‘We had a deal and you fucked us over.’
‘I didn’t…I wasn’t-’
Neil slaps him, hard across the face. ‘Where’s the money?’
Richard’s mouth tastes of blood, sweet against the bitter tang of vomit. ‘I don’t…I don’t have it. It-’
Another slap.
‘Bad time to get a sense of humour, Knoxy, WHERE’S THE FUCKING MONEY?’
Richard wraps his arms over his head. ‘I don’t have it! Mr Maitland made me split it between his kids before he died…’
This time it’s a punch, right in the stomach. ‘Where’s the money?’
He curls up in the bath, sobbing. ‘I don’t have it, I don’t have it…’
One in the kidneys. ‘Where’s the money?’
‘AAAAGH…
Then the door opens. ‘Hey, Sweethearts, how’s it going?’
Tony sighs. ‘Says he hasn’t got the cash any more. Mental Mikey willed it to his kids.’
‘That’s a bit of a pain.’ She squats by the side of the bath and looks into Richard’s tear-filled eyes. ‘I’m disappointed in you, Babe. We bought you all that lovely Rohypnol and you used it a day early to disappear on us. You promised to give us Danby — you didn’t. And now you don’t even have the money…You’re no use to me, Darling.’
She stands.
Neil: ‘What you want us to do with him?’
Not the gun again.
Tony: ‘Sell him.’
They all turn to look at the man sitting on the toilet. ‘Sorry, Sweetheart?’
‘Sell him. They’re all scrabbling to claim Mental Mikey’s empire back home, aren’t they? Cunningham, Dawson, that violent prick Smithy…Bet any of them would pay good money to get their hands on Knox. ‘Specially if we don’t tell them he’s not got Mikey’s cash any more.’
Oh God, no…Smithy’ll kill him. And not quickly, Richard knows, because he’s seen it.
Julie smiles. ‘Excellent idea. Might even give us a bit of leverage down south. Can’t do it direct though — too risky — but we could go through an intermediary. Someone local.’
‘What about that little weasel you’ve been getting info off?’
‘Who, Polmont?’ She shakes her head. ‘Silly bugger went and got himself killed, didn’t he, Babe? But I might know a man…’
She pulls out her phone and steps out of the bathroom, leaving him alone with Neil and Tony again.
Richard scrubs his hands across his damp, swollen face. ‘Please, you can’t-’
‘Wouldn’t fuckin’ like to be you.’ Neil throws a towel into the bath. ‘Dry yerself.’
‘I can get more money. I can-’
The slap sends him crashing against the black-and-silver tiles. ‘I said, dry yerself!’
Richard keeps his mouth shut and does what he’s told.
Tony sits there on the bog, watching him. ‘Not the luckiest, are you? No cash, no mates, no one to protect you…Know how long Danby held out, before he told us where you were? Five minutes.’
Neil curls his top lip. ‘Didn’t even have to show him the pliers, like.’
‘Can’t believe you thought he’d get you out of the country. How thick are you?’
Julie comes back in, snapping her phone shut. ‘All sorted. Shall we…?’
They drag him, limping, back through to the kitchen.
He stands there, both hands cupping his balls.
Bruce, Ellen, Matt, and Evans are down the other end, by the fridge, but the only ones who’ll look at him are Ellen and the old man. The other two’s eyes keep slipping away to the floor.
Julie smiles at them. ‘Here’s the deal: we’re going to sell Knox’s scrawny, trembling backside to some
No one says anything. Well, she’s got that gun, hasn’t she?
Richard sniffs. A tear falls to the tiles at his feet.
Ellen bends down, scoops up the quilt Granny Murray made and flings it at him. ‘Here, you can take your shit with you.’
Richard grabs it, bottom lip trembling, breathing in the smell of the old lady and her house. If they’re going to sell him to Cunningham or Smithy he’d be better off out in the garden with a bullet in his brain. At least that way it’d be quick.
He wraps himself in the quilt. And then Ellen snatches something off the working surface — a tatty Asda carrier bag. ‘All of it.’
Richard catches the bible before it hits him, clutches the crackly plastic to his chest, closes his eyes and thanks God.
Evans steps forward and dumps the old suitcase on the kitchen floor. ‘I didn’t want it to end like this, but you deserve whatever’s coming to you, Knox. I hope you rot in hell.’
Then Neil and Tony march Richard down the corridor, and back out into the snow. They plip open the locks on the big Range Rover, haul the boot open, and shove him inside. They’re back two minutes later with Danby, the bathrobe flapping open in the eddying snow.
After the warmth of the shower, Richard’s hands and feet throb with the cold. Probably got frostbite, or hypothermia, or something like that.
Tony throws the battered leather suitcase in on top of them. ‘Don’t go getting sexy with your roommate, OK?’ And then he slams the boot shut.
Danby still has that tartan thing over his head. His skin’s cold, pale, and pebbled, like a supermarket chicken; his hands cable-tied behind his back. They haven’t bothered to do that to Richard. Don’t think he’ll put up a fight. Don’t care if he sees their faces either. Because they know he won’t live long enough to tell anyone.
And he knows they’re right.
Richard sniffs, wiping a tear away with his sore hand.
The doors clunk open, then closed again. A big petrol roar as the engine fires up, and something cheery burbles from the radio, then fades out so a DJ can say,
Richard lies down on the plastic boot liner and wiggles in close behind Danby, pressing chest to back, legs to legs, then wraps an arm around his chest, holding him close. Sharing what little body warmth he has as the car lurches away into the snow.
Logan scrambled down from the Land Rover. Its blue-and-whites barely dented the blizzard, headlights reaching no more than a dozen feet in front of the bumpers.
The house was isolated, a long rectangle of freshly pointed granite with a slate roof. Old-fashioned six-pane windows — that probably cost a fortune to reproduce in double-glazed wood-effect UPVC — glowing pale gold.
He staggered over to the door, clasping his collar around his throat with one hand and tried the doorbell. Then hammered on the door as well. Too cold for dicking about.
PC Butler slithered to a halt beside him. She was dressed in the full Grampian Police outdoor-ninja ensemble: black trousers, black boots, black fleece poking out from under a black waterproof, fluorescent-yellow high-vis waistcoat with ‘POLICE’ across the back, and a black peaked cap jammed on her head. She’d even managed to scrounge up a pair of gloves from somewhere.
‘You want me to try round the back, Sarge?’
Logan nodded, then hammered on the door again as Butler disappeared from view.
It took nearly two minutes for someone to open the door, by which time Logan couldn’t feel his feet.
A woman stood in the doorway: short, heavy-set, bleary eyed. It was
