A Cool Head (4 page)

‘Don Empson.’

‘He’s well past his sell-by date.’

‘Dad always liked him.’

‘Dad’s in the past, George. All of that’s in the past.’ Stewart ran a hand through his hair, trying to think. He was tall and thin and didn’t look at all like George. This had led him to wonder, had their mum had an affair? George looked like their dad, but not Stewart. Bit late to do anything about it, but all the same . . . it might explain a few things.

‘So what are you going to do?’ he asked.

‘Check the hospitals. Shooter took Don’s car, so we’re looking for that, too. But can you talk to Hanley, see how he’s doing?’

‘I’ll talk to him. But don’t forget, it’s
my
money, George. Someone’s got to pay.’

‘Okay, Stewart. Is the club busy tonight?’

‘Dead.’

‘It’ll get better.’

Stewart wanted to slap his brother, wanted to punch him in his soft, fat face. But he wouldn’t. He was a proper businessman these days. He had to keep his distance from everything in his past.

He had to stay clean.

He ended the call and gave the nearest wall a couple of butts with his head. What did he do now, phone Hanley or visit him in person? How could he visit him when his driver hadn’t turned up for work yet? And besides, the whole point of using George’s guys for the handover was so he himself could steer clear of Hanley.

It was cleaner that way.

‘If a job needs doing,’ he muttered to himself. He went to the main office and asked if anyone had seen Benjy Flowers. There were shrugs and shakes of the head.

‘As useless as his bloody Uncle Don.’ Then, to the room: ‘Soon as he gets here, send him along.’ Leaving the room, Stewart reached into his pocket for his phone.

The home of Councillor Andrew Hanley

Andrew Hanley was back home, seated in a chair in his darkened study with a glass of whisky in one hand. He still had the shakes. His wife was downstairs. When he’d come home, she’d called to him from the kitchen. He’d called back, but made his way up the stairs and into his study, closing the door after him. When the door was closed, she wouldn’t come in. It meant he was working. The only light came from the lamp post directly outside the window. He could see his desk, covered with paperwork. His degree was framed on the wall. So were photos of him meeting important people, people from sports and TV and business. As a city dignitary, he got to meet lots of people.

But he wished now that he’d never met Stewart Renshaw.

It had all been very friendly at first, very sociable. He accepted an invite to dinner at one of Stewart’s casinos. He accepted some free gaming chips. Then there was another visit, and more chips. The place seemed well run. It wasn’t full of gangsters or lowlifes. It was respectable. Okay, so Stewart was Albert Renshaw’s son, and Albert’s nickname had been ‘The Godfather’. But Stewart had washed his hands clean of all that. He never saw his kid brother George; spoke to him twice a year. Stewart was above board, or seemed so at first.

There had been a day at the races, again as Stewart’s guest. ‘Bring the wife,’ he’d been told. But he’d lied and said she was busy. He wanted an adventure all of his own. He met good-looking women. He met friendly and powerful men. He had a good time. Once, he was offered drugs, a snort of cocaine in the toilets, but he refused. Champagne was quite enough for him.

Back then, it had all seemed enough.

His phone started to vibrate. He lifted it from his pocket and looked at the screen. It was Stewart. Hanley decided not to answer. What was he going to say to the man? It had crossed his mind that the whole thing was a set-up, some sort of play being acted out, so as to cheat him out of the money. But the guns and the blood had seemed real. The fear and the anger had seemed real. Not just special effects, but blood and smoke and the flash from the two guns. And such loud bangs. Three of them. He’d run to his car, hitting another vehicle as he reversed at speed. He had fled the scene of a crime, the scene of a murder. Him: Councillor Andrew Hanley. Head of Planning. And now this . . .

No, he would not answer his phone. He would not speak to Stewart Renshaw. He would drink his whisky and stare at the wall. Then his wife called to him from the bottom of the stairs.

‘Andrew?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Andrew?’

But then that might make her suspicious.

‘Andrew?’

‘What is it?’

‘Your shoes.’ Yes, his shoes, he had left them just inside the front door. It was one of Lorna’s rules, no shoes in the house.

‘What about them?’

‘Did you step in something? Some red stuff?’

Red stuff! Yes, red stuff! Blood, blood, blood!

‘It’s paint,’ he called out to her. ‘That’s all, just some paint.’

‘Shall I try cleaning it off?’

‘No, I’ll do it. I’ll do it later.’

There was silence from downstairs. Then: ‘Do you want any supper?’

‘I just want to be left alone! Is that too much to ask?’

This time, the silence had no end. Hanley tried to lift the remains of the whisky to his mouth, but his hand was shaking too much.

Chapter Six

Don Empson is Still Hunting

Sam was driving. Eddie was in the seat next to him. Don sat in the back, not saying much. He had explained that he wanted to visit Raymond’s garage. Well, not
visit
it exactly, just cruise past it. As they turned into the narrow back street, Eddie cleared his throat and said a single word.

‘Cops.’

Three patrol cars had formed a roadblock. Tape was being strung between lamp posts. A couple of white vans were parked, a team emerging from them. They wore overalls and carried face masks. The forensics crew. A uniformed cop was making signals with his hand. Sam nodded and did a U-turn.

‘What do you want to do?’ he asked.

‘Let’s check some of the other streets,’ Don told him.

‘What happened at Raymond’s?’ Eddie asked.

‘Somebody shot him,’ Don explained. Eddie whistled but didn’t say anything. Sam met Don’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, but didn’t say anything either. They drove in silence, cruising up one street and down another. Workshops and offices, then some tenements with shops below. There was no one about, but Don knew that soon the police would be knocking on doors, armed with their questions. Shots had been heard. Someone had rung 999. He remembered that he had another piece of business. The middle of the night might be a good time for it. But first, he had to keep his eyes open. He was looking for a car, a green sports car. Benjy’s car. And eventually he saw it. It was parked two streets away from the garage. There was a half-filled skip next to it. He managed not to look too interested. He didn’t want Sam and Eddie knowing more than they needed to know.

Benjy’s plan: grab the money and run back to the car.

Benjy’s plan hadn’t worked out.

Don knew that the police would spot the car eventually. Or someone would draw it to their attention. After which they could run a quick check and come up with the name Benjamin Flowers. They would ask Benjy’s mother, Don’s sister, what Benjy did for a living, and she would tell them.
He works for Stewart Renshaw.
Stewart, brother of George. And then George would know, and he would blame it all on Don. Giving Benjy a job had been a favour to Don. Someone would have to pay for that.

Don would have to pay.

He had gone through a whole range of emotions. Anger at Benjy, then sadness, and finally acceptance. Stuff happened, you just had to deal with it as best you could. But right now, he didn’t know what would count as best.

As Sam took a right turn, Don leaned forward and told him there was a new destination, Merchant Crescent.

‘I’m going to have a word with someone,’ he added. ‘Guess what her name is.’

Sam was the first to twig. ‘Celine Watts?’

‘Got it in one.’

‘Are we going to whack her?’ Eddie asked.

‘Would that be wise?’ Don snapped back. ‘And besides,
you
are going nowhere near her. Like I said, I’m going to have a quiet word, that’s all. See if I can persuade her to change her story.’

Sam was looking at him in the mirror again. ‘Thanks, Mr Empson,’ he said.

‘The one you should be thanking is Gorgeous George.’

Sam nodded slowly. He knew the score. The pair of them had been spotted in a car park next to woodland on the edge of the city. There had been another man in the car with them and he’d been crying, according to the witness. The witness was Celine Watts. The crying man was a small-time pusher who’d been warned before. His body had been found in the woods, in too shallow a grave.

Leaving Gorgeous George three options. Option one, hang Sam and Eddie out to dry. Option two, get them off the hook. Option three, bump them off.

So far, it had been option two.

The streets were quiet. It only took them half an hour. Eddie stopped the car next to the kerb and Don started to get out.

‘Do you need us?’ Eddie asked.

‘Not on your life.’ Don pulled on a pair of black leather gloves and walked up the path. When he got to the front door, he noticed that it was open a couple of inches. There were lights on inside. He pushed at the door and stepped into the narrow hallway. The first door led to the living room. Music was playing, and he could smell smoke. A woman was lying on the sofa, her feet bare. She was moving her toes in time to the music. There was an empty bottle of lemonade on the floor, next to a bottle of vodka. She was flicking ash from her cigarette into the palm of her hand.

She was not Celine Watts.

‘You’re not Celine,’ he said.

She showed no surprise at his arrival. Her eyes were glassy. She blew some smoke towards him.

‘Her cousin,’ she explained. ‘Sofa’s supposed to be where she sleeps.’ There was a sleeping bag rolled up under the woman’s head. ‘Only she’s done a runner. Left the front door wide open and everything. Lucky nobody nicked my stereo.’

‘Maybe she’s with the police,’ Don said.

‘Are
you
not the police?’ She watched him shake his head, then concentrated on her cigarette again. ‘Neighbour saw her driving away in a flash car. A black, shiny car. Looked official.’

‘What did the driver look like?’

The woman shrugged. Don’s BMW, the one Benjy had taken, was black. And some people would call it flash. It was a 7 Series.

And this address was in the glove box.

Had Benjy come here to warn Celine Watts? Unlikely, the state he’d have been in. And anyway, the kids on the street had told him it was the guy called Gravy. Gravy, panicking at the sight of Benjy covered in blood. Gravy, finding the address and assuming it to be a safe house of sorts. Finding Celine Watts instead.

Gravy, with Don’s car. With Celine Watts. With Stewart’s money.

‘Where would she go?’ he asked the cousin. Her eyelids were drooping.

‘Far away from here, if she’s got any sense.’

Don knew he would have to call his pal at the cop shop again and ask him to widen the search. ‘Did she take all her stuff?’ he asked the cousin. She shook her head.

‘Didn’t take
anything.
Her bag, purse, phone, toothbrush, they’re all still here. This is even her vodka I’m drinking.’ As she reached down for her glass, the little collection of cigarette ash fell from her hand.

‘Cheers,’ she said. Then she lost her balance, rolled off the sofa and landed on the floor, laughing. Don ignored her and opened the shoulder bag on the coffee table. Celine Watts’ purse was inside, along with aspirin and paper hankies and a phone. Why hadn’t she taken anything? Because she’d been scared. And besides, she had everything she needed in the car . . . a driver, and a small mountain of cash.

The cousin was still chuckling quietly to herself, eyes closed. He knew that if he beat her up, it would send a message to Celine Watts. The sort of message Gorgeous George would thank him for.

All the same, Don didn’t have the heart for it. He pocketed Celine’s purse and phone and walked back to the waiting car.

Chapter Seven

The Detective

Jane Harris had been a detective inspector for all of three weeks, and here she was standing in a garage with pools of blood at her feet.

Pools plural.

The cold, dead victim was called Raymond Masters. It was his garage. He cleaned cars for a living, or had done until about four hours ago. That was how long it had taken them to locate the source of the gunshots. A gun had been found in the dead man’s hand, and it had been fired. It wasn’t suicide, though. Two shots had been fired by Masters. One bullet had already been located, stuck in the wall to the left-hand side of the doors. One had done some damage to another human, if the bloodstains were to be believed. There were big dollops of the stuff. Masters had suffered a shot to the head. There should have been a spray of blood and brain matter, but cars had been parked here. Probably two of them, judging by the tyre marks.

Jane Harris had asked one of her team to look in Masters’ office. He would have bookings. She wanted to know which car or cars he had been working on. Maybe someone had wanted them. Cars got stolen all the time, didn’t they? But carjackers didn’t normally resort to guns. And why had the garage owner carried a gun of his own?

Her colleague Bob Sanders had a different theory. Bob had been on the force for almost as long as Jane had been alive. She trusted him when he mentioned the name George Renshaw.

‘Explain,’ was all she said, folding her arms.

‘Raymond might look clean these days, but in the past he was a bit of a lad. Ran with Albert Renshaw’s crew. Albert was George’s dad. Raymond’s done time inside. Word is that he’s still friends with Gorgeous George, and I can see why he’d be useful . . . George might sometimes have a car that needs cleaning.’

‘I thought he got rid of them at his scrapyard. ’

‘Maybe.’

Bob left her to think about it. He knew she
would
think about it. The guy who’d been wounded . . . someone would know. A doctor or hospital. An all-night supermarket where he could buy compresses and bandages. Someone would know. Or he could be nearby, hiding, biding his time. Maybe in a garden or a flat. He could have burst his way in. Jane knew that the first few hours were crucial, knew that the trail started to go cold after that. She needed people to go knocking on doors. She needed at least a couple of sniffer dogs.