CHAPTER 9
To the rest of the world Carl Bentley seemed a popular bloke, but like most people he had secrets, and a reputation in Milton, a village three and half miles from the city centre.
He sat opposite the wall-mounted jukebox in the pub with his two best mates, John McKnight and Terry Clarke, necking lager like there’d be a drought within the hour. His leg bounced under the table to the Northern Soul classic ‘The Snake’, by Al Wilson.
‘Fucking love this tune, man!’ he said nodding to the beat.
The Millrace was a traditional two-room bar and lounge gaffe set back off Maunders Road leading toward the busy Leek New Road. A sixteen-mile stretch linking Stoke-on-Trent to the rolling Staffordshire moorlands countryside. Like plenty of other locals in the city it had gone through hard times during the recession, but thrived under the present landlady.
Bentley and his mates were waiting for a taxi to ferry them to the city centre. Most Friday nights they crawled round the local pubs. For a village of moderate size, Milton had more than its fair share of boozers; five in total and Bentley used them all. Everyone who frequented the pubs knew him. Although, apart from his circle of close friends, no one knew what he did for a living, the general rumours were that he worked for a local businessman. Most suspected he was involved in organised crime, but none dared confront him to clarify his job description, which was wise, considering his reputation as a notorious football hooligan during the late eighties and early nineties.
He slammed his second empty pint glass onto the table and reached inside his pocket for his fags. ‘I’m going for a tab after I’ve had a piss and check on the taxi.’ Passing the pool table on his way to the gents he bumped into a couple of locals. ‘Out on the piss, boys?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ said the colossus Grant Bolton. ‘We’re off up town, about twelve of us. Got a minibus coming.’
‘We might bump into you later then? What pubs you going to?’ Bentley asked.
‘’Spoons, White Horse… the usual. A few of us have got tickets for the All-Nighter at King’s Hall. Brilliant last time. You going?’
‘Nice one. Got mine last week. Bought it off Richie for a tenner ’cause he can’t go. If I don’t bump into you uptown, I’ll see you down there.’
‘Yeah, sound, mate. I’ll give you a bell. Still the same mobile?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Nice one. See you later.’
Minutes later, Bentley stood to the left of the main entrance doorway, and lit up whilst gazing down the road trying to spot their cab through a plume of rising smoke. Whilst stubbing his fag out, he heard a taxi horn blast from lower down the road. Without checking he cocked his head back through the door into the lounge and signalled to his mates with a hooked thumb: ‘Taxi!’
Before they could join him Grant Bolton heckled his mates. A sudden rush of lads shoved their way past the bar over to the entrance. Bentley watched the rowdy group of twelve dive into a silver transit van, which he’d mistakenly thought was for them.
Ten minutes later, Bentley and Clarke jumped onto the back seat of their taxi, leaving McKnight the unenviable task of riding shotgun and picking up the bill in the front. It was a juvenile prank they played when sharing a cab.
He knew as soon as the cab hit the city centre those tossers would jump out like Batman and Robin, pissing themselves laughing while he coughed up.
CHAPTER 10
Across town, Kat and Luna hobbled towards Piccadilly and cut down the bank through Brunswick Street, past Liquid and the Sugar Mill nightclubs, all the while taking care not to turn an ankle. The hundred-foot Telecoms Tower rose above the buildings like a seventies concrete draughtboard with its thousands of embossed squares.
‘Stop a min, babe. I need a fag!’ Kat said, fishing in her bag.
They crossed Marsh Street, North, heading towards the bar. The Slipware Tankard was the former home of the Staffordshire pottery firm George Ashworth, on Etruria Road, Hanley, and was built in 1807. The sixteen-bay-long factory had two stories, separated by a string course. Above the arched entrance, a tympanum with Venetian-style windows finished off the mixed architectural styles typical of the period on the front façade. The whole place looked like the stable block of a country manor house.
Two of the four original bottle kilns remained standing in the central courtyard; their curvaceous form gave them the appearance of female hips squeezed by a tight corset.
The regular crowd were a mix of hip and trendy eighteen to thirties; into fashion, bands, EDM and weekend partying.
Two doormen greeted Kat and Luna as they entered through the side doors leading into the main bar area.
‘It’s quiet, Kat.’ Luna said, glancing around the huge interior at dozens of empty seats framed by four brick-bonded industrial tiled walls.
‘Don’t worry, it soon fills up. It’s still early yet. Besides, we get to pick the best seats in the courtyard.’
Kat ordered a bottle of Pinot Grigio on ice.
‘Seventeen quid!’ Luna said, giving her friend a shocked stare.
‘I know, but that’s the price you pay not to be surrounded by Neanderthals.’
‘Suppose so, Let’s get a seat outside?’
‘In a min, babe. I need a pee!’ she said.
‘Yeah, now you mention it, I need to go.’
With that they asked the barman to hold the wine until they came back from the ladies, up a short flight of steps, to the left of the bar.
Leaving the cubicle, Luna spun in a wild circle proclaiming she wanted to dance and shag all night in that order. They hobbled back down the steps, collected the wine and drifted outside into the courtyard. It was a muggy summer evening and they were both salivating at the prospect of ice-cold Pinot Grigio.
‘Where should we sit, Kat?’ she asked, making eyes at the well-groomed fella in mirror shades, lounging across a pile of sumptuous cushions covering one of the sofas perched on the block paved courtyard. ‘I spotted him first!’ she insisted, staking her claim on passing his table.
‘Calm down, girl.’ Kat smirked jealously.
The man glanced at them with a wry smile.
‘You don’t think he heard me, do you?’
‘What do you think? He’s sitting about ten feet away from us.’
Kat poured, almost draining the bottle since the glasses were more like goldfish bowls than wine glasses.
‘Shit, that works out almost eight-fifty a glass,’ Luna moaned.
‘Sod it, we’re out for a good time tonight. I don’t give a shit, it’s only money, and it’s not mine!’
The man sitting opposite, texting, was in his late thirties, six feet, with dark-brown hair styled short back and sides, swept over to the right. He looked Italian, sporting facial stubble, and wore a black Ralph Lauren polo shirt, jeans and loafers. Very dashing, they thought.
He observed them coolly through his shades, smiled again, then continued checking his messages.
After about twenty minutes they’d demolished the wine over girlie chit-chat and cigarettes.
Where the fuck was Yusuf, he wondered. Although he made allowances because they were brothers, his lack of punctuality enraged him. Bored with waiting, Ibrahim Benzar offered the girls a drink to amuse his curiosity. Confidently he called over, ‘Would you ladies like to join me for a drink?’
‘Yeah!’ they voiced simultaneously, with unblinking eyes, and a slight air of desperation.
His arrogant approach worked and within minutes they sat eagerly awaiting another bottle of wine. Like a gentleman, he moved to the opposite side of the table, giving up the cushions.
‘Please have a seat. What do you want to drink?’ he asked with a slightly foreign accent, ‘More Pinot, or perhaps champagne?’
He didn’t have to ask again. Without hesitation they opted for champagne.
Kat and Luna watched him get up and go to the bar.
‘Shit girl, he’s cute. Even better, he’s got money,’ she said, cosying up to the cu
shions.
‘Haven’t had champers in ages.’
‘We’ve only been in here half an hour. What a catch: champagne in the sun.’
‘Not quite, babe; he’s just after a shag like most blokes.’
‘I’ll shag him as long as he keeps us topped up with drinks.’ They faced each other and laughed.
Ibrahim returned, and within five minutes the Moët Chandon was sitting in an ice bucket in front of them and they were sipping from tall flutes, bubbles tickling their noses as the straw-coloured liquid slid down to the background sound of Classic Soul.
‘What are your names?’
‘I’m Katrina and this is Luna,’ she said, tugging her skirt down crossing her legs.
‘And you are?’ Luna butted in.
‘Ibrahim.’
‘Unusual name.’
‘It’s Turkish.’
‘Ah! That explains your accent. A mix of Potteries with a hint of eastern European?’
‘I lived in Turkey with my parents until I was sixteen, but that was over twenty-five years ago. I came over here with my brother to get an education. After college I went to Staffs University to do an English language degree.’
‘Where do you work?’ Kat probed.
Luna nudged her with a subtle elbow.
‘I have one or two businesses in Hanley.’
‘What type of business?’
‘You ask a lot of questions?’
‘She’s a right nosy cow,’ Luna said.
Kat felt awkward. ‘Charming, that is, babe.’
He paused and rubbed a hand over his stubble. ‘I own a bar, and a martial arts gym, amongst other things.’
‘What’s the bar called?’ Luna asked unashamed.
‘You’re sitting in it.’
Both their faces animated and in a sudden moment of clarity it dawned on Kat. They were talking to Carl’s boss. He’d mentioned him a few times in conversation but never divulged more than his name, and that he owned the Slipware Tankard and shouldn’t be crossed. At that point she knew the smart thing to do would be to make excuses and politely leave, but against her better judgement, she decided to stay; after all, she wasn’t doing anything wrong, having a drink with her friend and her bastard partner’s boss, even though she did fancy the pants off him. Kat needed a release, a way to forget her mundane life and loveless relationship for a few hours.
‘What do you two do?’ he asked.
‘I work in a call centre,’ Luna said.
‘I’m just in-between jobs at the minute,’ Kat said, chewing her bottom lip with a blush of embarrassment. She fumbled for a cigarette to boost her confidence.
As the conversation progressed, he appeared to have more eye contact with Kat, building a better rapport with her.
After thirty minutes of small talk, he offered them cocktails. The blonde was so hot, he thought, noticing that she didn’t appear to be wearing any knickers, which made him lust after her even more. Although he knew coming on to virtual strangers was a touch lecherous, he could tell by their flirtatious body language that at least one of them would be game, and he’d be in with a chance of screwing one of them in the bridal suite at the Willow Room Hotel in town before the night was out.
‘If you want to follow me, my barman will bring the mojitos in to us.’ He led them across the courtyard to the bottle kiln on the left. Both kilns had been beautifully restored and the glass walkway that joined them was a stunning architectural talking point. The thirty-foot-long frameless structure doubled up as a dance floor; flashing coloured LEDs were fitted seamlessly into the stone-slabbed floor.
Ibrahim opened the large coffin-shaped steel entrance door leading into the uniquely circular space.
‘Take a seat,’ Ibrahim said, pointing towards two vanilla leather Chesterfield sofas facing a coffee table in the centre of the two-hundred-year-old kiln.
They glanced nervously up at the early evening sky peeking through the narrow neck of the kiln high above, as Ibrahim removed a large framed photograph of the bar from the heavily sandblasted curved brickwork, revealing a safe. He tapped in the code, opened the door and extracted a wad of notes. He came back over and to Kat’s delight sat next to her.
‘This place is unreal; it’s like a cave,’ Kat said, looking around curiously at the interior; subtle up-lighters cast strange shadows across the brickwork. ‘Must have cost a fortune to do,’ she said, addressing Luna.
‘You not been inside a renovated kiln before, babe?’
‘No. Seen a few from the outside.’ She gave Luna a puzzled look.
‘I’ll have to take you to the Dudson Centre in Hope Street for a coffee. They’ve got one just like this, but it’s a mini pottery museum inside with a spiral staircase up to a mezzanine level.’
Kat was about to reply when the barman entered, carrying the drinks on a tray. He set them down on the table and nodded to his boss before leaving.
Ibrahim stirred the crushed ice, mint and lime in Kat’s tumbler with the straw. She took a slurp, the sweet and sour rum tasted divine. ‘Not bad.’
Luna gave Ibrahim a slow sexy smile. ‘We don’t normally do this sort of thing, you know,’ she said, trying to sound coy as if being the centre of attention was a new experience to them.
‘I understand the need for escapism as much as anyone else,’ he said.
‘You not having one?’ Kat asked.
‘Maybe later. I have a business meeting tonight and need to keep a clear head.’
His phone rang. Glancing at his watch, he lifted it from his pocket and tapped the green answer button. ‘Yusuf! Excuse me a moment, I have to take this,’ Ibrahim said, edging back towards the entrance.
Practising martial arts had taught him controlled emotion, especially in front of other people. Ranting and displays of anger in public were impolite and a sign of weakness in Japanese culture. Make no mistake; he’d bollock Yusuf properly for the no-show later behind closed doors.
He hated having to involve family in his business, but had promised his mother and father twenty years ago to look after Yusuf, although for how much longer he couldn’t say, as the arrogant bastard pissed him off. Yusuf was becoming a real liability.
‘Sorry, I have to be at a business meeting now. But if you call me on this number –’ he passed over a business card to Kat ‘– we can meet later for drinks. Both of you are welcome to join me and my associates at the casino after we’ve finished.’
With that Ibrahim ushered the girls back out into the fading sunlight of the courtyard, which was filling up with weekend revellers. He kissed them both on the cheek, said goodbye and exited into the bar in front of a few gawping onlookers sipping pints of iced cider.
They both stood in amazement, bemused at what just happened.
‘He won’t answer his phone later,’ Kat declared cynically, with a leery look on her face. ‘Players like him never do.’
‘Probably not. Call it female intuition but he was definitely giving you more attention than me. He fancies the pants off you, babe.’
‘They’re already off.’ She laughed with a mischievous wit in her blue eyes.
‘You dirty cow.’
‘Keep it down, those two over there heard you,’ Luna said, referring to two chubby women in garish floral dresses, seated to the left of where they were standing, fat legs red from sunbathing.
They looked at each other and burst out laughing, then disappeared back towards the loos, bladders bursting with champagne and mojito.
CHAPTER 11
The Genting Casino was situated around a hundred and fifty yards from the Slipware Tankard bar on the same side of Etruria Road. The converted nightclub, formally known as Valentino’s, looked fairly anonymous in the daytime, but, when darkness fell, this state-of-the-art bronze clad structure came alive. Spectacular roof lighting cascaded waterfall effects in hues of blue down the front and sides of it, casting a shimmering pool of blue upon the concrete driveway leading up to the entrance. The Vegas-style portal provided
a late-night playground for tourists, gamblers and high rollers.
Ibrahim smiled at the receptionist as he strolled with confidence past the curved mirrored reception desk, through the sliding glass doors into the huge casino room, split up into five distinctive zones.
God, I love this place, he thought, gazing around the room at the spectacular, glass pendant shades and illuminated ceiling edge. On passing the touchscreen slot machines he scanned the bar.
Unlike his brother Yusuf, he expected the summoned crew members to be on time for the meeting. He spotted Charlie and Leonard unwittingly propping up the illuminated glass fronted bar four stools apart, whilst Malcolm sat hunched over his mobile at a high table behind the glass petition separating the formal bar area from the casino floor. None of these guys had met before, the common thread being they’d worked for Ibrahim in the past. This was an introduction to assess their interaction. A meeting of minds.
He’d known Charlie Bullard for several years. They’d met at Ibrahim’s uncle’s restaurant in London where he’d worked for twelve months during the early nineties. Charlie dined there with a Cypriot crime firm who he’d pulled jobs with. Charlie claimed he’d retired after his last stint inside in ninety-four, which had cost him ten years of his life. Although judging by his dingy council flat in Hanley, and his seventy-three quid a week pittance of benefit payments, Ibrahim was convinced he’d get him on board. Besides, after already discussing the heist, he was in far too deep to refuse.
Loner Leonard Vale didn’t find it easy to mix with new people, especially women, who avoided him because of his repugnant appearance. The 35-year-old’s greasy shoulder-length ginger hair, wispy ginger goatee and shitty-looking fag-stained teeth, made him a pariah. The unemployed tech geek had zero ambition, and previous convictions for hacking in America, and was always looking to supplement his job seeker’s allowance. Most importantly, he was a freaking genius when it came to computers; his specialisms were hacking into financial institutions and illegal surveillance.
The Killer Shadow Thieves (DI Tom Blake, #1) Page 4
