Best Served Cold Read online

  Best Served Cold

  By LimeyLady

  Copyright Mark C Woolridge (writing as LimeyLady), 2017

  Distributed by Smashwords

  All characters and events in this publication,

  other than those clearly in the public domain,

  are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One - Ill Winds

  Chapter Two - Angel

  Chapter Three - Sean’s Mum

  Chapter Four - Wife Swapping Plans

  Chapter Five - DeeDee Comes Home

  Chapter Six - Jamie

  Chapter Seven - Introducing Kyle

  Chapter Eight - The Headrow Incident

  Chapter Nine - Moggs Slips Up

  Chapter Ten - An Eventful Saturday

  Chapter Eleven - GBS

  Chapter Twelve - A Slow Recovery

  Chapter Thirteen - Waterman’s Research

  Chapter Fourteen - Vic Prepares

  Part Two

  Chapter Fifteen - Simone

  Chapter Sixteen - Joanna’s Birthday

  Chapter Seventeen - The Joys of Moneylending

  Chapter Eighteen - Geoff’s Near-miss

  Chapter Nineteen - Vic’s Vice CEO

  Chapter Twenty - Heather’s Morning After

  Chapter Twenty-One - Penny Gets Stressed

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Nina

  Part Three

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Goodbye Constantine Bay

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Kyle

  Chapter Twenty-Five - The Serial Killer Caught?

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Danny Painter

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Heather’s Hospital Visit

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - Lockwood Cracks

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - Geoff’s Long Road to Recovery

  Chapter Thirty - Heather and Pat

  Chapter Thirty-One - An Afternoon in Leeds

  Part Four

  Chapter Thirty-Two - The Christmas Party

  Chapter Thirty-Three - Heather Gives in to Temptation

  Chapter Thirty-Four - A Trip to the Pub

  Chapter Thirty-Five - Walking the Dog

  Chapter Thirty-Six - Heather Entertains Herself

  Chapter Thirty-Seven - Angel Balances the Books

  Chapter Thirty-Eight - The Maxwell Killings

  Chapter Thirty-Nine - Alfie

  Chapter Forty - The Morning After

  Chapter Forty-One - Druid’s Altar

  Chapter Forty-Two - Sunday in the Pub

  Chapter Forty-Three - Spenny

  Chapter Forty-Four - Lockwood’s Last Night Out

  Chapter Forty-Five - Suicide

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Other Books by LimeyLady

  Revenge is a dish best served cold.

  (Variation of an old proverb, source uncertain)

  Prologue

  Friday 15th February 2008

  Jonjo Blake stared through the window of the unlit portacabin, watching the snow, almost hypnotized by the sight. After a couple of hours waiting and watching the AK-47 had become an extension of his arm; it didn’t feel strange at all.

  Outside the flakes swirled heavier and faster than ever. It had been coming down for a while, initially covering the tops of walls, then grassy areas and pavements. By now the building works behind the cabin were thickly covered too, along with the main road running past the site. It was the road that worried him most. A gritter had crawled past twenty minutes ago, sloshing its way through slush. There’d been sod all traffic since and the surface no longer looked slushy; it looked distinctly white.

  No, it was icy white.

  Jonjo glanced over his shoulder, his night vision adjusted enough for him to see the faces of his fellow trespassers. Those two weren’t nearly as tensed as he was. This was just another job for them. Kev had found himself a chair and sprawled in it, humming tunelessly. Bri was leaning against a wall, eyes closed, asleep on his feet like a horse.

  Were they relaxed or what?

  Okay, so lucky for them. Tonight was Jonjo’s comeback and for him relaxed wasn’t a possibility. Last time out hadn’t ended well and he couldn’t afford a repeat. Although Harry hadn’t made a song and dance about it (hadn’t even mentioned that last time had happened barely a mile from this very spot), everyone knew tonight was the big test. He had to prove he was still up with the best, and his disability couldn’t be an excuse.

  No pressure, then.

  Jonjo smiled grimly. He felt like a retired gunslinger, back for that final showdown. Not one in a white hat though. He hadn't retired because he'd met a good woman or found God. He wasn't forced back into action through circumstance, either. There was no murdered family and definitely no popular demand from a cowed township. His Westerns weren’t morality stories, they were dark and very blood-drenched, starring Clint and directed by Peckinpah.

  Fuck the daydreams though, he was back after three years in limbo; the revival was on: Gladstone Smith first and then Joey McGuire.

  No, first that frigging humming.

  Jonjo’s phone rang before he could tell Kev to put a sock in it. He automatically checked the caller, even though it could only be Barney O’Brien. They were both operating new, untraceable throwaways and nobody else had their numbers.

  Barney sounded mellow as always. He did occasionally flap, but you’d never know from his voice.

  ‘What's the snow like up in the Himalayas?’ he drawled. ‘There's eff-all down here.’

  ‘It’s settled feet deep,’ Jonjo lied. ‘The polar bears are moving south.’

  ‘I didn't think they had polar bears in Tibet.’

  ‘I must have mistaken the yetis, then. But forget the wildlife, what's happening?’

  ‘Murdo’s just been out. He made a call while he smoked his ciggie.’

  Jonjo didn’t need a picture painting because he’d done half the surveillance himself. The scene was a smart-ish street near the centre of Leeds, rammed with cars and pedestrians by day, almost deserted by night. Barney would be parked a discreet distance short of the club, which would be blazing electric light in all directions. Gladstone loved casinos but this slightly less legit dive was his favourite. He called in at least twice a week to splash his ill-gotten gains.

  ‘Hello, hello, hello,’ said Barney. ‘Speak of the Devil, here comes Gladstone’s motor.’

  Jonjo added the fancy, chauffeur-driven limo into his mental picture. It drew up to a halt in the boxed zone outside the night club. Normally the bouncers jealously guarded that box. Even the most beautiful women were swiftly sent on their way. Gladstone's driver was one of the few permitted to drop off and collect.

  ‘Murdo's coming out again,' said Barney, ‘checking for terrorists.’

  Murdo was Gladstone’s minder, ex-military, rumoured to be ex-SAS. Jonjo believed the military bit but thought the guy strutted about too much to be SAS. He was more likely to be a reject NCO or redcap. He did, however, make a good show of being efficient, always thoroughly checking the limo before his boss got in. He’d definitely notice hijackers or bombs.

  ‘Here comes Gladstone.’ Barney whistled. ‘Frigging hell, bags me the black one!’

  There was even less need for a painting of that. Gladstone invariably left the night club with more women than he brought. He must average about one arriving and two and a half leaving.

  ‘That’s it, he's in with the fanny,’ Barney went on. ‘Murdo's getting in the front. And they're off.’

  ‘Are you going after them?’

  ‘Does Dolly Parton sleep on her back?’

  *****

  Cap
per raised the partition when he saw Gladstone had company. This was more for his convenience than anyone else’s. Gladstone might not care but personally Capper didn't want to see or hear. It was bad enough catching a glimpse every time he looked in the rearview.

  Greedy bastard doesn't half pick 'em!

  He waited until Murdo had belted up then pulled smoothly away from the club, pretending to be cool. Although he would never admit it, Capper was concerned about getting everybody safely home. Tonight’s snow was far worse out of the city centre. Why Gladstone had to insist on Leeds in conditions like this . . .

  Still, that was him all over. He was The Man. Everyone else bobbed and did what they were told. And his women did too. It was amazing what fifty grand a week could buy.

  God knows how footballers turn out for training on a morning.

  They glided past a disinterested police car and headed for Bradford. Ever nervous, Capper held his breath until they were out of sight. Bastards must still be eating their chips. Not that he had anything to feel guilty about; he didn’t even drink and drive anymore.

  He tried not to chuckle. He'd once been the success story: a top getaway driver, one of the very best. Twenty-six major jobs without being nicked . . .

  Apart from that very last time, and that had been a grass, three days after the fact. It hadn’t been any reflection on his driving. Oh no, it had been bone-brained muscle, too obvious in squandering his cut.

  There was never anything wrong with my part of a job.

  Capper risked another look in the mirror, wanting to double-check on that patrol car, copping a view of Gladstone getting double-teamed instead. Wincing, he studied the road behind. A single set of headlights, almost a hundred yards back, but not the police. Yet that I'm-being-followed feeling hit him again. He had been getting it a week or more now without telling anyone, not wanting to be laughed at. And not wanting to provoke Gladstone, come to that. He could be vicious, could Gladstone. Not to mention murderous.

  Capper glanced to his left.

  ‘What?’ Murdo knew Capper was on edge without needing to return his glance.

  Twat’s super-alert.

  ‘That Peugeot seems familiar.’

  Murdo had a quick gander. ‘How do you know it's a Peugeot?’

  ‘Shape of the lights. I saw it behind me yesterday.’

  ‘And you recognize it now, in a blizzard and total darkness?’

  ‘Yeah, course I do. Shall I lose it?’

  Murdo sighed. ‘Don't start pissing about in this stuff. It's getting icy.’

  ‘What if he's tailing us?’

  ‘He's probably just going home to his bed, like any sensible person out this late.’

  ‘I'll get him at this roundabout,’ said Capper. ‘Snooker him.’

  The roundabout was a big one. Indicating right, Capper steered onto it and did two full three hundred and sixty degrees. Then he felt like a prat when the Peugeot, never deviating, sailed sedately through and off into the night.

  ‘Tosspot,’ said Murdo, laughing.

  Capper took the correct exit and continued towards Bradford.

  ‘Can’t be too careful,’ he mumbled.

  Theirs was the only vehicle on the road now. The snow was getting heavier and suddenly there were no tracks to follow. Thankful for ABS, Capper moderated his speed and kept going.

  After about a mile they came to a familiar blot on the landscape. Some major house builders or other had been ravishing this last stretch of greenfield for what seemed like years. Just recently the council had joined in, replacing damaged tarmac or pipes or what have you, blissfully regardless of the massive cost to ratepayers. The roadworks were half a mile long.

  Capper drove this way often so didn’t need telling that three lanes had been condensed into one. Or that traffic flow was controlled by temporary lights that were starting to seem permanent. He’d seen all the signs too: the ones apologizing for delays expected to last until autumn. Not that he believed them. Last time through they’d only been delayed five minutes.

  Five minutes was bad enough, delayed until autumn would be ridiculous.

  Tonight his luck was in. Getting a green he immediately entered a single lane, sturdy concrete blocks either side of him, making U-turns impossible.

  ‘What do you think,’ he said, pointing towards flashing orange lights, very visible over the brow of the rise ahead, ‘gritter or plough?’

  ‘Fiver says gritter,’ Murdo replied, peering into the worsening snow.

  ‘It's a JCB, not a plough. And it's blocking the road.’

  ‘Honk the fucker. He'll move.’

  Capper braked progressively, stopping a safe twenty yards short.

  The JCB appeared to be empty.

  He honked.

  Nothing happened.

  This time Murdo did turn to meet his glance.

  ‘Oh shit,’ they said as one.

  *****

  Bri had climbed into the JCB when he was told Gladstone had left the night club. He moved it into place when Barney’s commentary got to the limo leaving the roundabout. Switching off the ignition but not the lights, he jumped out and threw the keys into a distant snowdrift.

  Jonjo had left the portacabin and was more tensed up than ever. He swore when he saw the keys fly off into nowhere but didn’t bawl the dickhead out. Instead he cradled his assault rifle and kept on waiting.

  It didn’t take long. He could see approaching headlights even as Bri slipped away into black shadows. Forcing his breathing steady, he stayed in his hidden position, his attention focused on the stretch of road directly in front of the JCB.

  Then Smith’s limo was there, halting perfectly, not the slightest hint of a skid.

  Bingo!

  All doubts and nerves were gone as Jonjo opened up from the rear right, loosening off thirty rounds on full automatic.

  The bullets all found targets, shredding tyres, punching through metal and shattering toughened glass.

  Kev was hidden to the rear left. He leapt up and ran forward as Jonjo reloaded.

  Quite incredibly there was still some fight in the ambushed limo. The passenger-side door burst open and Murdo emerged, drawing his gun as he spun around.

  Kev’s Uzi machine pistol spat fire, killing him before he could make his stand.

  Reloaded, Jonjo closed in, only faintly conscious of his prosthetic limb moving over the snowy terrain, quickly arriving at the back driver‘s side window.

  Semi-dressed figures moved inside, arms and legs tangled.

  Jonjo let loose again, aiming downwards into the vehicle, firing off another thirty, going for overkill.

  *****

  Capper had always lived on his wits; always, always, always. Five years' bird had only sharpened his reflexes. He was unfastening his seat belt and reaching for the door handle even before the first volley of shots. Murdo's reflexes were even sharper; he'd already unbelted and yanked open his door.

  ‘Watch it!’ Capper yelled, ducking instinctively.

  Murdo seemed to duck too. Then he threw himself out of the open door.

  Capper screamed as he saw the minder's body gratuitously exploding in the courtesy light. He dived into the footwell before the same happened to him.

  No! No! No!

  The night was filled with thunder and breaking glass. Terrified, he crammed himself underneath the steering column, covering his head with his arms. Thunderous shots resounded inside his skull. He didn't realize they'd stopped until they started up again, from even closer in.

  Gladstone’s taking the brunt of that! Him and his girls!

  It was all too much. Capper tried to burrow through the carpeted floor, anything to get away.

  Then everything went silent and this time he did realize the shooting had stopped.

  Shaking with fear, expecting the guns to be turned his way any second, he stayed where he was.

  Nothing happened.

  Finally, what seemed like centuries later, hoping the men had finished and gone,
he peered upwards.

  The partition had been totally blasted away, together with all the external windows. Snow was swirling into the car, some flakes travelling all the way through and out again. He could smell shit and something a lot more metallic, most likely bullet impacts on bodywork.

  Or blood.

  He didn’t want to think about blood.

  And that howling wasn't the wind; it was coming from him.

  ‘Gladstone?’ he called.

  Still nothing happened.

  He tried to get up, banging his head on the steering wheel, finding himself jammed.