John Harvey - Last Rites

So Raymond downed his lager and scuttled out into the darkness, other agendas pressing on his mind, and Tommy DiReggio filed away the information, something to be passed on for a price, a promise of advancement, a debt needing to be squared.

On the corner of Thurland Street and Pelham Street, Raymond paused outside the entrance to a small cellar club he knew was frequented by Anthony Drew Valentine. And word was that Valentine was back on the street.

Raymond shuffled into the doorway of a shop selling discount jeans and suddenly he was remembering when he had stood outside that club before. A night-what? — a little over three years ago.

Four of them there’d been, coming for him out of the dark: white shirts, loud voices, threats and curses. At first, it had been punches thrown, the toe of a shiny shoe driving in. Then the glint and flash of a blade. The pain that jarred along Raymond’s arm, sharp, when he drove his Stanley knife hard into one youth’s face and met bone. And then this other guy, older, well-dressed, some Paki poking his nose where it wasn’t wanted, out to impress his girl. “All right, put a stop to this.” Unbelievable, the feller trying to grab hold of them, pull them apart. The whole gang had turned on him then, Raymond included, beating him to the ground and then the boots flying, going in hard. To this day, Raymond could never be certain whether he’d heard the man shout out he was a police officer before he’d slashed the Stanley knife at his head and caught his throat, severing the carotid artery with a single swing.

Bastard! Once in a while, still, Raymond woke in a muck sweat remembering. Wasn’t as if the copper’d even been on duty. Why couldn’t he mind his own business like everybody else? Stupid Paki bastard, no more than he deserved.

He tugged at his collar and crossed the street toward the club entrance, joining a small line slowly shuffling forward, waiting for admission. On the door, two bouncers, one black, one white, both wearing shiny black blouson jackets bearing the insignia Gold Standard Security, vetting everyone carefully, patting them down before letting them past.

There was no need, he reasoned, to speak to Valentine himself, not now. If one or two of his cohorts were around, maybe Raymond could plant a seed in the right ear. After all, if the weapon Sheena Snape was offering him was indeed the one that had almost terminated Jason Johnson, then Valentine might be willing to pay a lot more than it was worth on the open market. Double, at least. Nothing ventured, Ray-o, nothing gained.

The only thing, Preston thought, that had changed about motorway services all the time he’d been inside had been the prices. Otherwise, especially at four in the morning, they were the same sad, scruffy places, smelling of grease and disinfectant.

He’d parked Maureen’s car close to the entrance and glanced around for any sign of Cassady; no idea, of course, what kind of motor he drove now, but sensing that the Irishman had still to arrive. Maureen, snug in the bedroom where he’d left her; hopefully the rope wouldn’t be biting too deep into her wrists and ankles. No matter how much you trusted people, you could only ever trust them so far.

He took a leak, then stood in line in the cafeteria behind a longdistance haulage driver from South Shields, making his way back from carrying a load of copper wiring to Germany. In no hurry, Preston waited while the man ordered his plate piled high with everything from chips to black pudding. He ordered two slices of toast for himself and a large tea to wash them down. Someone had left the previous day’s paper on one of the tables, and Preston picked it up and dropped it on his tray, heading for the elevated area off to one side. The tea was weak, the toast thin but fresh; he was surprised at how many names in the paper he recognized, how many he did not. Although he made a point of watching the TV news once in a while in prison, you were so removed from what was happening nothing you watched seemed real: a shock, almost, then, to realize those stories about fat cats in business, soap stars and royals, millionaire Lottery winners were true.

He spotted Cassady before Cassady saw him. Shorter than he remembered, his features, even at that distance, decidedly older, his gaze uncertain as he paused and looked around.

Then he was heading straight for Preston, a grin brightening his face as they shook hands, Cassady punching him playfully on the shoulder, once and once more again for luck. “Jesus, Michael, you’re looking good. You really are.”

“Just as well one of us is; you look like shit.”

Cassady laughed and stepped away. “What can I get you? Another-what? — tea, is it?”

“Tea, yeh, thanks.” Watching him, then, as he crossed between the largely empty tables, circling jauntily around a tall Asian slowly mopping the same area of floor, a different man already from the one who had walked in.

A few minutes later, Cassady took a quarter bottle of scotch from his side pocket and tipped a generous shot into his cup. He offered the bottle across to Preston, who shook his head.

“So,” Preston said, “I hear you’ve gone legit.”

“Not so’s you’d notice,” Cassady replied with a sly grin.

“Security, isn’t it?”

“Clubs for the most part, pubs. Couple of shopping centers, out of town. Nothing grand.”

“Money in it, though?”

“Oh, yes. Especially with a little-what is it? — creative accounting.”

Preston looked at him over the top of his cup. “Money enough?”

“Ah, never that, is it? And, besides, sitting in that poxy office every hour of the day, having to be polite to people down the telephone-sure, that’s not me.”

Preston still looking at him, staring now.

“Oh, I see, Michael. Yes, I get your drift. It’s a loan you’re wanting. Well, of course, I’ll do what I can. I …”

But it wasn’t a loan. Preston’s hand was quick, gripping Cassady’s fingers till the knuckles were white. “Miss it, don’t you? The buzz. Going out on a big job, tooled up.”

“Course I do.”

“Well …?”

“Ah, Michael, things change. All that cash, used to be running around, there for the taking, it’s not the same. Big firms, these days, they’re as likely to transfer wages electronically, one account to another. I don’t know. It’s as if money, your actual money, never sees the light of day.”

Preston lowered his voice even farther. “I need one big score, maybe two. And soon. You in?”

Cassady leaned back and, for a few moments, closed his eyes. He’d seen it coming, of course he had. What else would Preston have wanted with him? You take risks like this just to reminisce? And Cassady had been thinking for some little time now, things were ripe for moving on. A little overripe maybe, overextended, that policewoman coming round earlier, for instance, questions she was asking never quite the ones she meant. Yes, pastures new. Jacky would jump at that now, sure she would.

“Yeh. Yeh, of course I’m in, but where? I mean …”

“You’ve been outside, eyes open. That’s what you’re supposed to be telling me.”

Cassady lifted his cup with both hands. Through a wall of plate glass, lights blistered and flickered along the length of motorway. “Drugs, then,” he said. “Got to be.”

Preston sat back and shook his head. “I don’t want to be messing with all that shit. Buying, selling, it’s not what I know. I don’t have the time.”

“No.” Cassady leaning closer now, the whole thing coming to him, seeing it, even then, playing out before him. Working Planer and Valentine, one against the other, while they slipped away through the middle. “It don’t have to be that way. The money, that’s what we want, right? The cash. You know how much some of these monkeys have, making unsightly bulges in their shiny new suits? Do you?” The old grin was back on his face, wider than before. “And one thing they’re not doing, keeping it all in the Midland at five point nothing per cent, rest assured of that. All we have to do, find out where they’ve got their stash, hit ’em at the right time. Bob’s your uncle.” He laughed at the simple joy of it. “What’re they going to do? Go runnin’ to the police, is it?”