcase was much smarter than he let on and seemed to remember Dan from his time on the street five years back. At the time, Dan had operated under the alias of Craig, partly because he never wanted it widely known how low he had sunk and partly so he could carry on a street level investigation without being found out. It was all a long, long time ago, and Dan had moved on, but guys like Suitcase had long memories. So instead, Dan opted for the easy route. It was Saturday and the sun was shining. There was a case on, one with a payday on the end of it which depended on fast action in a rapidly closing window of opportunity. The information he wanted was likely going to cost him, but expense couldn’t be avoided. The case needed a shot in the arm, and Eva had been distracted by her friend. Dan turned away from the square, walking away at a pace so the gang on the green wouldn’t have time to bother him. He turned the corner onto Southchurch Road and headed in the direction of the Sutland Arms. It was early yet, but there were already a couple of cockroach types standing on the corner saloon doorstep, smoking eagerly after their first drink of the day. They soaked up the morning rays with a ‘this is the life’ look written on their faces. As soon as they realised a strong young guy in a leather jacket was headed their way their faces changed.

  “Morning, gents,” said Dan.

  “Morning,” said one. The bigger man just stared.

  The guys were dressed in leathers that had seen far better days. The bigger one with a grey beard wore full leather trousers. His smaller, wiry, buddy was dressed in jeans and a leather waistcoat over his scrawny bare torso. It wasn’t even hot yet, but the heat was coming. You could feel it in the air.

  “I wondered if you guys have heard of a man called Norman Peters,” said Dan.

  “Peters?” said the smaller one, like it meant something. The bearded one stayed silent and shook his head.

  “Yeah. Peters. You heard of him?”

  “I used to know a Steve Peters,” said the small man, babbling. “Great on the bass guitar, he was. Used to play at all the pubs in Basildon, he did. What a man.”

  Dan shook his head. “That’s really good. But I’m asking about a man called Norman Peters. This Peters was found dead yesterday afternoon. On the seafront. His body had been left under a boat.”

  “You mean the body found by the treasure hunters? The silly fools looking for lost gold on Southend Beach. Well, some people will believe anything, won’t they?” said the little man, laughing.

  Dan’s face tightened a degree. “Yeah. Some will. So you don’t know the man?”

  “No. Not Norman Peters. The man I knew was Steve Peters. The bass player.”

  Dan narrowed his eyes.

  “Clive Grace, what about him?”

  “Err... that rings a bell,” said the little man. The man’s big bearded friend shot him a look and blew a tendril of smoke over his head. The big man started talking.

  “We don’t know him,” he said with a cough.

  “You seem remarkably sure of that. And you’re his spokesperson, are you?”

  “When I’m sure, I’m sure,” said the guy with a shrug.

  “What about Tommy Pink?” said Dan.

  The guy with the beard shook his head again. But the small guy snapped his fingers as if he’d just remembered something crucial to mankind.

  “Tommy Pink! I know Tommy Pink. And Clive Grace too. What was the other guy’s name?”

  “Norman Peters,” said Dan.

  “No you don’t. You’re getting confused,” said the grey beard. “You’re always confused.”

  “No, I know them. They’re the boys who do the markets. Tommy Pink has run a clothes stall down Southend Market every Thursday for years. Does the circuit, he does, Romford, Basildon, Southend. Wembley, everywhere him.”

  “That’s the guy,” said Dan “And Clive Grace?”

  “Clive’s the lanky one. Clive’s not so friendly. Hasn’t got Tommy’s patter either, no gift of the gab. But he does the markets too. Norman... little Norm. Normski. He was the smaller one, wasn’t he? Very friendly, he was. Always knocking out clothes on the cheap. Cheap as chips. Not my style mind, just all the stuff the young ’uns wear, that’s him.”

  The bearded man tutted and shook his head.

  “Did Norm ever sell anything else?”

  The bearded man’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward.

  “Alfie here talks too much. You shouldn’t try to take advantage of him,” said the man with a half scowl.

  “No one’s taking advantage of anyone here, pal. I’m making conversation, that’s all,” said Dan. “Nothing wrong with a little chat now, is there?”.

  The little guy shrugged with an airy grin. “No. Nothing wrong at all far as I can see. Now, I can’t say I remember Norm Peters selling anything apart from clothes. Not to me anyway.”

  Dan looked the little old man up and down. No, he didn’t look like the type for Ubers. He looked the type for drinking too much and sleeping it off in doorways. But he was chatty enough.

  “What about Tommy Pink and Clive Grace. What do they sell?”

  “Tommy? Tommy’s a businessman. An entrepreneur. Sporty too, loves the water he does. Tommy sells all kinds of clothes, but before that it used to be mini TVs years back. Then computers. These days clothes. But he sells whatever’s current that’s Tommy.”

  “And Clive Grace?”

  “Oh, him. He follows Tommy’s lead, a
s far as I know. I don’t know the fellas well, like. But Tommy used to come hawking around the pubs, selling things out of a bin bag. Not these days though. He’s above all that now.”

  Dan grinned and nodded, seeing the bearded man’s discomfort mounting with every passing word.

  “Tommy Pink doesn’t sell anything in the pubs anymore. But what about Clive or Norman...?”

  The big bearded man flicked his cigarette butt into the gutter and stepped down from the pub doorstep. He moved close into Dan’s personal space and looked him in the eye. The guy was about the same height, but maybe ten years older and at least thirty pounds heavier, the extra weight mostly composed of blubber and fermenting beer.

  “This conversation is over,” said the man. Hot, rancid, smoker’s breath poured over Dan’s face and made him blink in disgust. He screwed up his nose and shoved the guy stumbling back onto the steps.

  “Actually, I think Alfie here was just warming up,” said Dan.

  “Alfie’s a halfwit!” said the man.

  “Oi!” said Alfie.

  “He doesn’t know what you’re asking him,” said the bearded man. “But I do.”

  “Then maybe I should be asking you all the questions instead.”

  “Or, maybe you should turn around and get lost. What are you? A cop? You don’t look like a copper.”

  Dan ignored the question and concentrated on Alfie. “Has anyone tried to shift any shiny ornaments in there lately? Any very old silver or gold?”

  “You’re not one of those stupid treasure hunters as well, are you?” said Alfie.

  “You know, I suppose I am,” said Dan.

  The old man chuckled, but the bearded man shook his head and put a hand across his friend’s chest and steered him towards the saloon doors..

  “There’s been no gold or silver or anything like that coming through here,” said the big man, as he pushed Alfie back into the pub. The small man complained the whole way.

  “Now I know you’re lying,” said Dan. “A man can buy anything he likes in the Sutland Arms, half the town know that.”

  “Well you can’t buy what you’re looking for. Not any of it.”

  The man’s eyes glinted at him angrily.

  “What are you saying?” said Dan.

  “I know what you’re looking for. We heard about the Saxon King stuff and that Celtic band as much as anybody else in this town.”

  “It’s not just the Saxon King stuff though, is it?”

  The big man’s eyes narrowed. He turned quiet.

  “How do you know about it?” said Dan.

  “It was in the paper. That councillor got mugged off. But it didn’t come through here.”

  “The Saxon stuff? What about anything else? Similar, but mostly old gold.”

  The man frowned. His confusion looked genuine. “Anything else? What else could be like that?”

  “Okay then, what about Tommy Pink, Clive Grace and Norm Peters. What have they been selling?”

  “Listen to me and listen good. I don’t know what you’re talking about. They’re market traders. It’s Saturday right? Maybe you should go down Basildon Market and see how they make their money for yourself.”

  The guy’s eyes were busy and his body language said he wanted to get away. He turned for the door.

  “Looks to me like you know more than you’re letting on.”

  “Why don’t you piss off!” said the man, shoving the pub doors open. Dan seized the man’s shoulder and yanked him around hard, so the guy almost fell over before he righted himself to look into Dan’s eyes.

  “No need to be rude, my friend. You know Tommy Pink, you know Clive Grave, you knew Norm Peters. So maybe you also know why Norm Peters ended up dead on the beach yesterday afternoon.”

  The man swept Dan’s hand off his shoulder and stood back.

  “The only thing I ever knew about those men is that Tommy is a market trader, and Clive works with him. Norm was a trader too. I didn’t know them. They weren’t my mates, just like they weren’t Alfie’s mates. They were just faces. Tommy and Norman especially.”

  “But not Clive?” said Dan.

  The man blinked at Dan and held his tongue.

  “You’re asking the wrong people the wrong questions. Alfie doesn’t understand you might be putting him in danger. He doesn’t deserve it.”

  “Danger? How could having a conversation out in the sunshine put anyone in danger?”

  “If you want to know any more you’d better ask Tommy yourself.”

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, seeing as one of his mates ended up dead on the beach.”

  The man shook his head and shot Dan a look of disgust.

  “You think Tommy Pink would do something like that? I don’t know the man too well, but I know that he wouldn’t do that. The fella’s stand-up. A lot more stand-up than some scallywag casting aspersions about him outside the Sutland Arms..”

  “Right. So Tommy’s a drug dealer who doesn’t harm anyone. Now there’s a first.”

  The big man’s eyes flared and his mouth opened in shock. But the shock Dan saw wasn’t from surprise. It came from Dan being direct. The big man stepped away, shaking his head. He stepped inside the pub.”

  “You’re a liar and a troublemaker. You better keep away from me and keep away from Alfie. We don’t want no trouble. And if you’ve got half a brain, neither will you.”

  Dan wasn’t done. He followed them into the pub and the guy with the grey beard looked at him. Now Dan reckoned he saw a glint of fear in the man’s eyes.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not after you. I’m looking for him.” Dan nodded across the empty dark wooden pub towards Vic Norton, the weasel-faced old man sitting at an empty table at the back, as calm and lordly as the master of all he surveyed. Norton was dressed in one of his favourite charity shop shell suits, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. As usual there was a folded newspaper and a dark pint of soupy bitter in front of him. The newspaper revealed the horse racing pages. Norton had thin and overly long wispy grey hair set around a pale pink and grey face and looked at him with big watery eyes. He felt the old man had been watching him for a while.

  “Trying to get your information for free these days, I see,” said Norton in his trademark rasping voice, as Dan arrived at his table.

  “It’s wise to spend money only when I need to.”

  “Then you need to. Listening to people like little Alfie is a waste of time. Talking to Alfie is like talking to the man in the mirror. He only tells you what you think you want to hear.”

  “He told me a few things.”

  “I heard. You’re never very subtle, are you? You were asking about Tommy Pink and his crew. You’ve always had a big mouth, Bradley. One day that’s going to get you into serious trouble.”

  “Not for the first time,” said Dan.

  Norton’s voice dropped to a whisper, his eyes hard.

  “If you want anything about them from me you’ll be quiet about it and you’ll pay cash. In advance. That would be very sensitive information.”

  Dan pulled up a chair and sat down. “You heard what I was after.”

  “Sounds like you’re chasing something but you don’t know what. Something about some gold. And you’re after Tommy Pink and Clive Grace. Why?”

  “I’m not after them. Those two are just stepping stones.”

  “Funny to be making allegations about people who you say are just stepping stones.”

  “But I’m not wrong, am I?”

  “That counts as a question, Mr Bradley. If you want the answer, it’ll cost you.”

  “I think I know the answer to that one already.”

  Dan pulled his wallet from his pocket and pulled out a twenty pound note.

  “I told you, it’ll cost you,” said Vic with a sneery, yellow toothed smile.

  Dan thumped the twenty down on the table top. “We’ll start with twenty.” Norton’s eyes flitted to the distant side of the pub across the dark bar. Dan loo
ked back too and saw the grey-bearded man look away.

  “See,” said Vic. “You shooting your mouth off to all and sundry makes it difficult to help you.”

  “Then let’s try another subject.”

  “What subject?” said Vic.

  “Carl Renton, the missing rehab worker.”

  Vic’s eyes gleamed and he nodded like a toy dog. He slid the twenty pound note under his hand and claimed it. “The Christian on a mission to save the world,” said Vic.

  “You heard what happened to him?”

  “Yes. He disappeared,” said Vic.

  Dan put an empty hand out on the table to ask for his money back. Norton grinned.

  “He was playing with fire. What happened to him, bound to happen sometime, wouldn’t you say? Shouting his mouth off about the drug dealing in the town and turning up wherever he thought the stash was about to land. Carl Renton was only lucky he didn’t start on the Somalis first. Disappearing would be preferable to what those Somali boys would have done to him.”

  “I’m after facts, Vic. Not stories. Is Carl Renton still alive?”

  “I’d wager he won’t be coming back.”

  Dan shook his head and thought of the effect on Joe Clancy.

  “Do you know who did it?”

  “No. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you for a measly twenty quid, now would I?”

  “Then you owe me some more information for that money.”

  “Such as?”

  “You haven’t told me anything more than Alfie did.”

  “Then ask me another question. Try me,” said Vic.

  “You heard anything about any missing treasures?”

  Norton’s eyes glimmered. “Ah, your gold. Why? Should I have?”

  “Maybe. Who’s been shifting anything like that. Stuff that looks like heirlooms, rare stuff. The kind of things Indiana Jones brought home in the movies.”

  Norton pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. “I heard about the museum robbery. And I heard about that Celtic band found near the marine centre.”

  “Did anything like that come through here? The Saxon stuff or anything else?”