“Actuator. Yeah, you’re right.”
“Hold on, then.”
I’d spotted a group of young kids kicking a ball about on the grass near the toilets. They looked as though they’d been left to amuse themselves while their parents stocked up on dog chews and cushion covers.
When I got closer to them, the ball rolled conveniently towards me. I picked it up, as if to throw it back to the kids. It was a nice intact rubber ball, about the size of a tennis ball, with plenty of spring in it.
“Here, kids. I want to buy this off you.”
The lads stared at me like I was Ian Brady and Myra Hindley combined. This was Suspicion Corner — and no wonder. I’d have to make this a quick transaction, or I’d be lynched by a posse of angry mums and dads in a minute. A strange bloke chatting to someone else’s kids? I felt as though I was taking the biggest risk of my life, bar none.
“Whose ball is it?”
“Mine.”
One kid put his hand out tentatively for the ball. I pulled a fiver from the back pocket roll and shoved it in his hand instead. That act alone was probably enough to get me permanently on the paedophile register and hounded out of town.
“Buy yourselves a proper football. There’s a stall over there.”
“Yeah!” said one of his mates, and the kid grabbed the note. They all ran off, leaving me safe with my rubber ball.
“Here, Slow. You don’t know what I put myself through for you.”
Slow Kid took out his knife. It was nice and sharp, and it sliced easily into the ball, opening a small hole. He shoved the knife in his pocket and approached the driver’s door of the blue saloon. I leaned against the windscreen as if admiring the view, shielding him as best I could with my body. It didn’t take more than a few seconds. Slow placed the ball over the lock and smacked down on it hard, so that it squashed flat. The hole pushed air into the lock, and the button inside clicked up. Slow Kid got in the car.
“I don’t suppose you’ve any pliers either,” I said. “Do you want me to go and get some from that hardware stall?”
“Nah. I can manage this bit.”
He’d hardly got the words out before the wires connected and the car’s engine burst into life. Slow gave me a grin.
“Okay, off you go. I’ll see you at the workshop.”
The blue saloon pulled away across the grass towards the exit. I walked to my Impreza and followed him. I looked round, but could see no sign of Rawlings and Lee. Pity. I would have liked to see their faces when they found out their nice car had just been nicked.
20
“Come on, love, you can do this for me.”
“No.”
“Just one little favour.”
“No again. You’ve already had your one little favour for this century.”
My car smelled nice when Teri was in it. Eddie Craig was right about one thing — I do have a friend in the police, sort of. Sometimes I thought I could forget Teri was a cop and start chatting her up seriously again. But then I’d hear some faint noise, like the rattling of her handcuffs, or maybe some echo from the past, and I’d think better of it.
“Teri, love—”
“No.”
“This is mutual interest. It’s a number you might be interested in as well.”
“Oh?”
Notice that when women say ‘no’, they still carry on listening, just in case you say something more persuasive? Teri has that down to a fine art.
“You remember a little surveillance operation that went wrong? A certain delivery? Wouldn’t you like to trace the top bloke involved?”
“Straight up, Stones?”
“Would I lie?”
“Yes.”
“Trust me, I’ve seen a doctor.”
Teri took another look round the garden centre car park. It looked innocent enough to reassure her. I could have told her about Trevor watching us at our last meeting, but that would have destroyed her illusions.
“This is his car, the number you’ve got?”
“His, or close.”
“Not good enough.”
“It’s the best I can manage, love.”
“If I do this, will you pass on any other information you get hold of?”
“Do you take me for a nark?”
“Mutual interest, remember?”
“I’ll help you all I can in this case. But there’s something I have to do for myself first.”
“Give me the number.”
“You’re a darling. We must meet up again some time when you’re out of uniform, so to speak.”
“You’ve got to be joking, McClure. I wouldn’t touch you with my baton. Not any more.”
“There’s not much in it,” said Slow Kid. “But it’s a nice motor. I can find a buyer for this, no problem.”
“Hold on, hold on. Let’s have a look.”
The blue saloon was in Metal’s workshop, and the two of them had already been through it by the time I got there. They’re used to working fast.
“Some crappy tapes, look. A couple of coats and hats — large ones.”
“No car phone,” said Metal. “That’s a pity.”
“They probably had a mobile with them.”
“Radio’s all right, though. It’s a Blaupunkt. CD deck too. You want me to whip that out, Stones?”
“Later, later.”
“Handbook and service book in the door compartment,” said Slow. “It’s been serviced properly. A main dealer in Mansfield.”
“Yeah?”
“Tax is up to date too.”
“These tyres are worth a fortune, Stones.”
“Leave them on, Metal.”
“Some road maps on the floor, and a few bottles of Budweiser on the back seat. And somebody left their shades on the dash.”
“Look at this engine,” said Metal, yanking up the bonnet. “Clean as a whistle. Two-litre job, and only twenty thousand miles on the clock. We could turn that back a bit if you want, and it’ll pass for practically new.”
“Is it a nicked motor, do you think?”
“I reckon not,” said Slow Kid. “No signs of it. Wires in the ignition are tidy. Plates haven’t been changed, so far as I can see.”
“Let’s hope so. What’s in the glove compartment?”
“It’s locked, Stones.”
“Yeah? So?”
“They’re tough locks on these jobs. We didn’t know if you wanted us to force it. It might bring down the value a bit, like.”
“Never mind that — get it open.”
Metal produced a slim jemmy and within a few seconds the glove compartment was hanging open. There was a dull glint of steel.
“Well, look at that.”
“Bleedin’ hell, this lot are serious, ain’t they?”
“Get rid of it, Slow,” I said.
“You mean...?”
“No, I don’t mean find a customer for it. Get rid of it. I don’t want guns hanging around.”
Slow Kid handed the gun to Metal, who dropped it into a plastic carrier bag. “It’s done, Stones.”
I poked about at the back of the glove compartment and pulled out a few bits of paper. Bassetlaw District Council car park tickets. A petrol receipt from an Elf station in Tuxford. It didn’t add up to much.
“Wipe it and dump it.”
“We not going to do business with it?” appealed Slow.
“We could flog it to that bloke who sends ’em to the States,” said Metal.
“No. Leave it somewhere obvious. I’m going to tell the police where to find it.”
“Like shit!”
“The cops?”
“I’m using it to bargain, lads.”
“Oh, right.”
“Right, right.”
“Have you ever heard about using a sprat to catch a mackerel?”
“Er, no.”
“No.”