Nick Oldham - Dead Heat

‘Do your best,’ he breathed into his nostrils. Henry did ease back slightly to allow him access to his pockets. ‘Put it all on the car.’ A selection of items slowly appeared.

‘That’s it,’ Costain said. ‘That’s everything.’

Henry yanked him off the bonnet and drove him towards the high wall at the back of the car park and pinned him against it while he ran his hands over Troy’s clothing, including a good root around the crotch area where good things often get concealed and cops are just too nicey-nice to search people properly. All Henry found was meat and two veg.

He spun Troy around and said, ‘Let’s have a look at you.’

Troy Costain was a member of the wide-ranging Costain clan that inhabited the Shoreside Estate in Blackpool, a notorious, run-down area, almost a no-go area for the cops, but not quite. The Costains pretty much ruled the roost by burglary, theft, cheat and general intimidation. They were feared by many people and often held at arms’ length by the police. Troy, however, had fallen into Henry’s grubby hands over ten years earlier when, as a spotty teenager, Henry had arrested him for some minor offence. Once in custody, thrown into a cell, Troy had crumbled. He was severely claustrophobic and had pleaded desperately with Henry for release and that he would do anything, admit anything, just to get out. Henry remembered smiling like a devil at Troy’s pathetic whimpering. The upshot was that since then Troy had become one of Henry’s best local informants ever. He had provided Henry with information which had tripled his arrest and conviction numbers. The pay-off was that Troy had been allowed to get away with some things he shouldn’t, but that was the price of a good-class source.

Over the years Troy had become more reluctant to part with information and Henry had sometimes resorted to using brutal methods to obtain it. If necessary.

A return to the cells was probably long overdue, Henry thought.

‘Well, well, well, my little informant, Troy Costain,’ Henry beamed cruelly. His hand continued to search inside and under Troy’s jacket. His fingers touched something cold tucked into his waistband. Their eyes met. Henry glared ferociously at him and extracted a two-inch-barrelled revolver. ‘Troy, you carry a piece,’ said Henry in disbelief, holding the offending weapon between finger and thumb.

Troy was caught and desperate. ‘Just a frightener, Henry, I wouldn’t fuckin’ use it, you know that.’

‘Is it loaded?’

Troy nodded.

‘You stupid, stupid bastard.’ Henry grabbed hold of Troy’s shirt with his left hand and dragged him across the car park back to the car on which his possessions were displayed. ‘What’s here?’ He kept hold of Troy whilst using the gun to sift through the items. A fat wallet, packed with money. ‘How much in here?’

‘Dunno. . fifteen hundred?’

A bag of tablets. ‘E?’

Troy nodded.

‘How much do you make a week?’

‘Two grand-ish. . enough.’

Henry wanted to hit him very hard indeed. ‘Got a motor nearby?’

‘This one.’ Troy nodded at the car he had been almost plastered all over. It was a BMW, white, tinted windows, alloys, spoilers, ‘G’ registered.

Henry chuckled despite himself. ‘You fuckin’ stereotype. Let’s go for a little ride.’

‘You are in very big trouble, Troy: carrying, dealing, fuck me. This is very big shit indeed. The way the courts are backing us up now, I’d say this is worth six to eight. . years, that is.’

Troy was driving, keeping his face firmly forward. Henry saw Troy’s Adam’s apple rise and fall. He knew he was sitting next to a very frightened man.

The gun and the drugs were in the footwell at Henry’s feet.

‘Eight years in a cell. . OK, let’s be generous — five years for good behaviour and all that. . five years being buggered daily whilst performing oral sex at the other end. That would be you, wouldn’t it, because you’d have no clout at all in the nick. You’d be bottom of the ladder, pal. And your fear of confined spaces. Banged up every night in a cell with a couple of other guys, all of whom will fuck you in turns. Way to go, Troy!’ Henry was remorseless. ‘Why the hell are you carrying a gun, Troy? Why?’

‘Protection.’

‘Oh, good one. Always goes down well in court, that one. Not.’

‘I’m in a dangerous business.’

‘You’re in an illegal business,’ Henry corrected him. ‘Pull in here and let’s have a one-to-one, a bit of a cuddle.’

Henry had directed him up along the promenade and then on to the public car park next to the Blackpool central police station.

‘Take a look at the nick, Troy. With this gun and those drugs you wouldn’t walk out of there again. In fact, the next time you stepped out of a door would be when they release you from Wymott Prison in, say, 2010, give or take a year or two.’

Troy looked ill.

‘I would ensure that all bail applications are refused,’ said Henry, really rubbing it in. He smiled at Troy. ‘So while you were waiting to go to court you’d be in custody all the way.’

‘Bastard.’

‘That’s me. Love it to bits.’

‘OK, you’ve made your point. What do I have to do? That’s obviously what all this is about. You come looking for me, threaten me and I give you some gen. . which is?’

‘The deal is this: you do what I want to my complete and utter satisfaction and I’ll consider giving you a verbal warning for the gun and the drugs. Obviously they’ll have to be destroyed, but that’s a small price to pay for getting some information to me and staying a free man, wouldn’t you say?’

Troy shrugged like he could take it or leave it. The hard man.

‘Ever heard of Andy Turner?’ Troy nodded. ‘I want to know where he is. I want to know within twenty-four hours.’

Troy shook his head sadly. ‘That might be difficult.’

‘Why, because he’s legged it?’

‘No — because he’s dead.’

Henry fell silent as his brain chewed that over. ‘Dead?’

‘Word is he got whacked a couple of years back.’

‘Who by?’

‘No idea.’

‘Find out.’

A guffaw shook Troy. ‘Easier said than done.’

Henry pointed down between his knees. ‘This is easier done than said. Eight years in the slammer. Very easy for me, love. . Now find out the truth, OK? I also want a list of addresses for Turner and his friends and associates, business partners.’

‘All in a day? You’re nuts.’

Henry looked at his watch. ‘Less than a day now.’

‘Twat.’

‘Am I! Let’s drive back down south.’

‘I don’t know where to start, man,’ Troy whined.

Henry knew the Costain family had a string of nefarious contacts right across Lancashire and down into Greater Manchester. He therefore knew Troy was lying.

‘Fibber,’ he said.

Armed with a revolver and a bag of drugs, Henry Christie felt very peculiar indeed. He had made Troy drop him off two streets away from where the Astra was parked, then watched his source drive away before trudging to his car, gun in one pocket, drugs in another. He hid the items in the hollow where the spare wheel should have been, hoping that Troy didn’t have the brains to blob him in and call the cops anonymously. If Henry was found in possession of a gun and drugs, he’d have a hard time explaining it and could easily end up going down for it, rather as he had described to Troy, maybe for longer.

He drove back to town. It was 10.45 p.m.

As instructed, he parked around the corner from the youth club and sauntered back to stand across the road in a shop doorway where he could watch the club entrance. A few kids were hanging round the door. They were giggly and high spirited, but not in the same way as the youths he’d watched congregating around the shops in South Shore. These seemed much nicer, stepping out of the way for other pedestrians, and were polite too.