Paint. The art of scam. (21 page)

‘Well done my
son. I'm proud of you. You bring some money huh?’

Bruno's eyes
dropped to the carpet for help. This was it. The moment had come.

‘There is no
money Papa.’ said Bruno bluntly, his body tensed up.

Silence.

‘No money? What
you mean there no money. Is in the papers. You took the whole payroll.’ hissed
Paolo.

‘Well, we did
papa, but we got sprung didn't we. A bloke and a woman. The bloke, he died I
think. He collapsed and the woman, we had to take her hostage Papa and she
escaped see an' nicked the money off us see.’ Bruno's words fell out of his
mouth convincingly, or so he thought.

‘No, you take the
piss huh? In the papers. The money is stilla missing. No man die. No woman
hostage. It say man had heart attack, but he don't matter a shit. He is fuckin'
bastard. What you talking about huh?’ Paolo grabbed a paper from the table and
prodded at it with his dumpy index finger. ‘See huh? The money, you got it!’

‘What!. The money
is still missing? But...’

Whack! Paolo slapped
his son across the head with the newspaper. ‘Si, the money is stilla missing
and you gonna gimmi it. Nowa!’

Bruno
contemplated raising his head to face Paolo, but he wouldn't do that when he
was six and wasn't going to start now. ‘It's gone papa. It's gone. The girl.
She took it.’ Bruno muttered.

Whack! Whack!
Paolo began smacking him, his left hand taking turns with his right. The pain
of Bruno's already bruised head made him pull away, causing Paolo to spin to
the floor.

Both dazed, Bruno
took his hands away from his face and looked down at Paolo.

‘Papa. It ain't
my fault we got sprung. How was I to know huh?’

He was surprised
at Paolo's reaction, he seemed to calm and smiled at Bruno as he got to his
feet. Thinking he was ahead, Bruno searched his brain for his rehearsed speech.
This was the right time to use it.

‘You blew it
Papa, you should've made sure they was all there.’ Bruno was suddenly feeling
good. Paolo was smiling and nodded his head as if to agree him. The next stage
was to hug his father and forgive him. He felt a warmth in his father. At last
he had stood up to him. As Bruno was contemplating the joy of his new found
standing, staring into his father's eyes as he smiled into his, whack! Paolo
leapt at full force, his arms smacking Bruno like two thrashing fish.

Exhaustion
stopped him. He was an old man. Again they both stood there dazed, six feet apart.

'You getta that
fuckin money Bruno. You hear me?’ growled Paolo, breathing heavily, his head
bowed.

‘I will, Papa. I
will.’

Paulo raised his
head and took his son by the shoulders.

‘I fuckin kill
you Bruno. Ees a promise.’

‘Yes papa. I
know.’

Bruno sat on his
bed, staring at the bare walls, reflecting on the grim ugly space of time that
was his life, when there was a hard knock at the door. He looked toward the
door, held his breath and closed his eyes, waiting.

Again the door
thundered. The knocking was angry and he was pretty sure that if he opened the
door, it wouldn't be the Avon lady. He cupped his hands and hid his face for a
moment, wishing his body could dissolve into the festering mattress.

The knocking
stopped and he took his hands away from his face. It could have been anyone,
probably a debt collector or those fucking kids down the corridor.

Suddenly the door
burst open with a clean thud. Bruno sat up to see Roger standing there, his
empty eyes popping out of their sunken sockets, his body inflating and
deflating with each heavy breath, the door dangling on the remaining top hinge.

‘Oh Jesus, please
not now.’ Said Bruno slapping his hands back over his face again.

‘Right, you
fucking prick. Where's the fucking money?’ Growled Roger as he launched himself
onto the bed, sat astride Bruno, pinning his arms down with his legs.

Bruno shook his
head, his eyes pinched shut, prepared for pain.

‘I dunno, I
dunno. Get the fuck off me!’

Whack! Roger hit
him across the head and was gripping his throat with his other meaty hand.

‘I said, where's
the fucking money?’

Bruno couldn't
speak, his battered face blank and bloody. Roger released his throat grip but
left his hand poised to strike again.

‘I dunno,’ Bruno
whimpered.

‘The chick's
still got it, ain't she?’

‘What the fuck do
you mean?’

Roger pulled a
rolled up newspaper from his back pocket and whacked Bruno across the head with
it before unravelling it and shoving the front page two inches from his face.

‘Here you fuckin'
moron. It's all in black and white.’

It says the
money is still missing.' That bitch must have kept the loot. And the bloke who
collapsed, he ain't dead at all. You silly cunt.’

Bruno stared at
the crumpled paper.

‘Did you fucking
hear me. Well fucking say somefing,will ya?’

Bruno shook his
head frantically.

‘He's dead Roger.
Course he's dead. You seen him. It's just the cops playing tricks to make us
fink he ain't.’

Roger grabbed him
by the throat again.

‘Bollocks. I'm
telling you Bruno, we gotta find both of 'em, the chick and the bloke. Right?’

‘How?’

‘What do you mean
fucking how?’

Roger was as
stumped as Bruno was.

‘You work it out,
and if I find out you got sumfing to do with this, you're fucking dead.’

The idea of death
momentarily appealed to Bruno.

‘Well?’ Roger
snapped.

‘Maybe she did
give them the money back and the cops are watching her, waiting for us to get
at her.’ mumbled Bruno, desperately.

‘Bollocks’ said
Roger. ‘You fuckin' get her. Right!’

Bruno looked up
at him, nodding frantically. ‘OK. OK.’

‘And what about
your fucking dad, eh? Maybe he fucking fixed us up. Where the fuck is he?’

‘I dunno.’

‘What do you mean
you don't fucking know. You fink I'm fick or summit?’ said Roger.

‘I dunno honest,
he's gone to ground somewhere, he said he'd contact me in a few days when it's
all calmed down. It's true honest! Don't worry I'll sort it out, all right? Let
me do it my way.’

Roger eased his
grip and slowly climbed off the bed.

‘You've got a
fucking week Bruno. If you ain't got a result. I'm taking over.’

‘OK. OK, a week’

‘I'll be watching
you, dick head,’ said Roger, reaching down and grabbing Bruno by the throat
again. ‘You find that fucking chick and get that fucking money. Got it?’

Roger left,
unsuccessfully trying to slam the door, its dislodged hinges causing the door
to wobble pathetically in its frame, spring open again and fall against the
wall.

The Limit.

Shoal was on his
way home for a spot of liver and bacon when he got a call to go the station
immediately and barged into his office to find Chief Superintendent Baxter of
Sussex Police Internal Affairs sat behind his desk examining a thick file in
front of him. Three other plain clothed officers were busy rifling through his
filing cabinet.

‘What's going on
here sir?’ said Shoal angrily.

Baxter looked
over his glasses at Shoal. ‘Sit down Shoal.’

Shoal slowly sat
down, his eyes darting around the office. One of the men began loading a pile
of files into a metal case.

‘Sir?’

‘I'm afraid you
are being suspended from duty Shoal, forthwith, pending an official enquiry.’

‘Enquiry sir?’

‘Yes Shoal, an
enquiry into the death of a certain Cecil Snowden-Smythe.’

‘But sir, the
post mortem showed that he died from a brain haemorrhage.’

‘Yes that's right
Shoal, caused by multiple injuries to the head and limbs.’

‘But sir.’

‘Shoal!’
interrupted Baxter. ‘This is the second custodial death you have had on your
watch in three months.’

‘Yes sir but..’

‘But nothing
Shoal, it's not up to me. I have been instructed to suspend you until a full
enquiry has been conducted into both deaths. It’s a perfectly normal procedure.’

‘Sir, I am in the
middle of a major crime investigation and I...’

‘Shoal! I have
told you, it's not up to me. I am just following orders. There have been
several written complaints about your conduct lately and now, with this latest
incident, we have to follow them up OK?’

‘What sort of
complaints?’

‘I am not at
liberty to discuss it with you Shoal.’

Shoal scrubbed at
his rubbery chin, stood up and began pacing around the office.

‘It's that Khan
bastard isn't it?’

Baxter looked
back at the three other men behind him at the filing cabinets.

‘Lads. Give me
five minutes will you?’

The three men
immediately stopped what they were doing and left the room.

Baxter waited a
few moments, looking at Shoal.

‘Shoal. This is
not personal, believe me. There have been several serious accusations made
against you and yes some of them are related to the Khan honour killing case.
When there is a death in custody, like the Khan boy, which I know was investigated
thoroughly and found in your favour, it still doesn't do our image any good.
But when there is a second death, with the same circumstances and cause of
death, well, surely Shoal, you must understand, it does beg questions.’

‘Sir I...’

‘We know what
you are up against Shoal, really we do. We had no idea what a hornets nest you
uncovered when they found the Khan girl's body and you, to your credit, exposed
that whole extortion racket.’

Shoal relaxed a
little with Baxter's words.

‘So it's a P.R. thing
then.’ said Shoal, defeated.

‘I'm sure it'll
blow over Shoal, these things always do.’ said Baxter, in a manner that
suggested a wink.

‘And the
Hogarth's case? Who's taking that over?’

‘Well,’ said
Baxter shuffling through a folder, ‘let me see. Doesn't seem like you were
getting too far on that one. No prints, no witnesses, no nothing really. Except
you've got some notes here on a Polly Capital.’

‘I spoke to the
office manager earlier, he regain consciousness and verified Polly Capital's
story.’

‘That's the woman
the gang took hostage?’

‘Yes sir. For a
while there, I must admit I had my suspicions about her. Nothing concrete, just
a feeling.’ said Shoal fidgeting with his chin nervously.

‘Can I be frank
with you Shoal?’ said Baxter.

Shoal looked at
Baxter with suspicion.

‘Of course, I
assumed you always have been sir.’

Baxter nodded. ‘I
try. You see Shoal, we understand that your interrogation tactics are becoming,
shall we say, radical?’

‘Radical sir?’

‘Yes, some people
say, even cruel, sadistic. It's become a bit of an issue frankly. This Cecil
Snowden-Smythe chap, for example. Sounds to me like you were taunting him with
a class A drug to get information. Offering him a hit of heroin and
disappearance of evidence in exchange for information. Does that ring a bell
Shoal?’

Shoal stood
still, taking in Baxter's sternly delivered words. He had not recorded the
interview. Shoal suddenly felt surrounded: betrayed.

‘Nobody, as yet,
has put in a complaint,’ continued Baxter, ‘but if someone did, I think you,
and therefore me, would have some very tricky questions to answer, and quite
rightly so. The way you treated Cecil Snowden-Smythe was tantamount to torture
Shoal. Are you listening to me Shoal?’

Shoal stood
still, his eyes fixed on his nameplate on the desk in front of Baxter. Betrayal
had settled in, now he was being busted. Shoal nodded and looked at Baxter.

‘Thank you sir.’
said Shoal bowing his head slightly. ‘You are right.’

Baxter smiled
compassionately. ‘You need to rest Shoal. You've been doing this for far too
long. You're too emotionally involved to do your job and if I were you, I would
think long and hard about your future in the next few weeks.’

Shoal looked at
the stone stare on Baxter's face for as long as could.

There was a knock
on the door and Ricketts walked in.

‘Sorry to disturb
you sir, just thought you should know. Just heard from the hospital, Mr.
Arnold, the office manager, he died a couple of hours ago.’