Read Why We Die for Free Online

those things could happen to anyone, not clear even in his own mind whether he meant releasing the bolt or being shot in the leg, but figuring same difference. Except Price said, ‘Not if you left that fucking thing home it couldn’t.’
    (A couple of things about Price. First, he looked frighteningly like a younger Van Morrison. Unfortunately for him, only about ten minutes younger. Also, he had the habit of stressing random words, which made it tricky to work out his meaning. ‘Did I say shooting was required ?’ Which could mean it was optional, right? Which wasn’t what he meant.)
    All this had been late last night, well after midnight. Trent was asleep, stale beer wafting off him; Baxter, meanwhile, had gone on to the gantry with his mobile, and was murmuring to Kay in a voice so low it might have been threat or promise. Baxter was always controlled, always focused; listened when Kay spoke. Kay too was tightly wrapped, though Trent had called her ‘accident prone’ lately – Arkle didn’t know what that was about.
    What Price said next was: ‘Can I assume you at least took the right fucking goods?’
    So Arkle showed him: not the lucky-bag assortment scooped from the counter display, but the stones they’d made Sweeney dig out of his safe. Price sorted through them with greedy fingers, while the TV span silent webs in its corner.
    Price went quiet when assessing merchandise. He’d pick up the pieces one after the other and scrutinize them from all angles, in case he came across one that hadn’t occurred to him before. Arkle left him to it; crossed to the window, whose wiremesh reinforcement cut the pane into tiny diamond shapes, and looked at Price’s car. Price always parked over the road from the gate, or rather Win, his peculiar driver, did.
    . . . That time he’d spoken to Win, it had been with genuine friendliness. Arkle had seriously wanted to know why the fuck Win dressed in retro-leather like an extra in a Nazi porn film. But maybe his choice of words had been poor. Win, in reply, had invited him not to lean on the car, like he was about to smudge it or something. The car was a shit-brown Audi: a smudge would have lent it character.
    ‘You actually his . . .?’
    ‘His what?’
    Get that voice.
    ‘His minder?’
    ‘Try causing a problem. That way, you’ll find out.’
    Which had freaked Arkle, all right: try causing a problem. Like there’d be difficulty noticing if he decided that’s what he’d do.
    What with the irritation and all, he hadn’t felt inclined to offer his advice; this being that when you were minding somebody, it was an idea to vary your routine. Instead of, for example, always parking over the road from the gate.
    Always , though. There was a big word.
    Baxter came in, looked at Price, then sat on his stool again, facing the TV.
    Always meant seven: seven times they’d done this now, so must be experts. Not that a lot of skill was involved. Price provided names, times; spelt out the merchandise; took it off their hands. From his point of view, it must have been like shopping online with Tesco’s, except the right stuff got delivered.
    And what Baxter said was, Price was playing both ends against the middle. The targets were guys Price fenced for, which was how he knew what they were holding – small fry, so lacking in comeback. Price, big in his own field, was poaching in others’: the way McDonald’s sold fish nuggets to choke the local chippies. Baxter knew stuff like this, and could have been an economist if being a thief wasn’t quicker. Baxter took charge of the money.
    But Price didn’t totally squeeze the targets – no: he paid sympathy visits; took some legal junk off their hands, to cheer up their cash flow. That was probably good for another forty per cent under market value, Bax reckoned. You couldn’t underestimate the human touch. Once you’d got that faked, you were raking it in. Again: McDonald’s – have-a-nice-day? If they wanted you to have a