Best Served Cold Page 3

  Yes; that’s going to be the answer. Yes, yes, yes.

  Penny had pulled on her skimpy bikini bottoms and was fastening the top when Geoff got back, every inch the Englishman abroad. While she had prepared with plenty of sunbeds Geoff hadn't bothered, so he had the red, blotchy skin to prove it. He was sockless, wearing black size twelve Nike trainers that looked enormous, and baggy Union Jack shorts. His white Fred Perry T-shirt was the one stylish thing about him, but even that only served to highlight his burnt patches.

  She chuckled at the spectacle. Under his right arm he’d tucked copies of today's Daily Mail and what looked like the Star. To complete the picture he was sporting a pair of mirrored sunglasses and a baseball cap with Bart Simpson on it. Luckily for him, he had the cap on the right way round; if he'd been wearing it backwards she might have had to make him eat those awful shorts.

  ‘Something strange just occurred,’ he said.

  ‘Don't tell me: you passed a bar without stopping for a big beer?’

  ‘I said “strange”, not miraculous.’ Geoff's laugh was less hearty than usual. He looked puzzled.

  ‘Go on,’ she said, oddly unsettled.

  ‘I was walking across that car park before you get to the plaza. Do you know where I mean?’

  ‘On your right going down,’ said Penny, visualizing dazzling white buildings under the bright sun.

  ‘That’s the one. I was crossing it and this delivery van came at me out of nowhere, like they do round here. So I went to break into a casual sprint to get out of the way . . . and nothing happened.’

  ‘What do you mean, nothing happened? Did the van hit you?’

  ‘No it missed. The driver even had time to shout Bloody tourist at me in Spanish. It's my legs that didn't happen. They didn't want to work.’

  ‘You probably panicked and got rooted to the spot.’

  ‘It wasn't like that. All of the rest of me started to set off, but my feet wouldn't do their bit. It was weird, as if they'd had a power cut. I very nearly fell over.’

  Penny looked at him more closely, seeing how seriously off-kilter he was.

  ‘Let's have a look then,’ she said, suddenly worried. ‘Which foot was it?’

  Geoff thought a moment. ‘I tried to push off with my right. But my left didn't do what it should either.’

  Penny examined his offending right leg first, finding nothing out of the ordinary. Then she did a like-for-like, comparing ankles, calves, knees and thighs, right with left, without seeing any difference. To her touch everything felt exactly as it looked: healthy and normal. Geoff tried bending and flexing while she squeezed and prodded and again, nothing seemed in the least bit peculiar. At her prompting, he stood on tiptoe, hopped on both feet then ran on the spot; all seemingly as good as ever.

  ‘You must have imagined it,’ she concluded, ‘or had a touch of cramp.’

  ‘I didn't imagine it. And it definitely wasn't cramp. Maybe I really did run out of power. Maybe your demands are wearing me out.’

  ‘Oh I see what you mean; it’s my demands?’ She grinned as she picked up her beach bag. ‘Does that mean I'll be coming back for a siesta on my own?’

  ‘No, no,’ he said hastily. ‘I'm sure it's nothing to bother about.’

  They left the villa and stepped out under a cloudless sky of the deepest blue. It was hot and, as usual, quite pleasantly windy. Occasional gusts of dry air kept reminding Penny it was time for that first, ice cold beer. By the time they reached the poolside bar Geoff's strange experience had entirely slipped her mind.

  And so it should; they'd come for two weeks of relaxation, not fretting.

  Besides, there was nothing to worry about anyway.

  Was there?

  Chapter Two

  (Thursday 13th March 2008)

  Angel usually wore biker's boots, torn, oily jeans and offensive T-shirts. Today he was wearing smart new Nike trainers, stone-washed Levi's and the latest England top. He'd left the dark grey Aran sweater in the car. It wasn’t Easter yet but the sun was cracking the flags, bringing day-trippers out in droves. All of the benches outside The Sloop Inn were rammed.

  Blending in (in his own mind, at least), he leant against the whitewashed pub wall and downed yet another Guinness, admiring some of the less wrinkly flesh on view. The trouble with St Ives was definitely the age of the totty. Then again, he was respectable today, wasn’t he? Even if there had been a few sets of teenage tits to leer at, he’d have had to ignore them.

  Fuck it. Concentrate on the beer.

  Angel scowled as he had another swig. It was ten years since he was briefly exiled down these parts, but he still remembered the quality of the beer. Wreckers used to be okay but all the other ales tasted like cat piss. Failing Wreckers it was lager or the black stuff for him.

  After four pints he moved on, walking up bustling Fore Street, not reacting when regularly jostled. He was always on his best behaviour in Cornwall. He knew the rules and, because he liked the Far West, he didn't want to get thrown out and barred . . . or even noticed.

  The exile seemed like a lifetime ago. There had been a misunderstanding with some rival bikers from Lancaster. Miserable bastards hadn’t had any sense of humour. In fact they had resumed the War of the Roses over a measly five kilos of grass. In less than a week the Yorkies had lost two good men, and four or maybe five of the Red Rose lot had gone to that great Harley scrapyard in the sky. Rumour had had it that Angel was next. And, because he’d screwed up with the grass in the first place, his best mates hadn’t been exactly rushing to protect him. A distant cousin in Exeter had looked like a sensible option.

  Make that a hard-working, law-abiding cousin, who hadn’t really wanted anything to do with him.

  Good job he was thick-skinned, wasn’t it?

  Angel had soon abandoned the cousin and got his own place. Then, about a month in, he'd hooked up with a semi-serious motorcycling club: a little soft dealing, mostly hard biking, that sort of shit. None of them had been in any way gang members. He'd made some sound, if unlikely mates . . .

  Those old friendships in a roundabout way explained this return trip.

  Angel took a right turn and went up, up, up and away from the crowds. While Fore Street was narrow these backstreets were narrower still. They eventually gave way to a footpath which got ever steeper. As he climbed higher and higher the sound of millions of milling tourists faded, being replaced by the regular cawing of gulls. Gritting his gapped teeth, he pressed on, his breath coming in hot wheezes.

  And he liked this place! He must be fucking mad.

  Fifty yards from the top of the world's nastiest hill he reached a short, almost flat stretch and stopped, oblivious to the picture-postcard view of quaint rooftops and all the sparkling waters of the bay. His heart was hammering as if he’d run a marathon.

  This is where it had happened.

  Angel had been with two of his new mates but he’d left them. Or rather they had chosen to leave him, bored as Debbie in Dallas, twiddling his thumbs in a chip shop while they fried his haddock “to order”, as chip shops seemed to do everywhere south of Barnsley. Figgs had carried on up here with Mansell; Figgs the very-early-retired solicitor, would-be hippy and amateur dealer.

  And that cunt from Penzance must have been following, waiting for them to split up . . .

  There had been nobody about then and there was nobody about now. Not that there was anything so unusual about that. Pedestrians swept up and down here in waves, like they were drawn by the moon, in peaks and troughs and what-have-you. A one-legged seagull stood on a wall, regarding Angel with beady black eyes. Otherwise he was alone.

  ‘I'm back, Figgs,’ he said softly, almost whispering. ‘And this time I know where the cunt lives.’

  *****

  The Zafira was in Trenwith Car Park, fully paid up. This time of year Angel could have parked lower down, closer to the harbour, but Figgs had been killed in July, when the place was buzzing and parking slots were endangered.

&nb
sp; Sentimental reasons, then.

  As he drove away he passed a prowling police car without fear. The local cops were keen on drink driving but wouldn't randomly stop you if you looked legal. And Clarky and Sean had made this fucker legal all right. It would check out as belonging to a guy from Watford. Just like his fake ID.

  Not given much choice by the one-way system, he took the scenic route away from St Ives, cruising over tame-looking moors, finally joining up with the tail-end of the A30 at Penzance. The sun had set and night was drawing in as he pulled up in the main car park on the front, just past the last railway station in England.

  Or possibly it was the last railway station in the whole wide world.

  He and Riggs had done the deal here ten years ago, while Mansell waited in the car. There were hundreds of slots but he was sure he’d got the same one. It was close enough to the sea to hear ropes twanging on moored boats. Carlos had been waiting for them. He’d taken their money and wished them well.

  What a two-faced cunt.

  Angel put on the Aran sweater, wanting to keep up appearances. Besides, it had got cold since the sun had gone, and there was a sea fret coming in. Taking care to pay and display, he left the motor and walked back towards the station, winding up at The Longboat, shaking his head at the mile-long sentence in gibberish above the door.

  It was probably Cornish for Fuck off you Yorkshire bastard, but who cared?

  The pub hadn’t changed over the years, although the barmaid looked slightly younger. He had two leisurely pints of lager and a piss before walking along the prom, stopping for chips on his way, much too impatient to wait for them to fry a fish, thinking vengeful thoughts as he ate.

  Figgs had been doing small deals with Carlos since God was a lad. In fact Figgs had been nipping into Cornwall to buy pot since law school. It was, after all, the home of smuggling. He had simply dozens of contacts, mostly in the nearer places like Looe. Angel had needed an income, however, and Carlos was far and away the best man for volumes. So, despite his relatively remote location, Figgs had made an introduction and Carlos’ turnover had got bigger and bigger.

  Or at least it had until he got greedy.

  And Angel fucked up.

  The mistake had been basic: of falling into a routine. After making a purchase him, Figgs and Mansell almost always nipped over to St Ives for a drink or six. Like nearly every time. Somehow Carlos must’ve found this out and made his sneaky way to The Sloop. He could not have possibly have tailed them close up on those roads. No, they’d have spotted a tail and besides, it had become apparent afterwards that he hadn’t known where they’d parked.

  According to Mansell, Carlos had intercepted him and Figgs on their way up the footpath, demanding back the three grand’s worth of gear he'd just sold them. Carlos had been a lot more youthful than his two victims, and reasonably well-built. He had also brought along an equally ugly clone as back-up. The clone had ignored Figgs and gone straight for Mansell, who really shouldn’t have been there. When he tried his best to resist he’d almost immediately keeled over. The heart-attack-in-waiting hit him far quicker than any mugging bastard.

  But that had only been half the story. When Figgs pushed past Carlos, desperate to help Mansell, he had got stabbed; just once, but fatally.

  The gear was still in Figgs' motor when Angel retrieved it. Hours later, when the Pigs finally let him go, finally realizing he wasn’t going to tell them anything.

  Now he strolled past several vaguely-remembered pubs before stopping at The Bath Inn for another pint and piss. Carlos had vanished off the face of the earth after the killing. The police didn't seem to have ever suspected him, but plenty of others did, most of them living a hundred miles away in Devon. He had bided his time before resurfacing.

  But he hadn’t bided long enough. These were insular parts down here; word tended to get around.

  And so it had, ultimately reaching the still-ailing Mansell, who was still as outraged about Figgs as anyone.

  *****

  Nowadays Carlos lived in Newlyn, frequenting the three less touristy pubs. Angel (who was always going to be noticeable, however conservatively he dressed) didn't want to be remembered, so he couldn't go into the Swordy or Star. He did risk The Dolphin though, knowing it was bigger and liable to be busy. Entering at the lower, quieter level he bought a pint and had yet another piss, glad to pissing faster than drinking at last. That would stand him in good stead.

  Appreciating the subdued lighting, he casually drifted to the upper level.

  There were three or four main groups around the large bar, loosely intermingling. The nearest looked to be fishermen who were swearing and joking in unmistakeably Hull accents. The farthest group included women, who were swearing and joking in pure Geordie. Between them were Jocks, who were a lot easier to understand: at least they were swearing and joking in English.

  Carlos was in the middle of the farthest group, but Angel didn't make an approach. Just seeing him there was enough.

  Leaving the pub, the former-biker walked on into the village, going around a sharp, uphill bend before finding the correct terraced backstreet. And, as backstreets went, it was very convenient. He could walk up the front, round the top end and down the rear. Both front and rear of Carlos's tiny cottage were unlit and uninhabited to a seemingly casual glance.

  Angel’s grin grew wider. The back of the terrace was very private. It had few windows and lots of little alcoves crammed with recycling bins. Carlos’s door was well-sheltered from prying eyes. It took all of five seconds to spring the Yale lock and slip inside.

  Thank fuck he’s in the pub. It would be a bastard waiting outside in that mist.

  Angel stood stock still for the first few minutes, listening and acclimatising. He was as good as certain Carlos lived alone and hoped his neighbours hated him. Nothing was ever guaranteed though. Not until he was sure nobody had heard and was coming to investigate.

  Finally satisfied, he took in his surroundings. There were lights burning after all; you just couldn’t make them out from the street, not through the heavy drape curtains. Once inside it was easy to see that downstairs was one big space, split into two by more drapes hanging from a brass pole on the ceiling.

  Angel had landed in the kitchen, which was 1980s MFI but in reasonable nick, maybe because the lazy bastard never cooked in it. The other two-thirds of downstairs was a lounge that wasn't so much of a tip, even though it was crammed full of lobster pots, hippy ornaments and fluffy pouffes. It was hard to say exactly what style prevailed: flower child or fisherman. The walls were rough, plaster-free granite covered with psychedelic prints and a healthy scattering of glass floats. A fossilised, bloated fish was suspended from a high beam, hotly pursued by a set of shark’s jaws.

  Must have bought it furnished and not changed a thing.

  Angel feared no man and hadn’t bothered arming himself. He did now, however, take time to check for makeshift weapons. There was nothing to worry about in the kitchen; no convenient set of super-sharp knives or carelessly discarded rolling pin. Not much in the lounge either (apart from a heavy blue ashtray) and no sign of the usual dealer’s guns and machetes. This was going to be more of a doddle than he had expected.

  No, make that even more of a doddle.

  Overcoming the vague desire to make more water, Angel took up position by the dividing drapes and waited. And waited and awaited . . .

  And what the fuck was that!

  For a moment he thought he’d imagined the noise. Then it came again, even louder, the angry sound of some roaring beast. It was hard to tell where it was coming from, but wherever it was, it was close.

  What is it, a fucking sea monster?

  Maybe ten furious roars later he realized it was just a foghorn. He laughed shortly. So that’s what they sound like. Scary, if you didn’t know. And why should he know? You didn’t get to hear many foghorns in Bingley. Or in Exeter, come to that.

  Then he heard another sound; a key in a lock. Carlos was c
oming in through the front. Pleased he’d left himself the choice, Angel hid on the kitchen side of the drapes.

  Carlos had company. Judging by the accent, he’d fancied a little Geordie company for the rest of the evening. Not that they were doing much talking. He got mouth-to-mouth with her before the door shut in their wake, probably wanting to stop her endless gabble.

  Fat chance of that; it obviously took more than a gobful of tongue to keep this girl quiet.

  ‘Come on,’ she gushed. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

  ‘Let's not,’ said Angel, grabbing her and slamming her head into the wall.

  ‘What the fuck!’ Carlos yelled.

  And then yelled some more as Angel pitched in with both fists. Reasonably well-built or not, the dealer hadn’t a prayer. He was quickly beaten to his knees then kicked to the floor.