Cutter's Firm Read online

  * * *

  CUTTER’S FIRM

  Copyright © Julie Morrigan 2015

  Cover design copyright © Steven Miscandlon 2015

  All rights are reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the author.

  * * *

  1: Cutter

  My mobile vibrates and I’m instantly awake. It’s not quite seven o’clock, and still pitch black. I slip out of bed and nip downstairs before I answer it.

  Tommy says, ‘Boss? Trouble.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dead chicken, in public.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake! What happened?’

  ‘It got out and ran into the road, then got knocked over by a lorry.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Coast road.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Very early this morning. Middle of the night, really.’

  ‘Any witnesses?’

  ‘None that we know of, other than the driver of the lorry that hit it.’

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  I hear Tommy exhale heavily. ‘That a kid with hardly any clothes on ran out in front of him. He slammed on the brakes, but didn’t have room to stop.’

  ‘But it’s dead, right?’

  ‘Aye, annihilated, thank fuck.’

  ‘Well, there’s that to be thankful for at least. How did you find out about it?’

  ‘Frank tipped us off. If there’s any chance of a link to us, he’ll handle it. As he said, it could have been a lot worse.’

  Frank’s a bent copper who’s practically one of the firm, he’s been on the payroll that long. ‘He’s not fucking wrong there,’ I tell Tommy. ‘What about the other chickens?’

  ‘Me, Wayne and Doc are at the caravan park. We’re getting them into the cars now. We’ll take them to the safe house.’

  ‘It’ll be a bit of a squash, won’t it?’

  ‘Aye, but we’ll manage. It’ll give us a chance to catch our breath and decide what to do next.’

  ‘I already know what to do next,’ I tell him. ‘Torch the vans.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘All the ones that the kids have been living in. I don’t want a trace of them left on that site.’ It’s a week to Christmas, so the caravan park and campsite are closed; there’s no holidaymakers to see anything that goes on. ‘Make sure you get the cameras out, mind.’ All sorts of people have been in those vans with the chickens – local footballers, celebrities and government types – and, unknown to them, I record everything. There’s some sick bastards in this world and a bit of blackmail material is a good insurance policy.

  ‘Righto, boss, will do.’

  ‘And we’re okay for now, you reckon?’

  ‘Aye, I reckon.’

  ‘Good man, Tommy, good work. I’ll be over the safe house to see you later, okay?’

  ‘Okay, Mr Cutter, see you then.’

  The mobile goes dead and I stand looking out of the window for a few minutes, the Christmas lights on the house opposite twinkling icily under the eaves. A dead kid on the coast road. There’s rarely a dull moment in my line of business, but I didn’t see that one coming. Just like the kid and the lorry. We’ll have to decide what to do with the others. They can stay at the safe house for now, but they’ll cramp my style something rotten if they’re there for long. Still, they make me good money, so it’s worth a bit of a sacrifice.

  I check my watch; time to wake her up so she can get the bairns up and ready. Last day at school before they break up for Christmas. They’re going to have their best ever this year, I’m going to see to that. If money can buy it, it’ll be under the tree.

  2: Jack

  Looking round at the four walls of my cell, I can hardly believe I’ve been here getting on for three years. More than that, I can hardly believe that I’m getting out today. I’ll be home for Christmas. I drop the last of my things into the bag Mam brought for me last time she visited and sit down on the bed.

  So much has changed. I’ve passed exams, got some skills, learned to swallow some bitter truths. But other things are just the same: the burning sense of fury, the loss, the grief … I’ve just learned to hide them better.

  ‘So, Jack, is that you ready?’

  I look up to see Mr Elliott, my mentor, standing in the doorway. ‘Yes, sir,’ I say, as I zip up the bag. ‘All packed.’

  ‘Come on then. The governor wants a word before you go.’

  I take a last look around, then pick up my bag and follow Mr Elliott to the governor’s office. I pass a couple of the other boys on their way to a workshop. It strikes me that for the first time since the day I arrived I’m not dressed like everyone else: jeans, and a sweatshirt with the Young Offender Institution’s name on it. I asked Mam to get me some combats and a shirt; I didn’t want anything to be the same when I walked out.

  ‘Good luck, man,’ one of the lads says, and the other shakes my hand.

  ‘Same to you,’ I say, then I jog over to the door Mr Elliott’s holding open for me.

  ‘Jack, come on in,’ says the governor, and Mr Elliott shuts the door at my back. The governor’s office is huge, a much bigger space than I’ve been used to while I’ve been here. I’ve only been in this room a few times and I don’t feel comfortable.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ I say, and I stand behind the chair at my side of his desk. He looks serious and that cranks up my nerves. Has something happened? He can’t stop me leaving, can he? The fear is building, but I face up to it like I’ve been taught, and examine it, and accept that it’s not real.

  Finally he cracks a smile, even if it is a controlled and professional one. It’s like looking at an animated mask. ‘Sit down, son,’ he says, and I do. He puts his elbows on the desk and steeples his fingers and I suspect he’s gone through this routine many times. ‘You’ve come on a long journey in the last few years, Jack.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You’re barely recognisable from the young man who arrived. You’ve changed enormously, and all for the better.’

  ‘I’ve done a lot of growing up, sir.’ That’s the line I’ve learned to say when someone observes what a mess I was when I came here. They want to feel they’ve made a difference, that I’m ‘rehabilitated’, when the fact is I’d done nothing wrong. I’d been the victim. They don’t want to hear that, though. They want us to take responsibility for what we’re sent here for, to be heard to be repentant and seen to be reformed. And since that’s the price of freedom, of getting out of this place and getting my life back on track, I decided a long time ago that’s what I’d give them.

  ‘You certainly have,’ he acknowledges. ‘What are your plans when you get out?’

  ‘I’m going to live with my parents, sir. I’m planning to apply to university next year, and to get a job while I wait for the next intake.’

  ‘That sounds like a good plan.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I think so, too.’

  ‘Your mum’s waiting, so I won’t keep you any longer.’ He stands up, and I follow suit. He shakes my hand. ‘Good luck, Jack,’ he says, then adds, ‘and stay off the drugs, do you hear? It was the drugs that put you in here.’

  I nod. ‘Yes, sir,’ I say, and I pick my bag up and leave.

  He’s wrong, though; it wasn’t drugs that put me in here, it was Gordon Cutter. I can’t stop my free hand from lifting to my cheek, feeling the scar he gave me with his flick knife, its twin on the other side of my face, a reminder that he believes he can do what the hell he likes to people and get away with it.

  Mr Elliott is waiting outside; he puts an arm round my shoulders and walks me through to reception, a place I haven’t seen since I arrived. Mam’s
waiting and we hug each other. She starts to cry and Mr Elliott says something, but I don’t hear him properly. I’m free, and that’s all that matters. For now, anyway.

  3: Millie

  If it hadn’t been such a slow news day I’d have probably settled for reporting the bare facts I got from the police. As it was, I got a contact number for the driver of the lorry involved in the accident on the coast road and gave him a ring, then arranged to go and see him and hear the story from the horse’s mouth.

  We’re sitting at the kitchen table in a neat little 1930s semi-detached bungalow, while his wife watches Countdown in the front room.

  ‘I still can’t believe I’ve killed somebody,’ he says after a long silence, the shock and stress evident in his face. ‘I’ve been driving thirty years and never had so much as a scrape, and now this. To kill a bairn, and right before Christmas …’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ I say, wondering what I’m doing here putting this man through even more hell in the hope of a few column inches of newsprint. It was an accident. A kid ran out into the road and got knocked down. That’s it.

  ‘I wish I knew where the bairn had come from, or why she was dressed like that, mind.’

  ‘Dressed like what?’

  ‘She was just in a pair of pants and a little vest top, in this weather. Nothing on her feet, either.’

  That’s a detail that was missing from the police report. The north-east’s finest must be getting sloppy.

  ‘And she looked so upset.’

  ‘Could have been a sleepwalker,’ I say, my mind sifting through possibilities. ‘Got out of bed and left the house, then panicked when she woke up and realised she was outside.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He shakes his head. ‘But me and the missus has brought up five little ’uns; I thought we’d seen every expression there was to see on a bairn’s face, but I’ve never seen a look like that, not ever.’

  ‘Where exactly were you on the coast road when the accident happened?’

  ‘Near the caravan park. It’s closed this time of year, of course. Nobody stays there in the winter.’

  ‘So she couldn’t have come from there.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Unless she was … I don’t know, could there have been people staying there? Squatters?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say, ‘there’s certainly more homeless people in the town than in previous years.’ It’s an interesting possibility. I put my notebook away and stand up. ‘I’ll check that out.’

  ‘Let us know if you find anything out, pet.’

  ‘Of course.’ I squeeze his shoulder. ‘And you try not to blame yourself. There’s nothing you could have done, it was just a horrible, unfortunate accident.’

  ‘Two minutes either way …’

  ‘I know.’ And there it is, the lottery of life. How many people would still be alive if they had set out two minutes earlier or later? And how many others would be dead?

  Fifteen minutes later I’m looking at the smouldering remains of a number of caravans. The fire brigade is busy packing up their gear, getting ready to leave.

  ‘Millie Redman, North East Times,’ I say, walking up to one of the fire crew and showing my press card. ‘What’s the story?’

  ‘Looks like arson,’ he says. ‘Kids, probably.’

  I look around. ‘Just as well the place was empty, eh?’

  ‘Oh, aye, definitely. And the owner is no doubt insured, so he’ll be okay.’ The fireman shrugs. ‘Happens all too often nowadays, unfortunately.’

  ‘Do you know who the owner is?’

  ‘Aye, Gordon Cutter. Local businessman. He’s got the amusement arcade up the road, as well.’

  ‘Do you mind if I take a look around?’

  ‘No, just be careful and stay back from the caravans.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. I walk around the site, taking the chance to chat to a few more of the crew while I’m there and sound them out about the possibility squatters were living there.

  4: Cutter

  I’m round the safe house with Tommy, Wayne and Big Liam, waiting for Doc to appear. I want to hear what he has to say about this mess. We moved to this house about three years ago, after the silly little cow who looked after the old place shot herself.

  It was around that time I took over Howard Mackintosh’s outfit and merged it with my own firm. Mac had died and the crew from Middlesbrough were trying to move in, cocky fuckers that they are. Me, Wayne and Tommy dealt with them and Mac’s deputy, Big Liam Bradley, helped me to seal the deal for the firm. He’s a very capable man, Big Liam, and he’s now my second in command.

  Aimee, the lass that looks after the safe house, has just put a plate of sandwiches on the table for us and she comes back with a tray of drinks. I take mine and the other three reach for theirs, and that just leaves one mug on the tray.

  ‘I had a drive past the caravan park on the way here and the vans are all but gone. Shells. No evidence, nothing to tie us to the kid that got splattered,’ says Wayne.

  ‘And the cameras are in a bag in the safe,’ Tommy adds.

  ‘Good to know,’ I say and all heads turn to look as we hear Doc come thudding down the stairs and into the room.

  ‘That’s them all knocked out,’ he says. ‘It’s three to a bed up there, but they’re skinny little fuckers, so there’s plenty of room.’

  ‘What the hell happened?’ I say. ‘I thought you knocked them out overnight?’

  ‘Aye,’ says Wayne, ‘why did the chicken cross the road?’

  Doc slides his bag under the table, then sits down and takes his tea from the tray. ‘I do sedate them overnight,’ he says, ignoring Wayne, who looks crestfallen at not getting a laugh. He’s probably been waiting for hours to say that. Doc takes a drink then leans back in his chair. ‘All I can think is she was more used to it than I thought and the dose wasn’t enough to keep her out. Must have woken up and wandered off.’

  ‘That was careless,’ I say, ‘we can’t afford fuck-ups like that.’

  ‘I know, Mr Cutter, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’

  Doc looks nervous, and he fucking well should. Transgressions attract punishment and he knows something’s coming. I reckon he’s been using too much of his own gear for him to get that sloppy. He’s lucky I still need him.

  As instructed, the girl comes in with a chopping board, a hammer and a chisel, and puts them on the table in front of Doc. He looks at them then looks at me, fear in his eyes.

  ‘Time to pay,’ I tell him. ‘Put your left hand on the board.’

  His mouth works, but he decides against whatever it is he was going to say and does as he’s told. He knows the price of putting the firm at risk, they all do, and there’s no special treatment for anybody.

  I place the chisel against Doc’s little finger, just above where it joins his hand. The edge is sharp and cuts the skin with virtually no pressure. The air is thick with anticipation; I look at Wayne and he’s practically salivating. There’s nothing quite like blood and pain to get that fucker revved up. I place the hammer on top of the handle of the chisel. Doc looks away. I make one small tap then an almighty strike with the hammer and Doc gasps with the pain. The finger is still attached by a scrap of skin but another tap on the chisel takes care of that.

  Doc’s face has gone grey and he looks like he might pass out. Tommy drags his bag out from under the table, rummages inside and takes out a dressing, which he unwraps and gives to Doc to place on the wound. As Doc cradles his damaged hand, I place the hammer and chisel on the board next to the finger.

  Next Tommy takes out some small glass vials and a syringe.

  ‘That one,’ says Doc, nodding at one of them, and Tommy rips open the package, takes out the syringe and fills it with whatever’s in the vial, probably morphine. That hand must hurt like a bastard. As whatever it is surges through Doc’s veins, he slumps in the chair, but he starts to get a bit of colour back.

  The girl has come back in with a bottle of whisky and some glasses on a tr
ay, which she puts on the table. Wayne opens the bottle and pours, then passes the drinks around.

  She’s putting mugs onto the now empty tray and mopping up tea, after the force of the hammer blow shook the table and made it slop out of a couple of mugs. I point to the chopping board and the stuff on it and say, ‘Here, clear that away while you’re on.’

  ‘What shall I …?’

  ‘Wash everything, then bleach it.’

  ‘And the …?’ She points at the finger, grey and seeping blood.

  ‘Chuck it down the waste disposal.’

  She doesn’t look very happy, but she’ll do as she’s told.

  ‘We’d been talking about a change of venue for the parties anyway,’ says Tommy, getting us all back to business. ‘I think we’d all agreed the caravan park had outlived its usefulness. Well, as it happens, I think I’ve found the ideal place.’

  ‘Aye? Where’s that, then?’ I ask.

  ‘You know the road out to Newhaven? About a third of the way along there’s a house set back from the road. It’s in its own grounds, plenty space out front for parking, nothing overlooking it … the only thing is it needs doing up. Central heating, new windows, kitchen and bathroom, decorating right through, you know?’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Really cheap for what it is. Nobody’s got any money and it’s a bit too far out of the way for a lot of people.’

  ‘Set up a viewing, will you? Me, you and Liam. We’ll go and check it out.’

  Tommy nods. Wayne looks pissed off. Doc lolls in his chair. I take a good long look at him; he knows he’s being stared at, but he won’t meet my eyes. We’ll count that as a lesson learned.

  ‘Even supposing that works out, a renovation project will take time,’ I say. ‘Any suggestions as to what we can do in the shorter term?’

  ‘Can we risk getting some new vans and putting them back on the caravan site once all the interest has died down?’ Wayne asks. ‘It’s been safe for years, after all.’

  It’s not an unreasonable suggestion, but he’s starting to piss me off so I glare at him. He starts out cocky and stares back, then gets the message and drops his eyes. As well he might. I think some people are in danger of forgetting who’s boss around here.