Питер Ловси - Do Not Exceed the Stated Dose [Stories]

When he got out, there was a fresh towel ready. Mr Cronk handed it to him. Jason sat on the edge of the pool with the towel draped around his shoulders, dangling his feet in the pool.

Mr Cronk handed him a can of lager, ice-cold. He said, “You look so cool, I think I’ll join you, Jason.” He stepped out of his sandals and sat beside Jason. The light on the water shimmered over the coloured tiles, distorting the shapes.

“That chap you mentioned today. The, em, Fixer.”

“Yeah?”

“You said he was reliable.”

“Hundred per cent.”

“Ten thousand pounds, the man paid, for his services?”

“Ten grand, yes.”

“Tell me, Jason. How does the money work?”

“Come again, Mr Cronk?”

“Well, is he paid by results? Does he get the money after performing the, em...?”

“I’m with you. No, there’s got to be trust on both sides. Standard terms for that kind of job are half on agreement, half on completion. Five grand down, five at the death, so to speak.”

After some reflection, Mr Cronk said, “It seems fair enough.”

“Cash, of course. No point in cheques in a business like his.”

“Or writing them, if you hire him,” said Mr Cronk, churning the water with his feet, he was so amused by his own remark. “Do you know this fellow personally?”

“I’ve met him, yeah.”

“Any chance I could meet him, just out of interest, so to speak?”

“No chance,” said Jason.

“Oh.”

“He doesn’t meet no one on spec. Too risky.”

“How did he ever meet the man you were telling me about?”

“It was set up by a third party. The bloke made it known he wanted to hire the Fixer. There was a meeting on neutral ground, the bloke and the Fixer. Five grand was handed over. Nothing spoken. When the job was done, the other five grand had to be left in a case in a left luggage box. The key was handed to the third party, who gave it to the Fixer.”

“Neat.”

“That’s the way it’s done the world over, Mr Cronk.” Jason stood up. “I’d better get changed and toddle off. I’m sure you’ve got things to do.”

“I’ll drive you back. No problem,” said Mr Cronk.

Towards the end of the drive back to the flat Jason shared with Gary, Mr Cronk said, “I suppose you couldn’t act as third party.”

“In what way?” Jason tried to sound puzzled.

“As a contact with the Fixer. You said you met him.”

“Just the once, a while ago.” He paused. “I suppose I could sniff around, see if he’s about.”

“I’d make it worth your while — later.”

“Five hundred?” said Jason.

“All right. When it’s all over.”

They drove on for a while in silence.

“This’ll be all right. Drop me here.”

Mr Cronk stopped the car. “Don’t think too badly of me, Jason. I’m a deeply wounded man. Mine is nothing like the case you mentioned. Almost the reverse.”

“I don’t judge no one, Mr Cronk.”

“You’ll let me know?”

“Get a grip, Gary. He’s the one wearing brown trousers, right?”

“Right.”

“You look great. Wear the shades, and your rings. Walk tall. And don’t forget to check the money.”

“Where will you be, Jay?”

“Where I said — down the tube with the cases and the tickets. Piccadilly Line to Heathrow, the night flight to Athens and six weeks bumming around the Greek Islands. Any problem with that?”

“No problem, Jay.”

“There’s nothing he can do. I lose my job, and you get the golden handshake, eh, Gary?”

“Yes, sure.”

“Try and look the part, then.”

Mr Cronk emerged from a taxi and entered the ticket hall of the tube station at precisely 4 p.m. He was carrying a sportsbag containing five thousand pounds in twenty-pound notes. As instructed, he waited to the left of the news kiosk. He was trembling uncontrollably.

At 4.03, a tall young man in dark glasses and a black suit and bootlace tie walked right up to Mr Cronk and said, “Is it all there?”

Mr Cronk fumbled and almost dropped the bag as he handed it over to the Fixer.

The young man unzipped the bag and made a quick assessment of the contents.

Mr Cronk said, “When will you...?”

“You’ll get a phone call,” the Fixer promised. He zipped the bag up again. Then he turned and walked quickly through the barrier and down the escalator.

Gary was all smiles on the platform. “Dead simple.”

“Give us the bag,” said Jason. He took it and looked inside. “Sorted.”

The Heathrow train came in. They picked up the cases. On the journey, they opened one of the cases and stuffed the bag inside.

“It was a dream,” said Gary, his confidence fully restored. “He was dead scared. You know what? If we played it right, we could roll him for the other five grand as well. Have a nice holiday, go back and screw him for the bloody lot. He wouldn’t know it was a con till he got back and found his old lady still breathing.”

Jason fixed him with those stone eyes and said, “You’re a laugh a minute, Gary.”

“Am I?”

“She’s already dead.”

“What?” Gary went white. “No! Jay, you never?”

“Couldn’t let my old boss down, could I?” said Jason, enjoying this.

“For Christ’s sake, mate, are you crazy?”

“Went for a swim with her this afternoon, didn’t I? Pushed her face under the water and kept it there.” He glanced at his watch. “He’ll be finding her about now. He’ll be saying, ‘Jesus, that Fixer didn’t waste time.’ And when we get back to England, he’ll pay up like a lamb.”

Gary practically gibbered, “It was a scam, Jay, it was only meant to be a scam. We never agreed no violence.”

Jason took pity. He’d had his fun, and other people in the train were starting to look at Gary. “I bet you still believe in the bloody tooth fairy and all. I never touched her.”

Gary’s breathing subsided. “Honest?”

“Honest. How could I? I was humping these cases to the station.”

“Bastard.”

“Get real, pal. We’re on our way.”

Their flight was due to take off at 23.10 from Terminal Four. They had plenty of time in hand. After checking in their cases and going through the passport control, they had a leisurely meal and a few drinks and started to get into the holiday mood.

“How long do you reckon it’s going to take before old Cronk finds out he’s been ripped off?” said Gary.

“Week. Longer,” said Jason. “He might smell a rat when I don’t come into work, but he’ll think I’m ill, or something.”

“And he can’t do sweet f.a. about it. It’s neat, Jay. Real neat.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Their flight was called. They walked to the departure lounge and showed their tickets and passports. One of the officials in suits said, “Would you come with me, gentlemen?”

“What for?” said Jason.

“This is your passport?”

“Yes.”

“You are Jason Richardson and you, sir, are Gary Morton? You won’t be boarding this flight. We’re police officers with orders to arrest you.”

After a scuffle, the pair were handcuffed and led away to the airport police office. They were cautioned and then questioned about their movements.

“You’ve got nothing on us,” Jason said.

“We opened your luggage,” the inspector said. “Almost five grand in twenties?”

“It’s a long holiday,” said Jason cleverly.

“Don’t waste your breath, lad. We heard about you from Mr Cronk, getting yourself invited to his place and sussing it out for a robbery, knowing how scrap metal merchants have to handle large amounts of cash. That’s naughty enough, but beating an innocent woman to death is evil.”