over: ‘Unbelievable. Fucking unbelievable.’
Willy kept quiet.
Chapter Three
Leroy Holdings was tired out. He had been up for two days speeding and knew he should go to bed but he had a meet with another dealer about broadening their horizons around the capital. Drug dealing and prostitution were more lucrative than he could ever have dreamed. Thank God for women and pharmaceuticals - that was his mantra these days.
As he looked around his state-of-the-art kitchen he smiled contentedly. He had come a long way from Manchester. He liked living in Docklands. There was an anonymity about the place that appealed to him, but his girlfriend Letitia had left the place in a mess and that irked him.
Lately she couldn’t be bothered to do anything. Pregnancy was not doing her much good. In fact, since she had found out about the baby she had done practically nothing. That included the bedroom department as well.
When he heard the door open he shouted: ‘Hey, Letitia, I’m in here.’ His voice was loud and aggressive. He was going to bawl her out, he had decided. He might not have been home for a while but, hell, it was her job to see that the place was kept in good condition.
As he looked across the Thames he felt his usual stir of pride at living in a Docklands loft. Coming from a council estate in Manchester, he appreciated this turn in his fortunes more than the average dealer. Not for him a cage in a local authority flat where everyone came calling at all hours of the day and night. He didn’t need to do that himself any more and certainly didn’t live on top of the business. He had invested his money in property and cars, the latter being his first love.
When he went to friends’ houses and saw the bars on their doors and windows he felt stifled. It was like being banged up again. No, he liked his smart new life, it suited him fine.
He strolled from the kitchen area into the large lounge. It was then he saw the two men with shotguns standing on his immaculate white shag-pile carpet.
‘Hello, son.’
The man’s voice was friendly. Friendly enough for Leroy to think all he was getting was a warning of some kind.
When the guns went off he was so shocked that the look of utter incomprehension was still on his face when Letitia found him there twenty-five minutes later.
Stingo Plessey was old. Very old in comparison with the other men who lived on the caravan site with him. As he walked carefully across the rubbish tip he was whistling. The smells of rotten food and stinking garbage meant nothing to him. He was used to it. Today he was keeping his eye out for stuff he could clean up and sell on. Anything, in fact, that caught his eye.
Seeing a child’s brand new trainer he grinned, showing greying false teeth. Picking it up, he saw it was a Nike. Now if he could find the other one he would be set. A good clean and he had at least a fiver in his pocket. A nice bottle of sherry or fine ruby port. He rubbed his hands together in glee.
As he pushed the rubbish about with his thick yew walking stick he saw the other trainer. Only this one was bloodied and stained. He swallowed down fiery bile as he realised that inside the small trainer there was still what looked like a foot.
Glancing around the rubbish tip he saw the other sifters looking through the trash with the seagulls and the gypsies. He tried to call out but couldn’t. His throat had seized up, his whole body stiff with revulsion and fear.
As the police turned up in three large minibuses Stingo realised he had just found what they were looking for. Digging his stick into the rubbish, he marked the spot and started to wave his hands in the air to let people know he had found something important.
No one took any notice.
The wind picked up and flapped newspapers and soiled nappies in its wake. It picked up the smell of the trash and forced it into noses and mouths. Stingo felt the prick of tears in his eyes as he started calling out with all his
Willy kept quiet.
Chapter Three
Leroy Holdings was tired out. He had been up for two days speeding and knew he should go to bed but he had a meet with another dealer about broadening their horizons around the capital. Drug dealing and prostitution were more lucrative than he could ever have dreamed. Thank God for women and pharmaceuticals - that was his mantra these days.
As he looked around his state-of-the-art kitchen he smiled contentedly. He had come a long way from Manchester. He liked living in Docklands. There was an anonymity about the place that appealed to him, but his girlfriend Letitia had left the place in a mess and that irked him.
Lately she couldn’t be bothered to do anything. Pregnancy was not doing her much good. In fact, since she had found out about the baby she had done practically nothing. That included the bedroom department as well.
When he heard the door open he shouted: ‘Hey, Letitia, I’m in here.’ His voice was loud and aggressive. He was going to bawl her out, he had decided. He might not have been home for a while but, hell, it was her job to see that the place was kept in good condition.
As he looked across the Thames he felt his usual stir of pride at living in a Docklands loft. Coming from a council estate in Manchester, he appreciated this turn in his fortunes more than the average dealer. Not for him a cage in a local authority flat where everyone came calling at all hours of the day and night. He didn’t need to do that himself any more and certainly didn’t live on top of the business. He had invested his money in property and cars, the latter being his first love.
When he went to friends’ houses and saw the bars on their doors and windows he felt stifled. It was like being banged up again. No, he liked his smart new life, it suited him fine.
He strolled from the kitchen area into the large lounge. It was then he saw the two men with shotguns standing on his immaculate white shag-pile carpet.
‘Hello, son.’
The man’s voice was friendly. Friendly enough for Leroy to think all he was getting was a warning of some kind.
When the guns went off he was so shocked that the look of utter incomprehension was still on his face when Letitia found him there twenty-five minutes later.
Stingo Plessey was old. Very old in comparison with the other men who lived on the caravan site with him. As he walked carefully across the rubbish tip he was whistling. The smells of rotten food and stinking garbage meant nothing to him. He was used to it. Today he was keeping his eye out for stuff he could clean up and sell on. Anything, in fact, that caught his eye.
Seeing a child’s brand new trainer he grinned, showing greying false teeth. Picking it up, he saw it was a Nike. Now if he could find the other one he would be set. A good clean and he had at least a fiver in his pocket. A nice bottle of sherry or fine ruby port. He rubbed his hands together in glee.
As he pushed the rubbish about with his thick yew walking stick he saw the other trainer. Only this one was bloodied and stained. He swallowed down fiery bile as he realised that inside the small trainer there was still what looked like a foot.
Glancing around the rubbish tip he saw the other sifters looking through the trash with the seagulls and the gypsies. He tried to call out but couldn’t. His throat had seized up, his whole body stiff with revulsion and fear.
As the police turned up in three large minibuses Stingo realised he had just found what they were looking for. Digging his stick into the rubbish, he marked the spot and started to wave his hands in the air to let people know he had found something important.
No one took any notice.
The wind picked up and flapped newspapers and soiled nappies in its wake. It picked up the smell of the trash and forced it into noses and mouths. Stingo felt the prick of tears in his eyes as he started calling out with all his
Similar Books
