‘ Only ‘cos I saw you. You always have that effect on me.’
‘ The look was there before you clocked me. I just made it worse. So, go on, what are you doing in here, Baz, ole buddy? It’s not your local.’
Benstead shrugged. He measured up his chance of escape. All he needed was about ten seconds — or less — out of sight of Henry and his sidekick. Long enough to dump the boiling hot goods Trent had sold him.
Now?115 richer, there was hardly any space in Trent’s pockets to squeeze in more cash. He had amassed over a thousand pounds and some loose change. Enough to see him over the next couple of weeks… and yet he wanted more money, here and now.
He walked towards Talbot Square where the Royal Bank of Scotland was situated. He was eager to withdraw as much money as possible from the account belonging to the dead ambulance-driver. To bleed it dry, like he had done to the man himself. He decided to try the cash machine again, firstly to see if the account was still operating and secondly if he could get any more cash out of it.
If the answer to both was no, he would find Benstead again and throw in the card for an extra?30.
Trent spent a couple of minutes checking the streets for lurking cops and fine-tuning the radio scanner he’d bought earlier from a high-street electrical retailer. It was tuned into the local police frequency. He inserted the earpiece and set the volume.
When he was satisfied, he crossed to the cash machine and slid the card into the slot.
He tapped in the well-remembered PIN code.
Benstead was a small man and could move quickly if he wanted to. Especially if the element of surprise was on his side.
Henry Christie, having shown disdain for Benstead and his threats, had allowed himself to drop his guard. He sat back and took a sip of the alcohol-free lager.
Danny took a long deep drag of her cigarette.
Without warning, Benstead reached for his empty pint glass. He took hold of it around the brim, twisted round and smashed the base of the glass across the side of Henry’s head.
Henry screamed, more with surprise than pain as the bottom edge of the glass connected with an old wound on his temple, sustained in a car crash three years earlier. The skin split immediately, blood poured out. His hands went to the side of his head.
Fortunately, the glass did not break.
Benstead dropped it, lurched forwards from his seated position before Danny could react. He charged towards her, ramming his shoulder into her lower abdomen, bowling her back over a table. He then ran for the rear door of the pub.
Danny landed hard, legs akimbo, displaying her underwear. Her drink spilled all over her and the cigarette disappeared somewhere across the room.
Henry Christie had learned a lot of hard lessons in his time as a cop. One was that some of the things you expect to hurt badly are never quite as bad as imagined. Agreed, the crack on the head hurt, and the sight of pouring blood, especially your own, was frightening. But when it was all put into perspective, it wasn’t as bad as being shot or knifed or having a broken glass screwed into your face. All that had happened was that a pathetic punk had given him a whack.
As soon as his brain assimilated this — within a split second — Henry was up and after Benstead, angry at having been caught off guard. He dived across the room at the fleeing felon and brought the little man crashing face-down into the liquor-stained carpet.
Benstead tried desperately to disentangle himself, scrambling, kicking wildly, with Henry holding on for dear life.
‘ Get off me, you fucking bastard!’ Benstead screamed, squirming round and beginning to rain punches down on Henry’s head. The DI tucked himself in and dung on tight, inching himself up Benstead’s body as they rolled around on the floor.
Danny recovered quickly.
When she saw the two men fighting, she looked out for the opening which would let her in to assist her boss. It came when the two men separated briefly, Benstead on his back. She stepped astride him and dropped heavily across his chest, pinning his arms to the floor with her knees. Her skirt rode high up on her thighs.
From that position she curled her right hand into a tight fist, deliberately drew back her arm, ensured Benstead saw what was coming and — with a great deal of satisfaction — smashed the fist into the side of his face.
All the fight drained out of him.
His face started to swell within seconds of the blow, a huge red mound surrounding his left eye, which began to close and weep.
‘ Twat!’ he hissed.
‘ You got it, pal,’ she panted.
Henry let go of Benstead’s legs and stood up shakily. He had an urge to kick the little bastard in the ribs, but the eyes of too many witnesses prevented him.
He picked up a beer mat and held it against the cut on his head.
‘ Turn him onto his front,’ he told Danny.
She raised a leg and they both heaved Benstead over onto his chest. Danny pulled his hands back and cuffed him with Henry’s handcuffs. Tightly.
‘ Here.’ Henry looked round to see Fat Tommy, the barman, holding out a bundle of something towards him. It was a bar-cloth. ‘For your head. It’s clean, don’t worry.’
The detective smiled. ‘Thanks, Tom. I didn’t know you cared.’
‘ I don’t. I just don’t want a copper’s blood all over my carpets.’
Henry dropped the beer mat and pressed the cloth onto his injury. The wound had been cracked open a few times since it had happened. One day, Henry thought, it would need a skin graft to close it, not stitches.
‘ Now then,’ Danny said into Benstead’s grubby ear. ‘Let’s see what all this was about.’ She patted him down, went through his pockets. She pulled out the roll of banknotes and handed it to Henry. Conservative estimate, two grand. Then she found the bag.
Benstead moaned.
She stood up and peered into it. Her mouth popped open when she carefully withdrew the driving licence and read the name on it. She held it so Henry could see.
He raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Oh.’ To Benstead he said, ‘Mate — you are under arrest.’
Any further conversation was halted when an urgent message came over the PR in Henry’s pocket.
‘ All patrols, all patrols, make to the vicinity of Talbot Square, Royal Bank of Scotland… believed escaped prisoner Louis Vernon Trent has just attempted to use the cash machine there. I repeat…’
Henry and Danny looked at each other, then down at their prisoner. Henry made the decision.
‘ You go. I’ll stay and sort out Bollock Brain here.’
Even before he had finished speaking, Danny was out of the door.
Henry turned to Fat Tommy. ‘How about a double whisky?’
The account belonging to the dead ambulanceman was still operating, but because Trent had withdrawn the maximum allowed for the day he was unable to steal any more money from it. He took the opportunity to confirm the present balance — ?700. A nice, tidy sum of money which he hoped would be in his hands after midnight.
At the end of the transaction, the machine slid the card back out and Trent reclaimed it.
Feeling pretty buoyant, he strolled to the top of Clifton Street where it joined Abingdon Street. To his right, on Church Street, was the entrance to the Winter Gardens complex. A long queue of people were lined up patiently at the box office, buying tickets for that night’s performance by a well-known TV comedian. He was doing a six- week stint of ‘saucy’ material and songs.
Trent had a sudden fancy to see him. He turned towards the Winter Gardens at the moment the scanner in his pocket picked up the police radio transmission and passed it to the earpiece.
Trent cursed his own foolishness and greed. He should have known the cops would have alerted the bank,
