Bootlegged Angel

by Ripley, Mike

I had just taken a mouthful of Noel’s First and seemed to have lost the use of several motor neurones. As far as I was concerned, he could call me Rafael Sabatini. I think I mumbled something to the effect that it was cool by me.

  ‘I know it looks as if I’ve been messing around for the last couple of hours, but I really need to brief you in private. Now we’re alone, I suggest we stay here as this is just about the most private place in the brewery, but I need to get something from my office. Something to show you. It’ll only take me a few minutes to get it but I’ll be right back. I’m afraid I’ll have to lock you in while I’m gone. It’s company rules. Do you mind awfully?’

  Did I mind being locked in a brewery sampling cellar? There was a poser.

  ‘No worries,’ I said.

  He was gone about five minutes, or it could have been two hours, I really didn’t mind, and when he returned he was carrying a thin grey case under his arm.

  ‘My laptop,’ he said proudly, setting it up on the bar. ‘I’d be lost without it. It does absolutely everything for me.’

  ‘Can it pull a pint?’ I asked, thinking that was just about the wittiest and most charming thing anyone could have said in the circumstances.

  ‘Er . . . no.’ He looked around, flustered for a moment. ‘Please, help yourself.’

  ‘Thanks, I will.’

  I already had.

  ‘Grab a bar stool,’ he said, settling on one himself, but even when he was sitting down I still had to look up to him. Maybe that was because my legs had started to turn to rubber.

  When I had a full pint glass, though I couldn’t remember which beer it was, I pulled up another bar stool next to his and tried to make out the graphics appearing on his computer’s screen. The image was of a mosaic design and the colours were oddly soothing.

  ‘This is a map of the European Union,’ said Murdo.

  And so it was. I closed my left eye and it became clear.

  ‘Sixteen countries from Portugal to Finland, all living in unity, peace and harmony under the provisions of the Treaty of Rome, and all with their own systems of tax – income tax, value added tax and, most importantly for brewers, excise duty.’ Murdo hit a button on his keyboard, and on the map all the borders between the countries disappeared. ‘Then came the Single Market in January 1993 and – in theory – all obstacles to trading between these countries disappeared. It was supposed to be a Europe without borders, without Customs officers, without restrictions. If you want to buy a German washing machine, go do it. You want an Italian car or a Spanish video recorder, the choice is yours. But of course this only makes sense if the goods are taxed the same in all the member states.’

  ‘Harmonisation,’ I slurred into my beer.

  ‘Quite right. Harmonising taxes must be the logical outcome of a Single Market, otherwise the thing doesn’t make any sense and there would be little point in being in it. But all the member countries have their own tax regimes and they guard them very fiercely, so much so that even with twenty years’ warning, they couldn’t agree to do it before the Single Market came in.

  ‘On some taxes, though, they at least agreed to move towards a band or range. Value added tax, for instance. There are still different rates of VAT in the different countries, but they’re all in roughly the same ballpark.’

  ‘Ah yes, ballparking,’ I murmured. I had heard Amy talking about ‘ballparking’ on wholesale prices of TALtops. I still didn’t have a clue what it meant.

  ‘And the same stop-gap measure should have applied to excise duties, where the discrepancies are even more pronounced.’ He hit another key and his Powerpoint program hummed and began to colour in the countries on the map. France, then Italy, then Spain began to turn blue whilst Denmark, Sweden and Ireland were the first to go red. Eventually, the European Union was split red and blue, the red countries mostly the northern ones: Ireland, the UK, Denmark, Sweden and Finland.

  ‘The red countries are the high tax ones, blue is low tax and here’s the nub of the problem.’

  Murdo typed something on his keyboard and, on the graphic, borderlines began to flash in yellow between Ulster and the Irish Republic, between Germany and Denmark, and Sweden and Finland, and in the Channel between England and France, and in the Kattegat between Denmark and Sweden.

  ‘In these places, you have high tax countries next door to low tax ones when it comes to alcohol – especially beer – and, in theory, no border controls or restrictions on how much you can buy. This isn’t like the duty-free booze you bring back from holiday; this is duty-paid but paid in a country with a very low rate of tax. For example,’ he began to point a long, thin finger at the screen, ‘beer tax in Denmark was about eight times higher than in Germany at the start of the Single Market, so any sensible Dane would have driven across the border to buy their beer. Sweden came in, with a much higher beer tax than Denmark, so nipping over to Copenhagen on the ferry to load up the Volvo was the obvious thing to do. Same story with Finland and Sweden, and, of course, the classic one – us here in Kent only twenty-two miles from France where the beer tax is eight times lower with regular ferry crossings and now we’ve even got a tunnel and high-speed trains.’

  ‘What about Ireland and the border between the North and the South?’ I asked, very proud that I could think of something to ask. Indeed, I was quite pleased I could still speak.

  ‘Well, in theory there ought to be a fair bit of cross-border shopping there, but it doesn’t seem to have become as much of a problem as elsewhere. I think it must have something to do with the Irish attitude to tax. They don’t seem to take it very seriously.’

  ‘Maybe they have a point,’ I said wisely.

  ‘Perhaps they do, but down here near the Channel, we have to take things seriously because the problem’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better. Look at this, and remember what I said about value added tax.’

  I nodded enthusiastically but in reality I couldn’t remember which beer I was drinking let alone what he’d said about VAT.

  The screen dissolved and reformed into a bar chart with sixteen columns each with the flag of a member state of the Single Market. Some filled the screen, some were very small and there were two dotted lines horizontally near the bottom of the screen. Each column had an arrow pointing towards the dotted lines. The colours were really cool.

  ‘This shows the beer duty in pence-per-pint in all the EU countries and this line would be a harmonised rate.’ He pointed to the lower dotted line. ‘Now that’s only a couple of pence per pint and look where we are.’

  His finger rested on one of the flags on the screen and by holding a hand over my left eye I could see that he had picked out the Union Jack, way up near the top of the screen, flanked by the Irish tricolour and the flags of Sweden and Finland.

  ‘Now that’s a long way to come down for these high tax countries so, as with value added tax, Europe agreed a target rate which countries could at least aim for. The low ones, like France and Spain, would put their beer duty up to get to near that target, which is about 7p a pint, whilst the high tax countries should come down to meet the others coming up. Guess what?’

  Oh God, I hate the quiz part and he never said he would be asking questions afterwards.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It didn’t happen. Well, not here. It did everywhere else.’

  ‘You surprise me.’

  ‘I share your instinctive cynicism about pragmatic politicians.’

  Did that mean I’d got something right? I tried to look world-weary and philosophical, rather than just weary.

  ‘Even worse,’ Murdo went on, ‘the gap is getting wider. Look closely. I’m sorry it’s a bit small but it really stands out when I do a presentation with a big screen.’

  ‘You do this as a . . . a . . . presentation?’

  I was gripped with an image of Murdo boring the pants off the Seagrave Women’s Institute in the church hall on a wet February night.

  ‘Oh yes, it’s my party piece. I’m a bit of an
expert on the subject, though I say it myself. Of course, you’re only seeing a bit of the whole thing. When I showed it to the Treasury Select Committee last week I concentrated on the failings of their macro-economic model when it came to disposable income and the positive effect of a duty cut on the Gross National Product. Not to mention the Retail Price Index.’

  ‘Right,’ I said slowly, trying to remember not to mention the Retail Price Index. ‘So what am I supposed to be looking at?’

  ‘The UK column. See? Every other country is moving towards the target rate for beer duty except us. The Irish, the Danes, the Swedes are all coming down and the French and Spanish and so on are all coming up. Every single country is moving towards that line except Britain. We’re going away from it. Our government is continuing to put our beer duty up when it should be reducing it. So now we’re not just out of line with our partners in Europe, we’re way out of line. That means a big differential in tax which gives the smugglers more incentive and more profit and makes smuggling one of the fastest growing businesses in the UK. There.’

  At the flick of a finger the screen dissolved and turned into a cartoon graphic. One half of the screen was a line-drawing or print depicting eighteenth-century pirates, complete with hooks, eye-patches, cutlasses and flintlock pistols, off-loading wooden casks from a beached longboat and rolling them up a beach to a cave. It could have been ripped from an illustrated edition of Treasure Island. The other half showed a scanned-in colour picture of a procession of white Ford Transit vans rolling off a car ferry docked under the White Cliffs of Dover.

  ‘On the eve of the twenty-first century,’ Murdo said portentously, ‘we have reinvented the eighteenth-century crime of smuggling.’

  ‘But if they go round looking like that, even the cops should be able to spot them. Maybe they could get one of the parrots to grass them up.’

  Murdo frowned and I had the distinct feeling that my credit at the bar was in jeopardy. Then his face brightened.

  ‘Oh, I see. Yes, an excellent point.’

  What was?

  ‘If only it was that simple. But you’re quite right, the smugglers don’t go around shouting ‘Yo-ho-ho’ and delivering brandy to the vicar and ‘baccy to the clerk.’ What was he talking about? ‘Well, actually they do smuggle tobacco, quite a lot of it, but that mostly comes in from Holland and goes through Harwich or Felixstowe. But your basic point is correct and a very astute observation.

  ‘Not only do today’s smugglers not look like that,’ he pointed to the pirates, ‘but they don’t look like that much either.’ This time he pointed to the fleet of white, unmarked vans.

  ‘As you rightly say, Mr Angel, the smugglers are becoming more sophisticated – more organised. The “van trade” as we call it is simply too obvious these days, in fact the anonymous white van has become something of a symbol of the beer smuggler, almost a what-do-you-call-them . . . like a trademark . . . a . . .’

  ‘Logo,’ I supplied.

  ‘That’s it. It’s almost shorthand for the newspapers. They show a picture of a white van and slam the word “Bootlegger” underneath it, though “bootlegging” is inaccurate. The crime is smuggling.’

  ‘Most people don’t think so,’ I said, though even I could hear I was slurring.

  Murdo looked horrified. This time I had gone too far.

  ‘Exactly! You’ve put your finger on it again!’ He slapped his hand down on the table, rattling his laptop and almost sending my empty glass flying. ‘Miss Blugden said you were sharp, that you cut right to the quick. You’re just the sort of man we’re looking for.’

  I tried to look humble and smile at the same time. I don’t think either worked.

  ‘It’ll be your round, then?’ I asked, offering my glass.

  5

  I hadn’t been back in the safety of London for more than twelve hours before I was beaten up, tortured and left for dead.

  When I came round I could see a weak and watery sun climbing over the rooftops, which told me it must be morning. My spine and kidneys hurt as if they’d been speared and twisted with a corkscrew and my head felt as if an anvil had dropped on it and was still resting there. I could only open my right eye, the left seemed glued shut with something thick and sticky, and the back of my left hand throbbed with a three-inch diagonal burn.

  I was wearing only a T-shirt (a ‘Somebody Killed Kenny’ Christmas present) which explained why I was cold and starting to shiver. A plastic bag drifted by my face and I could see empty take-away food cartons, an old shoe, a pile of cigarette butts, empty beer bottles and, from the corner of my good eye, something sleek and furry scuttling away.

  Various smells assailed my nostrils; rotting, vegetable smells like . . .

  ‘Angel? Was that you falling out of bed? Are you awake?’

  Oh, bloody hell.

  From the knees down, my legs were still on the bed. My bed. My old bed, in the Stuart Street flat. The rest of me was face down on the floor, which explained the bend and incredible pain in my spine. I was facing the bedroom window which was wide open, which was why I was so cold. The second-degree burn on the back of my hand fitted exactly the corner of an aluminium food box on which the word ‘Rice’ was written in green pencil. Who’d have thought they could hold so much heat? My eye seemed to be gummed with a prawn curry of some description and the flattened box told me that’s where my face had landed when I had rolled off the bed. The fact that there was no sign of any prawns any more explained the sleek figure of Springsteen, who was circling me in the hope that I was dead and therefore suitable for lunch. All the empty bottles – and some full ones – bore Seagrave’s Seaside Ales labels.

  ‘Angel? Are you sure you’re all right?’

  Oh bloody, bloody, bloody hell.

  It was Fenella, clumping up the stairs. I must have left the door open as well as the windows. Why didn’t I just get a neon sign saying ‘Burglars Welcome’?

  I tried to get off the floor, or off the bed. Either one, I wasn’t proud, but everywhere I tried to put a hand or a foot down, there seemed to be cold food or a rolling empty bottle. Eventually I found room to put my feet down.

  I pulled my T-shirt out and wiped my face with it. It came away with unspeakable orange stains but at least I could see out of both eyes. What I couldn’t do was work out why my kidneys hurt.

  ‘What a sight!’ shrieked Fenella from the bedroom doorway. ‘You look absolutely awful!

  She put her hands to her mouth to hide her giggles.

  ‘Didn’t you make an exhibition of yourself last night, young man? I hope you feel as bad as you look. Half as bad as you look! You should be grateful we were here to look after that nice Mr Seton and get him a minicab. And you should say thank you to Lisabeth for putting you to bed after you fell down the stairs . . .’ She paused for effect. ‘. . . the second time.’

  That explained the bruised kidneys.

  I touched my hair and found food there too, so I pulled my T-shirt off and towelled my head with it. That gave me a brilliant idea: I needed a shower. Right now. Nothing else mattered. Speech would come later.

  Fenella shrank back into the living-room as I staggered by her, heading for the bathroom. I could see her nostrils quiver as the scent of prawn curry – a korma perhaps? – wafted towards her.

  ‘Is there anything I can get you, Angel? Seriously, you look like something the cat dragged in.’ Then, over my shoulder, she said: ‘Sorry, Springsteen.’

  I stopped in front of her and waited until she stopped giggling at her own joke, then I held three fingers up in front of her face.

  ‘Three things?’ she asked innocently, like it was a game of charades.

  I ticked off the fingers one by one.

  ‘Para. Ceta. Mol.’

  I found small words came easier.

  I slouched under the shower long enough to put a dent in the water table, then raided my emergency stash of spare clothes for clean underpants, socks and a T-shirt which read ‘My Other T-shirt is a Pau
l Smith’. One of these days Amy would notice that I came home in clothes she’d never seen before.

  Amy.

  I rushed to the door of the flat which Fenella had thoughtlessly left open and yelled down the stairs:

  ‘Fenella! Have there been any messages for me?’

  ‘Just a couple,’ she said from somewhere close behind me, shredding what few nerve endings I had left.

  ‘Jesus! Don’t ambush me like that! What the hell are you doing anyway?’

  She had bright yellow rubber gloves on and was carrying a plastic bucket in one hand.

  ‘I’m soaking the curry stains out of your carpet,’ she said primly and then waited, practising her lemon-sucking expression, for me to say something like: Oh, you didn’t have to do that.

  ‘Why don’t you just run the hoover over it?’ I said.

  ‘Then the stain would stay and it doesn’t match the pattern.’

  It didn’t? Oh come on, who knows what colour their bedroom carpet is?

  ‘Whatever. My messages?’

  She breathed heavily down her nose then pulled off a glove and reached into the back pocket of her jeans to produce my mobile phone.

  ‘It says “Five Missed Calls” but I think they’re all from Veronica,’ she said, then she unclipped my pager from her belt. ‘And this says you have to call Amy on her mobile.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, taking the mobile from her and holding out my hand for the pager.

  Fenella’s lower lip jutted out and she glared at her feet.

  ‘Lisabeth said you wouldn’t let me keep them,’ she said under her breath.

  ‘I gave them to you? Last night?’

  She nodded. ‘Twice.’

  ‘Hmmm. Look, Fenella my dear, I’m going to put some coffee on. When you’ve finished with the carpet, come and have a cup and you can tell me everything that happened last night. OK?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she sighed, turning back to the bedroom and pulling on her rubber glove with an elaborate thwack.

  ‘Oh, and can I borrow some milk?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ she said over her shoulder.