Chapter Thirty Eight

  Margaret Waters finally sat down, and threw her head back and breathed out a relieved sigh. It was early evening and she had been informed by her husband, when he quickly popped in for a drink, that he was just going to miss her and had already eaten as he had two lessons to do and then he'd be back home by eight.

  Margaret hated it when David worked late, which was most evenings, and never saw the point in cooking for one, so she had decided to settle for a cheese and ham sandwich.

  She licked her lips, and her throat felt as dry as sandpaper. She was desperate for a cup of tea but was too exhausted to get up and make it herself. She closed her eyes and psychologically tried to give herself a lift, to get herself out of the comfy armchair in order to get her tired body into the kitchen to make the hot beverage.

  The house was quiet, soulless. This is how she liked her life now. Simple and peaceful, although some would say, boring. This is how she envisaged the rest of her life: Living in the quiet street, in the nice town, with her mild mannered husband. It all seemed too perfect. She did miss her twin boys terribly, but she didn’t miss the constant teenage arguing between the pair of them, the slamming of doors, and the occasional fistfight.

  She finally, and slowly, got to her feet. Her tired ankles cracked as she dragged herself into the next room. Once she entered the kitchen, she pulled out a cup and flicked the kettle on.

  She remained leaning on the side of the cooker, staring at the kettle, urging it to hurry up. Her eyes were drawn towards a blue phone sitting near the cooker, which she thought was strange. David always usually took his phone with him and must have been in a rush to have left it in the house.

  She picked the blue phone up and shook her head. It very rarely happened, but the last time David Waters forgot his phone was months ago, he came back to the house in a panic. "Is it here, is it here?" he cried.

  Margaret replied yes, and the next question was: "Have you touched it?"

  The question, although it sounded a little like an accusation at the time, threw Margaret and she shook her head and told David that she had no interest in looking at text messages from pupils who wanted to change or cancel a driving lesson. He did immediately apologize for his overreaction, and claimed his business would suffer without the phone, and that was why he was so wound up. It was very unlike him.

  Margaret never understood why he needed his phone when he was with a pupil anyway. He explained that he never, and wouldn't, use it while on a lesson, as it would be rude and unprofessional, as well as dangerous. But Waters insisted that whenever he dropped a pupil off, he would switch his phone on to see if he had messages from people who had cancelled, and he also claimed that it came in handy if his car ever broke down so he could phone Margaret as well as a garage. When he explained it like that to Margaret, it did make sense.

  She switched on the kettle and looked back over to the phone. She picked it up carefully, and giggled to herself that David would have it fingerprinted afterwards after he came back from his lessons to make sure it hadn't been touched. After all, the phone was imperative to his business; it was his diary, his filofax so to speak. She could understand his consternation, because if he lost the phone, he would lose the numbers to nearly forty of his pupils—a headache that he didn't need. It was the equivalent of her losing her medical computer files on her patients, which would be a disaster in the making, a disaster not even worth thinking about.

  She looked around the kitchen, as if David was in the other room, and turned the phone on. The phone made a chiming noise as it came on, and she winced how audible the sound was, and laughed at herself once again knowing there was nobody else in the house to hear it anyway.

  She felt guilty for what she was doing, but she convinced her guilt plagued mind that she was just bored. She scrolled through his contacts, and only recognized a handful of names. She scrolled through his text messages; the 'sent' ones had been deleted and there were only three received ones. It looked like David deleted his messages on a regular basis.

  Her eyes suddenly narrowed, her breathing became rapid and the galloping beat of her stressed heart intensified. She read the message again, slowly, carefully. She shook her head. Surely not!

  She was taken aback by one of the messages, and put her hand to her mouth. The message read: Need 2 c u ASAP. Usual place.

  Tears welled in her eyes and she shook her disbelieving head. Maybe it was something innocent, she thought, trying to bring her stressed body back to its normal state. It wasn't working. Her body refused to be fooled and her heart pumped furiously through her veins, making her frame tremble with fright.

  With the text itself, and the regular deleted messages, as well as David's overreaction to losing his phone two months ago, it could be only one thing. It was starting to make sense, as she pieced it together like some nightmarish jigsaw. From two months ago, she could still hear his panicky cries. Have you touched it? There was only one thing she could think of. He was cheating on her.

  She immediately decided to do a little investigating before jumping to a conclusion that might leave egg on her face. She had to be sure; she had to be really sure. Being cheated on is bad enough, but not this woman, please, not this woman of all people!

  One thing she was sure about, he wasn’t out working. He was with her.

  *****

  The early January evening was just what Thomas Campbell needed. He felt warm with his huge grey jacket, but the harsh wind slapped him occasionally in the face, as if someone threw a handful of razorblades at him. As he headed towards Elmore Park, he decided it was too early to go home. What would he be going home to? His bored dad, who had a day off, would only be sitting around watching the football and scratching his balls. Possibly sipping from another glass of red wine.

  He felt a little hunger, but could handle another hour without food. It wasn’t as if he had a cooked dinner to go home to. His dad cooked maybe once or twice a week, and the remaining days would be takeouts or homemade sandwiches.

  Noticing that the park was closed, as it always was when darkness fell, to deter teenage drinkers, he turned around and decided to head towards the town centre again. He saw a Gibson SG in the shop window of the music shop, the same kind of guitar Angus Young played, and was hoping that he could get it if he saved enough money. He peered into the shop and saw an array of guitars in the window, six in all, on guitar stands. A black Gibson Studio, a red Gibson SG, a black Fender Stratocaster, a maple Fender Telecaster and a cheap black and white Tanglewood sat on display. He admitted that he would have to start practicing a bit harder if he was going to win his father round, as he had been playing an out of tune rendition of House of the Rising Sun and Sunshine of Your Love for months, and it didn’t impress anyone, including himself.

  “What’s that?” he muttered to himself.

  He could see the youth club from a distance and saw that a solitary light was on; it wasn’t coming from the main hall where they trained, it was coming from one of the offices. Is it being burgled? What was there to actually burgle? He felt himself moving towards the area and knew there wasn’t supposed to be anything else on a Sunday evening, because Waters told him so. Apart from the Thai boxing, the hall was used for Christian meetings, and once a week, a meeting was held for battered wives.

  He was now only yards away from the club, and looked behind him at the closed desolate shops that would be thriving come Monday morning. He saw two cars parked by the side of the club and this rose his suspicions even more. He didn’t recognise the cars, he was useless at that kind of thing. When his old mate Gez used to describe a certain car, he would go into detail about the colour, the size of the engine, etc. But to Thomas Campbell, all he could see was a black car and a red sporty car.

  Then Thomas heard a voice coming from the window that was lit, it was coming from the office. The curtains were drawn but the small window at the top was open on this unusually humid night. He knelt by the side of the window in case someone decided to surprisingly open the curtain and spot him.

  “Things are starting to change around here, and change fast,” a woman’s voice spoke.

  The curtains twitched and the little window was opened further; a frightened Thomas gasped and immediately knelt down below the window.

  He suddenly heard a man's voice coming from the room. He recognised it instantly and was sure now that there were only two people in the lit office. The man referred to the woman by her first name, and he knew who it was immediately.

  As the conversation continued, Thomas’ eyes narrowed in concentration. Sometimes the voices were too quiet, and sometimes they were muffled. He heard the man say that he had sent three guys to Wales to deal with the Marley situation, and the man speaking thought that it was just an idle threat from him, and there was nothing to worry about. Then he heard more muffled voices and clearly heard the woman say: “My father wants us to up the ante, he wants to take this project to the next level. He feels that we need to be on top of things more, and we also need a few more members.”

  Thomas had no clue what they were on about, and the man spoke out about a man with a Spanish sounding name and continued to talk to the woman, who sounded like she was in charge and running the show. The male talked about his concerns over the young man that had been mentioned previously, but the woman reassured him that the young man was exactly what they needed and that they would have to think of getting rid of some of the dead wood.

  The conversation turned towards the demise of Michael Foley and Frank Samson, with Brian Jenkins and Aiden Macdonald’s name being mentioned. They spoke in detail about Frank’s death with no remorse. Thomas’ eyes widened with shock as the details filtered into his brain. His mouth created a circular shape, as if he was a smoker trying to blow rings. They were talking about people he knew, and a few minutes revealed what these individuals were capable of and what they had already done.

  They were living in his street!

  *****

  Jenkins had settled down for the evening. He had an opened bottle of beer sitting on the table and received a call from Macdonald.

  "What is it?" he snapped.

  "Just a short call to let you know that the firm have got someone else on board."

  "They've only just brought that idiot Hernandez on board. Who?"

  "Some eighteen-year-old."

  "Christ! They're getting younger. Looks like they're planning for the future."

  "We'll be out of a job soon," Macdonald joked.

  Good, Jenkins thought. Saves me quitting. "What's he like?" Jenkins asked.

  "Don't worry, he's not like Hernandez. He comes from a broken home; his mother's an alcoholic—"

  "He sounds perfect," Jenkins said sarcastically.

  There was a five second silence between the pair of them, and Macdonald assumed this silence was due to the fact that Jenkins wasn't in the mood for talking or he was in the middle of something important.

  Macdonald eventually hung up.

  Jenkins put his head in his hands and puffed out a quick hard blow. He was worried.

  The firm was growing, but as it was growing, it was becoming more ambitious. It was becoming harder; that was apparent when Foley was gassed to death. He felt uncomfortable about helping to kill Foley, and even though Foley was a cruel, sadistic rapist, and the average man on the street probably would have killed him with their bare hands, it was the incident involving Samson that haunted him the most.

  Technically, Jenkins never killed both men; he just transported them to the destination where they were going to get killed. But the guilt was eating him up, and he knew it was going to get worse.

  *****

  Thomas ran from the scene as the light from the office disappeared; he ran with his flat feet slapping the concrete floor. He felt sick; he felt really sick, but continued to run. He thought to himself that he’d only stop until he actually threw up. He wasn’t out of breath, and was surprised and put it down to his recent fitness regime at the Thai boxing club, but he had to stop when he reached the closed Elmore Park and puked all over the pavement near the entrance gates.

  An elderly couple, out for a walk, looked at the young man and both shook their heads with disgust. If he had the energy, he would have explained to them that he wasn’t a typical drunken teenager and that his nausea was due to a shock to his system of some news that had just reached him.

  He continued to jog back to Averill Drive and tried to get rid of the excess lumps of vomit stuck in the side of his mouth and in his teeth. He spat a few times as he ran, and used his tongue to roll around the front of the top and bottom set of teeth to ensure every bit of vomit had been removed. The mouthwash would have to wait.

  He had to get to see his dad quick; he needed to call the police.

  *****

  Sergeant Wilkins had three days to go before he, his wife and young daughter would go to Dubai for two weeks. On his salary, it would have taken months to save up for such a holiday, but he had received a hefty wage for a job he had done outside the force. He was riddled with guilt, as he valued his job in the force, but the money was too tempting.

  He had informed them that he would dissolve their relationship at the beginning of February because of the guilt and paranoia he was feeling. They responded positively, and thanked him for his contribution.

  Sergeant Wilkins' afternoon had been monotonous and quiet, but that monotony had been broken when a man and a young teenager walked through the doors.

  Sergeant Wilkins smiled warmly. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

  *****

  Twenty minutes had passed and Sergeant Wilkins had his head in his hands.

  Why now? Why did this have to happen now?

  His tremulous hand picked up his mobile phone out of his pocket. He wasn't allowed to use his personal phone, but was too paranoid to use the station's phone at his desk. He looked around and satisfied that the area was quiet, he made a call.

  The person on the other end of the line picked up the phone.

  Sergeant Wilkins spoke with a quaver in his voice. “We have a problem.”

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Brian Jenkins had just got off the phone to Sally. She was due to turn up for the evening, and Brian had planned to cook her a meal. His cooking ability was very limited and had decided to go for either a chilli con carne, or meatballs and spaghetti. He still hadn’t come to a decision when his phone vibrated in his trouser pocket.

  Jenkins pulled out the phone from his pocket. He received a text from Macdonald. Both need 2 pick people up n head for stile cop. Dunno y. C u in a min.

  “Shit!” Brian exclaimed. “Sounds serious.” He couldn't complain; he hadn't been active for over a month, but his heart for the firm had already evaporated.

  Jenkins became anxious and knew telling them about his plans to quit, was not an option yet. It was too soon. It wasn’t the right time. He had made a decision to tell them at the end of the month, after this incident was finished with, whatever it was.

  But what if the situation was designed to eliminate him?

  Brian’s paranoia began to eat away at him once again. Were they getting rid of him? Was he was walking into a trap? Everyone could see his heart wasn’t in it anymore and maybe he was going to be threatened? Or worse, now that Gomez was getting tougher. Surely not? They didn‘t kill Moseley. Maybe they had Moseley up at Stile Cop, and he and Aiden were about to supervise another fake suicide? Jenkins' head was wasted, and he didn’t know what the fuck to believe anymore. He wasn’t going to take a risk.

  Brian began to nervously text on his phone; he looked outside of his window and saw Macdonald leaving his house. He was going to knock Jenkins' door in a matter of seconds. He sent a long text to Sally, and grabbed his coat to meet Macdonald.

  The text read: Going to stile cop with them. If I don't call by 9. Phone police and ask for DI Burke (he's not corrupt). This has to end now. xxx

  *****

  "So why are we picking these guys up?” Brian asked tensely.

  “Apparently, they've become a bit of a threat,” Aiden replied.

  “A threat? How?”

  “They know about us.”

  “I don 't like this, this is our street, where we live.”

  A wave of consternation brushed over Jenkins and now he was starting to panic. Knowing about the firm was dangerous. Even if an individual was a hard working family man but knew about the firm, it could be disastrous for them personally, especially now.

  “We're just following orders from the people that pay us. The big man rang me up ten minutes ago. We're going to Stile Cop.”

  Brian looked at Aiden, who could see the concern etched into his face.

  “Don't worry, we're probably just gonna threaten them, like we did with Moseley.”

  “I hope you're right,” Brian stammered, and began to chew on a fingernail. He could see something in the corner of his eye. He turned around to see the curtains twitching at Toby Newton’s house. “Nosey old bastard!” Jenkins scoffed.

  *****

  “So what do we do now?” Thomas asked his father.

  “I dunno, we'll just hang about until the police respond to your accusation.”

  “You still don't believe me, do you dad?”

  Jake Campbell sighed and put a comforting arm on his son's shoulder, it came across as patronising. “You have to admit, it's a little far fetched. You should be grateful that I came with you in the first place. That desk sergeant was about to charge you with wasting police time.”

  Thomas looked agitated, and ran his fingers through his now very short bristly hair. “We should go, we need to get our things and go somewhere.”

  “We're not going anywhere. It's all in your head, son.”

  “You still don't believe me, do you? I know what I heard!”