Highbridge (16 page)

Despite the now almost tolerant smiles from the Chairman and Hilary and the look of glee from the newshound, Sean could almost feel the temperature in the room drop. Vicar Dilby's lips were pursed. Almost as tight as Gill's. This isn't what they came for. It should have been a nice pleasant lunch. Not a seminar. Or a debate.

‘I know that's not what I was supposed to say.' Sean was now almost apologetic. ‘But, well, you are eating my sandwiches and what do they say: there's no such thing as a free lunch?'

It got a few weak smiles. But a lot more nervous glances towards Hilary and the Chairman, both having regained their impassive public personas.

‘You calling for legalisation, then, Sean?' It was Arthur the newshound, now sensing if not a possible front page, then a definite spark for the letters page.

Sean glanced across at Gill. Eyes wide, head shaking slowly, lips forming the word noo-o-o. There was no grant funding in legalisation. His eyes flicked to Hilary. Her face rigid but her eyes smiling. Go on, you dug the hole. The Head was trying not to catch anyone's eye, while Winnie Garstang was beaming. Another man making an idiot of himself?

‘No, Arthur,' Sean replied. ‘But what about regulation? We do it with cigarettes and alcohol. Why not other drugs, like cannabis?'

‘So you're saying cannabis is no worse than booze and fags?'

‘Nice try,' Sean countered. ‘But that's one for the medical professionals to answer, actually. There's a debate going on about whether terminally ill people should be prescribed cannabis as part of the end of life palliative care.'

‘All cancer patients should be encouraged to smoke, then?'

‘Now I know you are being provocative.'

‘It's what I get paid for.'

‘OK. One last thing, then I'll let everyone get on with the cakes, tea and learning how to spot the pot.'

There were a few relieved faces as Sean paused to try and put things simply and quickly. ‘As a society, we have learned how to control alcohol and tobacco. No one really thinks of injecting pure alcohol or nicotine, as they would die. We have learned how to use those drugs by diluting them: 3–4 per cent alcohol. Dangers of tobacco. And so on. We teach our children these things. Why shouldn't we do it with other things? And, Mr Chairman, we have also learned to tax the use of those drugs. Taxes that pay for a lot of the services your authority delivers.' He turned to Hilary. ‘I know we still have crime attached to their use, but at least the money that taxes raise helps provide the resources to fight it.'

As both the Chairman and Hilary gave a nod of concession Sean decided to quit while he was, if not ahead, then at least climbing out of the hole he had dug. ‘OK. That's it for me. Except to remind you of the first public consultation up at Treetops tonight at … er … 7.30?' He looked across to Gill, who had a smile ready. Confirmatory. Supportive.

‘So, sorry if I went off on one, but please support CAD whenever and wherever you can … And … have a browse round while you are here and spend a bit to help me pay for the sandwiches … And … everyone can have a 10 per cent discount for being so polite. Thank you.'

The last bit at least got the applause going and Sean headed off to get a cup of tea trying not to look at either Glynnis or Byron, who was now clearly in Glynnis's camp. Ten per cent discount?

Luke was alone in the hide. Matt had gone on the Costa run, leaving Luke mulling over the point that local people should kill local people. Another bit of perverse logic. But one that avoids the bit everyone forgets. Not the people doing the killing, but the ones who see the horror. He had no qualms or doubt that Fatchops deserved what was coming. Like his suppliers. If a half-inch piece of steel blew your head apart you wouldn't know it, but everyone standing around you would never forget it. Did they deserve that? Did everyone else deserve what happened to Janey?

He looked at his watch. 17.55. Then panned the Barrett along the street. The guy with the silver Transit would be arriving any minute. Silver was the new white van around Highbridge, Luke had noticed. Then the old boy from No. 78, who always struggled to get his wheelie bin out through the front of the house, would hobble along and wave to Silver Van Man. Then the kid on his mountain bike. The woman in the hi-viz jacket on her way home from the Community Centre. And all the other regulars would come and go. Habit. Routine. POLO.

Eventually the scope came back on to its intended target, now finishing off his nightly cleaning routine and, yes, putting out his box of special forks, just below the counter, below the one already open on the countertop. No one was going to help themselves to the specials. Another hour and the banker would arrive to stand in the alley with the stack of marked notes and the users would start arriving to convert their hard-earned or easily stolen cash. Luke put Fatchops's head in the cross hairs. It would blow apart like a ripe melon. If the bullet hit him. The problem was that it was going to have to be a cold snatch shot. No chance to readjust. When they had those five seconds they needed to make sure he was stationary and no one else would walk into the shot. He moved the scope down to Fatchops's torso, then grinned. That's too big to miss. Just as he did, the hi-viz jacket of the woman from the Community Centre appeared in the scope. Exactly what they wanted to avoid.

If he had squeezed the trigger then, the woman in the hi-viz jacket would have arrived just in time to see Fatchops's head blow apart. She might even have ended up with some of his brains mixed in with her nightly cod and chips. And be traumatised for the rest of her life. Luke had long since been desensitised. He'd actually been trained, perhaps indoctrinated, to accept it as simply a natural outcome. They all had. And in the age of the Internet he couldn't understand how some still arrived in the so-called theatre of war and were shocked at what they saw. It was all over the web. If YouTube didn't let you see it there were plenty of other ex-military, soldiers of fortune or wannabe sites that had all the graphic detail, including, because of smartphones, the soundtracks.

That was the real difference, Luke remembered. The sound. They had all gone through the live fire drills with instructors yelling their lungs out, but unfortunately the targets and their families had not been on the induction courses. A dickhead pretending to be a bad guy was nothing like the wailing grief and eyes of pure hatred that came at you when things got really hot. Like the first time you get whacked in the school playground. It isn't play fighting. It hurts. And it's a big shock. And the bigger the whacking, the bigger the trauma. No, Luke thought, while Fatty deserved everything he had coming, that woman in the hi-viz vest didn't. And neither did her family, who would be left having to cope with her, perhaps for the rest of her life.

A low whistle brought his attention back to the hide entrance. It was Matt warning him he was on the way in.

‘Whoa, you look like you've been brooding,' Matt said without any greeting but handing Luke his latte and panini.

‘Yeah, I was just … You know …'

Matt was expecting another round of counselling about Janey, but was surprised to hear Luke say, ‘I'm not sure we should slot Fatty.'

‘You want to cut and run?' Matt asked. ‘I'll do it if you don't feel—'

But Luke cut across him. ‘No, it's not that. It's just … Do you think Joey could handle it?'

‘Ah. I thought you'd been there and got past it.'

‘So did I, but … They don't really know, do they? Ulster was the worst for me. Young, keen, thinking I was going there to help. And they were just like us, weren't they? Until you were told to kick in their doors and drag their men away. And raised on folklore that romanticised the struggle, they then came into direct contact with a size ten boot or rubber bullet. I hated that. I never believed in what we were doing.'

‘Never our job, Luke. It was a civilian issue that they should have sorted politically before putting us on the streets. Last resort, we are, remember. Like now, probably. Why don't the cops just go and take this fat bastard out?'

‘Why indeed?'

‘So, do you want to scrub it?'

Luke hesitated for a moment. Matt already knew the answer and waited for the shake of the head. ‘Just change the scenario.'

‘Nice one, Sean,' Arthur Young said as he shook Sean's hand on the way out. ‘Great when someone stirs it up a bit.'

‘Sells papers, does it?' Sean replied, with a laugh.

‘Yeah. And you won't mind if we splash you over the front page? Local Boss Blasts Bureaucrats?' But he grinned as he saw Sean become anxious. ‘No worries, Sean. You're one of the good guys. Who else would give this lot a free scoff?'

‘That include you?'

‘Of course. And much appreciated. Nah, you won't be on the front page. Not up to me anyway. The editor sent me here to get something on the dynamic duo there, wasting our money.' He nodded across to where the Chairs of County and Town had colonised a table and took out his phone to take a shot, just as the Town Chair was stuffing another custard slice into his mouth. ‘Let them eat cake, eh? Yeah, it'll be those two. Something about fat cats and cream. Put money on it. It's that and good local celeb stories that sell the paper, Sean. So who've you got opening your grotto?'

‘Well, I hadn't really thought of—'

But Arthur was already conjuring up a story. ‘Have you tried Craig Harlow? My mum knows his mum, Wendy.'

Sean laughed. ‘Your mum seems to know everyone.'

‘Why do you think I came into this game? Long line of nosey parkers. Straight, though. He's often back on the quiet to see his mum and I bet he'd pop in one day and play Santa. Great front page that would be. Anyway, got to go. Apparently someone saw a ghost up at the war memorial last night. Always gets the letter pages going, that one. I'll send you Craig's details. Stay sharp.'

And with that he was off, leaving Sean to ponder on Craig Harlow. Local celeb. One-time boy-band member now Hollywood A-list actor. Would he actually do it?

‘This is really about your girl, isn't it?' Joey heard Benno ask as he dropped to the floor to started fishing the 110-V cable behind the worktops. Once more going to the point. Joey had told him about the skirmish Tanya had found herself in a few weeks ago.

‘Yeah, suppose so,' Joey responded, hoping not to have to go any further. Some chance with Benno.

‘You have to do it, Joe.'

‘What?'

‘Go back.' Benno said, as he reappeared above the worktop. ‘You have to.'

Joey knew Benno was trying to make it easier for him. Although he wasn't expecting the next bit.

‘Besides,' Benno said, ‘I'm off tomorrow anyway. Before Uncle Gus comes back.'

‘What? Where?'

‘Remember that job up in Borehamwood we knocked back for this? Still got a spot for me.'

‘How? When did you fix this?' Joey asked.

‘It's been brewing for a while now, hasn't it. Not letting me get to sleep having to listen to all your troubles.'

Joey laughed. That was a good one. But he appreciated what Benno was doing. Leaving him no excuse to stay.

‘So, no point you hanging about fretting down here,' Benno continued, then fixed Joey with a hard stare. ‘Or fretting about me. I can look after meself. You do what you have to do, lad.'

With that he disappeared into the service duct again, leaving Joey to finally make the decision. He bent to the service duct. ‘OK, oh wise one. But I'll stay until the end of the week while we clear out the lock-up.'

‘So you make sure you get your proper share?' came a cackling reply.

‘There is that.' Joey grinned. But at least now he had something concrete to tell Natasha later.

‘What's wrong with your face?' Natasha asked her daughter, as she stacked the dishwasher following the evening food fest. No matter how much she used the mantra, ‘straight in please', somehow everyone always seemed too busy to bend down and open the door.

‘Just got another message from Carol. Becky's gone missing again,' Tanya replied as she retrieved her jacket from the couch. Roscoe immediately saw it as a cue that he might be going for a walk, but was soon deflated. ‘Not now, Roscoe. Mum'll take you later.'

Roscoe doubted that as he slumped back into his basket. He'd be lucky if he got a quick round of the garden, when he'd be under pressure to perform before being sent to bed for the night. At least though, he knew he'd get a Dentastick from the older female.

‘And where are you going at this time?' Tasha asked.

‘It's only nine, Mum. I'm just going to meet Cags and see if Becky is hanging out with Hus.'

‘I'm not sure I like the sound of all this.'

‘That's why I'm going. Don't worry, I won't get involved if she's with him. I'll text you later.'

‘Be back by ten, young lady.'

But the door had been slammed. Natasha looked at the clock. That's when she was going to speak to Joey. She'd been worrying all day about what might be going on in his head.

At 21.30 Luke and Matt lay prone, watching the tide of customers starting to ebb. The earlier teatime rush had slowed and Fatchops was now getting everything ready for the late-night snackers. Luke had him framed in the scope as he was again meticulously cleaning the countertops to remove any traces that might have fallen from his box of special forks. Matt was slowly sweeping the street through the spotting scope. It was time.

‘Still clear.'

Luke widened the scope to take in the whole shop. It was empty except for Fatchops and one of the two spotty helpers placing a bucket of chips beneath the mushy peas and curry table at the back, ready for the next incoming tide. As soon as Spotty went back to chipping more spuds, Luke would take the shot. If he still kept getting Matt's all-clear reports.

‘All clear bottom end.'