A Wanted Man by Rob Parker

Author:Rob Parker [Parker, Rob]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Endeavour Media
Published: 2017-05-13T16:00:00+00:00

17

We take a cab back to Jack’s house, a ten-minute ride. When we arrive, Jack jumps out immediately and wordlessly, while I am left to pay. I don’t quibble, I just pay the man.

I follow Jack as he unlocks the door and enters, slipping his shoes off as he crosses the threshold. I do the same. We head into the kitchen where Jack embarks on that great British tradition, brewing a pot of tea. When the kettle’s on and the Yorkshire teabags are safely in the pot, I walk to the fridge.

‘Can you show me the safe?’ I ask.

Jack walks over and gives the fridge a sharp yank from the wall, after which it slides easily along, leaving a gap I can poke my head and shoulders through. The safe is a rugged beauty, black brushed steel. It looks as if it could withstand just about anything, and I can imagine a nuclear strike detonating right here, wiping Manchester off the face of the earth, leaving nothing behind save for this perfect ebony box in the middle of a gigantic, smoking crater.

Jack sticks his hand through the gap, and I hear gears whirring. Then a clunk, and a creak. He steps back to allow me a peek.

‘The only thing I moved is the gun,’ says Jack. ‘The rest is exactly how he left it.’

I glance around the corner and see a square opening a couple of feet across, with the contents on three shelves, lit by a blue neon LED. There are a fair few things in here, suggesting that Royston was not expecting anything to happen to him anytime soon.

Top shelf: three mobile phones, each the same model of iPhone; a blank space, presumably where the handgun used to sit; and some documents. Will need sifting through in detail.

Middle shelf: four five-inch cubes, each containing beautiful little fish in exotic colours. Each cube is separated by a black piece of card. Felix’s little side-earner, the one that started it all. The fish all look fine, save for the one on the end that’s floating belly-to-the-heavens, its eyes milky. Next to the cubes is a little pot of fish flakes and a second plastic container full of brine shrimp and red worms.

Bottom shelf: cold hard cash filling the whole shelf, stacked up and along. They all look like fifties, and fast maths suggests there may well be close to a million quid in there. Bloody hell.

I leave the money where it is, and take out everything else, placing it on the kitchen countertop. Jack slides a hot mug across to me. I turn all three phones on, one at a time. Opening the lids on the cubes, I sprinkle in some shrimp for the fish, which eagerly smash into the falling crustaceans like tiny, ornate piranhas – except for Milky on the end there, poor lad. His ship has sailed.

The phones sing to life with a happy little jingle, and all look at me brightly, ready to do my bidding. I take the first one, while Jack sits on the counter opposite me.

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