The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [124]
Bernie searches her face, looking for a lie. He shakes his head, wobbling his chins. “Oh, no, no, no, I’m not involved in this shit. I’m just a businessman. I buy things. I sell things.” He’s addressing Joe now, trying to convince him. “I run a family business. My grandfather. My father…”
Bernie has taken a phone from his pocket and placed it on the seat beside him. The screen is lit up. He’s calling someone… sending a message.
“We just want the stuff back,” says Holly. “We’ll pay you the money.”
Bernie’s lips peel away from his teeth. “Let me get this straight. You came to me with certain items—which, by the way, I had no idea were stolen—and you sold me these items in good faith, but now you want them back?”
Holly nods.
“That suggests to me that someone has made you a better offer. Maybe I should negotiate with them directly.”
“It’s not a question of money.”
“In my experience, it’s always a question of money. What’s this item that’s so valuable?”
“We’re not sure,” says Joe.
“You’re not sure?”
“Holly is hoping she’ll know it when she sees it.”
Bernie laughs but it turns into a coughing fit. Tugging his serviette from his collar, he tosses it on his plate and calls for the bill. Beneath the table, Holly’s hand touches Joe’s thigh. She leans closer, cupping his ear.
“Something isn’t right,” she whispers.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s lying.”
Joe glances at Bernie, who is peeling off two ten-pound notes.
Holly confronts him outright. “You’re lying.”
Bernie looks offended. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t think you have the gear anymore.”
“Maybe we should give him the benefit of the doubt,” says Joe.
Holly looks at him angrily. “Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”
She needs the bathroom. She makes her way across the dance floor to the ladies. Joe follows Bernie outside into the whiteness of the afternoon. The pawnbroker holds open the heavy door.
Two paces into the alley, Joe is shoved from behind, driven hard into the wall. Bouncing back, he meets a man who delivers a short sharp punch to his stomach, enough to deny him air and double him over.
Bernie puts his face close. His breath smells of steak-and-kidney pie.
“This is my employee, Mr. Tommy Boyle. He used to box. Now he breaks things for a living. He works in a wrecker’s yard. Bones break easier.”
Bernie takes Joe’s wallet from his coat pocket and checks his driver’s license.
“So tell me, Professor Joseph O’Loughlin of Station Road, Wellow, near Bath, what are you doing with that moist little bint and why is someone so interested in what she stole?”
“What do you mean?”
“Other parties are looking for her—one man in particular. You’re going to tell me why.”
The door opens. Holly emerges, holding something behind her back. She doesn’t seem particularly surprised to see Tommy Boyle.
“Ah, here she is, my little princess,” says Bernie.
Holly raises a short crowbar above her head and brings it down on Tommy’s shoulder, raking down his arm. In a blur of movement, she swings it again, this time connecting just below his right knee. Tommy goes down like a felled tree, groaning and clutching his leg.
“Get up and fight,” says Bernie.
Holly raises it again, aiming at the pawnbroker, but he reels away with his hands in the air like a mime artist in a glass room.
“OK, OK, settle down.”
“She broke my fucking leg,” moans Tommy.
Holly looks at Joe. “Did I hit him too hard?”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Of course it’s her fault!” says Bernie.
“You started it,” says Holly, sounding like a petulant child. “You shouldn’t have lied.”
“You’re a freak!” Bernie spits the words. “I haven’t got your stuff, OK? A guy came and took it. Cleaned me out.”
“What guy?”
“A total nutjob—he didn’t like Jews or women or porn or golf.”
“Golf?”
“That’s not the point. This complete psycho came to see me last Friday; grinning at me like every sentence was a punchline. He wanted to see everything I’d bought from that evil bint.” He points his chin at Holly. “I was six hours locked in a storeroom. I’m lucky the guy didn’t kill me.”
“What was he looking for?” asks Joe.
“Some