Bloody Horowitz (7 page)

But the one problem that wouldn't go away, even for a minute, was the local gang. It didn't have a name. It wasn't called the Sharks or the Razorboys or anything like that. Nor was it particularly organized. It was just there . . . half a dozen teenagers, maybe a couple more in their early twenties, prowling the estate, killing time, smoking, making life miserable for everyone else.

A boy named Bob Kirby had been gang leader for as long as anyone could remember. He was also known as Romeo because of the big red heart tattooed on his right arm, although nobody knew when he'd had it put there or why. Certainly, Kirby had very little love for anyone. He sneered at his father, beat his mother and terrorized anyone who got in his way. Bob had been a weight lifter, with muscles that wouldn't have looked out of place on a Hollywood star or, for that matter, a long-term convict. Once, in a fight, he had broken the jaw of a man twice his size. Aged just nineteen, he had been arrested twice and was well known to the local police, who were just waiting for him to make the one mistake that would put him into their care. But Bob had been careful. Either that or he was lucky. The Kenworth Estate was his and he ruled it in filthy jeans and his trademark hoodie, a concealed weapon in one pocket and ten Marlboro Lights in another, with a permanent scowl on his pockmarked face.

And then, one day, Bob Kirby disappeared. He was last seen driving east on the A14 in a stolen car and rumor had it that he had upped sticks and moved to London. This was strange, as he had no friends or relatives there. Bob had no friends anywhere. Some people whispered that he had been stopped by the police on the way, beaten up and left in a ditch—but this was just wishful thinking. He had gone because he had decided to go. And the only thing that mattered was that, with a bit of luck, he wouldn't come back.

His place, however, had been quickly taken. Harry Faulkner had been Bob's lieutenant, his second in command and the first to do whatever Bob wanted. When old Mr. Rossiter's house was burgled and his war medals stolen, it was Harry who had put his elbow through the back window. He was pale and unhealthy looking, with tufts of greasy, fair hair cut short and a sty that had taken up permanent residence in the corner of his eye. His teeth were amazingly uneven and he had lost two of them in a fight ten years ago when he was barely eleven. He had been suspended from school more often than he had been in it and he too had been served with an arrest warrant. He appeared frequently on the lists passed between the police and social workers. He lived with his single mother, who drank, and a mongrel dog that limped around the wreck of the garden and cowered when Harry came home.

He had chosen Jason Steel to be his own right-hand man—something that had made Jason enormously proud, particularly as he was only fifteen and, despite his best efforts, still had no police record. As soon as Harry took him under his wing, Jason promptly gave up attending school, something his teachers couldn't understand because, despite appearances, he was actually fairly bright. Those appearances included a shaven head, hostile eyes and nicotine-stained fingers. Jason was scrawny and small for his age, hollowed out by the life he had chosen. He didn't sleep enough, eat enough or look after his personal hygiene in any meaningful way. He was just happy to be with Harry. That was his tragedy. He couldn't see how pathetic that made him.

The two of them spent their days doing very little. They seldom got up before ten or eleven o'clock in the morning. Once they were up, they ate large, unhealthy breakfasts and were outside the King's Arms by one. Here they would meet up with Den, Frankie, Jo-Jo, PK and Ashley—the other members of the gang. Of course, the barman wasn't supposed to serve them drinks. But Harry Faulkner was old enough to buy alcohol and the rest of them looked it, so why argue? Keep the boys happy and your windows might stay unbroken. That was the philosophy around here.

In the afternoon, the six of them might go shopping in Ipswich . . . or shoplifting, rather, for they seldom paid. Sometimes Harry and Jason would head off alone. They liked going to the cinema. One of them would buy a ticket and let the other in through the fire door. They took drugs, of course. So far they had stayed off the heavy stuff. Both of them were afraid, although neither of them would have admitted it. But they smoked grass and passed hours in a semiconscious state. For all seven gang members, this wasn't so very different from their normal state. They had found a way of making the day pass without noticing. If they were bored, they didn't know it. And if they knew it, they didn't admit it. They were happy being together. What else did they need?

But Harry and Jason were on their own the day they came upon the BMW.

It was parked just around the corner from the King's Arms, sitting in an empty street as if it had simply dropped out of the sky. What was an expensive car like this doing at the Kenworth Estate, anyway? It looked brand-new, although its license plate showed that it was actually three years old. A BMW X3, metallic silver with alloy wheels and sports trim, leather interior and electric sunroof, parked there as if it should be in some swanky showroom.

Incredible.

“Where do you think that came from?” Harry asked. He had a squeaky voice, the result of all his smoking, and he almost purposefully brutalized every word. “Whe' d'ya fink tha' caym frum?”

“I don't know, Haz,” Jason replied. He was already wondering what Harry would do. Run a key down the paintwork, certainly. And perhaps more.

“How much do you think it's worth?”

“I got no idea.” In fact, Jason guessed its value would be around $25,000. The latest X3 went for about $40,000 new. He'd read that in a magazine. But it was always better to keep his mouth shut when he was with Harry. Being too clever with someone like that could be bad for your well-being.

“Who'd park something like that around here?” Harry looked across the surrounding wasteland, back toward the pub and across to the estate. There was nobody in sight. It was a cold day and drizzling. The winter months were drawing in.

“What you gonna do, Haz?”

Harry hadn't decided yet, but Jason could see all sorts of possibilities traveling across his eyes like prizes on a game show. The DVD player, the cuddly toy, the twenty-grand four-by-four . . .

“Let's get another drink,” Jason went on. It was three o'clock in the afternoon and the pub would be closed by now, but there was something about the BMW that made him want to move on. It shouldn't have been there. It was weird. And there was something else. . . .

“Nah. Wait a minute.” Harry was still deep in thought. “That's a nice car,” he said. “And it's here. And there's nobody about.”

“Who'd leave a car like that out here?” Jason asked, almost exactly echoing what Harry had said a few moments before.

“Let's take a closer look.”

“You think it's safe?” Jason wasn't sure why he'd said that.

“You think that little diddy car is going to get up and bite you?” Harry giggled. “It's safe!”

The two of them went up to the X3. It had tinted windows. The bodywork was gleaming. Inside, the brilliantly polished dashboard made Jason think of a sleeping tiger. He wanted to turn the key, to hear the growl of the engine, to feel the power that would come as the dials and gauges lit up.

The key.

It was in the ignition.

Harry had seen it too. “You see that?” he whispered.

“Yeah, Harry.”

“They left the key in the car.”

“Let's get out of here, Harry.”

“What you talking about, Jace? They left the bloody key in the bloody car.” Harry took another look around. “And there's no one here.”

It was true. The drizzle was bouncing off the tarmac, sweeping across the grim, uneven grass, hanging between the electricity pylons. It was keeping people indoors.

Harry opened the door of the BMW.

Even then, Jason thought that it must be a trick, that an alarm would go off and a dozen policemen would appear out of nowhere, pouncing on them and dragging them off to the nearest juvenile hall. But no policemen came. There was just the soft clunk of the lock disengaging and then they were looking inside a car that they couldn't have afforded if they'd both worked twenty-four hours a day for an entire year.

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” Harry whispered.

“You bet,” Jason replied, although part of him wondered if Harry ever thought very much at all.

“Let's do it!”

They were inside the car before they knew it. And then came the wonderful moment when the doors closed and everything outside simply disappeared and the two of them were out of the drizzle, lost in the world of the car, surrounded by luxury and the latest technology. Harry had taken the driving seat, of course. Both of them knew how to drive, but Jason also knew his place. He was the passenger. Harry was the one who would be taking them for this ride.

“Wow!” Harry breathed the single word and giggled.

“Awesome!” Jason agreed.

Harry turned the key and the engine fired instantly. Jason heard the soft splutter and felt the vibrations. Never in his whole life had he sat in a car like this. He couldn't stop himself from smiling. Just a few hours before, he had been lying in his bed with its dirty, wrinkled sheets, wondering how he would spend the rest of the day. And now this!

“Let's get out of here, Harry,” he said. He wanted to move. He wanted to leave the estate before the car's owner appeared and dragged them out. And there was still that something else nagging at the corner of his mind. A silvergray BMW. It had a significance. But what was it?

The car had six gears. Harry whipped it into first, pressed on the accelerator, and at once they surged forward. Naught to sixty in eight seconds. That was what this car could do, and if Harry didn't quite manage it this time, they were halfway down the road before either of them had quite realized what had happened.

“This is unbelievable!” Jason shouted.

“This is cool!” Harry squealed.

The King's Arms had become a speck in the rearview mirror. A minute later, the estate had vanished from sight. Harry was clinging onto the steering wheel as if he were afraid of being left behind. To look at him, you would have thought it was the car that was driving him rather than the other way around. Jason drummed his hands against the dashboard. For the moment, sheer excitement had swept away all his doubts.

Second gear, third gear, fourth . . . the faster they went, the more confident Harry became. They raced down a series of lanes, and before they knew it, they had come to a T-junction and the A1071 stretched out in front of them, leading either to Sudbury in the east or Ipswich in the west. Suddenly there was more traffic. A police car whizzed across them without slowing down, and the sight of it reminded Jason that this was a serious business. They had just stolen a twenty-five-thousand-dollar car. This would be more than probation if they were caught. This could be jail.

“Where to, my man?” Harry asked. He sometimes talked in an American accent when he was really excited. He had picked it up from watching cop shows on TV.

“I don't care,” Jason replied. The truth was, he couldn't think of anywhere he wanted to go.

“Norwich?”

“Yeah!”

“Or London . . .”

“How much gas we got?” It was the first sensible thing Jason had said. When the car ran out of gas, they would have to dump it. Neither of them had enough money to fill the tank, and anyway, it would be too risky driving into a gas station.

“We got a full tank,” Harry replied. He sniggered. “Let's have a day at the seaside!”

“The seaside!” Jason crowed. It was his way of agreeing.

Harry slammed his foot down and they shot onto the main road, bringing a blare of protest from a VW that had to swerve to avoid them. They had turned left, heading for Ipswich and the Suffolk coast. Almost at once they were doing seventy miles per hour. Grinning, Harry edged the speed up to eighty. Jason knew that he was being stupid. They had already spotted one police car and speeding would only bring attention to them. But as usual, he kept his thoughts to himself.

And anyway, he had something else on his mind. It was the mention of London that had done it. He had remembered what it was about the BMW that had struck a chord. Of course. How could he have forgotten? Bob Kirby. Romeo. The gang leader who had disappeared. He had last been seen heading for London in a stolen car—and maybe it was just a rumor, but hadn't someone told him that the car was a BMW X3? It was a coincidence. It had to be. But even so, it was a little bit strange.

He turned his attention to the inside of the car. The glove compartment was empty. There was a CD player but no CDs. There was also a slot for an iPod, but neither of them had brought one with them.

“Hey—that's cool!” Harry muttered.

The BMW had a satellite navigation system. Of course, it would be standard in a luxury car like this, but this one had risen out of the dashboard like something in a James Bond film, full color and high-definition screen. What was strange was that it seemed to have activated itself automatically. Neither of the boys had touched anything.

“Put in our destination,” Harry commanded.

“I don't know our destination,” Jason said.

“Well, think of one.”

“How about Aldeburgh?” Jason remembered that it was a town on the Suffolk coast.

“Yeah. Aldeburgh.” Harry frowned. “How d'you spell Aldeburgh?”

Jason typed in the letters and pressed the button to start the guidance. At once the screen lit up to show an arrow pointing toward a cartoon roundabout, which, according to the numbers floating below, they would reach in 100 yards. A moment later, a voice emerged from the speaker system.