Читать книгу Stolen - Paul Finch - Страница 14

Raimunda was the ultimate platinum blonde.

Her glorious mane hung to the small of her back, her 38-24-38 figure accentuated by her body-hugging, electro-pink minidress, while her matching pink six-inch platform-heel sandals, which elevated her five-foot-ten inches to an intimidating six-foot-two, added what seemed like miles of luscious, shapely leg. As always, her sultry looks were daubed in makeup: blusher on the cheeks, thick kohl rimming her sapphire eyes, cherry gloss on the lips.

Clarissa had something even more exotic about her.

Her locks were shiny and tar-black. She was olive-skinned, her enchanting golden eyes almond-shaped, her cheekbones delicate, her mouth small but sensual, though ripened tonight with purple lip-glow. She was a similar shape to Raimunda: tall, almost unfeasibly so for a woman, but equally curvaceous. An archetypal Amazon warrior, her outfit comprised a green zip-sided miniskirt, a green camisole top and strappy shoes with six-inch clear heels.

The pair of them walked with an elegant sway even as they tiptoed through the grotty yard at the back of the terraced inner-Manchester residence. They kept it sexy – that was their stock-in-trade – but it was dark, so they also had to be wary of tripping over stacks of bricks, or sacks crammed with broken masonry.

‘I’ll see you next Monday,’ Dean Chesham said from the open back door behind them. He was a muscular young black guy, film-star handsome, clad only in a pair of red silk undershorts. Despite the evening chill, his strong, stocky physique was slick with sweat.

They replied with lazy waves as they vanished through the back gate. Grinning to himself, Dean went back into the house.

The air indoors was cooling fast, because there was no central heating installed yet. He’d only recently had the electrics turned back on, because the darker nights were drawing in. For the most part, the house was a shell, its interior stripped to the bare bricks and boards. Only the back bedroom had any semblance of habitability. Dean padded back upstairs and walked down the landing towards it, towelling off with a stained and scruffy T-shirt. In normal circumstances, he’d have preferred a shower, but there were two good reasons why that wasn’t in tonight’s programme. Firstly, it would suit him to look sweaty when he finally got home; secondly, there was no running water.

The back bedroom was still bereft of wallpaper, plus it wasn’t very large. Dean had just about managed to get a three-quarter-size double bed into it, and this was currently a mess, its mattress askew, its sheets tangled, clothes draped all over it. He pulled on a T-shirt and climbed into a pair of torn jeans with dried paint on them. Equally paint-stained was the dusty old sweat-top he put on over his T-shirt. He sat on the bed to knot the laces on his workboots, then he hit the light switch and headed along the landing, grabbing his L-Quad leather jacket from the newel post at the top of the stairs. Before going outside, he made sure to pull his hood up. Though cooler now that it was autumn, it wasn’t cold. But he still had to get to the car without being recognised.

Exiting by the back door, he made his careful way across the cluttered yard. Out in the alley, a beaten-up Honda Civic waited for him. It had been around the mileage clock at least twice, but Dean didn’t mind being seen in such a heap. It wouldn’t stand out, and still had sufficient life left under its bonnet to get him quietly and unobtrusively back to the lock-up garage he rented in Styal, where he’d swap it for his black-and-red Range Rover Evoque.

Seventy-five big ones, that beauty had cost him. Even if he hadn’t thought it would attract undue attention, he couldn’t have risked bringing it to this neighbourhood. And perhaps it was ironic he was thinking this, because he now turned left through the gate into the alley, and the first thing he saw was a man loitering in the narrow space between the wall and the Honda’s front nearside door.

Dean halted, but more through puzzlement than fear.

Lights shone from the windows of some of the surrounding houses with just enough strength to show that, whoever this guy was, he didn’t look threatening. He was about average height, average build, with neatly combed silver hair over a thin, pinched face, and a trim silver-grey moustache. He wore a buttoned-up Burberry trenchcoat, and underneath that a shirt and tie. Dean glanced down, spying well-pressed trousers with proper creases in them, and leather shoes.

He ventured forward, fishing the car keys from his jacket pocket, but then he spied a second man standing behind the first. This second guy was about the same height as the other, but twice the width. He too wore a jacket and tie, but it bulged around a massive body, while his collar hung open on a neck the girth of a tree-trunk. He had cauliflower ears, a dented nose and small eyes beneath heavy bone brows. He was younger than the first guy, probably somewhere in his mid-forties, with a dense, matted beard and moustache.

‘If it isn’t Black Lightning,’ the guy in the trenchcoat said. By his accent, he was a Manchester man, but it was modified, refined.

‘Do I know you?’ Dean replied.

Trenchcoat looked worried. ‘Sorry, that isn’t racist, is it – Black Lightning? Isn’t that what they call you on the Stretford End?’

‘That’s what they call me, yeah.’

‘Good. Thought so.’

‘If you don’t mind …’ Dean pointed his key at the Honda, but Trenchcoat stayed where he was.

‘Your footwork’s seriously amazing,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen you dance through defences like … well, like no one did since the days of Georgie Best.’

Dean glanced again at the Neanderthal visage of the bearded guy behind him. Then he became aware that a third character had circled into view around the other side of the car. This one too was in his forties; he also wore a suit and tie, but was rangy of frame, with a hatchet nose and a messy thatch of dirty blond hair. He now stood directly behind the footballer, blocking any possible retreat.

‘Okay, listen …’ Dean backed into the brick wall. ‘You fellas surely realise I don’t carry money round with me? I mean, I’ve got a few quid.’ He dug into his jeans pocket. ‘You can take that.’

‘I’m surprised you’ve got any left after tonight,’ Trenchcoat said.

Dean offered him a tightly wound roll of twenties. ‘Just take it, yeah?’

‘Relax, Lightning. We’re not here to rob you.’

‘Yeah?’ Dean’s nervous gaze flicked back and forth between them. ‘Well, I’m sure this isn’t a welcome-to-the-neighbourhood party.’

‘More like welcome-to-the-jungle round here,’ the bearded one said. He was Mancunian too, though much more obviously. ‘Ideal for the kinds of tricks you get up to, eh?’

‘Look,’ Dean said. ‘I don’t know what you fellas think you know.’ He thumbed at the house on the other side of the wall. ‘I’m just doing this place up.’

‘Yeah, we’ve heard,’ Trenchcoat said. ‘Your little retirement plan, isn’t it? You’ve been buying run-down houses all over the Northwest, doing them up till they’re spanking new and selling them on at considerable profit.’

‘Nothing illegal about that,’ Dean ventured.

‘Course not,’ Trenchcoat agreed. ‘But I’d like to bet that none of the houses you’ve officially bought so far are quite as run-down as this one, eh?’

‘I’ve officially bought this one.’

Trenchcoat half-smiled. ‘When I say “officially” … I mean, as in your lovely wife, Lydia, knowing about it. Oh, I’m sure she’s well aware and totally approves of this safety net you’re putting together for when your playing days are over. But the problem is, Lightning … she thinks it means houses round Knutsford, Didsbury and Altrincham, doesn’t she? I bet she’d be stunned to know you’ve got a new pad in the backstreets of Withington.’

‘Okay, it’s a shed.’ Dean shrugged. ‘But we’ll still make money when we’ve done it up.’

‘You’re a great footballer, Dean,’ the blond guy said, speaking for the first time; his accent was more Cheshire than Manchester. ‘But you’re not too smart if you seriously think we don’t know what’s going on here.’

‘You believe in quality, I’ll say that for you,’ Beard added. ‘That Clarissa bird. Bloody hell … you’d never know she was a bloke. And Raimunda! Some dong, that. John fucking Holmes in drag.’

‘John Holmes, Lightning,’ Trenchcoat said. ‘Remember him? No, course you don’t. Too young. There are similarities between you and him, nevertheless. For example …’ He drew a leather-gloved hand from his pocket; it contained an iPhone. ‘You’ve both been immortalised in naughty films.’

An MPEG began running. It had been shot from several different angles, all of which were most likely covert, but it was in full colour and painfully clear. It was also full of action, a ‘highlights reel’, snippets of different sessions involving either Dean and Raimunda, Dean and Clarissa, or more usually Dean and both of them, each sequence trimmed to the bare essentials and then edited together.

Fleetingly, the footballer was too numb to respond.

‘All right …’ he finally said. ‘All right, you’ve caught me. But I’m not sure this’ll be quite as damaging as you fellas seem to think. Raimunda and Clarissa are trans women. Yeah … so what? It’s not so shocking these days.’

‘That’s true.’ Trenchcoat pocketed his iPhone. ‘We live in a very inclusive age. But the problem is, Lightning … you’re a married man. And your wife, Lydia, well … she’s been wondering for some time where you’ve been disappearing to for two or three nights a week. So she asked us to find out.’

‘You’re saying you’re private detectives?’ Dean wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or even more horrified.

‘Good job it doesn’t take you that long to get to the back of the net,’ Beard chipped in. ‘Otherwise, no one’d give a shit what you get up to in this secret nookie nest of yours.’

‘She doesn’t trust you, pal,’ Hatchet Nose said. ‘She never has.’

Trenchcoat smiled again. ‘When Lydia married you, Lightning, she knew she’d landed on her feet … and she was in it for the long haul. She was going to milk it for everything she could … even if it ended up in the divorce court—’

‘Wait a minute,’ Dean interrupted, glimpsing hope. ‘Just wait … you’re saying she doesn’t suspect anything specific? She’s just watching me?’

‘She half suspects,’ Trenchcoat said.

‘You must admit, you’ve been away from home a lot recently,’ Hatchet Nose added.

‘And if she’s not getting it in the bedroom, which she presumably isn’t,’ Beard said, ‘she’s going to wonder.’

‘On top of that, she’s never been entirely convinced that you’re doing these houses up yourself,’ Trenchcoat said. ‘She doesn’t believe you know the first thing about DIY. Isn’t that why you spent a million quid getting someone else to fit that new bathroom in your mansion down Alderley Edge?’

‘So you’ve been watching me for a few weeks,’ Dean said. ‘But you haven’t reported back to Lydia yet? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘That’s the sum of it,’ Trenchcoat replied. ‘Want to know why?’

‘I’m guessing it’s not because you like football.’

‘You guess right where I’m concerned,’ Beard replied. ‘I fucking hate it.’

‘I, on the other hand, do like it,’ Hatchet Nose said. ‘I’m even a Man U fan. But the Reds were great before you, Dean, and they’ll be great again after.’

Dean’s eyes flitted from one to the other. ‘So …?’

‘So we want to get paid twice,’ Beard said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your wife’s giving us two hundred grand to tail you for four months,’ Trenchcoat explained. ‘To find out exactly what’s been going on, and whether or not it’s dodgy … and if it is, to provide indisputable evidence. Now, we’ve got that evidence, as you’ve seen. But, you see, here’s the thing … we don’t like to ruin people’s lives. We only do it if we absolutely have to. So, our normal method, once we’ve collected said evidence, is to give the guilty party an opportunity to buy it back.’

‘I think I understand,’ Dean said, with a dull, sinking feeling.

‘Course you understand,’ Trenchcoat replied. ‘But do it our way, and it all works out beautifully. We go back to your missus, tell her you’re clean as a whistle. You then go home and get hugs and kisses instead of a solicitor’s letter. Everyone’s happy. And we get paid twice.’

‘And how much is this going to cost me?’ Dean asked.

‘Well, your wife’s paying us two hundred. We thought the very least it’d be worth to you, given that your kids won’t see Mummy and Daddy split up, and the Chelsea boot-boys won’t suddenly have a whole new generation of nasty names to call you … maybe four times that.’

‘Eight hundred grand?’ Dean was stung, but he could easily afford it.

‘Makes it a round million.’ Hatchet Nose grinned. ‘And we only get taxed on a fifth of it.’

‘You look surprised, Lightning,’ Trenchcoat said. ‘No doubt you thought, as someone who earns two hundred grand a week just for showing up, the cost would be a lot more. Well … the sad fact is there’s always a danger that something could slip out to the press at a later date. Not straight away, obviously. But we’ll still have your best interests at heart, so every so often it’ll be worth us checking in with you … just to ensure that it’s a false alarm.’

Dean nodded. It was unbearable of course, but he had no choice.

‘Okay.’ Trenchcoat’s tone lightened, almost became friendly. ‘Well, that’s it. There’s nothing else to discuss. We’ll be in touch shortly, about how and when this needs to happen.’

He turned and walked away, Hatchet Nose going with him. But the larger, bearded individual remained, hovering like an ape in the half-darkness – before lurching forward, coming close to Dean, nose to nose.

‘You got off easy,’ he grunted. ‘No one on this fucking planet thinks you and those other prima donnas are worth the fortune you earn. You may reckon they love you, superstar, but don’t be fooled. Away from the footy ground, if half of them saw you lying in a gutter burning, they’d rescue your wallet before even thinking about calling the Fire Brigade.’

Then he turned and lumbered away too, vanishing into the gloom.