Tara (70 page)

Drug- or gun-running! Everything dropped into place once he'd faced that. Either one meant big money, enough to buy people's loyalty, to slip their own men in as staff. A well-planned scam that had probably started months ago.

Duke Denning!

Now he understood why he'd never been able to get close to the man. He was a plant. Harry Collins had been taken for a mug. He couldn't have made it easier for him, either. He'd been so thrilled someone wanted to take the place off his hands he'd bent over backwards to make the bloke feel comfortable. He'd even instructed his staff to do all they could to assist him in learning the ropes!

During the first week Harry had pictured Tara, George and Needles going spare because he was missing. But around the time he realised this wasn't a straightforward kidnapping, it dawned on him someone must be impersonating him.

Over the years, in prison and in the club, he'd heard the outlines of hundreds of plots and blags. In one particular case he remembered a couple of guys telling him how they held a businessman prisoner, tortured the man to give them personal details of his wife and office staff then, posing as him, rang his secretary and told her he'd gone to America on business. Their idea was to empty his bank accounts and they'd come close to doing so before they got caught. At the time Harry had been impressed with their cunning. The only reason their plan backfired was because the victim failed to tell them he had a pet name for his wife and she got suspicious.

Once again Wainwright was in the picture. He was an actor, noted for his mimicry, he could easily be calling George, Tara and the boys at the club, telling them some pack of lies to stop them from calling in the law.

Harry had inadvertently landed himself right into this. Most of his staff knew Duke was taking over, with the right kind of phone call they'd just carry on as if Harry was there. As long as Duke let Tony bank the money, the staff got paid and everything ran smoothly, why should they think anything was wrong?

But the worst thing of all was facing how this would end. When the job was done, Harry's body would doubtless be found and with it enough evidence to convince the police he was the Mr Big behind it all. And who would believe that his loyal and trusted mates, Needles and Tony, weren't in on it too?

The key turning in the lock made him stop running and look round.

'OK, Harry.' Micky smiled at him as he sat hunched on the bed. 'Slop out time!'

This had become the high spot of the day. Not only because it freed his cell from the stink of the bucket, but there was a small shaft above the the toilet down which fresh air blew. There was no hot water, but it was good to splash cold on his face.

Harry picked up the bucket and carried it out, his eyes immediately going to the door beyond to check if it was locked.

'I wouldn't dare forget,' Micky said behind him. 'Joe'd chop off my dick!'

Harry tipped the contents down the pan, filled up the bucket with water and swilled it around.

'You must realise they're going to kill me.' He spoke softly, not knowing if there was anyone outside.

Micky stood just outside the lavatory. The fact he didn't even glance towards the door suggested there was no-one there.

'Chances are they'll kill you too!' Harry said blithely. 'Even if they make out it was me that did the drug-running, I couldn't have done it alone, could I? I reckon you three guys are for the chop.'

He slammed the door shut between them, leaving Micky to think that one through.

The lavatory gave him an indication of the nature of his prison. Like his windowless dungeon, both were built from brick, whitewashed over. The tiny window, which was actually more like a ventilator, showed that the walls were over a foot thick and they were way down below ground level. By standing on the toilet and pressing his face up against the two slats of wood, Harry could see a tiny patch of sky and leaves at the end of the shaft. He could hear nothing, not the faintest sound of traffic or voices. There could be no escape this way. The shaft was less than nine inches across and possibly six feet long, but it was heaven to see a speck of blue sky, to breathe in fresh, earth-smelling air even for just a few moments.

He took his time washing. It was a matter of pride. Even if he would be locked up alone for most of the next twenty-four hours, he wasn't prepared to turn into an animal. He wished they'd give him a razor and some shampoo. There was no mirror to see what he looked like, but the beard itched like crazy and his hair was stuck to his head with grease.

Cleaning his teeth set off the toothache again. He wondered if it would get to the stage when he could pull it out himself like they did on survival films.

Micky was sitting on a box outside when Harry opened the door, staring blankly at the wall.

The space between the inner and outer door was around eight feet square, whitewashed, with one dim light stuck on the wall. Even in the murky light Micky looked fresh and healthy, big tanned biceps straining the sleeves of his white T-shirt, his jeans straight off the ironing board.

'Been home to Mum for the night?' Harry asked. 'You couldn't get her to dig something out for me, could you?'

'Yeah, I did go home,' Micky admitted, getting up from his box and moving towards the doorway of the cell. 'Mind you, getting a good feed and your things washed ain't worth the earache she gives me.'

Harry
followed
Micky in. He put his bucket down, then picked up the sweaty nylon shirt and slipped it on, anxious to do nothing that would make Micky clam up.

'She's sussed you're up to no good, then?'

'Mums do, don't they?' He looked up at Harry plaintively. His gentle brown eyes were anxious. 'I wish I could do something that would make her proud.'

Harry half smiled. 'I can think of something,' he said softly.

'What's that?' Micky didn't even have much curiosity in his voice. He smoothed back his dark brown hair from his face, his eyes meeting Harry's.

'You could help me get away. Blow the thing wide open. I'll tell the police and your mum it was your doing, then you can come and work for me.'

'I'd be dead meat.' Micky sniffed. 'Besides, from what Joe says about you, you ain't that much better than him.'

'Don't tell me you can't judge character better than that.' Harry grinned. 'You must know that man's a nutter. Something's wound him up like a spring and once that goes, God help us all. Look, I'm not suggesting you go to the old Bill, just ring up a friend of mine and say where I am. I'll never let on it was you.'

He didn't for one moment think Micky would agree, how could he without being strung up himself by these goons? But he might just get something out of him.

'Fuck off, Harry. I can't do that and you know it.' Micky looked nervously over his shoulder. "There's big money riding on this horse. It ain't just us here minding you. Know what I mean?'

'OK, Micky.' Harry put one hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. 'I ain't going to fall out with you over this. But just think about your own position. Remember what I said about Joe. He's a grenade, and one day someone's gonna pull the pin!'

Harry lay on his bed after Micky had brought him his lunch. Corned beef and pickle sandwiches today, the sliced bread going a bit stale. That was it now until about seven. He'd read yesterday's paper but he was saving the crossword till later.

He studied the ceiling. It wasn't so much a ceiling really, more like a cave, solid brick cemented together, no sharp edges where walls meet ceiling, just graceful curves. He tried to recall every escape story he'd ever read, in the hope he might get a bright idea.

He couldn't tunnel, he had no tools. There was no window, no suitable tool to bang his guard on the head. He could use his fists, but what was the point? A second man always locked the outside door and didn't open it again till he was locked in.

Of course he'd thought of taking the guard hostage, holding him in a throat lock and ordering the next man to open up. But he got the feeling none of the men cared about each other enough for that to work. They'd probably just shrug their shoulders and tell him to keep the body in with him!

He'd already tried to pretend he was having an acute asthma attack, he did the laboured breath and rattling noises very well, but Carl didn't go for it. He just said it must be the feathers in the pillow, removed it and went out, locking the door behind him.

Swinging his legs down on to the stone floor he went back to running on the spot.

What could that phoney Harry have said to George and Tara to stop them worrying? Or had he told them something which made them so sick with fright they didn't dare do anything? That was the worst thing of all, the possibility they both believed he'd let them down again!

Day after day in here he had nothing to do but list the mistakes he'd made in life, and the one he regretted most was hiding things from Tara. If he'd been upfront about everything, she wouldn't believe he was doing something bad now. He shouldn't have underestimated her intelligence.

He had been running for fifteen minutes when he heard noise – a clanking sound of metal on the stone floor, then feet going away again. It was only four o'clock, an unusual time for anyone to come.

He carried on running on the spot, maybe they were just storing something outside the outer door, but a few seconds later he heard the feet coming slowly down the stairs again. It took longer than usual for the second door to open, and he could hear the same clanking noise.

He stopped running, wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and peered through the small hatch. Micky was just by the lavatory door, bending over something.

'What'cha got there, Micky?' Harry asked. 'My coffin?'

'It's Christmas time,' Micky replied, opening the door. 'Look what I've got for you.'

As the door swung in, Harry saw two large pails of steaming water and a tin bath on the floor. Micky had a towel draped over his shoulder.

'Joe said you could have a bath and shave,' Micky grinned broadly, showing his teeth. 'He's even got you new clothes.'

Harry couldn't speak for a moment. The tin bath was small and a bit rusty, but nothing had ever looked so good. A carrier bag stood next to it. Micky reached round to his back pocket.

'And this, too.' He flourished a razor. 'Next thing, Joe'll be saying you can go out dancing!'

It was heaven. Micky went through and sat on the bed while Harry wallowed in the hot water. There was real shaving soap, a small mirror, even shampoo for his hair. As he drew the razor down over his cheeks he got a shock to see how different he looked.

'This is great!' Harry shouted out as he contorted himself by putting his legs over the edge and his top half right under the water. He was certain there was no-one behind the other door because they would be getting restless by now.

Micky came to the door and looked down at Harry. His hair clung to his head like wet seaweed, with blobs of shaving soap stuck to it, and his shaven face looked suddenly younger.

'A beard doesn't do a lot for you,' he laughed. 'It's a shame you look so pale, though, you had a tan when you got here.'

Harry stiffened, beginning to see the reason behind this treat. 'Is there something going on tonight?' he asked casually.

Micky leaned back against the door post, his legs crossed as he smoked a cigarette.

'What makes you ask that?'

'Dunno, really.' Harry shrugged. He stood up in the bath. 'Do us a favour and sluice me down with some clean water?'

Micky picked up the bucket, went into the lavatory and put it under the tap. Harry watched him carefully.

The man showed no sign of agitation; he was unhurried, as if this was the only task of the day. Could that mean the others had gone out and left him alone? He couldn't remember hearing another man come down the stairs with him.

'Brace yourself!' Micky grinned childishly as he lifted the bucket out of the sink. 'You'd better kneel down in the bath, or I can't reach your head.'

The water was freezing, but it felt good. Harry wiped it out of his eyes and reached out for the towel.

'This feels like the Last Rites!' he said as he dried himself. 'You sure you ain't got a shroud in that bag?'

He saw an odd expression pass over Micky's face, tightening his features.

'I asked Joe if he was going to kill you.' His voice lowered, more from shame than the need for secrecy. 'He said he wasn't.'

Harry decided Micky was naive rather than lying through his teeth. He reached for the carrier bag.

'These are my clothes!' He turned to Micky in astonishment. Pants, socks, jeans – they were all his! A Fred Perry cream shirt, a pair of shoes and his favourite grey leather jacket. 'How did they get these?'

'I dunno.' Micky looked down at his feet. 'Joe come back with them last week. I didn't know they was yours. I thought he was being, well, nice.'

'Nice! That guy couldn't be nice if he was on his deathbed!' Harry exploded. He put on the clean underpants and reached for the shirt. 'You do know what this means, don't you?'

'I don't follow you.' Micky sounded like a small boy.

Harry grabbed his jeans. He could smell Persil on them and it made him think of Queenie. Even if they were going to kill him later, at least for now he felt comforted by his own things.

'Well, it wouldn't do to leave me dead here with you lot in someone else's clothes, would it? Or with four weeks' growth of beard. My father would soon point out that proved I'd been a prisoner. I suppose they went and packed a bag in my flat to make out I'd left the country?'

'I dunno anything.' Micky's voice shook but his eyes widened as if truth was finally dawning.

'No wonder my dad hasn't kicked up a stink,' Harry said. 'Who's posing as me on the phone, then?'

Micky turned away, his silence proving he knew the answer to that but had no intention of naming names.

Harry zipped up his jeans, and sat on the bed to put on his socks and shoes. 'Just tell me one thing,' he pleaded with Micky, casting his eyes down the man's jeans to see if there was a bulge somewhere which would be the other key. 'Is Duke the top man?' His hips were as slender as Harry's own, jeans well fitting, and there seemed to be nothing to mar the smooth line.