Consequence (12 page)

“Hello Darren,” the smoke-ravaged voice of his boss croaked down the line, “What have you got for me? Did you check this Pearce guy out?”

“We did,” Morris confirmed. “We got all we could from him. He didn’t have much information for us. Apparently his supplier doesn’t even know much about the operation. He says the pills are shipped in by some Dutch gangsters and then sent around the country through a delivery company. It seems like pretty big shit.”

“I don’t care how fucking big it is,” Sanders said, his voice raging at the news. “These people are fucking up my business, their gear is now all over the city, I don’t care if they’re dealing the rest of the country but this is
my
patch and I want it sorted!”

“It’s a big operation,” Morris reiterated. “We’re talking gangsters, guns and fucking corruption here, we can’t sort this by ourselves.”

“You work for me Darren; you do what I tell you!” Sanders bellowed. “Did Pearce give you any information?”

Morris’s eyes flared with anger but he managed to keep his composure.

“He mentioned a messenger. The only person who can contact the gangsters, he seems to work as a middleman between the dealers and the importers.”

“And?”

“That’s it. He said the guy’s untouchable. Only a few are allowed contact with him and Pearce is certainly not one of the few.”

“What about this supplier of his?” Sanders’s voice bellowed down the phone, hissing in Morris’s ear.

“We arranged a meeting with him. He’s supposedly meeting Pearce in a nearby pub tomorrow night.”

“Supposedly?”

“Pearce is dead,” Morris said bluntly. “We couldn’t afford to keep him alive.”

“OK,” Sanders said agreeably. “I want you two to meet up with this supplier, see what you can get from him.”

Morris turned his attention towards Roach who was listening intently to Morris’s side of the conversation. They exchanged a knowing glance.

“I don’t think that’s wise,” Morris replied. “This guy is packing, and he won’t be alone, he’s got a little cartel of his own,” he lied.

“I don’t give a fuck!” Sanders shouted so hard into the phone that Morris edged the device away from his ear. “I want you two to find him and get what information you can from him. That’s what I pay you for!”

“Speaking of pay...”

“You’ll get your pay when you sort this out for me,” Sanders cut in.

“That could take ages. This is deep and we’re only scratching the surface here.”

“Then keep on fucking scratching!” Sanders shouted before hanging up. Roach turned to Morris who was staring blankly at the mobile phone. “Well?” he asked

“The fucker aint paying us until we sort this out.”

“He wants us to take down an entire gang of drug smugglers?”

Morris nodded, “Yes.”

Roach shook his head in disgust, “So, what do you reckon?”

“Fuck him I say,” Morris smiled. “Let’s go our own way.”

Roach agreed.

34

Morris and Roach weren’t too far away from home. It would take an hour for Roach to drop Morris off at his house then drive to his own, but they decided to stop off at a bed and breakfast for the night; they had a lot to talk about.

They found a cheap B&B a ten minute drive from where the blood smeared body of Wayne Pearce had been left to rot. It was a converted detached house on the end of a sparse and quiet street; signposted with handwritten placards along the twisting country road that bobbed and weaved a tiresome path to its door.

The building was warm and well decorated; four bedrooms had been converted into seven -- all of which were beautifully presented. The downstairs living room and dining room had been converted into one large breakfast room, with an adjoining staff area.

It was cheap, out of the way and quiet. It was perfect.

After taking their keys and requesting a bottle of whiskey, they swiftly left the reception area and met in one of the two rooms they had rented for the night.

Darren Morris sat on the edge of a single bed that had been covered in freshly washed white linen. James Roach pulled up a wooden chair and sat down with a groan of relief. There was a bedside cabinet between them and Morris used this as a makeshift bar; setting down two glass tumblers and pouring large measures of the cheap whiskey.

He handed one of the brimming glasses to Roach, took the other and sat back against the pine headboard. “Right,” he took a sip of the whiskey and sighed warmly. “Let’s see what we can come up with.”

35

Michael Richards stood on the second floor balcony of Rokers Court with both his hands slowly massaging his head. He could feel a niggling hangover denting his brain. He had drunk his way through a dozen bottles of lager the night before and had little sleep -- which only made his situation worse.

Ahead of him the door to the safe house was being opened by Johnny Phillips.

“I feel like shit,” Richards muttered as he stumbled forward and deactivated the high-tech alarm system.

“Lightweight,” Phillips uttered in reply.

Phillips felt fresh and awake. He had drunk the same and had relatively the same sleep, but he rarely found himself nursing hangovers for long periods of time.

“You go in then,” Richards grumbled, stepping back outside the flat and welcoming the fresh air to his sickened stomach.

Phillips moaned but walked into the flat nevertheless -- taking great care to step over the deactivated laser-trip system.

Richards’ s stomach moaned and groaned. He could feel his insides screaming at him, gurgling curse words and moaning violently. He needed food, he wasn’t hungry and doubted he could eat much, but he was sure he needed food. His insides were dehydrated and empty and he felt like his brain had been thrown into a washing machine.

Phillips emerged from the flat moments after entering. He locked the door and then ushered Richards away.

They were sure to visit to the flat every so often. Sometimes they stayed the night or spent the day there. It wasn’t as cosy and plush as their house, but by paying attention to the safe house they made sure everything in order.

If neighbours thought it was an empty flat, they would break in and use it as a drug den. If the two conmen didn’t keep up appearances in the area, they risked having it ransacked. The residents were habitual criminals and drug addicts, but they
knew
Phillips, he’d had words, and his words intimidated people.

“What now?” Richards asked as they descended the stairs.

“Let’s go get some food,” Phillips declared, rubbing his belly. “I’m fucking starved.”

Richards nodded as his stomach recoiled again.

36

Morning was a creeping, unwelcome visitor to the tired mind of James Roach. He felt its presence swarm over his dehydrated body as his brain tuned out from his deep dreams and flickered onto reality.

He opened his eyes almost unwillingly.

When he moved his body he felt hot and sticky and incredibly uncomfortable. Looking down he realised he had fallen asleep on the top of the bed, still in his clothes from the night before. He blinked away dry tears and squinted at a digital clock by the bed. The flashing red digits told him it was 11:30 am.

He hadn’t awoken that late for years.

“Finally it wakes.”

Roach recognised the discontented tone of his partner in crime. Morris had been sitting at a chair near the window; he rose and stood over the bed.

“You should have woken me,” Roach said, his voice dry.

“I’ve just got back,” Morris declared, handing his colleague a bottle of pop which was gratefully accepted.

“What time did you get up?” Roach asked.

“Early, I left at seven.”

“Where have you been?” Roach snapped the bottle cap and urgently poured the liquid down his throat.

“I’ve found us a job,” Morris said with a proud grin.

“What?” Roach blurted, a trickle of sugary syrup dribbling down his chin. “How?”

Morris’s smile grew. He was holding something in his hand. Walking to the top of the bed he dropped it onto Roach’s lap.

Roach stared at it in complete bemusement. It was the local paper, a paper whose circulation didn’t reach where Morris and Roach lived, but spread throughout the area where they had spent the night.

“What the fuck am I looking at?” Roach stared.

Morris pointed at a large picture on the front page. “Howard Price,” he said. “He’s a big shot business man, lives close by.”

“I know that, but what’s that got to do with us?”

Morris smiled again, “Him? Nothing. It’s his daughter we want.”

37

“Kidnap!” Roach choked as he stared at the picture of the seven year old girl holding tightly on to her father.

“Yep,” Morris replied bluntly.

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Not that I know of,” Morris replied placidly. “Look, it’s an easy job. Simple snatch, big payout, what’s the problem?”

Roach’s gaze shifted from Morris to Lisa Price’s picture on the front page of the paper. “This is not us. This is not what we do,” he declared.

“Why not?”

Roach pondered but couldn’t find a plausible answer.

“If we can get away with murder, then why can’t we snatch a little girl? It’s just glorified babysitting,” Morris laughed.

“Babysitting with a long fucking jail term.”

“Not as long as murder.”

“That’s different, Sanders covers most of our tracks.”

“
Most
,” Morris reminded. “The rest is all us, ruthless and efficient, that’s why we’re the best, that’s why we’re free men. Not because of a fat drug pushing tosser.”

Silence descended as Roach’s mind whirred.

“Are you sure we want to be trying this?” he said eventually -- his tone softer.

“Why not?”

“We’re fucking murderers; this is out of our league. We can’t pull something like this off.”

“There’s nothing to it. We’re hitters -- compared to murder this is just a walk in the park.”

“These things take a lot of planning.”

“Nonsense, most of it is common sense. It’s not like we’re snatching the Prime Ministers’ kid is it?”

“You can’t just jump straight into a kidnapping,” Roach argued.

“Of course we can.”

“You seriously
have
lost your mind haven’t you?”

Morris smiled and sat down on the bed. “Listen,” he instructed. “I picked up the paper from the front desk this morning, they have a bundle of them down there and they’d just been delivered; I had nothing else to do so I had a cup of coffee and flicked through. I read the article over and over before it hit me, it says what school she goes to, here,” he pointed to a line in the article and read it aloud, “‘--seven year old daughter Lisa Price who attends Lady Victoria’s, the local private school for girls.’”

“The crazy bitch at the front desk saw me reading the article and started blabbing on about Price,” he continued. “She said he lives in a huge secluded house. A few niceties and well-timed words and I had the address.”

“You went to their house?”

Morris stopped and glared at Roach before ignoring his statement and continuing with what he had to say.

“So I took the car and headed up there, it’s only a few minutes away. Nice place. I used the binoculars in the boot, checked the windows and
bam
, there she was, sitting by herself watching television, ripe for the picking.” He smiled but Roach’s frown didn’t crease. “Anyway, I checked the rest of the house, and it seems only the three of them live there.”

“Three?” Roach interrupted

“His wife,” he explained. “Saucy little number she is. I checked through some backdated business magazines in the library and it seems she only works part time, if at all. She just stays at the house and lives off his riches.”

“You went to the library?”

“Can I finish my fucking story?”

“OK.”

“Right, so I waited there till around eight-thirty then his wife appeared with the young girl, they both jumped into a Porsche -- which I’m guessing is her little run-around -- and drove away. I followed them to the school and stored their journey into that annoying fucking gadget of yours.”

“The Sat-Nav?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you didn’t know how to use--” Roach paused, “Never mind. Continue.”

“She dropped her off, spoke to a few of the other mothers, waited until the school opened, then she left and drove straight back home. Price was still there so I phoned up his work and gave some bullshit about needing to speak to him about a business proposal and the secretary tells me he’s taken a holiday.”

“That’s a bad thing right?”

“Not really, we don’t need to snatch the girl from the house, the school is wide open, the play area is surrounded by a fence, but the gate is constantly left open.”

“They fence the kids in?”

“Just to keep them off the road probably, the back of the school is right next to a busy road,” he explained. “So, I made a few calls, went to the library and sorted out a few other things.”

“Like what?”

“Some phone equipment; a resprayed BMW, and I found us a safe house.”

“All this in one morning?”

“Sort-of,” Morris said unsurely. “I just rang up Linders. He sorted out the car and the phone, he said they would be untraceable.”

“Linders is a low life ex-con.”

“But he has no links with Sanders, so he’s ideal.”

“He’s an idiot, Sanders can’t fucking stand him, that’s why he has no links with him.”

“He’ll do. He isn’t going to be involved, I didn’t tell him anything and he didn’t ask questions.”

“How did you get the safe house then?” Roach asked

“You remember a few months back, when he had to hunt down that young dealer who took Sanders’s drugs and ran?”

“Yes, it took us a few weeks to catch him because he--” Roach paused, realising, “--Had been squatting in some derelict flats...” he finished slowly.

“Exactly. Perfect for what we need. No one but druggies and low lives go there, and out of the whole block only a couple of the flats are legally occupied, the rest are there for the taking. It’s only a twenty minute drive from here, even shorter from the school.”