On the Money Read online

  No point taking chances.

  “Hey, my man,” Barcode called, smiling as he loped along the lane towards the pitch. “How’s it hangin’, blood?”

  He waved with his left hand, keeping his right tucked tight against his side.

  Brutus, as wide as he was tall, nineteen stones of pure beef—a bucket load of it between the ears—looked up. The thief’s eyebrows shot up.

  His smile was as forced as any TV presenter Barcode had ever watched.

  “Hey, blood. You early, man. Wasn’t expectin’ you for a couple hours, man.”

  Yeah, and that’s the point, fucker.

  Brutus ripped the beanie from his head and used it to shoo away a mealy-mouthed, shit-for-brains regular who couldn’t pay the full fee. The yellow streetlight shone on Brutus’ polished dome.

  Barcode stopped at arm’s length and pushed out his left fist—the sign things were cool. They bumped. All sweet and friendly, like.

  “Thought I’d come see how shit was hangin’, blood. Apart from that dickwad”—he tilted his head towards the disappearing failed customer—“how’s trade?”

  Brutus pulled the beanie back on and tucked his head into his shoulders. “Cold as fuck out here, man. I’m thinkin’ we should relocate the store. Maybe we could take over one of them houses and set up shop in the warm and the dry.” With his chin, pointed at the street behind Barcode.

  Taking care not to show Brutus his back, Barcode turned sideways and observed the row of houses running across from the alley, the closest had the garage he’d just been using. Above the fencing, the terrace stretched away and stopped when it reached the more expensive semi-detached homes closer to High Street. Each house showed lights. All were occupied and, to some extent, well-maintained.

  “Good idea, Brutus. Whose house we gonna occupy? How ’bout number fifteen? You Auntie Grace habits there, right? You reckon we gonna set up in her front room? And what happens when the bacon come a-calling? You’ll be holding, and the riders won’t have time to scoot nowhere. Nah, this shit’s what we do, and this here station’s where we stayin’.”

  Brutus lowered his head even more. He shuffled from one foot to the other, all nervous.

  “Wazzap, man? You need the toilet?”

  “Nah, freezing my ass off, innit.”

  The runt, Barcode’s real-life cousin, Lil’ Aran, stopped out of earshot, balanced on his pedals, flashing his pure bike handling skills. Looked like he could tell something was off and didn’t want no part in it.

  Smart boy.

  Any time now, Lil’ Aran might be due a promotion, despite his youth.

  Barcode pointed to the rider. “What’s happenin’ with Lil’ Aran?”

  As expected, Brutus turned to look.

  Barcode stepped back a pace, grabbed the handle of the baseball bat, and pulled it from the deep pocket his Auntie May had sewn into the lining of his parka. He swung a hard uppercut, stepping into the blow—adding his full bodyweight to increase the power of the swing.

  The fat end of the bat landed between Brutus’ legs with enough force to take the rascal clean off his feet.

  Brutus screamed, doubled over, and crumpled to his knees. Slowly, he toppled forwards to land face first in a grimy puddle. Barcode smiled, delighted at the effect of the underhand blow, surprised he could generate so much power.

  “Man, that’s gotta hurt bad,” he said, resting the end of the bat on the back of Brutus’ neck. The blow had knocked the beanie clean off the thief’s head, and it floated on top of the puddle. “I can’t tell if you pissed yourself, or if that damp patch in yo’ kecks is blood, blood. You feel me?”

  Barcode flashed a glance up the alley. Lil’ Aran’s jaw dropped. The rider planted a foot on the ground to stop himself toppling.

  To add to the bad vibes, a hard, cold rain started falling. Before long, it poured down with all the force of a power shower. Spluttering, struggling to breathe, Brutus tried to pull his head clear of the water, but Barcode wasn’t having it. He planted a foot into the middle of Brutus’ back, forcing him down hard. Bubbles frothed around the drowning fucker’s head. His arms and legs thrashed.

  Barcode let him splash and buck for a count of twenty before releasing the pressure and stepping away.

  Brutus exploded out of the water and rolled away, coughing and spluttering. Gagging like a be-atch. He scrambled away on his thieving butt and fetched up against the rusted chain-link fence, where he curled into a tight ball, face creased in hurt, eyes closed.

  Yeah, now you know what pain feels like, blood.

  “W-What the fuck you do that for, man?” he squeaked.

  Barcode was impressed the fucker could speak at all after the crunching blow. Musta had balls of steel. Mashed steel now, though. He couldn’t hold back a snicker. He signalled with the bat for Lil’ Aran to come as witness, but the rider didn’t budge. Couldn’t blame him none. Must have been scared shitless, thinking Barcode had totally lost it.

  “Take off them sneakers, homes,” he ordered Brutus, speaking loud enough for Lil’ Aran to hear.

  When the fucker didn’t move, Barcode ran the head of the bat along the fence above Brutus. It made an aggressive rattle and meshed well with the splashing rain.

  The crumpled man turned his head up and rain sluiced into his pained eyes. “What? What you say?”

  “You hear me, blood. Kick off them sneakers ’fore I merk you, fucker.”

  Still twitching and shivering, the big man’s shoulders tensed in recognition. “You … you tripping, blood. Had too much product. You bust my balls and tell me to—”

  Brutus screamed again as Barcode slammed the bat down on the top of his shoulder. The satisfying crunch of a shattering collar bone buzzed up through the handle.

  Barcode screamed, “Shut the fuck up, you mother!” and raised the bat high, holding it aloft but not completing the downswing. “Lil’ Aran, come here, cuz!”

  The young rider shook his head. “No way, man. You tripping.”

  Breathing hard, as much to steady his nerves as from the exercise, Barcode lowered the bat slowly and rested it on Brutus’ bad shoulder. The thief squealed.

  “Nah, little man. Things is cool. Come here, I need you as a witness. You safe from me, unless you part of it.”

  “Part o’ what?”

  “The thievery.”

  Lil’ Aran sat up straighter in the saddle. Rain ran down his face and dripped off his chin like it was pouring out the spout of a teapot.

  “You know me, BC. I ain’t no t’ief!” he shouted above the whistling wind, the driving rain, and Brutus’s groaning and crying.

  “So, do as I tell you. Come here and rip off this fucker’s sneakers!”

  Lil’ Aran paused a moment, considering. He threw a glance at his escape route, then looked at Brutus before pushing down on the pedal. The bike edged closer, not gaining much speed.

  “Hurry, man. I’m getting soaked here.”

  The rider pedalled harder, throwing up spray as the low-slung bike splashed through the growing pools of filthy water. Five metres away, he skidded to a sideways stop, jumped off his ride, and propped it against the fence. Then he approached the newly made cripple.

  “Take off his sneakers.”

  Brutus raised his head to stare at Lil’ Aran, “Don’t touch me you mother—”

  A scream cut off Brutus’ cuss as Barcode pressed the bat harder into the smashed shoulder.

  “Who gave you permission to speak, fucker? Go on, Lil’ Aran. Let’s see what he hidin’ inside them flashy Pitch Blacks.”

  Brutus tried to scrunch away but, crowded by Barcode on one side, Lil’ Aran on the other, and tight against the fence, there wasn’t nowhere he could squirm to.

  Lil’ Aran squatted in front of the fallen soldier and looked up at Barcode. “Okay if I takes out my cutter? Don’t wanna mess with wet knots.”

  Barcode nodded. “Go for it, cuz.”

  The little rider pulled out a butterfly knife and flicked it
open like he’d practised in his bedroom for hours. Must have been studying Alphonse, the smooth-talking French Goon, but he didn’t get the action quite so slick.

  Lil’ Aran sliced through the laces and ripped the right sneaker from Brutus’ foot.

  Using his fingertips, the rider fished inside the soft cuff. They came out with a bunch of crumpled banknotes. Lil’ Aran gasped and shook his head.

  “How much he got in there, cuz?”

  Lil’ Aran smoothed out the paper and sorted them into tens and fives. He counted them slowly. “Thirty-five quid, innit.”

  “Check the other shoe, little man.”

  The rider repeated the process.

  “Fifty-five. That’s … er,” he said, scrunching up his eyes to work the maths.

  “Ninety, cuz,” Barcode said, saving him the work. “He got ninety quid stuffed into them sneakers.”

  Lil’ Aran stood and brushed water and gravel from the knees of his jeans. “Where’d he come up with that cash, BC?”

  “Fucker’s been rippin’ off the Tribe. I been watchin’ him for the past couple hours.”

  Brutus shook his head. “Na, man. You got it all wrong. I’s clean. That’s my stash. I puts it there for safe keeping. Honest.”

  He released one fist from his crushed junk and held it up to Barcode, hand open, begging.

  Barcode sniffed, turned, and strolled away, all cool, like. Lil’ Aran followed, stuffing the paper into his backpack. He collected his bike, and walked alongside Barcode.

  “You just leavin’ him there, BC?”

  “What you want me to do?”

  The rider shrugged. “Kill the fucker? He’ll run, right?”

  “Nah, lil’ man. He ain’t running nowhere with bruised plums and a smashed shoulder.”

  Barcode stopped walking and turned to face the pool of light. Somehow, Brutus had pulled himself to his feet. He leaned against the fence, hunched over, unable to stand straight. Barcode doubted the fucker’d be able to stand straight for weeks.

  “I ain’t killin’ no one. That’s up to TM, not me.”

  “You sure, BC?” Lil’ Aran asked, still looking up, blinking the rain out of his eyes. “I’ll back yo’ action.”

  “Thanks, cuz, but I’m sure. Way I see it, TM’s gonna send a posse of Goons to Brutus’ crib. If he there, they likely do the job for me. If he gone, no problemo. He’ll turn up soon enough. My job’s to push the product and take care o’ business. Not my place to dish out punishment without orders. Me? I’m just a foot soldier, innit.”

  For now.

  Chapter 2

  Friday 17th February – Late Afternoon

  Walthamstow, NE London

  Lara Orchard hugged Ryan Kaine’s arm as they strolled through the neighbourhood, taking their time, chatting about nothing in particular. Her warmth permeated the sleeve of his light jacket and all was good, at least for the moment.

  They picked their way along cracked pavements, dodging potholes, cracked paving slabs, and litter. Plastic wheelie bins with yellow, green, and brown lids, most full to overflowing, added extra obstructions to their progress.

  Little kids on bikes weaved between the parked cars, narrowly missing the few scurrying pedestrians. Low-quality graffiti daubed most of the vertical surfaces, many including the purple tag, PRT, inside the outline of a skull without a jawbone. No priceless Banksy’s on view in this place.

  Shame, but hardly surprising.

  Rubbish piled high in every open space. Mouthy kids smoked cigarettes and stared either blankly or threateningly—it was difficult to tell the difference when most had dead eyes.

  “Those lads remind me of the Elbow song,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Elbow, the group. They remind me of the Elbow song, Lippy Kids. I’ll play it for you sometime. You’ll love it.”

  Kaine blinked as a gust of freezing wind watered his eyes. “I’m not much into music these days, but I’ll give anything a listen.”

  They continued strolling, acting like a pair of tourists in no particular hurry, relaxed in each other’s company.

  Kaine took in the area with nothing more than a fleeting glance. For her part of the conversation, and mainly for show, Lara chatted away, describing what she saw in low tones. As the man, he did little more than grunt and add a few words in an effort to show her he was listening.

  Brooke Street ended at a T-junction with Green Lane, which was anything but green and looked nothing like a lane. They stopped and made a big show of checking their bearings. Terraced houses in an even worse state of disrepair, and separated by the occasional alleyway, stretched out on each arm of the “T”. In the distance, one of the rows ended in a small corner shop. How it stayed open and who it served in such an uninviting neighbourhood, Kaine couldn’t tell, but the light showing through the large window confirmed it did. They turned about-face and retraced their steps along Brooke Street.

  A disused and overgrown children’s playground took up a large corner plot, its equipment rusted, wooden slats broken, the grass overgrown with weeds, and the whole area strewn with drug paraphernalia.

  A slow, five hundred metres’ walk later, they reached what used to be Glenmore Davits’ house, number sixty. Darwin Moore owned it now, having inherited from his grandfather weeks earlier.

  End of terrace, pitched roof, two storeys with an attached single garage. Postage stamp front garden, untended. The garage had a black up-and-over door. It was pitted with rust, dented from previous attacks, and smeared with the same PRT tags of ownership. The front door wore a similar spray job. It bore cracked and filthy window lights and a bruised and battered lower panel, which looked as though it had been kicked in and repaired more than once.

  A concrete wheelchair ramp, complete with dull metal railing, formed a five-metre bridge leading from a modified front porch to the raised pavement. An addition paid for by the local council, according to their detailed research.

  Lara brushed a strand of windblown auburn hair from her face. Her makeup, skilfully applied to mask rather than enhance her youth and beauty, added a decade to her age, and covered the healthy-looking and natural suntan in a pale foundation.

  They crossed to the other side of the street and strolled past a front garden filled with black plastic bin liners, many overstuffed and bursting. One of the bags moved. A rat the size of a sausage dog broke into the open, sniffed the air, and scurried into a discarded pizza box.

  How appetising.

  “Remind me why we didn’t simply drive past and scope the place out.”

  Kaine smiled. She knew exactly why a drive by wouldn’t work, but he answered anyway, maintaining the pretence of a gentle conversation.

  “A strange car driving slowly though these streets would stand out like a frogman at a banquet. We’d draw too much attention. As it is, we’re hardly inconspicuous. Now, tell me what you’re thinking.”

  She paused before responding.

  “I’ve a feeling young Darwin Moore is struggling and really does need our help.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I didn’t see a ‘For Sale’ sign outside number sixty. Why would anyone actually choose to live in a dump like this?” she asked.

  Kaine shrugged. “Who knows. Maybe the neighbours are nice. Sense of community. Memories. Whatever. It’s not our job to force people to do anything they don’t want to. Okay, let’s get a chivvy on. We need to find somewhere local to stay overnight.”

  Somewhere clean and warm, for preference.

  They increased their pace slightly, reached the end of the street, and turned left along Baker Rise, heading towards the main shopping area on the High Street about half a mile away.

  A right turn took them onto Lower Street and past Denny’s Grill, a greasy spoon that offered all-day breakfasts and emitted an enticing aroma of grilled bacon, fried eggs, and chips.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  She shrugged, said, “Not really, but I could force down a cuppa,�
�� and dragged him into the welcoming warmth and humidity of the near-empty café.

  They found the most secluded table in the corner and didn’t have to wait long to attract the attention of the big man standing behind the serving counter. Close-cropped grey hair, clean shaven, over six foot tall, the man had a barrel chest, thick arms, and was a lot thicker around the waist. He wore a surprisingly clean blue-and-white striped apron and greeted them with a welcoming smile.

  “We dinnae do table service here, mates,” he said in a strong Scottish accent, his voice deep and loud, but friendly. “Come and order and I’ll gi’ ye a shout when it’s ready.”

  Kaine helped Lara sit—braving her ire at his old-school manners—and leaned close. “Fancy a Full English?”

  “After that huge breakfast on the ferry, are you serious? I’ll have a pot of tea and a scone, thanks. Butter, but no jam.”

  Still close, and speaking quietly, he said, “Lesson number seventy-one for today, my student. In the field, you never know when your next meal will present itself. Take advantage of any opportunity to refuel.”

  Lara sighed, slipped out of her coat, folded it neatly, and draped it over the back of a nearby plastic chair. “We’re in London, not the Hindu Kush or the Kalahari Desert. Tea and a scone will do perfectly well, thank you, William.”

  He winked, sidestepped between two closely spaced tables, and headed towards the serving counter. As he arrived, Kaine unbuttoned his coat.

  The Scotsman nodded and waited for Kaine to read the menu. No surprises. The standard offerings for a low-rent café. Apart from the ubiquitous breakfast, Denny’s provided sausages, battered cod, burgers, bacon—all served with chips, peas, and curry sauce—and an assortment of filled sandwiches. A menu sadly absent near their safe house in France.

  Kaine returned the nod and tried a smile. “Are you Denny?”