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It was mid-afternoon as Nicks turned the corner from North John Street, took out his mobile and crossed the road. He quickened his step, phone to his ear and turned abruptly into the grandly named Princes Street. In reality, it was little more than a wide alleyway; hidden businesses hiding behind security shutters and anonymous drab doors.
At the same pace, he walked to the little spur on the left that led back to North John and slipped quickly into a doorway. As the figure hurriedly walked past, Nicks hoiked him into the recess and shoved him against the wall, gripping him by his jacket, at the throat, his right hand raised in a fist, ready to strike.
“What’s your game, pal, and it better be good.”
“Whoa, whoa! No need for that, matey. I’m a private detective.”
“So why are you following me?”
“An old guy, looked like a solicitor, paid me to give you something.”
“And why didn’t you? You’ve been sneaking around after me for days?”
“I had to be sure it was you.”
Nicks relaxed his grip and lowered his fist, then it occurred to him. “How did you find me?”
“He told me stuff about you, mannerisms, favourite places, your little rituals, coffee haunts, that sort of thing. I picked you up at the Costa, corner of Tithebarn, the other day. By the way, do you know you’ve got two bizzies in a van watching your Mum and Dad’s house?”
“Yeah, I know. So, what have you got for me?” He let go of him. “And make it slow.”
“Just this,” he replied, carefully pulling a brown envelope from his pocket. “And here’s my card.”
Nicks glanced at the card and handed it back, then he inspected the envelope. “It’s been steamed open and resealed!”
“Well, I got a bit curious, you know how it is. I swear it means bugger all to me.”
Nicks opened it and scanned the single sheet of paper. “Yeah, I can believe that. It doesn’t mean much to me, at present.” It was a partial lie. For the most part, it was a military code he was familiar with; he just lacked the means to decode it. What wasn’t coded was a simple instruction to pay the bearer the rest of his money, £150.
“How much did he give you?”
“A ton,” he replied, straightening his clothes. “Said you’d pay the rest. A hundred and fifty. I think he mentions it in the note,” he tentatively pointed it out.
Nicks smiled sarcastically. “Yeah, I saw. I also noticed it’s been changed.”
“No, it hasn’t.”
Nicks gave him a hard stare. “You’ve altered that zero to a five. I can tell.”
The man gave him an apologetic look then a half-grin. “Look, I gave up some very lucrative jobs to do this favour. Times are hard, know what I mean. And, anyway, you’ve been a bigger pain in the arse to follow than I thought you’d be.”
Nicks dug his wallet out. “Did he say anything else to you, anything at all?”
“Just that if I hadn’t heard from him by last Monday, I was to find you and give you the note.”
“And what’s kept you?”
“I was busy.” He eyed the money. “You haven’t got anything smaller, have you? Fifties are a bit difficult to get rid of.” A look of apology.
“No. It’s this or nothing. I’ve been trying to get rid of these for days myself.”
“You’re sure they’re not counterfeit?” He saw the look in Nick’s eyes. “Just asking, like.”
“I’m certain. I printed them personally last week.” He stuffed them in the man’s jacket pocket. “I take it we’re not likely to meet again?”
“No, no. I’ve certainly no plans.” He smiled affably.
Nicks stepped back to walk away. “Sorry, about gripping you. Best to be sure, though.”
“That’s ok, matey. He said you might be a bit tense.”
Nicks smiled, nodded and left him. At the corner of the street, he glanced back. The PI was inspecting the money, holding it up to the light.