Haunt Dead Wrong (14 page)

‘Mrs Hershey’s great-grandson, right?’ she said sadly. She shoved her papers into the crook of her one arm and then threw the other around Dougie, pulling him close until his
face hit her blue-uniformed bosom. ‘You poor love. What a terrible thing to happen to your great-gran, eh?’

Dougie prised himself free, taking an awkward step clear. ‘What happened?’

‘She had a funny turn, bless her. Probably this awful blooming heatwave we’re having. She had no windows open.’

‘Perhaps she was afraid?’ offered Lucy, trying to catch up on the conversation and quite out of the loop. ‘You know, of break-ins?’

The nurse looked her up and down as she stepped past toward her car, opening the boot. ‘Perhaps, lovely,’ she replied as she deposited her gear into the car. ‘Did you know his
great-gran too?’

‘Gran—?’ began Lucy, before Dougie jumped in.

‘Where are they taking her, Miss?’

‘The General Hospital. You should really let your parents know as soon as possible.’ She pulled a mobile phone from her pocket. ‘Do you want to call them? They live local,
right?’

Dougie’s smile was sad and very real. ‘Thanks, but I’m going to head straight home now and tell them. You’ve already been too kind.’

‘I’ll see you down there,’ said the nurse, opening the driver’s door. ‘Can give you a lift, if you like?’

‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ said Dougie, already backing away, taking Lucy by the hand. ‘I’d best check in with my folks first though.’

‘Alright, petal,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you down there. God bless.’

With that, she was in her car gunning the engine, as Dougie and Lucy walked in the opposite direction.

‘What was she on about?’ asked Lucy, her brow furrowed with suspicion. ‘I didn’t follow half of that. I thought your grandparents were all dead? You’ve never once
mentioned a great-grandma. Also, since when did you have parents, plural? What was all that about?’

Dougie had no answers. His mouth opened, jaw moving, but no sounds came out.

‘Say something, dude,’ I said, all too aware he was drowning as Lucy’s anger grew.

The plan had been straightforward enough. He was going to just pop in and drop the cigar box off with Ruby, tell her it was from a friend. That should have been all. He hadn’t even
intended to hang around. Taking along Lucy shouldn’t have been a big deal – she would wait in the street – yet here we were once more, fate kicking us in the down-belows.

‘Well?’ she said, pulling her hand free from his. Any compassion she’d felt earlier was gone, replaced by irritation. ‘That old woman
wasn’t
your great-gran,
was she? I’m not stupid. You must think I was born yesterday. Keeping stuff about your dad from me, I can just about handle. I’m all too aware that you’ve not introduced me to him
yet which, let’s face it, is a bit sodding weird. But this? Have you really nothing to say? You’ve just stood there and lied to that nurse. You’re lying to me now.
Speak
,
Dougie. What’s going on?’

‘Shout!’ I said. ‘Sing. Dance. Say
something
, mate!’

But Dougie simply stood there, shell-shocked, bereft of any answers that might appease Lucy.

‘Fine,’ she said haughtily. She unsnapped the silver charm bracelet from her wrist and slapped it into his hand. ‘You can keep that. When you want to be honest – and I
mean
truly
honest – we can see if that bracelet still fits. Until then you can keep it. Better still, give it to Great-Gran, whoever she is.’

Lucy stormed down the street without looking back. We watched her go. I could tell by her shaking shoulders she was crying.

‘Mate,’ I said, managing a pat of commiseration on his shoulder. ‘You’ve still got me.’

The look he shot me could best be described as death warmed up. He pocketed the charm bracelet and clapped his hands together, just the once.

‘Winner,’ sighed Dougie miserably.

The journey back to Casa Hancock was less than enjoyable. I tried chatting to Dougie, but it was no good; he had one on him. A cloud hung over his head, peeing on his parade
and dogging every sodden step. That business with Lucy had put a massive dampener on his demeanour, transforming him into the mean and moody Dougie who rarely came out to play. What few words
escaped his mouth were curses, some directed at me, most directed at his misfortune. He managed to boot many objects en route: fences, lampposts, cans, his heels and even a luckless bee that got in
his way. That backfired, of course, the insect pursuing him down the road for a good forty yards as he fled in abject fear. Mean and moody he may have appeared, but he was still my scaredy-cat mate
on the inside.

We marched down his cul-de-sac, turning into his drive and trooping around the side of the house. Dougie let himself in the back door, through to the kitchen, and I followed. He was about to
dump his keys on to the sideboard when he stopped; we could both hear his father talking in the other room.

‘Who’s in there?’ I asked.

‘Dunno. He hasn’t had a visitor for months.’

Judging by Mr Hancock’s voice, he wasn’t happy, his stressed tone hinting at an uncomfortable conversation.

‘Hang about,’ I said. ‘It’s just his voice. He’s on the phone again.’

It wasn’t like he ever spoke on the phone either. I could tell what Dougie was thinking: Bradbury. My friend was looking at the telephone extension that hung from the wall beside the bread
bin. I could see him chewing his lip, considering what to do. His anxiety passed over to me, flooding me with a sickly, nervous energy. He was suddenly reaching for the receiver, fingers
trembling.

I flung my hand out, the action enough to jar the progress of his hand and send it towards the bread bin.

‘What?’ he hissed.

‘He might hear you pick up. That “click” that tells you someone’s on the line; is that what you want? He’ll be down on you like a ton of bricks if he catches you
earwigging.’

‘I need to know what’s being said. If it
is
Bradbury, I can’t have Dad working for him again, Will.’

‘Then let
me
do the eavesdropping,’ I said. ‘Get over to the wall and I’ll do the rest.’

Dougie crept across the kitchen to the dining area, slipping up to the wall. I gave him a confident wink, but I wasn’t feeling it. The more time I spent in close proximity to Mr Hancock,
the more I suspected he was becoming aware of my presence. It was inexplicable, just a terrible hunch I might get rumbled at any moment. He was there that night, after all. He was involved, whether
he liked it or not.

I phased through the wall and into the lounge. Mr Hancock was sat in his trusty armchair, bent double, receiver in hand. His body language wasn’t good. Furtive glances toward the glass
door told me he was ashamed, fearful of Dougie’s return, perhaps discovering what he was up to.

‘I got that,’ he said. ‘But who am I driving?’

I darted forward, bringing my face up close to Mr Hancock’s with such sudden velocity that I nearly ended up inside his head. I’ve done that once before with Dougie – just the
once, mind you. As a ghost, there’s nothing guaranteed to make you want to blow chunks more than materialising in a living person’s head! I stopped an inch short of the man’s
skull and listened in to the telephone earpiece.

‘You don’t know the boys,’ said the voice on the other end. The Liverpudlian accent was instantly recognisable.

‘I might not know them, but I want names. I won’t let just anyone in the Bentley.’

‘Chill out, George,’ said Bradbury. ‘Don’t get arsey. It’ll be me and three of my best lads on this, all good boys. In and out, quick as a flash. Bish, bosh, bash;
job done. I swear, this’ll be the easiest gig in the world. Like taking candy from a baby.’

‘Then I’m done?’

‘Then we’re done, George. I wouldn’t be asking you to do this if it weren’t an emergency. You know that.’

I caught Mr Hancock’s sneer. It was clear he suspected otherwise, and so did we. Bradbury was toying with him, seeing how many hoops the poor chap would jump through. And to what end? To
prove he had power over him. There was no way this would be the last phone call. This job was the thin end of the wedge. More work would follow, as would the threats.

‘What time tonight?’

‘Get there for two. Park in the loading bay. You need to be there prompt, not a minute later. Everyone will know where to find you.’

‘Two o’clock?’

‘What? Are you deaf now?’ There was the aggression in Bradbury’s voice, his mask slipping. His voice softened quick as a flash. ‘Yeah, two. That alright,
George?’

Mr Hancock grunted into the mouthpiece.

‘I need to hear you say it,’ said the man, his quiet voice dripping with menace. ‘Yes, Mr Bradbury. Two o’clock.’

Dougie’s dad shuddered. ‘Yes, Mr Bradbury. Two o’clock, sir.’

‘Sir. I like that. A real ring of respect to it. We’re nothing without manners, eh, mate? Funny thing is, I’ve got you to thank for this job.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Your lad gave me the idea when I met him the other day.’

Mr Hancock’s jaw clenched suddenly. I saw his nose curl, like he’d caught the whiff of something rotten. He ground his teeth.

‘My son gave you the idea?’

‘Indirectly, George,’ laughed Bradbury. ‘I don’t want you think I’m taking him on as an apprentice or ’owt. He won’t be aware he helped me. No, the idea
came from bumping into him.’

I watched Dougie’s dad exhale slowly, trying to keep his composure in the face of the villain’s words. ‘Is that all?’

‘That’s all, George. I’ll see you later, eh?’

‘This is the last one, remember?’

‘Oh aye,’ chuckled Bradbury. ‘Of course it is.’

The phone went dead in Dougie’s father’s hand. I backed up as Mr Hancock smacked his parched lips. His hand went instinctively to a beer can at the foot of the armchair, wavering for
a moment. He snapped it back, thinking better of it. At that moment I spied an open notepad on his thigh, pencil notes scrawled on the top sheet. Before I could read it, he was tearing the leaf
off, folding it and tucking it into his shirt breast pocket. I cursed my ill timing as he rose, pad and pencil falling off his lap to the debris-littered carpet.

‘Oh, hello,’ he said, taken aback. He was looking straight at me!

I gasped.

I was about to reply when I heard Dougie’s voice at my back. He was standing in the open hall doorway.

‘Everything OK, Dad?’

‘Yes, Douglas,’ he said, cheeks flushed with colour, and it wasn’t the booze. He was shamefaced to be lying brazenly to his son. ‘All good.’

‘What’re you up to? Were you on the phone?’

‘Yeah, just a nuisance call. Some idiots trying to sell us stuff. What are they like, eh?’

Mr Hancock made to move past Dougie, but my pal remained blocking the door.

‘Is everything alright, Dad? Really?’

His father’s shoulders slumped. ‘Everything
will
be alright, son. Trust me.’

With that, Dougie reluctantly stepped aside. Mr Hancock sloped into the kitchen, stopping at the internal door that led through to the garage. Keys jangled, the door opened, and he went through,
locking it behind him. Dougie turned to me.

‘What was that all about then?’

‘He wasn’t being entirely truthful.’

‘Let’s go with the word “remotely”. I know my dad. What was said?’

I moved away from the door, encouraging Dougie to follow. The last thing he needed was for his dad to hear him confabbing with himself.

‘He’s doing a job for Bradbury,’ I said.

‘Why?’ said Dougie, loudly, immediately cringing in case his father heard him. ‘Why do
anything
for that scumbag?’

‘I’m with you, mate. But look at the facts. Bradbury still has him over a barrel. There’s no way he wants to do this, but he clearly feels he has to.’

‘It’s me, isn’t it? Am I the bargaining chip? Is he using me as a threat?’

‘I’m sure you’re a major part of it, but let’s not rule out the idea that Bradbury could also send some heavies round and kneecap your dad. He’s seriously bad news.
Your dad’s terrified.’

Dougie shook his head bitterly. ‘What’s the job?’

‘Don’t know, I only caught the tail end of the conversation, but it’s happening at two o’clock tonight.’

‘Tonight?’

‘Bradbury reckons
you
gave him the idea for it.’

‘Me?’

‘I know. Proper little Moriarty and you don’t even know it.’

‘So what’s the job?’

‘He wrote down the details on his notepad – but mate, I’m so sorry. He tore the sheet off and took it with him.’

‘Where did he put the note?’

‘Shirt pocket. With respect to your old man, he’s been sleeping in that shirt all week. I don’t think you’ve got a hope in hell of picking that pocket.’

Dougie cursed and kicked an empty beer can across the floor. His eyes flashed as he spied something. Crouching, he picked it up. He waved the notepad at me.

‘This pad?’

I nodded, as my mate snatched up the pencil. He turned it on its side and began to run it back and forth lightly against the top sheet of the pad, carefully increasing the pressure. It was as if
he were doing a brass rubbing which his life depended upon. Gradually the words materialised through the shades of graphite, the indentations left behind on the pad from Mr Hancock’s writing
slowly revealing themselves. We brought our faces in close. There were the road names accompanied by a crudely sketched map.

‘It’s in town, look,’ I said, pointing out Buttermarket Street in Dougie’s dad’s scrawl. There was the loading bay Bradbury had mentioned too, circled roughly with
a ‘C’ for car. Dougie jabbed at a point on the rough map that had a big cross on it.

‘X marks the spot.’

‘What
is
that building?’ I asked. I could see it was on a pedestrianised part of the street. Dougie gulped with realisation, tapping the sketch with a forefinger.

‘That’s the alley Vinnie Savage chased us into. It’s where Bradbury met us.’

‘That alley?’ I remembered it only too well now, including its location. ‘Bloody hell, Dougie. You know what this is, don’t you?’