Blood Falls (22 page)

‘The falls.’ Glenn indicated the wall on which the TV was mounted. ‘The ravine’s about three feet away, but there’s a state-of-the-art waterproof membrane. Nothing can penetrate it.’

As they headed back upstairs, he launched into an explanation of the process involved. It bored Joe rigid but he was grateful just to get out of there.

In the kitchen Pam was assembling a mountain of bacon butties on a silver platter. Both men helped themselves, adding brown sauce from a catering-size bottle on the unit.

Glenn wolfed his down in a couple of quick bites and opened the back door. It was raining hard again, rustling in the trees and beating on the roof. Under cover of the veranda, Glenn lit up as Joe followed him around the back of the house.

‘No smoking indoors,’ he muttered. ‘Pain in the arse, but there it is.’

They reached the corner by the viewing platform. Two men were huddled close to the set of doors that Joe had used the other day. One was in an LRS uniform, a paunchy middle-aged man in glasses, introduced as Warren. The other one, in cargo pants and a lumberjack coat, was Bruce. About forty, broad and muscular, with short black hair and a closely trimmed beard. Joe made an effort to shake hands; Warren just settled for a nod.

They stood and made small talk, while Glenn sucked on his cigarette and glowered at no one in particular. Joe stepped out from the veranda and onto the viewing platform to take a look at the falls. The water was frothing and churning a little more wildly today, swilling leaves and other debris along with it.

‘You wanna be careful,’ Bruce called out. ‘That rail’s not very secure.’

‘Yeah. Bloody cowboy builders,’ Warren added. Both men were sniggering.

Glenn gave them a sour look. ‘I built this,’ he explained.

‘Really?’ Joe said. ‘You’re a useful man to have around.’

Without a hint of modesty, Glenn nodded. ‘Yeah. I am.’ And he turned and stalked back along the veranda.

Joe reached the kitchen door in time to hear a burst of giggles from Pam. Glenn had snatched another buttie from under her nose.

‘Jesus, these are too good. You’re gonna make me fat.’

‘Ooh, I hope not.’ She patted his belly. ‘You look just right as you are.’ She saw Joe and smiled. ‘Are you having another one?’

‘He hasn’t got time,’ Glenn said.

The next stop was the living room, and the big functional cupboard. Glenn took out a worksheet and attached it to a clipboard. ‘Did Leon explain the set-up?’

‘Not in any detail.’

‘Right. Listen up.’ He perched on the arm of a sofa. ‘There are various businesses. Some of ’em, like the security firm, you won’t get involved in at all. Too many regulations. Same with the taxis. Insurance
costs a fortune, and the bastards will jump on any reason to avoid paying out.’ Glenn sighed, tapping the clipboard in his lap.

‘With the vending company, the pubs and whatnot, we can be a bit more flexible. They’re spread out all over the South-West, and most days we get problems. Someone goes sick, or has to change his shift. Your job’s to fill in for any absences.’

‘Okay.’

‘The actual work’s a doddle. An idiot could do it.’ Glenn raised one eyebrow, cryptically, as though he hadn’t yet decided if Joe fell within that definition. ‘The money’s not great, but on the plus side nobody cares how many hours you do. Especially as I hear you’re completely off the books?’

He turned the statement into a question, so Joe had to nod.

‘Of course we’ll need some ID. Proof of a clean driving licence, as a minimum.’

Joe had a licence in the name of ‘Joe Carter’ in his pocket. He’d hoped they wouldn’t ask to see it, but hadn’t really believed he could be that fortunate. He showed it to Glenn, who plucked it from his hand and stood up. ‘Just got to make a copy for our records.’

He slipped out of the room, and Joe felt a tiny chill creep along his spine. This was a stupid idea. Diana was right. He was crazy to be getting involved with an organisation like this. If they subjected the ID to any careful scrutiny …

Glenn was back, giving no sign that anything was amiss. He returned the licence and said, ‘I’d better take your mobile number, as well.’

He jotted it down, then consulted the clipboard. ‘Truro’s gone to shit. Derek Stillwell and his slipped disc.’ He indicated an address on the worksheet. ‘Threemilestone industrial estate, just west of Truro. Ask for Brian. Once you’re loaded, you’ve got five deliveries and a collection. The vans have satnav, and getting lost doesn’t wash it with Leon. He’ll work out the time and dock your money.’

‘What about meal breaks?’

‘Grab a burger or something. But don’t take too long.’ Back to the
clipboard. ‘Your last call is Padstow. Right next door is St Merryn. You need to collect a guy called Carl and drop him off at the Crow’s Nest, which is a pub about a mile out of Trelennan.’

Joe nodded. He vaguely remembered seeing the sign on Tuesday night. That already seemed like a long time ago: Bristol, Ryan Whittaker, Lindsey Bevan …

‘Earth to driver!’ Glenn clicked his fingers in front of Joe’s face. ‘Any questions?’

‘No.’

‘Good. You’re in the Vauxhall Combo. Make sure you’re back before six, because that’s when Carl’s shift starts. He can’t afford to be late, which means neither can you.’

He gave Joe a long stare, clearly debating whether to add something.

‘What’s on your mind?’ Joe asked.

‘How long you planning to stay at Di’s?’

Joe kept his tone neutral. ‘I’m not sure yet. A week or two.’

‘A paying guest? I hear she’s put you up on the top floor.’

‘That’s right.’

Glenn went on staring at him, nodding slowly until it was clear that Joe had got the message:
Stay away from my woman
.

As Joe got up to leave, Glenn murmured: ‘You and Roy, eh? Best buddies?’

‘What about it?’

A tiny, twitchy shrug. ‘I never did like Roy.’

Thirty-Eight

WHEN VICTOR SMITH
called back at midday, Leon was ready and waiting.

‘He’s a total loser,’ Glenn said. He’d spent the morning pushing his contacts for information. ‘Been on the slide for years. His wife died. Kids buggered off somewhere. Milligan and that crowd won’t touch him any more. He’s said to be scraping a living, fencing stolen copper, and that’s only because his brother-in-law’s a scrap-metal dealer.’ He gave Leon a rueful glance. ‘Oh, and he’s scamming the social for invalidity benefit.’

‘Scum,’ Leon spat. He didn’t believe in social security: thought you should either stand on your own feet, or starve – and if you starved, tough shit.

Glenn had a look on his face like he was expecting a rant. Leon, taking a deep breath, decided to let it pass.

‘If he’s been ostracised,’ Fenton chipped in, ‘how did he get to see the photo of Joe?’

‘He drinks in one of the pubs that Milligan’s lot use. Sounds like he hangs round them, hoping to worm his way back in.’

‘Is that going to happen?’

‘No chance. Milligan’s white-collar now. Making a fortune from insurance fraud – whiplash and all that. Cops don’t give a toss. Money for old rope.’

Leon scowled. He’d had a chance to get involved in a couple of similar schemes and had declined. Was Glenn having a dig at him?

Irritably, he said, ‘So where is he living?’

‘Possibly Tunstall, wherever that is.’

‘Stoke-on-Trent, if I recall correctly,’ Fenton said. When Glenn continued to look blank, he added: ‘The West Midlands. Between Birmingham and Manchester.’

‘Geography’s not your thing, eh, Glenn?’ Leon said. ‘Still, once you’ve been there you’ll know it for the future.’

Glenn crumpled. ‘You’re not serious?’

‘Course I am. I want an address, and I want it by tonight.’

Then the call itself. Leon didn’t want Smith to be spooked by putting him on speaker, so Fenton and Glenn had to share a handset, squashed together like lovers in a cinema.

‘Mr Race. I take it you’ve had some time to reflect?’

‘Fifty thousand. If the information’s good enough. You get half up front and the other half when we’re sure it all checks out.’

‘I said a hundred—’

‘Fifty,’ Leon repeated. ‘Paid in two stages. I don’t negotiate.’

‘In that case, we won’t be doing a deal.’

‘That picture went out to a lot of people. I’ve already had some promising calls.’

‘Well, of course you would say that …’

They all heard the desperation creeping into Smith’s voice. Leon sniffed.

‘Yeah. I do say that. So stop wasting my fucking time. Fifty or nothing.’

A long, pensive silence. Then sweet surrender.

‘Very well. Fifty grand in used notes.’ Smith’s tone became whiny and apologetic. ‘You understand how I’ve gotta be careful? It’s not an easy situation.’

‘Look, I’m a businessman. I’m after a good deal, but I’m not going
to cheat you. If what you’ve got is of value to me, then I’ll pay for it. Simple as that.’

‘So what about the details? The where and when?’

‘For your sake, it needs to be tomorrow. I’m serious about those other calls. You know where I am, do you?’

‘Cornwall, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah. North coast. A town called Trelennan. You got a pen to take my address?’

‘I ain’t coming to your gaff. No offence, but I could walk through the door and get clonked on the head or something …’

Leon sighed. He moved the phone away from his ear, knowing that Smith would pick up on the alteration in the background noise. He had anticipated this objection. Welcomed it, in a way.

Smith said hurriedly, ‘It’s not that I mind travelling. Maybe somewhere neutral, like?’

Leon pretended to think. ‘There’s a place called the Crow’s Nest, a couple of miles out of town. A gastro pub.’

‘Gastro …?’

‘A pub that serves posh food. Saturday night, it’ll be packed. Safe as houses. No one’s gonna clonk you on the head.’

A few doubts lingered as Smith said, ‘I suppose that sounds all right.’

‘I’ll be there at nine o’clock, with an associate of mine. Clive Fenton.’

‘That the big fat fella?’

‘Big-boned, is what his mum always told him.’ Leon caught a glare from Fenton. ‘And don’t be rude about my right-hand man. It’ll be his job to rustle up the cash.’

‘Sorry. Sorry. No offence, like.’ A smacking noise as Smith licked his lips. ‘Twenty-five grand up front?’

‘That’s what I said. But this has got to be solid gold.’

‘I promise you, Mr Race, you won’t be disappointed.’ Smith cackled away for a few seconds. ‘But for your sake, you’d better not be shitting me – no offence, again. You’d better bloody have him.’

That sounded to Leon like a clumsy trap, easy to avoid. ‘Tomorrow night,’ he said.

He ended the call. Looked at Fenton. Looked at Glenn. Grinning like wolves.

‘Oh, we’ve got him,’ Leon said. ‘We’ve definitely got him.’

Two hours later, Glenn’s contact came through with an address. Tunstall, like they thought.

‘We’re talking, what, four or five hours in the car?’ Glenn grumbled.

‘So? You’re gonna stay overnight. I want Reece and Todd to drive up separately. First you find Smith. Watch where he goes, who he sees. Tomorrow, when he sets off for the meeting, you follow him back here, see if he’s bringing any backup. The other two need to turn his place over, make sure there’s nothing about us. No notes, nothing on a computer or anything. Then we all rendezvous later at the pub.’

‘Surely the Crow’s Nest is too public?’

‘It’s perfect. He’s less likely to come mob-handed if we meet somewhere safe.’

‘True,’ Fenton conceded. ‘But then we have the issue of multiple witnesses …’

Leon smiled. ‘Don’t stress. I’ve got an idea or two brewing.’

They both noticed that Glenn was rooted to the spot, his hands making fists. Fenton discreetly rose, claiming a full bladder, but Leon waved him back down.

‘Let’s hear what Glenn’s got to say.’

Once directly confronted, Glenn seemed reluctant to speak. He cleared his throat, which straight away sounded like an apology.

‘This situation with Joe. Diana’s positive he’s not a cop any more, and we’ve taken her word for it …’

‘You think she’s lying to you?’ Leon saw Glenn flinch.

‘No. No, I don’t. But she is only going on what Joe told her. Until this week, she hadn’t seen or heard from him in years.’

Leon nodded: he got it now. ‘So he could be lying to her.’

‘Yeah. Or maybe he did leave the police, but went back in. More likely, he’s moved into a different department. Secret stuff.
Undercover
.’

Leon had to stop and consider for a moment. The possibility that the authorities would try to infiltrate his organisation was never far from his mind. It had been a long, hard slog towards respectability, and there would always be those who remained suspicious, or resentful, or just plain disbelieving.
A leopard doesn’t change its spots
, they would argue.

And in some ways, Leon thought, that was true.

‘Fair point,’ he said. ‘But I don’t see it, really. Why choose him, when he’s known to Diana, and she knows he was once a cop? Why not send a complete stranger?’

Glenn was stumped. ‘Uh, yeah, unless it’s a sort of double bluff …’

‘That’s over-complicated,’ Fenton said.

‘I agree,’ Leon said. ‘Keep it simple every time. Nobody sent him here to spy on us. He turned up at Diana’s without even a fucking toothbrush to his name. I think he’s in trouble.’ He chuckled. ‘And we’re gonna make that trouble a hell of a lot worse.’

Thirty-Nine

IT WAS A
long and gruelling day. Not hard work physically, compared to some of the jobs Joe had done in recent years, but intensely wearying.

He was a competent driver, but the narrow twisting roads posed a severe test of his skills, concentration and patience. Half the time he was stuck behind something slow and impassable, while a succession of impatient local drivers sat on his tail, waiting for the moment when they would veer out and roar past him on the wrong side of the road, oblivious to blind corners and the possibility of imminent death.

Other than the time pressure, the job was quite straightforward. Everything was carefully explained by Joe’s contact at the distribution centre. Brian was in his late fifties, a small, dapper man with a neat moustache and reading glasses worn on a chain around his neck. Joe had the impression that he was well accustomed to dealing with temporary employees.