The Curious Case of the Missing Moolah (A Stanton Brothers thriller) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title

  About the Author

  Copyright page

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  MARTIN STANLEY

  The Curious Case of the

  Missing Moolah

  A Stanton Brothers thriller

  The author would like to thank Dan Sollis for his invaluable assistance in editing the manuscript. Yet again, it’s a tighter, snappier beast for his input.

  Martin Stanley was born in Middlesbrough in 1972. He was educated in Teesside and later in Bristol, where he studied graphic design.

  He is the author of The Hunters, in which the Stantons made their first appearance, Bone Breakers, and its prequel The Green-eyed Monster, and The Greatest Show in Town, which includes several Stanton brothers short stories. He is also the author of The Gamblers, a dark and violent noir tale set mostly in Bristol.

  He lives, works and socialises in London.

  You can find him hanging around online at his blog http://thegamblersnovel.com, where he reviews books, talks crime fiction, and occasionally posts up short stories. He also has a Facebook page TheGamblersNovel. And you can also find him Twittering about random stuff here.

  If you wish to contact him personally (to boost his fragile ego and congratulate him on writing something you enjoyed, to ask him stuff, tell him stuff, or just to stop by and chat) please email [email protected]

  The Curious Case of the Missing Moolah by Martin Stanley

  Copyright 2014 by Martin Stanley

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The basic geography contained in this book is more or less accurate, but the locations, buildings and businesses are either used fictitiously or are products of the author’s imagination.

  Cover Design: Martin Stanley

  Original cover photo by © nobeastsofierce - Fotolia.com

  All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this and did not purchase it then please remove it and purchase a legitimate copy from Amazon. The author thanks you for respecting his work in producing this book.

  1.

  Alan ‘Peter’ Piper leaned back and put his feet on the desk. That he was scuffing the surface of a vintage teak bureau with the soles of his shoes seemed to be lost on him. But, then again, he was scuffing it with Italian leather loafers that had cost double what he’d paid for the desk, so maybe there was method in his madness. The shoes were a fine accompaniment for the hand-tailored Italian silk suit he wore; the expensive fabric streaked by flakes of ash that tumbled from a burning cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth. He liked to brag that each of these cigars set him back £25 a pop, which was a lot to pay for something that smelled like dog shit in a burning plastic bag.

  Morning light filtered in through a small and dirty office window, highlighting Alan’s chiseled, handsome features and impeccably coiffed black hair, and made him look like a movie star. He knew he was good looking too, which made him even more insufferable. I stared at him, grinning like the cat that fucked the cat that got the cream, and wondered why I was helping to make him even richer. What the hell was I getting out of it?

  Alan pulled the cigar from his mouth, blew a thick plume of smoke at the ceiling, and used it to point at the dark-haired, muscular, unshaven man in his early thirties who was sitting on the other side of the desk.

  “I want you to show Mark here the ropes,” he said.

  I nodded. “Well, I suppose there is that one rope,” I replied. “You know, the one I intend to wrap around my neck tonight to fuckin’ hang myself, so’s I can get away from you and your bullshit.”

  Alan spluttered, dropping his cigar. “Whassup with you?” he asked, reaching down to pick up his fat brown stogie. I saw a barely-concealed grin on Mark’s face from the corner of my eye.

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What’ve I done?”

  I walked towards the desk. “Last time I checked me and my brother were employed as debt collectors, not shit collectors. And that’s what you’ve been giving us recently,” I said and launched into a poor impersonation of my boss. “Ow, take me missus to the shops, take me suits to the dry cleaning, go take the weekend profits from me pub safe, go and gimme girlfriend an envelope full of lettuce. The jobs we’ve had off you recently could be flushed down the fuckin’ U-bend.”

  Alan wasn’t used to getting abuse from the staff and began to look flustered. “I pay youse, don’t I?” The question had a note of desperation to it, as if to suggest that money was everything. For Alan it probably was.

  “We collect debts. That’s what we do, that’s all we wanna do. We’re pros – and these jobs are monkey work.”

  “Thought I was doing youse a favour. Lightening the load, so to speak. Cushy jobs, like.” He was giving us ‘cushy jobs’ because not so long ago my brother and I had saved his life on the lawn of his fancy home. We’d rescued him from a couple of men who were sick of paying him money and decided to settle the debt once and for all by carving him up like Sunday roast. But that was another story.

  “A favour’d be giving us more money.”

  Alan scoffed. “I give youse more than most.”

  “And that’s very much appreciated.”

  “But youse want more, right?”

  “Summat like that.”

  "Look mate. Just tell us whatcha want?" he said, as if telling him that I wanted more money wasn’t quite explicit enough.

  “I’m quitting, Alan,” I said, before turning in Mark’s direction. “No offence to you, mate.”

  Mark’s grin widened. “None taken.”

  Alan dropped the cigar again, but left it in his hurry to get out from behind the desk. “Look, let’s not go overboard here, I know things’ve been a bit shite recently.”

  “A bit?”

  He came in close, fixed me with his green eyes, gave me a dose of that killer white grin and took a firm hold of my shoulders. If I'd been carrying an extra X chromosome rather than this Y-shaped chip in my genetic code I might have got all bashful and fluttery, like a giggling schoolgirl.

  But I didn't.

  I twisted free of his grip. "I'm not one of your fuckin' women, Alan. Your bullshit won’t work on me."

  Alan looked at Mark and gave him a I tried my best shrug. "You gotta do whatcha gotta do, I suppose." He stopped for a few seconds and thought about this. "So what are you gonna do?"

  "Dunno yet," I replied, thinking about Thailand again. A bar, somewhere in Chiang Mai, or maybe Phuket, perhaps, away from the dirt and grime of Teesside, away from the constant grey skies and the rain and the bone breaking. I knew I needed a lot more money behind me before I could make the move, but it was obvious that I wasn’t going to earn that kind of cash working for Alan. Even with the recent improvement in my wages, and the occasional robberies that my brother and I liked to pull, I’d be working for years before I had the money I needed. And by then the momentum would probably be gone. So whateve
r I was going to move on to would need to be criminally inclined – if I wanted to earn the money quickly – but outside of that revelation I was stumped.

  Alan leaned towards me. "Well far be it from me to piss on your parade, but while you're making up your mind why don'tcha at least show Mark around. I'll make sure you're well compensated."

  "Double."

  His tan reddened slightly. "Don't push your luck."

  "Then consider me retired."

  Alan raised his hands in the air, then let them drop to his sides. "Fine."

  "Up front."

  His eyes narrowed and his mouth went thin and tight. "You're a right cheeky cunt, you."

  "If my offer's not up to scratch then I'm gonna shake your hand and walk away. No hard feelings."

  Alan held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Let's not get all fuckin' melodramatic here. I called you a cheeky so-and-so. Don't remember saying I wasn't gonna pay it."

  "Actually, you called me a cunt."

  Alan shrugged. "Term of endearment, innit?"

  "For double, consider me endeared."

  Alan huffed and grumbled back to his desk and opened one of the drawers. He took out a fat roll of notes and peeled off three hundred quid in twenties. He tossed them down on the table and then counted off another one forty. Four hundred and forty quid had barely made a dent in the money he put back in the drawer. He wafted his hand at the cash then looked at Mark. "As for you. Consider this the one and only time I'd do this, like. If you start asking us for money upfront I won’t be so fuckin’ friendly and you'll be finding another line of work."

  "Fair enough," Mark replied.

  "It's only 'cause I'm a soft touch that this heartless bastard," he said, pointing at me, “feels justified in sticking his little three inch dick in me arse to give me a fuckin’.”

  “You got any more insults you wanna throw my way, boss?”

  Alan shook his head and sat down. He put his feet back on the desk but didn’t look quite as smug this time. He leaned down, picked up the cigar and lit it again. After taking a couple of puffs he pointed the burnt end at Mark. “Show him the routine. Try and keep to the timetable. Anybody fucks around you break their heads. Both of you. There’s several stragglers out there that are very distressing to me. They’ve had their warnings, so now bones need to be broken. You understand what I’m saying?”

  We both nodded.

  “And after you’ve both picked up the take from the Miner’s I don’t want youse gabbing with Ray all afternoon. He’s got shit to do over there. Instead, I want youse to get over to Molly’s and give her this.” Alan opened the same draw he got his roll from, pulled out an envelope and threw it on the desk. It slid across the polished surface and dangled over the edge. I grabbed it before it could fall.

  Alan looked at us, his green eyes now hard as emeralds. “Keep a close eye on Molly. Let us know her mood.”

  “Isn’t it your job to know?”

  Alan let out a long sad sigh. “She’s been closed off recently. Distant. She’s been worried about that smackhead fuckin’ brother of hers. I know she’s been putting summa the money I give her in his filthy fuckin’ hands.”

  I shrugged. “Not my problem, boss.”

  The hard gaze returned. “Fine. Not your fuckin’ problem, like. But I’m asking you as a favour to me to keep an eye out. Her mood, what she sez, owt really. And if that brother’s over at hers I want you to smack seven shades of shite outta the cunt and throw him out on his bony arse.”

  I nodded. “Okay. If there’s summat untoward I’ll let you know.”

  Piper stubbed out the cigar and lit another. He took in a few mouthfuls of smoke and breathed them out. They drifted towards the ceiling like storm clouds. “That’s all I’m asking youse for.”

  2.

  We spent the rest of the morning chasing Piper’s money; jostling, chivvying and cajoling people on the bottom rung of the ladder to part with cash that might better be spent on food, rent or their painkiller of choice.

  The junkies tried to convince us that they were short this week, or had already injected the money into their veins. Bending their fingers and elbows to snapping point usually revealed where the money had been hidden. Occasionally they had every penny and that was that, but more often it was only enough for a half payment, causing us to launch a few well-aimed hooks and headbutts to impress upon them the seriousness of their situation. And as to what happened to those who had no money at all? Well, they got to be made examples of. Living - if that wasn’t stretching the word after we’d finished with them - examples of what happens when you don’t pay the Piper.

  The alcoholics and the gamblers, their senses not quite as dull as the junkies, tried smiles and sweet talk to finagle their way out of payment. When that didn’t work they tried to convince us that they were good for the money. And when that didn’t work they tried their hands at violence. And when they did that they found out just how good debt collectors are at inflicting violence of their own. Even the biggest and strongest of our opponents found out that eventually the house always wins.

  The housewives and single mothers were nearly always easy. They paid without undue fuss and didn’t require any heavy stuff, although a few launched a few choice words in our direction. Occasionally you would find one young single mother, whose sex appeal hadn’t been completely diminished by early motherhood and years of hard living, who would offer blowjobs in lieu of payment. The smart collectors always turned them down flat. The stupid ones didn’t and always paid the price. Piper would nearly always find out about the indiscretion and deduct it from their pay packets and people would soon learn that they were an easy mark, making it harder for them to collect in future. But I always kept things formal, even with the pretty ones, so that they knew where they stood. I didn’t much like scaring women. But if I had to I knew how to do it without inflicting violence.

  Sooner or later everybody paid. Whether they wanted to or not.

  3.

  After doing the debtor merry-go-round we drove to the Miner’s Lamp and parked outside. It was a large redbrick Victorian building with a tacked-on glass, steel and neon facade that covered all the charm of its original features. The new fixture didn’t exactly scream class, but it did at least allow Piper to put in a first floor balcony that was usually only ever used by smokers, especially in the long winter months where they congregated beneath large parasols to protect them from the rain.

  We went through the front entrance into a large main bar area that made me feel like I’d just walked into a black and white movie. This wasn’t because everything was stylish, classy, or old-fashioned. No, this was due to the fact that the entire place was kitted out in mono. Black tables and chairs sat on polished white floor tiles that were a nightmare to negotiate at closing time. Shiny black light fixtures stood out against white walls that were otherwise spattered with food and drink stains.

  This early in the afternoon the place was mostly deserted. A few drinkers worked on their liver problems but there were a lot of tables between them. Later on it would fill up with students from the art school and the university, but that wouldn’t be for a few hours, which was how Ray Holland, the bar manager, liked it.

  The calm before the storm.

  Ray stood behind the black marble bar at the far end of the room and pointed out the complexities of the cash register to a slim, pretty barmaid with black hair and far too much fake tan. Her eyebrows knitted together into a look of intense concentration as he went through the various buttons and functions. The glazed, uncomprehending look in her eyes suggested that he would probably have to explain it again in explicit detail before the day was through.

  When Ray saw me approaching he stopped what he was doing, patted the barmaid on the shoulder and told her to go and collect some glasses. A look of relief washed across her face and she quickly rounded the bar and tried to look busy despite the fact there were only three or four glasses to gather up.

  Ray wiped a h
andkerchief across his glistening forehead, folded it and put it back in his front jacket pocket. He made it look like it was hard work carrying all that extra timber on his body. He was as wide as he was tall which, at around six-one, made him look like he had his own gravitational field. Despite Ray’s considerable bulk his huge bald head still seemed too big for his body. It resembled a giant party balloon with tufts of grey fluff stuck to the sides.

  Despite his slightly comical appearance and his size he always looked sharp in hand tailored suits and shirts. Today he wore a perfectly fitted charcoal grey single-breasted suit with white pinstripes. He kept it buttoned so that only a little bit of white shirt and powder blue tie showed through. I commented on his dress sense as I rounded the bar and shook his massive hand. He grinned, broke grip and tugged at the jacket lapels.

  “Like I always say, mate, you gotta make an impression. Customers and staff don’t respect a barman dressed like a middle-aged hobo.”

  I could have replied that he was more feared than respected by customers and bar staff alike, but I kept it to myself. Ray was handy with pool cues, spirit bottles, bar stools, coshes and, when nothing else was available, his big fucking fists. Only a fool would dare cause trouble in Big Ray’s place. A fool or, as it turned out, someone like my brother.

  Ray nodded in Mark’s direction. “Who’s the newbie?”

  I turned and wafted a left hand at my colleague.

  “Mark Kandinsky meet Ray Holland Esquire and vice versa.”

  Both men nodded and grunted a hello. Mark thrust his right hand out and Ray shook it firmly. Then they broke grip and Mark dropped in behind me.

  “He’s gonna be taking over these runs from now on.”

  Ray arched a thin eyebrow.

  “So what’re you gonna be doing?” he asked.

  “Retiring.”

  “From Piper’s employ?”

  “That’s right.”

  “To do what?”