Between Two Thieves Read online

  BETWEEN

  TWO

  THIEVES

  Roberts and Bradley Private Investigator Crime Thriller series book 1

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Solomon Carter

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Solomon:) | Between Two Thieves

  More thrilling books by Solomon Carter | The DI Hogarth Secret Fear series – the second DI Hogarth series

  The DI Hogarth Darkest Lies series – The first DI Hogarth series

  Long Time Dying

  Luck & Judgment

  London Calling

  The Final Trick

  Harder They Fall

  Also by Solomon Carter

  Solomon Carter

  Great Leap

  Many of us crucify ourselves between two thieves – regret for the past and fear of the future.

  —Fulton Oursler

  One

  Thursday night.

  Two men walked in the darkness, their feet padding carefully on the beach. They walked in silence, their eyes occasionally turning to the sparkling black sea. It was almost time – almost but not quite. In the far distance across the water, a few studs of light marked out the Kent coast. Much nearer were the lights of Southend Pier, stretched out in a line like a garland of Christmas lights pulled tight across the water. The two men trudged together, their breathing light with anticipation.

  “Think you’re ready?” said the taller guy, his voice gruff and curt.

  “Of course I am,” said the shorter man.

  “You sound nervous,” said the taller one, in a cutting tone.

  “I’ve always done my bit,” he replied.

  “Haven’t you just...” said the taller one, shooting his companion a look. The small guy chewed over the words and shook his head. They were a good long way from the lights of the town centre and the beach this end was quiet. The men approached their target positions from the empty Southchurch side of the beach. Their target was a single storey, white-painted huddle, the Marine Activity Centre, and more specifically the long wooden jetty jutting out from the back of the building across the wide sand and above the dark depths.

  “We’ll be there in a minute,” said the taller guy. “So, get yourself together,” he whispered.

  “I am together,” said the short man. He stopped walking. “Hold up. I think I can hear him coming...”

  “Already?” The tall man strained his ear to the water. “Let me check,” he said, hearing a mere hint of sound, but still indiscernible. “We’d better get in position then...”

  They parted ways, the shorter man aiming for the white marine centre, the taller aiming for the jetty. The sparse beach grasses fluttered around their ankles.

  Nearby another man watched and waited in silence. Unseen, he stood alone on the town side of the marine centre building, his big body absolutely still but for the breeze tugging at his thin hair. The man’s stillness was a talent learned from practice. So far none of them were aware of each other. Only the darkness and the sound of the water filled their senses. Behind him the seafront parade of houses and pubs were grey and silent. The lone watcher’s eyes roved the waters and his ears strained against the breeze. His name was Carl Renton. Carl Renton was forty-seven years old, a man of large dimensions, overweight yet strong. He had never been considered cool, nor did he desire to be. He knew people thought he was strange, but then being strange was his calling and he knew it. Being different was what made him do what he did – what brought him out standing alone on the beach in almost all weathers. Besides, what did other people’s opinions matter when a man was committed to his mission? He stood a little way from the town-facing side wall of the Marine Activities Centre. In the short time since the council had sold it off, the marine centre had been given a lick of white paint and a rebranded logo but it was essentially the same thing, and security had gotten worse not better. Which Carl reckoned had made his mission even more essential. By day, kayaks, canoes, windsurfers, dinghies and mini-yachts, buzzed around the marine centre’s jetty to access the water. By night the jetty should have been silent. Contrasted against the pier, the jetty was a just a child’s toy, but it still offered easy access to the water, and it didn’t come under anything like the same scrutiny as its enormous neighbour. Which was one of the reasons Carl Renton needed to stand close by, following his calling, watching the waters as he did nearly every night. But tonight Carl felt uneasy. He held a crumpled jiffy bag in his big hand without really wanting to hold it at all. Carl told himself he didn’t want to know what was inside. But then that wasn’t altogether true.

  His lifted the jiffy bag to his eyes. The contents shifted inside with a metallic clink and rattle. Curiosity stirred in his belly, but the thing simply had to go. It was a distraction from a project which had cost him too much already.

  Carl shook his head and whispered under his breath. “See what’s inside when this is done... but for now you concentrate.”

  He lowered the envelope by his hip – out of sight and out of mind. The breeze dipped, and Carl cocked his ear towards the estuary. He caught a hint of movement in the blackness and narrowed his eyes. Despite all the practice he was tired, feeling it in every bone. He was getting too old for all this, but someone had to do it. Not all things were to be accepted meekly. Not all things were good. And some were so bad that Carl knew he had to fight them with every fibre of his being. Breaking though the sounds of the water and the wind, the low buzz of a motor rose to meet his ears. The faintest buzz... it came and went and rose again as it did battle with the elements. Staring out to sea, the adrenaline of the mission stirred in him again. So, they were coming in again tonight. He had to make sure his efforts were not wasted. Carl kept still and listened so hard that nothing else mattered. He tuned everything out, so that he simply didn’t hear the few cars passing behind him on the esplanade. Nor the late-night stragglers walking along by the sea wall. Southend was a big town, and there were always people out late at night. Drunks and junkies – the kind of people Carl knew well. He heard nothing but for the lap of the waves on the shore, and the ting-ting-ting of ropes rattling against yacht masts on the breeze. But the buzz was coming nearer. And getting closer, still quiet as mice, two sets of feet padded on the sand, unheard and unseen. Three men, and their full attention was devoted to the sound on the water. And then something changed.

  Behind the sea wall, out on the street, one of the lone stragglers slowed down his pace and turned his head towards the sand and the darkness. His body hidden by the dark grey wall, he was nothing more than a head and shoulders. The man’s eyes were turned to the water, but he stopped altogether when he glimpsed Carl Renton’s broad back. He studied the man’s build and shape and saw the jiffy bag dangling from his hand. Still Carl Renton didn’t hear anything aside from the buzz of the motor coming from the water. He didn’t see the man climb the short flight of concrete steps to cross over the sea wall. He didn’t notice the man drop down onto the soft weedy sand. The newcomer took a breath and wiped his clammy face with the back of his hand. He started walking, taking care not to make a sound. When he got close to Carl Renton’s back, the
man opened his jacket, slid something from it down into his hand and slowed his feet.

  Carl frowned as the motor buzz rose and fell on the breeze. He felt disconcerted but didn’t know why. He supposed the evening’s events had gotten to him and tried to dismiss his feelings.

  Behind him, the newcomer licked his lips and his eyes scanned the back of the big man’s head, and the package in his hand. As he stared out to sea, Carl Renton felt a deep sudden need to turn around, to face something behind him. It was a stupid and childish sensation, but he knew better than to dismiss any so-called gut feeling when it was this strong. Because he knew where those feelings really came from. Carl started to turn around, but by the time he did, it was already far too late. Renton’s eyes flared in recognition as he saw a set of bright, narrow eyes close behind him. The very moment he saw them, it began. Frenzied. Angry. Strategic. The blow struck hard and fast in a way no man could have defended, no matter how big they were. A blinding crash of pain filled Carl’s head and sent him staggering back as the breeze rose again. He knew he was hurt, but barely cried out. Renton gathered himself. Blood filled one of his eyes, but he still turned to face his attacker. Renton was caught between a choice to fight or offer the man another way out, when a flash of gleaming metal clunked into the side of his head. This time it bit deep. The man pulled the sharp edge free, swept it down and the metal bit deep again. Carl reeled and turned his eyes skyward. He mouthed a few silent words and his body started to fall. The attacker tried to snatch the big padded envelope from his hand and tried again to pull it away as Renton sank to the ground, but Renton kept it clasped tight. The attacker gritted his teeth and shook his head. Two more vicious strikes and Renton was down and ruined, but somehow, the man still clung to the envelope. The attacker crouched over Carl and delivered one last swiping cut deep against the big man’s gut. Finally, Carl Renton fell. His big arm jerked up in the fall. The jiffy was cast into the air, and glittering contents flew across the weed-strewn beach. The attacker looked wildly about the sand. With a shaking hand he slid the weapon back under his jacket and began to scramble around, raking the pebbles and grasses with his fingers to ensure he had retrieved every last item. After twenty seconds, he stood up quickly and glanced at the dark silent houses across the street, at the big bloodied body at his feet, and then at the darkness and water behind him. The buzzing motor was coming ever closer on the waves. The man took one last look, scanning the darkness for anything he had missed and then broke into a run. He ran for the wall as fast as he could. Just as he started to drop down to other side of the sea wall, the man felt the jiffy bag snag on the concrete. A single round, shining gold item tumbled to the sand and rolled into a clump of weeds. The man didn’t see it. He took a quick glance at the insides of the envelope but couldn’t see anything wrong. The motor was getting closer... he took a deep breath and then he quickly and carefully stalked away.

  For better or for worse, the deed had been done.

  The motor on the water became a roar as it came closer. Other sounds came with it. The sound of the slap on the water and the quiet lift into the air as the smooth fibreglass hull bounced on the waves. When the sound was close at hand, the tall man, Clive Grace, stood up from his crouching position on the edge of the jetty. He leaned left and right until he saw the curved spout of water shooting from the back of the jet ski, rising and falling in a big arc, faintly illumined by the distant lights. Just as bright were the glints of light in Tommy Pink’s eyes. Tommy Pink, the market trader, the man riding the jet ski, was his employer and comrade in arms. Dressed from head to toe in a black wetsuit, complete with a snug black snood, Pink always reminded him of some cheap Bond villain on nights like this. But Grace knew the light in Pink’s eyes came from the thrill of the job. The excitement of another big payday coming their way. Grace couldn’t blame the man. He was excited too. The engine switched off and the jet ski glided the last few metres in silence before it bumped gently against the end of the jetty. Pink leaned up and away from the handlebars, standing up on his steed. He was dressed in black and bore a matching black rucksack on his back. It looked full. The smile on Pink’s face told the rest of the story. Pink leaned over the handlebars and opened the storage compartment door on the front of the jet ski. With a gloved hand he pulled out two more rucksacks and a rope. Clive Grace took the rope from Pink and lashed the jet ski to the end of the jetty. Little Norman Peters appeared to assist him.

  “I saw you out there,” said Grace. “I even heard you speeding up at the end. You bloody love all this, don’t you?”

  “And you’re saying you don’t?” said Pink. “Anyway. I like riding on the water. But landing’s always the riskiest part,” he said. “I think we’re okay now though, don’t you?” He waved a full rucksack in his hand to prove the point and let out a laugh.

  Pink clambered up from his jet ski onto the end of the jetty and sat down. As soon as his backside touched the wood, he peeled the rucksack from his back and unfastened the top. Tommy Pink knew Grace and Peters would have carried out all the necessary checks, but Pink reckoned it never hurt to check again. He groaned with effort as he stood up on tiptoe and peered left and right around the jetty like a meerkat. He walked quickly and quietly along the jetty, looking back to the shore and sea wall on the other side, taking care to glance towards the pier to make sure he hadn’t been seen by any late-night stragglers. He was almost done. Pink had pulled the bag open, ready to get on with dishing out the contents, when he noticed a large dark hump dumped on the middle of the sand, on the town side of the beach. “Not another bloody waster sleeping on the beach,” he muttered. But then he saw the dark patch on the sand, and all thinking stopped. Pink turned cold and stopped moving. The hump wasn’t far from the edge of the marine centre building, not far either from the wooden platform at the end of the jetty. Something like that would be a ruddy homing beacon for the law. Pink moved between the empty metal canoe racks kept outside the marine centre building and using them as a hide, he stared at the hump on the sand until he was sure. All night his mind had been on one thing. The Uber run. But now he could only think of the trouble coming their way. Tommy Pink left Grace and Peters in his wake as he scuttled down the jetty, doing his best to keep out of sight from the street

  “Norm! Get that jet ski out of sight and secure, then come and check over here will you?”

  “Why? What’s up?!”

  “Keep it down, you stupid sod,” said Pink. “Just get your arse over here pronto.”

  Peters didn’t like Pink’s tone, but he did what he was told and skulked along the jetty until he stood at Pink’s side.

  He saw Pink’s deep frown and followed his eyes to the sand. Fresh moonlight picked out the oversized body. “Oh no,” said little Norman Peters.

  “We’re gonna have to clear that up,” said Pink. “And by we, I mean you. You and Clive.”

  Norm Peters’ mouth dropped open.

  “Is that an actual dead body?” he said.

  “Just take a bloody look, man. And once you’ve worked it out, fix it, will you? You and Clive.”

  “Fix it? How do we fix that?”

  “It can’t be seen here, can it? Or we’re finished, right? So use your brain and use it fast.”

  The taller man, Clive Grace, joined them on the platform as Norm Peters leapt down and skipped across the sand. Grace stared at the body with narrow eyes and a narrow-lipped mouth. “Damn it,” he said. Pink looked back at him. “You help him too, Clive.”

  “Me? Help him with what?”

  “Yes. He’ll need help to deal with all that mess. You know what Norm’s like... dumb and sloppy.”

  “Why deal with it at all?” said Grace.

  “Seriously? Surely you’ve got a bit more brains than him?” said Pink.

  They watched Norm Peters drop to the sand, kneeling alongside the body as if in prayer.

  Clive Grace turned away, swore under his breath, and shook his head. He leapt off the jetty and started off in the d
irection of Norm and the corpse.

  Norman Peters stared down at the man’s bloodied head. At his lifeless eyes. He looked at the blood on the sand and took a sharp intake of breath when he heard footsteps coming behind him. He looked back to see Clive Grace padding along towards him, face grim as ever. With shaking hands, Norm Peters reached for the man’s dead face and touched his skin. Before Grace could reach him, Peters slipped a small deft hand into the man’s pockets to see what he could see. His small fingers came free with a leather wallet, a pocketbook and pen, and a small silver tin, covered in slick warm blood. The man hadn’t been dead long. It must have only just happened. Peters snatched a breath, slipped the cash and the tin into his own pocket and put the rest back. He wiped his hands on the sand. But the blood and sand crusted his hand, and his fingers stayed soiled.

  “Nasty,” said Clive, staring down at the dead man’s head.

  “You recognise him?” said Norm.

  “Yeah. Same as you do,” said Grace.

  Norm nodded slowly, but caught something in Grace’s tone of voice

  He glanced back up over his shoulder, his eyes searching Clive Grace’s face for more. Grace was always curt, always inscrutable. But the tall man’s grim, pinched face revealed nothing at all. Grace’s eyes flared at Norm in reply to his gaze.

  “You’d better get moving him, then, hadn’t you?”

  “Move him? But why, Clive?”

  “Ain’t it obvious?”

  Peters kept looking at Clive’s face until the taller man got annoyed. He hissed and kicked some sand at Norm.

  “Unless you want this sweet spot to come to an end, muck in and get it done.”

  Peters swore under his breath. Clive Grace crouched down at his side and they started what had to be done.

  Two

  Friday.

  “As another deadline passes...” The TV newsreader was in full flow as Eva walked into the living room, but within four words she had already heard enough. Eva sipped her strong morning coffee, picked up the remote control from the coffee table and switched off the widescreen TV. Behind her on the sofa Dan Bradley threw up his hands in disgust