Nick Oldham - Dead Heat

‘Fuck off.’ Goldman spat out a mouthful of blood at Turner which splattered obscenely across his T-shirt.

Turner looked down at the mess and said, ‘Oh,’ with disappointment.

They took five steady minutes over the beating which followed, taking Goldy to within a whisper of his life.

‘That’s enough,’ Turner said, holding Newman back. Both men stepped away. Goldman was curled up in a foetal ball in a corner of the room, his face mashed to an unrecognizable pulp, his jaw twisted and broken; his hands had been hammered by Turner’s baseball bat, the bones smashed and broken. Both assailants had jumped on his chest, stomping down on his ribs, breaking many of them and almost killing him in the process.

Turner knew when to back off. He had beaten many people senseless in his time and prided himself on his judgement. He did not want Goldman dead because he actually might be of some use once he had recovered. It looked like he had a pretty good set-up here and Turner thought he might be able to take advantage of it.

‘Let’s find the dosh now,’ Turner said. He was breathing heavily with exertion, sweating profusely, as was Newman.

They turned Goldman’s drum upside down. Carpets were ripped up, cupboards emptied, as they searched hard for the money which they knew must be somewhere in the flat. They went to all the well-known hiding places and the ones which were not so well known. Eventually they found it by taking off the plastic cover protecting the electrical shower in the bathroom. The money was in a waterproof plastic wallet. Four thousand pounds, all in twenties.

Turner counted it and peeled off two hundred for Newman. ‘On account,’ he said.

In the living room, Goldman had somehow managed to get himself into a sitting position, jammed into the corner of the room to prevent himself from falling over. He could only open one eye — and that one only just. The other, his right, had already swollen to the size of a cricket ball and was much the same colour. His wheezed as he breathed, his chest sounding like metal scraping over sandstone. As he inhaled and exhaled, he moaned painfully.

‘Found it,’ Turner said gleefully, wafting the money in front of Goldman’s face. Just for spite, he placed his foot on Goldman’s shoulder and pushed him back down on to the floor. Goldman could not stop himself from sliding, his useless broken hands unable to hold him. Turner stood on Goldman’s outstretched left palm and pirouetted on the heel of his trainer, making Goldman scream in agony. He left the drug dealer still shrieking as he and Newman left, slamming the reinforced outer door behind him, ensuring the screams became muffled and inconsequential.

At 9 p.m., Newman dropped Turner off at the Star of India restaurant in Rusholme. Turner had changed, having disposed of his blood-splattered gear from the assault on Goldman. The clothing had been left with Newman to dispose of by fire.

On alighting from the car, Turner kept his head bowed down and walked swiftly across the pavement to the restaurant.

Inside it was fairly quiet. Just a few customers eating their curries, mainly white people.

Turner stood by the till as a little Pakistani waiter greeted him and took him to a table at the far end of the dining room where he could sit with his back against the wall and face the door, with the option of a quick getaway through a side door should the need arise.

‘Not seen you recently, sir,’ the Pakistani said.

‘Busy guy, Ali, busy guy.’ Turner sat down and was offered the menu. He shook his head. ‘Usual.’

‘OK, sir.

‘And be quick.’

‘Yessir.’

Turner settled back, feeling buoyant. The Goldman incident had made him feel fresh and alive. Hurting others gave him a great deal of satisfaction, that and making a living out of other people’s misery. He loved preying on the weaknesses of others. It was very, very pleasurable. He also believed that the ‘Goldman incident’, as he liked to now call it, would be a very good indication of his management skills to someone he would be meeting later, someone very influential.

A waiter deposited a pint of very cold lager on Turner’s table. He took a long, slow swig of it, feeling it flow all the way down his neck and into his empty stomach.

A few minutes later his Chicken Vindaloo arrived. He tucked into it with relish. Beating the living shit out of people gave him a healthy appetite.

It was a long sigh, followed by a deep stretch, brought about by boredom and several hours spent in a car, watching and waiting. Jo Coniston eyeballed her partner.

O’Brien’s chin dropped on to his chest, then jerked up quickly as he fought sleep. ‘Christ,’ he mumbled, ‘nearly went there.’

‘Nearly?’ she quipped, ‘you’ve been snoring for ten minutes.’

‘Haven’t!’

‘This is just shit,’ Jo griped. ‘Needle in a bloody haystack. Why?’ she demanded. ‘Why, why, why?’

O’Brien yawned. ‘Could be worse. Could have to work for a living.’

‘I’m going for a walk.’

She hoisted herself out of the car, feeling her bones starting to ache. Her senses told her that tonight was going to be one horrendous waste of time. The mixed and exciting aroma of Indian cooking reached her fine nostrils as she sniffed in the Rusholme night air. Suddenly she was ravenously hungry.

Beads of sweat from eating a hot curry as opposed to sweat from beating a man senseless dribbled down Andy Turner’s forehead. He wiped himself with a napkin and took a draught from the new pint of lager which had just arrived at the table.

It was 9.30 p.m., about time someone showed up.

As if on cue, the door of the restaurant opened and a figure entered the establishment. It was not the person he was expecting, unless the person happened to be a woman, which he did not think would be the case. Turner watched her as he sipped his beer. A waiter showed her to a table near the window and left her with a menu.

Turner liked the look of her. Very pretty, short dark hair, a little snub nose and nice wide lips which he immediately imagined working on him.

The waiter returned to her with a bottle of water and took her order. She sat drinking the fizzy water, glancing shyly around the restaurant, checking out the other customers. She seemed to look at him for a fraction longer than anyone else and Turner allowed himself a grin, but she seemed not to notice. Her eyes dropped and she stared at the table cloth, then looked out of the window at the busy street beyond.

The smells had been just too much for Jo Coniston. She had not eaten since coming on duty and she was famished. She turned into a decent-ish-looking restaurant — there were several on the strip which looked highly suspicious and should be avoided at all costs — with the intention of having a quick drink and a starter. Maybe a mixed kebab, she had thought, just to fill the gap. Maybe spend ten to fifteen minutes inside, then head back to the car.

The waiter was all over her, his eyes spending too much time hovering in the vicinity of her boobs. But at least he was attentive. He brought her a drink, took her order and promised speedy service.

Only as she took a sip of her mineral water and let her own eyes do a bit of roving, did her heart nearly stop.

Because there he was, large as life and twice as menacing. Andy Bloody Turner. Sitting not twenty feet away from her at the back of the restaurant.

Stay calm, she instructed herself as her blood coursed through her veins like fire. She hoped her face did not register surprise, but thought it might have done. She realized her gaze had stayed on him for more than a split second, a contact often long enough to alert a switched-on villain. But had he seen that? She prayed not.

How had they missed him coming into the restaurant? Her team was crawling round the area like lice and somehow their target had walked straight through them, sat down, ordered a fucking meal.