Inside Straight (20 page)

So I waited.

And then I waited a bit more. The morning staggered by.

When I was on my fourth hot chocolate, my mobile rang. It was Pollard.

I looked at my watch. He was late. "Where are you?"

"None of your fuckin' business."

"Excuse me? I thought we agreed—"

"We never agreed nothing."

"I talked to Jez."

"And he told you to go to the Costa, I know. But he never said nothing about me meeting you there, did he?"

"Why on earth wouldn't you turn up?"

"Because I don't want to get fuckin' lifted, do I?"

"Lifted?" I looked around. Nobody looked like police, not even the braying idiot in the corner. "Do you know something I don't?"

"I know plenty you don't, son. Fuckin' truckloads."

"What I mean is –-" I lowered my voice. "Are there police watching the place?"

"How the fuck do I know? I'm not there, am I?"

"You said—"

"But more to the point, how do you know there aren't?"

It clicked. I sighed. "I don't."

"Which is why it's better if we stay at a distance, know what I mean?"

"Okay, I understand that."

"Then what the fuck are we talking about, son?"

"My twenty percent."

"Listen, Graham, you did a good job. The lads tell us it went off almost perfect, apart from that one woman—"

"I know. I couldn't help that."

"You said she was safe."

"I thought she was." I turned back to the window. It was grey outside, raining again. "I had no way of knowing she'd do that."

"Ach, don't worry about it. Just when you think you've got some people pegged, they show you how fuckin' stupid they can be. It all came off, that's the important thing."

"How much?"

"A hundred and forty-five and change. Two nights as promised. Yours is—"

"Twenty-nine thousand." I put my free hand on the hot chocolate. It was warm. "So when do I get paid?"

"Soon."

"When's soon?"

"You want a date?"

"I want an indication, yes."

"When I'm happy that it's all blown over."

"Which is when?"

"Fuckin' hell, you're persistent, aren't you?"

"If'I'm risking my job and my liberty, yes. It's important to me."

"Alright, we'll give it a week and see what's happened."

"What does that mean?"

"Fuck am I speaking, Swahili? It means we'll give it a week and see how things are. We'll review."

"How's that any more definite?"

"It isn't." He laughed, and it sounded as if he was laughing right at me. "Put yourself in my position, Graham, right? You're the only loose end here. You're the one closest to the fuckin' police an' all. So what happens when I pay you your cut? Let's just say I've got the means and inclination to send a courier round right now with your twenty-nine grand and he can be there in twenty minutes. And I say yes, I'll pay you, and I send the bloke round. You get the money and what happens then?"

"We're even."

"We're even? You think so?"

"I don't understand."

"You're paid off."

"Yes. What's the matter with that?"

"Means you can do whatever the fuck you want, doesn't it? You can take your money, talk to the fuckin' plod and then do one out the country. Leave my lads on the hook for something you planned."

"I wouldn't do that."

Another laugh. "What, I'm supposed to take that on fuckin'
trust
, am I?"

"We've been through this—"

"I know. And I'm not convinced." His voice had become deeper, scattered with gravel. "Else you would've been paid by now. But let's take your word for it, okay? Let's just say that I
am
convinced that you're too fuckin' shit-scared to grass us up, because you know I'll run you into the fuckin' ground if you so much as think about it. Let's assume that's the case."

I swallowed. It made a noise. "Okay."

"What you going to do with the money?"

I opened my mouth. Nothing came to mind. I cleared my throat. "Keep it."

"Right. You're not going to spend any of it?"

"No, of course not."

"Why not?"

"It would draw attention."

"Good lad. So when are you likely to spend it, then?"

"When I'm sure it's safe."

"And when d'you think that's likely to be?"

"When ..." I paused, realised what he was getting at. "When the investigation looks like it's run its course."

"Precisely. And you're a fuckin' expert on that kind of thing, are you?"

I looked at my hot chocolate. Put a hand on it. It wasn't even that warm anymore, but my face was. "No."

"You done many armed robberies before, have you? Got a lot of experience in how these investigations work?"

I shook my head, even though he couldn't see it. "No."

"What's that?"

Louder: "I said no."

"So d'you think maybes my experience in this matter is a touch more relevant than yours?"

"Yes."

"So what makes you think you're going to be able to judge correctly when it's safe to spend the money, eh?"

I cleared my throat again. I wished I'd bought some water to go with the hot chocolate. "I suppose I can't."

"And what makes you so fuckin' sure of your willpower that you won't go and spend all your money on fuckin' dollies and computer games?"

My neck felt warm now. "Excuse me?"

"You heard, son. You think I don't know what you're like? You're a fuckin' kid. You can't be trusted with money. So your Uncle Barry's going to hang on to your cash for a bit longer until you're a big enough lad to handle it yourself, alright? Think of it like a trust fund. You'll get it when you're responsible."

I found myself breathing hard. Didn't have any saliva in my mouth. I wanted to do something. I wanted to clear my table, pitch a fit, scream and shout. But I didn't. I kept it in. I was restraint personified. "That doesn't sound like a very good idea."

"Why's that?"

"Because you're being obnoxious. And it's not a good idea to be that way with people who could make trouble for you."

"Aye, and it's not a good idea to threaten people who wouldn't think twice about fuckin' killing you, neither, Graham. Listen, I can do whatever I want. You're lucky I'm still considering giving you your cut. I could keep the lot and tell you to get fucked. What're you going to do, eh? You going to the police?"

"Maybe."

"And what d'you think you're going to tell 'em? We bullied you into planning our fuckin' heist?"

"I don't know. I'll have to think—"

"Because they don't do plea bargains, son. That's the fuckin' telly, that. You're an accessory at
least
. You're involved. You're our inside man. You don't think you're going to do fuckin' stir for that, you're out of your fuckin' mind. You're just as responsible for that robbery as anyone else. Only difference is, everyone in that place can pick you out of a line-up because you were the only one not wearing a mask. I mean, yeah, you might not have shot anyone or drove the getaway car or owt like that, but you're definitely guilty. And all the fuckin' Met want is an easy collar. If they can't get me, you'll do nicely."

"Yeah, well, we'll see about that."

"Shut the fuck up, son. Hard doesn't suit you."

"Right." I nodded to myself. "Sorry, I—"

"First off, you're not getting your cut until I tell you that you can have it. Second, you can go right ahead and tell the police owt you want, but it won't do you any good because I'm covered. I'm sweet. And I know they won't come after me without a fuckload of proof to back 'em up because I've got briefs that'll strip 'em to bones. The only people they'll pinch up front are the lads on the job, and they won't say word fuckin' one. Which leaves me free to deal with a grass, doesn't it? And third – and this is a big one, so pin 'em back, son – don't you
ever
think about threatening me again, you little prick, else you'll feel the furry side, alright?"

I didn't say anything. I stared out of the window. My throat hurt. I cleared it and made a noise that sounded too high-pitched to have come from a grown man.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now keep it shut and ride this out."

"Okay, but I—"

He killed the call. I listened to the dead line for a few seconds, then looked at my mobile. Outside, a woman dashed past, using her umbrella as a battering ram. A gust of wind scattered rain across the front window like stones, startling the young woman in front of it. She jumped, clasped one hand to her chest and laughed it off with the rest of the young mothers. Their conversation faded into a murmur as I stared out of the window. I watched people pass by without really seeing them. I saw the rain, I heard the wind. These days it felt like there was nothing else.

And as the man said, the only way to combat the rain was to make your own sunshine. Which was precisely what I planned to do.

I couldn't force the Manchester Met to forget about the investigation. I couldn't even point them in the right direction, not really. I knew that as soon as I voiced an opinion about who I thought was responsible for the robbery, it would be taken down and perhaps used in evidence against me later on. They weren't stupid, these men. They might have looked it, might have acted like it, but they weren't. They were used to people thinking they were smarter than them. They were used to being treated as simple-minded bobbies, all knees bent and what's going on 'ere then, and so they could play that to their advantage. I knew that Kennedy, for all his cheeky Scouse chappie demeanour, was suspicious of everyone in that club, most of all me and Jacqui. We were, after all, the ones in charge. We were partly responsible for the way things had played out. And the more I got to thinking about it, the more I thought that Kennedy probably had me in his sights all along. I don't know why. Something just told me that was the case. The way he zoomed in on me at the hospital, perhaps. Maybe I caught a flicker when I talked about the second driver, I don't know.

Even if he wasn't on to me, I still had to be clever about this.

The HR office was open during the day, even on the weekends and even though Big Heather the HR manager didn't work weekends. Big Heather wasn't fat – far from it – but she was big, well over six feet tall and broad in the shoulders. The rumour was that back in the day she used to slap on a leotard and show grown men her armpit until they choked out or slapped the canvas. Apparently there was an old video floating about of her in her wrestling glory days, but I doubted it. I just thought it was a cruel joke at her expense and a nickname that said more about those who had come up with it than it did about Heather. She had a lovely disposition, would make someone a fantastic giant wife one day, but she was lax about security. To be fair, I don't think anyone in the club expected that security lapse to be abused – after all, everyone knew pretty much everything about everyone else in here, from wages down to cup size – and I was the last person they'd suspect of doing it.

I'd received a call from Jeremy Blake at Regional the day before. He was coming up to Salford, and did I have a free half-hour to discuss the robbery and any needs I might have? Blake being Regional, he didn't care that I was working night shifts now, and arranged it for four o'clock the following afternoon. So I had an excuse to be in early and, once I'd managed to skirt Dave Randall, it wasn't difficult to nip into the HR office, close the door behind me, boot up Heather's PC and then search the HR files for dirt on Stephen Laird.

Stephen Laird had been with me for a while. I didn't know him, never met him, but he was always in the back of my head, urging me to go on and take that risk, leave the country and enjoy a life where the rain didn't fall quite as much or quite as hard. So on a very basic level, I was interested in the guy.

On a less basic level, I thought that I'd found an inside man in the making, and when I pulled his file, that thought was confirmed.

The information on Stephen Laird was scant and objective, but sixteen years in the business allowed me to read between the lines and make some pretty detailed assumptions. He was like me in the sense that he came into the business when he was old enough to deal and made up for a lack of academic qualifications with hard work. He stayed a dealer for a good long time, and only managed senior inspector before he left, which meant that he was one of those guys with no ambition and pockets like Swiss cheese – as soon as they got their pay, they drank or gambled it away, much like Clive. In fact, much like
most
of the staff. Every club I'd ever worked in, a majority of inspectors and dealers were borderline alcoholics when they weren't engaging in less legal activities, and there were very few of them who didn't gamble in some way, whether it was after hours poker games, sports betting or the dogs or horses. Something about the vice had drawn them to the job, and something about the job compounded the attraction to the vice. They thought because they knew the games, that they were somehow better than the average punter, when the only difference was that they didn't have to pay for the shirt on their back. Outside of work, they were just as thick-headed, petty and impoverished as the countless others who wore our carpet to threads.