Free DONNA AND THE FATMAN (Crime Thriller Fiction) by Helen Zahavi Page A

sadly.
    ‘Quite nasty, really.’
    The line of traffic began surging forward. He took a right, and they sped through Kilburn. Then Kensal Green, the Scrubs Lane junction, and before too long they were hitting Harlesden, with its corrugated lock-ups and quick deals for cash, no questions asked.
    ‘You done my fag, yet?’
    ‘I’m doing it, Joe.’
    He pulled off the high street and looped round the houses, riding the brake so he could check the numbers. Night had fallen, and he dispensed with the image and took off his shades. She looked up from the ciggy, stared out through the tinted windows. There weren’t a lot of cafes, really. Not a lot of night-life.
    ‘We stopping here, are we?’
    ‘Just taking a spin,’ he said. ‘Just passing through.’
    ‘And then we have our dinner, yeah?’
    ‘Soon, babe,’ he said. ‘Few minutes, okay?’
    He drove up on to the pavement, beside an eight-foot, fly-postered wall.
    ‘Have to do some business first.’
    ‘What kind of business?’
    ‘Motor business, precious. Not your thing, I would have thought.’
    She licked down the paper and passed him the roll-up.
    ‘You dumping the car, then?’
    He cut the motor.
    ‘It’s got to go.’
    ‘I like this car.’
    ‘We can’t all get the things we like.’
    She pulled down the vanity mirror and moistened her lips.
    ‘I think you get plenty, Joe.’
    ‘You reckon, do you?’
    ‘Yeah, I reckon.’
    The warm engine was ticking over. They smiled at each other in the deepening gloom. He got out of the car and went through a small door cut into high wooden gates. A couple of minutes later, the gates swung open and he came back out and drove them through. He circled slowly round, parking next to a stripped-down Bristol.
    They climbed out and stood in the yard. Fluorescent light was shafting down, and the smell of paintspray hung in the air. She watched the owner heave the gates shut.
    ‘All right, is he?’
    Joe sucked his lip.
    ‘More or less.’
    He’d brought them to someone he vaguely knew, a man called Phil, a friend of a nodding acquaintance. A lanky, thin-haired man with bloodshot eyes and a runny nose. There was an Austin-Healey parked nearby, and a Mercedes hard-top round the back, because Phil was quality, only dealt in the best. They watched him wipe his hands on his overalls and stroll towards them, barely glancing at their motor. A brief nod to Joe, and he took the matchstick out of his mouth.
    ‘How much?’
    Joe looked him in the eye.
    ‘It’s worth over thirty.’
    ‘I know what it’s worth,’ Phil said. ‘Give me a figure.’
    ‘Twenty.’
    The man’s face creased into a smile.
    ‘Three,’ he said softly.
    ‘Do me a favour . . . ’
    ‘I’m trying to.’
    Dust was shimmering in the artificial light.
    ‘Fifteen,’ Joe muttered.
    The man wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
    ‘You’re not really in a strong position,’ he said. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Not for bargaining, if you get my drift.’
    ‘It’s a bit hot, that’s all.’
    ‘It’s scorching, my son.’
    ‘Twelve, then.’
    ‘Three and a half,’ Phil said. ‘And I’m being generous.’
    The man shoved the matchstick back in his mouth.
    ‘Done?’
    For a moment, Joe hesitated. He scuffed the toe of his shoe against the tarmacked ground and seemed to shake his head. And then his body sagged, his whole frame drooped. It was as if he’d been shoved against a wall, as if they’d pinned him by the arms and punched him in the solar plexus.
    ‘Done,’ he muttered.
    They waited out in the yard while Phil disappeared into a prefab shed to get the cash. She was beginning to feel vaguely bereft. No more trips in Henry’s car. No tender, Donna rump on the shiny, leather seats.
    ‘Never mind,’ she soothed. ‘It’s only money.’
    (The most mindless thing she’d said in at least four hours.)
    Phil came out again after a couple of minutes and walked towards them. He was tossing a set of keys from one hand to the