by Jeff Gulvin
Ninja and The Wasp waited in the car park behind the Neasden Bail Hostel. Goldie played on the stereo. Across the road three lads were collecting money. The tallest one, dark hair, was squinting out of the window. He looked at the watch on his wrist. ‘Come on. Come on,’ he said. ‘They won’t sit there all night.’ In the corner Sammy Johnson sat on his own, staring at the floor. Both his arms were in plaster. For a moment the dark-haired one glanced across at him, then looked back at the others. ‘Will you shift your arses.’ He moved to the door, the money in his hand. ‘Where’s Michaels?’
‘Upstairs.’ The smallest boy, with the lisp, said.
The dark-haired one nodded. ‘Go up and make sure he stays there.’
Outside, The Wasp drummed his hands on the wheel. The dark-haired boy sprinted across the car park and dropped between the cars. Ninja leered at him. The dark-haired boy passed the money through the window.
‘How much?’ Wasp said.
‘Seventy-five.’
‘That’s not very much.’
‘It’s all there is. There’s only three of us now and Smithy’s a waste of space.’
Ninja still stared at him.
The boy looked at The Wasp again. ‘It’s straight, Wasp. There is no more.’
The Wasp revved the engine. ‘Do better. This don’t even pay for the watch.’
Across the road the warden watched from an upstairs window. The car lurched out of the space and muscled its way into traffic. Michaels came out onto the landing and saw Tony Smith, the lisper, looking at him.
‘Yes?’
‘Er, washing-up, liquid, Sir. Where is it?’
‘Under the sink where it always is.’
Downstairs, the other two were watching TV. Johnson sat on his own. Michaels looked at them, so casual in the chairs. ‘You two,’ he said. ‘Go and help Tony with the dishes.’ When they had gone, Michaels sat down in a chair. He looked at Johnson.
‘Worried about court on Monday, Sammy?’
Johnson half-moved his head.
‘Think you’ll go down?’
‘Dunno.’
‘They’ll wait till your arms are healed. Might even adjourn the case.’
Johnson did not say anything.
‘You still don’t want to tell me what happened?’
Johnson looked at the floor.
‘Sammy?’
‘I told you. I fell down the stairs.’
Ten
AT THE WINDOW, HE watched the night sky arcing above street lights that set the stars in a haze. From here he could see the mass of the estate: the clouded, troubled buildings abutting the railway line. He was thinking about Maguire, so smug and cocky and sure of himself. But what did he know really? Vanner watching Maguire. It should not bother him: sooner or later a dealer grew careless and was watched. Maguire had grown careless, carried away with the money in his pocket and the reflection in the mirror. Dealers came and dealers went, like Ringo May, the corporate traitor, or even Sammy ‘Greedy’ Johnson for that matter. But with Vanner it was different. After what happened in March Vanner had a grudge of his own and that made him dangerous. Maybe he should delete Maguire. Not delete exactly, in the manner of Ringo May. Just take him out of the game. No more supply. Cut off the merchandise at a stroke. He could do that. His was the power. Sort of controlling the money supply.
Wasn’t that how Friedman had put it? Take control of supply and let the market fend for itself. But what was the money supply? What was money except a row of digits on a screen or the weight of a plastic card in your wallet. Press a few buttons and you had as much money as you wanted. Friedman was only half right.
He could delete Maguire. He did not want to but he could. The first rule, survival. Expend the expendable. The likes of Maguire did not come easy however. Other money was tighter now. The hostels were doing less business. Only seventy-five from Neasden. Ringo May out of the game and Wembley vacant, ripe for another mover and shaker to take hold. The Boiler Room Gang minus Mickey Blondhair was, as yet, an unknown quantity. A pity too about Johnson. For all his other faults, Johnson had been a performer. But he could afford no mistakes. He could not risk Damien again. His instincts told him he was being attacked: not open and frontal, but the niggling shadow of a sniper.
He considered his options, sitting again at the desk with the headphones plugged in and music alive in his ears. Maybe the suits could go elsewhere and maybe he could find other markets. But he liked the thought of them popping his Ecstasy tablets. The pickups were a problem though. They were watching the box. He had seen them, the fools in their white Escort van with the clothing racks piled in the back. Maybe Vanner would grow bored of such vigilance and take out Maguire himself. Save him the bother of a decision. At least Ringo would be a deterrent. But the Maguires of this world were not that easy to come by. All very well for The Wasp to spread the word through the estates and pick up the odd street thief, or a dealer worthy of a box, but Maguire was a coup in himself.
He thought back to the old days when there had been the three of them, the brains and the brawn and the daring to recruit from the street. Now there was only him. One of them prattish enough to lose it one night and now paying for the consequences, albeit comfortably, with plenty of cash banked for his ‘retirement’. Like so many others he had squandered opportunity. How many times had he seen that? A slip here, a slip there and then back to old ways and another missed opportunity. But one man’s misfortune was another man’s profit. For every winner there were half a dozen losers. Only the strong could survive. At least his silence was guaranteed.
But the third, he was a big-time loser. He should have spotted it years back and checked him once and for all. Loose cannon now, disappearing and reappearing and only the code to protect him.
He stood in the phone box and dialled. When the phone was answered he said: ‘Vanner is watching you.’ He could hear the Irishman breathing on the other end of the line, faint and light but evident. He delighted in the power. Knowledge was power. Information was power. Real power.
‘Who’s Vanner?’
He laughed then. ‘Drug Squad. Didn’t you see him? He watched you dealing in Blake’s bar.’
Maguire sucked breath. ‘You were there?’
‘Evidently.’
‘I never saw you.’
‘Fool,’ he said. The fear was suddenly tangible, a charge coming down the line. ‘He knows you have a box in Barnet.’
‘Nothing’s been delivered.’
‘He knows all the same.’
‘Doesn’t that worry you?’
‘Why should it worry me? Nothing’s been delivered because I haven’t delivered anything. Maybe it should worry you.’
‘What d’you want me to do?’
‘Do? Nothing. Leave it alone. You’ve got a watch. I’ll contact you again when you’re clear.’
‘How long’ll that be?’
‘However long it takes.’
‘But, shit. I’ve commitments. What’ll I do for money?’
‘Get a job.’ He put down the phone.
John Phillips sat in his front room and waited for his wife to come home. He glanced at the window, recently fixed, and wondered how long it would be before it would need fixing again. The police had done nothing. But what could they do? He knew who they were of course, knew where they drank, but could prove nothing against them. His work was suffering. Some of the students were talking. He had heard them, in the refectory when they did not know he was there. If they were talking then some of the staff would be too. The worst of it was walking around with a fear in his gut that seemed to carve out the very middle of him. A fear for his son. A fear for the rest of his family. Anna was only fourteen and already she was terrified to go out on her own. But at least now John was safe. Not out of harm’s way, but safe all the same.
The front door opened and his wife came in. She was unwinding the scarf from her head as he stepped into the hall. ‘Mary,’ he said, and she turned.
‘W
hat is it?’
‘I know where John is.’
She almost visibly wilted, half-closing her eyes. ‘Where?’
‘A police station in Great Yarmouth. He was caught stealing a car.’
Vanner sat in his office. Outside the girls worked on the computers. He glanced through witness statements from Bream Park. Witness statements, no one had seen anything. Not a whisper. Not one word. He sat back, hands on his head and looked through the window at Wainwright. They had gleaned a print from the inside of the surgical glove, but had nothing in the records to match it.
Ryan and China came down the stairs and Ryan lifted a briefcase onto his desk. Vanner went through to the incident room. ‘What’ve you got, Sid?’
‘Enough.’
Vanner looked at the clock on the wall. ‘Tell me about it over a pint.’ He looked at Wainwright. ‘You want a drink, Fred?’
Wainwright shook his head. ‘I’ll man the phones, Guv.’
They went to the Irish pub on the High Road. Vanner helped himself to Ryan’s cigarettes.
‘Terry runs a pretty mean business, Guv,’ Ryan said. ‘Got a yard in Dartford. Down by the new bridge.’
‘I know about the yard. What does he do exactly?’
‘Imports damaged plant, fixes it and sells it on again. Big stuff. Good money in it. Caterpillar mostly. Diggers, dump trucks, that kind of thing.’
Vanner lifted one eyebrow. ‘There’s money in that?’
‘Lots of it, Guv’nor. Tell him, China.’
China rested massive arms on the table. ‘The secondhand plant market is huge,’ he said. ‘Like Slippery says: diggers, lorries, excavators. Some of those big Cats are worth half a million apiece.’
‘Where does he get them?’
‘All over the world. Seems a lot of stuff gets damaged. It’s sold off by insurance companies and generally ends up at auction.’
‘Where?’
China smiled then. ‘There’s one big Auction house, Guv’nor. Merricks. They have one in the States, one here and a really big one in Amsterdam.’
Vanner looked at Ryan.
‘Yes, Guv’nor. Spends a lot of time there too. He’s been three times in the last two months.’
‘Where else does he go?’
‘The States.’
‘Customs know about him?’
‘Only as a plant dealer.’ Ryan leaned his elbows on the table and took a long draught of his beer. ‘He brings the kit in from Holland and then has spares shipped in from the States. Crates of engine parts. The bulk he uses—it saves him a fortune. They cost a packet if you go through the dealers.’
Vanner tore the edges off a beer mat. ‘Holland and America.’ He looked again at China. ‘What does he do with the stuff when it’s fixed?’
‘Sells it on. Some in this country. Some of it goes to Israel. Some to South Africa. It all seems to come through Dartford though. He’s got two rigid-body Cats in his yard now. That’s a quarter of a million on the market. He seems to sell a lot to South America.’
‘Where in South America?’
‘Colombia mostly.’
Vanner sat back. ‘Gallyon.’
Ryan lifted his hands. ‘Deals big-time with Colombia according to Jimmy Crack and the Regional. But he imports, Guv. Not exports.’
Vanner looked at his empty glass and China went to the bar. Vanner leaned forward. ‘You’ve been busy, Sid.’
‘There’s more. We’ve been digging into his past.’
‘And?’
‘Seems he was a serious City boy in the eighties. We reckon he’s about thirty-eight. Started out as a stockbroker. From Romford originally. Sort of bloke Norman Tebbitt would’ve been proud of. You know—Got on his bike. Anyway, big-time braces boy. Made a few quid and then got into property. Some of the big development deals that were done in the late eighties.’
China set fresh drinks on the table.
‘He went bust,’ Vanner said.
Ryan shook his head. ‘Not bust. Never bankrupt. Done for fraud. Not very serious when you consider some of them. It broke him though, lost a bloody great house in Hampstead and all the rest of his assets.’ He sat forward. ‘Had a wife and kid apparently. Upped and dumped them when things went wrong.’ He paused for a moment and said: ‘He’s a good-looking bastard right?’
‘Yeah. So?’
‘So, when it all went wrong he cleared off with this sort from a record company. Samantha Clay. President of one of the UK subsidiaries of a Yank parent company. Anyway he dumped said wife and kid, shagged this Clay bird a few times and Bingo, he’s playing again.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘Don’t know, Guv. But she’s not on his arm any more.’
Back in the incident room Anne was sitting with McCleod. Pierce was there, a DC from AMIP, who had been back out to the Estate. He stood up as Vanner came in. Vanner nodded to him and looked back at Ryan. ‘Get onto the record companies, Slippery. I want to find this Clay woman.’ He looked back at Pierce. ‘What’ve you got?’
‘I think I’ve got a car, Guv’nor.’
Pierce told him he had taken a statement from an old man who had seen two men driving away from the estate at four o’clock on the morning of the murder. He could not sleep and had been making a cup of tea in his kitchen. He had no number but the car had been grey or silver and he thought it was a BMW. He had seen the two men however, although not clearly. One was black and the other white. Both had very long hair.
Vanner leaned a fist on the table. ‘Nice one, Pierce,’ he said. ‘How’d you get him to talk?’
Pierce shrugged. ‘Just knocked on his door, Guv.’
Vanner lifted one eyebrow. ‘That’s a first for Bream Park. Someone prepared to say something.’
‘Old school,’ Pierce said. ‘From Jamaica in the fifties. Pentecostal church and all that. You know the type.’
‘Isn’t he worried that someone might have a go?’
‘Trusts in the Lord.’ Pierce made a face. ‘Says he’s never seen the car before. Bit of a watcher. Sees most things he reckons.’
Vanner sat on the edge of the desk. ‘Somebody coming in from outside? Must be bloody sure of themselves.’
‘I’ve got him coming down in the morning. We’re going to look at some pictures. Don’t know how reliable he’s going to be mind. He’s knocking on a bit.’
‘Show him all the pictures you want.’
Anne stuck her head around Vanner’s door. ‘We’ve lost surveillance again, Guv. Can’t do anything till Friday.’
Vanner shook his head wearily.
‘I don’t think it matters really. Plot’s waste of space. Maguire hasn’t been near the box. I’ve talked to the teller. Nothing’s been delivered or collected for at least a couple of weeks.’
Vanner drew up his brows. It was two weeks since this investigation began, two weeks since he had spoken to Lisa Morgan. He stared at the wall and wondered. Ryan tapped on the door. ‘Samantha Clay, Guv. The lady boss of the record company. She isn’t a boss any more.’
‘Got an address?’
‘Maida Vale.’
Vanner nodded. ‘We’ll talk to her tomorrow.’
John Phillips’ mother looked across the interview room at her son. His face was pale, thin in the cheek with dark hollows crawling beneath his eyes. He needed feeding. She fought all at once with her tears. ‘Why, John?’ she said.
He chewed hard at his nails, looked at the floor then at his father. ‘You getting hassle from them, Dad?’
His father opened his mouth to speak and his wife’s glance burned his cheek. ‘You just worry about yourself, lad. I can take care of the rest.’
‘How much do you owe, John?’ his mother asked him.
‘Five grand.’
She sat back and looked at him.
‘They bothering you for it?’
She took his hands and squeezed. ‘Don’t worry about us, son. We’re just glad you’re safe.’
‘How’s Anna?’ John said.
‘They threatened to do things to Anna.’
‘Anna’s fine,’ his father said. ‘She’s with your Nan.’
‘Nan. Jesus. I haven’t seen her in ages.’
‘She’s fine too.’
‘Must be her birthday soon.’
‘Next week.’
John nodded, thumb once more at his lip. ‘Get her a card or something from me will you. Tell her I’m sorry.’ He looked back at his mother and his seventeen-year-old face suddenly showed all of its youth. ‘I am sorry, Mum.’
The constable stirred at the door. Phillips looked up at him. ‘Just a few more minutes please.’
The constable nodded and moved back again. Phillips said: ‘What happens to you now?’
‘Magistrate’s court in the morning.’
‘Will you get bail?’
John sighed. ‘I doubt it. I was already on bail remember.’
His father sat back. He could feel the frustration welling up inside him. There was nothing he could do. This was his son and there was nothing at all he could do.
‘They reckon I’ll get remanded someplace.’
‘Where?’
‘Norwich Prison probably.’
His mother passed a hand across her face and now she did sob. John leaned forward but she held up a palm. ‘I’m all right,’ she said.
His father looked him in the eye. ‘You can handle it, son.’
John suddenly grinned. ‘If you can’t do the time don’t do the crime.’ His mother took his hands in hers again. ‘We’ll visit you.’
He nodded. ‘Are you going back now—to London, I mean?’
His father shook his head. ‘We’ll book into a guesthouse. Be there to support you tomorrow.’
Terry undressed Lisa. Normally he liked to watch her undress herself, but he wanted control tonight. He stood in front of her and unbuttoned her shirt, slowly, one-handed, the other tightened in a fist at his side. He pulled her shirt clear of one shoulder, revealing her breast, the nipple puckering beneath the movement of his fingers. He squeezed hard and smiled. When she was naked he stepped back and looked at her, his nostrils flaring slightly.
