bought steroids, teenage pussy and guns from them.
Cherub had switched his attention back to his desk work, eyes flickering from his laptop screen to a heap of receipts and invoices. ‘What do you want, Alan?’ A busy man.
‘A gun,’ Trask said.
That woke Cherub up. He leaned back in his ergonomic chair, looking the very antithesis of the other Mongrels, a slim, wiry guy with a soul patch on his chin and cropped hair. Tatts concealed. ‘What kind?’
‘Got a Glock?’
‘I do.’
‘Suppressor?’
‘It’ll cost you.’
‘I’m good for it.’
‘You intend using the Glock?’
‘Do you need to know?’ said Trask.
Cherub swivelled in his chair. ‘If all you’re going to do is wave it around in someone’s face, I’ll buy it back from you. If you’re going to fire the thing, chuck it in the river after. We clear?’
‘Crystal.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah,’ Trask said. ‘Can you get me a code reader for this?’
He showed Cherub a photograph of Ormerod’s security keypad.
‘Yep,’ Cherub said. He cocked his head at Trask. ‘Anything in it for me?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, then. Gun and suppressor, seven-fifty.’
‘Christ,’ grumbled Trask, and shrugged.
Cherub told him to wait in the corridor. Trask cooled his heels for no more than a minute: when Cherub called him back in, a shoebox sat on the desk.
‘You got cash on you?’
‘Yes.’
Trask paid and Cherub looked at him. ‘Mate, I’m busy here.’ He went back to his keyboard.
Trask didn’t leave but shoved the shoebox into his gym bag, changed in the locker room downstairs and for an hour pumped iron, whacked a punching bag and paced himself on a treadmill. None of it made him feel any better. Cherub didn’t respect him; Leah, Minto. He was just a hired hand. But if not for him, there wouldn’t have been a client prepared to pay good money to get a painting back. No lawyer from New York, no investigative groundwork, no Wyatt…Barely any thanks, and shunted to the sidelines. And who was this Wyatt character? According to a police mate who still talked to Trask, no one knew much about the guy. Myths, rumours and shadows.
And now fucking Wurlitzer to deal with.
He showered, stepping out of the steam to catch a flash of himself in the mirrors. Liked what he saw: veiny, corded arms, wide shoulders, flat stomach, powerful thighs. He flexed some muscles, watching the tendons, sinews and bones move under the hard flesh.
Looking good. Then some random guy strolled into the change room so Trask covered up, wrapping and tucking his vast white towel. Busied himself at his locker, half an eye on the newcomer, a weedy guy with a long, comma-shaped birthmark under one ear. Looked like he needed a few decades of gym toning. All he did was sit there, on a bench, either taking off or putting on his shoes and taking a while to do it.
Checking out my arse, thought Trask. ‘Help you?’
‘I’m good,’ the guy said.
Trask went home and late afternoon stowed a camping stool, food, beer, flask of coffee, iPod and a laptop loaded with movies into his main set of wheels, a Jeep, and drove to Sunshine Beach.
The trap was a huge house on a slope. Sea views and plenty of trees screened it from the neighbours and the riffraff who visited the beach. The kind of house that would look right to Gavin Wurlitzer, promising high-end electronics, jewellery, silverware, cash—maybe even a woman tucked up in her bed. All the sick fuck’s Christmases coming at once. Leah had sold the house two weeks earlier but still had the keys and the RiverRun Realty FOR SALE sign was still in the front lawn. What mattered was the sign. Gavin Wurlitzer would take one look at that, and the size and seclusion of the house, and know he’d been fed solid information again.
Steering the Jeep into the garage at the side of the house, Trask got out, stretched the kinks in his back, locked the external door. Then he grabbed his stuff from the Jeep and let himself in,
Cherub had switched his attention back to his desk work, eyes flickering from his laptop screen to a heap of receipts and invoices. ‘What do you want, Alan?’ A busy man.
‘A gun,’ Trask said.
That woke Cherub up. He leaned back in his ergonomic chair, looking the very antithesis of the other Mongrels, a slim, wiry guy with a soul patch on his chin and cropped hair. Tatts concealed. ‘What kind?’
‘Got a Glock?’
‘I do.’
‘Suppressor?’
‘It’ll cost you.’
‘I’m good for it.’
‘You intend using the Glock?’
‘Do you need to know?’ said Trask.
Cherub swivelled in his chair. ‘If all you’re going to do is wave it around in someone’s face, I’ll buy it back from you. If you’re going to fire the thing, chuck it in the river after. We clear?’
‘Crystal.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah,’ Trask said. ‘Can you get me a code reader for this?’
He showed Cherub a photograph of Ormerod’s security keypad.
‘Yep,’ Cherub said. He cocked his head at Trask. ‘Anything in it for me?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, then. Gun and suppressor, seven-fifty.’
‘Christ,’ grumbled Trask, and shrugged.
Cherub told him to wait in the corridor. Trask cooled his heels for no more than a minute: when Cherub called him back in, a shoebox sat on the desk.
‘You got cash on you?’
‘Yes.’
Trask paid and Cherub looked at him. ‘Mate, I’m busy here.’ He went back to his keyboard.
Trask didn’t leave but shoved the shoebox into his gym bag, changed in the locker room downstairs and for an hour pumped iron, whacked a punching bag and paced himself on a treadmill. None of it made him feel any better. Cherub didn’t respect him; Leah, Minto. He was just a hired hand. But if not for him, there wouldn’t have been a client prepared to pay good money to get a painting back. No lawyer from New York, no investigative groundwork, no Wyatt…Barely any thanks, and shunted to the sidelines. And who was this Wyatt character? According to a police mate who still talked to Trask, no one knew much about the guy. Myths, rumours and shadows.
And now fucking Wurlitzer to deal with.
He showered, stepping out of the steam to catch a flash of himself in the mirrors. Liked what he saw: veiny, corded arms, wide shoulders, flat stomach, powerful thighs. He flexed some muscles, watching the tendons, sinews and bones move under the hard flesh.
Looking good. Then some random guy strolled into the change room so Trask covered up, wrapping and tucking his vast white towel. Busied himself at his locker, half an eye on the newcomer, a weedy guy with a long, comma-shaped birthmark under one ear. Looked like he needed a few decades of gym toning. All he did was sit there, on a bench, either taking off or putting on his shoes and taking a while to do it.
Checking out my arse, thought Trask. ‘Help you?’
‘I’m good,’ the guy said.
Trask went home and late afternoon stowed a camping stool, food, beer, flask of coffee, iPod and a laptop loaded with movies into his main set of wheels, a Jeep, and drove to Sunshine Beach.
The trap was a huge house on a slope. Sea views and plenty of trees screened it from the neighbours and the riffraff who visited the beach. The kind of house that would look right to Gavin Wurlitzer, promising high-end electronics, jewellery, silverware, cash—maybe even a woman tucked up in her bed. All the sick fuck’s Christmases coming at once. Leah had sold the house two weeks earlier but still had the keys and the RiverRun Realty FOR SALE sign was still in the front lawn. What mattered was the sign. Gavin Wurlitzer would take one look at that, and the size and seclusion of the house, and know he’d been fed solid information again.
Steering the Jeep into the garage at the side of the house, Trask got out, stretched the kinks in his back, locked the external door. Then he grabbed his stuff from the Jeep and let himself in,
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