Howard Linskey - The Drop

‘Sorry mate,’ said the teenager and he looked worried. Miller accepted his apology with a little nod and let him go.

‘Boys playing at men,’ he told me as he watched the lad make himself scarce, ‘a sniff of the barmaid’s apron and they can’t handle it.’

When he turned back to face me he said, ‘I’m sorry, I know I should have said summat about Geordie and his betting earlier but I thought you’d reckon he’d just nicked the Drop and I really don’t believe he’s that stupid.’

‘No but he’s stupid enough to lose two-hundred-odd grand betting on share prices he knows nothing about. Look, at least you told me now and that’s the main thing.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Keep looking for him. I’ve got to go on doing the rounds with Finney until we get the full story and find our man.’

‘Finney?’ he asked doubtfully.

‘What’s that supposed to mean,’ I retorted, but he didn’t want to say. ‘Come on, out with it.’

‘Just be careful mate,’ he warned me, ‘you said yourself, guys like Finney and Jerry Lemon, they don’t really get you. I’d say they wouldn’t pause for the length of a heartbeat before selling you down the river. Just watch your back with Bobby when men like them are talking to him. Look out for yourself that’s all.’

I wondered if he’d heard about my falling out with Jerry Lemon. It hadn’t been long but bad news travels fast in this city, ‘Cheers mate. I appreciate that,’ I told him, ‘but I can take care of myself.’

I got an Indian takeaway and grabbed a cab from the rank outside the Akenside Traders. It weaved its way out of the Quayside but not before the driver slowed to let a hen night cross the road in front of him. I’d already seen half a dozen hens that evening; little groups of lasses dressed as soldiers, policewomen or cowgirls in pink Stetsons; now a dozen young girls were done up like burlesque dancers from the Moulin Rouge; all fishnets and red basques, with cleavage hanging out all over the place. One of them waved at me through the windscreen and did a little dance in front of us twirling a feather boa while her mates pissed themselves laughing.

‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ commented my driver, ‘if you asked wor lass to dress like that in the bedroom she’d call you a dirty bastard and tell yuz to fuck off but if it’s a hen night and all her mates are doing it then all of a sudden it’s ‘girl power’.’

He had a point.

I got in late with my lukewarm takeaway in a leaking carrier bag. Laura was in bed. I still hadn’t seen her since the airport.

I’d have probably sat on the couch with my dinner in my lap but, as usual, I couldn’t get my arse near it for cushions. What is it about women and cushions? Instead of chucking them all on the floor, I sat at the kitchen table, poured myself a beer, had two forkfuls of Chicken Bhuna then my mobile rang. It was Sharp, my bent DS.

‘There’s something you need to see.’ He said and he sounded rattled.

‘What is it?’

‘Can’t say, just come to the last place and we’ll take it from there.’ His voice was grim so I agreed and he hung up.

I took two more mouthfuls of curry and a big bite of Peshwari Naan, put my jacket back on and left the rest of my dinner congealing on the plate.

I had to get one of our crew to pick me up and drive me. The last thing I wanted was to be done for drink driving on top of everything else. I got him to take me to the spot where DS Sharp had told the uniformed copper to fuck off. His Range Rover was parked there and he flashed his lights once. I got out of the car, let my driver go and climbed in next to Sharp.

‘This better be good,’ I said, knowing Sharp wasn’t prone to this kind of melodrama.

‘Depends on your definition of the word,’ he said grimly.

I already had a bad feeling about it.

Cartwright didn’t look too pretty under the torchlight. He’d only been lying there for three or four days but a rat had already messed with his face. It had taken the flesh off his cheeks leaving two obscene-looking holes where the skin had been and had a go at his throat too.

George Cartwright’s body was lying on the cold concrete floor of a disused factory, the derelict sight of a minor manufacturing company that went bust years back. The factory was open on both sides and all that was left was the metal skeleton of the building, which had huge holes in its sides and roof. A cold wind was whistling through it that night and there were puddles on the floor where last night’s rain had come in. What was left of George’s face was white, his eyes open, staring up at us. It made me feel sick right down in the pit of my stomach to see him like that. I had spent a lot of time with Geordie Cartwright over the years. We’d drunk together in the pubs when things were going well and we’d shared a car countless times when we’d taken the Drop. Now here he was lying dead in a disused factory, his stone cold body open to the elements, where any scavenger could crawl in and take a bite out of him.

I kept picturing Geordie’s face before it had been messed up. I could remember his laugh, his soft spoken Geordie accent, the conversations we’d had about the future, his dreams of that retirement home in Spain. Well, he had no future now. It was all over for Geordie Cartwright.

‘What happened Geordie,’ I asked him, ‘what did you get yourself mixed up in?’

As I gazed down on his mutilated face, I couldn’t get the other nagging thought out of my mind; how this could just as easily have been me lying there. If I’d not been on holiday when he was lifted, it probably would have been me.

‘Are you alright?’ asked Sharp, his tone suggesting he was a bit rattled by the spectacle himself. I knew what was worrying Sharp. Despite the mess the rats had made of Geordie’s face, the cause of his death was clear to see. There was a bullet hole right in the middle of his forehead. It had gone in, neat as you like, and it looked professional. Most probably it was the exit wound that had attracted the rats. Half of the back of Geordie’s skull had been blown off and there was blood and brain matter all over the concrete floor behind him.

This was an execution, pure and simple. They had brought poor Geordie Cartwright out to this cold and lonely spot, probably put him down on his knees,, then pressed a gun right into his face so he could see it and pulled the trigger. He must have realised what was coming when they drove him out here. I couldn’t imagine how scared he must have been or what had gone through his mind at the end. I wondered if he had pleaded for his life.

‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘I’m alright,’ and I suddenly felt my sadness turn to anger. The sheer fucking nerve of this was breathtaking and the complete lack of mercy shown to Geordie Cartwright made me resolve to be just as pitiless if I was ever in a position to let Finney off his leash. ‘Fuck!’

‘This is bad,’ muttered Sharp unnecessarily, ‘very bad. Is it going to be a war? You don’t need a war. We don’t need a fucking turf war.’

‘I don’t know yet, do I? It depends on who it is. If it’s a lone operator or a couple of freelancers, we’ll find them and…’ I didn’t need to finish the sentence.

‘And if not? What if it’s someone who thinks he can take out Bobby, someone who wants to be Top Boy, then what?’

‘Then he’s a dead man. You don’t mess with Bobby Mahoney, you know that. How many times has he proven it? Time and time again, for more than twenty five years.’

‘I know,’ he said unhappily.

‘But what?’

‘This feels different somehow, more professional.’

‘What’s professional about putting a bullet through someone’s forehead,’ I said, even though his thoughts mirrored my own, ‘anyone can do that. They didn’t even get rid of the body properly. You found it in twenty four hours.’