think I can cut it?”
“Sure. You’ll be working for me. Not just skimmin’ benzos off a trolley. I mean the real deal. Import. Export. Your own little patch.”
“Gotta admit — this place stinks. And all these effin’ zombies — I hate them, sometimes, I just want to punch ’em, know what I mean?”
Sarah never saw Jack move faster — she watched as he pushed the door open as if it wasn’t there and strode ahead of her into the kitchen.
She followed him into the kitchen as everything seemed to happen at once. The door banged back hard on its hinges and she saw a table at the far end of the room with Craig now looking up surprised, then pushing his chair backwards and getting up fast, retreating and hurling a glass at Jack as he approached …
Jack sounding so angry.
This was new.
“Craig — what did I tell you about using that word?”
“Whoa, you! How did you—”
And Sarah now seeing in Jack’s hand his old NYPD nightstick suddenly appearing—
Where the hell was he keeping that hidden? she thought …
And as Craig backed away against the big cooking ranges, cowering, she saw almost in slow motion who was sitting at the table quietly observing this mayhem: Reg Povey.
Reg. Glass of scotch in one hand, cigarette in the other, feet up on the table. Dressed not in pyjamas or nightgown, but in micro-fleece and jeans.
Reg. Not baffled dementia patient, surely …
But lean, mean-looking, wily old man.
Hardened criminal — according to those records.
Meanwhile Jack had hold of Craig by the T-shirt and was dragging him across to a chair by the back door.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry — I didn’t do nothin’,” Craig was saying over and over again, his hands on his head …
Like he’s a prisoner in a war film, thought Sarah.
“Shut up, sit down and don’t move,” said Jack to Craig.
Sarah realised that everything had gone quiet. The rush of action finished as quickly as it had started. She was breathing heavily.
“Dear, oh dear,” said Reg, flicking ash into a saucer. “Cops. Same the whole world over. Can’t just walk into a room politely, eh?”
“You haven’t got dementia,” said Sarah, thinking aloud.
“Oh, I have, darling,” said Reg. “Been diagnosed. By a proper doctor.”
“That must have cost you,” said Jack. Sarah could see him keeping one eye on Craig in his chair and now sizing up Reg.
“Now that’s a slur, Jack. Doctors don’t lie,” said Reg. “Just like cops. Isn’t that right?”
“Why pretend to have dementia?” said Sarah. “I don’t understand …”
Sarah watched Reg lean across to the bottle of Scotch on the table and pour himself another shot.
“Sarah, you got a signal in here?” said Jack.
She pulled out her phone, checked — and shook her head.
“Bad luck, sweetheart,” said Reg. “Coverage here is crap. It’s played havoc with my bookie.”
Sarah looked at Jack and shrugged. She knew that what he’d really meant was — time to call the cops …
Going to have to play for time, she thought.
“Why did you come here Reg?” she said quickly.
But it was Jack who answered.
“It was for Archy, wasn’t it, Reg?”
Sarah felt confused.
What was Jack saying?
“But I’ve seen his records,” she said to Reg. “He was very ill. You couldn’t help him.”
Jack took a step closer to Reg, nightstick still in his hand. And Reg nodded.
“I didn’t want to help him, love,” said Reg, smiling.
That smile … scary, she thought.
“I wanted to kill the bastard.”
“He put you inside, didn’t he?” said Jack. “Long stretch, huh?”
“Could say that. Twenty years,” said Reg.
“For something you didn’t do?” said Sarah.
Her blood chilled as Reg laughed again.
“Do me a favour — of course I did it. But he was supposed to go down for it — not me.”
“He did a deal with the cops?” said Jack.
“Exactly,” said Reg. “And I’ve had to wait a very long time to get my own
“Sure. You’ll be working for me. Not just skimmin’ benzos off a trolley. I mean the real deal. Import. Export. Your own little patch.”
“Gotta admit — this place stinks. And all these effin’ zombies — I hate them, sometimes, I just want to punch ’em, know what I mean?”
Sarah never saw Jack move faster — she watched as he pushed the door open as if it wasn’t there and strode ahead of her into the kitchen.
She followed him into the kitchen as everything seemed to happen at once. The door banged back hard on its hinges and she saw a table at the far end of the room with Craig now looking up surprised, then pushing his chair backwards and getting up fast, retreating and hurling a glass at Jack as he approached …
Jack sounding so angry.
This was new.
“Craig — what did I tell you about using that word?”
“Whoa, you! How did you—”
And Sarah now seeing in Jack’s hand his old NYPD nightstick suddenly appearing—
Where the hell was he keeping that hidden? she thought …
And as Craig backed away against the big cooking ranges, cowering, she saw almost in slow motion who was sitting at the table quietly observing this mayhem: Reg Povey.
Reg. Glass of scotch in one hand, cigarette in the other, feet up on the table. Dressed not in pyjamas or nightgown, but in micro-fleece and jeans.
Reg. Not baffled dementia patient, surely …
But lean, mean-looking, wily old man.
Hardened criminal — according to those records.
Meanwhile Jack had hold of Craig by the T-shirt and was dragging him across to a chair by the back door.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry — I didn’t do nothin’,” Craig was saying over and over again, his hands on his head …
Like he’s a prisoner in a war film, thought Sarah.
“Shut up, sit down and don’t move,” said Jack to Craig.
Sarah realised that everything had gone quiet. The rush of action finished as quickly as it had started. She was breathing heavily.
“Dear, oh dear,” said Reg, flicking ash into a saucer. “Cops. Same the whole world over. Can’t just walk into a room politely, eh?”
“You haven’t got dementia,” said Sarah, thinking aloud.
“Oh, I have, darling,” said Reg. “Been diagnosed. By a proper doctor.”
“That must have cost you,” said Jack. Sarah could see him keeping one eye on Craig in his chair and now sizing up Reg.
“Now that’s a slur, Jack. Doctors don’t lie,” said Reg. “Just like cops. Isn’t that right?”
“Why pretend to have dementia?” said Sarah. “I don’t understand …”
Sarah watched Reg lean across to the bottle of Scotch on the table and pour himself another shot.
“Sarah, you got a signal in here?” said Jack.
She pulled out her phone, checked — and shook her head.
“Bad luck, sweetheart,” said Reg. “Coverage here is crap. It’s played havoc with my bookie.”
Sarah looked at Jack and shrugged. She knew that what he’d really meant was — time to call the cops …
Going to have to play for time, she thought.
“Why did you come here Reg?” she said quickly.
But it was Jack who answered.
“It was for Archy, wasn’t it, Reg?”
Sarah felt confused.
What was Jack saying?
“But I’ve seen his records,” she said to Reg. “He was very ill. You couldn’t help him.”
Jack took a step closer to Reg, nightstick still in his hand. And Reg nodded.
“I didn’t want to help him, love,” said Reg, smiling.
That smile … scary, she thought.
“I wanted to kill the bastard.”
“He put you inside, didn’t he?” said Jack. “Long stretch, huh?”
“Could say that. Twenty years,” said Reg.
“For something you didn’t do?” said Sarah.
Her blood chilled as Reg laughed again.
“Do me a favour — of course I did it. But he was supposed to go down for it — not me.”
“He did a deal with the cops?” said Jack.
“Exactly,” said Reg. “And I’ve had to wait a very long time to get my own
Similar Books
