Dead Heat Read Online Free Page B

with her.
    â€˜You get the door open, get out of the way. That’s all you have to do,’ Turner said. ‘Dead simple. Money for old rope.’
    â€˜I know.’
    He tossed the money on to her lap. She took it and eased it into the back pocket of her jeans.
    â€˜What you gonna do?’
    â€˜That,’ Turner said, ‘you don’t need to know.’
    She shrugged. She did not give a shit, even though she had enough imagination to guess. The pairs of disposable latex gloves each man was easing on to his hands were a bit of a giveaway.
    â€˜What is it with you and Al?’ Dale O’Brien asked Jo innocently enough, but she could see he was burning with curiosity.
    They were sitting in a Little Chef, not far away from Manchester Prison, more famously known as Strangeways, drinking exorbitantly priced cups of tea – which would be claimed back on expenses at the end of the month.
    Jo took a sip of hers, savouring its expense. ‘Just crap,’ she said.
    â€˜You been having an affair?’ O’Brien asked directly.
    Jo spluttered on the tea, placed the cup down and wiped her mouth. ‘Bit to the bloody point, that, Dale!’
    â€˜Sorry.’
    â€˜Well, anyway, yeah . . . you could say that. We were an item.’ She tweaked her fingers on the word ‘item’. She sounded wistful. ‘But it didn’t work out.’ She finished her tea and said, ‘Let’s move.’
    â€˜Once she’s in, give her half a minute,’ Newman said, looking into his rear-view mirror. He watched the girl walk towards the front door of the flats, and press a button on the intercom. She leaned on the wall and talked into the speaker, then stood upright for a moment before pushing the door open.
    â€˜She’s in,’ Turner said. He was contorted round in his seat, also observing Denise’s progress. He spun around and picked up the baseball bat, which he concealed underneath his jacket when he got out of the car.
    He and Newman crossed the road and walked side by side down the pavement to the door.
    â€˜What a good girl,’ Turner said. As promised, Denise had wedged the door open with one of her trainers. Turner muscled his way in, followed by Newman. They stopped at the foot of the stairs leading up to the first-floor landing. Turner motioned Newman to complete silence by touching his lips with a finger and withdrew the baseball bat from its place of concealment. He positioned a foot on the first step.
    The sound of the girl’s voice filtered down to them.
    â€˜Yeah, I know I’m early, Goldy, but I’m fuckin’ desperate. I need it now and I’ve got the cash . . . look.’ It was obvious she was talking through the steel door to the dealer, who was all nice and snug and safe in his little fortress.
    There was a muffled response from Goldman which could not be made out down at ground level.
    â€˜Yeah, thank fuck for that, Goldy,’ Denise said.
    What could be heard on the ground floor was the unmistakable sound of bolts being drawn back and a key in the lock.
    â€˜Come on,’ Turner whispered, dashing quickly up the stairs, bounding on to the landing and dropping into a crouch in a corner. Newman came up behind him, digital camera at the ready. Denise was down the narrow corridor, standing outside the first door. She did not even glance in their direction, but stepped back a yard (with the trainer missing from her left foot) from the door. She dropped her lighted cigarette and stooped to pick it up, overbalancing slightly, making more room for Turner and Newman to move in.
    Drug dealers have a very finely honed sense of self-preservation. If they don’t have, they don’t stay in business for long.
    When Goldman peered with one eye through his spy hole in response to the persistent knocking on his door and saw the distorted figure of Denise through the fish-eye lens, his brow creased with puzzlement. She was one of