Substantial Threat

Eight

Although Dix had warned Debbie to be on guard, to check if she was being followed, she really did not know what she should do, or what she should be looking for. There were cars behind her, but how could she tell if any one of them was after her? She had no idea about antisurveillance techniques. It never entered her head to loop round roundabouts or to stop in lay-bys or to retrace her steps. All she could think of doing was to look in her rear-view mirror.

In truth she knew little about what Dix did for a living. She had an idea that he operated on the fringes of criminality, but his reassurances that he was only a debt collector — or taxman, the term used in his circles — always calmed her down. They calmed her down because she loved him, couldn’t get enough of him and truly believed that when they got married, as surely they would, she could change him and his ways.

She checked the mirror. Two cars behind her at the moment. Had one of them been there before? She could not be sure.

Suddenly and painfully she had started to learn something more about Dix and his world. She knew about Marty Cragg. Dix had taken her to a nightclub in Blackpool once where he had bumped into Marty and a few hangers-on. After a few drinks had loosened his tongue, Dix had told her that Marty was a drug dealer and a pimp and that he enjoyed knocking women round. Marty had frightened her. His eyes, fuelled with alcohol admittedly, looked wild. It worried her when Dix told her he worked for Marty and his brother, Ray, who was far meaner than Marty. How could that be? she wondered naively.

That had been a while ago. Dix had never mentioned Marty since and she had stopped thinking about him. Now she could not erase him from her mind.

What the hell had Dix done?

He had refused to tell her anything over the phone. He just made her listen to some instructions which, when the phone call ended, she began to follow with a feeling of incredulity.

She had gone into her kitchen as instructed and emptied the cupboard underneath the sink. With shaking hands she lifted the bottom shelf out and peered into the dark space below, reached in cautiously and pulled out a plastic carrier bag. She replaced the shelf and the items from the cupboard before turning her attention to the bag, one from Safeway’s supermarket.

‘Just get it, keep your eyes and fingers out of it,’ Dix had warned her. ‘And bring it to me.’

Red rag to a bull. There was no way she could resist a peek. At first she could see nothing to make her afraid. There was something wrapped in an oily cloth, and a small biscuit tin which used to contain shortcakes. She extracted the biscuit tin and flicked it open with her nails. Her jaw dropped.

It was packed full of wads of Bank of England notes. There was also a Halifax Building Society passbook on top of the money. She opened the book slowly. Her jaw sagged a little further when she saw the balance of twenty-two grand, plus change.

She replaced the book and closed the tin. Next she pulled out the object wrapped in the grubby rag and placed it reverentially on the kitchen floor.

Without unwrapping it, she instinctively knew what it was. A horrible, nasty, dirty feeling overcame her.

She peeled back one corner of the rag, then another, then another until the contents were revealed.

A handgun and some bullets. She knew nothing about weapons. Did not know it was a 2 inch barrelled Smith amp; Wesson Model 10 revolver, 38 calibre. All she knew was that her boyfriend, whom she loved and trusted, was keeping a gun and some very suspicious amounts of cash on her premises without her knowing about it.

She slowly re-wrapped the gun and placed it back in the carrier, terrified it would go bang at any moment, then breathed out.

She knew she should have called the police there and then, but for some unaccountable reason a frisson of excitement buzzed through her belly. Shortly after she was on her way to see Dix.

Another check in the rear-view mirror: still two cars behind.

Debbie drove towards the M55, joining the motorway at junction 3 and travelling east towards Preston. She cruised along at sixty, making it quite hard for Marty because not many people drive at such slow speed and it felt odd to hang in there behind her, but he did not have much choice.

He tailed her on to the M6. She came off at junction 29 and drove towards Bamber Bridge on the A6. He was behind her when she turned right towards Sainsbury’s, then immediately left on to the Premier Lodge car park. He drove past and pulled into Sainsbury’s, a smirk on his face. So that’s where you’re holed up, he thought.

Dix was in room 34. Debbie walked straight past reception, up the stairs and along the corridor to the room. She knocked quietly. The door opened after a delay and Dix drew her in, checking the corridor before closing the door.

She dropped the carrier bag on the wide double bed. ‘Dix. . what the hell is happening?’

Before she could finish her remonstration, he grabbed her and kissed her hard on the mouth. There was a modicum of resistance for a few fleeting moments before Debbie’s legs turned to jelly. Her hands went to the back of his neck and she inserted her tongue into his mouth. They kissed and held each other for a long time. Then she pushed him away, brushed back her hair and decided to get down to business.

‘I want to know what the hell?’ she blurted again. He stopped her mid-stride by placing a fingertip over her mouth.

‘Were you followed?’

She shrugged uncertainly. ‘I don’t know. . I don’t think so.’

‘Mm,’ he said sceptically. ‘You got all my stuff?’ He nodded at the carrier bag on the bed.

‘And I looked.’ She folded her arms.

‘Thought you would,’ Dix said lightly.

‘How dare you keep a gun in my house?’ she said indignantly.

‘Shush.’ He smiled. ‘Have a look at this.’

He beckoned her to follow him across the room and picked up the holdall from underneath the dressing table. Slowly he unzipped it and revealed the contents. ‘Voila!’

Somehow she managed to keep her face straight.

‘How much?’

‘With what I’ve got in there,’ he pointed to the carrier bag, ‘about three hundred thousand give or take a few gs.’ He re-zipped the bag.

‘Who does it belong to? Marty Cragg?’

‘Sort of,’ he answered vaguely.

‘You absolute nut case,’ she said and sat down on the edge of the bed, shaking her head despairingly.

‘No, no, no — not if we go, get out of here. . Spain or summat.’

‘We? I can’t just leave,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a house, a job, me mum and dad.’

‘You could come eventually though, couldn’t you?’ His eyes pleaded. ‘I love you like mad.’

She softened. ‘We need to sit and talk this one out, Harry. . I mean, is there enough to live on for the rest of our lives? Because that’s what this means, you know. The rest of our lives.’

There was a sharp knock on the door. Both froze, staring at each other. A feeling of dread rushed through Dix, from his teeth right down to his toes.

Marty rapped on the door again, feeling very confident that things were going to turn out right for him at last.

‘Come on, Dixie,’ he called softly, ‘I’m not going anywhere and nor are you.’

He could feel Dix’s single eye on him through the peephole. He smiled and raised his right hand so Dix would have a clear view of the gun he was holding in it. The door unlocked and Dix opened it slowly and had the muzzle of the gun pushed against his forehead.

‘Back into the room,’ Marty said.

Dix walked back, a pained and very pissed-off expression on his face. Debbie was sitting on the bed shaking visibly. Marty smiled at her. ‘We meet again, Debs. You sit next to her,’ he told Dix. ‘I fervently hope you’ve got my dosh, Dix my boy.’

‘In the bag. . and it’s not your money,’ Dix said. ‘It’s Ray’s.’

‘No, you’re wrong there. It’s mine — all mine.’ Marty perched a cheek of his bottom on the edge of the dressing table and pulled the holdall to him. ‘So you didn’t drown then?’

Dix remained silent.

‘Just decided to keep my money instead. Naughty boy. How can you live with yourself being so dishonest?’

‘Same as you, I guess.’

Marty tipped his head back and roared with laughter. ‘Nice one. Always liked your sense of humour. His jocularity faded as quickly as it had arrived. His face became hard and uncompromising. Keeping an eye on Dix and Debbie, the gun pointed loosely in their direction, he unzipped the bag and glanced in. ‘Is it all there?’ He inserted his hand and it came back out with a few packs of money. ‘Or have you bought yourself a Roller yet?’

‘It’s all there,’ Dix confirmed, ‘less some expenses.’

Marty pouted. ‘And what’s in that bag?’ He gestured to the Safeway’s carrier on the bed.

‘It’s mine, nothing to do with you.’

Marty snorted. ‘Bring it to me,’ he told Debbie. She did not shift. ‘Now, please,’ he reiterated and pointed his gun at Dix, ‘or I’ll just blow this fuck away here and now.’

Debbie and Dix exchanged a glance. He gave her a reluctant nod. She picked up the bag and placed it on the dressing table next to the holdall. Marty reached in and prised the lid off the tin. His face glowed with pleasure. ‘Your nest egg, I presume. How much?’

‘About fifteen,’ muttered Dix.

‘And a gun as well, if I’m not mistaken.’ He unwrapped a couple of corners of the rag to confirm his suspicion. His hand emerged from the bag with Dix’s Halifax Building Society passbook in it. He manipulated it open with one hand. When he saw the balance, his eyes opened wide. ‘Twenty-two? Bloody hell, Dix, you’re a rich man. Sadly, you’ve made some very unwise investments and you’ve lost all your money — to me.’ Marty was thinking quickly. This was too good an opportunity to miss. ‘For all the trouble you’ve caused, this is the cost of it.’ He shook the Halifax book.

‘No,’ said Dix.

‘No what? Actually, yes — every penny. All this cash and the balance in the Halifax. That’s the price you pay, Dix, when you get greedy. Think yourself lucky, you could be dead as well. So what we’re going to do is this, we’re going to settle down here for the night, all three of us. Cosy, eh? Then in the morning you’re going to go to the Halifax and cause all that money to be transferred into another account in another bank, the details of which I’ll give you — then I’ll see how I feel. How does that sound?’

Neither spoke.

‘Knew you’d like it.’ He winked. ‘I’ll stay here with the delicious Debbie while you do it and if you don’t come back, I’ll rape her then kill her. Sound okay?’

‘Nothing to say, either of them.’ Jane Roscoe, looking red and flushed even two hours after making love with Henry Christie, was talking to him in a more professional capacity in the A amp;E department at Blackpool Victoria Hospital. ‘One’s been shot in the chest, the other’s been blasted by a shotgun in the groin. Both are stable, but the one with the chest wound can’t speak yet. It’s the one who nearly had his cock shot off who told me to piss off. But they aren’t going anywhere. From witnesses at the scene, these two went for two other guys sitting down eating a meal.

‘And they came off worse.’

‘Very much so. The other two legged it unharmed. Drove off in a Mercedes sports, an old one, but no registration number taken.’

‘Any connection with the shooting at the King’s Cross?’

‘Dunno. It’s a bit of a coincidence if it isn’t.’

‘Let’s just keep an eye on how it progresses — have you got someone capable of dealing with it properly?’

‘I thought Rik Dean could sort it.’

‘Yeah, he’s pretty thorough,’ said Henry.

By 2 a.m. Debbie had fallen into a difficult sleep, fully clothed on the wide double bed in the motel room. Dix lay beside her, completely awake, his hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Marty sat in one of the uncomfortable easy chairs, feet up on the other, watching a soft-porn film on the video channel, sound turned down. His gun was laid across his crotch. His head kept nodding and lolling as he endeavoured to keep awake. Dix monitored him through the corner of his eye, hoping he would nod off properly and give him the chance to grab the gun and blow his head off.

At least that’s what he’d like to do. Whether he would have the courage to attempt something so foolhardy and dangerous was another matter. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, regretting ever contacting Debbie and dragging her into this situation. Not that he could blame her for his current predicament. She was just a bit naive — and maybe he was too, and now they were both paying the price.

He opened his eyes and looked lovingly at Debbie, curled up next to him. She had been very good for him, had made him think twice about his life and had promised him something more fulfilling. Perversely, that was one of the reasons he had stolen the money. A new start, away from all the shit. It had backfired badly.

Marty struggled to sit upright, yawned and stretched his arms upwards and outwards. The gun slid off his lap on to the floor with a thud. Marty ignored it and rolled his shoulders and rubbed his aching neck, his mouth opening and closing with a clicking noise.

‘Need a brew. . make one, Dix.’

‘Yeah, right.’

The gun was still on the floor at Marty’s feet.

Dix sat up. He saw it. He could go for it now. It was about 60–40 in Marty’s favour, but he could still go for it. He tensed.

‘Go on, have a go. Try it,’ Marty urged.

‘Try what?’ Dix’s shoulders sagged.

‘Don’t tell me you weren’t thinking about it.’

The gun remained on the carpet.

‘Thinking about what?’ Dix swung his legs off the bed and rubbed his eyes, feigning innocence.

‘You know.’ Marty placed a foot on the gun.

Debbie stirred and rolled over. She started to snore quietly.

‘Is she a good fuck?’

‘I’ll make that brew.’ Dix stood up.

The door blew open with a huge crash and four men, hooded, all dressed in black, all wielding Uzi machine pistols, poured into the room in a well-planned well-thought-out manoeuvre. They came in in single file, past the bathroom, then spread across the room where it widened. They came in screaming — loud, noisy and disorientating.

Dix turned to face them, kettle in hand.

Marty was caught mid-way to retrieving his gun from the floor.

Debbie woke groggily to the noise, confused and woozy.

‘You do not move,’ the first one through the door shouted. The two behind him rushed past and pointed their weapons at Marty. The last man of the four covered Dix and Debbie, his gun constantly waving from one to the other.

‘On your feet,’ the first one ordered Marty.

‘Me?’ he said in disbelief.

The masked man shoved his gun right up into Marty’s face. ‘You.’

Marty rose unsteadily. His foot was still on top of his gun on the floor.

‘Let’s deal,’ Marty said quickly. ‘I’ve got money. I can give it to you.’

‘My job is to deliver you,’ the man said. ‘So shut up.’

‘Shit,’ blabbed Marty, ‘shit, shit.’

‘Come with us,’ the man beckoned Marty.

‘Where are we going?’

‘To a rendezvous.’

One of the men covering Marty grabbed his shirtfront and pulled him across the room, propelling him towards the door.

One by one they withdrew, leaving Dix and Debbie standing motionless and shocked. Dix was first to move.

‘Fucking hell,’ he cried. He stepped across to the window and looked out through the curtains to the car park below. A van of some sort was drawn up on the tarmac near the front of the motel, its registration number obscured. He watched the four men bundle Marty into the back. Three leapt in with him, the fourth got in the front passenger seat next to a driver and the van sped away, up the road. The night porter ran out behind the van and stood there arms wide, flabbergasted by events.

‘We’d better move,’ said Dix. ‘I have a bad feeling about those men, can’t think why. We need to lie very low.’

Debbie, totally out of her league, dropped back on to the bed and did the only thing she was capable of doing at that moment. She cried.

The three men pinned Marty face down on the floor of the van. One of them knelt on him, his knee pressed between Marty’s shoulder blades and his gun pressed into his neck. As soon as the back doors slammed shut, the van moved off. Marty closed his eyes and did not struggle because he knew it would be useless. He said nothing and tried to stay calm.

They travelled only a very short distance. The van slowed, turned, slowed more and stopped. Marty opened his eyes as the doors were pulled open. The gun was jammed harder into his neck and the man holding it leaned into Marty’s face, huffing garlic-scented breath over him.

‘You get out here. If you struggle you’ll die. Nod if you understand.’

Marty nodded.

‘Come.’ The man eased his knee off Marty’s spine, took hold of his collar and, keeping the muzzle pressed into Marty’s neck, pulled him out of the van. They were in a dark car park which Marty did not recognize. Away to his left, high up, was a motorway he could not place. Either the M6 or M65, but he was too disorientated to work out which.

He was pushed round to the side of the van and down a short pathway. Ahead of him he could see a group of figures in the darkness. He was prodded hard and staggered. He did not complain. He was not in a position to do so.

As the figures got closer, they became more defined in the night.

Four men were standing in a circle, looking at something. The circle parted as Marty reached them and revealed what they were inspecting. It was a man. He was on his knees. His wrists were bound around his back with duct tape, there was a blindfold of the same tape covering his eyes and a strip of it gagged his mouth.

One of the men switched on a torch. He shone the beam into Marty’s eyes, making him flinch.

‘Glad you could come,’ the man said. He turned the beam on to himself and held the torch under his chin, casting the light upwards, casting long eerie shadows up his face. Marty recognized him immediately.

‘Mendoza,’ said Marty.

‘Correct,’ he said, ‘and I don’t often make house calls.’ His voice was deep and slow and heavily accented. ‘But in your case I have made an exception.’ His English was excellent. ‘There is something I would like you to see.’

Mendoza took a step back and shone the torch at the kneeling figure on the ground. ‘Okay.’

Another man stepped behind the man and put a silenced pistol at the base of his skull, angling it upwards slightly.

‘Okay,’ Mendoza said again.

The trigger was pulled. The bullet entered the kneeling man’s head and exited through his left eye socket, taking that side of his face with it. He pitched headlong, writhing and jerking.

The killer stood over him and shot him twice more in the head, making him still.

Mendoza’s big head turned. He smiled at Marty. He had a big mouth, full of white, even teeth. ‘I want you to kneel down.’

‘Oh, Jesus, no,’ Marty gasped. He twisted away and tried to run. Hands held him tight and forced him down to the ground.

Debbie was feeling so weak she could not move. Her limbs would not respond. She felt as though she had been turned into frog spawn, or blubber, or something which had no form or substance. She was caught in a nightmare. In one way it did not feel real, in that, surely, this could not be happening to her. For God’s sake, she was a hairdresser. In another way, she knew that it was real, that she was here and that these events were definitely happening to her.

‘Harry, I feel sick,’ she moaned.

‘Yeah, me too,’ he responded. He had waited long enough to motivate her to move and was becoming irritated by her inaction. He pulled on his jacket and went to the window to look down at the car park. ‘But we need to move, get on, get out of here,’ he pleaded.

‘I know, I know — just give me a moment.’ Debbie rolled on the bed and drew her knees up into a foetal position. ‘I can’t stand up. I feel like I want to spew.’

Dix closed his eyes. He sighed and sat next to her. She grabbed one of his hands between hers and held it tight, transmitting her tremors to him. He stroked her hair.

‘It’ll be all right. We’ll just put a bit of space between them and us, chill out somewhere, make some plans, then go for it. How does that sound?’

‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ she said weakly.

‘I love you, y’know,’ he told her.

She nodded numbly.

Dix tensed. He’d heard a vehicle coming into the car park. He sped back to the window and peered out through the gap in the curtains. It was the van which had taken Marty away. It had returned.

‘Shit, they’re back.’ He picked up the holdall, grabbed her arm and dragged her roughly off the bed. She whinged and he shook her. ‘We’ve got to move — now!’

He started for the door.

She made no attempt to follow him.

‘Now!’ he yelled.

The expression on her face changed as a dawning realization jarred her into action.

‘Come on,’ he urged her.

At the door he turned right down the corridor and headed for the fire escape at the far end. He burst through on to the steps outside, Debbie now right behind him. He closed the door and ducked down out of sight as four hooded men appeared at the far end of the corridor and crashed into room 34.

Ten minutes later the van was back on the car park where Marty was still being held down on his knees. The men climbed out and went over to Mendoza. Marty closed his eyes in desperation when he saw that none of them was carrying the holdall. It meant they had missed Dix. It also meant something far more fundamental.

Mendoza and the men from the van talked in hushed tones.

Marty looked at the body of the man who had been executed. A surge of fear corkscrewed through his intestines. His breath shortened and he swallowed back an urge to vomit.

Mendoza moved away from the men. Marty heard him say, ‘Gracias.’ He squatted down by Marty and lifted his chin up gently with the tip of his forefinger, so they were eye to eye.

‘Your friends have gone.’ There was a sort of sadness in his voice.

‘Give me a chance. He has the money. I can find him and I can pay you.’ Marty was frantic.

Mendoza shook his head. ‘Too late. Too many promises broken. Too much debt.’ Mendoza placed his hands on his thighs and pushed himself up. Marty’s eyes rose with him, pleading. Mendoza nodded at someone standing behind Marty.

The last thing Marty Cragg felt before his brain exploded was the muzzle of a gun being pushed into the back of his neck.