Back then, it had all seemed enough.
His phone started to vibrate. He lifted it from his pocket and looked at the screen. It was Stewart. Hanley decided not to answer. What was he going to say to the man? It had crossed his mind that the whole thing was a set-up, some sort of play being acted out, so as to cheat him out of the money. But the guns and the blood had seemed real. The fear and the anger had seemed real. Not just special effects, but blood and smoke and the flash from the two guns. And such loud bangs. Three of them. He’d run to his car, hitting another vehicle as he reversed at speed. He had fled the scene of a crime, the scene of a murder. Him: Councillor Andrew Hanley. Head of Planning. And now this…
No, he would not answer his phone. He would not speak to Stewart Renshaw. He would drink his whisky and stare at the wall. Then his wife called to him from the bottom of the stairs.
‘Andrew?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Andrew?’
But then that might make her suspicious.
‘Andrew?’
‘What is it?’
‘Your shoes.’ Yes, his shoes, he had left them just inside the front door. It was one of Lorna’s rules, no shoes in the house.
‘What about them?’
‘Did you step in something? Some red stuff?’
Red stuff! Yes, red stuff! Blood, blood, blood!
‘It’s paint,’ he called out to her. ‘That’s all, just some paint.’
‘Shall I try cleaning it off?’
‘No, I’ll do it. I’ll do it later.’
There was silence from downstairs. Then: ‘Do you want any supper?’
‘I just want to be left alone! Is that too much to ask?’
This time, the silence had no end. Hanley tried to lift the remains of the whisky to his mouth, but his hand was shaking too much.
Chapter Six. Don Empson is Still Hunting
Sam was driving. Eddie was in the seat next to him. Don sat in the back, not saying much. He had explained that he wanted to visit Raymond’s garage. Well, not visit it exactly, just cruise past it. As they turned into the narrow back street, Eddie cleared his throat and said a single word.
‘Cops.’
Three patrol cars had formed a roadblock. Tape was being strung between lamp posts. A couple of white vans were parked, a team emerging from them. They wore overalls and carried face masks. The forensics crew. A uniformed cop was making signals with his hand. Sam nodded and did a U-turn.
‘What do you want to do?’ he asked.
‘Let’s check some of the other streets,’ Don told him.
‘What happened at Raymond’s?’ Eddie asked.
‘Somebody shot him,’ Don explained. Eddie whistled but didn’t say anything. Sam met Don’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, but didn’t say anything either. They drove in silence, cruising up one street and down another. Workshops and offices, then some tenements with shops below. There was no one about, but Don knew that soon the police would be knocking on doors, armed with their questions. Shots had been heard. Someone had rung 999. He remembered that he had another piece of business. The middle of the night might be a good time for it. But first, he had to keep his eyes open. He was looking for a car, a green sports car. Benjy’s car. And eventually he saw it. It was parked two streets away from the garage. There was a half-filled skip next to it. He managed not to look too interested. He didn’t want Sam and Eddie knowing more than they needed to know.
Benjy’s plan: grab the money and run back to the car.
Benjy’s plan hadn’t worked out.
Don knew that the police would spot the car eventually. Or someone would draw it to their attention. After which they could run a quick check and come up with the name Benjamin Flowers. They would ask Benjy’s mother, Don’s sister, what Benjy did for a living, and she would tell them. He works for Stewart Renshaw. Stewart, brother of George. And then George would know, and he would blame it all on Don. Giving Benjy a job had been a favour to Don. Someone would have to pay for that.
Don would have to pay.
He had gone through a whole range of emotions. Anger at Benjy, then sadness, and finally acceptance. Stuff happened, you just had to deal with it as best you could. But right now, he didn’t know what would count as best.
As Sam took a right turn, Don leaned forward and told him there was a new destination, Merchant Crescent.
‘I’m going to have a word with someone,’ he added. ‘Guess what her name is.’
Sam was the first to twig. ‘Celine Watts?’
‘Got it in one.’
‘Are we going to whack her?’ Eddie asked.
‘Would that be wise?’ Don snapped back. ‘And besides, you are going nowhere near her. Like I said, I’m going to have a quiet word, that’s all. See if I can persuade her to change her story.’
Sam was looking at him in the mirror again. ‘Thanks, Mr Empson,’ he said.
‘The one you should be thanking is Gorgeous George.’
Sam nodded slowly. He knew the score. The pair of them had been spotted in a car park next to woodland on the edge of the city. There had been another man in the car with them and he’d been crying, according to the witness. The witness was Celine Watts. The crying man was a small-time pusher who’d been warned before. His body had been found in the woods, in too shallow a grave.
Leaving Gorgeous George three options. Option one, hang Sam and Eddie out to dry. Option two, get them off the hook. Option three, bump them off.
So far, it had been option two.
The streets were quiet. It only took them half an hour. Eddie stopped the car next to the kerb and Don started to get out.
‘Do you need us?’ Eddie asked.
‘Not on your life.’ Don pulled on a pair of black leather gloves and walked up the path. When he got to the front door, he noticed that it was open a couple of inches. There were lights on inside. He pushed at the door and stepped into the narrow hallway. The first door led to the living room. Music was playing, and he could smell smoke. A woman was lying on the sofa, her feet bare. She was moving her toes in time to the music. There was an empty bottle of lemonade on the floor, next to a bottle of vodka. She was flicking ash from her cigarette into the palm of her hand.
She was not Celine Watts.
‘You’re not Celine,’ he said.
She showed no surprise at his arrival. Her eyes were glassy. She blew some smoke towards him.
‘Her cousin,’ she explained. ‘Sofa’s supposed to be where she sleeps.’ There was a sleeping bag rolled up under the woman’s head. ‘Only she’s done a runner. Left the front door wide open and everything. Lucky nobody nicked my stereo.’
‘Maybe she’s with the police,’ Don said.
‘Are you not the police?’ She watched him shake his head, then concentrated on her cigarette again. ‘Neighbour saw her driving away in a flash car. A black, shiny car. Looked official.’
‘What did the driver look like?’
The woman shrugged. Don’s BMW, the one Benjy had taken, was black. And some people would call it flash. It was a 7 Series.
And this address was in the glove box.
Had Benjy come here to warn Celine Watts? Unlikely, the state he’d have been in. And anyway, the kids on the street had told him it was the guy called Gravy. Gravy, panicking at the sight of Benjy covered in blood. Gravy, finding the address and assuming it to be a safe house of sorts. Finding Celine Watts instead.