Queen of Green (Queen of Green Trilogy Book 1)

by V E Rooney

  I have enough money to bung Ste, John and Brian bonus payments, which they are made up with, although they are itching to be part of the next deal.

  “That’s not up to me, that’s Sean’s call,” I say to them when they are ensconced in my Wood Street flat. “Now that the first one’s over and done with, he could probably do with more pairs of hands for the next one.”

  “So there is gonna be a next one? Is fucking right, girl, I’m having some of that,” says John excitedly as he knocks back a beer.

  “It’s not been decided yet,” I say, “but if it does get decided then you lot should prepare to lick his arse big time.”

  “But this was your idea, Ali,” says Ste. “Yeah, it was him who wanted to do the deal but you’re the one who came up with the plan for it to work.”

  “Yeah…and?” I say, not quite sure were Ste is going with this train of thought.

  “I’m just saying, without you it wouldn’t have happened. And what was your share? 150k? Off a £2.5 million deal? Doesn’t seem right to me,” Ste says, shrugging at me. I know what he’s doing.

  “Listen, Ste, this was a test run, alright? It’s a fart in the wind compared to the kind of deals we can put together now. And because Sean put up most of the money, he gets the biggest share. That’s exactly how it should be.”

  “You’ve changed your tune,” he says, smirking. “It was only six months ago you were calling him all the cunts under the sun.”

  “That was six months ago. Look at us now,” I say. The boys can’t complain. They are loaded, they’ve all got nice places of their own and the money just keeps piling up.

  It was that first E run which really changed my perception of money. Before that, when I was doing weed deals for £10, £20, I knew the worth of every quid. I could pay the lecky bill with this deal, buy some trainers with this deal…every quid was real and tangible, a straightforward and equivalent barter of money for goods or services. Even when I was making a couple thousand a month, even when I got the first bumper bulk order from Simon, I could earmark the proceeds against the lease for the Kirkby farm, buying raw materials, putting food on the table, buying clothes, subbing Mum for her bingo trips.

  When you start making thousands of pounds a week? Tens of thousands of pounds every month, month after month? It’s like something switches off or detaches inside you. It becomes Monopoly money, even though it’s real enough – each note has still got the Queen’s gob on it, you can still fold it up and stick it in your pocket and spend it.

  But when you stop handling notes and are handling fat bundles of notes, plastic shrink-wrapped bundles of notes which you know you will never get round to spending because you already have enough of the stuff? When it’s coming in faster than you can physically spend it? That fucks you up. It’s the point when you look at all the money you have and think, what the fuck am I going to do with all this?

  You could be a dickhead and spunk the lot on gambling, good times with bad women/men, and coke. If that’s what you want? Good luck to you, and keep some money back for the inevitable rehab treatment fees, you’re gonna need it.

  You can’t stick it all in the bank because the bank, and the tax people, will start asking questions. You can’t go and buy the most expensive car to show off with, because the busies will start asking questions. You can’t go around being a flash bastard in any way whatsoever, because people in general will start asking questions. Greed and envy are inherent parts of human nature.

  If your biggest headache when it comes to money is what to do with it, then my advice is to think back to those times when your Mum was playing hide-and-seek with the council rent collector. When she was digging down the back of the couch, trying to come up with enough pennies to pay the milkman or the lecky bill. When she went without hot meals because she couldn’t afford the gas bill.

  If you ever think that having too much money is a problem? Think of those times and shut the fuck up because a lot of people would kill to have your kind of problems.

  Sometimes money would become an insurmountable obstacle to the people I was going out with at the time.

  I was seeing this lad Francis for a few weeks, I’d met him on a night out with Debbie and Gillian. We’d gone to the 051 and he kept trying to get my attention on the dancefloor. Truth be told, I just wanted to catch up with the girls but wherever I turned my head, there he was, practically jumping into my line of sight. So when he sidled up to me on the dancefloor, I was like, oh, whatever. One dance and then that’s it. But then we got chatting and to my surprise, I liked him.

  He was a salesman for United Biscuits in Wavertree, just off Edge Lane. He was straight and law-abiding, no dodgy business whatsoever. A nice lad from a nice Catholic family. Bit soppy but I liked that. He made a refreshing change from the cesspit of testosterone I swirled around in. I told him I worked in business admin for a property company. Which was kind of true, I suppose. So after a couple of weeks, Sean clocked on I was seeing someone and pushed for me to bring Francis to a crew night out - someone’s birthday bash being held in Flanagan’s in Mathew Street.

  So we turn up, me in my nice but unflashy dress, Francis in his official works Top Man suit. Sean, Paul, Lee, Baz and Gary were standing by the bar. I pointedly ignore Paul and Lee’s impromptu refrain of “and they called it…puppy love…” as we walk past them. I make the introductions.

  “Francis? These are my workmates. This is Francis,” I say, beaming, but secretly hoping that the lads aren’t going to do what I think they’re going to do. A few minutes of general friendly chitchat ensues before the moment I have been dreading arrives.

  Sean sips his pint, turns to Francis and starts asking him about his job.

  “So where you working at the moment, mate?” Sean asks, looking genuinely interested.

  “United Biscuits, I work on the vans, you know, selling crisps and biscuits to all the sweet shops,” Francis replies, looking eager to impress.

  “Sound, sound,” says Sean, nodding at Francis. “If you don’t mind me asking, what kind of wage are you pulling in for that, mate?”

  “Well, I’m still training at the moment so I’m on £9,500, but if I pass my probation then I’ll be on £12,000 with commission on top of that,” Francis says in a confident manner.

  Just then, I hear Lee coughing into his pint. “£12,000? Fucking hell, lad, your bird makes more than that in a month,” Lee says, screwing up his face as he looks at Francis, who has now gone the colour of beetroot and is looking at me like he’s never seen me before. Sean and the rest are not making much effort to stifle their giggles.

  “Take no notice of them,” I say to Francis as I try to put a soothing hand on his shoulder, “they’re always on the wind-up.” At this, they all burst into laughter. Poor Francis looks like he’s shrunk six inches.

  You bunch of utter bastards.

  Sean, still laughing, puts his arm round Francis’ shoulder. “We’re only messing, lad. Come on, let’s get you another pint.”

  Needless to say, Francis and I didn’t last long after that. Men and their egos. It’s different for girls in that game, you know. It was OK for the lads to turn up with their girlfriend of the week, it was OK for them to show off their latest dolly bird. That was all that was expected of women, and it was expected of the lads to live up to that player image, you know? But if I had done the same thing? Turned up with a different man on my arm every night out? I would’ve never heard the end of it. And the lads in the crew were tolerant of outsiders but only in small doses. Sean had no problem with the lads picking up female outsiders but he had his double standards with me. He couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to date any lads in the game, he thought it would be easier if I was with someone in the business, but no way did I want to spend my precious free time with an insider, talking about jobs and money and all that.

  I needed a life outside of that world, to try and keep things relatively normal, so on the rare occasions I indulged my romantic life, it was with
people outside of the game. I had my fun, I had my flings from time to time, but I was always careful to never let it interfere with work.

  We did another five Ecstasy runs in 1992 using the same method, although with different front companies and different lorries each time. I reckon we brought in around 2 million pills in 1992 alone, with a street value of around £30 million. My income that year was around £2 million.

  As the profits from each deal started to materialise, Sean and I were putting in more money ourselves upfront. When the pills were sold, we’d reinvest the profits into more deals. But we still had shitloads of money hanging around, which means a shitload of money to be laundered through legitimate fronts. I was doing as much as I could to funnel the money into a rapidly expanding number of bank accounts but there were still hefty piles of cash to hide. Sometimes at Sean’s various properties, I would go to the bathroom or kitchen and see shrink-wrapped wads of notes just shoved in the cabinets, the drawers…I think he even buried some in the garden as he was running out of space to store it.

  “It’s not making the money that’s the problem, girl, it’s fucking spending it,” he said wearily to me once as he tried to jam another few wads into one of his already-full kitchen drawers.

  I took a few tips from Sean’s businesses and began to look at investment opportunities. This wasn’t long after the height of the recession, which meant that property prices were hurtling down the toilet. I bought a few houses in Liverpool and one on the Wirral. I was toying with the idea of opening up some sun bed shops, even though I didn’t know the first thing about them and had never used them, but according to Sean, they were money-spinners all by themselves. The girls in Liverpool can’t get enough of sun beds, to get rid of that pale blue skin pallor brought on by the cold winds coming off the Irish Sea.

  I remember one night when I was having a lazy night at home with a takeaway pizza, watching crap on telly, when the news came on.

  Interest rate rises affecting house prices…

  Hundreds of thousands of homeowners in negative equity…

  Desperate homeowners posting keys to their properties through the doors of banks and building societies…

  Then the news broadcast went to this reporter doing his bit to camera while walking down a leafy London street, a row of estate agent ‘for sale’ signs lined up behind him…

  And I thought, well, why not?

  Next morning, after checking with Sean that I was OK to take a couple of days off, I put on my best smart suit and overcoat, jumped on a train to Euston (first class, served meal, drinks) and got a taxi outside the station to take me to Hampstead. I spent a couple of hours browsing through various estate agencies before settling on a Victorian detached mansion on three floors – six bedrooms, two reception rooms, dining room, cellar, front and back garden.

  As the estate agent and I drove to the property a few minutes away, I took in my surroundings. So this is where the posh people of London live, eh? All these gated imposing properties, the designer clothes and top-end cars…glamorous old ladies with sunglasses walking their expensively-coiffed poodles…not a bad place to own some real estate, all things considered.

  The house itself was a bit dank and musty. Turned out it had belonged to an elderly couple now dead, and the family wanted to offload it quickly as apparently they needed the money to shore up their own precarious finances. Nick, the estate agent barely older than I was, told me: “As you can see, the property hasn’t been updated since the 1950s. It will need rewiring, a new damp course, and some renovation. Which is reflected in the price,” he said, with a hint of pleading in his voice.

  I didn’t need much convincing. £250,000 later and I was the owner of a prime property in one of the most sought-after locations in London.

  ***

  “And how much is that property worth now?” I ask, even though I know Reynolds will have enjoyed the uptick in the UK’s property market more than most.

  “Stick a zero on the end of it,” she says, giving a coquettish twitch of her eyebrows. “I bought a few more places in London,” she continues. “I never lived in these places, by the way. They were to rent out until the housing market picked up. Also got some cheap disused commercial land out in East London, you know out by Hackney Marshes? Nothing seems to be happening round there, not sure whether to keep hold of that. Anyway, got hold of some land for development into office blocks and flats. Opened up a few businesses back home, car dealerships, sunbed shops, a women’s gym…even opened up a garden centre,” she says, smiling.

  “Old habits die hard, eh?” I say, as I scribble in my notebook.

  “Something like that, for old times’ sake, you know,” she concurs, nodding her head. She leans her head down to the table to scratch her nose. “Oh yeah…but even with all this cash getting turned into physical assets? It’s still a bastard to get rid of.”

  “My heart bleeds,” I say. But Reynolds just gives me a bashful grin.

  “I’m not being a twat, alright? This is the reality. When you’ve got that much cash lying around, I mean big fucking bundles of the stuff, you have to get creative. The most important thing for me, and for the crew as well, was to start hiding all this money properly. Sort of officially but unofficially, you know? So I had my personal and business accounts, some in my name. When I became a part of Sean’s crew, I did the same for them. I mean, he was already doing that when I joined but we took it to the next level.

  “I would set up all these front companies with Companies House in London, again, some in my name, some in the names of other people and they would get a nice bonus in return for letting us use their names. Then I would sort out business accounts for these companies. It was when I was reading up on banking laws and regulation that I realised I could hide a lot more money in offshore banks.

  “Started off with a few business accounts on the Isle of Man, you know, because they’ve got their own set of rules there. Then the same thing in the Channel Islands. And at that time, it was piss-easy to shove tens of thousands of pounds in a suitcase, get the ferry to these places, walk into the banks there, deposit it with no questions asked and go home and do the same thing again. Sometimes it would be me, sometimes it would be the lads, because it was a bad idea for anyone to be making several trips to an offshore banking jurisdiction in a short period of time, so we would take it in turns, you know, to minimise the chances of us being collared.

  “When the coke money started coming in, the more banks we needed to use. That’s when the serious business travel started. At first it was just me. I started going to places like Gibraltar and Switzerland with suitcases full of cash and opening up accounts here, there and everywhere. At one point, I was flying backwards and forwards across Europe every other day. Fucking knackered, I was. Sometimes I’d even lose track of which country I was in, I was so up the wall. As the money piled up, sometimes I would have extra couriers with me, or they would come in on separate flights, then we’d meet up, bundle the cash together and deposit it. Even got a few airline stewardesses involved. Everyone has their price.

  “When the coke money started coming in even quicker? Jesus fucking Christ on a bike. I had to go even further afield. Started going to places like the British Virgin Islands, St Lucia, the Bahamas, Seychelles, Mauritius…it was mental.”

  “And you still know the details of these accounts? They’re still operating?” I ask.

  “Most of them, yeah. Of course, a few of them got cleaned out by the Police and Customs but that was because other people coughed up about them. But I was the only person who knew what was in each account, and where these accounts were, and needless to say all the account numbers and codes. You won’t find anything written down on paper. No incriminating evidence. It’s all up here,” Reynolds says, tapping her forehead. “I’m not saying that to be boastful. It’s the safest place for it. Not even Sean knew where most of the money was kept. He knew he could trust me.”

  “Speaking of incriminating evidence,” I sa
y hesitantly, “you do realise that you are incriminating yourself with every sentence? Everything you’re telling me completely contradicts your official claims of innocence.”

  “It’s only incriminating if you’re working for the prosecution,” she says, looking at me through narrowed eyes. There is that impish expression again. “Are you? Are you working for the other side?” she says, waggling her finger at me. “Ooh, if you’re working for the other side, ooh, I’ll…”

  “I am not working for the other side,” I say. “But I am curious. You were never challenged by any of these banks? They never thought to ask where this money was coming from? Why someone so young was depositing such huge amounts?”

  Reynolds laughs. “Oh, please! As long as there aren’t blood spatters on the banknotes, the banks don’t give a fuck where the money comes from. Well, I mean, I had to keep tabs on money laundering laws, sometimes I had to split up deposits between different banks, because if a single transaction is over a certain amount then the bank gets alerted to check it under money laundering laws.

  “But by the time it gets to the bank, it’s already been washed through our businesses. And once it’s deposited in the bank? It magically gets turned into electronic bits and bytes of data and it can be moved around the world in seconds. And a lot of banks are a lot more obliging than others. If I rocked up to a bank with 100k ready to deposit, in used notes which couldn’t be traced, the bank manager couldn’t lick my arse quick enough.

  “And every time I moved the money around, the bank would get a percentage of the transaction amount, plus all the foreign currency exchange fees, fees for time-sensitive transfers, account management fees and all that. Those fuckers made money every time I moved it. And when you’re moving it around as often as I was? The banks couldn’t do enough for me. By the time the first bank was completing my instruction for a wire transfer, I already had another 10 banks lined up to move it around even more. They’re not gonna kill the goose that keeps shitting all these golden eggs on them, are they?”