Highbridge Page 7

  The Mark 2, 3.8 Jag was politically incorrect in every way, according to all the family, except one. It was part of Britain’s past and future. It was part of the manufacturing heritage that had built the country, a symbol of its past loss, while emphasising the need for recycling. At least that is how Joey defended it during the family dinner arguments. But in reality he just loved it. It had been built ten years before he was born but he could actually fix it if anything went wrong, unlike the Q7, which required a man with a white coat and a laptop. He also loved it because he had taken it in exchange for the outstanding account on the golf club job, when Rupert Bronks had run out of cash, or so he said. Unlike Sean, Joey was a bit wary of Rupert. Under the country squire act there was some form of scrap merchant, in all ways. Something in that 2 second 7 second thing: 2 seconds to decide if you like someone or not, 7 seconds to confirm. Rupert was about 3.5. Meaning Joey was still not convinced.

  He turned into the car park opposite the Michael Greeves Memorial Playing Fields, named after a young lad who had collapsed and died during a school football match ten years earlier. Something to do with his heart. He’d just got taken on at Stoke and was destined for big things, so they said. Tragic. But every year at the town festival they held a football tournament named after him. His dad used to come and give out the cup, but stopped about two years ago, saying it was getting harder to take the longer it went on. So much for time being the great healer.

  Suppose that’s part of the reason I took up the offer from Luke, Joey thought as he wandered over to the touchline. There’s enough ways for parents to lose their kids without scum like him in the chippy. He had wanted to drive past it on the way but had resisted, taking Luke’s advice not to be seen anywhere near Fatchops and a CCTV camera at any time. Especially in what Luke called, disrespectfully, his bucket of bolts. Joey glanced down at his phone. Nothing. He glanced up at the hill dominating the town. Nothing. He went over to the touchline. Half-time. No score.

  ‘There’s Joey in his pride and joy.’ Matt had him in the spotting scope. ‘Talk about conspicuous.’

  ‘He’s not supposed to be trying to hide anything.’ Luke stayed on target, watching the chippy.

  ‘True.’

  ‘And here comes the spud man to give us our daily spuds.’

  Matt moved his scope back to the chippy. Luke glanced at his watch. 10.30. Every time. Give or take a few minutes. The van pulled up in the side alley. As usual. Monitored on the CCTV. The steel side door opened immediately. As usual. Fatchops was out organising things. As usual. Lots of waving arms, but never actually lifting a finger. As usual. Until the end. The smallest box was always his. Wouldn’t break any sweat. As usual. Take the box from the front seat. Sign the chit. Dismissive waves. Van away. Fatchops back inside. Barred and bolted. Everything as usual. But not quite.

  As the van driver came back from the front of the van he slipped or tripped or stumbled, but even before he did Fatchops moved with a speed they had never even imagined he was capable of thinking about, never mind achieving. He had the box in his hands before the driver knew he was falling. Which he probably wouldn’t have done if Fatchops hadn’t kicked him in the knee, following up with a hefty toe poke to his back.

  ‘Do you reckon that counts as negative customer feedback?’ Matt asked.

  ‘Hmmm. Beats phoning a helpline.’ Luke shifted the Barrett to put the scope on the driver. ‘He looks terrified.’

  ‘So would I be, delivering to a customer like Fatty.’

  ‘That’s it, isn’t it? Who’s working for who here?’

  ‘The answer to that is probably in that box.’

  Luke nodded and went back on Fatchops, refocusing the scope on to the box, now locked tightly under a fat right arm. He just had time to make out some of the lettering before the box and arm and owner disappeared behind the steel door. ‘Something … t – i – c?’ Luke asked Matt.

  ‘Is that something, then t – i – c? Could be attic?’

  That’d be something, something t – i – c. Just three letters at the end.’ He tapped the scope. ‘Like, Op-tic? Drama-tic?’

  ‘Mas-tic? Fantas-tic? Could be anything. Could be just any old box he picked up to use.’

  True, thought Luke. He glanced at his watch again. 10.41. Time to go and catch up with Joey. And figure out how to get eyes on that box.

  ‘Why’s it all sticky?’ It was Becky, still busy trying to clean her phone with the remnants of a tissue previously used during some emotional tragedy in the distant past.

  ‘I told you. Roscoe was guarding it for you,’ Tanya replied, as she scooped up the train tickets from under the bullet-, terrorist-, drunk-or irate-passenger-proof protective barrier that kept the station staff safe, and headed for the platform, careful to avoid Carol’s eye – she was trying to focus on Twitter, desperate not to smile.

  ‘Urgg. It’s disgusting. He’s disgusting.’

  ‘You should be used to sloppy dogs slobbering all over you.’

  ‘Don’t start again. OK? I hate dogs. Why’d he do that anyway?’

  Carol was unable to resist joining in. ‘He was probably guarding it in case Pharaoh texted. And he’d have barked if he did.’ Carol threw a conspiratorial look to Tanya. ‘He always texts, doesn’t he?’

  Becky shook her head, deflated. ‘Not last night.’

  ‘That’s it, then,’ Tanya said quickly. ‘Must be over.’

  ‘You wish.’

  ‘I do, yeah. He’s bad news, Becks. Have I mentioned that?’

  ‘Only as often as he usually texts her,’ Carol added.

  ‘That’s why he gave me this one. He said it would always work.’

  Carol shook her head. ‘You’re hopeless, do you know that?’

  But Becky was more focused on Tanya. ‘Don’t give me that look, Tan. You don’t know what it’s like to be in a proper relationship.’

  ‘Neither do you. Relationships are not just about someone having a flash Mercedes or giving you a real designer handbag. And don’t you think giving you a phone is, well, creepy?’

  ‘Why? He likes giving me things. What’s creepy about that?’

  ‘It’s what he thinks he’s getting in return. What he’s paying for.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Tanya held back for a moment. Was Becky being deliberately obtuse? Or just stupid? ‘He is twenty-five, isn’t he?’ she finally asked.

  ‘Urghhhh.’ Whether she was being obtuse or stupid, she was now getting annoyed. She bit her lip for a moment but then said. ‘And?’

  ‘And,’ Tanya repeated. ‘Why’s he sniffing round a fifteen-year-old then?’

  ‘Will you stop? You make him sound like that stupid dog of yours.’

  ‘That’s what he’s like,’ Tanya hit back. Slightly harsher and louder than she intended. But she too was getting annoyed. ‘You can practically see him salivating. Like when we give Roscoe a Dentastick. In the Pharaoh’s case it’s probably more Rent-a-dick.’

  Becky went to respond but Tanya was in full flow. ‘And you’re already in a deep and meaningful relationship.’ She gestured to herself and Carol. ‘With friends who care about you. It’s nothing about him being foreign or even the money, Becks. He’s just, well, creepy. But you’ve heard that a million times too, haven’t you. Come on, here’s the train.’

  Tanya and Carol moved towards the edge of the platform. Becky had one last forlorn look at her phone. Nothing.

  Neither was there anything on Joey’s phone as he joined the other assorted waterproofed and anoraked dads clustered against the wall of the Community Centre that served as a windbreak and took the edge off the hailstones that were bouncing off their tightly pulled hoods. ‘I hated playing in this.’ A voice came from along the line.

  ‘I loved it,’ a second voice responded, with a deep growly laugh.

  ‘You would,’ said a third voice, which brought another growly laugh from number two, but a few nervous titters from the hail-battered hoods as number two, in what looked l
ike an Alexander McQueen leather parka, was Bobby McBain, who was actually number one in the Highbridge villain stakes. His seemingly pebble-dashed face a road map of how he got there. He was generally regarded as OK, if you didn’t get too close to him. Or antagonise him. Which was about to happen, because Joey knew that growl.

  ‘You loved it because the Ref couldn’t see you doing everyone else,’ voice number three added. This brought instant silence as every eyeball swivelled towards Bobby, now leaning forward to look up the line.

  ‘You talking to me?’

  Hearing the classic challenge, voice number three pulled his hoodie forward and leaned back, making it harder for Bobby to see him. ‘If I was, I’d have whistled first. Like you do for any animal.’ It was Joey.

  The line of assorted dads collectively reached for their assorted phones to check the time or texts, collectively realising they must have assorted things to do elsewhere. Most headed back to the touchline, preferring the skin-lacerating hail than anything that might follow as Bobby weighed up his challenger, now nonchalantly looking at his phone too.

  ‘You looking up your doctor’s number?’

  Joey ignored him.

  ‘Hey, gobby, I’m talking to you.’

  Joey waited a moment, then pulled down his hoodie to reveal the huge grin on his face. A crack also appeared in the pebble-dashed face. ‘I might have known it’d be a headcase like you, Nolan.’

  The two men closed the gap and wrist-gripped, but didn’t hug. Old acquaintances. Not friends.

  ‘You still scrounging for work in London?’ Bobby asked, with more than a ring of disdain as he fell back against the wall.

  ‘You still scrounging and scamming back here?’ Joey asked as he turned back to watch the boys trying their best to play while hunched up and shivering against the hail.

  ‘Doing me best with the hand life dealt me.’

  ‘Still a victim of circumstance then?’

  Bobby shrugged with a wider grin. ‘Like you’ll be filling in your VAT and tax returns as diligently as the vicar.’

  ‘He probably doesn’t need one.’

  ‘True. He gets everything he wants off everyone else. And you know what, Saint Joe, I bet I pay more tax than anyone else in this town.’

  Joey looked across to see that Bobby was also staring out across the field to where some older boys were playing. He was now pensive. This was not just banter. ‘Go on then. Enlighten me.’

  ‘VAT. Fuel duty. Stealth taxes. Every pound I spend the government gets 20p, doesn’t it. Every time you tank up your car, ker-ching, they take their cut.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have such an expensive lifestyle, Bobby.’

  ‘You mean my ex shouldn’t. She’s unbelievable.’

  ‘You still paying, then?’

  ‘Too right. Got me by the plums, she has. Every six months she threatens to go to court to get – get this – proper maintenance. She knows she gets more than any court would give her. Just as she knows she gets it because I can’t go in there and declare all me earnings.’

  Joey nodded. He knew that too. Everyone did. Just as everyone knew how Bobby got his cash. Any way he could. And as Tanya, Becky and Carol knew, nearly everyone in Highbridge had a fake designer logo courtesy of Bobby.

  ‘Sounds like you’re about to have that six-month chat, then?’

  It was Bobby’s turn to nod. Then another nod towards the football pitches. ‘Got the lad for the weekend, but the wicked witch says we’ll have a chat when I drop him back tomorrow.’ Another growly laugh. ‘You know the daft thing, Joe? I could have her topped for five hundred.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Yeah. Could get it done for less than fifty by some of the smack street brigade, but for five hundred? Job well done. And it’d all be over. Imagine that. I’ve told her, too. But she just laughs. She knows me too well. I mean, what would it do to the boy. Plenty of other reasons to top people. Plenty of people willing to do it too. But, I suppose it’s a bit over the top for a bit of alimony.’

  ‘Suppose it is.’ It was all Joey could manage to say as their attention was caught by the noise of many whistles sounding across the different pitches. He glanced at his watch, too early to finish. Seems odd to have a foul on every pitch at the same time, he thought, as he looked across to see something even more odd. Both referees and various helpers and coaches were shepherding the teams off the pitches. No one seemed to need a second coaxing as the mad scramble began to get to the changing rooms, piles of bags and cars before the hailstones took the skin off the players’ bones. What was going on?

  The answer came when Alex, Joey’s fourteen-year-old son, came trudging over. He looked every inch a potential Premier League prima donna although now tinged slightly blue with cold. Behind him came his bag carrier in the form of his twelve-year-old brother Ross.

  ‘Cameron Gordon went to retrieve the ball from the bushes and found a dead body.’

  ‘And they wouldn’t let us go and see it,’ complained Ross.

  Joey exchanged a concerned glance with Bobby, who just shrugged. ‘Another smackhead sniffs the dust?’

  Joey gave him a do-you-have-to look, with a glance at the boys. Bobby just gave another shrug and then turned to Alex. ‘Better tell your old man what’s been going on while he’s been away earning enough to buy those Nike Mercurials for you.’

  He held out his hand to Joey for a fist bump and moved off. They could already hear the emergency sirens on their way.

  Joey headed for the Jag, wondering what Bobby was alluding to but not getting much time to dwell on it as the boys were already moaning about the Jag and how long the heater took to warm up.

  ‘Can we go with Noah, instead, Dad?’

  Joey turned to look where Alex was pointing. It was a two-year-old VW Golf and Noah was seventeen. A couple of years ahead of Alex as school sports hero and Joey’s brother Sean’s eldest. ‘I’m sure Noah has got other things to do than run you two back to the house.’

  ‘I’ll ask him,’ said Alex, as he dashed between the cars that were slowly starting to dissipate. ‘Bring the bags, Ross.’

  Joey turned to see his younger son, still carrying his puppy fat but dragging the sports bags out of the car, as Noah was giving an OK signal.

  ‘You’re twelve now, Ross. You don’t have to do everything he does, you know.’

  ‘No, but your job’s to be understanding, Dad. He’ll just give me a right hard time later.’

  True, thought Joey, as he scooped up the boys’ sports bags and walked Ross over to join his brother and cousin. ‘You sure you’re OK with this, Noah?’

  ‘Yeah Uncle Joe, no worries. We might stop off at Maccy D’s on the way back.’

  ‘OK.’ He took out a £20 note and handed it to Noah. ‘Thanks, and tell your dad I’ll call him later about lunch tomorrow.’

  ‘Er, you could text him yourself.’ It was Alex, now busy bluetoothing his phone to the car’s radio, which burst into life as Noah pulled away.

  Joey watched them go. What would he have given for such a car when he was seventeen, something else he would soon be facing as Tanya counted down the months. That’s a few more grand I’ll have to find, he thought as he made his way back to the Jag, stopping to let Bobby McBain’s gas-guzzling but tax-delivering Range Rover Autobiography pass with a flash of its headlights. Black on black.

  ‘Can’t help himself, can he?’

  Joey turned to see Chief Superintendent Hilary Jardine standing behind him, in uniform but holding a golf umbrella as a shield against the hail, a wry smile on her face. ‘Never could resist flashing the cash, could he?’

  It was a reference back to their shared youth. When they had all been at the Comp together. She held out the umbrella so he could join her. Whereas many would baulk at being so close to a police officer, Joey accepted the offer without hesitation and saw that although the years had left a few lines around her eyes, she was still recognisable as the fit hockey player they used to lust after, and still stoo
d and sounded like the head girl that terrified them. Well, most of them.

  ‘You here because of that?’ Joey asked as he nodded over to where the police and paramedic vehicles were congregating.

  She nodded. Then the smile faded. ‘Young lad.’

  ‘Druggie?’ He was close enough to feel the warmth of her breath.

  ‘We don’t know yet. Probably.’

  ‘Sounds a bit matter-of-fact, Hilary. Common event, is it?’

  ‘Better to say not uncommon.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. Like fights in the Lion.’

  Joey let out a sigh. ‘Bit below your pay grade, isn’t it?’

  She nodded. ‘But spotting patterns isn’t.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like, we’re getting too many of these tragedies.’ She nodded over to the congregated vehicles where a forensic tent was being set up and the area cordoned off. ‘And like,’ she continued, but turned to face him. Close enough to indicate that she felt safe with Joey. Close enough to betray a past intimacy.

  ‘… you seeing more of Luke Carlton. Like Matt O’Connor being home at the same time. Bit like the old gang. Fighting at the weekends. And then I see you and McBain in a huddle?’

  Joey didn’t respond. He just stared at her and waited. But she was giving nothing back.

  Eventually he smiled. ‘You used to do that as head girl, you know.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Widen those big hazel eyes. Pretending you knew more than you did, until someone told you what you needed to know.’

  She turned away, slightly embarrassed but amused by his recollection of their past. But the professionalism returned quickly. ‘And is there anything I need to know?’

  ‘You asking officially, or as a friend?’

  ‘Can I say, both?’

  Joey nodded. Then, ‘But there isn’t much to know.’ He turned away and looked at the now emptying car park as the last of the frozen footballers were being rescued. ‘You probably know that Luke has been brilliant at holding me together after what happened to Janey.’

  ‘I do, and I don’t know how often I can say it, but we are still trying to find …’

  Joey waved it away. ‘He’s also been good at making me accept the shit happens thing. Christ, some of the things he’s told me. Or, like that.’ He nodded across to the now officially designated crime scene. ‘But, that fight. It started in the Co-op car park where some, some … idiot was pissing against the wall where Janey died. Not just that. But it was the anniversary. Did you know that?’