Over the Edge Read online

  Over the Edge

  STUART PAWSON

  To Doreen

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Praise

  About the Author

  By Stuart Pawson

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to the following for their assistance and encouragement: Dave Balfour, Bill Buckley, Paul Bishop, John Crawford, Geoffrey Gibson, Clive Kingswood, Dennis Marshall and Dave Mason.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘A million pounds is a lot of money when you were brought up on bread and scrape.’

  ‘Aw, come off it, Peter. It wasn’t that bad. Who told you that – your dad?’

  The Range Rover peeled off the motorway on to the slip-road without signalling and braked for the red light at the bottom of the ramp. The two men in the front seats were in shadow until the light changed to green, and as the car moved forward again the illumination from the streetlights slid upwards to reveal their faces. The driver’s was expressionless. His effigy wouldn’t have looked out of place on Easter Island, gazing out to sea, but his passenger was the opposite. A generation older, this face was creased and mobile. It was the type of face that usually has a cigar poking out of it as the owner barks percentages into a telephone.

  ‘It’s still a lot of money to turn down,’ the driver said. He glanced into his rear-view mirror to confirm that the Lexus and the Audi had followed him, and looked for the signs to the city centre.

  ‘I’m turning it down because it’s unrealistic, that’s why. OK, so we were poor, but we got by.’

  ‘It’s a fair price and you know it,’ the younger man argued. ‘A million for the club, split between you and Pixie and Dixie, and a little sweetener on top of your cut to bring it up to another million. That makes it £1.6 million we’re paying for the Painted Pony.’

  ‘Which is worth five times that amount. You’ve done the sums, Pete. I’ve seen that clown of yours there, counting the punters every night, seeing how much they drank, writing down the prices. For Chrissake, they laughed at me when I told them a million. Even if I split the money a straight three ways they’d still laugh at me.’

  ‘That’s because they’re accountants; think on the long term. They’re happy if a deal goes into the black after what, eight years? Five years? You and me don’t think like that, though, do we, Joe? Twelve months max, and we want our money back. That right?’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s how it used to be. But things have changed. Sorry, Pete, but it’s still no deal. You’re doing OK. Your dad would be proud of you. He’d have loved the new restaurant. That beef Wellington was the best I’ve ever had, and that’s no kidding.’

  ‘Thanks. And the wine? What did you think of the wine?’ The streets were bathed in orange light and deserted. Traffic lights went blindly through their cycles and crossing beacons blinked irrelevantly on the empty pavements. Two taxis were parked nose-to-nose, one of them on the wrong side of the road, as the drivers shared a cigarette and stories, and a gust of wind sent litter swirling across the street. Standing sentinel over all this were tower after tower of blacked-out office blocks, with only an occasional illuminated window high in the sky to indicate the existence of a netherworld, peopled by invisible men and women who emptied waste paper bins, polished floors and cleaned toilets. The Range Rover carved across three empty lanes and made a right turn.

  ‘Ah! You know what I think of the wine. I’ve had nearly two bottles of it. What was it again?’

  ‘You had nearly three bottles of it, but who’s counting. Chateau Margaux. I was hoping it might make you more amenable to a deal.’

  ‘Ah! Nice try, Pete. Nice try. I’ll have a head like an anvil in the morning but I’ll still own a third share in the Painted Pony. 1980, did you say?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Can you get me a case?’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘You’d no need to bring me home. That’s what I pay a driver for.’

  ‘Duggie, your faithful manservant? He’s following us. I wanted to talk. And I wanted to ask you about a site near your place, on the waterfront. Thought maybe we could have a look at it.’

  ‘It’s the place to be, Pete. Leeds is jumping, at the moment. Those apartments are going for a million a time, and they’re sold before they’re built, unseen. That’s the way to do business.’

  ‘A 24-hour city.’

  ‘That’s right. Blair’s Britain. Politicians wear their shirts out of their trousers and drink out of the bottleneck. I don’t know what your dad would have thought about it.’

  ‘He’d have thought the same as you and me: how do we get a share of the action?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so,’ the older man agreed. ‘We had things cut up fairly well, me and your dad. And you’ve done well, too, Pete. But don’t get greedy. The yardies are moving in, but there’s room for them. We’re in a different market. Remember what your dad used to say about when there was a gold rush? Don’t buy a shovel and go chasing off into the hills. Open a shovel shop. It’s the same with drugs. Let the dumb black bastards go round selling them and shooting each other. Meanwhile, we give them what they need: BMWs; a nightlife; and women. The cops leave us alone and we rake off the cream. No problem. Turn left here, Pete; we’re nearly there.’

  ‘Here?’ He braked hard and made the turn. The road was now narrow and bounded on each side by walls of MDF sheets, hiding the development going off behind them. A huge sign claimed the site for one of the major construction companies and an artist’s impression portrayed an elegant lifestyle that owed more to the artist’s holiday in Greece than to the realities of northern weather.

  ‘That’s right. Listen, Pete. I was sorry to hear about your mother. Grace was a lovely lady. We all thought the world of her. The big C’s a real downer, no mistake. I hear you’ve opened a fund or something, in her memory.’

  ‘That’s right. The Grace Wallenberg trust.’

  ‘Well, we’ll be more than happy to make a contribution, Pete. A substantial contribution.’

  ‘But not the Painted Pony?’

  ‘Ah ah! No, Pete, not the Pony. And you’ve bought Heckley football club, too. That could be a not-very-smart move. I hear they’re a bunch of cripples.’

  There was a silence for a few seconds until the younger man said: ‘That’s unkind to cripples.’

  ‘Sorry, Pete. No offence. So what’s it all about?’

  ‘Respectability, Joe, and access.’

  ‘Access?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Access to local government, politicians, big business. And tradition. The club is over a hundred years old, and I’m saving it for the community. Peter Wallenberg, pillar of society, saviour of Heckley Town FC, that’s me, and they’re falling over each other to shake my hand. Haven’t you noticed how every Member of Parliament you hear about claims to spend all his Saturday afternoons on the terraces, cheering the local side on? It’s the common touch, except that I give them a warm seat and a bottle of claret.’

  ‘You’re smart, Pete, I’ll say that for you. Your dad would be proud, real proud.’

  ‘But you wont sell me the Pony?’

&
nbsp; ‘Ah! No way. Left here. Be careful, its blacker than a Rasta’s arse and there’s no wall. It just drops straight into the river. What is it you wanted to show me?’

  ‘Where is the river?’

  ‘‘Bout twenty yards away. Stop here.’ There was a hint of alarm in his voice. ‘Don’t go any closer, it gives me the willies, this time o’ night. That’s near enough.’

  ‘And you live on the top floor of that block?’

  ‘Sure do. A New York loft, the estate agent called it. That means there’s no ceiling between you and the roof. Saves on construction costs but it’s a bugger to heat. Wanna look-see? A coffee, maybe?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. And the Pony’s in the basement. That’s handy.’

  ‘Damn right it is. Helps me keep an eye on things. We close Monday nights, otherwise it would be buzzing around here, this time o’ night.’

  ‘It’s quiet now. And spooky.’ He pressed a button to adjust the door mirror and saw the other two cars edge round the corner, their lights out. They stopped in the shadows fifty yards back and waited.

  ‘Sure is. One time this wharf was where all the wool was unloaded. See the bridge up there? That’s Leeds Bridge. We used to stand on it when we were kids, your dad and me, and count all the barges, tied up side by side, wondering where they came from. The first ever moving pictures were taken on that bridge, by a man called Louis Le Prince, back in the nineteenth century. Now it’s all yuppie apartments and three-quid-a-cup coffee houses. Well, thanks for bringing me home, Pete, and it’s been a pleasure talking to you. We should do it more often, for old times sake. Wanna change your mind about that coffee?’

  ‘I want the Pony, Joe.’

  ‘OK, it’s yours. The price is eight million. I’ll take a cheque.’

  ‘1.6, no offers. We could come to some arrangement where you still had an interest. It’d be a nice pension for you.’

  ‘Sorry, Pete. I told you, the partners aren’t interested.’

  ‘Fuck the partners, this is between you and me. OK, Joe, how’s this for a sweetener? There’s this girl coming over. Nineteen, blonde, figure enough to drive you blind. Thinks she’s landed a job as a nanny to a brain surgeon’s kids, at the HGI. All hush-hush and off the record, of course, to get round all the red tape nonsense. I was saving her for myself, but you’re welcome to have first lick of the jam in the bagel, so to speak. How does that sound?’

  ‘Ah! It sounds as if you’re trying to appeal to my weakness, but you’re too late, Pete. These days I need all the help I can get, not resistance.’

  ‘That’s not what I hear.’

  ‘Well, you hear wrong. I’m not interested in your deal and neither are the partners.’

  ‘They will be if I make them an offer over your head.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘One last time. Do we have a deal?’

  ‘No way.’

  The younger man pressed a button on the dashboard and the Range Rover’s hazard lights flashed once. ‘OK,’ he snarled. ‘Get out of the car.’

  ‘Hey, what’s that?’

  ‘What does it look like?’

  ‘A fuckin gun, that’s what it looks like.’

  Behind them the Lexus and the Audi began to creep forward until they were close up behind the Range Rover. The doors swung open and two men climbed out. The one from the Lexus was big, with a shaven head, wearing jogging bottoms and a T-shirt. His companion was more slightly built, but still muscular, wearing a hand-made suit and silk tie.

  ‘So your eyesight’s better than your hearing. I said get out of the car, Joe.’

  ‘Uncle Joe. That’s who I used to be. Uncle Joe.’

  The two newcomers walked alongside the Range Rover and the well-dressed one pulled the passenger’s door open.

  ‘Get out!’ the one called Peter Wallenberg ordered from the driving seat, pointing the gun.

  ‘You heard what he said,’ the smart suit added.

  ‘Hey! Where’d he come from?’ the old man demanded.

  ‘Need some assistance, Mr Wallenberg?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Dale. Mr Crozier is just getting out.’

  ‘What’s going off, Pete? Dale? What’s this all about? And where’s Duggie?’

  ‘He’s here, behind me.’

  ‘Duggie. Why’d you let this happen?’ He glanced at the faces surrounding him. He wasn’t scared. He’d been in dangerous situations before, been beaten up a couple of times, but that was a long time ago. Things were different now. OK, so he’d lost this one, been out-manoeuvred, whatever it was about, but he’d bounce back.

  ‘I’m wiv Mr Wallenberg now, Mr Crozier.’

  ‘You’ve betrayed me, Duggie. Betrayed me.’

  ‘Just get out.’

  He swung his legs out and dropped to the ground.

  ‘That’s it. Now, lean on the bonnet.’ The dapper one, called Dale, spun him round and forced him over the car’s bonnet while Duggie dropped on to his knees.

  ‘Hey, what y’doing?’

  ‘We’re taping your ankles together.’

  ‘What the fuck for?’

  ‘This tape’s not much good, Mr Wallenberg,’ Duggie said.

  ‘Just do it. Put plenty round. And now his hands. Put your hands behind your back.’

  ‘Aw, c’mon, Peter,’ he pleaded. ‘A joke’s a joke. Look, I’ll have another word with the partners. Maybe we can find some middle ground.’

  ‘I’m not interested in middle ground. Do as you’re told.’

  ‘You’ll be sorry for this, Pete. Real sorry.’

  ‘No I won’t. Put plenty round.’

  ‘Insulation tape would be better, boss,’ Duggie said, anxious to please. ‘This’ll come off in the water.’

  The words hit the old man like a ten-ton truck. ‘The water!’ he yelled. ‘Whadya mean, the water! Not the river! No! No! Please don’t put me in the river…’

  ‘Put some round his mouth, stop him screaming.’

  ‘No! Don’t! Help! Help me…Aaarg…aaarg.’ His body undulated and twisted like an eel writhing on a fishing line in a desperate attempt to thwart his captors as Dale gripped him in a headlock.

  ‘More, use more,’ urged the stone-faced one as Duggie wound the tape round and round the old man’s head. ‘That should do. Well done, boys, he’s all yours. Here, Dale. You’d better have this back.’ He handed the gun to the younger man, who put it in his jacket pocket. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Gurgling noises came from the trussed-up old man as he tried to scream down his nose. Blobs of mucus bubbled out of it and his bowels and bladder released their contents in a last primordial defence.

  ‘G’night, Mr Wallenberg,’ the dapper one called, softly, to the retreating back of his boss. ‘You take his legs, Duggie.’

  ‘I got them. You OK wiv ’is shoulders?’

  ‘Yeah, piece o’ cake.’

  Their parcel strained at his bindings, his eyes bulging from their sockets as they flicked from one assailant to the other. He wanted to promise them the world, share his fortune with them, but all means of communication were denied him.

  ‘After you, that way,’ Duggie directed.

  ‘Arr! Dropped him. He’s wriggling like a fish.’

  ‘Shall I fump ’im? That’d quieten ’im?’

  ‘No. Mr Wallenberg sez there’s to be no marks on him.’

  ‘Old Hopalong? He didn’t stay long.’

  ‘He’s OK, a good boss, but don’t ever let him hear you call ’im Hopalong, or you’re one dead person. Careful, don’t bang his head on the edge.’

  The old man was weeping now, sobs racking his exhausted body as he gasped for breath. Their pity was his last hope.

  ‘Right. Fanks for the advice. God, look at that water.’

  The river shone back at them like a hole in space. Broken patches of light from the apartments on the opposite bank sat on the water and gently merged into each other and parted again.

  ‘I can’t see it,
just blackness.’

  ‘It’s down there somewhere. Don’t come too near the edge. Looks like oil, not moving. Rather ’im than me.’

  The old man prayed for the first time in his life. Not for rescue or salvation. It was too late for either of those. He had a pain in his chest. He prayed that it was a heart attack, that it would take him before the paralysing shock of the water racked his body and choked his lungs.

  ‘OK, just roll him off the side.’ They pushed him over the edge as casually as they would drop a bag of rubbish into a dumpster. The lights on the water bobbed and shimmered, and broke up into smaller patches of colour that almost immediately began to reform again. ‘There we go, just right, hardly a splash, like the boss said.’

  ‘Can you see him? Is he floating?’ They stood side by side, peering into the blackness.

  ‘Can’t tell. There’s a few ripples. It’s out of our hands, now.’

  ‘Phew! I’m out of breff. That’s our first job together, Dale.’

  ‘Yeah. Pleasure doing business with you, Duggie.’

  ‘Likewise, Dale. Fuckin likewise.’

  ‘Right. You put his car back in its normal parking place and we’ll fuck off back to Heckley.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  If I hadn’t decided to go for a jog that morning I wouldn’t have had just one slice of toast for breakfast, and if I hadn’t had just one slice of toast I wouldn’t have made the discovery.

  The toaster went ping! and the square of bread was hurled completely clear of the machine, falling onto the kitchen carpet. The springs, it would appear, had been chosen for their ability to lift my normal two slices to the optimum level, not one. I threw the sullied portion in the bin, placed a fresh piece in the machine and pushed it further on to the worktop. While waiting for it to cook I had an idea. I placed a book under one edge of the toaster, to give it a pronounced lift, and carefully positioned my plate next to the other side. I stood back and stooped to get a better view, considering the force with which the doomed slice had been ejected, estimating trajectories, and made a slight adjustment.

  Ping! it went again, and one perfectly cooked slice of toast shot from the machine and fell on to my plate, untouched by human hand. The joy that welled up inside me was beyond belief. It was one of those unique occasions, experienced only when momentous discoveries have been made and known only to geniuses like Archimedes, Alexander Fleming, and now me, Charlie Priest. I scraped the last of the margarine across the celebrated slice and poured hot water onto coffee granules.