by Paul Finch
‘Bill, you put this outfit together on the understanding everyone would have a certain degree of autonomy. We all sit at the same boardroom table, we all have the same ambition, but it’s always been the case that each one of these guys is a gaffer in his own right, too.’
Pentecost affected a puzzled expression. ‘Are you lecturing me about something I invented?’
‘What I’m trying to say is they’re loyal. But that we can’t take that loyalty for granted.’
Pentecost headed for the door in the frosted glass wall partitioning the boardroom from his own office. He went through, leaving the door open for McCracken to follow.
The Chairman’s office, or the Head Office as it was usually referred to, wasn’t used a great deal, hence it existed in a permanent near-pristine state, its blocks of shelving lined with books, mostly legal and business tomes (which, from time to time, Pentecost actually read), but everything else hinting more at luxury: it had a plush carpet, expensive artwork on its wood-panelled walls, a seventy-inch hi-def television, a row of carved Italian chairs and, in the very centre, dominating everything, a huge, leather-topped desk with a neat stack of phoney paperwork at one end and a desktop computer at the other.
Pentecost strode to the drinks cabinet in the corner, where he filled two large tumblers with ice cubes and poured malt whisky from a crystal decanter.
‘You know what I’m talking about, Bill,’ McCracken said from the doorway. ‘Lennie could close the entire Port of Liverpool to us. So how would Terry Underwood bring in his knock-off Italian dresses and shoes? You think the Camorra would be happy to put business on hold for as long as it takes us to buy another port? What about the Triads when it comes to knock-off tech from China? Aside from that, we get a cut of everything that comes through the docks. The merchants are happy to pay, the shipping lines are happy to pay – anything for a smooth operation. And when we don’t get it, we steal it. What happens if all that dries up? And how would it impact on the narcotraffic? Toni would need to find a completely new way to import his product. Most likely, he’d go off and do his own thing. That’d be half our most lucrative operations down the toilet at the same time. Plus, if Lennie and Toni walk, it’ll cost us the streets … we’ll lose our eyes, our ears, our noses. Meanwhile, Nicky and his vice girls are worth ten million to us each year alone. What if that cashflow dries up too?’
‘And when will all this happen, do you think?’ The Chairman offered McCracken his drink.
‘I’m not saying it will.’ McCracken took the glass. ‘I’ve not heard a sniff of rebel talk. But it could happen. That’s just common sense, isn’t it? And look, Bill … I wouldn’t be saying all this if me and you didn’t go right back. You’ve got my firm promise, my solemn guarantee that whatever happens, I’ll stand with you. You know you can always rely on me. But if it was two of us against the rest …’
Pentecost regarded him coolly. ‘You seriously think I haven’t considered this possibility, Frank? You think I haven’t got contingency plans?’
On reflection, McCracken didn’t think that for one minute, and had a fairly good idea what any such plans would entail. Bill Pentecost was nothing if not a forward thinker, especially where supporters whose loyalty might be suspect were concerned. For all the Crew’s underbosses knew, any one of them could be sleeping in a house that might, at the touch of a match, become an escape-proof crematorium, or driving cars that could blow themselves to smithereens at the flick of a switch.
‘We just don’t want a civil war,’ McCracken said, trying to sound as reasonable as possible. ‘Not with everything else that’s happening. Let the lads keep the skim. It helps them to pay their soldiers and runners in cash. And it gives them a bit extra to play with.’
‘I think that’s the real issue, don’t you, Frank?’ The Chairman sipped his malt. ‘A bit of personal belt-tightening never goes down well.’
‘Why should they do that? They’ve earned these extras.’
‘They’ll be earning nothing if these foreign nuisances continue to encroach on our territory.’
‘I’m not pretending that isn’t an issue, Bill. But why take it out on the lads?’
‘Because the lads, as you call them, are not pulling their weight.’
McCracken pointed at the window. ‘The enemy’s out there, not in here.’
‘The enemy won’t meet us in open battle. Instead, he strikes us here, there, everywhere … whenever we aren’t looking. But we need to be looking, Frank. That’s my point. We need to be. All of us. If my own captains can’t do that, the men who take a fortune out of this company every year for their own private pleasures, what fucking use are they?’
‘Bill, come on … you know as well as I do that this is no straightforward war. Like you say, it’s slow encroachment … and it’s happening everywhere. It’s the way things are, it’s a new age of crime …’
‘And we don’t have a role any more. Is that what you’re saying?’
McCracken placed his whisky on the desk; he hadn’t touched a drop so far.
‘We need to negotiate,’ he said. ‘It won’t be difficult. Look … the Russians, the Mexicans, whoever it happens to be, they don’t want a major scrap any more than we do.’
‘So we should accept slavery?’
‘No … but how about an equal partnership? Look, Frank … this is happening the world over. Yeah, there are occasional flare-ups, but most firms are finding out that if they’re prepared to sit down at the table and talk with these guys, deals can be done.’
‘There’s a problem, though, Frank.’ Pentecost seated himself behind his desk. ‘You see, the Crew only exists as an entity if we’re considered to be rule-makers, not rule-takers. And to be honest, I’m surprised I have to remind you of this.’
‘How can we maintain that if we fall out among ourselves?’
‘We won’t be falling out among ourselves.’
‘Maybe not.’
‘Definitely not.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Because we took a vote on it.’
‘That vote was coerced.’
Pentecost’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Really?’
‘Okay, maybe not coerced. But the lads are all going home now, where they’ll sit and have a good think about it … and in a short while they’ll be steaming.’
Pentecost pondered this.
‘Come on, Bill,’ McCracken coaxed him. ‘You know this. You don’t need me to say it.’
‘If that’s the case, the only conclusion can be that even more stick is required.’
‘Bill … are you not listening to me?’
‘Frank … I think it’s you who’s not really listening to me. The way I see things, the lads have already had plenty carrot. A bit of stick too, I’ll admit. But evidently not nearly enough.’
McCracken couldn’t say anything else, and he didn’t really need to. His disbelieving expression said it all.
‘Your concern is noted.’ The Chairman sat back in his swivel-chair, fingers steepled. ‘And I’ve absolutely no doubt that should any of our … lads come to you with any kind of complaint, much less a scheme of any sort, you’ll report it to me forthwith.’
‘Yeah.’ McCracken gave a small shrug. ‘Sure.’
‘I’m so glad.’ Pentecost smiled, and because it was something he did rarely and was so unpractised at, it looked more than a little deranged. ‘Your loyalty to the company is most welcome … even if it’s only to be expected.’
Chapter 7
Raimunda was the ultimate platinum blonde.
Her glorious mane hung to the small of her back, her 38-24-38 figure accentuated by her body-hugging, electro-pink minidress, while her matching pink six-inch platform-heel sandals, which elevated her five-foot-ten inches to an intimidating six-foot-two, added what seemed like miles of luscious, shapely leg. As always, her sultry looks were daubed in makeup: blusher on the cheeks, thick kohl rimming her sapphire eyes, cherry gloss on the lips.
Clari
ssa had something even more exotic about her.
Her locks were shiny and tar-black. She was olive-skinned, her enchanting golden eyes almond-shaped, her cheekbones delicate, her mouth small but sensual, though ripened tonight with purple lip-glow. She was a similar shape to Raimunda: tall, almost unfeasibly so for a woman, but equally curvaceous. An archetypal Amazon warrior, her outfit comprised a green zip-sided miniskirt, a green camisole top and strappy shoes with six-inch clear heels.
The pair of them walked with an elegant sway even as they tiptoed through the grotty yard at the back of the terraced inner-Manchester residence. They kept it sexy – that was their stock-in-trade – but it was dark, so they also had to be wary of tripping over stacks of bricks, or sacks crammed with broken masonry.
‘I’ll see you next Monday,’ Dean Chesham said from the open back door behind them. He was a muscular young black guy, film-star handsome, clad only in a pair of red silk undershorts. Despite the evening chill, his strong, stocky physique was slick with sweat.
They replied with lazy waves as they vanished through the back gate. Grinning to himself, Dean went back into the house.
The air indoors was cooling fast, because there was no central heating installed yet. He’d only recently had the electrics turned back on, because the darker nights were drawing in. For the most part, the house was a shell, its interior stripped to the bare bricks and boards. Only the back bedroom had any semblance of habitability. Dean padded back upstairs and walked down the landing towards it, towelling off with a stained and scruffy T-shirt. In normal circumstances, he’d have preferred a shower, but there were two good reasons why that wasn’t in tonight’s programme. Firstly, it would suit him to look sweaty when he finally got home; secondly, there was no running water.
The back bedroom was still bereft of wallpaper, plus it wasn’t very large. Dean had just about managed to get a three-quarter-size double bed into it, and this was currently a mess, its mattress askew, its sheets tangled, clothes draped all over it. He pulled on a T-shirt and climbed into a pair of torn jeans with dried paint on them. Equally paint-stained was the dusty old sweat-top he put on over his T-shirt. He sat on the bed to knot the laces on his workboots, then he hit the light switch and headed along the landing, grabbing his L-Quad leather jacket from the newel post at the top of the stairs. Before going outside, he made sure to pull his hood up. Though cooler now that it was autumn, it wasn’t cold. But he still had to get to the car without being recognised.
Exiting by the back door, he made his careful way across the cluttered yard. Out in the alley, a beaten-up Honda Civic waited for him. It had been around the mileage clock at least twice, but Dean didn’t mind being seen in such a heap. It wouldn’t stand out, and still had sufficient life left under its bonnet to get him quietly and unobtrusively back to the lock-up garage he rented in Styal, where he’d swap it for his black-and-red Range Rover Evoque.
Seventy-five big ones, that beauty had cost him. Even if he hadn’t thought it would attract undue attention, he couldn’t have risked bringing it to this neighbourhood. And perhaps it was ironic he was thinking this, because he now turned left through the gate into the alley, and the first thing he saw was a man loitering in the narrow space between the wall and the Honda’s front nearside door.
Dean halted, but more through puzzlement than fear.
Lights shone from the windows of some of the surrounding houses with just enough strength to show that, whoever this guy was, he didn’t look threatening. He was about average height, average build, with neatly combed silver hair over a thin, pinched face, and a trim silver-grey moustache. He wore a buttoned-up Burberry trenchcoat, and underneath that a shirt and tie. Dean glanced down, spying well-pressed trousers with proper creases in them, and leather shoes.
He ventured forward, fishing the car keys from his jacket pocket, but then he spied a second man standing behind the first. This second guy was about the same height as the other, but twice the width. He too wore a jacket and tie, but it bulged around a massive body, while his collar hung open on a neck the girth of a tree-trunk. He had cauliflower ears, a dented nose and small eyes beneath heavy bone brows. He was younger than the first guy, probably somewhere in his mid-forties, with a dense, matted beard and moustache.
‘If it isn’t Black Lightning,’ the guy in the trenchcoat said. By his accent, he was a Manchester man, but it was modified, refined.
‘Do I know you?’ Dean replied.
Trenchcoat looked worried. ‘Sorry, that isn’t racist, is it – Black Lightning? Isn’t that what they call you on the Stretford End?’
‘That’s what they call me, yeah.’
‘Good. Thought so.’
‘If you don’t mind …’ Dean pointed his key at the Honda, but Trenchcoat stayed where he was.
‘Your footwork’s seriously amazing,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen you dance through defences like … well, like no one did since the days of Georgie Best.’
Dean glanced again at the Neanderthal visage of the bearded guy behind him. Then he became aware that a third character had circled into view around the other side of the car. This one too was in his forties; he also wore a suit and tie, but was rangy of frame, with a hatchet nose and a messy thatch of dirty blond hair. He now stood directly behind the footballer, blocking any possible retreat.
‘Okay, listen …’ Dean backed into the brick wall. ‘You fellas surely realise I don’t carry money round with me? I mean, I’ve got a few quid.’ He dug into his jeans pocket. ‘You can take that.’
‘I’m surprised you’ve got any left after tonight,’ Trenchcoat said.
Dean offered him a tightly wound roll of twenties. ‘Just take it, yeah?’
‘Relax, Lightning. We’re not here to rob you.’
‘Yeah?’ Dean’s nervous gaze flicked back and forth between them. ‘Well, I’m sure this isn’t a welcome-to-the-neighbourhood party.’
‘More like welcome-to-the-jungle round here,’ the bearded one said. He was Mancunian too, though much more obviously. ‘Ideal for the kinds of tricks you get up to, eh?’
‘Look,’ Dean said. ‘I don’t know what you fellas think you know.’ He thumbed at the house on the other side of the wall. ‘I’m just doing this place up.’
‘Yeah, we’ve heard,’ Trenchcoat said. ‘Your little retirement plan, isn’t it? You’ve been buying run-down houses all over the Northwest, doing them up till they’re spanking new and selling them on at considerable profit.’
‘Nothing illegal about that,’ Dean ventured.
‘Course not,’ Trenchcoat agreed. ‘But I’d like to bet that none of the houses you’ve officially bought so far are quite as run-down as this one, eh?’
‘I’ve officially bought this one.’
Trenchcoat half-smiled. ‘When I say “officially” … I mean, as in your lovely wife, Lydia, knowing about it. Oh, I’m sure she’s well aware and totally approves of this safety net you’re putting together for when your playing days are over. But the problem is, Lightning … she thinks it means houses round Knutsford, Didsbury and Altrincham, doesn’t she? I bet she’d be stunned to know you’ve got a new pad in the backstreets of Withington.’
‘Okay, it’s a shed.’ Dean shrugged. ‘But we’ll still make money when we’ve done it up.’
‘You’re a great footballer, Dean,’ the blond guy said, speaking for the first time; his accent was more Cheshire than Manchester. ‘But you’re not too smart if you seriously think we don’t know what’s going on here.’
‘You believe in quality, I’ll say that for you,’ Beard added. ‘That Clarissa bird. Bloody hell … you’d never know she was a bloke. And Raimunda! Some dong, that. John fucking Holmes in drag.’
‘John Holmes, Lightning,’ Trenchcoat said. ‘Remember him? No, course you don’t. Too young. There are similarities between you and him, nevertheless. For example …’ He drew a leather-gloved hand from his pocket; it contained an iPhone. ‘You’ve both been immortalised in naughty films.’
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An MPEG began running. It had been shot from several different angles, all of which were most likely covert, but it was in full colour and painfully clear. It was also full of action, a ‘highlights reel’, snippets of different sessions involving either Dean and Raimunda, Dean and Clarissa, or more usually Dean and both of them, each sequence trimmed to the bare essentials and then edited together.
Fleetingly, the footballer was too numb to respond.
‘All right …’ he finally said. ‘All right, you’ve caught me. But I’m not sure this’ll be quite as damaging as you fellas seem to think. Raimunda and Clarissa are trans women. Yeah … so what? It’s not so shocking these days.’
‘That’s true.’ Trenchcoat pocketed his iPhone. ‘We live in a very inclusive age. But the problem is, Lightning … you’re a married man. And your wife, Lydia, well … she’s been wondering for some time where you’ve been disappearing to for two or three nights a week. So she asked us to find out.’
‘You’re saying you’re private detectives?’ Dean wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or even more horrified.
‘Good job it doesn’t take you that long to get to the back of the net,’ Beard chipped in. ‘Otherwise, no one’d give a shit what you get up to in this secret nookie nest of yours.’
‘She doesn’t trust you, pal,’ Hatchet Nose said. ‘She never has.’
Trenchcoat smiled again. ‘When Lydia married you, Lightning, she knew she’d landed on her feet … and she was in it for the long haul. She was going to milk it for everything she could … even if it ended up in the divorce court—’
‘Wait a minute,’ Dean interrupted, glimpsing hope. ‘Just wait … you’re saying she doesn’t suspect anything specific? She’s just watching me?’
‘She half suspects,’ Trenchcoat said.
‘You must admit, you’ve been away from home a lot recently,’ Hatchet Nose added.
‘And if she’s not getting it in the bedroom, which she presumably isn’t,’ Beard said, ‘she’s going to wonder.’
