No Time to Die_a thrilling CSI mystery Page 13

  ‘I want to know where the fuck he is!’ Slade threw another glass at the wall, and Tyler stood silently in the kitchen, just shaking his head.

  Monty came in through the back door and saw how tense things were. He glanced at the smashed glass, then at Tyler, and Slade barked, ‘Well?’

  ‘No sign at any of the casinos, or his usual haunts. He ain’t been seen since yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘And who saw him yesterday afternoon?’

  ‘Vernon at The Gaping Goose. Blake was doing his rounds. Paid him as usual, he says.’

  ‘Was he acting strange?’

  ‘Vernon?’

  ‘Blake, you idiot!’

  Monty shrugged. ‘Nah, he was okay.’

  ‘Who’s out looking?’ Tyler asked.

  ‘Ev’ryone.’ Monty grabbed a biscuit. And then another.

  ‘Yeah, well, better start calling them back in, Monty,’ Slade said. ‘Some of them have a job in a few hours.’

  ‘Will do, chief.’ Monty took the biscuits into the lounge, pulling out his phone on the way.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  Slade looked at Tyler. ‘Who’s he normally kicking about with these days?’

  ‘No one. Except us, I mean.’

  ‘He got a girl?’

  Tyler shook his head. ‘Who the fuck would have him?’

  Slade limped around the room, his hand nervously scraping through his hair, eyes always down. ‘Fix me a drink, Ty.’

  ‘We should ring Shylock.’

  Slade stopped walking, looked at him.

  ‘And Tymo.’

  ‘They wouldn’t fucking dare touch one of my boys.’

  ‘But we should ask the question. And, if they had any sense, they could put their own feelers out.’

  Slade thought about it. ‘Maybe tomorrow. I want this job to go down without a hitch tonight. I don’t want them knowing we’re on our back foot.’

  Tyler nodded. ‘Shall I ring Rachel?’

  ‘No need. He won’t have gone near her. Poison, she is.’

  ‘Chief?’

  Slade looked to the lounge. ‘What now?’ He headed out of the kitchen, using the doorframe to steady himself. Tyler followed him.

  Through the lounge window, they could see the gates swing open and the row of sunken lamps illuminate down the driveway. A car slowly drove up to the house, and Monty whispered, ‘I let them in, chief. It’s the law.’

  Benson dried his eyes and lowered the window, reached out and pushed the intercom button and tried to keep a straight face. On the way over here, he had howled with laughter, and the tears had squeezed out of eyes that had seen some of the awful things Blake Crosby had done over the years, things that could never be proved. His stomach ached from that laughter. Benson was delighted that one of Leeds’s biggest baddest bastards was dead. ‘It was just a shame,’ he said to Miles, ‘that whoever killed him didn’t rip his nuts off first and stick ’em down his throat. Maybe gouge an eye out too. That would’ve been great.’

  Miles nodded more sombrely at his side.

  They both marvelled at the opulence that being so high up the wrong ladder brought: electric gates, lit driveway leading to an immaculately-gravelled turning circle. Enough top-notch cars to keep Top Gear busy for a series, and a house like an embassy, all illuminated by a dozen or so sunken floodlights.

  ‘We’re in the wrong job, Tom,’ Miles said, eyes taking in the surroundings.

  ‘Maybe, but at least the chances of your kids being shot are fairly slim.’

  Benson pulled up behind a silver Mercedes just outside the front door, hoping he was blocking the path of any other vehicles. ‘Okay,’ he said, looking across at Miles. ‘No fucking laughing.’

  They walked up the steps and stood beneath the columned porch waiting for the door. A light in the hall came on, and the door opened. Benson looked at the fat man. ‘Monty,’ he said.

  ‘Come in, Mr Benson.’

  Benson and Miles followed Monty along the hall and into the lounge. Slade Crosby and his equally evil son, Tyler both stood by the fireplace, watching them come in.

  ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ Slade asked.

  Benson cleared his throat, ‘I’m afraid he is, Mr Crosby.’

  ‘How?’ Tyler asked.

  ‘We’re still doing some work on that.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Near a stream, in Garforth.’

  Slade closed his eyes and took a long breath in through his nose. He was going to say ‘Garforth, again?’ but of course he couldn’t, because as far as the law was concerned “Garforth, the first time” never happened.

  ‘We’ll be appointing a family liaison officer, Mr Crosby, to keep you informed–’

  ‘Fuck that.’ Slade sipped from a glass. ‘All I want to know from you lot is who did it, and how.’

  ‘But that’s–’

  ‘I said no!’ Slade handed the glass to Tyler. ‘Fill it.’ He looked across to Benson. ‘Want one?’

  Benson shook his head. ‘No, ta.’ Then Slade approached, and Benson breathed in, tensed up. Miles took a step back.

  ‘Stick your liaison officer up your arse. Get me names.’

  Benson blinked. ‘Mr Crosby–’

  Then Miles butted in, ‘We know you’re upset, Mr Crosby, and we’re doing everything we can…’

  Slade stared fixedly at Benson, his eyes widening with each of Miles’ words until he peered around Benson’s shoulder and stared at him. Miles became quiet, and Slade returned his attention to Benson. ‘Occupational hazard, Mr Benson.’ He turned away, took the drink from Tyler. ‘I’ve been waiting for this day for a dozen years; it’s no shock to me.’

  Benson looked at the surviving son, Tyler, and was dismayed there was no discernible reaction from him.

  ‘Just names, Mr Benson. That’s all I want from you.’

  ‘I’m going across to Blake’s house now.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To have a look round. And I want his computer.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To have a look round.’ Benson stared at Slade. Not many people could intimidate him, but Slade Crosby was one of them. He forced himself to remain rigid, indignant. ‘If you need anything from in there, you come to me; we’re locking it down.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Long as required. I won’t ask if you know why anyone would want him dead.’

  Monty growled, ‘Out of order, Mr Benson.’

  ‘We’ll apprise you of our findings in due course.’

  ‘When can we have his remains back?’

  ‘Yeah, we have a funeral to arrange,’ Slade said.

  Benson slid his hands into his pockets, eyes flitting around the room as though looking for something. ‘This is why a family liaison–’

  Slade was in Benson’s face in an instant. Miles backed away to the door, but Benson stood his ground, and this seemed to inflame Slade even more. ‘Don’t you fucking listen?’ He spat into Benson’s face as he shouted, but neither even noticed. ‘I’ll crush you, Benson. You start fucking about with my family, and I’ll crush you.’

  The two men stared at each other.

  ‘Mr Crosby. Sit the fuck down. Now.’

  Slade looked from eye to eye, searching the man, greedily looking for the fear that he knew was there.

  ‘I said sit.’

  Monty moved to cover Miles, not that Miles had the slightest intention of doing anything other than leaving, and Tyler moved closer to Benson’s back, hands flexing into fists.

  And suddenly, Slade’s face relaxed, his eyes left Benson’s alone, and a fake smile dismissed the snarl. He even laughed. ‘Okay, Mr Benson; everything’s fine. I just lost my boy; you can understand that, eh?’

  ‘We’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Looking forward to it.’ Slade retook his seat, and Benson walked to the door.

  ‘Who works Garforth?’ Slade asked. He’d watched the coppers leave, and he knew full well they’d be laughing their bo
llocks off. That must have been one of the highlights of Benson’s shitty career to date, giving him some bad news. Well, Slade Crosby had had worse news from better coppers than him. It didn’t change the fact that Blake was dead.

  ‘I said who works Garforth?’

  Monty swallowed the last of the biscuits and shrugged, ‘We ain’t got nobody working Garforth. So small you could fucking spit over it; nothing there, man.’

  ‘So what the fuck was he doing there?’ Slade fell into a chair and realised, quite suddenly, that he was getting somewhere near being drunk. Good; he liked being drunk. It took away the shit from the day and left him with his own thoughts. Being drunk was almost an impenetrable barrier for bad news.

  Except that was crap too. He looked at the glass of Pernod and knew that his outburst to Benson, about it being an occupational hazard was, to a degree, correct. But he’d lied when he said he’d expected it for the last dozen years. ‘Can’t show them your weaknesses.’ Truth was, he hadn’t expected it all. Maybe Tyler – he was sharp and hard, and he got people’s backs up sometimes – but Blake was a puppy dog. An arsehole, granted, but soft like a puppy dog.

  And then Monty said something. Slade looked up, shocked. ‘Rachel?’

  ‘Dad. Tyler.’

  ‘I thought I should ring her, chief.’

  ‘Rachel, come in, come in. Monty, get Rachel–’

  ‘I’m not stopping, Dad.’

  Slade looked her up and down; from the pink hair down to the Converse trainers. He blinked, the disappointment clear in his face, and he held out a hand. For a moment, he looked like he might cry. ‘Please, Rachel; just for tonight. I’ll have your room made up.’ She was shaking her head. ‘I need my family around me tonight!’

  ‘Robin is in the car; I said I wouldn’t be long.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Robin. Right.’ And then he smiled at her, ‘Bring him in. Monty, bring Robin in.’

  ‘No, Dad. I’ll tell you what I know about Blake, and then–’

  ‘What you know?’ Tyler stood forward. ‘You’ve seen him?’

  Rachel nodded. ‘Ten minutes. He came to see me at work. Wanted my advice.’

  Slade sat down, looked at her intently. ‘Advice about what?’

  Rachel swallowed, appeared afraid of her father. ‘Women. He wanted to know how to treat them right.’

  Tyler gave a laugh and was about to state the obvious, about to say, “How does a rapist treat a woman right? He leaves her alone”. But he saw his father’s face and obviously decided now was not the time, and this was not the company.

  ‘And why would he say that?’

  ‘He was about to meet someone, he said.’ She swallowed again, interlaced her fingers so tightly that her nails turned white. ‘From an internet dating site.’

  Slade covered his eyes with a hand that shook ever so slightly. ‘Why didn’t he come and see me.’ It was not a question; it was a statement, a statement from a father who now believed he had failed his youngest son. ‘I would have helped, I could have–’

  ‘I’m not here to get into a debate, Dad, about why this or why that.’

  ‘No, cos you couldn’t give a shit!’ Tyler shouted.

  She looked at him, nodded slowly and said, ‘I think I’d better leave.’

  ‘No, no, you don’t. I want to know what else he said. Rachel, you tell me now. Please.’

  ‘That was it, more or less. He said he was ready for commitment; he didn’t want to…he didn’t want go with prostitutes anymore. He said she was a bookkeeper, honest and respectable. And that’s why he wanted advice on how to treat a woman.’

  ‘When was he meeting her, Rachel?’ Monty asked from the doorway.

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Did he say where?’

  She shook her head, licked her lips. ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘Sorry!’ Tyler shouted.

  ‘Tyler, give it a fucking rest.’ Slade looked at him. He looked then at Rachel through a sheen of tears. ‘I’m sorry I swore, love. Look, Rachel, stay the night, bring Robin in. Maybe in the morning, you’ll remember more.’

  Rachel turned and took a few steps towards the door. Monty stood there, almost as wide as the doorframe, and an inch or two taller. Slade nodded at him, and he stepped aside. ‘Let me get the front door for you,’ he said.

  ‘Rachel.’

  She stopped, turned slowly towards her father.

  ‘No need to trouble the police with this. Okay?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Good girl. We’ll be making our own enquiries.’

  As Monty was closing the front door, the gates opened again, and an old diesel pickup truck ambled in and squealed to a stop. Monty watched as Jagger, Pikey and Ste climbed out.

  Monty came down the steps to them.

  ‘Any news?’ Jagger asked.

  ‘Blake is dead.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Killed in Garforth. We don’t know who did it, how or why. So,’ he took hold of Ste, ‘if you don’t want your faces all across the floor, man, best stay in the staff house ’til it’s time for the job.’

  ‘Must know something,’ Jagger said.

  Monty looked at the lad. The other two, Ste and Pikey, took off across the turning circle to the staff house, engaged in fierce whispering. ‘Where’s Wasp?’

  ‘He’s meeting us later; wanted to get home for some reason.’

  Monty nodded, considering a response to the “must know something”. ‘All we know is he was using an internet dating site.’

  Jagger’s face screwed up. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘He’s got his pick of the girls–’

  ‘Never mind why; that’s what happened, that’s where we think he ran into trouble.’

  ‘You checked his computer? It might give you her name.’

  ‘It’ll be password protected. Anyway, the coppers are round his gaff now seizing it.’

  ‘Shame. Wasp is good at stuff like that; he’s always on about breaking codes to get inside stolen laptops.’

  ‘Is he, now?’ Monty turned; ready to go back into the house. ‘I’ll mention it to Slade; you go get your gear ready for the job. And then shift that heap o’ shit off the drive.’

  ‘You reckon it could’ve been Shylock?’

  Slade held out his empty glass, and Tyler took it. ‘You know something I don’t? Forget the Pernod, get me a cup of tea.’

  ‘We’ve never seen eye to eye with him, have we? He’s always trying it on, dipping his hands in our till.’

  ‘Petty theft. That’s all that is; everyone does it now and then, just to re-establish boundaries. But killing my boy…that’s fucking war talk is that.’

  ‘You reckon we should pay him a visit, sound him out maybe?’

  Monty closed the front door, Slade heard the big man walking down the hall and into the lounge. ‘Chief?’

  ‘I might go see him. Give it a day or two, though.’ He turned to Monty. ‘What?’

  ‘I called her. Hope you didn’t mind.’

  ‘Called who?’

  ‘Rachel.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Cos Blake said he was gonna see her–’

  ‘Wait, wait, wait. Rewind. He told you he was going to see Rachel?’

  Monty nodded.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Couple o’ weeks ago. Maybe ten days.’

  ‘Did he tell you why?’ Tyler asked.

  ‘Yeah, said he wanted advice; just like she told you.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to pass this on to me?’ Slade’s voice was quiet, but beneath it bubbled pure anger. His fingertips tapped on the leather seat, but now they were scratching, gouging.

  ‘It didn’t matter until Mr Benson showed up, chief.’

  ‘Didn’t matter?’

  ‘So, I thought I should ring her, Rachel, I mean, tell her to come and see you with what she knew.’

  ‘How come I’m the last person to know any-fucking-thing around here!’

  ‘Sorry, chief.’ Monty’s he
ad hung low. And then he said, ‘Jagger just came up with something good.’

  Slade stared.

  ‘Does Blake only have one computer?’

  ‘How the fuck should I know? No one tells me anything, remember?’

  Tyler brought a mug of tea through from the kitchen. ‘You mean, did Blake only have one computer.’

  ‘Quick to forget, aren’t you, boy?’

  He nodded at Slade, and then he squinted at Monty as though in thought. ‘You know what, you might’ve struck gold there.’

  ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘He’s got an old desktop at his house. I don’t think he uses it much. But he’s always got his head stuck in his–’

  ‘iPad!’ Monty clicked his fingers. ‘Bang on!’

  ‘And I’m pretty sure it’s in the staff house.’

  ‘Go get it, Monty. And make sure they’re ready to go.’

  ‘Righto,’ Monty turned to leave.

  ‘And tell them, there’s a two grand bonus each if it goes without a hitch, okay?’

  Monty left, and Tyler put his drink down. ‘I’d better get ready too.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘The job.’

  ‘You’re staying here where I can keep an eye on you.’

  ‘I’m second lookout, Dad.’

  ‘You’re staying put!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘’Til I find out for sure who killed Blake, you’re staying put. Is that fucking clear?’

  22

  — One —

  And still the rain fell.

  It was midnight, and Ros drove home in a daze after finishing late at the office. Paperwork: the bane of modern policing. She had done most of it in a trance, and the trance continued now as she pulled into her road and parked at the kerbside behind a huge Dodge Ram pickup truck. She shut down the engine, turned off the lights and sat in the darkness just letting her mind continue its wandering as the rain grew louder on the roof.

  She was thinking about Brian.

  Men called Brian were solid and reliable, maybe even a little boring. They were staid and dependable. Or so she had thought. It was just something about their name – the mundaneness of it, its banality. Men called Brian would never be heroes, they would never pull their damsel off the rails before the steam loco sliced them in three; they would never take a bullet for the president. Those attributes belonged to men called Kurt. But Brians could be counted on to be loyal, steadfast, strong and diligent.