Читать книгу The Cover Up: A gripping crime thriller for 2018 - Marnie Riches, Marnie Riches - Страница 17

Staring at the flickering computer screen, Paddy considered what he might write next to Ellis James. He took a swig from his can of extra-strength lager, glad that he had managed to stave off another lunchtime hangover by continuing to drink steadily throughout the afternoon. Relieved that Brenda had taken pity on him and let him hang around at hers, where he could crank the heating up at her expense and raid her fridge. Kyle’s laptop was infinitely superior to the piece of shit he had at his place. Kyle’s bedroom was the only decent room in the dump, though the thirteen-year-old was way too old for the brightly coloured kiddy cars and trains that covered the wall, now partly concealed beneath posters of some dickhead band called Twenty-One Pilots.

Back to the screen. What to say today?

‘If you want to know where Maureen Kaplan keeps bent accounting records,’ he said out loud as he typed slowly with two fingers, ‘check out Bella’s Afro Hair Supplies in Crumpsall before end of month.’ He signed the email off as ‘Shadow Hunter’, using the moniker of one of those YouTubing twats that Kyle followed. Pressed send and slurped at the beer. Waited for the response. And waited.

Paddy pressed F5 repeatedly, wondering when the hell the berk of a detective would get back to him. He scratched at his groin. Maybe he ought to shower more regularly. Kenneth Wainwright’s shower in that tired two-up, two-down rental was shite. The water either came through scalding hot or freezing cold. The pressure was almost non-existent from the cheap electric shower rig-up that had been poorly screwed onto the tiled wall by the private landlord. Brenda’s was no better.

Showering. Who would have thought that one of the things he missed most about being a wealthy man was daily access to a good power shower in a clean bathroom?

But Paddy was jolted out of his musings on personal hygiene and poor man’s water pressure by the arrival of a response from his least favourite dogged detective.

Re: Maureen Kaplan tip-off

James, Ellis <ellis.r.james4@hotmail.co.uk>

To: Shadow Hunter (shadow.hunter@gmail.com)

Hi SH,

How do you know about Maureen Kaplan? Where are you getting your intel from? Can we meet? What can you tell me about Jonny Margulies and Tariq Khan?

Regards

E.J.

Paddy smiled at the screen. Ellis James was more than intrigued. He was well and truly on the hook, and Paddy would enjoy reeling him in slowly. All those years he’d spent trying to pull the thorn from his side that was the detective and his Rottweiler of a tax-inspecting sidekick, Ruth Darley, and now, here James was: the instrument of Paddy’s revenge.

‘Don’t worry where I got info from,’ he wrote. ‘It’s good.’

He contemplated his link to the outside world – Hank the Wank had had a busy week of it, installing hi-tech sound-recording equipment in the offices of Maureen Kaplan when she was out at meetings. His oldest school friend was proving to be the perfect choice for a spy. Loyal as they came. No criminal record. Blended in everywhere, because who gave a workman in overalls a second thought if he went about his business with a merry whistle and an air of confidence? Endlessly excited by the novelty of subterfuge, and inexperienced enough not to have a clue what his skills were really worth on the black market. So far, Hank was working for peanuts and considered it a small fortune. So far, Katrina was indulging Paddy in sticking him an extra few hundred here and there to assist his transition back to normal life.

By the time the money runs out, Paddy thought, staring at the blinking cursor, I’ll have ruined the lot of them scheming bastards. He rubbed his hands together. Then, Kenneth Wainwright can shove it up his sad, dole-ite arse, because Paddy Big-Bollocks is coming back, baby!

With his index fingers hovering over the keyboard, Paddy contemplated what else to feed the detective with.

‘Did you know the Boddlingtons have brothels on Trafford Street and Grove Close in Sweeney Hall?’ He clicked send.

The main focus for Paddy’s anger was, of course, Sheila, since the lousy cow had sought to end him. Beyond that, he would not rest until Leviticus Bell was dead. Memories of that fateful poolside scene where he’d been sliced open and left for dead only months earlier were blurry, but he was certain that Lev Bell’s face had been hiding beneath a false beard and those stupid bloody sidelocks – an imitation Shylock, coming for his pound of flesh, trying to pin it on Asaf Smolensky. Very damned clever. Not clever enough to dupe him – the mighty Paddy O’Brien, however. But the Boddlingtons …? Why the hell should they evade the strong arm of the law? It would be easier to take his empire back with the enemy already weakened.

Waiting for Ellis James to respond, he jumped when a thin voice behind him said, ‘What the fuck you doing in my room on my laptop?’

Paddy turned around to find Kyle standing over him. A thin streak of piss with a sour expression on his malnourished face. The kid reeked of poverty – stale hand-me-down clothes that were too big on him; a whiff of unwashed boy, lard, school sports-hall changing rooms and the pervasive smell of mildew from living in a permanently damp Victorian terrace. Paddy hated the smell because he remembered smelling exactly like it as a child.

‘Your Mam said I could,’ Paddy lied, irritated that he had been caught in the act.

‘Well, you can’t. It’s mine and I’ve got private stuff on there.’

Kyle reached out to snatch the laptop away but Paddy swung it out of his reach. ‘Easy, tiger.’

‘Give it back, Ken! It’s mine! Mam bought it for me as a treat when my dad—’

‘How long you been stood there?’ He eyed the boy warily, keeping a firm grip on the laptop but snapping the lid shut. What had he seen?

‘Long enough,’ Kyle said, scratching at the florid rash of spots on his forehead.

The kid looked nothing like his mother. His eyes were small and too close together. Paddy found it odd that there were no photos of the father around the house whatsoever, as if he had never existed. Perhaps Brenda had never forgiven him for simply disappearing one day. But with a creep of a son like Kyle, who could blame the guy?

‘I was googling my ailments,’ Paddy said, pre-empting any confrontation. Who knew how much the kid had seen? ‘And they’re confidential, right? None of your fucking business, nosey hole.’ Had Paddy been thinking aloud while his back had been turned to the doorway? Conky used to frequently pull him up for that sort of thing. It would be no good if Kyle had worked out he’d been talking to a cop. The kid didn’t seem entirely daft. Unlike his dimbo of a mother. ‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’

Kyle’s gaze was unwavering. His attentions were focused on the laptop. With a jolt of realisation, it was clear to Paddy that the kid wasn’t suspicious of him at all! He had something to hide. And there was only one thing thirteen-year-old lads might be doing on a computer that they didn’t want a grown-up to know about.

‘I won’t tell her,’ Paddy said. ‘About the porn, I mean.’

Suddenly, the kid’s stern face cracked, offering Paddy a wry, knowing smile. Was this the start of some kind of truce? Was Kyle going to stop being a miserable little sod just because Paddy was poking his mother?

‘Ta,’ Kyle simply said, pulling the sleeves of his hoodie over his bony hands. That half-smile had turned to a grin, lighting up his cadaverous ugly face. Maybe the kid was relieved.

In truth, Paddy wouldn’t have the first idea on how to check someone’s browser history, but he wasn’t about to tell the little dipshit that. ‘Sling your hook, son, while I finish up here. Okay?’ He held his can of lager out to the boy. ‘You wanna swig? Is that what you’re waiting for?’

Shaking his head, Kyle sloped off back downstairs, still wearing a lopsided smile as though he was the only one in on some big secret. Creepy little smartarse.

Opening the laptop’s lid, Paddy refreshed the screen to see if Ellis James had responded. Sure enough, he had.

Re: Maureen Kaplan tip-off

James, Ellis <ellis.r.james4@hotmail.co.uk>

To: Shadow Hunter (shadow.hunter@gmail.com)

Have you got addresses for those brothels and also the place in Crumpsall? We’ll treat this information very seriously. I’d really like to meet you face-to-face, Shadow Hunter. Can I take you for lunch? I want to get to know you and let you know how GMP can help you, if you’d like to testify against the O’Brien crew or the Boddlington Gang.

Regards

E.J.

PS: What do you know about the main criminal firm in Birmingham? Have you ever heard of Nigel Bancroft before? If so, what can you tell me about him? I’ve attached a photo.

Paddy clicked on the attachment and studied what looked like a professionally shot corporate portrait of Bancroft. With his blow-dried hair and bone-white teeth, he put Paddy in mind of some male model off a Just for Men hair-dye packet. He’d heard of him, all right, but the ponce had never dared set foot in Manchester while Paddy had been king. If Ellis James was trying to pump him for information on Bancroft, that meant Sheila – and possibly the Boddlingtons too – were getting the heat. With Paddy gone, why wouldn’t a man like Bancroft have a pop at annexing a destabilised Manchester as Midland turf? It was the sort of stunt Paddy would certainly have pulled. A calculated business risk, well worth taking.

He thought about the prospect of that dozy show pony, Sheila, trying to defend herself against the likes of Nigel Bancroft: organised, established, semi-legal and experienced as hell. Threw back his head and laughed so hard, he began to wheeze.

‘What a bleeding joke!’

Sheila was just a woman. If the Brummies were after the O’Brien empire, she didn’t stand a hope in hell. Maybe Bancroft would do the job of bringing down his treacherous widow for him.