Spanners had always known it was only a matter of time before his sleeper role was rescinded.
He’d often thought of fleeing the city before he felt the tap on the shoulder, but he’d heard that for those who’d tried, retribution was drawn out and savage. Spanners had no choice but to wait until the police could act, but he wasn’t confident they would.
Having left the scarecrow to the Tesco’s begging spot, he walked to a new pitch on the London Road. Mid-afternoon, a Brighthelm Taxis car pulled up alongside him, making him jump. He quickened his pace but once the driver did likewise, he knew escape was futile. As soon as the rear passenger door was flung open, he got in the cab to hear the inevitable.
The man sitting behind the driver seemed affable enough but, even in the half-light, Spanners saw granite in his eyes. He spelt out the mission with startling brevity and it seemed surprisingly simple at first glance, but Spanners knew to look deeper. After all, it was unfathomable that all he had to do was deliver fast food.
A few hours later, sporting a motorcycle jacket and with a thermal top box liveried with Brightnosh Deliveries, he waited on his moped outside 219McDonald’s among half a dozen identically dressed riders, ostensibly waiting for his next job to come through. The truth was, he already knew each of the six pickups and where to deliver. The man in the cab had made it abundantly clear what would happen if he forgot the tiniest of details.
He browsed the phone he’d been given – the one he’d been told not to make any calls or send any messages on – and waited for the first appointed time. Bang on 7.30 p.m. he fired the moped into life, riding as fast as he could to Leaning Tower Spaghetti House on Lewes Road. It dawned on him how many fast-food delivery bikes there were buzzing around the city. What an inspired way to distribute whatever you liked.
He found the tatty takeaway quicker than he’d anticipated, hoicked his bike onto its stand and, keeping his crash helmet on, ambled into the deserted shop. The spotty youth behind the counter was clearly expecting him as, with a quick exchange of the coded confirmation question and answer, he handed Spanners the bag, which was much heavier than it looked, then disappeared out the back with no further words.
Spanners walked as quickly as he could out of the shop and slotted the package in his top box, fastened the clip, mounted the bike and headed off to Stephens Road, not five minutes away. He tried not to think too much about what might happen once he’d made his last delivery. He had thought of telling Scotty what he was up to but was sure he’d stop him. However good it looked in the movies, police protection only delayed the unavoidable.
Scanning the numbers on each of the red-brick blocks, he found the address he was after, grateful it was a ground-floor flat. He unlocked his top box, removed the sleeve and walked up the path to the communal entrance. He was about to heave it open with his shoulder when he spotted the intercom on the wall.
Shit.
He’d hoped to be in and out as quickly and as anonymously as possible, but this was an added hurdle. Still, what could he do? Balancing the weighty bag on his knee, he prodded the button, hoping for no reply. Although the 220chances of that happening on all six deliveries were microscopic.
A flash of light caught his right eye. He turned and saw a curtain falling back into place. Then the speaker on the wall box crackled.
‘Yeah?’
‘Brightnosh. I’ve got your delivery.’ The only reply he received was the door clicking and buzzing. ‘I’ll come in then,’ he mumbled.
He’d already worked out from the twitching curtain which was his customer’s flat, so it was no surprise when that door opened. Spanners didn’t know who to expect but was still shocked to see a bespectacled grey-haired man in his fifties, sporting brown flannel trousers, a cream open-necked shirt and a puce thick-knit cardigan, waiting.
He instantly recognised him.
Spanners took the package out of the thermal bag, the aroma of Italian cuisine noticeably absent. Despite the charade, wouldn’t any self-respecting cop pick up on that, were they to carry out even the most rudimentary of searches?
He handed the package over and, despite himself, couldn’t resist quipping, ‘Bet you’ve missed these where you’ve been.’
The man just glared at him and slammed the door. Spanners sniggered, then turned and headed back to his bike. He rode away, meandering through Hollingdean, then pulled over. He took out the phone and despite his instructions, Googled ‘Brighton Drugs Trial Defendants’. Instantly a page of hits rolled out, most of them leading on how absent police witnesses were cited as the reason for the administrative acquittal of six charged with conspiracy to import and supply controlled drugs. He selected the ‘Images’ tab and there his last customer was, in a three-by-two gallery of the now technically innocent kingpins. It said his name was Nicklas West, aged 59. He would bet any money that he’d be bumping into the other five before the evening was out.
True to his prediction, the other deliveries were in a similar vein. Each collection from a mute, but very prepared, underling at a different fast-food shop, and the customers were equally reluctant to chat. Only two of 221the other lucky drug dealers answered the door – the others were taken in by women or, in one case, a boy who couldn’t have been older than ten.
As he mounted his moped to leave the last address, his phone rang. It was no surprise that it was a withheld number but, despite his usual habit of ignoring them, Spanners answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Finished?’
‘Unless you’re going to tell me otherwise, yes.’
‘Right, take the bike down to Shoreham Harbour. There’s a deep wharf at the back of the pub. Get rid of it and the phone in there.’
‘Is that it then?’
‘For now. We’ll be in touch.’
The phone went dead and Spanners stared at it for a moment. He revved up the tinny machine and headed for where he’d been told. Now he’d completed the task he promised himself that if this was his last twenty-four hours on earth, he’d make it count.
He found the quay the caller had directed him to, then dialled a number he’d found easy to remember. In two rings it was answered.
‘Scotty, it’s me. I’ve got something to tell you. Quite a lot actually.’
He outlined to the sergeant what he’d been up to, then listened very carefully what he was to do next. When Scotty hung up, Spanners secreted the bike and the phone behind a row of bins, then waited in the shadows. It wasn’t long before headlights washed the deserted dock road. Spanners instinctively stepped back further into the dark, watching as the car eased to a stop five yards away.
Only when he was sure did he run up and throw himself on the back seat, the car squealing off before he’d had time to close the door.