He smoothed out the crumpled Post-it note – the name and address of the man to speak to if he wanted more cash from the DIY self-service bribery buffet.
Nearly six thousand pounds, when you added in the envelope hidden away in the back of the airing cupboard. Not that much in the great scheme of things. Not compared with being a corrupt bastard.
44
Bloody jocks are useless.
Detective Superintendent Graeme Danby sits on the end of the bed wearing the white fluffy bathrobe that came with his tartan hotel room. Remote in one hand, mobile phone clamped between his ear and shoulder so he can have a good scratch at his sack.
‘Don’t really know, Val, love. All depends on how long it takes to sort things out up here, you know what I’m saying?’
Eleven o’clock. There’s a film starting on Sky, but he can’t concentrate for more than five minutes. So he skims through the channels, always ending up with SKY NEWS and their coverage of Richard Knox’s escape.
Hysterical – in both senses of the word.
Graeme slumps back on the bed, dressing gown falling open. Not like there’s anyone there to complain, is there?
Graeme flicks through the channels: sports, music, documentary about Hitler, American sitcom…then back to the news.
‘You won’t need the top though; don’t want white bits, do you?’
He can hear the smile in her voice.
There’s a knock at the door. Graeme groans.
‘Hold on…’
He stands, ties the robe shut and shuffles into the complementary towelling slippers.
Graeme marches over to the door and undoes the latch. ‘Told you: when I’m finished here.’
Another knock. ‘Mr Danby? Hospitality management, you have a problem with your shower?’
‘Val, it’s not a problem, you know what I’m saying?’ He opens the door. ‘I can always meet you out there, and—’
His head snaps back. Graeme stumbles, pain bursting inside his nose. ‘Fucking…’ Everything tastes of blood. Another thump, hard in his chest, knocking all the air from his lungs.
Detective Superintendent Danby staggers against the bed.
Thump – a stabbing ache in his kidneys.
He grits his teeth and throws a punch, eyes watering too much to aim, just going on instinct.
Misses.
Something hard cracks into the back of his head. The world goes white and crackly, then the carpet rushes up to meet him, slamming into his cheek.
His phone skitters away under the bed, Val’s voice tinny and far away as she makes plans for their trip to New Zealand. His early retirement. Their happy life together.
A boot cracks into his ribs. ‘Get up you fat bastard.’ A Newcastle accent. Oh Jesus, no…Not now. Not when he was so close!
Graeme gets his right arm underneath him and pushes himself to his knees. ‘Fucking bastards…’ The words won’t come out right, his face isn’t working.
He struggles to his feet, rocking back and forth on his heels. The room swirls around him. Blink. He wipes a huge fist across his blurry eyes. ‘Bloody kill…’
A shape swims into focus. Woman. Short. Blonde hair cut in a shoulder-length bob. Jacket, jeans, cowboy boots. A werewolf smile. ‘DSI Danby, so nice to see you again. How’s the wife and kids?’
He staggers back a step. ‘You…?’
She looks to the side. ‘Neil?’
Something slams into Graeme’s head.
Darkness.
They carry him down the service stairs at the back of the building. Can’t use the lifts, cos of the security cameras.
Neil grunts, arms wrapped around Danby’s torso. ‘Christ, he weighs a ton.’
Doesn’t look too great either: his face is all covered in blood, there’s a big lump on the back of his shiny head, and the bruises are already starting to darken.
They pause on the next landing, catching their breath.
Danby’s white bathrobe is all stained red down the front. Flopping open.
Tony frowns. ‘Urgh…’
‘What?’
‘Can see his cock.’
‘Then don’t bloody look.’
Julie’s waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs, where there’s a little car park and some industrial-sized wheelie bins. Tony peers out the door at the falling snow.
‘Cameras?’
‘Don’t sweat it, Babe: all taken care of…’ She frowned. ‘Why’s he got his knob out? Did you guys get all amorous halfway down the stairs?’
Neil grimaces. ‘No offence, but this bastard’s heavy.’
‘Okeydoke.’ She leads the way to the generic white van they stole earlier, the number plates fudged a bit with black electrical tape. Well, you’d have to be a right mentalist to use your own car, wouldn’t you? Some nosey bastard or CCTV camera always sees something.
