Little brother Tommy had joined in on some of the jobs when they needed an extra pair of eyes. Big brown eyes. They’d asked him to come on the Crossways but he’d other plans: better plans, at the coast. So they made do with the single lookout.
Both the brothers had the gift of the gab; an amiable country-boy talkativeness which was just short of charming, but effective nonetheless. For them crime was just like the pranks they’d always pulled – victimless.
But now Tommy was a victim. They would have to buy Tommy’s freedom. And his silence.
They deserved the money – all of them. All of them except Peter. ‘Attempted murder,’ the papers said. ‘She can’t live,’ they’d said.
Peter had dismissed it: ‘Silly cow, why did she go for me?’
The gun had gone off in the struggle, that was the line, but Reg and Billy knew the unspoken truth. In the weeks since the robbery they’d rewritten many things about that day: imagined it all as it had not been, but that fact could not be dissolved: Peter had maimed Amy Ward with a shotgun cartridge to the face.
‘Bitch.’ He’d spat it out.
An hour after the robbery the gunshot was still ringing in their ears. They’d driven by the droves to Belsar’s Hill. They sat in the car, sweating. Screaming. Reg had circled the car, kicking the bodywork, hugging himself in a fit of desperate grief – grief for the life he knew he’d ruined. His own.
They didn’t want the money then, or the gun, or the car, or the silver. Peter, calmer, had taken them all. Later; they’d meet later. At the engine house – the old place.
Then they’d seen the papers. The police, impossibly, had Tommy’s prints. But Tommy would run.
Then they’d been elated. Each, alone, worked out the sums. The cash and the silver. A life-changing haul.
But Tommy wouldn’t run. Tommy wanted the money. They had to give it to Tommy. All of it.
Peter unzipped the holdall and turned it upside down. The money fell in rubber-banded wads to the straw-covered floor.
‘The silver’s safe.’ His voice, even then, was reedy and whistled slightly in the sinuses. ‘I reckon I’ll get eight hundred for it. I’ll have it tomorrow, perhaps the weekend. That’s twelve hundred.’
Peter stood in front of Billy, an inch too close. ‘You Mr Postman, are you? Thicker than water. Better that than let him turn you in, eh? He’d have done that, would he? After you’d skipped back to Ireland perhaps… back where you belong.’
Billy got off his haunches and stood. He was just over six foot tall. He lacked menace but he had courage. ‘We’re all in trouble. ‘Coz you pulled the trigger.’
Peter pushed one of the wads of money with his foot. He took an apple from his pocket and began to skin it expertly with a thin-bladed flick-knife.
Reg Camm had taken a mug and poured himself a couple of inches of whisky. ‘What’s he gonna do if we don’t give him the money?’
Billy shrugged. ‘Work it out.’
Tommy, listening above, smiled sweetly.
Peter pocketed the knife. ‘I’ve heard he’s made an offer already, Billy. Pal of mine at the nick, business associate. Shop the lot of us, ‘coz we were inside the café. Leniency for him ‘coz he was outside. If he was outside you weren’t there. Neat innit? Very.’
Billy stared into the fire. ‘How’s the Ward woman?’
They all looked at Peter, an elegant allocation of responsibility.
‘She’ll live.’
Camm sat with his back to the wall close to the fire. Now he sank his head into his lap. Trembling fingers ran through his hair.
‘Give him the money then,’ he said, self-pity welling up like water from a blocked drain.
Billy brushed the coal dust from his hands: ‘I’ll…’
‘Oh no, Billy. You won’t…’ Peter stood now with his back to the door. ‘We’ll draw lots. Reg and I.’
Peter put the money back in the holdall. Then he took a straw from the fire and cut it into two pieces, one short. ‘Short straw takes the stuff to Tommy.’
They drew. Peter took the short stick. ‘Where’s the next meeting place?’
Camm raised his head. His eyes were liquid and flashed in the firelight. ‘Newmarket…’ It came out as a sob. ‘This Saturday. The usual pitch.’
Peter nodded. ‘I’ll see you all there.’ He turned to Billy. ‘Tell Tommy I’ll meet him first. Palace Green, in front of the cathedral. Dusk, day after tomorrow. I’ll have everything in cash. Tell him it’s OK. The deal’s simple: I give him the money and we never see him again. Ever.’