THE DOMINO BOYS (a psychological thriller) (12 page)

‘Leave it with me, Mr Craddick.’

‘And I’ve another job I need doing sometime in the future. A certain solicitor badmouthed me today. I need him taken care of.’

‘I’m going to be kept very busy, Mr Craddick.’

‘That’s business for you,’ he said, resting his head and closing his eyes. ‘That’s business.’

Roche resisted the urge to grin. And business is looking good, he thought.

‘So where do you come from, Miss Lucas?’ Barry asked as they entered Sheffield and he took the road to Meadowhall shopping centre.

‘Forget the Miss,’ she said. ‘Plain Camellia will do.’

He smiled. ‘Anything you say. You’re not from round these parts, that’s for sure.’

‘Cambridgeshire.’

‘That figures. You’ve got a nice posh accent.’

‘Sticks out like a sore thumb in Overthorpe, you mean?’

He shrugged. ‘You come from a posh family, then?’

‘You could say that. My father is considerably wealthy. He’s been in the oil business for years – an executive for one of the major companies, a minor player really, but it’s still made him a relatively rich man.’

‘And you a rich man’s daughter,’ he said meaningfully.

She detected the sour note in his voice. ‘What are you getting at, Barry?’

‘Women like you must attract all sorts of people, that’s all.’

‘People like Donnie, you mean?’

He smiled. ‘Maybe.’

‘You don’t like him, do you?’

Barry shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Not for me to say.’

‘But still you wonder how I ended up with someone like Donnie, right?’

‘Like I say, none of my business.’ He glanced at her. ‘Look, I don’t want to interfere, but there are things about Donnie maybe you don’t know and should know…’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said shortly, her face falling serious. ‘I know all about Donnie. ‘And I know what I’m doing.’

‘I’m sure you do.’

‘What was all that about back there, with Donnie?’ she asked. ‘What was the call? What’s wrong?’

‘Can’t say.’

‘He’s in trouble, I’m guessing.’

‘It’s his middle name.’

‘So why do you work for him if you can’t stand the man?’

‘I have my reasons. Do you love him?’

She smiled at his audacity. ‘That would be telling,’ she said.

‘You don’t, do you?’ He pointed to his eyes. ‘I can tell when someone feels something about someone; the eyes give it away.’

She gave a light laugh. ‘How very astute, Barry.’

‘So why have you agreed to marry him?’

‘I have my reasons too,’ she said.

‘If it’s not for money and it’s not for love, and you’re obviously a decent sort of woman, why are you here with him?’ He frowned. ‘See, that’s really got me stumped.’

She laughed again. ‘I have my reasons, like I said.’ She stared straight ahead, her bright eyes twinkling in the sunlight.

*  *  *  *

The phone rang. Barry Stocker was reluctant to pick it up these days; it always seemed to be bad news. Today was no exception.

‘Hi, Barry – have you seen Duncan?’ It was Alfie Parker.

‘Not since…’ Barry stared hard at the wall. ‘Well, not since we had words.’ There was silence at the other end of the line. ‘What’s wrong, Alfie?’ he asked.

‘Dunno. Nothing, maybe. I don’t know. How was he when you left him that night?’

‘We’d had words. Not very good. And he was still in pain after his beating by Donnie.’

‘You’ve not seen him since?’

Barry cleared his throat, shuffled uneasily. ‘I meant to go round. I’ve been busy.’

‘I went round to see him. The door was unlocked and he wasn’t in.’

‘Maybe he popped out for something.’

‘Yeah,’ said Alfie, ‘that’s what I thought. But I waited till late and he never came back. Then today I got a visit by a police officer.’

‘The police?’ he said, a slight tremor to his voice. ‘What the hell do they want?’

‘It was a guy called Inspector Lavery. Seemed he knew Duncan from way-back-when. They were supposed to meet up but Duncan didn’t show. He was concerned when I told him he’d been beaten up.’

‘You never told him who did it, though?’

‘Not that daft, Barry. Thing is he went round to his place. The door was still unlocked and Duncan is still missing.’

Barry’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s happened to him? Where’s he gone?’

The silence popped and cracked. ‘You sure he was OK when you left him? What happened exactly?’

‘I told you; we had words.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘What are you saying, Alfie?’ His voice hardened.

This time it was Alfie who was clearing his throat. ‘You seemed upset, that’s all, when you spoke about it. Was it over Sophie?’

‘That’s none of your business, Alfie.’

‘Duncan’s my friend. If something is wrong that makes it my business.’

‘He’ll turn up. He’s a big boy.’

‘Look,’ said Alfie, ‘I just wanted to warn you that Inspector Lavery is on his way over to your house. He wants to speak to you.’

‘What have you told him, Alfie?’

‘Nothing. Only what I know. What’s going on, Barry? Are you in trouble?’

Barry slammed the phone down.

He went to a cupboard and took out a shoebox. Inside was the gun. He put it inside his coat pocket. He should never have taken this thing from Craddick, he thought. He had to get rid of it.

But there wasn’t time to do anything. There was a knock at the door. A strong, purposeful knock delivered by the kind of person whose job entailed delivering strong, purposeful knocks.

‘Barry Stocker?’

‘Yeah?’

The man standing in the doorway was tall, well built, a man about Duncan’s age, his hair tinged with grey at the temples. He had icy-green eyes, like the colours he’d once seen in an iceberg on telly. He flashed ID. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Lavery, South Yorkshire Constabulary. Can I have a word, please?’

‘Can’t this wait? I’ve gotta go out to work.’

‘It’s important. Can I come in?’

Reluctantly Barry stepped aside and let the man through. They went into the living room. Lavery didn’t wait to be asked; he sat down and motioned for Barry to do the same.

‘What’s this about?’ Barry said, hardly able to keep the nerves out of his voice.

‘You’re a close friend of Duncan Winslade, right?’

He nodded quickly. ‘We go back years.’

‘And he’s your brother-in-law, of course.’

‘Yeah, that as well. What’s this about?’

‘Duncan is a close colleague of mine. We were due to meet up. He didn’t turn up. Nothing unusual in that, except he didn’t answer his calls, emails and the like, so I called round to his place hoping to see him. But his door was unlocked and the house was empty.’

‘He doesn’t always stay at home. He gets about a bit.’

‘And when he goes out he leaves the door unlocked?’

Barry gave a slight shrug. ‘That’s not like Duncan,’ he conceded, ‘him being an ex-copper.’

‘I contacted another of his friends, Alfie Parker; your friend, too, I understand.’

‘That’s right.’

‘He told me Duncan had just come back from hospital after being beaten up.’

‘Yeah.’

The police officer took out a notebook. Read from it. ‘Broken ribs, stitches to the head – whoever did it meant business. Do you know who did this to Duncan, Mr Stocker?’

He shook his head. ‘I didn’t know it had happened till Alfie told me. I went to the hospital to see if he was OK.’

‘Do you know where the beating took place?’

‘No.’

‘Did you see him after he got home from hospital?’

Barry swallowed. ‘No.’

‘No?’

‘That’s what I said.’

Lavery stared at him, his eyes boring into him. ‘You see, I’m getting concerned for Duncan’s safety. I found a bloodied shirt, presumably belonging to him, and a splash of blood on the sofa.’

Barry shuffled uneasily. ‘Maybe the shirt is from when he got beat up. And the blood on the sofa, too.’

‘So are you saying he got beat up at his home, not in the street someplace?’

‘Just saying, is all. Could be. I don’t know do I? I’m not the police.’

‘Is Donnie Craddick behind this?’

It took him by surprise. ‘Why’d you say that?’

‘A red Jaguar was seen parked in the street not far from Duncan’s house on the night he got beat up. There aren’t many red Jags in Overthorpe. You drive one for Craddick now, don’t you?’

‘Only took the job on recently.’

‘And you’re sure you can’t remember driving the Jag round to see your brother-in-law when he came out of hospital?’

He shook his head. ‘Is Duncan OK?’

Lavery cocked his head. ‘I hope so. He’s a good man. A good friend.’ He rose to his full height, looked down on Barry. ‘I shall have to pay Donnie Craddick a visit.’

‘You’re not saying he’s got something to do with Duncan being missing, are you?’

He smiled, put his notebook away. ‘There’s probably a very simple explanation. No need to get alarmed just yet.’ He frowned. ‘Are you feeling unwell, Mr Stocker? You seem to be sweating.’

‘I feel the heat. It’s my age. Hot flushes and all that.’

Her slender form cut through the water, hardly a splash, he thought. So elegant. Her white swimming costume made her look pure, a creature from another world unsullied by corporeal things. She broke the surface and he heard her draw in a breath. She touched the side of the swimming pool and twisted under the water, kicking off the blue tiles and spearing through the water as easily as if she’d been born to it.

That was the result of lots of pampered holidays abroad, thought Donnie Craddick; five-star hotels with rich daddy and mummy. Camellia’s enviously even tan gave this away too, as well as her ease in the pool, the confident way she walked, not quite a swagger but close; the way she talked, carried herself, like she was wrapped in an impregnable bubble of self-assurance that had been blown and formed through a hoop of iron-hard privilege.

Envy? You bet. He hadn’t spent any time with his own mother and father, bundled off to boarding school as soon as he was old enough, limited, fractured conversations and uneasy meetings, till in the end none of them wanted to meet up and see each other. His father provided money, an adequate amount, perfunctory amounts, made sure he didn’t starve, had a roof over his head as he grew older. But little else. None of the stuff that really matters. Time together. Talking with each other like fathers and sons are supposed to. But he guessed that was an illusion; how many fathers really talk to their sons anyhow? All
they
ever did was argue. Somehow, Donnie Craddick hadn’t come up to his father’s expectations.
His
expectations! There was no way he was ever going to hand over his hard-won empire to a weak-kneed, snivelling, ungrateful, spoilt little brat, he’d been told. He rather leave it to a dog’s home.

Well he’d done the next best thing. He’d not bothered to leave it to anyone and Donnie Craddick just knew the miserable old bastard, in whatever hell he was now wallowing, was having a bloody good laugh at his expense.

Camellia hauled herself gracefully out of the pool, wiped a hand over her eyes and then back through her wet hair. She smiled at him as she grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her. She padded over to him.

‘Why don’t you have a swim? It’ll ease the tension,’ she said.

‘I’m not tense,’ he said. ‘And I don’t swim,’ he added.

She came over to where he sat. He was twirling a glass of cognac in his hand, staring into it and watching the alcohol cling to the glass. ‘That won’t help,’ she said. ‘Talk to me. What’s wrong?’

His eyes narrowed, his jaw setting. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

‘What shall we do today?’

He sighed heavily, took a swig. ‘I’ve got business to attend to,’ he said. ‘Can’t you find something to do?’

‘In Overthorpe? Donnie, it’s hardly London. I thought you were going to show me around, take me to the Dales, to Derbyshire.’

‘Well plans have changed.’ He realised it sounded curt and smiled thinly, took hold of her wet hand. ‘Bear with me. I promise we’ll spend some quality time together very soon.’

They heard a door opening and saw Barry Stocker enter the room, Steve Roche behind him.

Camellia covered herself with the towel. ‘Hello, Barry,’ she said.

Barry nodded to her as he came close.

‘Leave us alone a moment, will you, Camellia, dear?’ said Craddick.

She studied Roche’s stern face for a second. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said to Craddick and passed Barry a glance as she brushed past him and left the room.

‘What’s wrong, Mr Craddick?’ said Barry dully.

Craddick cocked his head. ‘You tell me, Stocker.’

Barry looked at Roche, then back to Craddick. He flexed his shoulders. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Craddick rose from his seat. He nodded at Roche and the man gave a whistle. Craddick’s two minders came into the room and marched determinedly up to Barry. They each took a place on either side of him, grabbing an arm. Barry struggled but their grip was unyielding.

‘Where’s my money, Stocker?’ said Craddick.

It was Barry’s turn to frown. ‘What money?’

Craddick punched Barry in the stomach and he doubled up in pain, gasping. The men lifted him to his feet, held him there.

‘Don’t play games with me, Barry. You’re the only idiot who would have told them about the counterfeit notes.’

Barry had his eyes squeezed closed. ‘I… I don’t know what you… mean…’’

Craddick punched him again. Barry crumpled. ‘You told them, they took my money, I want it back.’ He sent his fist crashing into Barry’s midriff again.

Tears of pain were forced from Barry’s lids, but he gritted his teeth, hissed through them, ‘I never told anyone anything!’

Craddick nodded for the men to release him, and Barry fell to his knees, clutching his stomach. He vomited on the tiles, narrowly missing Craddick’s foot. ‘I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt, Stocker. But if I find out you are in on this, I swear I will rip your scheming black heart out of you with my own fair hands.’ He motioned to the two men and they took a hold of Barry and carried him to the edge of the pool.

‘I can’t swim!’ cried Barry.

They threw him into the pool. Barry thrashed around wildly, screaming in fear till he realised it was the shallow end and his feet touched the bottom. He stood there, the water lapping at his waist, facing a barrage of cruel, mocking laughter.

Craddick’s mobile phone rang. He lifted it to his ear, chuckling.

Then his face fell morbidly serious. ‘Who is this?’ he said, walking away from the men to a large window that looked out onto the lawn. He listened intently, his cheeks beginning to flush red, his jaw hardening, his lips dash-straight. He put the phone away, breathing heavily through his nose.

‘What is it, Mr Craddick?’ asked Roche.

Barry was attempting to clamber out of the pool but the weight of his clothes kept dragging him back in. Craddick waved for the two cronies to leave them alone.

‘That was someone called Roberto Ginetta,’ he said.

‘Who is Roberto Ginetta?’ asked Roche.

‘The bastard who has his filthy paws on my money.’ Craddick went over to the side of the pool. Barry was just about out of the water, gasping. ‘Who is Roberto Ginetta, Stocker?’

He shook his wet head. ‘I… don’t know any… Ginetta…’ he said.

Craddick kicked him in the shoulder and Barry slipped into the pool again.

‘He wants to meet me tonight at seven,’ said Craddick. ‘The Silver Crucible nightclub in Doncaster. Ever heard of it?’