Adam-9, briefcase in hand. A long metal arm protruding from the case and holding up a man in its claws, squeezing his neck.
This was Daniel’s release. His way of getting the truth out so he didn’t blow up. It was the best he could do. The most accurate he could be. Adam-9 had stopped the man in precisely the same way as he had put an end to the Quark Monster.
One thing bothered Daniel, though. A huge hole in the story.
He wasn’t carrying his briefcase when the man called Joey had died.
And if he didn’t have the Adam-9 briefcase, then . . .
But he didn’t want to think about that.
37
Timing was critical.
After promising Gavin to put in longer hours, he couldn’t rush home early. On the other hand, he needed to allow enough time for his scheme to be carried out.
If, in fact, it was going to be carried out.
A voice in his head was telling him that this was a ridiculous idea. That it didn’t stand a cat in hell’s chance of success.
But what choice did he have? It was in for a penny, in for a pound.
Or lots of pounds in this case.
He parked at the rear of the flats, facing the building. From here he couldn’t tell if anyone was milling about in the foyer.
Normally, he dreaded encountering the youths. Today they were on his wish list.
He locked the car, then checked the door handle to make certain it was secure. His backpack was in the boot, three grand nestling within it. He didn’t like leaving it there, but he had no choice, and it wouldn’t be for long. What pricked his conscience more was the look of concern on Gavin’s face when he’d handed the cash over. It pained Scott that he was about to betray his friend by taking such a huge gamble with it.
As soon as he entered the building he heard the raised voices, the laughter, and he said a mental thank-you.
There were five of them today. They were drinking, smoking. As always, the one known as Biggo seemed in charge, the others laughing too hard at his jokes.
Scott approached them.
The tallest one spotted him first. ‘Oh, here we go,’ he said. ‘It’s him again.’
The others turned. They seemed mildly amused rather than aggressive.
At least for the present.
‘All right,’ Biggo said. ‘I hope you’ve brought my brick back. I’m missing that brick. It was my favourite.’
‘Can we talk?’ Scott said.
‘Sure. Pick a subject.’
‘What about business?’
‘Business?’ Biggo took a swig of lager. ‘What kind of business? Monkey business? Dog’s business?’
‘Financial business. I want to talk to you about money.’
Biggo looked at his friends. ‘Oh, well, we’re always interested in money, aren’t we, lads? Makes the world go round, doesn’t it? Go ahead, mate. Talk to us about money.’
‘I want to talk to you. Just you. In private.’
‘Ooh,’ said one of the gang in a high-pitched voice. ‘He fancies you, Biggo. Wants to get you alone.’
Laughter followed, quelled suddenly by a sharp glance from Biggo.
‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’
‘I am.’
Biggo drained his can, then crushed it in his hand and tossed it aside.
‘Step into my office.’
He moved away from the others, and Scott followed. His ‘office’ turned out to be a quiet, dark alcove at the far side of the lobby. There was a distinct odour of urine.
‘Talk to me,’ Biggo said.
Scott looked behind him, checking that the rest of the yobs weren’t trying to listen in.
‘I know what you get up to here,’ he said.