‘So what happened?’
‘It’s the same sad and simple story. He started small, he mostly lost but he had a few wins. The wins just made him feel like he should have had a bit extra on the horses that came in. So he started betting more, only he wasn’t very lucky.’
‘How much was he in for?’
‘He’s been losing twenty or thirty grand a year for a good while now.’
‘Shit – and he isn’t our biggest earner.’ I was taken aback that I didn’t realise one of our main men was pissing his earnings away like that down at the bookies, ‘it would explain the shit hole he lives in,’ I was annoyed at myself. I should have known. I should have been to his house before and checked him out. Here was a guy handling large amounts of the firm’s money and he was blowing thirty large a year on horses and football matches and I knew nothing about it.
‘Yeah,’ he said hesitantly, like he didn’t really want to go on, ‘but he could just about cover that. I mean you know what we’ve always been like; money’s easy come, easy go in our game. You can bury that sort of thing in accounts without the wife knowing. I mean we are not exactly PAYE are we.’
‘No, we’re not. So what happened?’
‘Spread betting happened. It was new, not so long back. If you did well you could make big money in minutes but if you fucked it up or you’re just plain unlucky then you can be thousands down before you know what’s hit you.’
‘I wouldn’t go near it myself. People betting fortunes on the number of throw-ins in the first half of a game.’
‘Yeah, well he lost alright and he lost pretty big; have-to-tell-the-wife-before-you-lose-your-house big.’
‘How much?’
‘Sixty.’
‘Sixty grand. Shit.’
‘That’s not all. He met some geezer down the pub who does spread betting on shares so then he got into that, trying to recoup his losses. He was putting a thousand pounds a point down, so if the share price went up a penny he was quids in and they did go up at first…’
‘Then it all went pear shaped. How much was he down when he finished?’ I asked.
‘Two hundred and thirty grand.’
‘Fucking hell,’
‘Yeah, cleaned him out mate. All the savings, everything he’d put away for that retirement pad in Spain. He had to take a second mortgage which he couldn’t afford.’
‘So he was fucked,’ I said, ‘unless he could find some money from somewhere and the only easy money going was the Drop – and with me on holiday he had his chance, didn’t he? To do one with the money.’
‘You’re putting two and two together and making five. I still don’t buy that. He wouldn’t just fuck off and leave Mandy. He’s hopeless without her, like a little kid,’ he shook his head for emphasis, ‘they’ve got a boy, he’s grown up now, but he’s not going to abandon his family is he? He’s not leaving her with all that debt and no house. Come on.’
‘Maybe you’re right but something’s happened. Perhaps Geordie Cartwright didn’t leave his clothes on the beach, but people do. Every day, people you wouldn’t expect just walk out of the door and never come back, leaving their family wondering what’s happened.’
The table rocked then, as a young lad who’d had one too many climbed out of the seat next to us and blundered into it on his way to the bog. A little of my beer got spilt and Miller’s coke would have been upended if he hadn’t deftly snaked out a hand and caught the glass before it toppled over. The young lad wasn’t a bit apologetic. Miller’s placid countenance didn’t alter much but I could see a change come over him. His brow furrowed into a frown as his eyes locked onto the offending teenager, ‘steady son,’ was all he said. He said it softly but his confident gaze was enough to wipe the smile straight off the youngster’s face. The lad was probably expecting to see fear in Miller’s eyes, not the self assurance of a man who had held his own around villains for thirty years.
‘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.
NINE
