2
Tower blocks never changed. Cityscapes could paint a picture of culture and fortune and the ambitions of a hotshot architect, but the bleak concrete towers on working-class housing estates were always the same. London. Birmingham. Milton Keynes. Every place Benito Martell had ever lived. Nothing. Ever. Changed.
The forbidding block in front of him was no exception. Grimy inside and out until people opened their doors and invited you in, it was pretty much the last place on earth Benito wanted to be.
Fucking Bletchley. How did I end up back here?
He knew the answer to that better than he wanted to. He’d fucked up. Shown weakness. And now he was holed up in his car outside Barndale Court flats, watching over two of the only souls he’d ever cared about, guilt eating his heart that the life he’d led on a shitty housing estate elsewhere had put them at risk.You’re a road man. What did you expect? That Asa would treat you better than you treated anyone else?
A bitter laugh escaped Benito. He lit a cigarette and blew acrid smoke out of the cracked-open car window. His noisy brain craved the quieting hit of a joint, but cranking out weed at the side of the road was a sure-fire way to attract the wrong kind of attention—the blue kind—and Benito had spent his entire life dodging the feds.
On cue for poetic irony, a panda car rolled onto the estate, circling the precinct—the betting shop, the pawnshop, and the fried chicken takeaway. It came to a stop where Benito was loitering in his car. The passenger window descended, and a stern-faced copper gestured for Benito to do the same.
Irritation spiked Benito’s blood, but years of flying under the radar had taught him to play nice. To be forgettable. Not the arsehole who wouldn’t open his window.
He complied, plastering his face with the blandest expression he could find. “Yeah?”
“What are you doing?” The officer peered into his car. “You’ve been parked here for two hours. Are you waiting for something?”
Yeah. For the end of the fucking world.“My sister.” Benito pointed at the bus stop and then at the Barndale block. “I’m waiting for her to come home from school.”
“Why can’t you wait inside?”
“I don’t live there.”
“And you couldn’t pick her up? Which school does she go to?”
“St. Marc’s.”
“How old is she?”
“Twelve.”
The police officer said something to the copper behind the wheel. The panda car eased forward and pulled into the space behind Benito.
Both officers got out. Benito rolled his eyes and braced himself for an interrogation he hadn’t deserved since he’d abandoned road life in London and run all the way home. He slid out of his seat, keeping his hands clearly visible, and slouched against his car.
Waiting.
Still.
Forgettable.
The coppers crowded him, one squinting inside Benito’s black SUV while the other confiscated his smoke. “This is an expensive car,” the officer said. “Is it yours?”
“Nope. I leased it.”
“From where?”
“Motorama, like every other fucker fronting a ride they can’t afford.”
“Do you have paperwork?”
“In the glovebox. You want to see my licence too?”
“Yes.”
Sighing, Benito pointed into the car at his wallet on the console. The officer reached for it and passed Benito’s licence to the copper who was already calling his numberplate in for a vehicle check. Chatter blared back over the radio, but Benito tuned it out, already bored.