The Drop

back up.
    ‘Go on then,’ I said.
    Finney chuckled as we drove away, ‘I enjoyed that,’
    ‘It was a moment of light relief,’ I admitted, ‘and he had been holding out on us.’
    Putting the fear of god into Northam had worked. He’d told us two things we didn’t already know; firstly Cartwright had taken the Drop a day early and of course he’d blamed that on me. I’d apparently told him to collect it twenty four hours before it was due. Because I was on holiday, Northam couldn’t verify that with me at the time so he just assumed it was legit, the idiot.
    The other thing Northam remembered, when we took him through the meeting minute by minute, was that mild-mannered Geordie Cartwright had been carrying. He’d spotted the gun in Cartwright’s shoulder holster when he’d leaned forward to pick up the bag.
    ‘What would Geordie need a gun for?’ Finney wondered aloud.
    ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted, ‘but there’s a good chance he got it from Hunter.’
    ‘Yeah, probably,’ he said, ‘him and Cartwright go back years, to the old days.’
    Doesn’t everybody in our organisation, I thought, except me.
    ‘I’m not sure how far forward we are getting here. Every time we learn something new it just throws up more questions. Why collect the Drop early? Why carry a gun when that isn’t your line of work? Why tell Northam that Barry Hennessy was waiting outside in the car when he wasn’t? Unless Barry was lying when you saw him after?’
    ‘Doubt it, we scared the shite out of him, literally.’
    I didn’t want to think about that. ‘And Northam looked too scared to lie to us in there, so it was Cartwright telling porkie pies but why would he risk that?’
    ‘He was on the run with it?’ suggested Finney, ‘he knew we’d be after him if he lifted the money so he had the gun, just in case.’
    ‘I don’t think so. He’d know a gun wouldn’t do him much good and the Drop had to be handed over in twenty four hours or he’d be in the deepest shit imaginable, so what was to be gained by it? Anyway, we should go and see Hunter and I think it might be worth having another word with Barry Hennessy.’
    Finney smirked to himself at that. He was clearly enjoying his day. I drove for a little while then a thought struck me, ‘why does Barry get called Maggot in the first place?’
    Finney thought for a moment, ‘cos he’s a fucking maggot,’ ‘Fair enough.’
    Our next stop was across the river in Gateshead; the Railway arches and an appointment with Mickey Hunter. The arches all had solid metal doors on them, emblazoned with the names of the small businesses that operated out of the offices and workshops within. If you could stand the noise and vibration from the trains that went whizzing overhead you could get a very good deal on premises right by the city.
    Hunter ran a little body shop that knocked dents out of cars, put new bumpers and bonnets on for you if you’d had a smash, and might stretch to a respray, if you had the cash and didn’t mind him not declaring it. There was always a demand for low maintenance, cheap repair work and it was a lovely cover for his real business. That’s why he could afford to undercut the main dealers.
    ‘He wanted a piece.’ Hunter told me as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He was sitting back in his chair in the garage’s tiny office, which overlooked three dilapidated cars that were all being worked on at once by blokes in grease-stained overalls. Our conversation was constantly being interrupted by the high pitched squeal as wheel nuts were unscrewed, then an angle grinder screamed as someone sorted out some body work. Mickey wore overalls too but I never saw him getting his hands dirty. He was a tall, stocky bloke in his late forties and his dark hair was flecked with grey. He was also a bit boss-eyed. You wouldn’t notice at first. It was only when he was talking to you and was meant to be looking right at you that, instead, you suddenly realised he was staring at a space somewhere above your right shoulder. It wasn’t his fault his eye was a bit out of sinc but it made him look decidedly shifty nonetheless. Hunter had been with Bobby since he was a teenage tearaway, nicking cars, re-spraying them and selling them on. Now he was the firm’s quarter-master.
    ‘Geordie Cartwright wanted a gun?’ I still couldn’t believe it. I’d never even known him fire a gun much less carry one around with him, ‘what