“I’m not a usual suspect, Stones. Not for drugs, I’m not.”
“I know, I know.”
On the telly, some comedian I vaguely recognised was mouthing inanities at a middle-aged woman contestant, who rolled about in hysterics. Even with the sound turned down, I could tell that his jokes weren’t funny. You only had to look at his eyes. Deep down, he was the most embarrassed bloke I’d ever seen.
“Did you pick anything up about this load, Slow? A where, a when, or a what? Did they let anything slip?”
“It was around this area, that’s all I got. They asked me about people I know.”
Slow hesitated, looking at me sideways around his bottle. I always tell people not to deny they know me. There’s no point in lying when the cops know perfectly well it’s a fib.
“They asked about me?”
“Yeah, they did. But they can’t think you’re dealing, can they? You’ve never done that, Stones.”
“No.”
This made me a bit thoughtful, though. It’s too easy to fit somebody up for a drugs bust. All it needs is a few grams picked up in one place and then ‘found’ again in another. There’s quite a few of the plods down the local nick that don’t like me over much, let alone the top boys at Sherwood Lodge. Moxon, though? I doubted it. It’s not his style. In fact, it’s probably against his upbringing. But if he wasn’t in charge of this business, I’d have to watch my back.
“When they took you in, Slow, did they search the house?”
“No. They didn’t have a whatsit, a warrant, and I think my mum scared ’em off.”
“Have a quick look round anyway, whatever rooms they went in.”
“Do you think it looks bad, Stones?”
“Maybe.”
Slow Kid thought about it, staring at a minor soap star giggling and shaking her tits on the screen.
“How was business while I’ve been away then?”
“Not good, Slow, not good. But I’ll tell you about it later. Right now, I’ve got another job to do.”
He looked hopeful. “Anything you need me for?”
“No thanks. This is something I’ve got to sort out myself.”
It was nearly half past five already. The TV game show was finishing, and I’d just made a big decision. Cue hysterical applause.
“Metal, you pillock, what do you mean — you’ve still got it?”
Metal Jacket shrugged and waved his hands in the air.
“I couldn’t think what to do with it, Stones. I mean, how do you get rid of a cop car?”
“Metal, you’re making me mad.”
“Sorry.”
I had to think. The last thing I needed was a hot pig-mobile sitting round in a workshop that I could be connected to. Not with Slow only just back from a cell. For all I knew, Moxon and his crew could be on their way here now with a search warrant. And today even my own uncle was threatening to shop me. I didn’t like the signs. They all pointed downwards, into the brown stuff.
“Get some plates on it,” I said.
“What?”
“Plates. Any plates. And is that wreck over there driveable?”
“Yeah, sure. You want it?”
“I don’t want it, Metal. We’re going to use it to get you and me out of this mess, right?”
“Okay, Stones.”
Metal looked relieved. He may be good at nicking motors, but when it comes to using his brain for anything else, he was happier taking orders.
“You’re going to drive the Citroen,” I said. “Dave and me will be in front of you in the Morris. If you get pulled in, you don’t know us, and we don’t know nothing. Right?”
“Right.”
“You drive normally, you don’t break the speed limit. Don’t do anything that will give ’em an excuse to stop you.”
“Right.”
“Get in the car, then.”
“Right. Er, Stones—”
“Yeah?”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see when we get there. And bring some wellies.”
In the south and east of the county there are lots of disused gravel pits. They’re deep, these things, and after they’re abandoned they fill up with water. One of the biggest, Attenborough, has been made into a nature reserve. Really, you’d never know what it was.
I know a couple of flooded quarries that nobody has bothered with for a long time. There are signs to point out how stupid it is to go swimming in freezing cold water thirty feet deep with only gravel to get a grip on, but that’s about all. People do need telling these things, but there aren’t many of them who go out that way, stupid or not. Except us, occasionally.
By now it was getting dark. I drove up the track first in the Morris with Dave, and Metal came up a bit behind us, his headlights bouncing all over the place in my rearview mirror. The Traveller was struggling, but the Citroen didn’t do too badly up the track. That’s the point of these hydraulic suspensions — you get a better ride.
I parked near a gap in the fence, and we manoeuvred the Citroen through to the concrete apron on the edge of the quarry. When I switched on my torch, Dave gazed down at the green water far below and started to look dizzy. I pulled him back from the edge.
“Careful. We need you to help push.”
“It’s a long way down.”
“Yeah. We could make a really big splash here.”
“I don’t like it out here, Stones,” said Metal, coming out of the Citroen. “It’s a bit spooky.”
“Spooky? There ain’t no spooks here, Metal. Other than the ones haunting that chuffin’ car.”
Metal eased the Citroen up to the edge, looking a bit nervous, maybe wondering whether we’d tell him to stop in time before his front wheels went over. I was annoyed with him, but not that annoyed.
“Right, take the handbrake off. Have you got your wellies?”
“I dunno what I need these for,” he moaned as he swapped them for his trainers. “I’m not going in the water, am I? I feel a real yokel.”
“Just get on with it, Metal.”
We whipped the plates off and began to push. The concrete apron was pretty level, and the three of us soon got the car moving. Dave could have done it on his own. In a moment or two the front wheels slipped over the edge and the underside of the Citroen hit the concrete with a bang. Now the pushing was harder. The horrendous scraping of the metal against the apron sounded much too loud in the night air. But then the car reached its point of balance and started to tip. We gave one last heave and it lurched suddenly.
So we all backed off quickly and watched as the back end of the Citroen reared into the air and disappeared. It seemed an age before there was a huge splash, and waves of spray flew over the edge, sloshing around our feet. Now Metal knew why he needed the wellies. The algae in that water was sheer poison. It would have ruined his Reeboks.
I shone my torch over the edge. The boot and rear window of the Citroen were just visible above the surface. The car bobbed and settled, sinking a bit lower with each movement. The splash had stirred up all sorts of silt and rubbish that swirled around it like a shoal of piranha fish in a feeding frenzy.
Finally, water filled the passenger compartment and forced out a spurt of bubbles. The bumper of the Citroen was the last thing to sink out of sight, cocking itself in the air like the arse of a Parisian tart.
That’s so typical of the French — arrogant to the last.
14
Next morning, Lisa was tapping her foot on the station forecourt when I arrived, her bags at her feet and a scowl on her face. I jumped out and put her luggage in the boot like some bleedin’ chauffeur. I didn’t even get a peck on the cheek. See how I’m treated?
“Sorry I’m a bit late, sweetheart.”
“Oh?”