Big City Jacks Read Free Page B

in the footwell.
    â€˜Bleedin’ kids, joyridin’ bastards,’ snarled the owner of the car. ‘I’ve had it nicked a few times, but it always turns up eventually. No doubt it’ll get torched sometime.’ His anger turned to resignation, the sad attitude of a repeat crime victim past caring. He was a big, unshaven man with a massive beer gut hanging over the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms, wearing a grubby vest and zip-up slippers. ‘Bloody thing’s droppin’ t’ pieces anyway.’
    â€˜How much is it worth?’ the police officer taking the report inquired.
    â€˜Coupla ’undred, maybe less,’ the man pouted thoughtfully. ‘No great loss, just means I’m walkin’ t’ work tomorrow.’
    â€˜OK,’ the officer said, ‘let’s get this right . . .’ He checked his notes. ‘Blue Ford Escort Fresco, registered number . . .’ He reeled off the details to verify them, then said, ‘OK, I’ll get it circulated right away.’
    â€˜Whatever,’ the owner shrugged.
    The officer returned to his patrol car and settled in next to his shift partner who had not bothered to get out for such a mundane job. He radioed the details in and a communications operator took them down, circulated them locally, then forcewide across Manchester, then entered them on the Police National Computer. Having done this, the operator stood up, stretched and mouthed, ‘Going for a pee,’ to his colleague on the adjacent console.
    He made his way to an empty office and picked up a phone.
    â€˜It’s me.’
    â€˜Any news?’
    â€˜The car has just been reported stolen.’
    â€˜It is a legit report?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Did you sort out the you-know-whats?’
    â€˜I did – they’re safe and sound.’
    â€˜Good . . . keep me informed of any developments.’
    * * *
    By the time Keith Snell drove into Blackpool ninety minutes later, he was shivering and sweating and beginning to hallucinate. He needed something desperately – and he knew where he was going to get it. He came off the M55 at Marton Circle and drove down Blackpool’s back roads on to Shoreside Estate.
    After a couple of fruitless drive-arounds, he found the house he was searching for and pulled up outside. He heaved the money bag on to his shoulder and stumbled down the short pathway to the front door, smacking it loudly with the palm of his hand.
    Inside he could hear the TV blaring out loudly, and voices.
    Eventually the door opened. A teenage girl stood there in a skimpy T-shirt exposing a diamond-studded belly button and tight shorts. She was chewing and sneered at Keith. ‘Yeah?’
    â€˜Troy? Is Troy here?’ he gasped.
    â€˜Who wants to know?’
    â€˜I’m Keith Snell . . . he’s a mate. I need to speak to him . . .’
    A figure appeared behind the girl and barked, ‘Fuck off out the way!’
    â€˜Troy . . . mate,’ Keith wheezed as the man shouldered the young girl out of the way.
    â€˜What the hell are you doin’ here?’ There was suspicion in the voice.
    â€˜Man . . .’ Keith extended his arms, palms outward. ‘I need somewhere to doss, man, somewhere I can get my head together . . . and I really, really, need some shit.’ The sports bag rolled off his shoulder and crashed to the ground, the zip bursting and revealing the shotgun resting on wads of cash.
    It hit the spot with alacrity and immediately Keith started to feel mellow and warm, like he was sitting in front of a gas fire. It also pleased him he had not had to break into his own stash. He exhaled and relaxed for the first time in hours. His head lolled back and his mouth opened. ‘Jesus . . . fuck . . .’ he said slowly, then, ‘Ahhh . . . this is good shit, man, real good.’ Gently he extracted the hypodermic needle from the well-accessed vein at his elbow.
    Troy Costain