Top Hard

by Stephen Booth

  "The description he gave us of the two suspects sounded a lot like you and Underwood here."

  "Ah now. Perhaps I can help you there then," I said. "You remember that bloke, Dave?"

  Dave grunted. He didn't remember anything, but he knew he was being spoken to.

  "There was this little foreign bloke," I said. "Jumped in our car in a layby on the A1. We reckoned he just wanted a lift, and we thought we'd help him out. As you do."

  "Oh yes? Very admirable." Moxon's face was expressionless. "And where did you give him a lift to?"

  "Well, that was the funny thing. We couldn't figure out what he was saying to us at all. Come to think of it, he might have been French. But me and Dave, you know, we're not educated. So we had a communication problem, like they say. In the end, he started to get stroppy. Shouting and that. So we stopped and made him get out, thought he might be a nutter, you know. You can't be too careful these days, can you? But that's what you get for being a Good Samaritan."

  "This place you stopped. Would it have been a derelict pit site?"

  "We were passing."

  "Passing?"

  "I like to go there, to reminisce. My dad was a miner, you know."

  "Yes. How poignant."

  I waited. Words like 'poignant' seem to dry up the sentences in my mouth. Moxon waited too, but he had less patience.

  "So that's your story, is it?"

  "Does it help?"

  "And you, Underwood? I suppose your version is the same?"

  "Yeah," said Dave.

  Moxon sighed. "I want you both to come down to the station some time in the next forty-eight hours and make a statement."

  "'Course, mate. No problem."

  "And I'll be in touch if I think you can help me any further."

  "A pleasure."

  Moxon stood up to go, his tie clashing with his sergeant's like a couple of garish tropical fish in a tank full of sticklebacks.

  "By the way, McClure," he said. "I met a friend of yours the other day."

  "Oh yeah?"

  "Funny, isn't it? I just popped into that travel agent's on Ollerton Road to make some inquiries for my summer holidays next year. We fancy Turkey. Have you ever been to Turkey, McClure? No, I don't suppose so. Anyway this travel agent's was recommended to me by a friend, you might say. A friend of mine, that is - not yours. And the young lady in there was very knowledgeable, and somehow we got chatting. It turns out she knows you very well. Very well indeed. Quite a coincidence, it was."

  Moxon smiled at me. When he did that, his little moustache climbed towards his glasses like a furry centipede slithering over damp stones.

  "I promised her we'd have a nice long chat some time. Swap a few reminiscences, that sort of thing. I think it should prove very interesting for us both. I'm sure she's the sort of person who's absolutely bursting with useful information."

  After Moxon had drifted out, with Stubbs grinning behind him, Slow Kid was the first to recover.

  "What's he on about?" he said. "He's got nothing on you, Stones. He must have been joking, wasn't he?"

  I lifted my tequila. Suddenly it seemed just as tasteless and depressing as Baggy Prentiss's beer.

  "Actually," I said, "I don't think he was."

  6

  Next morning there was business to do. Sunday business.

  Well, Sunday never really was a day of rest. Even all that praying and confessing they used to get up to all day long must have been real hard work. Once I was on holiday on the West coast of Scotland and got dragged along to one of their Free Church of Scotland services. We were damned and abused so thoroughly from the pulpit for a couple of hours that we all went home exhausted. I felt as though I'd just gone five rounds with a spiritual Mike Tyson. So don't tell me Sunday is a day of rest. We peasants have always known different. Before and after they went to church, my ancestors still had to milk the cows, plough the field, scrub the floors, empty the cesspit, and make their masters' breakfast, in that order. There were convenient exceptions in God's rules about the Sabbath to allow your servants to do all those things.

  These days, you can do almost anything on a Sunday, including all the things that are specifically forbidden in the Ten Commandments. Most of them have become a commercial necessity, in fact. 'Thou shalt not covet thy neighbours' goods' has become 'Get thee down to B and Q and get some new kitchen units that are better than hers next door'. These are the commandments of the new gods - envy and greed. They're a lot more fun to follow than the old boring ones.

  Not that I'm complaining, don't get me wrong. Envy and greed are what make my life worth living. There's money in them sins. And on Sunday the sin business is booming. Me, I stick to the cheaper end of the iniquity scale. You'll find me doing my bit in that growth industry of the 1990s - the car boot sales and Sunday markets.

  It's incredible what some folk will do at the prospect of a bargain. The chance of saving a few pence on something they don't really want seems to turn their brains to strawberry jam. It never seems to occur to them that they could save even more money by not buying that old sink in the first place, or by leaving those Val Doonican 78s where they are on the trestle table with the rest of the tat.

  No, round these parts folk are up and about before dawn, lurking around the car boot sites waiting for the pitch holders to arrive, shining their torches into the cars like highwaymen, weighing up the contents. Arriving and setting up your pitch at one of these places can be life threatening. The punters descend on you like vultures, haggling with you and sneering at your prices. Some of them are traders themselves, who think they can sell your tatty bits of china for a few pence more than they bought them for. Others just live really sad lives.

  But the rush is over in the first couple of hours, and then you're left to stand around in the drizzle smelling the hotdogs and onions and the wet anoraks until it's time to go home.

  And all of this stuff they're buying is crap, of course. The grottiest dross that you can dig out of your attic or scrape off the shelf at the back of the garage is meant to be a bargain for someone. You'd be amazed at the stuff some folk collect. Jampot lids, milk bottles, postcards of Skegness from your Auntie Gladys, 1950s knitting patterns, old spark plugs, used hair grips. Don't believe it? You name it, and there's some punter desperate to waste his money on it. Having a load of junk cluttering up your attic or your garage is one thing - they tell me it can happen to anyone once you get domesticated. But at least it's your own junk. Buying up other people's junk to put in your attic is just so sad it almost brings tears to my eyes while I'm paying the money in at the bank.

  Sunday markets are a bit different. A bit more up-market, if you like. There's still the same punters out to get something cheap. But the people getting them to part with their dosh aren't the car boot amateurs any more, they're professionals. And where you've got professionals about in this business, you're likely to find Stones McClure. I think of myself as a sort of Premier League football manager. The pros go out there to do the work and score the goals, so they can bring home the trophies. But they couldn't do it without me organising the business end, deciding the tactics, getting the best out of them, sussing the opposition. It's hard work, and a lot of responsibility. Of course, I take my share of the cash bonuses too. That's only fair.

  There's a Sunday market near Medensworth that's one of my best money earners. I won't tell you which one it is - there are plenty of them in this part of the world, so you'll have to visit them all to find it. You'll have a good time doing it, though. I never said there was no fun in being fleeced, did I? This is Sunday - so I want you to enjoy yourselves, right?

  The police do a good job at these markets. As you drive up the road, they practically force you to turn off into the site, where the market boys charge you for parking in a muddy field. If you try to drive straight past, the fuzz glare at you as if you'd just gone through sixteen red lights. God help you if one of your brake lights isn't working. After all, you must be mad to drive round here a
t this time of the morning if you're not going to the Sunday market. Through all this traffic? Definitely suspicious.

  As far as I'm concerned, it's only at times like these that the cops make themselves useful. They're actually helping the less fortunate to make a living here. Careful - that could be frowned on by the bosses.

  When I got to the site that morning, it was already full of punters. The fields were lined with cars, and the sound of money changing hands was deafening. The first stall I checked out was down at the end of one of the main aisles. It was loaded with leather jackets and handbags, belts and purses and wallets. Did I say leather? Well, you know what I mean.

  The stall was run by Ernie and Stella. They're into leather in a big way. Selling it, that is. The kids come in droves to buy the stuff, and think they're conning the old pair. It's good to let someone think they're shafting you. It makes them less likely to come back and complain when they find out it was the other way round.

  Ernie and Stella are a lovely couple. Ernie is an ex-miner gone to seed - a big, beer-bellied bloke without much hair left and a grin that is more gap than tooth. Stella looks much the same, but with more hair. She was attending to a group of giggly teenage girls when I arrived, but gave me a big wink from among the racks of jackets.

  "Now then, Stones. How you doing?" said Ernie. "What can I sell you? Nice leather waistcoat?"

  This is Ernie's idea of a hilarious joke. He says it every time. But I never claimed he was a comic genius, did I?

  "How's business, Ernie?"

  "Brilliant, brilliant."

  This was all I wanted to hear. After a bit of small talk and a wave to Stella, I moved on, letting a couple of bikers get to the stall to try out their smirks.

  Down the aisle a bit were Carl and Vince, two brothers who once ran a joinery business until the building industry ground to a halt. They were in their late forties and not likely to get a job, but both had families to keep. Now they were selling watches and jewellery.

  "It's been quiet in the summer, but it'll build up now for Christmas, I reckon," said Carl, re-arranging the jewellery with a hand more used to handling a saw. "We won't be complaining. And neither will you."

  Down the line again was Marlene, with two of her five kids helping her out on the display of shirts and socks, underwear and handkerchiefs. Some of this stuff looked like Marks and Spencers surplus. Maybe it actually was. Maybe that was a pig flying by, wearing a St Michael's vest.

  Sometimes people have the nerve to tell me there might be a problem with the Counterfeit Goods Act. What I say is, if there's a problem with the Counterfeit Goods Act they should have worded it properly in the first place, instead of bothering blokes like me about it.

  Marlene had been with me a long time, even before her old bloke was killed when a load of pallets fell on him at the warehouse he worked in. She was too busy at the stall to talk, but gave me a big smile and a thumbs up as I paused. The kids waved too. One big happy family. But I was thinking mainly of the punters' cash going into the canvass pockets slung round Marlene's waist.

  Over the far side of the field was the area set aside for car-booters. This part of the event seems to get bigger all the time. It's mainly for amateurs, of course, but there are definitely a few pros in there. I know, because it's where I made my start. Now look at me - I never use my car boot for anything but keeping the spare wheel in. That's success, that is.

  I went to do a check on Marky Benn's set-up - radios, cassette players, telephones, electric alarm clocks and hair driers, stuff like that. Small electrical items. Easy to shift, and pretty easy to get hold of too, usually. This is one of the most profitable stalls. As I arrived, Marky was flogging a radio alarm clock to a woman who looked as though she had more trouble sleeping than waking up. Her face was pasty and lined, and her hair hung in greasy strands either side of her forehead. She looked so tired and worn out that I wanted to offer her a chair. She was all of twenty-one, but she had three kids in tow.

  Mind you, Marky wouldn't be one to criticise the looks of his customers. His years working in a gypsum quarry had left their mark on his skin, white dust getting deep into his pores like the black coal dust that taints the skin of miners, making them look as though they're wearing eye liner. In Marky's case, his eyes had suffered worst. An allergy, he said, that he'd taken no notice of for years because he needed the job. Now his eyeballs looked like rotten tomatoes, swollen to unnatural size by the thick lenses of his glasses. He coughed like a miner, too - long, rasping barks that hurt the ears. Marky hadn't been able to hold down his quarry job for a while now, but he still had a family to support and a mortgage to pay. He seemed to be making a good job of the electrical goods stall.

  "Everything all right, Marky?"

  "Things are going great, Stones," he said, turning his awful eyes towards me. "This stuff sells really well. Can't get enough of some items."

  "Yeah? Like what?"

  "CD players. That's the thing they're all asking for at the minute. I sold out last week, but folk keep asking for 'em all day long."

  "I'll see what we can do about that."

  "Ta."

  Finally I went to see Jean and her daughter Wendy, selling perfumes and cosmetics in bottles with familiar names. People were trying out the samples, sniffing and nodding approvingly and opening their purses without hesitation. None of them would know the difference between a counterfeit and the real thing if it jumped up and bit them. Just shows that folk only pay for the name. Jean and Wendy were right there on the main drag the same as Marky Benn, two really good pitches. All satisfactory. There were plenty of folk about, so many that in places you could hardly get by in the crush.

  As I walked back towards the car park, I passed a small crowd gathered round a sort of covered pulpit, where a bloke in a blue suit and a short haircut was demonstrating a fancy device that could slice carrots, peel apples, chip potatoes and probably boil water for tea as well, all at the same time. His patter was non-stop, and he had the admiring housewives in fits of giggles. Soon he would have their hard-earned cash out of their purses, and maybe later on he would have the knickers off one or two of them as well. God, I really hate crooks.

  * * * *

  Slow Kid was waiting for me by the car, trying to look cool and inconspicuous at the same time. He doesn't like Sunday markets and car boot sales. He has bigger ideas, does Slow.

  "Stones. Are we out of here or what? These places give me the creeps."

  "Sure, let's go."

  He hopped in the car, pleased to be behind the wheel again. He'd been wasting his life as a boy racer when I found him. Burning up somebody else's rubber on the old pit roads at the back of the Forest. But at least he'd been the best of them, and the fastest. That's why they called him Slow Kid.

  He set off across the grass eagerly, but soon had to jam on the brakes and change down to first gear when he got near the exit. You don't get out of a Sunday market that fast - especially when everybody else wants to do the same thing. We got a glower from the special constable on duty as he waved us away. I'm sure some of these boys must be on commission. Get 'em in and don't let 'em leave.

  It being Sunday, we didn't head straight for the pub. Instead, we met up with Dave in Medensworth's top caff, the Riviera. Dave was already halfway through the contents of the kitchen, but there was probably a few crumbs left for us.

  As soon as we were settled at a table, I lost no time getting straight to the point. This thing had been niggling me ever since Friday night.

  "Okay. Spill it, Slow Kid."

  "What?"

  Slow looked suddenly as if he'd like to leave, but it just so happened that he was sitting between Dave and the window, with me opposite him. He was trapped, and I wanted to know what was eating him. But he didn't always get on with Dave, and maybe he didn't want to talk in front of him.

  "Dave, are you awake?"

  "Eh? Yeah."

  "Fetch me a cup of tea then. And one of those Danish pastry things, you know."


  "Right, Stones."

  "And plenty of milk in the tea, but no sugar. Got it?"

  "Yeah."

  Dave struggled painfully for several seconds to extricate himself from the narrow gap between the bolted-down chairs and the table. He seemed to have added several pounds to his already massive bulk while he'd been sitting there. One day he'd get stuck completely and they'd have to send for the fire brigade with cutting gear to get him out.

  Dave might not look too bright, and his education definitely owes more to Teddy's Amusement Arcade than King Edward Grammar School. A lot more time spent in greasy friers than the Dreaming Spires. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, our Dave. But he does have a memory like an ox.

  I watched him wander off towards the counter, then swerve with the grace of a drunken elephant to bring him closer to a tattooed waitress. You could see she was a Worksop lass. They look pretty much like Mansfield women, but they have a better class of tattoos.

  Then I saw Dave drop her a massive wink. If women like that could blush, she would have been beetroot. Her biceps rippled alluringly, and a heart tattoo glinted. After food, muscle-bound women were Doncaster Dave's major weakness. I'd be lucky to get my tea before the tannin ate its way through the polystyrene cup.

  "Go on then, Slow," I said.

  "What do you mean, Stones?"

  "I mean, what do you know about those people with the load of Reeboks? You recognised that lad with the flat-top, didn't you? Right?"

  "Yeah, I did," he admitted. "His name's Josh Lee."

  The name Lee made me think of a certain family of travellers who move around Nottinghamshire in small convoys of caravans towed by vans and flat-bed trucks. They park up on grass verges, disused forecourts, even school playing fields - any acre of accessible ground, but preferably belonging to a district or county council, because it takes that much longer for them to get moved on. It drives the local residents wild of course, being as how the travellers never seem to have to pay Council Tax, road tax or income tax. North Notts seems to get more than its fair share of them, and the Lees got a few lessons to teach blokes like me about how to stay the wrong side of the law without getting caught.