Substantial Threat (15 page)

Henry slept fitfully, unused to having a stranger in bed with him who, when she fell asleep did not move at all. He, on the other hand, could not get comfortable, finding himself right on the edge of the bed, half-in, half-out of the covers, half-hot, half-cold.

He nodded off about 4 a.m., then sprang back to life when his mobile phone rang on the bedside cabinet. Next to him, Jane did not stir.

The display said ‘Anonymous Caller'.

‘Yeah,' Henry said groggily.

‘It's me,' said a voice.

Henry rubbed his eyes. ‘You'll have to do better than that.'

‘Troy.'

‘And why are you phoning at this time?'

‘Got some gen, need to see you, can't tell you on the phone.'

‘Where and when?' said Henry, abruptly fully awake. ‘And how much?'

‘Somewhere there's no bloody CCTV cameras for a start – how about the White Café in St Anne's? Say twenty minutes? I'll talk dosh when I see you . . . but it won't be cheap.'

Henry swung his legs out of bed and started to dress in the dark, not wishing to disturb Jane. As he crawled around the edge of the bed on his hands and knees, searching by touch for his underpants and socks, he heard her move and groan. He looked up and saw her face peering over the bedside. She was smirking.

‘Doing a runner?' she asked.

He laughed as his hand found the item of clothing he needed. He stood up and pulled on his white Marks & Spencer Y-fronts. ‘Just got a call from Costain. Says he's got some info, but wants to see me now.'

‘Can I come?'

‘No.'

Dawn was still a long way away as Henry drove on to the car park adjacent to the White Café on the beach in St Anne's. Jane huddled down in her coat in the passenger seat next to him, shivering, even though the heater was blowing hot.

Henry had wanted to speak to Troy Costain alone, but Jane had insisted on accompanying him. It was her case and she had a right to keep her finger on the pulse, she argued as she dressed herself. Henry was too weary and shell-shocked by his recent sexual encounter to put up much of a fight. She was ready before he was.

He drove to the far side of the car park and stopped near the lifeboat station, doused the lights and sat there with the engine ticking over. He reclined his seat, closed his eyes and waited. Jane did the same, letting her right hand rest on his thigh, her little finger slotted into a fold in his trousers just by his groin. She squeezed his leg and despite himself, Henry began to harden.

A tap on the window by his ear made him jerk. Costain's face pressed up to the glass almost made him scream. He opened the window.

‘What's she doing here?' Costain demanded.

‘Same as before – it's her case.'

‘I talk to you, no one else, Henry, that's the deal.'

Henry gave Jane a look. She got the message. ‘I'll go for a walk,' she said and got out of the car. Costain walked round and dropped into her warmed-up seat. In silence, the two men watched her amble away.

‘You tommin' her?' Costain grinned.

‘Nope,' said Henry shortly.

‘She's worth one . . . a bit motherly, maybe, could do wi' losin' a bit o' weight, but nice tits 'n' arse.' Costain's face curled up lustfully.

‘What've you got for me, Troy? I hope it's good because I hate getting up for nothing. Know what I mean?'

‘I've been working me socks off for you over the last few hours and all you do is whinge about being woken up – great!'

‘Just get on with it,' Henry snapped, aware of Jane tramping around the car park, getting cold.

‘Okay, okay, but it'll cost – a lot.'

‘I'll decide how much it's worth. I've always paid well for good value.'

Troy Costain took a deep breath, tipped his head back against the headrest and gazed at the car roof. ‘Johnny Jacques was a good mate of mine. We go back a long time. He used to be clean, well, sort of, but then he got into crack and it screwed his head.'

‘My heart bleeds.'

Costain turned sharply on Henry. ‘Look, you twat, he was a mate, okay? Maybe not like your middle-class friends, but he was still a mate and he meant a lot to me.' Chastened a little, but not much, Henry shrugged. ‘You might think we're pond life, you stuck up git, but we do have mates and feelings – I don't think I want to talk to you now.' Costain's hand went to the door handle.

‘Sorry,' said Henry. ‘Come on, tell me what you've got.' His voice had become soft and encouraging. ‘I'm just tired.'

‘Yeah, well,' murmured Costain. ‘JJ kept his head above water, financially, that is, by doing a bit of dealing here and there. Not much, just pocket money. But his living wage came from being a delivery boy. He ran errands. Dropped things off, picked things up for people.'

‘Like a white-van man?'

‘Summat like that.'

‘What sort of things did he pick up and drop off, as you so eloquently phrase it?'

‘You name it – mainly drugs, sometimes guns, often money.' Costain twisted his lips. ‘Thing is, I know JJ had a bit of a bad habit. Sometimes he helped himself to his packages.'

‘Ooh, bad boy . . . what did he help himself to?'

‘Some junk, and he used to peel off the occasional tenner here and there. Not much, not regularly, but it must've built up over time, maybe into hundreds.'

‘So you're saying he skimmed from the people he worked for?'

‘That pretty much sums it up. I saw him about a week ago and he was getting worried about it, said he was going to stop doing it – as if,' Costain said sardonically.

‘Who did he run for?'

‘I haven't finished my story yet. Saving that to last.'

Their faces turned to the front of the car. Jane had done a couple of circuits of the car park and was now standing at the radiator of the car with her palms out. She said, ‘Will you please fucking hurry up. I'm freezing my balls off out here.'

Dix was warm and dry. He was almost back to normal apart from having just counted out £267,000 in hard cash. He unwrapped two of the plastic wallets and stuffed two grand into his pockets, which would be his operating money. The rest he carefully stashed back into the holdall which he had dried in front of the gas fire.

Two hundred and sixty-five thousand pounds left.

Nice.

All he had to do now was get away with it. Make some plans. Change the money. Get out of the country. Never come back. Let people think he was dead.

He left the house as secure as he had found it and turned out on to the early morning streets of New Hall Hey where a cold, snow-threatening wind was starting to blow. He chose an easy car to steal, an old F registered Ford Escort. He was into it within seconds, had hot-wired it seconds later. It started first time and he was away. He had no intention of keeping the car for long. He just wanted to be somewhere that was populated, where he was not well known and where he could choose a form of transport to get him away.

Jane wrenched open the back door of Henry's Vectra and got in.

‘I tell you what,' she said. ‘You two go walkies and I'll stay here.'

Costain glared furiously at Henry.

‘She's all right,' Henry said. ‘Honestly. Trust her.'

Unenthusiastically, Costain nodded.

‘So who did he run for?' Henry probed again.

‘Not finished. The shooting yesterday?'

‘That has something to do with JJ?'

‘It was a drugs thing.'

‘We've already sussed that.'

‘The dead guys were muscling into some hallowed territory.'

‘Whose?'

‘Listen, Henry, these guys are very bad people and I'd better be able to trust you two because when I say this name, I'll get a bullet in my brain if they ever find out.'

Just at that moment it clicked and suddenly Henry knew who Costain was going to finger.

‘I don't know who pulled the triggers, I don't know if they are responsible for JJ's death, but I do know that JJ thought they were on to him for his skimming.'

‘Say the name,' Henry urged. ‘Say the name and we'll do the rest. You don't have to worry. No one'll ever know you talked to us and I will make it worth your while.'

Costain took a deep, frightened gulp, then blurted out the names, ‘Ray and Marty Cragg.'

The exact same names Henry was thinking of.

By 5 a.m. Ray, Marty, Crazy and Miller were back on the coast at a flat in South Shore, one of several Ray owned in the resort. It was nothing more than a bedsit, but was well equipped with everything needed to lie low for a few days: food in the fridge and freezer, tins of food, cooker, microwave, toaster, kettle, satellite TV and video, a settee and a half-decent bed with clean sheets. He had flats like this all over the resort and in other places around the county. He ensured they were always well maintained and serviced because you never knew when you would have to go to ground.

However, that morning, Ray had no intention of lying low.

He had taken enough trouble to cover his tracks all day long and believed himself to be safe. All he wanted to do was get home and climb into bed and sleep. He gave the others keys to similar flats should they want to use them. But whatever they chose, he wanted them back in action by noon. Particularly Crazy and Miller. He wanted them to start hunting down the people who had tried to rob him and had survived the shooting.

The last thing he did before going home that morning was to telephone Lancashire police and tip them off about two bodies which could be found in a flooded quarry in Greater Manchester. He knew the message would be passed on immediately. He needed to know the names of the two dead men and the sooner the cops were on the case, the sooner he would find out.

They went their separate ways. Miller drove himself home while Crazy dropped Ray off at his home and then Marty at his own flat. Marty gave him a wave and watched him drive away. When he was sure he had gone, he called a number on his mobile. A groggy voice answered.

‘Can I come round?' he asked.

‘Now?'

‘Yes – now.'

‘Will it be safe?'

‘Yeah, he's gone to bed and I need to see you.'

‘Come round then.'

‘Be there soon.'

Henry handed over the contents of his wallet to Troy Costain. Fifty pounds was all he had, but he promised him more soon. Costain took the money grudgingly and got out of the car. He disappeared over the sand dunes into the dull grey morning. Roscoe climbed across from the back seat and plonked herself down.

‘Use of unregistered informants is against Home Office guidelines,' she said disapprovingly. She was feeling mean and crusty. Henry looked at her stonily.

‘I wouldn't register him if he was the last informant on earth,' he said. ‘When I was on CID here and then on RCS as it was, he gave me more run of the mill prisoners on Shoreside than anyone else. It would ruin him if he was registered and if you blab on me I'll never ever speak to you again.' He stuck his tongue out.

She leaned over and kissed him. ‘Your secret's safe with me.'

Marty left his car on the outskirts of the small estate and walked the last quarter of a mile or so to the house, skulking round to the back door so he would not be kept waiting at the front door in open view.

A woman opened the door. She was wearing a short dressing gown, exposing her long, tapering legs.

‘Come on in.' He stepped into the kitchen and they fell into each other's arms, kissing greedily. Her gown fell open, revealing a lithe, tanned body. She pulled his shirt out of his trousers and expertly flicked open the buttons, her hands going to Marty's hairless chest, pinching his nipples hard. A moment later her hands were at his belt buckle, unfastening it, zipping his jeans open. She eased the jeans and underpants over his backside and erect penis, then slid to her knees in front of him. She looked up dirtily as she took his member in her hand and eased it away from his belly.

‘I
f you ask me, it's bloody odd,' said Ray Cragg. ‘That river's nothing more than a stream, even if it was swelled up by the rain. Four days and nothing!'

‘He'll turn up,' said Marty. ‘Dead as a duck.'

They were sitting in a restaurant on the seafront at Lytham, a premises which Ray had no connection with, which he had never tried to muscle in on and never would. There had to be some places left untouched. They were in the dining room, overlooking the wide green towards the windmill and the Ribble Estuary.

Jack Burrows was sat with them, snuggling up to Ray.

Marty had his girlfriend with him. He had not really spoken to her or even acknowledged her presence since coming into the restaurant. She did not seem to mind. She ate and drank whatever was placed in front of her and spent the rest of the time, long thin legs crossed, filing her already perfect nails. Her name was Kylie and she was seventeen.

‘And what about all that money?' Ray whined pitifully, very depressed.

‘You can kiss that goodbye,' Marty said. It was said without humour, more with an air of despair.

‘Are we sure Dix is dead?' Ray asked. ‘He could easily have got out the river and done a runner with the cash.'

‘Course he's dead,' said Marty. ‘If he wasn't, he'd have brought the money back.'

‘I don't know . . . unless it was him that set the whole thing up, unless he got tempted. Even the best of us get tempted, Marty.'

‘I need to go and powder my nose,' Jack Burrows announced.

‘Have a slash, you mean?' said Ray in an ungentlemanly manner.

‘If you like,' she said, very pissed off. She stood up, her eyes catching Marty's for a split second.

‘Dix has a bird, hasn't he?' Ray asked.

‘Yes, she lives in Fleetwood,' Marty said.

‘Can you find her? Ask if she's heard from him? Put some pressure on her?'