Not much phased Seb. Even the most violent acts he’d been part of over the years, the torture he’d witnessed and the murder he’d either had a hand in or sanctioned, had not been enough to cause him to break into a sweat. He was a Stoker through and through. But this… This was different.
Shoving his finger into the neck of his collar, Seb rolled his shoulders to ease the fast-building tension and accompanying headache. Come on Sebastian, get a bloody grip, man, he chanted silently, whilst stealing a glance at his watch.
Andrew and Neil had better deliver on time because this waiting was doing zilch for his escalating blood pressure.
Hearing the wheels of a vehicle crunching along the gravel pathway leading to the lock-up, Seb gritted his teeth. Perspiration beaded between his shoulder blades and he resented the white cotton of his shirt sticking to his skin.
Standing motionless, he waited in the gloom, only one fluorescent strip light at the far end of the cavernous lock-up switched on.
Hearing the double doors of the van slam, Seb tensed, his hand hovering over the Beretta as security in his waistband.
Three sharp bangs on the metal door sounded, followed by a pause, then two more and he waited as the heavy doors opened.
‘He’s here,’ Andrew muttered, pulling a man, wrists shackled, inside. Neil followed, steering the man in from behind.
The crash of metal on metal as the doors shut jolted Seb’s head. He indicated to Andrew to remove the sacking covering the man’s face.
Andrew none-too-gently pulled the sack from Phil’s head, exposing the man’s panicked face. ‘Get that off him,’ Seb barked, not happy to see the gaffer tape across the man’s mouth.
Scowling, Neil ripped the tape from Phil’s mouth, pulling with it the top layer of skin.
‘Fucking hell!’ Phil howled.
Seb groaned inwardly. ‘Hello, Phil.’
Phil blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light after the darkness of the sack and the back of the van. He looked around, wide-eyed, panic intensifying. ‘What’s going on?’
Seb repositioned himself, spacing his legs on the concrete floor. He wouldn’t drag this out. He wasn’t in the habit of banishing one of his own – especially one who had always been loyal and done nothing to warrant such treatment. How he wished he didn’t have to do this and that there was another way, but under the circumstances, he had little choice.
For the firm’s sake and Phil’s safety it had to be done, Seb knew that, but it would mean splitting up this man’s family, at least in the short term, and that wasn’t something he relished doing.
This poor bastard had done sod all and that’s what made this so bloody wrong.
Wrong, but necessary.
Not having received an answer, but instinctively knowing something was horribly wrong, Phil’s panic grew. He fidgeted from foot to foot, his eyes darting around looking for escape routes, of which, having been to this lock-up plenty of times to drop goods, he already knew there to be none.
His frightened eyes tracked back to Seb. ‘What have I done?’ he cried. ‘I did everything you asked. I’ve always done what you asked Mr Stoker, I…’
‘I’m sorry to have interrupted your evening, Phil,’ Seb said, not wanting to hear the man’s pitiful begging. It was making his ears hurt.
‘I – I told you who that man was, didn’t I? You said I was right to inform you of what he said. I haven’t breathed a word about any of it! None of it! I’ve said nothing to no one! I wouldn’t, I swear, you’ve got to believe me!’ Phil gibbered, pulling against his wrist restraints.
‘Do you want me to quieten him down?’ Andrew looked to Seb, his fist poised.
Seb immediately waved his brother’s suggestion away. ‘Phil, I don’t ever apologise, but on this occasion I will. You’ve done nothing wrong, but circumstances dictate that you can’t remain around.’
‘Wait!’ Phil squawked. ‘I didn’t breathe a word about what you did to Jock Sawyer, did I? I said I wouldn’t and I haven’t. I don’t know what this is all about, but I won’t get you in the shit, Mr Stoker.’
Neil’s eyes darted to Andrew. ‘What’s that about Jock Sawyer?’
Andrew shrugged, knowing full well what it was about. He glanced at Seb. Why wasn’t he getting on with dispatching the man? They couldn’t risk this bloke being dragged in for questioning by anyone and spilling under duress what he knew about Jock Sawyer’s removal. No bloody way. And, okay, so it wasn’t great offloading one of their own, but Seb had told him and Neil to bring the man here, so what was the hold-up?
‘Phil, you need to make yourself scarce.’ Seb pulled a fat envelope out of his pocket. ‘There’s enough money here to set you up and keep you afloat for the foreseeable. And there’s also a ticket t…’
‘But I ain’t done anything. You said so yourself! I can’t just up sticks and disappear!’ Phil yelped, panic across his face. He backed away, only to be pulled back into position by Andrew and Neil’s heavy hands. ‘I’ve got a wife and kids. They’ll…’
‘You will do as I say,’ Seb growled. ‘Your family will be well looked after in your absence. I will keep the time as short as possible. Hopefully less than a year.’
‘NO! Please!’ Phil screamed, flailing against the strong grip of Andrew and Neil. ‘I can’t leave my missus and kiddies. Surely there’s another way?’
Andrew stared at Seb in astonishment. What was this shit? He was putting Phil out of the country for a while? That was it? Jesus Christ, the man could still talk. How could they know for sure the bloke hadn’t returned before it was safe to do so? They couldn’t put tabs on all the airports. This was bollocks! It was too risky and he wasn’t having it. Too many people were taking the piss here.
He glared at his elder brother. ‘What are you doing, Seb? Has shagging that tart made you go soft in the head all of a sudden?’ Andrew poked Phil in the back. ‘And now he’s refusing to take your over-generous and crazy offer?’
Seb stiffened, his anger mounting. ‘Shut it, Andrew. Phil is one of our own,’ he hissed between his teeth. He’d bypass the dig about ‘soft’ and the reference to Sam for now. This wasn’t a soft decision – it was fucking decent and the right thing to do. Andrew was losing it lately and that he would also have to deal with. And that runaway mouth of his. But not now. Not in front of others.
Phil’s eyes darted between Seb and Andrew, fear intensifying. The fast-rising antagonism between the brothers would spiral out of control if he didn’t do something to placate the situation. There was an opportunity to walk out of here, which he hadn’t thought available when entering the lock-up, so he’d best hurry up and take it. ‘Okay, okay. I’ll disappear! I – I’ll go wherever you need. I’m sorry. It’s just a shock. Just promise me you’ll take care of my family.’
Seb smiled thinly, his cold eyes still half-fixed on Andrew. ‘That goes without saying, Phil. You’ll be contacted as soon as the route is clear for your return.’ He put the envelope in Phil’s hand. ‘It’s all in there – the ticket and details.’
He then turned to his brothers. ‘Now fucking untie him. He shouldn’t have been trussed up in the first place!’ Pulling his cuffs straight, Seb glared at Andrew. ‘Make sure he gets on the plane. I’ll see you back at the club. I’ve got other things I need to sort out.’
Unshackled, Phil got to his feet, his shaking hands clasping tightly on to the envelope, his eyes suddenly darting to the Beretta pulled from Andrew’s waistband. ‘What th…’
Swinging around as the shot rang out loudly, the staccato noise amplified by the cavernous hulk of the warehouse, Seb watched with horror as Phil crumpled to the ground, a clean bullet hole through the centre of his forehead.
He stared at Andrew incredulously, rage pounding in his veins. ‘What the fuck?’ Seb screamed, his urge to bludgeon his brother held by a thin, fraying thread.
Shoving the Beretta back in his waistband, Andrew shrugged. ‘It had to be done, bruv. You’re not thinking straight.’
Shaking his head, Seb yanked open the heavy warehouse door and slipped out into the night, his body trembling with adrenaline. He had to leave. If he didn’t, he knew for certain he would do something to his brother he would bitterly regret.
Grunting with satisfaction, Tom rolled off Amelia and wasted no time pushing himself to the edge of the bed to drag his jeans off the floor.
‘While you’re here, Tommy, I thought I’d mention I have a couple more girls interested in working here,’ Amelia said, tracing her pudgy hand down Tom’s back.
Tom glanced at Amelia and wiped his hand under his nose, scowling at the mess on the back of his hand. Bloody hay fever. His nose was running like a tap. He hated this time of year. It always interfered with snorting the powder. Right got on his nerves, it did.
‘Did you hear me, Tom?’ Amelia pressed, inspecting her face in a small mirror.
‘Yeah, I heard,’ Tom mumbled. ‘Are these girls you know?’
‘My daughters, actually,’ Amelia said proudly. ‘I think you’ll like them and they’re eager to meet you.’
Tom’s ears pricked up and he glanced at Amelia. Daughters? They’d be younger than her, then? ‘Sure. Bring them to meet me. Make it next week, though. I’m up to my neck for the time being.’
‘I expect they’ll have several mates interested too. Right lookers, they are,’ Amelia enthused.
Standing up, Tom pulled up his jeans, then yanked his T-shirt over his head. Sparking up a cigarette, he glanced back at the woman lounging on the bed. ‘Okay, but can you fuck off now? I’ve got things to do.’
Picking up Amelia’s discarded clothes, he chucked the bundle at her, then jerked his head towards the door. ‘Put your clobber on outside or somewhere else, woman,’ he barked.
Quickly cottoning on that Tom was not in the mood to discuss this subject further, Amelia scuttled from the room.
Tapping his foot impatiently, Tom waited until the door had closed before unwrapping a fresh wrap of cocaine and expertly hoovered up a line. Flopping into the chair next to the bed, he pulled at the ring-pull of a can of beer.
Thank fuck for that. So now what?
Whatever happened, he needed to get a shift on. He was almost out of cash and he had people to pay. It was all very well getting the Gun Barrels razed to the ground, but apart from having to find somewhere else to drink, housing people with their ears to the ground for word on the street, he could do without going too far afield.
On top of that, Lee and Steve had got nowhere locating the Reynolds’ runner who had caused him to lose Jock and he was pissed off about that. He’d hoped to add that muppet to the list to ramp more pressure on the situation, but by all accounts, he’d disappeared off the face of the fucking earth. And what good was that? Sod all, that’s what.
Tom tipped warm beer into his mouth and brushed his hand over his stubbly chin. It had now been a week since that letter would have been received at the Reynolds’ house and that was presuming anyone had looked at it, due to the unfortunate timing of Reynold’s demise. But even if the wife had seen it, it meant nothing without proof.
He frowned. He needed proof – that was a definite. As for the Stokers – from what he’d heard they were well on their way to spontaneously combusting, so that part was going well, but it wasn’t them he really wanted.
Tom needed his demands to be taken seriously. And he knew there must be proof – the question was where?
It would be unlikely to be within the house. He’d been told of the desperation to keep everything under wraps, so they wouldn’t have risked the kid stumbling across any paperwork. It had to be at the casino. If only he could get in there…
Taking a long drag of his cigarette, Tom leant back in the chair and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke to gather at the mildewed ceiling.
Wait a minute. When was this funeral? Maynard said three days, didn’t he?
Screwing his eyes shut as he calculated how long it was since he’d spoken to Maynard, Tom’s brain hurt with the effort. He’d last seen Maynard yesterday, so that meant the funeral was two days from now…
Grabbing the newspaper from the floor, Tom brushed a clump of unsavoury-looking hair off it and flicked through the pages until he came to the obituary section. His eyes scanned the list of recently departed, his jaw clenching and unclenching as the cocaine pounded in his brain. Ah-ha:
REYNOLD, Leonard Paul. Passed away after a tragic accident on 20th June 1995, aged 68 years.
Beloved husband of Gloria, father to Samantha and much loved and respected local businessman and owner of the Violet Orchid casino, Birmingham.
On 29th June, the hearse will lead the drive-by procession along Broad Street at 1.15 p.m. so the public can pay their respects, followed by a private service for friends and family at St Francis of Assisi, Bourneville at 2 p.m.
The wake for friends, family and business associates will follow at the Violet Orchid, Broad Street.
All inquiries to Lamberts Funeral Directors, 01212429641
Tom’s face cracked into a wide smile as he ground his fag out on the bare floorboards. This was it. This was his opportunity. He’d go to the wake. No one would notice him. There would be plenty of people who wouldn’t be recognised that day – no one would question it. It wasn’t like it was a normal night. They’d all be far too busy blathering over Reynold’s death to take any notice if he had a bit of a wander around.
Maynard was the only person guaranteed to recognise him. The man had already lectured him about how he should have nothing to do with the Reynolds at this point in time, but Maynard could fuck right off if he thought this opportunity to grab the proof he needed for the shit to hit the fan would be missed.
The documents he knew to be in existence must be kept in there. No doubt in the old bastard’s office – well away from prying eyes, so it was happening whether Maynard liked it or not.
This was the only way forward, so providing the man was out of the way when he sneaked into the wake, then it was job done.
Tom’s eyes gleamed with excitement as he swigged the last of his lager down, before chucking the can on the floor. One of those tarts could clean this shit-hole up – he had better things to do. Far better things…