Stolen - Paul Finch

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didn’t think that for one minute, and had a fairly good idea what any such plans would entail. Bill Pentecost was nothing if not a forward thinker, especially where supporters whose loyalty might be suspect were concerned. For all the Crew’s underbosses knew, any one of them could be sleeping in a house that might, at the touch of a match, become an escape-proof crematorium, or driving cars that could blow themselves to smithereens at the flick of a switch.

      ‘We just don’t want a civil war,’ McCracken said, trying to sound as reasonable as possible. ‘Not with everything else that’s happening. Let the lads keep the skim. It helps them to pay their soldiers and runners in cash. And it gives them a bit extra to play with.’

      ‘I think that’s the real issue, don’t you, Frank?’ The Chairman sipped his malt. ‘A bit of personal belt-tightening never goes down well.’

      ‘Why should they do that? They’ve earned these extras.’

      ‘They’ll be earning nothing if these foreign nuisances continue to encroach on our territory.’

      ‘I’m not pretending that isn’t an issue, Bill. But why take it out on the lads?’

      ‘Because the lads, as you call them, are not pulling their weight.’

      McCracken pointed at the window. ‘The enemy’s out there, not in here.’

      ‘The enemy won’t meet us in open battle. Instead, he strikes us here, there, everywhere … whenever we aren’t looking. But we need to be looking, Frank. That’s my point. We need to be. All of us. If my own captains can’t do that, the men who take a fortune out of this company every year for their own private pleasures, what fucking use are they?’

      ‘Bill, come on … you know as well as I do that this is no straightforward war. Like you say, it’s slow encroachment … and it’s happening everywhere. It’s the way things are, it’s a new age of crime …’

      ‘And we don’t have a role any more. Is that what you’re saying?’

      McCracken placed his whisky on the desk; he hadn’t touched a drop so far.

      ‘We need to negotiate,’ he said. ‘It won’t be difficult. Look … the Russians, the Mexicans, whoever it happens to be, they don’t want a major scrap any more than we do.’

      ‘So we should accept slavery?’

      ‘No … but how about an equal partnership? Look, Frank … this is happening the world over. Yeah, there are occasional flare-ups, but most firms are finding out that if they’re prepared to sit down at the table and talk with these guys, deals can be done.’

      ‘There’s a problem, though, Frank.’ Pentecost seated himself behind his desk. ‘You see, the Crew only exists as an entity if we’re considered to be rule-makers, not rule-takers. And to be honest, I’m surprised I have to remind you of this.’

      ‘How can we maintain that if we fall out among ourselves?’

      ‘We won’t be falling out among ourselves.’

      ‘Maybe not.’

      ‘Definitely not.’

      ‘How can you be sure?’

      ‘Because we took a vote on it.’

      ‘That vote was coerced.’

      Pentecost’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Really?’

      ‘Okay, maybe not coerced. But the lads are all going home now, where they’ll sit and have a good think about it … and in a short while they’ll be steaming.’

      Pentecost pondered this.

      ‘Come on, Bill,’ McCracken coaxed him. ‘You know this. You don’t need me to say it.’

      ‘If that’s the case, the only conclusion can be that even more stick is required.’

      ‘Bill … are you not listening to me?’

      ‘Frank … I think it’s you who’s not really listening to me. The way I see things, the lads have already had plenty carrot. A bit of stick too, I’ll admit. But evidently not nearly enough.’

      McCracken couldn’t say anything else, and he didn’t really need to. His disbelieving expression said it all.

      ‘Your concern is noted.’ The Chairman sat back in his swivel-chair, fingers steepled. ‘And I’ve absolutely no doubt that should any of our … lads come to you with any kind of complaint, much less a scheme of any sort, you’ll report it to me forthwith.’

      ‘Yeah.’ McCracken gave a small shrug. ‘Sure.’

      ‘I’m so glad.’ Pentecost smiled, and because it was something he did rarely and was so unpractised at, it looked more than a little deranged. ‘Your loyalty to the company is most welcome … even if it’s only to be expected.’

       Chapter 7

      Raimunda was the ultimate platinum blonde.

      Her glorious mane hung to the small of her back, her 38-24-38 figure accentuated by her body-hugging, electro-pink minidress, while her matching pink six-inch platform-heel sandals, which elevated her five-foot-ten inches to an intimidating six-foot-two, added what seemed like miles of luscious, shapely leg. As always, her sultry looks were daubed in makeup: blusher on the cheeks, thick kohl rimming her sapphire eyes, cherry gloss on the lips.

      Clarissa had something even more exotic about her.

      Her locks were shiny and tar-black. She was olive-skinned, her enchanting golden eyes almond-shaped, her cheekbones delicate, her mouth small but sensual, though ripened tonight with purple lip-glow. She was a similar shape to Raimunda: tall, almost unfeasibly so for a woman, but equally curvaceous. An archetypal Amazon warrior, her outfit comprised a green zip-sided miniskirt, a green camisole top and strappy shoes with six-inch clear heels.

      The pair of them walked with an elegant sway even as they tiptoed through the grotty yard at the back of the terraced inner-Manchester residence. They kept it sexy – that was their stock-in-trade – but it was dark, so they also had to be wary of tripping over stacks of bricks, or sacks crammed with broken masonry.

      ‘I’ll see you next Monday,’ Dean Chesham said from the open back door behind them. He was a muscular young black guy, film-star handsome, clad only in a pair of red silk undershorts. Despite the evening chill, his strong, stocky physique was slick with sweat.

      They replied with lazy waves as they vanished through the back gate. Grinning to himself, Dean went back into the house.

      The air indoors was cooling fast, because there was no central heating installed yet. He’d only recently had the electrics turned back on, because the darker nights were drawing in. For the most part, the house was a shell, its interior stripped to the bare bricks and boards. Only the back bedroom had any semblance of habitability. Dean padded back upstairs and walked down the landing towards it, towelling off with a stained and scruffy T-shirt. In normal circumstances, he’d have preferred a shower, but there were two good reasons why that wasn’t in tonight’s programme. Firstly, it would suit him to look sweaty when he finally got home; secondly, there was no running water.

      The back bedroom was still bereft of wallpaper, plus it wasn’t very large. Dean had just about managed to get a three-quarter-size double bed into it, and this was currently a mess, its mattress askew, its sheets tangled, clothes draped all over it. He pulled on a T-shirt and climbed into a pair of torn jeans with dried paint on them. Equally paint-stained was the dusty old sweat-top he put on over his T-shirt. He sat on the bed to knot the laces on his workboots, then he hit the light switch and headed along the landing, grabbing his L-Quad leather jacket from the newel post at the top of the stairs. Before going outside, he made sure to pull his hood up. Though cooler now that it was autumn,

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