Sleaford Noir 1 - Morris Kenyon (classic books to read .txt) 📗

good as new. I collected my keys from McTeague.

Claire McTeague came out of the farmhouse. She wore comfortable jeggings and a cerise cashmere sweater that clung tight to her slender frame making the woman look like she was smuggling out a couple of peanuts under her top. One of McTeague's men followed carrying several suitcases and bags which he loaded into the Audi A5's trunk.

I glanced over at McTeague.

"Take her away," he said. He looked sad. Defeated. I didn't think his low mood would last for ever as, of course, McTeague could have his pick of almost any woman in the life and, being a man with both needs and money, he wouldn't sleep alone for long. All the same, I know Claire had been someone special to him, at least at first.

I slid behind the wheel and Claire got in beside me. She didn't look at me. I don't think she was happy about the way I snatched her away from Wheelan several months ago. Or about the way that, ultimately, Wheelan showed he valued his daughter more than her. But what did Claire expect? Not that I'd know personally but I guess a man's love for his daughter is something very special.

I drove away from McTeague's farmhouse. The last I saw was McTeague standing all forlorn outside, his hand raised in a half wave. Claire didn't respond but stared ahead through the windscreen. She didn't speak to me, which was fine as far as I was concerned, so I switched on Radio 4 and listened to Eddie Mair on the PM show before the News at Six.

A couple of hours later I was pulling into Wheelan's mock Tudor mansion on Old Place. Even before I'd stopped, Wheelan's men were piling out of the house. Mulhearn, Riordan and couple of others. Standing tall behind them was Wheelan himself.

Mulhearn wrenched open the driver's door and looked like he was going to haul me out and give me a pasting. Riordan looked like he would join in. I felt a little like that chap in the Bible – the one who got thrown into a lion's den or something. Except these lions didn't look like they wanted to make friends.

Wheelan pushed his way through his men and held out his hand. We shook and his men stepped back but, like a pack of wild beasts, they circled around us until Wheelan ordered Riordan to fetch Claire's bags from out of the trunk. Wheelan escorted Claire and we all walked into his house.

"I'm gonna mess you up," Riordan whispered as he passed me with the bags. Riordan hadn't before so I took no notice. That annoyed him more than anything else I could have said or done. There was no music blaring out from upstairs so I guessed Alexa was either not at home or hiding in her room. Another one who wasn't so keen to meet me. I can't say I was surprised.

Wheelan showed us into his front living room and crossed to his drinks cabinet.

"I'm driving. Coke for me, please," I said.

Wheelan pretended to misunderstand. "Pepsi or china white?"

I wasn't in the mood to play along. "Diet Pepsi if you've got it." Everyone knows I don't do drugs. Never have and never will. I keep my body clean – why pollute it?

Wheelan uncapped the bottle and handed it to me together with a tumbler filled with ice. The atmosphere was heavy and the conversation limped along until it died. I'd hurt Wheelan's men and both McTeague and Wheelan had damaged each other's empires. Not long after, Wheelan stood and showed his men the door, leaving me alone with the gang boss.

I put to Wheelan what McTeague had authorised. Claire he already knew about as the woman was under his roof. I explained the division of territories that the London capos had agreed. It was more than McTeague wanted to lose and Wheelan couldn't hide the pleasure on his face. He grinned like the Cheshire cat. Ultimately, it was a climb-down, a humiliation for McTeague. However I dressed up the deal. And Wheelan knew it.

"I'll need to confirm that with your boss, Hennessy," Wheelan said. "Make sure he's cool with that, Make sure there's no comebacks."

I nodded and keyed in McTeague's latest number into my BlackBerry. I handed the phone over. Wheelan spoke and walked into his conservatory out of earshot. I sat back and sipped my drink, watching Wheelan pace to and fro as he spoke with my boss. Eventually, Wheelan pressed the end call button on my phone and came back into the lounge. A big grin covered his face.

"Looks like I've won, Hennessy. McTeague says he's given up. He can't – won't keep Claire. He even says he's no objections to us getting married."

"That's good, Wheelan. I'm pleased for you. Best news I've heard all year," I said.

"Don't be like that, Hennessy. You should be pleased. All the fighting's over. And I've won – I've got all Lincolnshire, the Fens, even part of east Nottinghamshire..."

"As well as Claire, of course."

Wheelan smiled again. Surprisingly gentle. "Yes, and Claire."

A thought came to me. "Until McTeague takes it all back again."

But nothing I could say dented Wheelan's good humour. He'd won and he knew it.

He laughed. "No way, Hennessy. McTeague's yesterday's man. He's losing it – whilst you were running around Holland, I've taken control of the supply routes from Bostongrad and Kings Lynn now. You know, maybe I'll move into the West Midlands at some point. That's more than McTeague ever managed. Hey, like I said, you should think about throwing in your lot with me. I could use someone like you, Hennessy, in spite of what you've done."

"Thanks for the offer, Wheelan, but I'll pass. I'll stick with McTeague's outfit."

Wheelan stood and offered me his hand. We shook. I wasn't to see him again until the wedding.

 

* * *

 

The wedding was the social event of the year in Sleazeford as I'd come to think of the place now. Wheelan had booked St. Denys parish church in the centre of the town. The ancient twelfth century church was filled with blooms which turned out to be supplied by Finnigan. The ex-Provo was making a nicely legit sideline exporting flowers now. Wheelan had spared no expense. Yellow and white garlands wrapped around the pillars, covered the altar and filled big vases in full view of the congregation. The bridesmaids looked gorgeous in mauve dresses.

And as for Claire McTeague herself? Sorry, Claire Wheelan as I should call her now. Well, she was simply beautiful. She looked stunning as she walked down the aisle on McTeague's arm. Yes, even in these days I suppose it's unusual for the ex-husband to give away the bride. But if that's what McTeague wanted to do, who was going to argue?

There were men there from Birmingham, Leicester; hell from all over the country and as far away as Scotland. One face even took a chance and had slipped back into the country from the Spanish Costas. Men who wouldn't normally be seen sitting together in the same room shared the same pew. Their wives and girlfriends all dolled up like birds of paradise. I don't suppose the symbolism was lost on the assorted faces in the congregation. The handing over of the prize by the older gang head to the leaner, meaner younger boss.

I can't say I paid much attention to the service or the vicar's sermon and forty minutes later we were all outside. That flat unending east wind blew off the fens making the smokers huddle together against the sheltered side of the old, white stone church. After the photos had been taken – as you would expect there were a number of faces there who declined the opportunity to appear – McTeague drew Wheelan and myself to one side.

"I might not get chance to catch you during the reception, Wheelan, so let me congratulate you now and wish you every happiness and success in the future."

"Thanks, McTeague," Wheelan said, shaking the older man's hand. "That's really good of you."

"I've arranged for your wedding present to be delivered Monday the twenty-third. After you two get back from your honeymoon. A truck load of Chinese cigarettes, at least fifty thousand cartons worth. Top quality packaging. No-one will spot the difference."

Wheelan did the sums in his head. He smiled and threw his arms around McTeague's body in a bear hug.

I'd had enough so I didn't stay on for the wedding reception. Speeches and toasts followed by drunken dancing never appealed to me. Instead I walked alone down the churchyard path past the mossy graves, climbed into my Audi and drove home.

 

CHAPTER 12.

 

Today was the morning of Monday, the twenty-third.

I was parked further down East Road from Wheelan's industrial unit. I wasn't in my Audi A5 as that was too well known round here by now. Instead I was in a DAF tractor cab-over, the obligatory hi-viz coat covering my suit, pulled up by the side of the road as if waiting for my tachograph to give me permission to start driving again.

Where's the best place to hide? In plain sight. Although my cab-over was huge; on an industrial estate it was totally inconspicuous. The cab's heater was on and a paper beaker of Starbuck's skinny latte steamed in the cup holder next to a half eaten low-cal muffin.

A red truck drove down the road leading to the complex of industrial units. I stirred in my seat. The truck was marked up with the logo of a furniture hire company. Must be a regular as the driver bantered with the security guard leaning out of his hut before the guard raised the barrier. It was a different guard than the man I'd tied up months before. I guess that first guard had got the sack.

Eventually the truck swung into the forecourt shared by the units. I watched as the truck turned into the sixth unit. This truck wasn't for Wheelan.

I settled back in my seat and carried on waiting. Another truck turned into the complex but this time I didn't even bother stirring in my seat. It was just a flat-bed come to collect for recycling a load of blue plastic drums filled with dirty kitchen oils.

There was a long gap before the next lorry arrived during which I listened to John Humphrys on Radio 4's Today show tell me all about failed breast implants. As if he knew anything about them. My eyelids drooped so I wound the cab's window down a few inches allowing fingers of cold air to keep me awake.

Another goods vehicle turned in, also pausing at the barrier. This seemed more likely. It was a battered white Luton box truck with no markings on the side. The old van looked like it had been round the world and back. The security guard raised the barrier and I watched the Luton turn left and pull up in front of Wheelan's depot. The driver beeped his horn once, twice before the pedestrian door inset in the main gate opened.

Two men stepped out. I recognised Riordan and his friend. The man I'd once slammed into a brick wall. The second man's face looked like he had recently lost a bout in a bare knuckle prize-fight so he wasn't having much luck recently.

The two men asked the driver to step down from his cab. The driver did so, walked to the back of the truck and then unlocked the doors. Riordan climbed up into the back and disappeared from my sight. Battered-Face kept his eye on the driver. Eventually Riordan re-emerged from the back. He nodded to the driver and they shook hands.

Up in my cab-over, I felt a little like the guy the Greeks left behind with their Trojan Horse. But that guy had much the harder job as he'd had to persuade the suspicious Trojans to unlock the gates and let the hollow wooden horse filled with Greek soldiers into their city. Me, all I'd had to do was watch and wait. Which was just as well as my presence would've made Riordan