Falling too, p.1
Falling Too, page 1
FALLING TOO
A Charlie Wiggs Thriller
Gordon Brown
PRAISE FOR FALLING TOO
“Gordon Brown has a knack that can only be described as uncanny. He can put you into his hero’s shoes—even when those shoes have stepped into very unsavory places. Falling Too begins at lightning speed—only briefly slowed by the occasional analogy which any reader will appreciate despite some peculiarly Scottish references. Crammed with intelligent humor and palpable danger, this is a praiseworthy encore to Brown’s debut novel, Falling, and more fun than a barrel of Glenfiddish.” —J.L. Abramo, Shamus Award-winning author of Circling the Runway
“Gordon Brown’s Falling Too starts at a gallop and doesn’t let up. A highly enjoyable read that is as much fun as it is gritty and pacey. This is Tartan Noir at its finest.” Matt Hilton, author of the Joe Hunter thrillers
PRAISE FOR FALLING
“Chaos reigns as the plot comes thick and fast in this thriller told from alternating perspectives of a brilliantly drawn cast of characters. If Guy Richie is looking for his next hit crime caper, he could do worse.”—Daily Record.
“Throughout, Brown keeps a firm, skillful grip on his material in what turns out to be a very promising debut novel.”—The Herald.
Copyright © 2017 by Gordon Brown
All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover design by JT Lindroos
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Falling Too
About the Author
Also by the Author
Other Titles from Down & Out Books and its Imprints
Preview from South of Cincinnati, a Jon Catlett novel by Jonathan Ashley
Preview from Les Cannibales, a crime novella by DeLeon DeMicoli
Preview from Bolt Action Remedy, a Trevor Galloway thriller by J.J. Hensley
To my dad, no longer with us, but still here.
Chapter 1
I drop from the window and land in the freshest dog turd north of Carlisle. My new, but somewhat distressed, loafers soak up some juice and the tread greedily accepts the new filling. I want to curse, but silence is needed. Silence is demanded. I trail my non-excrement-laden shoe across the small flower border. A lawn, dark in the moonlight, stretches out before me. I can’t see the far end in the gloom. To be fair I couldn’t have seen the far end in the noonday sun with a pair of binoculars and Google Maps open on my iPhone. This is not a lawn cut by a fifty-quid Flymo from B&Q. It’s one that requires the services of a top of the range John Deere industrial-grade tractor and cutting set. I have a vision of dropping the turd-laying dog into the blades and starting it up.
I scrape the dog dirt shoe across the lawn in a lame attempt to rid me of the worst of the, now smelling, mess. Knocking the crust off one is never a good mood enhancer. This one seems to release the sort of scent that suggests the dog has a regular evening diet of meat vindaloo, eight cans of Special Brew and a fully loaded kebab.
I rub the shoe a little more, this time at an angle, but time is not a friend. Escaping from a window is not a method chosen by those with hours to spare. I move to my left, keeping the side of the enormous house close at hand.
I say ‘house,’ but the house is a house in the same way that Cunard liners are considered rowing boats. As one of the most expensive pieces of real estate in Scotland it has little in common with what I call home, other than it sports the required walls, roof and windows.
I know the risk I’m taking. My heart is reminding me one hundred and thirty times a minute. I scuttle along, waiting on the beam of a searchlight from on high, or the sound of a siren. It is not inconceivable that, at this moment, a pack of slobbering Rottweilers are sniffing my spare underpants and being given instructions to seek, kill and eat. As to the probable appearance of heavyweight armoury, well, that’s as likely as the dogs. Maybe a manhunt with me as the live bait. I shit you not. This is not mad imagination running away with itself. This is all based on the most likely of reactions when the owner of this pile establishes what I’ve just done.
I reach a corner, not the corner, of the house, for this house has many corners. Too many to dick around with. At some point I need to cut loose and make a break for it. However, given the scale of the openness surrounding me, I need to choose my moment. The nearest road is five miles away and public transport from here to the road is strictly for paying guests at the weekend. For the sake of clarity, the estate owns its own London Routemaster for the convenience of the public. No cars are allowed in and the public only gain access because of the enormous tax burden that would ensue were the house not a visitor attraction.
Gravel is next. And gravel is a noisy bastard. It may reek of upper class wealth and sound wonderful under the tyres of a newly minted Range Rover, but it doesn’t make for a quiet getaway. There’s no silent way to walk on the stuff. If you slow down it just advertises the fact that you’ve slowed down. Speed up, and it telegraphs the increase in velocity. It is also non-skirtable. The stones are a moat to a castle. At a minimum, a hundred yards wide. At the maximum, twice that.
I have no intention of walking the five miles to the gate, partly because there’s a further twelve miles of single-track road to negotiate beyond. Partly because I have an aversion to walking that delayed my first steps until I was four years old. But, in the main, because I won’t get five miles. The security around here will pick me up in less than a quarter of that distance. I may have got lucky with the window, but the motion detectors are relentless around here. My only option is to steal a car from the eight-car garage that lies next to the south wing of the house. Even that’s a long shot, but having now done what I have done—I’ve no choice.
The garage is a brick-faced work of art lying near the mansion’s main door. It would serve as a luxury example of residency in any city suburb. All the doors are automatic, all the doors are alarmed, and none of the metal that sits behind the solid oak barriers has a price tag south of six figures. The lack of car keys is a bit of a hindrance. The lack of remote controls for the doors is also an issue. The noise when I fire up a car won’t help either—it’ll echo around the courtyard, that forms the sweeping entrance to the house, with the sort of volume that would wake a dead whale. All in all, this is not a plan that is, in any way, connected to what a dictionary would describe as a plan. The odds against me succeeding are greater than Pelé making a shock return to football to play for Albion Rovers.
I place my non-caked foot on the driveway and wince at the sound. I take a second step and cringe. A third and I’m scanning the world for signs of life. Step by step I make a crow look wayward as I crunch my way to the garage.
I try to keep my mind on the task at hand. With the threat of a bullet up the backside, or worse, it should be easy, but it isn’t. A few years ago, after a major brush with the crime world, I vowed never to get involved in anything more exciting than a stag night, if said stag night was held at a monastery, was booze-free and had me as the sole attendee. I had promised in more ways than I thought possible that I would spend the rest of my accountancy days in dull, number land.
For the last few years I have aged poorly and added little to my bank balance. My job vanished, only to be born again when an old friend called me and asked if I could help with his tax. Without the regular, if not substantial, salary afforded me by my previous employers—Cheedle, Baker and Nudge—I negotiated a rate and undersold myself. I found the job less than demanding and…
The call of an owl takes me back to the reality of my current world. The garage in front of me has the appearance of a small castle. At some point in the not too distant past, the owners of the house had grown tired of parking their cars in the open. With each lump of metal costing the price of a small semi in Simshill, it was unthinkable that the elements would be allowed to tarnish the unblemished paintwork.
A crenelated wall tops the building, with the eight doors evenly spaced beneath. Inside is a slab of concrete the size of four tennis courts. The cars will be lined up against the back wall. At least that’s what I’d been told last night.
At the far end of the garage, just visible in the light of a quarter moon, is a door for the humans to enter by. Earlier that night I had seen it used on a frequent basis. I was praying that, in the fug of the party, no one had remembered to lock it. A small pile of cigarette butts lies next to it, guarded by a collection of beer and champagne bottles. I flick a look at my ancient iPhone and need to get a shift on.
The door handle is cold in my hand. It’s round, smooth, golden, with a button in the middle that, if depressed, will pop the lock. If it doesn’t depress then I’m on Shanks’s pony and, in all honesty, dead.
I place my forefinger on the button and rub it, circling the indent in the metal where the button meets the handle. I put some pressure on and back off. I don’t want a negative. I want the damn thing jus
I take the count in my head up to twenty and, without conscious thought, press the button in the handle. It depresses with a satisfying click—and I thank the god of small buttons. I go on to say a prayer to the god of car keys, remote controls, quiet driveways, open gates and any other deity that can help me put distance between my current location and one that’s a lot safer. Although I’ll never be safe, not with what I now know. Not ever.
Chapter 2
The door opens with the silence that quality commands. As I step in, the sensor on the ceiling says ‘hi’ and the lights fire up. I close the door and let the overhead lighting kick into top gear. I survey the contents and wonder if my non-existent plan is now a never was in a million turns of the earth plan. None of the vehicles are high enough off the floor to qualify for family car status. In order, the car’s colours are red, blue, silver, black, yellow (with a black stripe), black, white and silver again. This description does them a disservice; I’m sure the brochures have none of the preceding colours in them. The first, a Lamborghini, is not so much ‘red’ as ‘heart of the sun,’ reflective, iridescent, diamond-studded, eighteen-coated, royal blood scarlet. The next, a Maserati, is the sort of azure that would make a clear day above the Pacific blush at its inadequacy. Each car is polished to a level that would beat the day they left the showroom. The garage is rich with the smell of wax, leather, wood and a subtle undertone of superior grade unleaded. This is what money smells like if you’re a petrol head.
After my first self-employed tax job I found work easy to come by, but hard to charge for. My advice was solid, but lacked flair. My clients had tax returns that took minutes to complete. I wanted the sort that took months. Those pay better. I built up a roster of thirty individuals who couldn’t figure out that they needed to fill out less than ten percent of the paperwork the government so kindly supplied on the Internet. Twelve of my clients didn’t have access to the Internet, three of them didn’t have mobiles and one, dear old Mrs Calgary, had not left the nineteenth century—and was bloody happy with her lot.
Of course, tax is limiting. For one thing, it only has to be done once a year unless you’re in danger of going to prison or earn more than a small Arab state. Doing small company accounts brought in the added revenue I needed. This made me nervous. Small companies can be run by people who have no desire to play by the allotted rules. Money in. No money out. It’s a great mantra, but carries with it a certain degree of Fuck You-ism about life. I was required to turn a blind eye to certain dealings by more companies, more times, than made me comfortable.
My real issue, and it is an issue, is that I am good at this crap. Better than my clients think and far better than my status suggests.
The lights in the garage die and I wave my hands to tell the technology I’m still in need of illumination. The magic works and light returns. I survey the available automobiles once more. Discreet and bland is what I want. What I have is loud and attention-seeking. Just like their owner. There’s not a single car in here that wouldn’t draw a crowd if parked up in George Square.
I look on the plus side. Any one of them will make a hell of a getaway car. None of them will struggle to break one eighty and they can, to a car, pass sixty from a standing start before I could down a small whisky. I’d been told that all were alarmed to the teeth and that their keys reside in a locked cabinet on the hall wall.
Phil, the homeowner, had made it clear that no night-time revellers were to try a fucking midnight spin. Under normal circumstances this would have been enough of a warning that, if disobeyed, would result in the loss of a toe, finger or worse, and Phil’s fears were well-founded. There was no end of cons and ex-cons with break-in skills at the party last night, any one of whom would happily crack the locked cabinet. However, with Phil’s flight tickets to a long term stay in a foreign land five hours in the future some, mistakenly, took that as a sign to play.
During the night I’d kept my distance from the garage, but I had seen enough people take metal for a turn down the driveway to realise that Phil’s security had been breached. Phil had been oblivious to this. He had been oblivious to most of the world an hour after he had welcomed the last guest in. A combination of Jack Daniel’s and cocaine, in quantities designed to celebrate the leaving of his homeland, had rendered him senseless. I was now praying someone had left a car unlocked or a key lying around.
The garage floor keeps up the party theme that I left in the house. Bottles lie scattered like pins at a bowling alley and joints outnumber cigarette ends five to one. Gravel, sprayed across the doorways, signals that the cars had been in play, although the vehicles look none the worse for wear. Even with Phil lying comatose on his bed the guests knew better than to take the real piss.
If this was Top Gear, Clarkson would be creaming his ill-fitting jeans to the brim. Even as luxury cars go this is up there. None are the base models; all are fully loaded and all are specials. At least that’s what I’d been told.
The urge to get moving is high and I don’t care about the dollar value of the cars, nor the kudos, nor the bragging rights, nor the testosterone quotient. I have two desires—a key to an ignition and a remote for the doors.
The first car is locked solid and the lack of gravel in front suggests it was not involved in the festivities. The second is also locked, but a pair of bright red panties nestle in the leather driver’s seat, pointing to some in-car entertainment. The third is shut tight, as is the fourth.
As I check the doors I keep one eye on the entrance. At best, I could duck down if someone came in, although all the cars seem to have been designed to make hiding all but an impossibility. Even to see in the windows you have to bow so low you could be practicing for meeting the Japanese Emperor. Of course, this is deliberate. It plays to the owner’s ego to see someone bent double trying to figure out what all the toys inside the car do. The fact you can look a twat and a half getting into the damn thing is not a consideration worthy of a moment’s attention to the designers. Drag coefficient, looks and performance are far more important than ease of use and comfort. Buy a twenty-five-grand cross-over from one of the mainstream boys if you want practicality.
I had heard that Phil had roused for ten minutes to top up the cocaine and Jack, during which time he had enquired after the health of his fleet. Fearing a visit was on the cards word had spread to the joyriders with speed. All had returned the cars to their home triple quick.
I pull at the next car’s handle and the door swings open, bringing a slice of roof with it. A logo jumps out at me: Ford. Not what I had expected. An aroma rises from the car. Alcohol-induced vomit has a universal fragrance. The offending pool lies behind the passenger seat. I check the other cars, but the Ford is the only one good to go. Not only is it open but the key, replete with door remote, is on show.
I look around for something to scoop out the sick, but the thought of touching it, even with a twenty-foot pole, isn’t appealing. A bucket full to the brim with chamois leathers lies at the back wall. I chuck the leathers behind the back seat, across the vomit, and release half a can of spray wax that was lying at the bottom of the bucket. The new smell is eye-watering. I make a mental note that the contents of someone’s stomach and Supreme Wax Shine should never be brought into contact without the presence of a gas mask. A strange green mist now hovers a few inches above the car’s floor.
