Howard Linskey
The Drop
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank the following for their faith and unflagging support during the writing of this book; Adam Pope, Andy Davis, Nikki Hurley and Gareth Chennells.
Sincere thanks to my publisher Ion Mills, at No Exit, for believing in
A very big thank you to my Literary Agent, Phil Patterson at Marjacq, for his sound advice, editorial assistance and general good company, all of which is very greatly appreciated by me. Thanks also to the incomparable Isabella Floris at Marjacq for her amazing efforts in foreign markets and also to Luke Speed and Jacqui Lyons. Thanks also to Simon Kernick for taking the trouble to read
Finally and most importantly a huge thank you to my loving wife, Alison, and beautiful daughter Erin for their amazing support and for putting up with me and all of this writing. This one is for you!
PROLOGUE
Look at her. Go on, look. Take a good, long look. Beautiful isn’t she; standing there by the swimming pool; five feet six inches of slim, tanned, hard-bodied, healthy young woman. I mean, what’s not to like about Laura?
Look at the way the water slides reluctantly from her hips as she climbs out of the water in that tiny black bikini. She turns and grabs the long, dark hair that trails down her back then squeezes the water out, before combing it back with her fingers, making it hang straight. Then she looks up and smiles at me. She’s got a good smile, warm and naughty and it’s making me wonder what my chances are of peeling that little black bikini off her just one last time before we have to fly home again.
She’s bright too, a lawyer and it’s always useful to know one of those, particularly in my profession. She knows what I do for a living, well mostly, and it doesn’t bother her. I mean, it’s not as if I’m a gangster exactly, not really. I don’t go telling her the details of my day but she knows I work for Bobby Mahoney, so it’s obvious I’m no chartered accountant.
We’ve been together more than two years now, and I am beginning to think she might be the one. We’d been bickering a bit lately, a lot actually if I’m honest, but I reckon we were just over the honeymoon period, that’s all. We’ve both been working hard and we needed a rest. This holiday could have been make-or-break but it’s been great; lots of late nights, long lie-ins, lounging by the swimming pool, then back to the hotel for some of that lovely, unhurried, afternoon sex you only ever seem to get when you’re on holiday. If only life was like this all the time.
And Laura is loyal, which helps. Loyalty is a rare and underestimated commodity these days. At least it is in my game. You want my opinion? You can’t put a price on loyalty. So I have landed on my feet with Laura, no one can dispute that. Even Bobby thinks she’s alright, for a posh bird.
ONE
Finney was there to meet us at the airport so I knew, as soon as I saw his pug-ugly, scarred face that it had all gone tits-up.
I spotted him easily. He towered over everyone else; the relieved parents collecting back-packing teenagers, the minicab drivers on autopilot, holding up their cardboard signs with the names of self-important businessmen hastily scrawled on them in biro. We were tired by now. The plane from Bangkok to Heathrow was bang on time but the connecting flight back to Newcastle arrived an hour late, which tells you everything you need to know about this country.
Laura hadn’t noticed Finney. She was too busy restoring her lifeline, as she called it, attempting to wrestle her mobile phone from her handbag while simultaneously dragging the smallest of our two cases, mine obviously, along behind her on its squeaky wheels. I could hear them squealing in protest with every step, because they were full of handcrafted, wooden nick-nacks she’d insisted on buying but had no room for in her own case. That was full to bursting with the clothes she’d packed in Newcastle but hadn’t worn on the holiday because they were too bulky for the heat. ‘Why do you need three different dresses for every day we are out there?’ I’d asked her before we left, as I sat on her case and tried to flatten it. Now, I was dragging Laura’s case behind me, feeling no happier for being right.
Ten days later, we were back in Newcastle and the look on Finney’s face told me. I was in trouble.
There was no greeting, no small talk from the big man, all I wanted to know was why he was standing there, his huge frame dwarfing those flimsy, metal barriers at the arrivals gate, gnarled fists bunched like he was about to start a fight.
‘What?’ I asked him simply.
‘Bobby needs a word Davey,’ he said in that unmistakeably nasally Geordie voice of his, which had been caused by the iron bar that broke his nose years ago. I was reliably informed that it was the last thing the guy with the iron bar ever did.
‘Now?’ And he just nodded.
‘What is it?’
He looked over at Laura, who was still a few yards behind me but preoccupied by voicemails from her girly mates and her bloody mum.
‘It’s the Drop,’ he said and I immediately thought, oh shit.
Laura didn’t take the news well. ‘He needs to see you now?’ she asked, as if I’d been called in at late notice for a shelf-stacking shift at the Co-Op. ‘Christ David.’
I realised she was jetlagged but then so was I, and I could have done without the grief, because she was embarrassing me a little in front of Finney. I might have been a new man compared to most of our mob but, if she
