Revenger

81

Carver was standing in front of a display of nail guns. He’d concluded that the best use of the cash he’d drawn out earlier that morning was a Paslode IM90i Framing Gas Nailer. It was capable of firing thirty-seven 90mm nails deep into the timber frame, joists, roofing and floorboards of a house at the rate of three a second. It wouldn’t have any problem blasting into human flesh and bone.

The phone rang: Kevin Cripps.

‘Victoria’s a bloody bastard for parking,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I went on one of them websites where you can park at someone’s gaff, and got a garage in this mews by the Vauxhall Bridge Road. I’ll send you the address by text, yeah?’

‘Is the garage locked?’

‘Nah, just pull up the door.’

‘So where are you now?’

‘Just past Haywards Heath on the train to Shoreham-by-Sea.’

‘Then give me your bank details as well as that address, and I’ll stick the ten grand in your account.’

‘Quality!’

‘When you get there, make sure the bloody thing works. Get him to show you, all right? If he needs encouraging, call me and I’ll put a ten per cent deposit down, so he knows the money’s real.’

‘What do I say if he asks why I want it?’

‘You say that your client is a very wealthy man with a very spoiled son. Roll your eyes. You’re just a normal bloke working for a rich prat. He’ll understand.’

‘So you’re a rich prat, yeah?’

‘No… but my life would be a lot easier if I was. Call me when you’ve got everything.’

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line and then Cripps asked, ‘You all right, boss?’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Carver. ‘I’ll manage.’