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.
Gravy, with Don’s car. With Celine Watts. With Stewart’s money.
‘Where would she go?’ he asked the cousin. Her eyelids were drooping.
‘Far away from here, if she’s got any sense.’
Don knew he would have to call his pal at the cop shop again and ask him to widen the search. ‘Did she take all her stuff?’ he asked the cousin. She shook her head.
‘Didn’t take anything. Her bag, purse, phone, toothbrush, they’re all still here. This is even her vodka I’m drinking.’ As she reached down for her glass, the little collection of cigarette ash fell from her hand.
‘Cheers,’ she said. Then she lost her balance, rolled off the sofa and landed on the floor, laughing. Don ignored her and opened the shoulder bag on the coffee table. Celine Watts’ purse was inside, along with aspirin and paper hankies and a phone. Why hadn’t she taken anything? Because she’d been scared. And besides, she had everything she needed in the car . . . a driver, and a small mountain of cash.
The cousin was still chuckling quietly to herself, eyes closed. He knew that if he beat her up, it would send a message to Celine Watts. The sort of message Gorgeous George would thank him for.
All the same, Don didn’t have the heart for it. He pocketed Celine’s purse and phone and walked back to the waiting car.
Chapter Seven
The Detective
Jane Harris had been a detective inspector for all of three weeks, and here she was standing in a garage with pools of blood at her feet.
Pools plural.
The cold, dead victim was called Raymond Masters. It was his garage. He cleaned cars for a living, or had done until about four hours ago. That was how long it had taken them to locate the source of the gunshots. A gun had been found in the dead man’s hand, and it had been fired. It wasn’t suicide, though. Two shots had been fired by Masters. One bullet had already been located, stuck in the wall to the left-hand side of the doors. One had done some damage to another human, if the bloodstains were
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.
Gravy, with Don’s car. With Celine Watts. With Stewart’s money.
‘Where would she go?’ he asked the cousin. Her eyelids were drooping.
‘Far away from here, if she’s got any sense.’
Don knew he would have to call his pal at the cop shop again and ask him to widen the search. ‘Did she take all her stuff?’ he asked the cousin. She shook her head.
‘Didn’t take anything. Her bag, purse, phone, toothbrush, they’re all still here. This is even her vodka I’m drinking.’ As she reached down for her glass, the little collection of cigarette ash fell from her hand.
‘Cheers,’ she said. Then she lost her balance, rolled off the sofa and landed on the floor, laughing. Don ignored her and opened the shoulder bag on the coffee table. Celine Watts’ purse was inside, along with aspirin and paper hankies and a phone. Why hadn’t she taken anything? Because she’d been scared. And besides, she had everything she needed in the car . . . a driver, and a small mountain of cash.
The cousin was still chuckling quietly to herself, eyes closed. He knew that if he beat her up, it would send a message to Celine Watts. The sort of message Gorgeous George would thank him for.
All the same, Don didn’t have the heart for it. He pocketed Celine’s purse and phone and walked back to the waiting car.
Chapter Seven
The Detective
Jane Harris had been a detective inspector for all of three weeks, and here she was standing in a garage with pools of blood at her feet.
Pools plural.
The cold, dead victim was called Raymond Masters. It was his garage. He cleaned cars for a living, or had done until about four hours ago. That was how long it had taken them to locate the source of the gunshots. A gun had been found in the dead man’s hand, and it had been fired. It wasn’t suicide, though. Two shots had been fired by Masters. One bullet had already been located, stuck in the wall to the left-hand side of the doors. One had done some damage to another human, if the bloodstains were
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