The Dark Heart, page 2
‘Will the foreman of the jury please stand.’ A grey-haired woman sitting front and centre of the benches got to her feet.
‘In respect of charge one on the indictment, do you find the defendant, Terry Dent, guilty or not guilty?’
‘Not guilty.’
‘In respect of charge two on the indictment, do you find the defendant, Terry Dent, guilty or not guilty?’
The foreman drew herself to her full height and spoke. ‘Not guilty.’
Stringer burst out laughing as the cheers echoed around the public gallery.
He was laughing as he was escorted down to the cell block, was still laughing as he was put in the sweatbox back to Frankland, and he was chuckling as he collected all his shite from his cell. He knew that the smile wouldn’t leave his face for quite some time.
* * *
Stringer was still grinning when he was faced with the pale, bespectacled young prison officer in reception as he was handed a clear plastic bag that contained his few possessions. The same bag, containing the same possessions, that he had handed over when arriving at Frankland Prison almost a year earlier after being remanded in custody to face trial for a single count of attempted murder, and for being involved in the supply of a very large amount of heroin.
‘Cheers, Mr Carmichael,’ said Stringer, in a tone that managed to convey humour and sarcasm, only just tinged with an edge of hostility.
A diminutive, late-middle-aged prisoner in maroon tracksuit bottoms and a stained white T-shirt was disconsolately pushing a filthy mop around the grimy floor. He was lean and compact, with heavy features, and as he saw Stringer, he leaned his mop against the wall and approached the giant man, without even a trace of nervousness. Crude tattoos covered his forearms, which were tight and corded with sinewy muscle. His hands bore multiple tattoos, including crosses on the knuckles, and the number 88 on the centre of the back of his hand. His face was scarred from the corner of his eye to the corner of his mouth.
‘You get out now, Stringer?’ he said, in accented English redolent of Eastern Europe. His voice crackled with phlegm.
‘That I am, Boggie,’ he said, unable to stop a broad grin from spreading across his huge, round face at the sight of the older prisoner.
‘You lucky man. Have lady waiting for you, aye?’ he said, advancing and hugging the giant gangster. He was so short, however, that his head barely came up to Stringer’s chest. Despite the disparity, Stringer returned the embrace.
‘Hopefully, Boggie.’ He paused and looked at the man, who had slicked-back dark hair and icy-blue eyes that surveyed him with warmth. ‘I’ll not forget you, pal,’ he said, clapping the man on the shoulder.
Boggie stood back and stared up hard at Stringer his eyes burning with intensity. ‘Never forget, eh?’
There was so much emphasis in those two words that Stringer felt a shudder travel down his spine. Stringer met his gaze, his face impassive and full of respect.
‘I won’t, pal. I’ll never forget.’
The Russian pulled himself closer to Stringer, and he whispered, his voice hoarse, ‘The cause is everything, my friend. Nothing matters but the cause, never forget this, no?’ He gripped Stringer’s hand tightly, his eyes damp with emotion. Stringer felt a knot in his stomach as he and Bogdan just stood there in the smelly reception, eyes locked, something tangible passing between them, almost like electricity.
Bogdan had changed everything for Stringer. Before his incarceration he’d been a drug dealer with right-wing opinions, but in his time with Bogdan that had changed. Opinions were like arseholes; everyone has them. It was time for action, and he was here for it.
The officer was clearly unimpressed. ‘Bogdan, that floor is not gonna mop itself. Get cracking,’ he said, sharply.
Bogdan grinned, tightened his grip on Stringer’s hand for a second, before releasing it, shrugging and picking up his mop, continuing to spread the dirt around the floor of the reception area, in half-arsed slow, deliberate circles.
Stringer glared at the screw, before pulling out a plain black jacket from the plastic bag and slipping it on. It was a bit snug across his bulging shoulders. Stringer was well over six feet tall, probably eighteen stone of pure, north-eastern beef. The harsh overhead lights reflected on his shaven scalp that was bisected by a long, livid white scar stretching from the forehead to the crown. His eyes were dark and sunken. Like pebbles, totally devoid of any light or emotion. As he smiled, he showed his stained, uneven teeth that seemed too small for his massive head.
‘Sign here for your property, Mr Dent,’ said the screw in a wobbly voice, his skinny hand shaking as he pointed at the form. The fear was coming from the pasty-faced dweeb, probably because he had been one of the few officers who had seemed to enjoy subjecting Stringer to the vagaries of the Category A regime. The older, more experienced screws realised that Stringer’s reputation made him a man not to get on the wrong side of.
They probably thought he was a man to bear grudges.
And they’d be right. Stringer did bear grudges.
He had resisted the urge not to drop knowledge of the prison officer’s address, wife’s name, or where his kids went to school into the mix to really shit the little prick up. He’d made it his business to find out everything about him, after his shitty treatment, and almost constant disrespect. One day the little fucker would realise that he’d made a mistake disrespecting Stringer Dent on a regular basis.
Mr Carmichael, the baby-faced screw, would find out to what extent Stringer bore grudges at some point in the future. But not now. Now he had bigger priorities.
Now, he had a cause.
‘I’d like to say that it’s been a pleasure, Mr Carmichael, but it would just be a lie,’ said Stringer, his voice deep, resonant and rich with the tones of the north-east. He took the pen and scribbled on the sheet of paper.
‘Well, best of luck. Whatever our differences, Mr Dent, I hope you realise I was just doing my job,’ said Carmichael, his eyes darting from side to side and his chin almost wobbling.
Jesus, what a fucking baby, thought Stringer.
‘Aye, a shame maybe that you seemed to enjoy it so much, bonny lad. Now, can you show me out of this fine establishment? I’m a busy man, with things to do and people to see,’ said Stringer.
He pulled a worn and scratched timepiece out of the bag and slipped it on his wrist. It felt good. Comfortable and tangible and a reminder of who he was. His dad had been an inspiration, and the watch was all Stringer had left of the tough old boy. It was only the fact that his late dad’s Omega watch was in that bag that he’d gone back to jail at all.
‘Is that it?’ he said, staring hard at Carmichael.
‘That’s you,’ said the prison officer.
‘Follow me,’ said another screw. A more reasonable old chap who understood the rules far better than the pencil-necked Carmichael.
Stringer followed the screw’s skinny back towards the exit, and whatever came next.
* * *
‘Bonny lad!’ said Jimmy ‘Shorty’ Shore, as Stringer approached the stocky, wiry man standing by the door of a gleaming black Mercedes G-Wagon.
‘Good to see you, brother,’ said Stringer, as they hugged.
‘Good to be out, man?’
‘Champion. Could you have picked a less conspicuous fuckin’ car, man?’ Stringer threw his bag through the open window and onto the driver’s seat. The early afternoon sunlight danced on the car’s gleaming paintwork.
‘Thought you’d want picking up in a decent motor.’
‘Aye, but this is fuckin’ mental. Chuck us the keys, I’m driving,’ he said, holding out his meaty palm.
Shorty tossed the keys, which Stringer caught, turning them over in his hand.
‘Would you’ve rather I brought a Lada?’
‘I’d have cut your bollocks off if you did.’
‘Then you’re welcome, mate.’ Shorty grinned, his teeth too white and too even to be anything other than veneers.
‘News?’
‘About what?’
‘Cozzers hear anything about York?’
‘From what I hear, they’re still blaming the Islamic fundamentalists, as you wanted. The Cashier was quality, man. Left no clues other than the ones we wanted them to find. The bomb was apparently exactly the same as an Islamic State device, and he even left a breadcrumb trail with phones, and shite that leads right back to some shitty off-shoot of AQ called Sharia 4 UK.’
‘Fucking Sharia 4 UK, those bastards couldn’t organise nowt, but that’s what we need. Angry patriots and Jews. Cashier is a fucking miracle worker, man.’
‘Aye, how did your Russian pal get hold of him?’
‘He has more contacts than you can possibly imagine, pal. I’ll tell you more over a beer, which I’m fucking gasping for.’
‘Same,’ Shorty said, grinning.
Stringer returned his smile. ‘Who was the other poor bugger who died?’
‘A nobody. Casualty of war.’
‘Not ideal, but cannat be helped. Just the beginning, pal.’
‘Who’s next?’
‘Not yet. I’ve more plans, which is why we need to keep grafting with the gear. Need money for proper wedge to pay for that.’
‘On it. Although we’ve lost a big customer in the toon who was supplying all the middle men. Revenue has dried up.’
Stringer stopped and stared; his face frozen. ‘I heard Digger got nicked. Who’s taking over?’
‘No one yet. It’s still sorting itself out, which is a problem, as the market has to adjust before we can make sure the new dealers take our product. There’s another supplier keeping it going, but I cannat find out who. We’re also pretty low on people right now. It’s costing us a fair amount.’
‘Man, not fucking now.’ Stringer leaned against the car.
‘Just a blip, we need to let it settle before we can be back up and running at full steam.’
Stringer kicked the bulky tyre disconsolately. ‘How long?’
‘Couple of months before we’re back up to the levels before Digger got nicked.’
‘Shite. We need money, man. No time to waste. I’ve things to tell you and things you need to hear about. My time in this shite-hole has changed everything, man.’
‘We’re okay for now, no panic, Stringer,’ Shorty said, his brow furrowing.
‘Not with what I have in mind, man. Things are changing, and we’ll need money for the cause more than ever. How about Scotland? That was shaping up nicely, big open market there to expand into.’
Shorty hesitated, his mouth pursed.
‘Spit it out, man,’ said Stringer, eyeing him balefully.
‘We may have a problem with our contact north of the border – nasty rumours and that,’ said Shorty, opening the passenger door and getting inside.
Stringer rounded the gleaming G-Wagon and climbed in the driver’s seat, nestling himself into the soft leather. ‘Go on?’ he said, picking up a pair of sunglasses out of the centre console and slipping them on.
‘A word to the wise was received. Our contact has suggested that someone has loose lips.’ Shorty looked at his friend, his face pensive, ready for the inevitable explosion. It didn’t arrive. Instead, Stringer’s eyes just looked straight ahead, like a viper considering a rodent.
‘About what – the business or the cause?’ His voice was low and flat, and laced with menace.
‘Both.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Jockland somewhere, but he’s coming down tonight for a drink at your do.’
‘I hope you’ve planned something canny, like? Nae “Spoons and slappers”?’ He turned his gaze to Shorty, a mirthless smile stretching across his face.
‘Aye, man. I’ve booked the VIP box at the Bandits tonight, and they’re laying on a spread for you. I think they were grateful that you continued the sponsorship. Speedway’s a fucking expensive thing, lad.’
Stringer just grinned, his heart leaping at the prospect of watching his beloved Berwick Bandits speedway team. ‘Champion, man. Fucking missed watching the Bandits. All the lads coming?’
‘There’s a good few coming. Food’s laid on, couple of nice birds available, if you’ve not been turned by being surrounded by blokes for the last year?’ Shorty gave a cheeky smirk.
‘You can hadaway and shite.’
‘You ready to celebrate?’
‘Definitely.’ Stringer’s gaze stayed fixed out of the windscreen.
‘What about you-know-who?’
‘Let me think about that,’ he said, trying to sound relaxed, despite the familiar fire in his belly beginning to burn hot.
‘You sure?’
‘Aye, bonny lad, it’s been a long fuckin’ time in that shit-hole jail, and I know one thing. I’m not gannin back. Let’s piss off and get mortal, man. Problems can wait till tomorrow.’ Stringer gunned the powerful V8 engine, and roared off.
3
The glass-fronted VIP box was hot, sweaty and full of bonhomie, as Stringer held court with his acolytes, each of whom came up to him, shook his hand, hugged him and congratulated him on busting the case.
A couple of fit young girls worked the room with trays of beers. Burgers, sausage rolls and finger foods adorned a groaning table in the corner of the room. The lads were tucking in with gusto, and the shouts and cheers were deafening in the enclosed space as they all gazed out of the window at the mechanical ballet that roared around the track outside.
Stringer watched transfixed as the motorcycles circumnavigated the track, spitting up swaths of dirt as the riders powered around. He loved speedway, always had done since his old man brought him here as a ten-year-old. There was something about the atmosphere, the smell of petrol, the howling engines, the grizzled old northern men, smoking their Woodbines and cheering the local riders on. It was intoxicating, and he had missed it. He just sat there, at the front of the box, taking it all in and feeling a sense of freedom that had almost made the year behind the door in that shite-hole prison worth it.
Almost. But not quite. He looked across the room, and his eyes fell upon the jovial figure of Billy Mac, short, red-headed and freckly, a tough-looking Jock from Edinburgh who had linked him in with the big market in Scotland before he went inside. It had been chaos north of the border, as the cops had destroyed a couple of the big firms up there. First the Hardie boys, and then the Albanians had been totally put out of action, which had been great for business in terms of an available market. They just needed a proper network, which Jimmy had put them onto, even if it was only small time. Now Stringer was out, he could keep on expanding, and get some serious cash moving. Not for him. Not for wealth.
For the cause.
Stringer had no particular interest in wealth, not since meeting Bogdan, anyway. No longer was he a criminal who made money for the sake of it. He had ideals, he had values, and he had something to protect. His watch was modest, his clothes understated, and beyond a nice car, he had no need for the finer things in life.
The cheer in the room rose to a crescendo, as the Bandits superstar, Danny Peters, roared across the line in first place. Victory.
Stringer leapt to his feet. ‘Yeees, ya beauty,’ he yelled, feeling the familiar fire in his belly as Danny did a lap of the track, doing wheelies, his arm aloft as the crowd cheered.
The shouting in the box subsided as the occupants all cracked open new beers, and the clink of glass on glass became the dominant sound.
‘Welcome home, Stringer,’ came a Scottish accent from behind him. He turned to see the short, stocky form of Billy Mac, hand extended, a bottle of lager in his other hand.
‘Nice one, Billy,’ Stringer said, grinning as he clapped the Scot on his meaty shoulder.
‘Glad to be out?’ said Billy.
‘Daft question, lad. Frankland is a shite-hole. You down for long?’ he said, eyeing the tough-looking smaller man.
‘No. I have to get back to Edinburgh now. I said I’d meet a pal later in Leith for a beer, he’s a useful contact, and has access to all the fishing villages up the north-east. Ripe old market, Stringer.’
‘Ah, man. Stay. Small fry there.’
‘Plenty of junkies, pal. The Scousers were making a packet after the Hardies got weighed off, until the Albanians fucked them off, and then the cops smashed them, so it’s all free and easy with just a few local dealers. They’ll easily be sorted. Good money to be made, Stringer, and I’ll be looking for decent weight from you to keep that going.’ Billy grinned, his teeth crooked, but his smile cheeky and cheerful.
‘You driving back?’ said Stringer, taking a swig from a bottle of beer that had been thrust into his hand by a red-faced bull of a man.
‘No, pal. I’ve had a few too many, and it’s less than an hour on the train.’
Stringer’s grin widened, as if sensing an opportunity. ‘Tell you what, bonny lad. Berwick feels a bit shite for tonight, and I’m up for a big one. I mean, first night out of jail, and what’s the options in fuckin’ Berwick, eh? Me and Shorty will run you back to Edinburgh in the G-Wagon and we’ll all gan and get mortalled in the Jock clubs, how’s about that, eh?’ He guffawed, a fleck of spittle flying from the corner of his mouth.
Billy opened his mouth, ready to decline, and then snapped it shut, his eyes lighting up with excitement. ‘You sure, Stringer?’
‘Damn right, mate. We’re up for a fuckin’ massive night, and Berwick is hardly Las Vegas, is it? We’ll get a hotel, not that we’ll fuckin’ see it before dawn, man. Shorty has some nice pills, be a banger.’
‘Stoatin’. I’ll show you some mad places, eh?’ Billy chinked his bottle against Stringer’s.
‘Aye, look, give me a couple of minutes to say goodbye to these fucking reprobates, and we’ll head off. It’s only nine o’clock, and we’ll be in Edinburgh just in time for the place to liven up. Meet us in the car park in ten.’ He nodded, and began to work the room, pumping hands and slapping backs, the hero indefatigable after beating the system.
