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“Go?” asked Gardener.
“Yes, go, go home.”
“I’m afraid not, Mr Carter. We haven’t finished yet.”
Chapter Twelve
The windows on the car had steamed up, on account of the fact that it had no heater, and the temperature outside was dropping fast.
Manny was freezing. He put his hands to his face and blew into them. The end of his nose felt like a Cornetto – it was too cold to even run.
Trust him to pinch the only car in Bursley Bridge that was fucked. The owner was probably laughing all the way to the bank: doubt he would even report it missing. If he did, it would be ages before the authorities found it. He had his mate, Stitch, to thank for that one. He’d taught Manny how invaluable a roll of black PVC tape could be on number plates. Soon change an F to an E. Mind you, the silly bastard put paid to that trick when he’d forgotten which letter he’d changed on the front: altered a different one on the back and was nicked in no time.
Manny was in the car park of The Black Bull in the middle of Rawston. There were some rough areas in Leeds but very few worse than here. He avoided Rawston because there was fuck all worth nicking. Even the seagulls flew upside down because there was nothing worth shitting on.
Manny raised his right arm and squinted at his watch. Ten minutes after seven. A rap on the window frightened the life out of him. He came close to soiling himself, which would have been really bad news because he’d had a shower after Mary had left – his first in ages. He’d then spent another half hour mopping and drying the bathroom floor. He’d eaten half the casserole she’d made and then disappeared before she saw him leave.
He rolled the window down. “Yes?”
“Manny?” asked the silhouette.
Manny was parked under a street lamp and all he could see was a long dark trench coat and a pair of black pointed shoes.
“Who wants to know?”
“Don’t fuck me about,” the man shouted. “Guitar?”
Manny waved his arms. “Keep your voice down, mate. I don’t want everyone knowing what’s going down.”
“Everyone? Fucking place is deserted.”
“Walls have ears,” said Manny.
“Which is more than you’ll have if we’re here much longer.”
Manny rolled up the window and opened the door. Not that it had any effect on the bloke standing next to the car because he didn’t move, made Manny squeeze through the gap – inconsiderate bastard.
“Where is it, then?” asked trench coat.
“Well it isn’t in me pocket, is it?”
“I don’t know, do I? I can’t see it.”
“I’m hardly gonna walk around Rawston after dark with a fucking Fender Stratocaster, am I?”
Manny trotted round to the tailgate and unlocked it, lifting it so that the street lamp illuminated the guitar case.
“You sure it’s a Strat?”
“That’s what it says on one end.”
“The neck?”
“How do I know what a neck is?” said Manny, opening the box. “I’m not Eric Clapton.”
Trench coat whistled through his teeth, giving the game away. Manny soon realised there was a few quid to be had: add that to the two hundred he’d found inside the case and today was a real winner.
The man picked it up, inspected it from every angle.
