Corby closed the door behind him and locked it carefully. He paused for a moment, listening, then walked down the narrow corridor separating his kitchen and bathroom and into the bed/sitting room of his apartment. There was a space along one wall where the police had taken the stack of old computers but his bed, wardrobe, desk and chair left very little room for swinging cats. Normally he would feel safe here, behind the steel reinforced doors fitted in this area as standard by the council. This afternoon, though... Why would the Russian mafia be interested in his research?
An intelligence like DENIS might be capable of hacking passwords, for example, or breaking into online banking. Or money laundering. If this really was a Russian mafia, or someone from the Middle East... He’d thought things through on the bus home and he couldn’t rely on the lawyers. And as for the police...
Moving along the wall so as not to be seen, he drew the curtains to, leaving just an opening of a few inches. Outside, he could see the gardens behind the flats. The children’s swings were mostly broken but one was being used, squeaking loudly as a small child was pushed higher and higher, shrieking with excitement. The rusty seesaws and roundabouts were being ignored by a group of kids kicking a ball. He watched for a few minutes but no one else appeared.
From the kitchen window he could look out onto the road. Nothing out of the ordinary. Was he overreacting? Then, as he allowed the net curtain to drop back into place, a car pulled up along the road, a new, navy Ford Fiesta. He stretched up for a better view but couldn’t make out who was in it. His heart beating faster, he waited. OK, they could be a couple of lovers saying good night after a day at work. But that would be unusual here, a real coincidence. The car was clean too. Who’d bring a brand new car down into this street? A drug dealer? If they were driving a new car it wouldn’t be a Fiesta.
When nothing more moved, he put the chain on the front door and bolted it. Then he went back into the living room, hung his anorak on the back of a chair and sat down on the edge of his bed.
Leaning forward, he reached under it and pushed his shoes aside. From behind them, he pulled out a black deed box, put it on the bed beside him and unlocked it. He unfolded the first of the papers it contained and glanced at it. A death certificate. His father’s, from twenty years ago. Next was a pile of letters, tied with a pink ribbon, which he laid, unopened on top of the certificate.
He looked at a bundle of his old school reports – all those ‘A’s carefully preserved by his mother – and some photographs of his parents’ life together. A photo taken by his cousin at his father’s funeral with his twelve year old self gazing strangely – perhaps resentfully, it was difficult to tell – out at a rain soaked cemetery.
His mother’s Will. The inheritance hadn’t been enough to make a dent in his study loans so he’d bought a desk and the curtains for his flat with it. The curtains were nearly closed now, of course and it was starting to get dark inside so he switched on the light. Back on the bed, he found what he’d been looking for in the deed box. A bundle of ten and twenty pound notes held together by an elastic band. Quickly, he counted the money. Three hundred and forty pounds.
He picked up his old Post Office Savings book and looked at the balance. Seven hundred and fifty seven pounds and ninety four pence. The interest since it was last updated must be worth something too. He peeled off a hundred pounds from the bundle and put it, with the post office book, into his trouser pocket. Then he replaced the rest of the contents, locked the deed box and put it back under the bed.
He glanced round the room then went out and locked the outer door behind him. He made his way along the balcony. The street below was now deserted except for the car parked twenty five yards from the entrance. As he watched, the engine started and whoever was in it drove off. Of course that probably just meant someone was now watching from nearby. He walked down the stairs.
Even though it wasn’t tall enough to qualify as a tower block, it was a sixties building, part of the reconstruction around the ship yards on the south bank of the river Mersey. The staircase was littered with cigarette packets, chocolate wrappers, empty beer cans and other stray remnants of packaging in various stages of disintegration. A faint smell of stale urine. Two floors down, he paused outside one of the apartments. The green paint of the door had been all but obscured by graffiti. The fanlight was cracked with a sheet of dirty cardboard wedged against it on the inside, perhaps as an attempt at draught proofing. He knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” A woman’s voice from inside.
“Steven Corby from number thirty six. I need a word with Tim.”
“He’s busy. What’s it about?”
“It’s, er, private. It won’t take long.”
“What is it, Jeanie?” He heard Tim’s voice inside the flat.
“It’s Steven from upstairs. Says he needs to see you in private.”
“Well let him in then.”
The sound of the key in the lock, then drawing back of several bolts and the door opened a crack on the chain. After making sure that Corby was alone, the woman admitted him to the hallway. The layout of the flat was an exact copy of his own. A broken umbrella rack, draped with coats stood behind the door so it couldn’t open fully and the floor was littered with junk mail. The smell was tomato soup and boiled cabbage, mixed with the aroma of stale cigarette smoke, spilt beer and cannabis.
Corby made his way into the living room. A baby was asleep on the unmade bed that occupied the left wall and Tim, a small red headed man, was seated at a round table by the window. A hand-rolled cigarette rested in an overflowing ash tray in front of him. He looked up as Corby entered.
“You’ve come down to see us, Professor. How’re things upstairs in the posh part of New Ferry?” He didn’t stand but gestured to the seat across the table.
Corby hesitated then lowered himself carefully into the chair which creaked unsteadily under him.
“I think I’m being followed,” he said. “Twice on the bus today and then walking in the street.”
“That’s the trouble with being rich.” The small man laughed. “They wouldn’t follow me. Nothing they could rob. Perhaps they’d do me a favour and steal the brat.”
“No, seriously,” Corby continued. “I don’t know what they want. But I’m convinced they’re dangerous.”
“Well don’t bring ’em in here. Look at you, six foot three and big with it. A fit lad like you should be able to deal with them. Go in low. No matter how tough they think they are, they won’t keep coming after a good kick in the bollocks.”
“There’s more than one. A whole gang, I think.” Corby frowned. “I can’t fight them bare handed. I’ve decided I need a firearm. Some sort of gun.”
The small man laughed. “A firearm! Some sort of gun!” He laughed. “Yeah, ’cause I just got loadsa guns lying around.” He gestured round the cluttered room at the piles of plastic bags and the clothing pouring half out of the cupboard. “You sure you don’t want a grenade or some Semtex while I’m at it? What makes you think I gotta flamin’ gun?”
“No. I didn’t necessarily think you would have one. Here, I mean. It’s just that I thought... You got me those old computers and, well, maybe you know someone. That is... You sometimes buy. Well you might know someone who sells things that aren’t, you know, legal.” Corby paused in confusion.
“Are you sure you want to have something like that, Professor? You’re an educated man, of course, but would you know how to use it? You know they always say the person shot’s mostly the owner of the gun. And if I got one for you it wouldn’t come with a licence. The feds don’t like that. They’d likely throw the book at you.”
“I know all that. But I don’t see how things could get worse than they are.”
“Oh they could. Things can always get worse.” Tim thought for a moment. “How much would something like that be worth to you? If you were to give me some money, say six hundred quid, then perhaps I could try and get hold of something?”
“I was more thinking that you might be able to get hold of it first and then I’d pay you.” Corby hesitated. “Or you could put me in touch with someone.”
“And what’s in it for me if I do that, then? There’s a risk involved, you know. Not just for you. I don’t do that sort of thing for the love of it. Give me a hundred and I could find you a name.”
“A hundred? That’s a bit much. How about fifty?” Corby thought. “But you’d have to set up a meeting, and I couldn’t give it to you just for a name. Not that I don’t trust you but it would have to be paid after I actually had the weapon.”
“Not that I don’t trust you either, Professor, but it’d ’ave to be fifty up front. Then another fifty when you get the goods.”
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