The Complaints

‘Top Gear’s got a lot to answer for,’ Fox commented.

The man who eventually emerged from the back seat was big and scowling. He’d worn the same face in the photo on the printout. The Sierra rose the best part of an inch on its shocks once relieved of its passenger. He rolled from the waist as he walked. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt the size of a two-man tent, baggy jeans and white trainers. His hair was black, slicked back from the forehead and over the ears, falling to just past his neck. He sported a gold tooth at the front of his mouth but no baubles or obvious body-art. His eyes seemed tiny, but piercing at the same time.

‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘Second thoughts – don’t answer that. Just get in the car and vamoose.’

‘We can’t do that, Terry,’ Fox said, managing to sound apologetic. ‘We need to speak to Bull first.’

‘I don’t want to hear another word from you,’ Terry Vass said, jabbing a finger in Fox’s direction. ‘Just you and your bum-chum hit the fucking road.’

There was silence for a moment before Jamie Breck uttered a single word. The word was ‘Interesting.’ This caught Vass’s attention.

‘What’s that?’

Breck offered a shrug. ‘It’s just that when people use homophobic insults, it’s often a sign.’

Vass’s face darkened further. ‘What sort of sign?’

Breck shrugged again and seemed to be searching for the right phrase. ‘Subconscious… leanings,’ he offered.

Vass lunged at him, but Breck was nimble. He ducked beneath the huge man’s outstretched arm and stepped past him. He bounced on his toes, ready for the next move.

‘Terry,’ Fox said, his voice a little louder than before, demanding to be heard. ‘We don’t need any of this. Bull’s got you here so you can find out what we want. It was meant to be for his ears only, but here’s the gist – we’ve got Charlie Brogan.’

Vass had been glowering at Breck, readying for another assault, but Fox’s words hit home. His breathing steadied and his shoulders relaxed a fraction.

‘I don’t mean he’s in custody,’ Fox went on. ‘I mean we’ve got him. And we want a trade.’

Vass turned towards Fox. ‘A what?’

‘A trade,’ Fox repeated. ‘Go tell your boss that. We’ll be waiting in the car.’ He was already opening the driver’s-side door. Vass watched as he got in and closed it after him. Then he turned his attention back to Breck, who was still up on his toes, halfway between the Volvo and the Sierra. From the car interior, Fox had only a partial view. He was hoping Breck wouldn’t rile the giant any further. But Vass seemed to dismiss his tormentor with a wave of the hand, and trundled towards the door of Lowther’s. Breck waited a few seconds, then returned to the Volvo and got in.

‘Scary bloke,’ he commented.

‘Didn’t stop you poking him with a stick.’

‘Happens in online games all the time.’ Breck paused. ‘Besides, I’ve always had fast reflexes – nice to test them now and then.’

‘Want some gum?’

Breck nodded and reached out towards the packet Fox was holding. The hand hardly trembled at all. They sat in silence, chewing and watching the world pass by. Some women were on a hen night. They wore identical pink T-shirts emblazoned with the words ‘We Are The Four And Twenty Virgins’. A group of local men were tagging along behind, trying out their various chat-up lines. Half a dozen teenagers slouched past, dressed in black hooded tops and baseball caps. The Sierra got a few stares. It hadn’t moved, and traffic was having to negotiate it. One or two cars sounded their horns. The driver kept his hands glued to the steering wheel and the engine ticking over.

‘Reckon that’s a full-time job?’ Breck asked. Fox went on chewing and watching. When the pub door next swung open, it was only a couple of smokers. They seemed interested in Fox and Breck, but stuck to their own side of the road. The door opened again, and this time it was one of the three men from earlier. He almost jogged towards the Volvo, leaning down at the driver’s-side window. Fox ignored him, so the man tapped on the glass. Fox gave it a few more seconds, then lowered the window.

‘Bull says to come in,’ the man said.

‘Tell him he can go fuck himself.’ Fox slid the window back up. The man stared through the glass as though he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. He tapped again, but Fox just shook his head. The messenger stood up and slunk back the way he’d come.

‘Reckon he’ll find another way of phrasing it?’ Breck asked.

‘Probably.’

‘You didn’t fancy going in, then?’

‘I like it better here.’

‘Me too.’ Breck leaned back a little in his seat. More minutes passed, and then Vass appeared, holding the door open for Bull Wauchope. He was everything Fox had expected. There was a feral look to him. He was never going to be half the man his father was, and he knew it. He carried weight, but very little of it was muscle. His arms were flabby, and the belt around his jeans was straining at its last notch. The short hair was greasy, as was the complexion. Acne around the throat, almost certainly exacerbated by the cheap-looking gold chains. The ink tattoos on the backs of both hands looked self-inflicted, probably dating to adolescence. Rings on most of his fingers – dart-player chic. The young man looked brash and smug, the result of having grown up untouchable, thanks to a father feared by all. Vass was a couple of steps behind his boss. Fox slid his window down again.

‘You,’ he said to Wauchope, ‘can get in the back, but I don’t want your gorilla stinking up my car.’ Wauchope didn’t pause for a second.

‘Stay here,’ he ordered Vass. Then he hauled open the door and got in, slamming it shut after him.

‘Everyone seems to think you’re cops,’ he said. ‘And if you’re not, I’ll eat Terry’s cock.’

‘That makes it very tempting to lie,’ Fox said.

‘Got the car wired for sound?’

‘No.’

‘Am I supposed to believe that?’

‘Here’s what I want you to know,’ Fox began. ‘We’ve got Charlie Brogan’s location. You’ll have worked out by now that his little disappearing act was just that – an act. The cops are thinking the same way, and that means they’ll have him in a day or two.’ He paused. ‘Which doesn’t give you much time, Bull.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘That’s good, because what I’m doing right now is incriminating myself – that’s why I can guarantee you we’re not taping this.’

‘Keep talking.’

‘We know where he is and we know you want him. We’re willing to trade.’

‘You want money?’

Fox shook his head. ‘It’s not Glen Heaton you’re dealing with here.’ He paused. ‘We want our lives back.’ He stared at Wauchope in the rearview mirror. ‘Don’t you know who we are?’

‘Not a clue.’

‘My name’s Malcolm Fox. This is Jamie Breck.’ Fox watched Wauchope’s reaction. The man was looking at Breck. ‘We’ve been set up and we think you’re at the root of it. Tell us we’re wrong.’

Wauchope turned his attention back to the mirror. ‘I’m still listening,’ he told Fox’s reflection.

‘We want everything cleared up, clean slate, that sort of thing. But we also want Glen Heaton. No way he gets to walk.’

‘You seem to credit me with a lot of clout.’

‘The clout might not be yours – might belong to your dad. But I get the feeling it’s there.’

‘Your pal doesn’t say much.’

‘Only when there’s something to add,’ Breck stated, breaking his silence.

‘This must be the most half-arsed entrapment any of you spunk-bags has ever tried to pull.’

‘You decide the time and place,’ Fox went on, ‘and we’ll be there. But we’ll have questions for you, and you don’t get to see Brogan until we’re happy.’

‘What sort of questions?’

‘The sort we need answers to.’ Fox reached a hand over the back of his seat. It was holding a scrap of paper with his mobile number on it. ‘Remember, you’ve got maybe one or two days at most. When they arrest Brogan, they’ll offer him a deal. It’ll be you they really want. And with him still alive, what are you going to offer your investors? ’ Fox paused, allowing this to sink in. Wauchope had taken the slip of paper from him, their fingers grazing momentarily.