He sometimes wondered if he was the only one who could see that this whole poverty thing was just a scam. They didn’t beg because they were desperate, living hand to mouth, as they would have people believe. They did it because it was such an easy way to make money.
He hated them; they were pathetic wannabes who spent their time wallowing in self-pity. They complained bitterly to anyone willing to listen that life had dealt them a bad hand, but what did they ever do to try and better themselves?
He finished his silent vitriol and glanced at the clock on the dash. Tracey obviously wasn’t in the graveyard; she could have serviced three customers in the time he had been waiting. He tried her mobile, but it was switched off. He considered leaving a voicemail telling her to call him back but didn’t trust himself not to rant. Winston was fast running out of ideas. As he pulled back into traffic, he decided to do one more circuit of the area and then call it a night.
Five minutes later, as Winston was about to make a right turn into Wheler Street from Quaker Street, the car in front of him suddenly stopped. He was about to pound his fist on the horn and shout at the driver, but then the passenger door opened and a peroxide blond head poked out. “Well, well, well, look who it ain't,” he said, reaching down to access the revolver in his pocket.
As the old Mercedes E Class drove away, Fat Sandra gave it a bon voyage wave, pulled a compact mirror from her purse and began fussing at her hair. Winston drove past her and pulled over to the kerb to let the car behind him get by. The black man in the Astra’s front passenger seat gave him a funny look. “Fuck you looking at?” he wondered aloud. Normally, he would have wound his window down and told the fool to avert his eyes if he wanted to keep them. Right now, he had more pressing matters on his mind.
Looking in his rear-view mirror, Winston watched Fat Sandra waddle back towards Quaker Street, presumably in search of a new punter. He waited until she took up her usual station outside the used car lot and then quickly drove around the block. Moments later, he drew level with her and honked his horn. Sandra turned around with all the elegance of a hippo in a tutu, expecting to see a customer. Her demeanour changed the moment she saw him, and he was pleased to see the smile on her chubby face replaced by an expression of deep-rooted fear.
◆◆◆
Paul Evans and Colin Franklin had driven around the same boring circuit, checking out the same boring streets, so many times in the last forty-five minutes that they had stopped paying attention. Convinced that Winston was long gone, Franklin decided that enough was enough. He wound his seat as far back as it would go and wriggled himself down until he was relatively comfortable. Clasping his hands behind his neck, he let out a long yawn and closed his eyes. “Wake me up when the boss calls it a night,” he told his driver, who was listening to a very boring discussion about international football on Talk Sport.
“Will do, mate,” Evans promised, smiling affectionately at his friend.
As they were just driving around aimlessly, killing time until Tyler decided to dismiss them, Evans decided to do the decent thing when he spotted a black car in a side road on his left waiting to be let out. He slowed and flashed the driver, who pulled out without bothering to acknowledge his kindness. “Ungrateful bastard,” Evans muttered, wishing he hadn’t bothered. It was only at this point that it registered with Evans that the car was a BMW. He felt his pulse quicken. “What’s the registration number of Winston’s car?” he asked.
Franklin opened puffy eyes and squinted at the clipboard resting on his lap. Fighting back a yawn, he recited the number he had written down in big bold letters.
“Blimey!” Evans exclaimed when the digits Colin read out matched those on the car directly in front of them. “Colin, be a good lad and get on the radio, would you. That’s our target in front of us.” He was so matter of fact about it that it took a second or two for Franklin to register what he’d said.
◆◆◆
Tyler could scarcely believe his ears when the ‘contact’ transmission was received inside the control car. To his great surprise – and even greater relief – Evans and Franklin had stumbled across Winston and were now following him along Commercial Street, where he seemed to be checking out every corner and recess he passed. Thankfully, despite his earlier use of anti-surveillance techniques, Winston now seemed completely oblivious to the Astra that was stalking him from a distance; a predator waiting for the rest of its pack to arrive before moving in for the kill.
The other cars had immediately hot-tailed it over and had taken up station around him.
“What do you think he’s up to?” Tyler’s asked. His brow was creased with thick worry lines.
“What do you mean?” Dillon asked.
“He was doing exactly the same thing the first time we saw him,” Jack explained. “It’s almost as though he’s searching for someone.”
Dillon shrugged. “He’s a pimp. Maybe he’s checking up on his girls to make sure they aren’t slacking.”
“Maybe,” Jack allowed, but something about that felt wrong.
“Maybe he’s just making his presence felt,” Bull offered. “Letting people on the street know he’s out there watching them in case anyone starts getting daft ideas about talking to us,”
“Makes sense,” Dillon agreed.
“What if...” Jack’s voice petered out as he searched for the right words. “Okay, how’s this for a theory: what would a man like Winston do if he suspected that someone knew he’d killed Tracey?”
“That’s easy,” Dillon said. “He’d hunt them down and do whatever
