Dead Heat Read Online Free Page A

supplier, so I’m told, so he’ll be geared up for it. Won’t be going out.’
    â€˜Looks like he’s going to get more than he expected,’ Turner laughed cruelly. He put his seat upright. ‘You OK with that digital camera?’
    â€˜Yeah. Been practising on Lesley.’
    â€˜Is she a good subject?’
    â€˜Depends how pissed she gets.’
    â€˜Well, this is gonna be fast and hard, so you’d better be ready to click away. I won’t be hanging around: in and out. Forty whacks, then I’m gone straight after the lecture. You’d better be right behind me.’
    Newman shrugged. ‘I’ll be there.’ He slowed and turned into a leafy side road of old, well-constructed terraced houses, most now bed-sits or flats. Newman drove down the road, maintaining the same speed. ‘It’s that one – number eight,’ he said without pointing or looking. ‘Goldman lives on the first floor. The door to his flat is the first one you come to on the landing. He keeps it well locked. We won’t be able to boot it down. It’s made of toughened steel but painted to look like wood. He only lets in people he knows. Got a good peep-hole and there’s plenty of locks behind it . . . not easy to get through.’ Newman pulled in a hundred metres down the road. ‘That means we have to get him to open it for us.’
    â€˜Does he operate alone? Will anyone else be in the flat?’
    â€˜He’s alone,’ Newman confirmed.
    â€˜Mmm,’ Turner ruminated. ‘Shit.’
    â€˜Don’t worry though. I know somebody he knows.’ Newman grinned, showing cigarette-stained teeth. ‘Someone who’ll get the door open for a ton.’
    â€˜A ton?’ blurted Turner.
    â€˜Worth every penny . . . have you got it?’
    â€˜Yeah, yeah . . . so where is this guy?’
    â€˜It’s a bird, actually.’ Newman looked across the road. Leaning on the gable end of a house was a scrawny-looking young woman, early twenties. She wore a T-shirt which showed her tummy and the ring pierced through her navel, and a pair of jeans. She was smoking nervously, flicking back scraggy unwashed hair from her drug-ravaged young face. ‘There.’ He wound his window down and beckoned. ‘Denise, luv, c’m’ere.’
    She continued to glance anxiously around as though she had not seen or heard him. Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she was trapped in her own world. Then she set off across the road, tossed the cigarette away, and folded her arms underneath her small breasts. Newman reached over his seat and unlocked the back door for her. Her thin body entered the car. She looked defiantly at the two men in the front seats, her eyes wild at first, as though she blamed them solely for her predicament. Then they glazed over to become lifeless. Turner saw the scars on the inside of her spindly arms, more visible evidence of heavy drug abuse and self harm. She looked like she attempted suicide on a regular basis. Turner knew the type. People like her were the epitome of his usual customer.
    â€˜OK, sweetie?’
    She nodded reluctantly.
    â€˜You up for this?’ Newman went on.
    She shrugged. ‘Yeah, whatever.’
    â€˜This is Andy.’ Newman indicated Turner. Denise gave him a crooked smile. From somewhere on her person she produced a hand-rolled cigarette, lit it and blew grey smoke into the car.
    â€˜Hundred quid. No negotiation,’ she said as a lungful of acrid smoke left her nostrils and mouth.
    â€˜Fine,’ Turner said. ‘You do the job, you get the dosh.’
    â€˜Up front.’
    Newman and Turner exchanged glances. Turner shrugged and dug into a pocket, pulling out a wodge of twenties. He peeled five off and held them out to her. Her eyes suddenly became alive again, focusing on them hungrily. She did not try to take it. Too many people had teased her with money, only to play snatchey-snatchey