The Drop

THE DROP

HOWARD LINSKEY

NO EXIT PRESS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

EPILOGUE

I would like to thank the following for their faith and unflagging support during the writing of this book;
Adam Pope, Andy Davis, Nikki Hurley and Gareth Chennells.

Sincere thanks to my publisher Ion Mills, at No Exit, for believing in
The Drop
. Thanks also to the whole team at No Exit, in particular Annette Crossland, Alan Forster for the cover design plus Claire Watts, Chris Burrows and Jolanta Kietaviciute for their hard work on my behalf, and also my anonymous copy editor – you know who you are.

A very big thank you to my Literary Agent, Phil Patterson at Marjacq, for his sound advice, editorial assistance and general good company, all of which is very greatly appreciated by me. Thanks also to the incomparable Isabella Floris at Marjacq for her amazing efforts in foreign markets and also to Luke Speed and Jacqui Lyons. Thanks also to Simon Kernick for taking the trouble to read
The Drop
and for his kind words thereafter.

Finally and most importantly a huge thank you to my loving wife, Alison, and beautiful daughter Erin for their amazing support and for putting up with me and all of this writing. This one is for you!

...................................................

F
inney was there to meet us at the airport so I knew, as soon as I saw his pug-ugly, scarred face that it had all gone tits-up.

I spotted him easily. He towered over everyone else; the relieved parents collecting back-packing teenagers, the minicab drivers on autopilot, holding up their cardboard signs with the names of self-important businessmen hastily scrawled on them in biro. We were tired by now. The plane from Bangkok to Heathrow was bang on time but the connecting flight back to Newcastle arrived an hour late, which tells you everything you need to know about this country.

Laura hadn’t noticed Finney. She was too busy restoring her lifeline, as she called it, attempting to wrestle her mobile phone from her handbag while simultaneously dragging the smallest of our two cases, mine obviously, along behind her on its squeaky wheels. I could hear them squealing in protest with every step, because they were full of handcrafted, wooden nick-nacks she’d insisted on buying but had no room for in her own case. That was full to bursting with the clothes she’d packed in Newcastle but hadn’t worn on the holiday because they were too bulky for the heat. ‘Why do you need three different dresses for every day we are out there?’ I’d asked her before we left, as I sat on her case and tried to flatten it. Now, I was dragging Laura’s case behind me, feeling no happier for being right.

Ten days later, we were back in Newcastle and the look on Finney’s face told me. I was in trouble.

There was no greeting, no small talk from the big man, all I wanted to know was why he was standing there, his huge frame dwarfing those flimsy, metal barriers at the arrivals gate, gnarled fists bunched like he was about to start a fight.

‘What?’ I asked him simply.

‘Bobby needs a word Davey,’ he said in that unmistakeably nasally Geordie voice of his, which had been caused by the iron bar that broke his nose years ago. I was reliably informed that it was the last thing the guy with the iron bar ever did.

‘Now?’ And he just nodded.

‘What is it?’

He looked over at Laura, who was still a few yards behind me but preoccupied by voicemails from her girly mates and her bloody mum.

‘It’s the Drop,’ he said and I immediately thought, oh shit.

Laura didn’t take the news well. ‘He needs to see you now?’ she asked, as if I’d been called in at late notice for a shelf-stacking shift at the Co-Op. ‘Christ David.’

I realised she was jetlagged but then so was I, and I could have done without the grief, because she was embarrassing me a little in front of Finney. I might have been a new man compared to most of our mob but, if she carried on like this, the word would go out that I was pussy-whipped.

‘You know who I work for.’ I hissed the words at her and was relieved when she fell silent. Finney lifted Laura’s case into the boot of her Audi and I added the other one. She didn’t thank either of us.

‘You don’t know when you’ll be back?’ she asked, though she already knew the answer to that stupid question.

‘No,’ I said through gritted teeth, my mind already on Bobby Mahoney and the reasons why he had sent his top enforcer out to the airport to bring me in. Why did he not just leave me a message or send some low-level member of the crew with a car, unless this was serious and I was somehow to blame for it? What the hell had gone wrong with the Drop? Was it light? Had Cartwright gone completely out of his mind and skimmed off the top. No, he’d have to be mad. It would be spotted immediately. So, if not that, then what?

We waited till Laura drove away with a face like thunder, then walked over to Finney’s 4x4 and climbed in. He drove us out of the car park and away.

I had a little over ten minutes to get to the bottom of what was going on before we were back in the city. I hung on for what seemed like an eternity then finally asked, ‘So, you going to tell me what this is all about or do I have to guess?’

‘I’m not s’posed to say. It’s… ’

‘Don’t be a total cunt.’ I was deliberately talking down to him, like he was being a complete wanker for holding out on me like this, which he was. I only had a short drive to convince him he could safely let me know what had happened. ‘I’m not going to let on, am I?’

It was a bit of a risk talking to a man like Finney like that and he gave me a look. We both knew he could have ripped my head off my body without even breaking sweat. He was a huge guy with a barrelled chest and fists like mell hammers. His face was marked with the scars from a thousand fights, all of which I am willing to bet he won. Put it this way, I have never heard of anybody beating Finney, not once, not in the illegal, bare-knuckle boxing bouts where he came to Bobby Mahoney’s attention in the first place, not inside, when he got his ten stretch, commuted to six, and certainly not on the streets. Nobody has ever taken down Finney on the streets. He is the firm’s main muscle and I take him anywhere where there might be even a hint of trouble. People soon stop giving me jip when he walks in.

He didn’t say anything at first, just watched the road ahead. Then finally he quietly told me, ‘It’s the Drop.’

‘Yeah, you said,’ I replied irritably and while I was racking my brains wondering what could possibly have gone wrong, he added, ‘It didn’t happen.’ And I am not afraid to tell you that, right then, the blood in my veins ran to ice.

...................................................

B
obby Mahoney has meetings in lots of different places. He has to; in the back rooms of the pubs he owns, or the spa he has a stake in, or down at the Cauldron, the first club he had before he went on to control an empire. It’s safer that way and makes it hard for the local plod or SOCA to get anything on tape. We sweep every location twice a week obviously, we’re no mugs - and Bobby Mahoney isn’t some John Gotti figure, shooting his mouth off all over Tyneside until they get enough to put him away for life. He doesn’t piss about does Bobby and it’s part of my job to make sure he never takes chances.

I’m not too surprised when Finney tells me we are meeting at the Cauldron. It’s a sort of home from home for Bobby and I suspect he views it sentimentally, like some huge retailer who returns to his first corner shop every now and then to recall the good old days when he had nothing but naked ambition. Well, that and, in Bobby’s case, the proceeds from the robbery of an armoured car which his fledgling crew turned over back in 1973. They stormed in with stocking masks over their faces and sawn-off shotguns, which they brandished under the noses of the unarmed security guards. Those guys were paid a pittance and were hardly going to act the hero.

That’s how you got started in those days. You’d take out a wages van to secure the funds to start you off. It was the first step on the ladder. Nowadays if we need to be more liquid we talk to venture capitalists. It’s a funny old world.

No one but a complete numpty would take out a security van these days. There’s nothing like as much cash about for one thing, everybody gets their salary through BACS transfer and the wage packet stuffed with tenners is a distant memory. Police intelligence is a lot sharper as well, gangs get spotted early, their members put under round-the-clock surveillance and, if they do make a move, they get taken out by police marksmen with itchy trigger fingers, who all think they’re Al Pacino in
Heat
.

We watched one botched armed robbery unfolding on Sky News a few weeks back, at least the aftermath of it. The cops weren’t content with arresting the dumb shits, who hadn’t realised things had changed since the days of Regan and Carter and a gruff shout of ‘you’re nicked son’. As soon as they pulled a handgun on the security guard they were dropped, calm as you like, by snipers they never even saw, leaving passers by to catch images of their bodies on mobile phone cameras, so they could sell the grainy footage to the 24-hour news channels. It seems we are all journalists these days. Everybody knows you can get a few bob for footage of blood on the walls of your local building society.

Bobby watched it all with interest before pronouncing, ‘aye, things have definitely changed since my day,’ before taking a sip of his whiskey and adding, ‘course, we weren’t fucking amateurs.’

Back in Bobby’s younger days, the proceeds from one or two vans would set you up with a controlling stake in a club and enough readies to invest in slot machines, stolen booze or fags and old-fashioned, honest-to-goodness whoring. As Bobby told me, ‘men have needed women since time began but it’s still illegal thank God - and long may that continue, or they’d be offering you one when you went for your groceries at Tescos,’ and he mimicked the sing-song voice of some simple-minded checkout girl, “That’s ninety quid sir. Oh, got your loyalty card have you? I see you’ve enough points on there for one fuck, two blow jobs and a tit-wank. Would you like them now while the wife gets your petrol?” and he’d laughed, “do you think they wouldn’t do it if they could” They sell everything from TVs to insurance and you can buy a vibrator on every high street these days. Where would we be if they really let retailers sell sex, eh? I’ve made more money out of massage than I have out of armed robbery. It just takes a bit longer, one hand job at a time.’

Finney and I were back in the city way too soon. It was the start of an October weekend and people were out and about, forgetting their cares for a few hours in the pubs and clubs of the Bigg Market and the Quayside; dozens of lasses done up to the nines and lairy lads out on the prowl looking for their one-night-Juliet. The bridges on the Quayside were all lit up, so the evening’s revellers could tell which direction they were staggering.

I’d been thinking about Bobby’s violent start in life for a reason. He was still a hard bastard. If he felt aggrieved, he was not afraid to use some of that famous ruthlessness on any man, even one of his trusted lieutenants. I was worrying quite a lot about that in fact, because this time the trusted lieutenant was me. I am not as used to violence as the other guys in his crew. They’ve all been around a lot longer and they’ve had to scrap their way into his outfit. They all got their hands dirty at one point or another, but me? I’m a lot younger and I’m strictly white-collar, an ideas man. I have made Bobby Mahoney a lot of money over the years and he always made sure I got my slice but none of that matters now. The Drop didn’t happen and frankly, I admit it, I am shitting myself.

‘Not a fucking word to Bobby, you hear me Davey?’ cautioned Finney, ‘no matter what he says.’

My name is David Blake but most of the firm still call me Davey, even though I grew out of it years ago.

‘I said, didn’t I?’

We parked outside the dirty, red-brick, windowless façade of the Cauldron, a stone’s throw from China Town and a goal kick from St James Park. It was Friday night, just after traditional pub kicking-out time and the punters were already massing outside to get into the Cauldron. It’s not our coolest spot but it’s cheap and has a pretty loyal following. They were queuing two or three deep; teenage girls dressed in skirts so tiny they looked like they were fashioned from their grandad’s hankies. Their tight shirts were buttoned or tied just far enough up the middle to leave an acre of bare, white-fleshed cleavage spilling out over the fabric. Christ, I thought, they must be freezing. Then I realised how old that made me sound. The young don’t notice the cold. I remembered my poor, late ma saying the same thing to me every time I left the house without a coat on. ‘You’ll catch your death one day, you will.’

Finney chucked the keys at one of the bouncers and he moved the car off the double yellows. The other one hastily unclipped the red, velvet rope that was meant to give the place a veneer of class and stepped back out of our way to admit us. We walked passed the lass who took the money, Julie I think her name was, and she smiled at me. I found myself wondering if she would testify if I didn’t make it out of the building alive. Would she fuck.

The thought kept going round and round in my mind; the Drop didn’t happen so, right now, I was about as popular in Newcastle as Dennis Wise. I was already wishing I was on the return flight back to Thailand.

We climbed a steep flight of stairs covered in sticky, lager-encrusted, maroon carpet and I got a brief glimpse of the dancefloor ahead of me with the 80’s style smoke machine billowing till the place looked like it was on fire. The club was slowly filling up with pissed-up, randy young blokes and bored-looking but equally drunk lasses. They were gyrating to Rihanna’s
‘Disturbia’
. For some reason it sounded jarring and ominous, the bass thumping at probably the same rate as my heart, but I knew that was just my overwrought mind fucking with me.

I caught the eye of one girl in particular. I don’t know why she stood out but she looked desolate. She was sitting on her own and had more than likely just realised her friend wasn’t coming back for her, probably getting her tits felt in the taxi rank outside. She’d soon be on her way back to some apprentice sparky’s flat because he’d told her he played for Newcastle reserves. I looked into her doleful, hurt face and wanted to tell her ‘pet, you think you’ve got problems?’

It was two more flights to the inner sanctum and when I got there Bobby was sitting behind his big, solid oak desk, waiting for me. There were a couple of senior members of the firm there with him; Jerry Lemon, as usual in a T-shirt, all bare arms and prison tatts, filled with so much pent up aggression I was always expecting him to have a heart attack. Standing next to him was Mickey Hunter looking uncomfortable in a supposedly smart jacket, a tie strung so loosely round his neck you could see the top button of his shirt. I wanted to march up to the big fellah and pull it taut so he didn’t look like such a scruff. He obviously felt obliged to dress smart in Bobby’s nightclub but it just didn’t suit him. He ended up looking like a manual worker forced by his missus to wear a good suit at his niece’s wedding.

Even our bent accountant Alex Northam was there, in a tweed suit that was far too old for him. He was one of those middle-aged guys who can’t wait to get old so they can tell everybody how far back they go.

I’d known these guys for a long while but they all avoided my gaze now. I wondered if any of them had put in a good word for me or if they couldn’t wait to dance all over my grave. No honour among thieves.

While not quite as violently psychotic as Finney, Bobby Mahoney was still a man to be reckoned with, even in his late fifties. He might have had the grey hair and lined face of a man contemplating retirement, but you could still put him in a room full of twenty-year olds and I’d bet he’d be the only one left standing at the end.

He didn’t look pleased to see me.

‘Alright Bobby?’ I said, knowing that he wasn’t.

‘Where the fuck have you been?’ the big booming voice silenced every one else immediately. It was so sharp it made Northam twitch in alarm.

‘Thailand.’ I told him as defiantly as I could manage. Rightly or wrongly, since I’d done nothing wrong I was gambling that my best form of defence was a little bit of defiance, mixed with a healthy dose of bemusement. ‘Why?’

Bobby climbed to his feet and came out from behind his desk. Jerry Lemon and Mickey Hunter parting like the Red Sea so he could get at me. My mouth was dry and I didn’t like the way his enormous fists were balled up. I was preparing myself for a bad beating.

‘What happened to the Drop?’ he asked me outright.

And this is where it got difficult for me, because I wasn’t supposed to know it hadn’t happened but Finney knew that I knew and he was standing there with me, so I had to be convincing. If I started looking shifty because I was denying all knowledge of what had happened to the Drop then Bobby might start to wonder why and draw the wrong, dangerous conclusion.

‘I don’t know, I was away. I’ve been on holiday remember.’ Then I acted like it was just sinking in, ‘what do you mean “what happened to it?”’

‘You were responsible for the Drop!’ the volume rose to a dangerous level. He crossed the floor towards me and the others started looking elsewhere; their shoes, the framed prints of half-naked Pirelli calendar girls on the walls, anywhere but at me, ‘don’t take me for a cunt Davey,’ he hissed at me when he was right up close.

The situation was serious enough for me to immediately stop acting defiant. ‘Yeah, I know Bobby, but I was on holiday so Geordie Cartwright said he’d do it,’ I said this quietly, hoping to calm the big man down, ‘just like he always does when I’m on holiday. He said he’d clear it with you and he’d take Maggot down there with him.’

He walked right up to me and stopped just in front of my face, so he could take a long look at me to see if I was lying. They say Bobby Mahoney can smell a lie. ‘Well he didn’t fucking clear it with me and he didn’t take Maggot with him.’ He was up so close to me I could smell the stale tobacco on his breath.

‘You’ve spoken to Maggot have you?’ I asked.

‘Oh yeah,’ said Finney wryly, ‘we spoke to him alright.’ By his tone I realised they must have put the fear of God into the poor bastard to make sure he was telling the truth. Finney was famous for his powers of persuasion, his trademark weapon of choice being a nail gun. He had a fondness for putting nails through people’s hands, leaving them stuck to their kitchen tables, garage doors and, in one memorable case, the skull of a deceased accomplice.

‘You didn’t ring me,’ I offered, surprised that this was not the first thing he’d thought of. I didn’t have a fancy mobile with an international connection but I wasn’t hard to trace.

‘We phoned the hotel you gave us,’ said Jerry Lemon, ‘they said you weren’t staying there,’

‘That’s bullshit,’ I said, ‘I was there. I’ve been on the same fucking resort for ten days. Laura brought back half the gift shop. Course I was fucking there.’ And then a thought suddenly struck me.

Laura.

Laura made the booking.

Oh Christ.

‘So, what’s happened then?’ I asked, looking to deflect them from the subject of my strange absence from the hotel register. For a second, I thought Bobby was going to belt me and when Bobby Mahoney starts belting people he doesn’t stop. Believe me, I’ve seen it. It takes Finney and all his mates to drag Bobby off once he’s started and by then it’s usually too late.

‘Nothing happened!’ he snarled, ‘the Drop certainly didn’t happen and Cartwright’s disappeared.’

‘Shit!’

‘Yeah, shit’s the word. A whole heap of shit and we are all in it, particularly you. The first I hear about it is when I get a call to tell me the Drop’s late. The Drop’s never late so I know something’s wrong straight away and I look into it sharpish. Turns out nobody can find Cartwright and nobody can find the money. Only thing anyone knows is it didn’t fucking get there. So my question, once again, is where the fuck have you been?’

I am bright enough to realise that he is not talking literally. I know if I even say the words ‘holiday’ or ‘Thailand’ again I am liable to get a beating that would not entirely be undeserved. ‘I’m sorry Bobby, I really am. I fucked up,’ he doesn’t seem to know how to react to that level of honesty. He’s clearly not used to it. ‘I should have made sure the Drop was in safer hands than Cartwright so you had nothing to worry about.’

‘I’m not worried about Cartwright. I’ve known him for years and he’s fucked either way son. It looks like someone’s killed him and taken my money. That’s my guess and, if it’s not that, it means he’s so stupid he’s stolen it himself, and
I’ll
bloody kill him. Don’t worry about Cartwright, worry about yourself because the Drop is your responsibility. I thought I’d made that pretty clear. Now you get out there and you find Cartwright or you find his body. I want to know who’s behind this and I want my fucking money back – then I am going to let Finney cut whoever’s responsible into tiny pieces while they are still breathing. You have got two days to sort this mess out. I want my cash back on this desk on Monday morning. Nobody takes from me, nobody, you know that!’