by David Mark
Taken aback, Grace starts to say she’ll have nothing, she’s fine, then remembers her manners and asks for whatever he’d recommend. He gleams and reaches into his desk drawer. Pulls out two mugs, a bottle of Bacardi and some cheap cola. Pours them both a slug of alcohol then tops them up. It doesn’t froth. Grace wonders how long it’s been there.
‘You’re right,’ says the man. ‘You look even better in the flesh.’
‘Flattery will get you everywhere,’ says Grace, and wonders if she should have.
‘Said the stamp-collector to his wife …’
Grace looks confused, and wonders where she’s supposed to sit. There’s only one chair.
‘Philately,’ he explains, with the air of a man who’s had to spell out this gag before. ‘Stamp-collecting. Philately will get you everywhere …’
‘Oh,’ says Grace. She laughs politely.
The man gives her an appraising gaze, nods, sucks through his teeth, and downs his drink. Then, as if remembering his manners, he stands up and offers Grace his chair. Unsure what is the correct way to respond, she accepts, and sinks into the chair, untouched drink in her hand, flinching as the warmth of the wooden seat eases through her trousers. She wonders how many of this man’s farts have rippled into the varnish over the years.
He flicks the off switch on the computer before he goes over to stand by the door. Grace has a brief image of a screen full of text. Her eyes have time to take in the word ‘shooter’ and ‘slag’ before the screen disappears into darkness.
‘It’s Brian, by the way,’ he says, his tone friendly. ‘I’m sure I can trust you to keep it to yourself, and I feel a bit of a prat you calling me King Rat. It’s nice to put a face to your name. I was glad you called back.’
‘This is your full-time job, is it?’ she asks, unsure how to begin so just letting the conversation flow.
‘Oh I’ve got a few plump digits in a few fat pies, love,’ he smiles. ‘But this is the bread and butter. Published six books last year. Couple only available via email, but people will pay. Everybody loves a glimpse at the seedier side of life, don’t they? Love reading about people with bigger balls than their own, if you’ll excuse my Urdu.’
‘Anybody I would have heard of?’
He gives a conspiratorial wink. ‘They tend to be published anonymously. Confessions of a Number Two, that sort of thing. Diary of a hired gun. People who used to do bare-knuckle boxing with the Krays, that sort of thing. Some old boy who did a stretch for being on an armed raid with Mad Frank.’
‘It all sounds very exciting,’ says Grace, and she realizes as she says it that were she trying to win his confidence this would be the perfect line to use. As it is, she’s genuinely interested by what he does.
‘Oh it is, love,’ he says, looking pleased, and resting his buttocks on his hands, back against the wall. ‘It’s good fun in the shadows. Warm down here in the underbelly, you might say.’
‘And you don’t get any bother? You publish a book slating some big-time criminal and there’s no comeback.’
‘Oh I’ve had the odd quiet word in my shell-like, but everybody knows I’m not doing any real harm. Nobody’s reputation’s suffering. And the people my lads write about are already in the public eye, or too bloody old to get themselves het up over stuff that doesn’t matter. I steer clear of anybody still playing the game.’ He stops, and considers for a moment, his eyes finding Grace’s. ‘Like your Mr Jardine, for example,’ he finishes.
Grace doesn’t know how she should react, so she reaches into her bundle of stuff and pulls out her notepad and pen. ‘This OK?’ she asks.
‘Help yourself,’ he beams, expansively. Grace gets the impression he spends a lot of time in his own company and is pleased to have somebody showing an interest in him. She imagines he gave himself his own nickname. She starts to wonder whether he knows anything at all. Whether she’s come to Bethnal Green for nothing more than a sticky cocktail with a slimy man who publishes pulp fiction about yesterday’s criminals.
‘So,’ she begins, ‘as I explained, I’m coming up against one or two brick walls. I’ve heard some of the whispers about Mr Jardine and his methods, but I’m really interested in what happened after his murder trial. Why he slipped out of the limelight, that sort of thing …’
For a moment, he’s silent, sucking in his cheeks, listening, pondering, scraping memory banks. It’s as if he’s wondering how much he needs to say to impress her. Whole truth, he decides. What little there is of it.
She gives him an encouraging smile and decides to start with an easy one. ‘Probably best if I got some biographical information about your good self,’ she says, brightly.
He relaxes and gives another big grin. He starts rolling another cigarette, absent-mindedly, in one hand. He doesn’t even look at it as his fingers go about their work. ‘That’s a book in itself,’ he says. ‘But if you want the basics, then here you go, love. I’m fifty-six, but I don’t look a day over fifty-five. I’m not married, got no kids I know about and I live in a bloody bed and breakfast because my credit rating is so bad I can’t even get a flat. I’ve been to prison four times for obtaining money by deception, which essentially means I’m a bright spark who knows how to get people’s cash out of them. Not a bad forger neither, which is where my services were used by the occasional household name. Sub-contracted, of course, but close enough to the power to be able to say I knew the big boys. Last stretch I did, I was in a prison cell with a murderer for a while. Doesn’t normally happen but anyway, the place was overcrowded and I was an old hand and they put me in with him. High profile, he was. None too bright, neither. Amount of people I’d done time with and the faces I knew, he was always keen to impress me, so he told me all about what he did and why he did it. When I got out I sold the story to the papers. All anonymous, of course. Next thing I got a call from this publisher saying they could turn my story into a book, but I’d have to pay for the privilege. I had a better idea. Set myself up as a publisher. Churned out a couple of bad lad memoirs, and I’ve been doing the same ever since.’
‘Good money?’ asks Grace.
Brian waves a hand. ‘Oh yeah, I’m rolling in it.’ He says it without malice. He seems a good-natured fellow, aware of how silly some parts of his life story sound when laid bare. Grace has no doubt he’s an accomplished liar, and suddenly finds herself deciding that he writes all of the books himself. Makes up old hit-men and bruisers and sells their life story.
Grace smiles at his little joke and decides to get this over with quickly. ‘Yours was one of the few websites to mention Jardine by name,’ she says, trying to hint that she’s impressed. ‘And you were such a joy to talk to the other day. So, what do you know about him and his operations?’
‘I know he’s not a well man. Not long for this world. But the name’s in good hands with that daughter of his. Copper at SOCA has an itch in her bits to catch a big name but I don’t see her getting Alison while Effie’s alive.’
‘You mentioned that name before,’ says Grace, cautiously. ‘I think I’ve worked it out. It’s not Effie. It’s Fe. The chemical name for Iron. Or Irons.’
‘Well, you’re a clever girl,’ smiles Brian. ‘I don’t want to get on the wrong side of that one, no matter what. He knows how to hurt. Your Larry Paris – the way the coppers found him, that’s Irons all the way through. Somebody was trying to set him up, though it looks like Alison’s put all that to bed now. Kukuc won’t be coming back, I tell you that much. And with her contacts, all the names she knows, going all the way back to God knows when, too many people need her for her to be at risk. She’s good at this. Daddy’s girl. The apple doesn’t fall far.’
Grace is suddenly aware of the scratching of her pen on the notepad in the silence of the room. She looks up. He’s sitting there, expectant, like a dog waiting for a treat.
‘This is all very helpful,’ she says, and he smiles, seemingly mollified. It’s replaced by a sudden flash of sadness, suggesting a sudden realiza
tion that he hasn’t got much more to tell her.
‘You got what you need?’ he asks, clearly hoping she hasn’t. She smiles, politely, and wonders why the hell she’s doing any of this. The answer, insidious, disloyal, creeps in from somewhere dark.
Because he’s Tilly’s father. He’s in her. And you want to know all that you can to keep her safe …
Flustered, Grace nods and stands up. She feels unsteady on her feet. Her head is swimming with information, but she doesn’t know what to do with it. She doesn’t know if she’s been told lies, or half-truths. She feels suddenly unintelligent and naïve. She feels silly. She looks at herself, stood here in a grim little office above a pizza shop, talking to a con man, pretending to be a journalist, listening to stories about a man whose name is on the birth certificate of the man she loves. She imagines telling Adam what she has found out, and realizes it is nothing. That Franco was a bad man. That he bowed out after something horrible happened in the 1970s. That Alison runs the show. That Irons was a psycho’s wet dream. She knows only that she has not found out enough to justify this dangerous trip. To meet a man she met on the Internet. She suddenly knows she won’t even tell Adam that she’s been here. That she’ll slip back into the car and go home. Home, to play detectives and enjoy the adventure and the excitement and the closeness of Adam’s skin, and not to let herself get too close to the raw unpleasantness of it all.
‘So you’ll be in touch?’ asks Brian, as he sees her to the door. ‘You get anywhere, there could be a book in it, though you’re probably best off going to one of the bigger houses. Bit small fry, here.’ Brian says it with a jaded sadness. An admission of who he is. He bounces back with a flash of a smile. ‘Only way is up, though, eh?’
Grace surveys the man in the doorway as she steps back on the fire escape. Were there time, she would like to get to know him. To unpick his life story and find out which twists and turns in the path of his life led him here, to this grotty office, writing lies. She smiles and shakes his hand, and shivers in the wind as she makes her way back to the car, her head full of criminals and rapists, liars and murderers, pictures of crying kingpins and bleeding assassins in her mind.
She wonders if this is how it feels to be Adam.
She shivers.
It’s not from the cold.
THIRTY-FOUR
The Prince, Parkgate Road, Battersea
5.12 p.m.
There’s been a pub here, on the corner of Parkgate Road, since 1866. It faces Battersea Park and has a kind of faded majesty about it, like a ninety-something war veteran dressed in his uniform and medals on Remembrance Day. It’s old, but it can still doll itself up for a special occasion.
Adam hasn’t ever been in before. Hopes he’ll get a chance to bring Zara next time they take the trip across. She’ll like this, he reckons. He’d admired the big red tiles and the fancy, cream-coloured awnings as he’d followed Alison inside, trying to make small-talk with the two men who kept conspiring to remain two steps behind him.
Even here, at the bar, they’re off to one side, watching Alison as she reclines in a booth, her espresso cooling on the table-top, and talks to a small, frightened Maltese man who has asked her here to discuss something he didn’t feel able to chat about over the phone.
One of Adam’s minders is Jimbo. As far as Adam can tell, Jimbo’s main function is looking the part and keeping his mouth shut. Adam’s had a glance at his knuckles. He’s no fighter, that’s for sure. Adam hates himself for considering such a toxic, macho scenario, but he’s confident that if push came to shove, he could wipe the floor with him. The other minder is a young, wide-eyed lump called Luke. He’s a cheery sort. Dropped out of training for the Royal Navy because of girl trouble and has been getting into mischief for a while now. Pulled a few Post Office jobs and took a hammer to a fruit machine in a casino off Trafalgar Square. A concerned uncle has called in a favour with a minor player in the Jardine organization. He’s doing fetch-and-carry work for Alison now. Standing still and looking tough, as the situation necessitates. He’s chattier with Jimbo, who barely managed to throw half a dozen words his way on the drive from King’s Cross. Been no chattier with Grace, neither. Dropped her off, as requested, in some ghastly triangle of Stepney Green, then carried on across the river to meet up with the boss.
Adam, nursing a pint of London Pride, is feeling a prickle of embarrassment. He feels like a spare part. Doesn’t know why they’ve asked him along, or why Alison is stone-walling him. He’s coming to the conclusion he may have misjudged the tone of this particular get-together. He winces as he thinks back. He’d been overfamiliar in his greeting, trying to make her laugh, telling her he’d missed her, thanking her for going to the trouble of sending the Mercedes, complete with pretty-boy drivers. Tried to give her a hug and a kiss and ended up with the arm of her Stella McCartney glasses scratching the corner of his mouth. She’d stayed on the phone while he prattled on about nothing, looking irritated and rich in her Magda Butrym kitten-heeled boots, khaki jodhpurs and brown leather minidress. She was always business. No warmth in her greeting. Just a rich woman, standing on a street corner under an umbrella held by a tall, black man, his eyes scanning the street and the nearby park for signs of impending trouble.
‘You won’t have one?’ asks Adam, hoping that Luke will trade the sparkling water for something a little livelier.
‘No he won’t,’ growls Jimbo, beside him. He’s sipping green tea from a big cup and saucer; the antioxidant benefits of the beverage undermined a little by the crust of white powder around his nostril, and the open bag of pork scratchings on the bar.
‘I will, then,’ says Adam, grateful he won’t have to shell out for three drinks. He taps his glass, and the barmaid, with her big hoop earrings and choppy red hair, does the honours. He smiles at her as she pours the pint and gets nothing back in return. She keeps looking past him, to where Alison is deep in conversation with the small, bald-headed man.
‘You seem stressed,’ says Adam, feeling an urge to put his hand around hers as she puts the drink down. She’s shaking a little; a muscle ticking, like a clock, in her cheek. ‘Are you okay?’
Her smile, when it comes, is a frightened grimace. Adam wants to tell her it will all be okay; that whatever is worrying her, it can’t be that bad. She waves him away when he tries to pay. She did the same with his first pint too.
Bored, listless, he leans against the bar. Plays with his phone. Sips his drink. Occasionally, he tries to catch Alison’s eye, but whatever she’s here for, it’s more important than him.
A text message beeps through. It’s Grace – chin deep in bullshit and still doggy-paddling through more of it, thanks to King Rat’s extraordinary reserves of gossip and conceit. He imagines her, sitting opposite the author and supergrass, pretending to be a professional, sifting through his memory banks for information about Leo Riley; Ace Howell – about Larry Paris, where this all began. He realizes he doesn’t like it. He’s starting to feel as though he has absolutely no right to be here and even less to have dragged Grace, the mother of his child, along for the ride. His thoughts start to speed up. He becomes aware of where he is; what he’s doing; the absurdity of following this path. They left Tilly with Grace’s neighbour, Maxine, and left Portsmouth as if making for the border. He’d even thought about asking Zara to look after her – to keep an eye on his daughter while he goes looking for answers about a parentage that she does not even know has been in doubt.
He sips his drink, misery descending like rain. Catches sight of himself in the glass behind the bar and sees his father looking back at him. He shakes it away, angry with his own mind for conjuring up such an impossible projection.
He realizes he’s no longer listening to the quiet chatter in the bar. There are only half a dozen customers in the big, wood-floored bar, and they’re taking an overwhelming interest in newspapers, phones and their own shoes. From behind him, he hears Alison’s voice growing louder.
‘… nothing to do with u
s, you fucking know that, Albert, but if he’s got himself done in then that’s a sadness but it’s not a reason to lose your bottle – you told me you had him sewn up. He was going to sign. Scared him bad enough to turn his hair white, that’s what you said …’
Adam strains to hear more. The smaller man’s voice is accented, wheedling, scared. ‘… but he thinks that if you would do this to Nicholas then perhaps that is the future for all of us, and with your father so unwell …’
Beside him, he sees Jimbo and Luke grimace in unison.
‘What was that about my father?’
‘Alison, please, how long have we done business together? I have nothing but respect for you and your family. But nothing lasts forever. Your father is old, and you, well, you are a businesswoman, aren’t you? That’s how you want the papers to print it – your father spent enough money trying to prove he wasn’t a gangster. People are getting scared. It’s too big, Alison. An Olympic village? It’s, well, it’s hard to see how you can keep a hold of it …’
Adam glances up from his drink and catches sight of the barmaid. She’s glancing at the door. She’s terrified. She’s waiting for something. For someone.
‘And these other rumours. This private detective, trussed up like we’re back in 1968. Christ, Alison – my niece has shown me posts on that fucking Facebook from your boy Timmy, bragging that the Jardines are back in business, running London like they always have. It’s embarrassing. I don’t wish it on you, but it causes those who were onside to have second thoughts. Even the Freeman has gone quiet. Times change. And the mob coming out of Canning Town are ruthless. I don’t know if you want what’s coming. I can get you a sit-down with him, maybe carve up the good bits, put a few things to rest, then you can enjoy a retirement, eh …?’
Adam hears desperation in the man’s voice. Changes his position so he can watch the trickles of sweat run down his glossy pink face. Alison’s eyes are a blowtorch, melting him to the bone.
