''Cause smack isn't harmful?'
'I told her she didn't want to start up with that stuff, but she wouldn't listen.'
'So you figured if someone was going to make some money from Jessica, it might as well be you?'
'No, you've got it all wrong. I was just trying to help.'
Help? Was he serious? My eyes narrowed.
'Tobey, listen. Please. Jess came to me.'
'When?'
'What?'
'When did she first come to you?' I said patiently. 'How long have you been selling that stuff to her?'
'I've only sold to her twice. The first time was four or five weeks ago. That's it.'
I studied Dan, my eyes never leaving his face. Did I ever really know him? He sure as hell didn't know me. Once again, all the words burning inside my head had to stay there. I couldn't even clench my fists. The definition of growing up – hiding what you truly feel, suppressing what you really want to do. Unless you were McAuley or the Dowds. I was beginning to see the attraction of their particular way of life. There was a definite appeal to living by your own set of rules. A very definite appeal.
'Dan, listen carefully 'cause I'm only going to say this once,' I said, once I trusted my voice to stay calm. 'Stay away from my sister.'
'OK, Tobey. OK,' Dan agreed.
He kept shifting from foot to foot. I stood like a statue, watching him. Ice was crystallizing in my veins and moving irrevocably through my body. Dan was nervous. I wasn't. We stood in thorny silence, regarding each other. And in that moment I knew that I'd lost him. No matter what happened now, we'd never go back to the way we once were; we'd never fully trust each other again. One day I might forgive him for what he'd done, but I'd never forget. He was probably feeling exactly the same way. In spite of the warmth of the day, that realization made me cold and sad.
We started walking again, though now we were way behind my mum.
'When did you slip the knife into my pocket?' asked Dan.
'When I was trying to help you up. I couldn't be caught with it,' I said, my voice edged with reluctant apology.
'And I could? Thanks a lot.'
There was nothing I could say to that. The silence between us continued to eat away at our friendship.
'Dan, I'm sorry.'
'No, you're not,' Dan shot back. 'Sorry implies that if you could go back, you'd do things differently. We both know that you wouldn't change a thing.'
I didn't say anything because he was right. Dan looked at me, such a look that I stopped walking and reluctantly faced him to hear what he had to say.
'This isn't about your sister, though, is it?' Dan said quietly. 'Jessica added fuel to the fire, but what happened to Callie started it. I never realized till now just how much you hate me for what happened to Callie Rose.'
He had my full attention.
'I thought you blamed McAuley and the Dowds,' he continued. 'But you blame me as well. I was the one who asked you to deliver that package to Louise Resnick and there was no way the Dowds were going to let McAuley get away with the torture of one of their own.'
'We've already been through this—'
'Yes, but I'm seeing the real you now,' said Dan. 'McAuley's driven by greed and pride and the lust for power. With you it's different.'
'What d'you mean?'
Dan studied me like he'd just had a revelation. 'All this started because Callie was shot, and maybe you even managed to convince yourself for a while that she was the one you were doing all this for. But that's not true any more, is it?'
'I don't know what you're talking about.' I frowned. I wasn't sure I wanted to find out either.
'This has stopped being about Callie. It's not about Jessica. It's not even about me. You've moved on from that. This is now about you.'
'How sad are you?' I laughed derisively. 'Is this how you manage to get through each day? By blaming everyone but yourself ?'
'If this was about your sister, you would've taken me apart the moment you saw me earlier. If this was about Callie Rose, you would've come after me the moment you left the hospital after she was injured. That's what I would've done. But that wasn't enough for you. It still isn't.'
'Maybe I didn't come after you when Callie Rose was shot because I didn't blame you,' I ventured.
'But that's just my point,' said Dan. 'You did blame me. Not just me, but me included. And you were prepared to use me to get what you wanted. It was all about you and your revenge.'
Not true. This had nothing to do with me and everything to do with what had happened to Callie Rose. She was the one I cared about. She was the one I was doing this for . . .
'So because I didn't act the way you would've, I don't care about Callie and my sister? Is that it?' I said angrily. 'You're talking bollocks.'
Dan shook his head. 'You just don't get it, do you? You're getting too much . . . satisfaction out of all this. You've developed a taste for being the puppet-master and we're all – what's the word? – expendable. That's why you're so dangerous.' He gave a bitter laugh. 'McAuley doesn't know what he's in for.'
'Dan, you're wrong—' I began, but for the life of me, I couldn't think of anything else to say.
'Are we even now, Tobey?' asked Dan quietly. ''Cause if anyone but you had done this to me, I'd be back at my lockup getting ready to do some damage.'
'So what should I expect, Dan?'
Dan gave me a look. He opened his mouth to speak.
'Could you guys hurry up?' Mum called to us. 'I would like to try and get at least five minutes sleep before work today. Dan, I'll drop you home first.'
'There really is no need,' Dan replied. 'I can get the bus home.'
'Nonsense,' said Mum. 'Besides, I told the police I'd make sure you got home safely.'
Dan and I sat in the back of the car. Mum didn't even start the engine until she'd made sure we'd put on our seatbelts. Then we were on our way. And the entire journey back was achieved without Dan and I saying a single word to each other. I stared out of the window whilst Dan's words played round and round in my head like a song on repeat.
This wasn't about me. This was about Callie.
It was . . .
'Mum, can we stop off at our house first?' I asked as we got close to our road. 'I have something of Dan's that I need to give to him.'
'What?'
'Something,' I replied, reluctant to elaborate.
'As long as you hurry up,' said Mum.
When Mum stopped in front of our house, I was in and out in less than a minute. But now what? I didn't want to hand over what I'd retrieved in front of her. I got back in the car, doing up my seatbelt.
'Mum, could you drop both of us off at Dan's house?' I asked. 'And I promise I'll be home within fifteen minutes.'
I caught Mum's look in the driver's mirror. She didn't need to speak, her expression said it all. If I wasn't home in fifteen minutes, she'd come looking for me and if she had to do that . . . I got the message. Less than five minutes later we were outside Dan's.
'Dan, you are going to stay out of trouble, aren't you?' asked Mum.
'I'll do my best.' Dan smiled faintly.
After one last warning look cast in my direction, Mum turned the car around and headed home.
The moment she was out of sight, I took out the envelope that Byron had given me, the one full of money, and placed it in Dan's hand. 'This is yours,' I said.
Dan's eyes narrowed. 'What's this?'
'McAuley gave it to me, but . . . but it's yours.'
Dan's fingers folded slowly around the envelope.
'OK?' I said.
'OK.' He turned abruptly and walked away, straight past his own front door.
Where was he going? To his lockup? What was he going to do?
'Dan,' I called after him.
He stopped, but he didn't turn round.
After a moment's thought, I said, 'We're even now.'
Dan carried on walking.
fifty-one
Back at home, I had
to wait till Mum went back to bed before I could get down to what I really wanted to do. I connected up McAuley's memory stick and started scanning it. And what did it contain? Letters of complaint to the Inland Revenue and other government bodies about a shipment of rugs imported nearly a year ago and still being held by Customs. A spreadsheet comparing the price of rugs from around the world. More letters of complaint. An inventory of the contents of McAuley's warehouse. Godsake! The files contained stale, boring stuff that was of absolutely no use to me at all. And each file I checked after that was more of the same. They all contained import/export details of artefacts and luxury knick-knacks and other rubbish. It was beginning to look like swapping the memory sticks had been a complete waste of time. When I thought of the risk I'd taken, I felt sick. There were only three more files to check and from the file names, I didn't hold out much hope that they'd be useful.
The next file I opened was called Schedule. Only one problem – it was completely empty. Why on earth would McAuley keep an empty file? What a waste of disk space. I opened up the last two files. The first was more twaddle about misshapen figurines and sculptures. The second file contained the bank account details of McAuley's lieutenant, Byron Sweet. I couldn't believe that Byron, Mr Pit-bull himself, had the surname of Sweet. That was about the only interesting thing in the last file. I learned Byron's bank, his branch code and his bank account number – which were all worse than useless.
And that was it.
I slumped back in my chair. Now what? There was nothing in any of the files that was the least bit illegal, unless I was missing something. I listed all the files, in case there was one I'd missed and hadn't read yet. But there wasn't. I read them all again, every word, but there was nothing remotely worthwhile. I held my head in my hands and tried to think. There was no way I'd get another crack at McAuley's computer. I looked at the list of files on my screen, desperately willing them to turn into something I could use.
Something I could . . .
Something . . .
I leaned closer to the screen. Schedule, the file with nothing in it, was almost one hundred kilobytes big. Why would a file with nothing in it be so large? I opened the file again. It consisted of eight blank pages. I scrolled all the way down then back up again. The file was definitely empty. Or was it? A light bulb started flashing in my head. Mouth dry, heart thumping, I clicked the option to select everything in the file, then changed its colour to black. The file was immediately filled to overflowing with text and a grid that must've been from a spreadsheet.
Oh, yes!
'Very clever, McAuley,' I muttered.
I mean, credit where credit was due. The colour of the words in the file had been changed to white. White words on a white background. No wonder the file looked blank. I tried not to get too excited, but this looked far more promising. I settled down in my chair and started reading. I read the file from top to bottom, then read it again to make sure I hadn't misread any of it.
According to the spreadsheet in the file, McAuley had invested every penny he had in three shipments coming into the country within the next few days. He'd euphemistically referred to his shipments as 'X'. The first shipment was due the day after tomorrow. Two more shipments were scheduled to arrive after that, each at intervals of three days. Each shipment was going to a different address, where they would be stored until McAuley arranged collection. He wasn't taking any chances. From the look of it, it seemed the Dowds had taken away more of McAuley's business than anyone suspected and he wasn't quite as loaded as we'd all assumed.
Why on earth hadn't he quit when he was ahead?
And then I realized. He couldn't quit. It wasn't just the money that McAuley craved, it was the sense of control and power it gave him. He was like a pathetic despot, looking out over the portion of his kingdom called 'half of Meadowview' and longing for it all. And the Dowds were exactly the same, two wings of the same bird. They targeted those who had little and made sure they ended up with less. And Dan's attitude to McAuley was 'at least he's one of our own'. I shook my head, wondering if he still felt the same way.
The file contained details of delivery addresses, times, the initials of a number of people who were going to pay for 'X' and the amounts of money involved. And I mean, large, eye-boggling amounts of money. I finally had something I could use. The question was, how? I could just tell the police, but there was no way to link the shipments to McAuley unless he was found with the stuff and McAuley was much too smart for that. After it was delivered, he'd have his minions do his dirty work for him. And even if there was some way to link the shipments to him, a smart lawyer could claim that McAuley didn't know what was being imported in his name or that it wasn't even his property. I could tell the police and they'd confiscate his shipments, but that wasn't enough. I admit it. It wasn't anywhere near enough. I wanted McAuley's world to unravel slowly but irrevocably. So I'd have to find some other way to use this information to his disadvantage.
It was time to make a phone call.
Phone call concluded, the next thing I had to do was protect the information I had. I printed off all the sheets, then placed them in an A5 envelope, which I addressed to Callie Rose. I took a second-class stamp from Mum's handbag and stuck that on the letter. This letter would be my insurance policy – just in case. I knew Sephy would never open her daughter's letters, and once Callie was out of hospital the letter would be easy enough to retrieve – if I got through this.
Once that was done, I tried to figure out my next move. I finally decided on a course of action. It wasn't smart and it sure as hell wasn't foolproof, but it was all I had.
I headed for my local library, memory stick hidden in the cuff of my jacket – just in case McAuley or the police decided they couldn't do without my company. At the library, I booked a computer for an hour and started working on my first letter. It would probably be the most significant one of my life. I decided to use a handwriting font that I didn't have on my computer at home. I couldn't take any chances. If the letter was ever traced back to me . . .
To the Dowds,
This letter contains information about Alex McAuley and his business interests that you will hopefully find useful. McAuley is expecting a shipment to be delivered to 3 Londridge Street, Meadowview on 14th August at 4.30 p.m. The shipment will arrive in a home food shopping delivery van. I don't know the route the van will take before it arrives at the above address. This delivery, one of the smaller ones scheduled to arrive in the next couple of weeks, is worth over three-quarters of a million pounds. How you decide to use this information is of course entirely up to you. If you do decide to act upon the information in this letter, I will supply you with the times, dates and venues of all McAuley's other consignments for the rest of the month – but only if you decide to act on the information contained herein.
I thought my use of the words 'consignment' and 'herein' was a good touch. No one ever used those kinds of words in real life. Hopefully those words and the way I'd phrased certain other sentences would make it seem like someone much older than me had written the letter. And possibly a woman? After a lot of deleting and rewriting, I decided the letter was ready – except for one thing. The Dowds would never believe the information I was giving them was genuine if I didn't ask for some kind of reward. As far as they were concerned, altruism – especially criminal altruism – didn't exist. So I added:
Once the above shipment is yours, I would expect payment of 10% of the gross worth of the product before I part with any further information about other future deliveries. I feel 10% is fair. I would expect this money in cash. I shall provide further instructions regarding the payment of my money once McAuley's goods are in your hands.
I had no intention of taking a penny from the Dowds, but they needed to believe I was just as avaricious as they were. I printed off the letter, making sure to hold it with a tissue so that my fingerprints wouldn't get on it. Folding it, I placed it in the envelope I'd brought with me. The question was, sho
uld I post it to Gideon Dowd at TFTM or should I post it to Vanessa Dowd? Thanks to Rebecca, I now had her home address. But I suspected I was one of a mere handful of people who knew it. If I posted the letter to Rebecca's mum, it might be easier to trace. Giving it to Owen wasn't part of the plan. Besides, I wanted as little as possible to do with him. TFTM it was then. I would just have to hope that Gideon Dowd would be at the Club the following day to receive the letter. I could've sent it as an email, but Gideon could trace the email back to this library and it was in my neighbourhood, plus it had twenty-four-hour CCTV. With Gideon's connections, he could easily get hold of the footage and discover that I'd been in the library around the time he received the email. No, far better to send it via snail mail. Slower but safer.
My second letter was far easier to write. I used the same font and took the same precautions to make sure that my fingerprints didn't appear anywhere on it. This letter was much simpler, though. This one gave details of McAuley's second shipment. What should I do about the third scheduled delivery? Tell the police? Tell the Dowds?
Tell no one?
I took the latter path. It would take expert timing, but maybe I could move the shipment, or at least part of it, to some place where no one but me would ever find it.
I mean, why not me?
Why not?
It's not that I fancied myself as another McAuley. Far from it. But I had to think ahead. I had to think. I had to look out for myself. No one else would.
I'd make no snap decisions about the third shipment. The answer would come to me. But one way or another, all this should start to hit McAuley where he would feel it the most. I wasn't finished with him yet.
Not even close.
fifty-two
Hello, Callie Rose.
I . . .
Today I . . .
I have nothing to say.
fifty-three
As I walked down the hospital steps, my whole body felt as if it was made of lead. I'd sat with Callie for over thirty minutes – and I couldn't think of anything to say. What was happening to me that I couldn't find anything to say to her? I pulled my T-shirt rapidly back and forth away from my sweaty chest. The sky was white-grey and the air was really humid and sticky. This damned weather was really getting to me. Time to head back home. My letters were posted and I'd managed to visit Callie again without getting caught. Mum must've set off for work by now, and as for Jessica . . . ? Well, I'd barely seen her recently. We'd been avoiding each other. But Jess wasn't uppermost in my mind. I had other matters to attend to. First a shower, then phone Rebecca to ask her for a date. I hadn't heard from her in a while and I needed to know where I stood now that her brother had banned us from being together.