streets tonight. ‘The Old Bill will have scared off the punters anyway,’ he’d said, ‘so there’s no point risking getting hauled in for questioning.’
Angel’s thoughts turned to the girl Castle had beaten within a millimetre of her life. There had been no mention of her on the news. If the police had connected her to the shooting, they were keeping quiet about it. Angel wondered what had become of her. Maybe she was lying in a hospital bed. Or maybe Kevin had lost his nerve and dumped her somewhere. She dismissed the thought with a shake of her head. Over the years she’d got good at reading people. Kevin was a coward, but he wasn’t a heartless bastard. He wasn’t an idiot either. He’d known Angel’s threat to him wasn’t empty, just as he’d known what she intended to do to Castle. He would have taken the girl to hospital, but he’d have made damn sure no one saw him leave her there. And now, no doubt, he was holed up somewhere, pissing his pants, hoping and praying his car hadn’t been caught on CCTV too.
Angel got out of bed. Whatever had become of the girl, she had to know. She felt a strange kind of responsibility towards her. As if by saving her life – if that was what she’d managed to do – she’d somehow become responsible for it. She frowned at the gun. The weight of it in her hand was strangely reassuring. She felt a powerful reluctance to part with it, yet she realised it would be crazy to carry it with her. She was known to the local police, albeit under a false identity. If they picked her up for questioning, it would be game over.
Angel retrieved her heroin spoon from the shoebox. Dropping to her haunches in a corner of the room, she prised up a loose floorboard with the spoon’s handle. There was a plastic bag stuffed into the floor cavity. She opened it, revealing a roll of banknotes with an elastic band around them. Her emergency money. She’d scraped it together over the past few months in case she needed to get away from this place, Deano, or some other trouble, fast. There was nine hundred and eighty quid. She knew the amount off by heart. She was certain Deano didn’t know about it, but she counted it every day anyway to be sure. She winced at the thought of what would happen if he ever found it. As far as he was concerned, he owned her and everything she considered hers. So hiding money from him was the same as stealing from him. On more than one occasion, she’d seen the way Deano dealt with girls he believed were holding money back from him. It wasn’t pretty, and nor were their faces once he’d finished with them.
Angel put the gun in the bag, slid the bundle into the cavity and replaced the floorboard. She pulled on jeans, trainers and a hooded sweatshirt. A pile of unopened bills and junk mail lay by the door. She opened an envelope, tossed its contents aside and replaced them with the remaining six hundred or so quid of Castle’s money. Putting the envelope into her handbag, she made her way out of the bedsit.
As Angel stepped outside, her eyes were drawn to a police car at the end of the street. Two coppers were talking to Roxy, one of the oldest pros in the game around Middlesbrough. There was every chance Roxy had seen the girl get into the car with Castle, but no chance she’d tell the coppers. Nor would most, if any, of the other girls. If whores were good at one thing besides servicing the desires of punters, it was keeping quiet when the police came around.
Angel headed in the opposite direction. She caught a bus to the nearby James Cook University Hospital. Standing outside A & E, from where she could see the reception desk through the glass doors, she phoned directory enquiries on her mobile. ‘Can I have the number for Accident and Emergency at James Cook Hospital, Middlesbrough?’ The automated operator service gave the number, telling her to ‘press 1’ if she wanted to be put through. She pressed 1, and when the receptionist picked up, she
Angel’s thoughts turned to the girl Castle had beaten within a millimetre of her life. There had been no mention of her on the news. If the police had connected her to the shooting, they were keeping quiet about it. Angel wondered what had become of her. Maybe she was lying in a hospital bed. Or maybe Kevin had lost his nerve and dumped her somewhere. She dismissed the thought with a shake of her head. Over the years she’d got good at reading people. Kevin was a coward, but he wasn’t a heartless bastard. He wasn’t an idiot either. He’d known Angel’s threat to him wasn’t empty, just as he’d known what she intended to do to Castle. He would have taken the girl to hospital, but he’d have made damn sure no one saw him leave her there. And now, no doubt, he was holed up somewhere, pissing his pants, hoping and praying his car hadn’t been caught on CCTV too.
Angel got out of bed. Whatever had become of the girl, she had to know. She felt a strange kind of responsibility towards her. As if by saving her life – if that was what she’d managed to do – she’d somehow become responsible for it. She frowned at the gun. The weight of it in her hand was strangely reassuring. She felt a powerful reluctance to part with it, yet she realised it would be crazy to carry it with her. She was known to the local police, albeit under a false identity. If they picked her up for questioning, it would be game over.
Angel retrieved her heroin spoon from the shoebox. Dropping to her haunches in a corner of the room, she prised up a loose floorboard with the spoon’s handle. There was a plastic bag stuffed into the floor cavity. She opened it, revealing a roll of banknotes with an elastic band around them. Her emergency money. She’d scraped it together over the past few months in case she needed to get away from this place, Deano, or some other trouble, fast. There was nine hundred and eighty quid. She knew the amount off by heart. She was certain Deano didn’t know about it, but she counted it every day anyway to be sure. She winced at the thought of what would happen if he ever found it. As far as he was concerned, he owned her and everything she considered hers. So hiding money from him was the same as stealing from him. On more than one occasion, she’d seen the way Deano dealt with girls he believed were holding money back from him. It wasn’t pretty, and nor were their faces once he’d finished with them.
Angel put the gun in the bag, slid the bundle into the cavity and replaced the floorboard. She pulled on jeans, trainers and a hooded sweatshirt. A pile of unopened bills and junk mail lay by the door. She opened an envelope, tossed its contents aside and replaced them with the remaining six hundred or so quid of Castle’s money. Putting the envelope into her handbag, she made her way out of the bedsit.
As Angel stepped outside, her eyes were drawn to a police car at the end of the street. Two coppers were talking to Roxy, one of the oldest pros in the game around Middlesbrough. There was every chance Roxy had seen the girl get into the car with Castle, but no chance she’d tell the coppers. Nor would most, if any, of the other girls. If whores were good at one thing besides servicing the desires of punters, it was keeping quiet when the police came around.
Angel headed in the opposite direction. She caught a bus to the nearby James Cook University Hospital. Standing outside A & E, from where she could see the reception desk through the glass doors, she phoned directory enquiries on her mobile. ‘Can I have the number for Accident and Emergency at James Cook Hospital, Middlesbrough?’ The automated operator service gave the number, telling her to ‘press 1’ if she wanted to be put through. She pressed 1, and when the receptionist picked up, she
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