Screen of Deceit (18 page)

He didn't have the answer to those questions, but what he did know was that he would be doing Blackpool a hell of a big favour by bringing down Jonny Sparks and the Crackman.

O
ther than through an occasional day of sickness, and because of recent events connected with Bethany's death, Mark Carter had never had a day of unauthorised absence from school in his life. Something he was proud of. School was a good place as far as Mark was concerned. A safe place – usually – somewhere he felt he belonged, somewhere to enjoy, make friends, be appreciated and work hard for the future he had mapped out in his head. He intended to stay in education for as long as possible, because the thought of stepping out of its comfort zone worried him a little.

But for the past four days he had not been at school.

It was very strange, playing truant, playing hooky, knobbing off.

At first he rattled around the house, messing about up in his room, watching daytime TV – which he squinted at with a great deal of puzzlement, wondering who on earth actually sat down and seriously viewed it; he kicked a ball round on the street outside, practising keepy-uppies, but he was an enthusiastic but crap footballer and the best he could manage was six before the ball went flying into someone's garden. By midday on the first day, he was bored out of his skull.

It was time to get going and do something constructive.

He wheeled out his bike and set off towards the prom. Once he reached the front he weaved up the pavement between holidaymakers and swerved into the alley behind Tony's Burger Bar, dismounted and fastened the bike to a downspout. He was about to walk off without even talking to Ray when, grease-laden, he appeared from the shop heaving a bin bag full of rubbish into the yard.

‘Oi!' he called. Mark stopped in his tracks. ‘You did a crap job clearin' up this,' he said, heaving the bag into a huge, lidded skip. Job done, he wiped his dirty hands down his greasy apron, and waved his hands at the tip that was his back yard.

‘So?' Mark said.

‘No more freebies until you come back and sort it.'

Mark shrugged. ‘Yeah, yeah – whatever.'

‘Effin' kids,' Ray muttered, turning back towards the business which ensured him a healthy winter suntan every year. Then he stopped and turned back to Mark. ‘Shouldn't you be at school?'

‘Yeah – maybe … but when your sister's been murdered, it kinda puts you off that sorta shit, y'know.'

Ray's jaw dropped.

Mark turned, giving him an angry, dismissive gesture by chopping the air with the edge of his hand and walked away.

Ray's face screwed up. He shook his head sadly and thought, Another one bites the dust. Seen bloody thousands.

Mark made a point of not looking back. He had a pocketful of change and he was going to go and either lose it all, or make a killing.

Amusement arcades were fine – in short doses. But spending more than ten minutes in them was driving Mark scatty. They were so utterly boring. What was the attraction in losing your money, just giving it away? His mind was being well and truly numbed by the experience, but he kept at it, moving from arcade to arcade. He saw a few other kids he knew, the ones who were always missing from school, and had passing conversations with some, making sure it was known he, too, was out and about when he should've been at school. He did not link up with any of them, even though the offer was made. Some were going on shoplifting sprees, some going to hang around in flats with some older kids – ‘to chill, have a spliff, watch DVDs, maybe get wanked off', one lad confided, scaring Mark a little. He said a quick goodbye to that one. The prospect of going to some perv's flat left Mark feeling cold.

As he drifted, though, he realized quickly how easy it would be to get sucked into this feckless lifestyle and whilst it had no attraction for him, it was apparent that lots of other kids were already in it and may never ever leave it.

Mark shuddered at the thought.

He found himself in one of the biggest slot machine arcades on the sea front, feeding the bandits with ten pence pieces, when he heard a shout. He spun around, but couldn't get out of the way as four lads he didn't know, all about his age, ran towards him, mad, crazy expressions on their faces, throwing themselves down the aisles, like a pack of wild dogs, whooping, yelling, screaming. Two were carrying plastic shopping bags. Mark stepped back tight to the machine he was playing, but even so, two of the lads barged into him, sending him spinning on to all fours. One tripped over him, shrieked an obscenity and dropped the bag he was carrying before getting back up to his feet and legging it behind his mates, leaving the bag behind.

Mark got quickly up, looking around, and there they were – two uniformed cops on foot and in pursuit of the gang. Without hesitation, Mark kicked the plastic bag slyly down the side of the fruit machine, turned back to face it and, as calmly as he could with shaky hands, dropped a coin into the slot and pressed the play button.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the cops getting closer. They were out of breath. They looked as though they'd been chasing the tearaways for a fair distance, not easy when piled up with all that equipment around their torsos.

‘You seen four lads run through here?' one of the cops gasped at Mark.

‘Nah.' He dropped another 10p in.

‘You sure, lad?' Both cops sidled right up to him, trying a bit of intimidation as, clearly, they didn't believe him. Mark could smell their sweat.

‘I'm sure.'

‘Why you not at school?'

‘On holiday with my family,' he lied glibly.

‘Oh – and where are they?'

‘There.' Mark pointed to an oldish couple seated in the café adjoining the arcade. ‘Me nan and granddad.'

‘C'mon.' One cop tugged the sleeve of the other. ‘Let's get after the twats.'

The cop who'd asked the questions glared fleetingly at Mark, obviously not a hundred per cent happy, but they were in pursuit and Mark wasn't their prey.

Mark pressed the play button on the machine.

The cylinders rolled then stopped, one by one: click-click-click-click.

Jackpot!

A bucket load of ten pence pieces spewed out of the jaws of the fruit machine.

He played the machine a few minutes longer to make sure that neither the gang of lads, nor especially the cops, returned, and to ensure that no one else had seen him kick the plastic bag down the side of the machine. Then he checked to see if anyone was watching him. Nobody seemed interested. The old couple – his newly adopted grandparents – had gone from the café, which was now empty, and only a few other people were in the arcade. He held his breath, reached down the side of the fruit machine and tried to get the bag. He didn't get it first time and had to stretch – a period of time which could have drawn unwelcome attention to himself – but his fingers got it and, trying to act as naturally as possible, he strolled nonchalantly out on to the prom. A break in the traffic allowed him to cross the road and tram tracks and head to the sea wall, where he leaned on the railings and pretended to gaze out to sea.

He opened the bag.

Inside there was a mixture of stuff: Xbox games, DVDs and CDs – about twenty in total.

All stolen.

In retail price terms there was about £500 worth of goods, all still in their wrappers.

Mark smiled. He wondered how much he would get for this little lot at Tonno's, the shop where everyone who had anything to fence went.

Mark looked at some of the titles. He would have liked each item for himself, but that was not to be.

By waiting for the right moment behind Tony's Burger Bar, Mark avoided a sticky meeting with Ray, reclaimed his bike and pedalled back through town up to Central Drive on which there were many tacky and sleazy shops of all varieties, including sex shops, shops selling everything for 99p, a selection of iffy takeaways, off-licences and tattoo parlours, and Tonno's – ‘Second Hand Goods Bought and Sold'.

Tonno's – the shop that had a reputation for buying and selling anything and everything, no questions asked. It was always being visited by the cops, but somehow managed to stay open and keep trading.

It was a double-fronted premises, with lots of space. Sofas and chairs were stacked in the window display and on the pavement outside was a selection of battered-looking dining room chairs together with an old reclining chair on which Tonno himself usually basked like a fat shark. And there he reclined today. A large, rotund man, strips of wispy hair combed and gel-flattened across his flaking, dandruffy scalp, thick old-man's glasses, and a body dressed in a stained tee-shirt and jeans which always showed his grubby arse-crack when he stood up or bent over. He was drinking from a dirty mug and squinted up at Mark with piggy-podgy eyes.

It was rumoured he was worth a fortune. In reality he lived pretty much hand to mouth, but always had a wad of cash close to hand and contacts to sell anything on.

Mark had heard about him, had only ever ridden past the shop, but never been in or talked to Tonno.

‘What?' Tonno demanded, taking a hearty slurp of tea, then wiping his lips with the back of his liver-spotted hand and sniffing up a noseful of phlegm.

‘You Tonno?' Mark asked, even though he knew.

‘Aye.'

‘D'you buy stuff?'

He shrugged a gesture with his hands to indicate the shop front. ‘That's what it says – but only clean stuff.'

Mark had the plastic bag hanging from his handlebars. ‘I want to sell this lot. It's all my own,' he said defensively. He removed the bag.

Tonno regarded him with contempt. ‘I don't know you, do I?'

‘So?'

‘How do I know it's your stuff? It could be stolen. I don't deal in stolen goods.'

Mark sniggered. ‘Crap.'

‘Fuck off, then,' Tonno said. He rolled inelegantly out of the recliner, stood up and tugged his jeans up over his fat arse.

‘Hey – you want to buy, or not? Yeah, you don't know me, but it's not like I'm a cop or anything, is it?' He bounced the carrier up and down temptingly.

‘Why would you say that?' Tonno asked suspiciously.

‘Say what?'

‘About being a cop.'

‘Dunno, just said it. I'll find someone else if you're not interested.' He started to thread the carrier handle on to the handlebars again.

‘Oi! Un-uh,' Tonno waved a finger. ‘Let's have a look. Come on in.'

‘I want to bring the bike inside. Don't want it getting nicked out here.'

Tonno's big, fatty shoulders rose and fell. ‘Whatever.'

Mark pushed the bike in through the shop doorway, propping it against the back of a settee. He scanned the place. It was like entering the Tardis. It was immense, filled with everything imaginable from furniture to bikes, medals to kitchen equipment, DVD players to old style VCRs. There was a counter at the far end of the shop to which Mark trailed behind Tonno, the big man squeezing in behind it and facing Mark.

‘What you got?'

Mark placed the bag on the counter. ‘Games, DVDs, CDs.'

Tonno peered in and picked out a selection. He chuckled and raised his watery eyes to Mark. He picked up a piece of paper from the countertop and waved it in Mark's face. ‘Cops been round ten minutes ago, gave me this list of recently stolen gear. From what I've seen in here, seems to match exactly. Spooky, eh? And they're all yours, hm?'

Impatiently Mark said, ‘Buying or not?' He had the urge to grab the gear and leg it, but he knew he had to see this through.

‘Cops said I should call them if the stuff turns up.' He sniffed superciliously. ‘Seems to have turned up.'

Mark eyed him cynically, said nothing.

There was silence between them as each weighed up the other.

‘OK, how much do you want?'

‘There's over five hundred quid's worth in here.'

Tonno guffawed. ‘New to this game, aren't you?'

Mark felt himself redden. ‘And?' he snarled.

‘Let me tell you how this works,' Tonno said patronizingly. He lifted all the goods out of the carrier and stacked them into neat piles – games, DVDs and CDs. ‘Come off the back of a lorry,' Tonno ruminated whilst casting his greedy eyes over them. He sniffed. ‘It works like this … think of it this way, say: the drugs trade … heroin, say … starts with the growers in Afghanistan, then gets passed through the middlemen until it ends up on the streets, yeah? The growers get sod all, but the middlemen and the sellers add on their percentages until the buyers cough up. You, laddie, are a grower. You might be a vital link in the chain, but there's other growers, if you get my drift? Am I making sense?' He raised his bushy, out of control eyebrows and looked meaningfully at Mark.

‘In other words, I get what you offer me and be thankful?'

Tonno gave a short nod. ‘Something like that.'

‘Which would be?'

‘Thirty quid, the lot.'

‘What?' Mark said, astounded.

‘Take it or leave it. As I said, there's other people just like you out there. Stuff like this is easy to get hold of. Bread and butter to me.'

‘No chance.'

‘Well, go sell it round your schoolmates, then, and see who blabs on you, I don't care. It's hassle-free money for you.'

Mark shook his head. ‘One-fifty.'

‘You're in a dream world, sonny.'

Mark snatched the bag and began piling the discs back into it.

‘Thirty-five,' Tonno upped his offer. ‘I know the market … I'll be lucky to get fifty for this lot myself.'

Mark continued to shove the discs into the bag. ‘One-twenty,' he bargained.

‘Thirty-seven, final offer.'

‘See ya.' Mark grabbed the handles and spun away from the counter. He stalked down the shop to his bike.

‘Hey, lad,' Tonno called. ‘There is something I'll give you fifty quid for.'