Stephen Leather: True Colours

‘Give me some credit, mate,’ said Weaver. He reached under the table and pulled out a black Adidas kitbag. ‘We’ll put them in here. The landlord’s a pal, he’ll keep them behind the bar. And there’s half a dozen guys here who’ll swear we never left the place.’ He unzipped the bag and held it open. One by one the men put their mobiles inside. Connolly switched his off and Weaver glared at him in disgust. ‘Didn’t you get what I just said? What’s the point of switching it off? It has to be on so that it shows up.’

Connolly grimaced, switched the phone back on and dropped it into the bag. Taylor tossed in an iPhone and reached for his pint. ‘Don’t forget the other one, Andy,’ said Weaver.

Taylor frowned as if he didn’t understand.

‘You’ve got a Nokia as well.’

‘That’s a throwaway,’ said Taylor. ‘I use it for stuff I don’t want traced. It’s not in my name and I change the SIM card every couple of weeks.’

‘Didn’t realise that selling used cars meant you had to behave like James bloody Bond,’ said Harris. His eyes narrowed. ‘What do you need a throwaway phone for?’

Taylor took out a battered Nokia and dropped it into Weaver’s bag. ‘Let’s just say that sometimes I might sell a motor that’s less than kosher and I wouldn’t want an angry buyer turning up on my doorstep,’ he said.

Weaver zipped up the bag and looked at his watch. It was just after eleven. ‘Right, the pub’s closing at one this morning and it’ll take half an hour to get to the raghead’s house. Let’s move.’ Weaver drained his glass and the rest of his men did the same. He stood up and took the kitbag over to the bar.

The landlord, a balding man in his fifties, nodded and took it from him without a word and put it down behind the bar. He winked at Weaver. ‘Be lucky,’ he said.

Weaver caught up with the men at the door, buttoning their coats and pulling on leather gloves. ‘We need to pick up Colin,’ he said.

‘Colin’s got the flu,’ said Connolly.

‘Man flu,’ said Weaver. ‘I spoke to him on the phone this afternoon, he’s sniffing a bit but nothing major. We’re the five musketeers, all for one and one for all and he’s coming along.’

They walked out of the pub and over to Weaver’s car, a ten-year-old Jaguar. They climbed in, Taylor sitting in the front passenger seat next to Weaver, with Connolly and Harris in the back.

Weaver drove the short distance to where Colin McDermid lived in a small flat in a terraced street. Both sides of the road were lined with cars so Weaver had to double park while Taylor ran over to the house. He rang the middle of three bells and shortly afterwards disappeared inside. Weaver drummed his gloved hands on the steering wheel as the seconds ticked by. He looked at his watch and then at the clock set into the dashboard and swore under his breath.

‘Do you want me to go and get them?’ asked Harris.

‘Give them a minute,’ said Weaver. ‘McDermid’s probably getting his trousers on.’

‘You sure you want him along?’ said Harris. ‘We hardly know the guy.’

‘Colin’s sound,’ said Weaver. ‘And he needs to get bloodied.’ He looked at his watch again. He was about to open his mouth to speak when the door opened and Taylor emerged, followed by a gangly man with a greasy comb-over wearing a blue anorak and black tracksuit bottoms. McDermid pulled the door closed and he and Taylor jogged over to the car.

McDermid climbed into the back, forcing Connolly to move closer to Harris. ‘What’s going on?’ asked McDermid, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. Taylor got into the front seat and Weaver drove off.

‘Yasir Chaudhry, that raghead who keeps giving speeches about our dead soldiers burning in hell, we’re going to give him a taste of his own medicine,’ said Weaver.

McDermid sniffed noisily. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Serious as a can of petrol and a lighter,’ said Weaver. ‘We’re going to burn the bastard’s house down.’

‘About bloody time,’ said McDermid. He banged the roof of the Jag with the flat of his hand. ‘He’s been due for a while, that one.’

‘That’s the truth,’ agreed Harris.

‘Why do I always have to sit in the bitch seat?’ whined Connolly.

‘Because you’ve got the smallest arse,’ said Weaver. ‘And because you’re so short I can still see out of the mirror with you sat there.’

Connolly folded his arms and scowled. ‘It’s not fair.’

‘Life’s not fair,’ said Harris. ‘Get over it. And if you don’t stop bitching we’ll send you back to live with Snow White.’

Taylor laughed out loud and Connolly folded his arms and cursed under his breath.

Weaver twisted around in his seat and looked at McDermid. ‘You left your phone in your flat, yeah?’ he asked.

McDermid jerked a thumb at Taylor. ‘Andy took it off me,’ he said. ‘Said I had to leave it in the flat and switched on.’

‘He’s right,’ said Weaver. ‘If the cops check on you they’ll find your phone was in your flat and you can say you were in all night watching TV or internet porn or whatever you do when you’re in there on your own.’

‘We’re sitting in the Bleeding Heart right now,’ laughed Harris.

Weaver drove at just below the speed limit and all the men in the car kept a look out for police vehicles. They all tensed when they saw a car with fluorescent stripes turn into the road ahead of them but they quickly realised it was a paramedic and relaxed.

‘So what’s the plan?’ asked McDermid. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and slipped one between his lips.

‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ said Weaver. ‘And don’t even think of lighting that, not with the amount of petrol I’ve got in the boot.’

McDermid put the cigarette back in the packet and the packet back in his jacket pocket and stared sullenly out of the window.

Taylor looked at his watch, a cheap Casio. ‘You sure he’s home?’ he asked.

‘Sure I’m sure,’ said Weaver. ‘Had a guy around there this evening. He sent me a text while I was in the pub.’

‘Texts can be traced,’ said Taylor.

‘I’m not stupid,’ said Weaver. ‘It’s the same as your Nokia, a pay-as-you-go, untraceable.’ He reached into his pocket and held it up. ‘It’s switched off now and I’ll dump it later tonight.’

‘Looks like you’ve thought of everything,’ said Taylor.

‘Andy, when you’ve known me a bit longer you’ll know that planning is what I do best. Planning and burning out ragheads and Pakis.’

‘You’ve done this before?’

Connolly laughed and jiggled up and down. ‘This is my third,’ he said.

‘Sit the fuck down, Barry,’ said Weaver, glancing in the rear-view mirror.

‘Seriously? This is your third?’ Taylor asked Weaver.

Weaver grinned. ‘Barry’s third. I’ve done half a dozen.’

‘Good for you, mate,’ said Taylor. He beat a quick tattoo on the dashboard with his gloved hands. ‘They need showing who’s boss.’

‘Damn right,’ said Weaver.

Taylor sat back, nodding. ‘That Paki family in Southall, was that you?’

‘Bloody right it was,’ said Harris, punching the back of Taylor’s seat. We showed them what for, didn’t we, Dennis?’

‘That we did,’ said Weaver. ‘The trick is waiting until they’re asleep and then doing the front and back door. That way there’s no way out.’

‘Brilliant,’ said Taylor, looking at his watch again.

‘Don’t worry, mate,’ said Weaver. ‘We’ve plenty of time, and Chaudhry and his bastard brood are already tucked up in bed.’

Fifteen minutes later, Weaver pulled up in front of a patch of waste ground. Half the street lamps were off but there was enough light to illuminate a burnt-out car and an old boiler and what looked like the insides of a washing machine next to it. The ground was littered with beer cans, discarded needles and fast food wrappers.