THE DOMINO BOYS (a psychological thriller) (11 page)

He was greeted by silence.

It was late evening. Camellia Lucas was in her bedroom standing at a large bay window and looking out across the stark manicured grounds of Red House. She’d seen Barry Stocker finish his shift, enter the Jag and drive it away to park in the garage. She told Donnie she was tired, it had been a long day, and he’d tried to kiss her. She could read in his eyes what he wanted, hoping, no doubt, that by getting her up here all alone he’d finally be able to have sex with her. But she’d fobbed him off with the excuse that that wasn’t to happen until after they were married. She was an old-fashioned girl, she said, with old-fashioned values. He nodded begrudgingly, like he always did, and she peeled away his fingers from her arm, smiled sweetly at him and went upstairs.

She turned from the window and locked the bedroom door. Next she lifted the suitcase onto the bed, unlocked it and lifted the lid. She took out a pile of neatly-folded clothes, a thick paperback, MP3 player, a cosmetic bag, and laid them carefully on the bed. At the bottom of the case she grasped a bundle wrapped in a checked woollen scarf, and tenderly unfolded it.

She studied the contents. Blew a speck of wool from it before wrapping it back up again, her face one of profound calm.

Soon, she thought. Very soon…

*  *  *  *

For Steve Roche things had never been looking as good as they did right now.

He downed his short, rapped the glass on the bar for the barman to fill it up again. He liked the way the man eyed him with uncertainty. In a small town like this news travelled fast, and already the locals knew he was in partnership with Donnie Craddick. Well, not exactly a partnership – Donnie still called all the shots – but it wouldn’t be long before he’d raise himself up in the young Craddick’s eyes, like he had with his father.

He took some satisfaction from the way some of the locals glanced in his direction, then glanced away quickly. It was a case of respect by association. The barman filled up his glass.

‘On the tab?’ asked the landlord. They both knew the tab would not be paid off.

‘Sure,’ said Roche, his face flushed from the few shorts he’d had. ‘It’s Pete, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. So where are you staying?’ asked Pete, more from a pretence of politeness than anything.

‘Donnie got me a little house to rent. He’s looking after me.’ He raised the glass in a salute and drank half the whiskey. He licked his lips.

‘Planning on staying in Overthorpe long?’

‘What’s it to you?’ he snapped. Heads looked up.

‘Making conversation, is all,’ he said, holding up an apologetic hand.

‘Well maybe I don’t want to make conversation with you.’

Pete went to serve someone else. Roche winked at a young barwoman, who remained tight-lipped and distant. Bitch, he thought. Well one day they’d have to show him even more respect. Donnie Craddick was nothing but a young whippersnapper, who thought he was big like his father, but he wasn’t; he was wet behind the ears still. Steve Roche thought all it needed was a bit of patience and he could bring his own mob in to rule the roost, kick the young chick out of the Craddick nest like a bloody cuckoo. He smiled at that. Sipped his drink as if tasting a sweet, bright, promising future.

It grew late, and as he thought he should turn in for the night the landlord came up to him, leant on the bar close to him and whispered. ‘Mr Roche, someone wants to see you out back.’ His eyes flitted to the others in the pub to make sure nobody else had overheard.

‘Yeah, like who?’

‘I can’t say. Not here.’

‘Screw that. Tell whoever it is to come out here and see me,’ said Roche.

‘I can’t do that. Mr Ginetta won’t like it. You have to see him.’

‘Who the hell is Mr Ginetta?’

Pete’s eyes widened. ‘You’ve never heard of him?’

‘Should I have?’

‘Look, Mr Roche, I can’t be discussing this out here. Trust me, if Mr Ginetta wants to speak to you then you’ve got to speak to him. You can’t argue.’

‘Where is this guy?’

‘He’s downstairs, in the cellar.’

‘What’s he want?’ Roche asked uncertainly, though his interest had been sparked.

‘He didn’t say exactly. Someone as big as Ginetta isn’t likely to tell me anything.’

‘Big?’ He was doubly intrigued. Roche slipped off the stool and shrugged his coat into place. ‘OK, show me the way, Tonto.’

Pete led Roche out to the back of the pub and down the cellar steps. The place was in almost total darkness, a strong smell of beer pervading the cool room. The silver casks reflected the faint light. At the far end, in half-shadow, was a seated man, dressed in a black suit and sporting a black trilby. Another man stood by his side, big and burly with his hands clasped behind his back.

‘What’s going on?’ said Roche walking up to him.

‘That’s far enough,’ warned the standing man, holding up a hand.

Roche stopped. He squinted in the gloom. The seated man was about the same age as him, but had a square jaw, neat grey beard, eyes lost in shadow. He had a black cane in a leather-gloved hand. ‘So who are you, what do you want?’ said Roche.

The suited man reached into his pocket, pulled out a silver cigarette case. He slipped a cigarette out, put it into his mouth and nodded for his bodyguard to light it. He offered the case out to Roche. ‘Smoke, Mr Roche?’

The accent was Italian, or Spanish, or something like that. Steve Roche was never good at accents. ‘Sure,’ he said, taking one. The big guy lit it with a fancy lighter. ‘So you’re Ginetta,’ he said, puffing out smoke.

‘
Mr
Ginetta,’ he corrected.

‘So who exactly is
Mr
Ginetta?’

The man snapped the cigarette case closed and put it away. ‘We have lost so much elegance, don’t you think, Mr Roche? I still like my cigarettes in a case. Some people call me old-fashioned, but that’s no bad thing these days. I don’t care much for the shock of the new. I’m a traditional man.’

‘Cut to the chase, Ginetta,’ he said.

The bodyguard put a hand to the inside of his jacket pocket and Roche felt suddenly very uncomfortable. Ginetta put up a finger and the man let his arm drop again. ‘I shall say it only once, Mr Roche. Politeness to ones elders and superiors is also one of those things that is fast dissolving and something I insist on at all times.’

Roche swallowed. ‘Sure, sorry.
Mr
Ginetta.’

‘That’s better. Now we understand each other.’

‘What do you want with me?’ asked Roche.

‘You used to work for Mickey Craddick, right?’

He nodded. ‘Sure. He never told me about you.’

The man smiled. ‘And hardly ever likely to. Worms only hear the footsteps above, never see who’s walking.’

‘What’re you saying? You saying I’m a worm? Well I’ve got news for you.’

‘Regrettably, yes, you are a worm, Mr Roche. But I suspect you wish to be something more. Is that true?’

‘How’d you know about me?’

‘Let’s say Mickey Craddick and I had a close former relationship, dividing Overthorpe between us, as indeed we divided many towns over the years. I know all about Mickey’s little business ventures. I know where you fit in.’

‘Yeah? Like hell you do.’

‘Now you’re the worm on his son’s line, aren’t you, Mr Roche?’

‘I told you, I’m more than a bloody worm. Who do you think you’re talking to?’

‘Face it, Mr Roche, once Donnie’s finished with your services he’ll dump you, and the end result won’t be pretty. You know too much about too many things, but he needs your contacts just this once to shift the dodgy notes he’s got stashed. Once that’s over… Well, I needn’t spell it out. I know the Craddicks better than you.’

Roche backed away, but he heard the door shut and a key being turned in a lock. ‘How’d you know about the notes?’ He grew edgy.

Ginetta chuckled. It was a deep, menacing affair. ‘I know everything that happens in this town. I also know that young Craddick is set to step into my territory, tramp on the deal made between his father and me. I can’t have that. You see, as dear old Mickey Craddick’s life ebbed away he left his territory to me, lock, stock and barrel. Unofficially, of course; it not something you can go to a solicitor’s to draw up a will over. But I have a problem; his son – a man who did not get along with his father – comes along and wants to take over where his father left off. But I cannot allow that to happen. Needless to say, anyone who stands in my way, or who displays misplaced loyalty to him, will be removed quickly and without fuss. Do I make myself clear?’

Roche’s mouth was desert-dry. ‘Are you threatening me?’

‘Actually, I have a business proposition, Mr Roche.’

He cocked his head. ‘Business? What kind of business?’

‘You were a loyal and trusted employee of Mickey Craddick. That kind of reference goes a long way with me, Mr Roche. Now, at my age, and with such a wide territory to take care of, I can’t be shooting here, there and everywhere to keep my eye on every little thing, so I need good people around me who can do it for me. I need someone to manage Overthorpe and its environs.’

Roche gave a snort. ‘You’re forgetting Donnie Craddick. He’ll have something to say about that when he finds out about it.’

‘He won’t ever find out. Your father never talked very much to his estranged son, so he doesn’t know about me or my operation here. But I want him to learn real fast. And I need someone to help me. Which brings me back to the counterfeit money. How much is he paying you to shift it for him?’

‘That’s my business.’

‘Is that the way to speak to your future employer?’

‘Maybe I don’t want to work for you, ever thought that?’

Ginetta paused, closed his eyes in thought. ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘I never did think that, as it’s unthinkable for anyone not to do as I ask. How much is he paying you?’

‘Five thousand pounds.’

Ginetta laughed, turned to the other guy who also joined in with a gritty chuckle of his own. ‘As little as that? Do you know what he stands to make by selling that lot on? He’s taking you for a mug, Roche, and I think you’re better than that.’

‘OK, try me; how much better?’

‘I’ll give you one hundred thousand pounds if you let me know where the money is and let my boys take it.’

Roche let out a whistle. ‘Christ, Mr Ginetta, that’s very tempting, but he’ll kill me if he finds out.’

‘I’ll watch your back for you. I have people everywhere.’

‘So what’re you going to do with the counterfeit notes?’

‘That’s my business. You’ll go to Donnie Craddick and tell him the money’s been stolen. Then leave it to me.’

‘He’ll be as mad as hell.’

‘Tough.’

‘You’ll contact him?’

He nodded. ‘I’ll do a deal with him, let him have it back for a tidy sum. He’ll get a little rap on the knuckles and learn a salutary lesson, know I mean business, you’ll get a substantial reward for your loyalty to me, and when I finally quash Donnie Craddick – because trust me, one day I will – you’ll be my manager in Overthorpe, running operations for me and earning far more than Donnie Craddick is even capable of paying you.’

Steve Roche bent his head in thought. ‘I don’t know, this is dangerous stuff, Mr Ginetta. I know Donnie Craddick – he’s not one to take things lying down. He’ll put up a fight. I’ve seen how mad he can get. Are you sure you can protect me?’

He gave a low laugh. ‘Mr Roche, I am the
only
one who can protect you. I can also make sure you pay very dearly if you double-cross me, or tell Donnie about any of this.’ He dropped the half-smoked cigarette to the floor and crushed it under his highly polished black shoes. ‘This meeting remains a secret, do you understand? You do not mention my name to anyone. Not even in passing.’

‘Can I think about this?’

‘No. Either you are quick-witted enough to recognise a good deal when you see one or you are not the man for me.’

Roche bit at his lower lip. ‘OK, Mr Ginetta, you’ve got a deal. But I need your protection till this comes off.’

Ginetta gave a slow nod. ‘You have my word, Mr Roche. Now, first things first; how do I get my hands on that money?’

*  *  *  *

‘He died intestate.’

‘What?’

‘Your father died intestate, Mr Craddick. It means – ‘

‘I know what it means!’ Donnie Craddick said, his voice going up an octave. ‘Are you telling me my father didn’t leave a will? Are you serious?’

‘That’s about the size of it, Mr Craddick.’

The solicitor’s office reminded him of the headmaster’s study at his old prep school, all dark oak and shelves lined with leather-bound books nobody ever moved except to dust. The solicitor reminded him of a teacher, too – a body well-padded and pushing at his suit, a round moon of a face, weak and faintly flushed in the cheeks, shiny bald head, pink lips, a man that probably used to get beat up as a kid, he thought.

‘That’s impossible…’ he said.

‘Are you all right, Donnie?’ asked Camellia Lucas at his side.

‘No, of course I’m not all right!’ he snapped, then thought better of it. ‘You’d best wait outside,’ he said. What he’d assumed was going to be a mere formality was turning into something quite different. He waited till Camellia closed the heavy door after her. ‘Have you checked?’

The solicitor smiled patiently. ‘There is no will filed with us, or indeed anywhere. We checked thoroughly.’

‘You were his solicitor for twenty-five years – didn’t you think to raise the subject?’

‘On a number of occasions, Mr Craddick. It appears he didn’t want to make one.’

‘So I’ve not been left a single thing? What about the house, the cars, the place in Cornwall?’

‘Technically, in the absence of a will, it all belongs to the Crown.’

‘Like hell it does!’ he spat. ‘I’m his son, his sole heir – it belongs to me.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not quite the case, Mr Craddick. You see, your father had other children, by other women.’

Donnie Craddick’s mouth hung open. ‘You’re pissing up my back!’

The solicitor took out a sheet of paper from a cardboard file, carefully put his glasses on. ‘I anticipated this so found out details relating to payments made to the mothers of the children over the years. You have two sisters – a woman living in South Africa, another in Australia – both by different women.’

Craddick shook his head, smiling disbelievingly. ‘The lecherous old sod,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t he ever tell me?’

‘Who knows, Mr Craddick. As we shall never know why he never made out a will.’

‘I know why,’ he said angrily. ‘He hated me, that’s why. Said I was too big for my boots, said I had to learn to get by in life under my own steam, not use his. He’s doing this to get at me, teach me some kind of perverted lesson. Well stuff the two sisters – they’re bastards. I’m his legitimate son. I’ll fight to get what’s rightly mine.’

The solicitor sucked in a breath. ‘It’s not that simple, Mr Craddick. Your mother never married your father.’

‘Of course she did! She told me they did!’

He shook his head. ‘What she told you wasn’t true. They never actually got married. Your two sisters have as much claim on your father’s estate as you, but getting your hands on your share will not be straightforward. It might be there are other siblings we know nothing about. We’ll have to carry out a thorough check.’

‘Screw that! How much will it cost?’

The solicitor frowned. ‘How much will what cost, Mr Craddick?’

‘How much do you want to make it happen for me?’

He smiled. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘Name your price. Write up a will naming me as sole beneficiary.’

He looked incredulous. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Mr Craddick. That’s unethical and illegal, and I could go to prison for it. There is no will and that’s that.’

Donnie Craddick stared hard and unforgiving at the solicitor. The solicitor was equally adept at staring straight on back. Craddick reached into his pocket and brought out a small red book. He placed it carefully on top of the highly polished desk. ‘I’m asking you to reconsider,’ he said.

‘I can’t,’ he replied uncertainly. ‘What is that?’

‘This? Oh, this is your life!’ The solicitor’s frown deepened and Craddick saw an echo of the frightened kid that used to get beat up. ‘I’m not going to budge on this, Mr Craddick.’

Craddick picked up the book and leafed through the pages. ‘You like men of a certain kind, don’t you? And you a married man.’ He shook his head, tut-tutted. ‘One, two, three, six, eight, twelve…’ he counted as the pages flicked by. ‘You have a very healthy sexual appetite, as far as stamina goes, though I doubt your wife and children would approve of your taste in partners. My father even provided a few of these, didn’t he? In return for favours. But what’s this? What happened here? Why, one of the men was found dead, tied to a bed. Sex games gone wrong. They never discovered who was with him that night. That anything to do with you?’

The solicitor swallowed hard, his eyes betraying a shimmering of fear. ‘That’s blackmail.’

‘No shit, Sherlock. I want what’s owed to me, do you understand?’

‘I can’t create a false will, Mr Craddick.’

‘Then I’ll see to it the details in this book go public.’

The solicitor steeled, leant forward. Steepled his fingers on the desktop. ‘Go ahead, Mr Craddick. You do that. It’s your father’s word against mine. There’s no proof I was ever with that man on the night he died, a man who, by the way had a history of a weak heart. The coroner’s verdict was accidental death in the end. It could have happened at any time, on the bus home, at the supermarket. And for the record my wife found out about my past and we’re divorced. It’s old hat, Mr Craddick. So, continue to pursue this and I’ll go straight to the police and tell them you tried to blackmail me. Do you really want the police putting their noses into your affairs right now?’ He raised a brow, angled his head. ‘No, I rather thought not. Your father was right; you are too big for your boots. You think you’re some kind of Mr Big, but you’re not. Your move, Mr Craddick.’

Donnie Craddick was fuming inside. Was he calling his bluff? In the end he threw the book across the room. ‘You bastard!’ he said. ‘You people are as bad as my father!’

‘I won’t take that as a compliment,’ said the solicitor, his composure returned. ‘Good luck with trying to get your hands on your father’s estate.’

Donnie Craddick gave a squeal of frustration and rose to his feet, knocking over the chair. He stabbed a finger out at the solicitor. ‘I haven’t finished with you yet! I’ll be seeing you again!’

‘Be sure to make an appointment,’ he said. ‘My secretary has a list of the charges I make. Good day, Mr Craddick.’ He put away his spectacles.

In the back of the car, Barry Stocker driving up front, Camellia leaned close to Craddick. ‘Is everything all right?’

He could hardly string two words together without getting all heated up. ‘There’s been a problem,’ he said shortly. His phone rang. It was Steve Roche. ‘Yeah, what is it?’ he snapped. His face paled. ‘Pull over, Barry, pull over!’

Barry did as he was told. Donnie Craddick leapt out of the car before it had even come to a halt by the side of the road. Barry saw Craddick pacing the pavement, his voice raised, his face turning puce. He came to the car window knocking at it for Barry to join him outside.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

He pulled him close. ‘I’ve got a problem at the lockup.’

‘What kind of problem?’

‘I dunno exactly – Roche sounded all worked-up, said he’d tell me when he gets here. Cut the bloody questions will you? Take Camellia shopping.’

‘What? Where?’

‘I don’t care!’ he said. ‘Take her anywhere she wants to go. Keep her out of my way. I can’t deal with her at the moment. Take her to Sheffield Meadowhall, she’ll like that.’

‘Sure. How’re you gonna get back?’

‘Roche is going to pick me up.’ He looked at Camellia, her face at the car’s window looking concerned. He smiled and waved. ‘Get rid of her, will you? I’ve got serious business to attend to.’ He stormed away down the busy high street.

Barry got back inside the car. ‘Something urgent has come up,’ he apologised on Craddick’s behalf.

‘Oh…’ she said. ‘We were going to spend the day together, after visiting the solicitor.’

‘Change of plan. He says you might like to go shopping, a bit of retail therapy. Bet you’ve never been to Sheffield Meadowhall.’

She shook her head. Shrugged. ‘OK, I guess we’ll do that.’

‘He got some bad news in the solicitor’s, I’m guessing,’ he fished, fastening his seatbelt.

‘His father didn’t make a will, that’s what the man said.’

Barry smiled to himself. ‘Oh dear. That’s a shame,’ he said, driving away. ‘Meadowhall it is.’

Steve Roche’s car pulled up and Donnie Craddick launched himself inside.

‘This had better be worth it, Roche. I’ve had to send Camellia packing,’ he said.

‘Boss, the crates have gone.’

‘Crates?’

‘The money in the lockup, it’s gone.’

‘What do you mean, gone?’

‘Like I said, they’ve been whipped, stolen, taken…’

‘Tell me this is a bad joke, Roche.’

‘No joke, boss; someone’s gotten wind of the notes and they’ve broken in and taken it all.’

Donnie Craddick thumped the dashboard. ‘No!’ he screamed. ‘How’d they find out? Someone blabbed. Did you blab?’

Roche held up a hand. ‘No, boss, it wasn’t me.’

‘Stocker, then? It had to be him. You were the only two people who knew.’

‘Maybe, maybe not.’

‘I’ll kill him. And the bastards who took my money. Christ, it’s all I’ve got left of the twisted old man. So who did it? Any idea?’

‘I’ve got an idea, but you’ll have to let me dig a bit.’

Craddick’s frame was shaking with his barely suppressed rage. ‘I’m going to kill them. They don’t know who they’re dealing with. Take me there, and make it fast.’

Roche drove quickly away. ‘I went to the lockup this morning to check up on things. I’m in negotiation with a buyer and needed to get a few things straight before the deal went ahead. The place was stripped bare, Mr Craddick.’

‘Ask at the site office, see if anyone noticed anything unusual.’

‘I reckon it was lifted on Sunday. Nobody at the site office on Sundays.’

‘Someone’s got to have seen something! Ask around!’

‘It’s a sprawling place, Mr Craddick, and trucks come and go all the time. The units that adjoin yours are empty. Nobody there to see anything.’

‘Then we’ll get the site office to check the CCTV footage.’

‘No go, Mr Craddick. The CCTV hasn’t worked for years. The cameras on the gate aren’t real. Cost-cutting exercise by the owners. Maybe they didn’t want snooping cameras. It was one of the reasons your father must have chosen the place. I reckon it’s a hotbed of dodgy dealings and shady comings and goings. My guess it’s the kind of place nobody sees anything, if you get my meaning.’

‘I’ll sue them!’

‘For loss of counterfeit notes?’

He shrieked as if in pain. ‘Oh Jesus!’ he said. ‘A million pounds! Do you know how much that lot was worth to me? I can’t believe this is happening. Not twice in one day.’

‘Twice?’

‘None of your bloody business.’

‘Look, don’t worry. Leave it with me for a day or so. I’ll find out who took your money. I’ve got connections. I’ll put out the word.’

Donnie Craddick sank his face into his hands and groaned. ‘They don’t know who they’re messing with,’ he mumbled. ‘Do they think I’m a soft touch or something? Do they think I’m not as hard as my old man?’ He pulled out a gun, waved it at the windscreen. ‘I’ll blow their bleedin’ heads off!’

‘Put that away, boss!’ said Roche. ‘Someone will see you.’

‘It’s got to be Stocker. He must have told someone.’

‘Maybe. It makes sense.’

Craddick studied the handgun. ‘I can’t trust him, Roche. I don’t like to be around people I can’t trust. I’ll speak with him later, but when we get the money back I want him removed.’

‘Dead?’

‘Very dead. No one double-crosses me.’

‘Consider it done.’

‘They think I’m not like my old man, but what they don’t know is that I’m worse. Far worse. You know I killed a man, Roche.’

‘I know that, Mr Craddick. You told me already.’

Craddick lifted the handgun. ‘I put a gun against his head and pulled the trigger –
blam!
– now he’s dead. Just like in the old
Queen
song, huh? His head exploded like an egg with a firecracker stuck in it. I could have gotten someone else to do it, but I did it myself. There are times a man has to prove himself. See if he’s truly got the balls.’

Roche nodded slowly. ‘That’s true, Mr Craddick. You’ve got balls a-plenty.’

Craddick eyed him. He almost said it like he didn’t believe it. ‘When I see something I want then nothing gets in my way.’ He stashed the gun. ‘Find them, Roche,’ he said. ‘Find whoever took my money. I’ll make it worth your while. And I’ll make them sorry they ever crossed me.’