Every Night I Dream of Hell (19 page)

‘Just the one?’ the dealer asked. There was disappointment in his voice.

‘For now,’ Nasty said. Keeping up the pretence that he was going to stick around long enough to be a repeat buyer. They’d been pretending that to everyone they met. Only those in the group, and their employer, knew they were only here for the short term.

‘Here you go,’ the dealer said, passing the padded envelope with a single handgun inside.

Nasty took it and handed over the old one, wrapped in a plastic bag. Used on Christie and now waved at Colgan. Too risky to still have around. He opened the envelope, saw that the dealer had provided exactly what had been asked for. He reached into his pocket to pay him.

The dealer paused for a second while he waited to see what Nasty pulled out, worried for his safety. When he saw the wallet he relaxed and said, ‘Don’t worry, it’s paid for.’

Didn’t take a lot of brainpower to work out that Nasty’s employer had made sure the gun was paid for in advance, ensuring that he had every opportunity to do the job well. That was reassuring, reaffirmed the idea that this would be finished soon.

‘You can head off,’ he told the dealer. ‘I’m waiting to be picked up.’

‘Right, fair enough,’ the man said, nodding a little goodbye as he went.

Even if he hadn’t been waiting for someone to come back and pick him up in the van he would have let the dealer go first. It was the right and proper way of doing these things. The person who comes first will typically have the right to leave first, although if one person is noticeably senior then you might let them come and go as they please. Being the customer doesn’t give you the right to treat the seller in any way you want. Nasty had always believed it was important to make sure your dealer felt that you were giving them as much respect as possible. That relationship is vital, and for it to really prosper you need the dealer to respect you, even like you if possible, even when you have no intention of using them again.

He was alone in that house, a semi-detached in a residential area that probably wouldn’t be empty for very long. It was officially on the market, although whoever owned it was under strict orders not to let anyone view it until they were finished using it. A glance around the living room with its wooden flooring and striking fireplace told him that if they didn’t price it stupidly it would move quickly. He wandered over to the large bay window and looked out into the street. There was nobody there, no movement now that the dealer had gotten in his car and driven away. It was a strange thing, but he felt safe being in that house on his own in the dark. Much safer than he felt when he was around Dyne and the boys.

Dyne and Elliott had been hanging around with each other since they were in primary school. It was Elliott who had given Barrett his nickname. Nasty had joined up with them when he was eighteen and they were both twenty and they were all looking for a way into the underworld. Ricky Saunders was the fourth member of the crew, joining them a couple of years later. Ricky was tough but a risk-taker and he was eighteen months into a six-year stretch when they went to Glasgow. That original group of four had found a way into the business because, between them, there wasn’t much they weren’t willing to do for money.

Nasty was always the killer, whether it was knives or guns or, on one occasion, his hands. He was willing to kill for the right price. Elliott was the schemer, the one who liked to plot things out and had the ambition to make big moves. He was always a little creepy, sometimes a little unreliable in the way he behaved towards others, especially women, but he was smart. Ricky was the muscle, the extra-tough guy who didn’t know where to draw the line. Dyne, he was the leader because he was a force of nature. When Dyne got going, things got done, and that was why they made their reputation and their money. People knew that if they hired those four for a job it would get done, that they were good value for what they routinely delivered.

Like any group with ambition, they outgrew being other people’s weapons. It was only natural when they saw the amount of money their employers were making from the things they did. All they needed was the structure of an organization to support the ambitions they had. So they tried to build something of their own in Birmingham, and did a damn good job in the early days. Not damn good enough though, because there are always other people who think they can take what you’ve built. Others who think you should just be happy to make the money you were making serving them. They got knocked down, had their business ripped apart by the wolves they had been feeding in the past and ended up with little more than the shirts on their back.

It damaged them all. Dyne took it hardest. Losing his network, losing Ricky. He went off the rails, wallowing in it. Nasty and Elliott let him get on with it for a while: plenty time to pull him out of it later. Then he met Zara Cope at a party somewhere. The rest didn’t like her but Dyne was smitten. She became more than just a girlfriend; she became a part of the group. Whispering in his ear that he should make another run at setting up his own organization; all he needed was the money to get a head start. That, she said, had been what he’d done wrong the first time: didn’t have enough cash to hire the people he needed to protect them through the tricky first couple of years. All of which was fine advice, a little obvious even, but where were they going to get the sort of money they needed? Didn’t take long before she came back with an answer, telling them that the money was waiting in Glasgow.

The job was perfectly decent, sort of thing they’d have done in a flash if it was back home. Only the change of scenery and the fact Zara had suggested it unnerved Nasty and Elliott. They didn’t like how much she was influencing him, although she was clever about it and did her best to look vulnerable whenever anyone was watching. Nasty just didn’t feel safe as part of the group any more, and that was the first time he had felt that in nearly a dozen years together.

There was something about looking out into a strange street in the late evening that got him all wistful about the past. Something a man of his experience shouldn’t have been doing. It wouldn’t take long before the van came back. Another five or ten minutes maybe, so he took the time to wander through the house and make sure they hadn’t left anything behind that would let the world know who had been here. The main thing was making sure there was nothing to tell people where they had gone next. Not likely, but it was professional to check. The two meatheads they had brought up for help weren’t to be relied upon to do the basics like check for identifying material.

Nasty moved slowly along the corridor and into the kitchen, realizing as he did that he was hungry. It was only because he was in the kitchen that his stomach started to growl; he could easily have waited until he got to the new safe house where the cupboards would be full to bursting. But no, his gut was his master, and he walked slowly over to the fridge and pulled the door open to see if there was anything inside. He was sure there had been an open packet of sliced ham in there last time he was here and the memory of it lured him to the fridge before he’d taken a proper look around the room.

He must have been in the kitchen waiting for Nasty, had stayed in there throughout the meeting with the dealer. He’d have come in the back, and he didn’t want to shoot in any of the rooms that faced out onto the street. That was the problem of an empty house for sale: the curtains were always open or non-existent and any flash of light was going to get people thinking if they saw it. The dealer must have let him in. That was Nasty’s last thought as the bullet crashed in through the back of his skull and he fell forwards, slumping against the fridge and onto the floor.

He didn’t hear his killer step silently out of the back door. Nobody heard or saw that man. It was another fifteen minutes before Henson returned, alone, with the van. He sat outside the house, on the street, assuming Nasty would come out. He didn’t. Shouldn’t be sitting out there, people able to see the van’s number. He needed to hurry Nasty along. Got out, went up to the front door, found it unlocked. Inside and into the living room, but there was nobody there. Through to the kitchen.

Didn’t really need a light to see what had happened here. Henson put the light on anyway. Nasty was lying face down, blood running off his neck and down onto the floor. Henson glanced round the room. Just a glance. Making sure he couldn’t see who had pulled the trigger. That gave him the confidence to walk across to Nasty and pick up the package with the gun in it. Then his confidence deserted him. He ran out of the room, swinging out a hand and switching off the light as he went. Out of the house and into the van, pulling quickly away.

Drove fast, faster than a man keeping his head down should. Ran into the new safe house, panting, the padded envelope in his hand. Barrett and Elliott were sitting at the kitchen table when he barged in.

‘He’s dead, Nasty’s dead.’ He stopped to pant. ‘I went back for him and he didn’t come out. Fucking hell. I went in and I found him dead in the kitchen. Someone had shot him, right through the back of the head. Bang, right through the fucking head.’

Aldridge came through from another room; someone was coming down the stairs. Zara was standing in the doorway before anyone spoke.

‘Anyone there?’ Elliott asked.

‘Just Nasty. He was dead in the kitchen. I didn’t check the whole fucking house. Couldn’t. Come off it. I wasn’t armed.’

‘What’s that?’ Barrett said, pointing at the envelope.

‘It’s the gun,’ Henson told him. ‘The one that Nasty went to buy, I suppose. It was lying on the floor beside him. And there was blood, and, fuck, I don’t know.’

‘So you were armed. You could have checked.’

‘Dyne,’ Elliott said. This was no time to argue about something that couldn’t be changed. Their friend was dead. Gone. Something Elliott couldn’t even contemplate right now.

‘Right, fine,’ Barrett said, shaking his head. A pause of a few seconds, everyone in the cramped kitchen watching him. Waiting for his leadership to direct them. ‘He had the gun, so the seller was there. Gave him the gun.’

‘Can’t have been the seller then,’ Zara said from the door.

Elliott turned and frowned at her. It was her who had brought them up here and now Nasty was dead because of it. She should be keeping her damned mouth shut. The seller leaving the gun didn’t mean anything.

‘Do we go back, get the body?’ Aldridge asked.

‘No,’ Barrett said quickly. ‘There was a gunshot. The cops could be there already. The van’s been there twice, can’t go again. We leave him there. And we can’t stay here.’

‘Hold on,’ Elliott said.

‘No, we can’t stay here. Someone knows. Someone fucking knows, Elliott. They knew he was going to be there and they popped him. They know where we are. They fucking know.’

‘You don’t know that,’ Elliott told him. Voices were being raised. The prospect of moving again.

‘We have another house we can use. We use it.’

Elliott shook his head. Moving again. On the run. Going to a house that was to be used in emergencies, that hadn’t been properly scouted. None of them even knew where it was, except maybe Zara.

‘You want to argue about this?’ Barrett asked him. Steely, making it clear what the end result of an argument would be.

‘Let’s get everything back into the van,’ Elliott said to Henson and Aldridge. ‘I’ll get the girl.’

‘Fuck’s sake,’ Barrett shouted. Wasn’t clear if that was directed at Elliott wanting to take the girl with them again or whether it was directed at the situation in general.

Elliott didn’t wait to find out. He went quickly upstairs, taking the key to her room out of his pocket. Jessica was still wearing the same dress she had been wearing all week, since they killed Christie. She’d been able to take showers, to stay clean, but she had a drawn look about her now. Elliott smiled, trying to be reassuring.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we’re moving again.’

People were moving loudly downstairs; from the doorway Elliott could hear Zara doing a lot of talking. Talking to Barrett, calming him down. Might actually be doing some good for once.

‘Where are we going?’ Jess asked, stopping herself before she added the word ‘now’. Elliott wouldn’t want to be reminded that they were making a second move in an hour, that they were obviously running from something.

‘Somewhere safer,’ he told her, stepping into the room and smiling. ‘Don’t you worry, Jess. I’ll look after you.’

He enjoyed how scared she looked when he said it. The way her eyes widened when he walked over and took her by the arm, leading her out of the room. No need to make sure that she had left nothing behind; she had nothing to leave.

Jess had thought so much about escaping in the last few days. Four days since they killed Lee Christie. She kept telling herself that it wasn’t her fault. She thought about jumping out of the window, but she would have broken her legs. She could have shouted into the street, but they’d have heard her downstairs and punished her. There was no way out. Not unless they let her out. She knew they wouldn’t, no matter what sweet words Elliott spoke. They would kill her rather than let her go.

Most of their belongings had never made it out of the bags, so they were back in the van already. Aldridge and Henson were in the van; Barrett and Zara were waiting for Elliott and the girl. Barrett gave her a dirty look. The plan had been to get rid of her. Nasty would have done it. Now he was gone, and Elliott was determined to hold on to this pretty little treasure. Even hinting that he might take her back down south with them when they went. Fucking crazy.

She noticed that the one they called Nasty wasn’t there. Nobody was talking about him. There was a strange atmosphere, the kind that only came when something bad had happened.

‘I need to use the toilet,’ Jess said quietly.

‘At the next house. Won’t take long,’ Elliott told her, gripping her arm and leading her out to the van.

Barrett locked the house; he and Zara were the last into the back of the van. Sitting on the narrow benches on either side. Zara sitting opposite Jess, making sure she didn’t make eye contact with her. Zara had never spoken to the girl, never given her a speck of hope. They had needed Jess for this job to work properly. Zara’s job.