Consequence (16 page)

When the bulbous woman retired to the side of the road Roach continued at a leisurely pace, passing the stationary Porsche. He pulled the Ford into a parking bay further down the road and watched the bustling school building though his rear-view mirror.

Everything happened exactly as Morris had described. Lisa left the car -- after exchanging a kiss with her mother -- and retreated to the back of the school, into a play area where a mass of other children gathered.

Elizabeth Price, remaining outside the car, paused to speak to a cluster of other women who were dropping their children off. She seemed happy in the crowd, she seemed to know everyone. Within five minutes of watching her, Roach counted nine mothers who stopped to speak to her. Five of them gathered in a circle like teenagers outside the school building; everyone that passed exchanged brief pleasantries with the crowd, before retreating back to their vehicles -- lined along each side of the road.

Elizabeth Price seemed to lead them. There was something about her. Despite clearly being the wealthiest, she wasn’t dressed lavishly; she wore no jewellery and had dressed in casual clothes.

She didn’t have an air of superiority about her; she didn’t look arrogant or big headed and certainly didn’t advertise the fact that her husband was one of the richest men in the country.

Yet, as she stood in the circle of chatting mothers, Roach noticed how she had inadvertently set herself apart from them. The mothers looked at her when she spoke, they looked at her when another spoke, and they looked at her when
they
spoke. It seemed like they needed her approval before they could act. Her laughter started theirs; her shocked expressions sent
them
into shock.

Roach was intrigued and he watched with great interest. Something about her oozed class; something about her seemed to make the other women scream
‘be my friend. Accept me’.

He shifted his gaze when the group spilt -- unsurprisingly Elizabeth was the first to leave -- and Elizabeth manoeuvred herself back behind the wheel of the Porsche.

50

The nearby town was bustling with morning shoppers. Shops and paths were littered with clusters of people trying to grab retail bargains, people that had travelled from miles around. Over one hundred shops and stalls decorated the streets which were woven through pathways, tunnels, roads and cobbled streets.

Michael Richards and Johnny Phillips knew the place well; it was a shopping haven. You could buy anything from knocked off clothes -- from dodgy dealers working in the backs of vans -- to expensive jewellery and designer attire.

It was also littered with restaurants. You could dine with fine wine and Italian food at one of the most respectable restaurants in the area; buy hamburgers, hotdogs and other processed, mashed together meat products from the many vendors operating out of vans; grease up your arteries by dining at one of the two fish and chip restaurants; sugar-up in style at the high class ice-cream parlour or grab a takeaway of Chinese or Indian.

The town and its vast shopping community attracted everyone from middle class shoppers to teenage shoplifters, and the numerous jewellery shops, betting shops and large department shops also attracted the occasional armed robber.

Now, it had drawn the attention of two conmen. Michael Richards and Johnny Phillips hadn’t come for the shopping 
or
 the food, what they hoped to find was a lot more sinister.

Leaving the Vauxhall in the car park of a large DIY store they crossed into the shopping district, making a detour through an underpass.

“It stinks of piss in here,” Richards muttered with his nose held high like a dog as he sniffed the rank air inside the tunnel.

Phillips nodded and glanced around. The path leading into the underpass was on an incline, over the pass a small road lead to the backs of the many businesses. Passing through the tunnel made the journey from the car park -- where the majority of shoppers left their cars -- to the town centre a lot quicker.

Most of the shoppers passed through the underpass, making it an ideal place for buskers and beggars who could shade themselves from wind and rain and beg to thousands of shoppers at a rate of knots.

Richards and Phillips walked past a young man. He was leaning against the side of the graffiti covered walls with an acoustic guitar in his hands. The guitar looked immaculate, as did the velvet lined case at his feet which had been opened to give the passers-by a place to throw their pity money.

There were two other beggars nearby, one strummed awkwardly on a battered banjo, the other sat in his own shame, with a frown hidden behind his matted, bushy facial hair and a sign resting against his slumped body which declared: “
Need money for food.
”

The guitarist stood out from the other two, he even stood out from the shoppers passing through the tunnel. He didn’t look a day over twenty. He was clean shaven with wavy jet black hair; teeth as straight as a ruler and as white as a sick ghost.

His skin was dotted with blemishes and the odd pimple and looked an eerie, yet healthy, shade of pale.

Phillips and Richards walked over to him. He had been playing 
Stairway to Heaven
 and, despite some minor flaws on behalf of his guitar playing, his voice and tone was near perfect.

He stopped when the two men approached.

Phillips looked down into the guitar case with intrigue. At least forty pounds in coins and small notes seductively glared back at him.

“What’s all this about then?” Richards quizzed. The youngster was eyeing up Johnny Phillips who glared suspiciously at his earnings.

“What do you mean?” The busker replied, his voice clean and crisp and devoid of an accent.

“You, begging,” Richards clarified.

“I’m sorry,” the youngster said with a great deal of charm and politeness. “Do I know you?”

Richards turned to Phillips who smiled back at him.

“You don’t look much like a beggar,” Richards noted, ignoring the question. “What game are you trying to pull here?”

“Game? I am simply practising,” the young man declared smugly.

“La-de-fucking-da,” Phillips mocked.

“Am I disturbing you?” the busker asked.

“No, we’re just interested in what you’re up to,” Phillips said. “You don’t look like a typical beggar; you stand out like a dick at a lesbian orgy.”

“I am learning, if you must know. I study art and music, amongst other things, at University. I, along with a few friends, am here on a short shopping holiday, we thought it would be quite amusing if we all did a little busking at various parts of the city. We have a small wager on the person who could collect the most money.” He man smiled with a look of superiority that never seemed to leave his face, “Whoever gets the most money from busking wins the bet,” he clarified.

Phillips and Richards exchanged bewildered glances.

“Sounds like you have some 
wild
 friends,” Phillips remarked.

The man grinned from ear to ear.

“Did you know what you are doing is illegal?” Phillips enquired with an edge to his tone.

“Excuse me?” the busker’s tone quickly changed.

“The laws have changed kid, you need a permit to busk,” Phillips explained.

“What about them two?” the youngster demanded, pointing to the two other beggars.

“That’s different, 
they’re
 begging, 
you’re
 not, they don’t have any other income and I’m guessing that you do.”

“Of course I do,” the youngster affirmed.

“Sergeant,” Phillips blurted. “Take this man’s equipment,” his words were directed at Richards but his eyes bore fiercely into the young busker’s gaze.

Richards slowly moved forward.

“What are you doing?” the young man pleaded.

“Arresting you,” Phillips replied. He dug his hand into his pocket, pulled out his police identification and flipped it before the youngster’s eyes. “If you would please accompany us down to the station sir, we can have this matter cleared up in a matter of hours.”

He made a gentle reach for the youngster’s arms, keeping his movements slow and purposeful.

“What? No, please. My parents will kill me, this was just a joke,” he pleaded.

“A joke? This is a serious offence,” Phillips warned

The posh busker was panic stricken: “Will I be charged?” he asked in a breaking voice.

“You will be taken to the station where you will be charged and fined. If you want your solicitor present then that’s okay--”

“No, please. I can pay the fine, just don’t charge me, I’ll be in
so
much trouble. Please, I didn’t know I was doing wrong.”

Phillips stared at the trembling youngster. The corners of his eyes were leaking fresh tears. He held his forearms lightly, showing his intent without wanting -- or having the ability -- to arrest the man.

“Sergeant,” Phillips beckoned his partner away from the youngster with a nod of his head.

They walked a few feet away from the wannabe busker and began whispering a decision out of his earshot. The youngster watched them with pleading eyes as he waited for the verdict.

“Why do you still have that fucking police ID?” Richards said quietly, nodding his head and looking at the youngster for theatrical purposes.

“I must have left it in this jacket,” Phillips said, also with a nod. “Lucky for us it’s come into use.”

“I’m still hungry,” Richards declared with a grimace. “Are you hungry yet?”

“I told you, we’ll eat later.”

“Just a little--”

“Later!”

“Fine.”

They parted and faced the youngster, “Looks like it’s your lucky day mate,” Phillips declared. “You seem like a genuine, honest kid so we’re going to give you a break.”

“Thank you,” the young musician gleamed.

“Don’t get your hopes up yet,” he warned. “We still need to confiscate your
earnings
and you
will
have to pay the fine, this can be done either here or down at the station--”

“Here,” the young man blurted. “How much? I have plenty of money.”

Phillips could barely suppress a smile, “Two-fifty,” he said without fault.

The young man nodded and pulled out a large leather wallet.

After paying his fine and handing over his money to the two conmen, he left -- but not before bombarding them with his desperate gratitude.

“Unbelievable,” Richards said as the youngster disappeared in the direction of the car park; his guitar case swinging wildly by his side.

“One born every minute,” Phillips said with a laugh.

51

Darren Morris rolled the BMW next to the Ford, parked just outside the decrepit flat block that they would be forced to call home for the next few days. He eyed the area suspiciously, as he always did -- in his line of work it paid to be suspicious about everything.

The area was empty. The wheel less cars were still propped up on bricks nearby, but besides them and their own cars; it was empty.

He could hear noises as he entered the building -- incoherent whispers, filtered from the top floor. The visitors to the building seemed to be staying in the higher levels, as they had been yesterday.

That had also been the case when they had first found the squatter’s realm; the lower level flats had been deserted whilst the upper levels were full, but even back then -- when it housed more people, some legally -- it was quiet.

He pushed down the brand new, solid steel handle on the second downstairs flat and pushed, unsurprised to find the door unlocked.

After only taking two steps into the flat he heard a few thumps and immediately James Roach bolted around the corner to greet him with an intimidating glare and a posture ready for attack.

“It’s just me,” Morris said placidly.

“You took your time,” Roach declared. “You should have been here before me.”

“I know, but I thought I’d sort a few other things out first.”

“Like what?”

He dropped a large duffel bag onto the living room floor

“What’s in there?”

“Some things to keep us going.”

Roach stared at his colleague.

“Portable TV, DS, music, food, water...” Morris explained.

“This isn’t a fucking holiday,” Roach complained.

“Look,” Morris began, “this isn’t an overnight job, we could be stuck here for some time. I don’t know about you but I don’t plan on sitting and twiddling my fucking thumbs all day.”

“Fair enough.”

“Plus, I want to keep track of the horse racing,” he added with a smile.

Roach laughed.

“I have the equipment in the car,” Morris stated. “We’ll keep it there for the time being.”

“How
is
the car?”

“Nothing spectacular, it has four wheels and an engine. It’s what we need.”

Roach nodded and began digging through the bag as Morris sat down. In the bag he found a small CD player with a set of headphones; a portable television with a seven inch screen; a Nintendo DS with a few game disks; a collection of packaged, ready to eat meals and a case of twenty-four bottles of water.

“You certainly came prepared,” Roach noted. “Where did you get all this stuff?”

“I picked most of it up from my house. The DS and CD player are my nephews, he left them last time he came to visit me he says he doesn’t need that shit; has all his fancy fucking IPods and MP3’s now. The food and water I picked up from the supermarket on the way here.”

“I’m guessing the CDs are yours?” Roach said with a smile as he found a stack of classic rock CDs at the bottom of the bag.

“Actually, my nephew has the same taste in music as me,” Morris proclaimed.

“I didn’t even know you
had
a nephew,” Roach said.

Both men exchanged awkward glances before turning away simultaneously.

“Everything go as planned at the school?” Morris asked.

“Yes. The mother dropped her off, gave her a kiss, spoke to a few other mothers and then left, just as you said.”

“And Howard?”

“He was still in the house when the kid left for school.”

52

Howard Price glared at the clock, he was sure it was running slow just to irritate him.

It seemed to have been stuck on 11:00 for the last two hours. He couldn’t believe how slowly time was moving, it was something he certainly wasn’t used to. When he worked he was busy, he always kept himself busy and there never seemed to be
enough
time. Now there was too much of it.

Elizabeth locked herself away in the kitchen where she could run constant routines of cooking and cleaning. She worked harder than he had ever given her credit for and he admired her for it, he certainly -- even in his bored state -- couldn’t do what she did.

Yesterday she had spent an hour preparing dinner, fifteen minutes eating it with Howard, then another twenty minutes clearing it away, before beginning her routine of making the beds; vacuuming the floors; cleaning the tables, tiles and windowsills and washing and ironing, before stopping to begin the preparation of another meal.

A number of times he had offered to hire a housekeeper but Elizabeth refused. It wasn’t as if she enjoyed what she did, but she couldn’t and wouldn’t have it any other way. She was a perfectionist and an obsessive compulsive, so everything not only had to be done right, but it had to be done repeatedly and done
her
way.

Howard had barely seen her all morning. She had cooked him breakfast, sat and ate with him, then he had left her in the kitchen watching chat shows whilst he retired to the living room.

He knew he needed a rest. The doctor had warned him that stress was killing him, but he was sure that if he didn’t go back to work soon, he would kill himself.

53

Sitting in McDonalds with a tray full of goodies in front of them, Michael Richards and Johnny Phillips watched the many people walk up and down the restaurant aisles with bags and trays of food, some choosing to eat inside the humid building; some choosing the wooden benches outside, others walking away to eat on the move or in their cars.

A crowd of hungry people stood impatiently at the counter where three pimpled teenagers took their orders at a frantic pace.