Jock rolled off the small Chinese woman, then pulled his jeans back up from around his ankles. He reached over to the bedside table and grabbed his cigarettes, making sure to double-check the tart hadn’t half-inched his wallet whilst he’d been concentrating on shooting his load.
He knew what these foreign types were like – always got their eye on an opening to swipe an extra few quid when they could, but he’d chop her hands off before that happened. This one wouldn’t get very far if that was her game.
Lighting up a cigarette, he dragged himself to the edge of the mattress that had long seen better days and noisily sniffed up the thick phlegm in his throat.
‘So? What do you think?’ the woman asked, winding a spindly arm around Jock’s waist. ‘Have I got the job or not?’
Pushing her away, Jock glanced at the girl as she petulantly folded her arms across a virtually flat chest, his lip curling in derision. She was hardly a stunner. More of a fucking moose to be honest and nothing he’d normally bother going for. Good job this was a freebie because there was no way he’d pay for the privilege.
Jock knew Tom’s insistence of taking a freebie as a bonus for how he’d moved the plan forward had an additional motive. The ‘freebie’ consisted of trying out the women wanting a job at the Aurora. Not that any of the ones already working here were any better, but it was true they needed more girls. The ones they’d got on the books wouldn’t spread very far, but it wasn’t like the cream of the crop would queue up to work in a joint like this, was it?
Jock’s face screwed up further. Although he’d lived here most of his life, he’d never been a big fan of Birmingham. He didn’t like the Brummies – found them a hard-nosed bunch, as well as being thick as pigshit. And it really had been a surprise when Tom Bedworth had shown up again after all this time. From what he’d heard, the man was doing well for himself up north; a couple of places with girls and a good percentage of dealing. He’d been pulling in a tidy wedge, so it was odd that he’d bother coming back.
And when Tom first told him he’d purchased a building – this one, now known as the Aurora – the place was far removed from the vision Jock had animatedly envisioned. The scene where the big money was pulled in was nowhere near this dismal dump. Tom may have had a decent amount of clout in Macclesfield, but Macclesfield was hardly Soho. Neither was it Birmingham and Jock worried that Tom hadn’t weighed this up as carefully as he should have.
He frowned. He’d broached it once. Or at least, he’d tried to, but all Tom said was this was the way to do it.
Despite Jock’s loyalty, he didn’t buy that theory. The longer he spent with Tom since his return, the more it became clear there was a big part of the plan he’d failed to share. And Jock didn’t much like it. In fact, it bothered him tremendously, but he wasn’t in a position where he could afford to turn down the wedge Tom was paying. The prospect of the colour of money had twisted his arm and Tom had a habit of being very convincing – especially after a few sherbets.
But the way he’d trapped off in the pub the other night wasn’t good. Tom’s drinking and personal coke intake was worse than in the old days – and that was saying something! Tom should be careful about getting lairy and big-mouthed. Anyone could be listening and this was his earner too.
Jock ground his cigarette out in the ashtray, then shrugged his jacket on.
‘Well?’ the woman pushed, eyeing Jock suspiciously.
‘Well, what?’ Jock spat. ‘Oh, you mean, have you got the job?’ This Chinese bird was pissing him off. Bloody nagging already and he wasn’t having that. His face cracked into a sneer. ‘No disrespect, love, but you were shite.’ He looked her up and down, ‘And you fucking stink. We have standards here, you know?’ Standards? That was a joke! They needed some.
‘You bastard!’ the woman spat, grabbing her clothes before flouncing out of the room.
Hearing the door open once more a few moments later, Jock rolled his eyes. If the cheeky bitch even thought about asking for any money, then she’d lose a few teeth. He swung around. ‘What now?’
‘Jock Sawyer?’ Lurching forward, Seb wrapped his hand tightly around the man’s throat.
Scrabbling at the thick fingers around his windpipe, Jock’s initial shock turned to abject fear. This was one of the Stoker men. This was because of what he’d been told to say. This was Tom’s fault.
Sitting in a layby in the hire car, Tom shoved the last remaining chicken nugget into his mouth and absentmindedly glanced at The Sun’s page three offering of the day. Why couldn’t Jock get birds like this into the Aurora? They needed to up their game on that score. However, not everything was performing under par.
Tom grinned. Jock had done exactly what was asked with putting the word about and now he had two patches under his belt – one of them a Stoker patch, the other a Reynold one, so it was going well so far. Jock had done and said what was needed – many others wouldn’t have had the balls, no matter how much cash was offered.
Scowling as a glob of tomato sauce flopped onto his jacket, Tom scrubbed at the mess with the single paper napkin accompanying the food and internally chided himself for being so clumsy.
Unscrewing the top of his vodka bottle, he gulped down a few more mouthfuls, scowling to see the bottle already half empty. He probably shouldn’t have had all those drinks earlier either, but it wasn’t like he couldn’t handle it, otherwise he’d never have coped driving to this stake out and that would have meant a wasted night.
All things aside, he needed to move quickly on Stoker and Reynold. He had to make it clear that once he received acceptable pay-outs the rumours would stop, but this had to be timed right before they took it upon themselves to think about ill-conceived ideas of retaliation.
And then there was John Maynard…
His appearance out of the blue had knocked Tom off kilter. Oh, he’d done his digging and knew the guy was still around these parts, but what he hadn’t expected was for him to turn up – and certainly not to turn up at the Aurora.
From what he could gather by the fleeting expression he’d caught on Maynard’s ugly mug, the man hadn’t a clue of his return to Birmingham. Well, now he did and could report that back to Reynold with bells on, because it would have no leverage. It could only work in his favour.
Maynard could say shag all without exposing himself to all and sundry and if his involvement was known, then at best he’d be run out of the city and be even more of a nobody than he already was. At worst, the man would cease to exist.
A wide smile broke across Tom’s face. In fact, if he wanted to, he could add that to his plan.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, his mind ticking. All things considered, that wasn’t a bad idea. Should he work that into his master scheme before pulling off the pièce de résistance or use it alone?
Which would be more lucrative?
Tom snatched the piece of paper from the passenger seat and stared at the scrawled address. Frowning, he fired the engine, his nose wrinkling in distaste as the overpowering pine air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror delivered another full assault to his nostrils. Why did hire cars always have those bloody things? Did everyone who rented cars fucking stink or something?
Shaking his head, Tom drove up the road, keeping a look out for the required turn. He’d already studied the map, so knew roughly where he was going, but never having had much call to frequent the upmarket side of the Edgbaston suburb, he couldn’t say he was au fait with the area. All he knew was that he resented the leafy avenues and posh palatial houses.
He turned into the road he wanted, inwardly snarling at the widely spaced trees lining the street. Slowing the car to a crawl, he glanced left and right until he spotted the house he was looking for.
Bingo!
Oh, very nice. Very nice indeed.
Tom enviously eyed the large, white, detached building set back from the road behind high, ornate, wrought-iron gates and his resentment simmered.
That bastard Reynold got this, whilst he’d lived in a poky flat in Macclesfield?
Crunching the gearstick into first, the sound making his teeth on edge, Tom stamped on the accelerator. He wasn’t hanging around here. There was no car on the drive, so even if he’d wanted to start the blackmail tonight, he couldn’t. Besides, he was too half-cut to think straight, plus it would make sense to wait for the letter to arrive. Give that a couple of days to play on their minds before he ramped things up. And he had the Stokers to continue with in the meantime.
Yeah, this was coming together nicely.
Accelerating harder, Tom sped along the road. The quicker he got back to the Aurora and had some coke to straighten his head out, the better.
Shoving a cigarette in his mouth, he glanced down to grab his lighter, panic flaring when blinding headlights appeared from out of nowhere.
Yanking the wheel to the left, Tom could barely breathe as he watched in slow motion as another car ploughed headlong into a tree in his rear-view mirror.
Shit!
Heart pounding, he changed down gear and continued along the road. He had to get out of here fast. He couldn’t afford to get breathalysed.