by A A Abbott
The shoes pinched. Shaun took them off. He made himself comfortable on the bean bags as best he could, envying Jerry and Scott their seats in front.
Jerry started the engine. The van bowled forward, throwing Shaun onto the hard floor. He yelled, his swearing degenerating mid-syllable into a scream.
“I haven’t even taken a corner,” Jerry moaned, addressing the issue with a sharp left turn.
Shaun was pitched in yet another direction. With loud complaints, he endured a dozen similar episodes as Jerry swung the van into what appeared to be a maze-like warren of streets. “Where are we?” he shouted.
“Charlton,” Jerry said, bringing the van to an abrupt halt.
“Small timers,” Shaun said, with all the contempt a West Ham fan could muster for a football club two divisions below.
“You can get out now,” Jerry said. He stepped down from the driving seat, opened the back door and handed Shaun a pair of sunglasses and a flat cap. “Hop in the front and sit in the middle.”
Shaun did as he was told, noticing they’d stopped in an ordinary suburban street. A terrace of mid-century brick houses rose on one side of the narrow, winding road, and a wall on the other. Dim streetlights revealed no sign of life at this quiet hour, other than Jerry sticking another set of numbers over the van’s plates.
“You should’ve done that before,” Shaun snapped.
“Relax,” Jerry said. “The others were fakes too. I’ll drive over to your cousin, Clive, later, and he’ll put new ones on.”
Shaun understood Jerry’s reasoning now: the bootlegger didn’t want his van tracked across London, and he’d just rendered it invisible again. Still, after the battering he’d taken in the rear of the vehicle, he wasn’t going to apologise to Jerry. “You got any fags?” he asked, as Jerry and Scott removed their shades and facial hair.
Jerry’s left hand dived into his pocket. “I bought these in Belgium,” he said, producing a packet of B&H and a lighter.
“Suppose they’ll do,” Shaun said, concealing his joy at smoking proper cigarettes rather than skimpy roll-ups. Old habits died hard, and he placed the pack and lighter in his own pocket after Jerry had lit a stick for himself.
The white van slipped out of the lattice of small streets, onto the main approach to the Blackwall Tunnel, and under the river. There was little traffic, save for the occasional milk float, taxi or supermarket goods lorry.
“What’s the plan?” Shaun asked. He hoped there was one. Events had moved so quickly. He was unsure if Ben or Vince was in charge. Jerry and Scott certainly weren’t.
“You’re staying at Scott’s,” Jerry said. “We’ve got you a passport. Ben’s sorting out a private jet to Marbella.”
“Cash, no questions,” Scott said.
The van emerged from the road tunnel. Jerry looped around towards Canary Wharf.
“Why are we going here?” Shaun asked. He saw signs for Millwall, and added, “That’s another team with ideas above their station.”
“They think they’re so hard. We showed them in 1989, didn’t we? Personally,” Scott said, making a fist.
“Good times,” Shaun said, nostalgic for the release offered by football violence in his youth. He nudged Jerry. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m driving,” Jerry said, pointedly. “You wanted to know where. We’re switching to a car at Canary Wharf.”
“I’ll take you back home,” Scott said. “Jerry’s running the Transit round to Clive in Canning Town.”
“What do you drive these days?” Shaun asked.
“Same old. MX-5.”
“I told him those Mazdas were hairdressers’ cars. Will he listen?” Jerry said.
Shaun grunted, satisfied they’d have the horsepower to outrun the police.
They approached the complex of glass towers. Unlike the other buildings they passed, slices of light punctuated the dark obelisks, evidence of workers staying into the night. Jerry slowed at the entrance to the estate. A figure in a hi-vis cap and jacket materialised from a booth by the roadside.
“The filth?” Shaun whispered.
“Private security,” Jerry said. He wound down the window. “I left some tools in my friend’s car.”
The stocky young man in his uniform, similar to police garb in shape if not colour, flicked his eyes over the trio. “Where is it?”
“Canada Square car park,” Jerry said.
“All right.” The youth looked bored. He couldn’t be older than Ben. Shaun supposed he’d rather be playing video games than stopping vans on a murky night.
The Transit crawled through the clean, still streets between cliff-like buildings, overtaking a service vehicle. As the NCP entrance loomed, Jerry braked.
Scott jumped out. “I’ll be five minutes.” He disappeared past the barrier.
“We should be able to stop here at this time of night, no bother,” Jerry said, but within moments, another of the security staff had appeared.
Jerry repeated the same excuse. This man was older and less easygoing. There was a terse debate, resolved when Scott’s red sports car roared out of the car park.
Shaun exited the van. Scott held his passenger door open.
“What about your tools?” the truculent security guard asked Jerry.
Scott leaped out of the Mazda to present Jerry with a spanner. He made an ostentatious bow to the guard.
“You didn’t want to do that,” Shaun groused, once they were on their way. “He’ll remember us.”
“No, he won’t,” Scott said. “Trash like him attracts snark like a magnet. He’s a jobsworth. Bet he supports Millwall.”
“Now you mention it, he looks like a lad whose head I kicked in, back in the day,” Shaun said.
“He deserved it,” Scott said.
The short exchange seemed to have exhausted Scott’s conversation, which suited Shaun. Edgy, almost speeding from lack of sleep and the urgency of the situation, he stared with new wonder at London’s landscape. They returned to the jumbled streets of Poplar before skirting the old City of London to head north on the A10. The trendier environs of Shoreditch and Hackney soon gave way to the chicken shops and bookmakers of Tottenham. This was where young Jon had been forced to lodge in a humble flat when Shaun lost his empire. A twinge of guilt seared through Shaun’s brain. He chided himself. It was Kat’s fault; he must never forget.
The A10 bent away from the Tottenham High Road, heading through Bruce Grove towards the unexpected beauty of Bruce Castle, and suburbs beyond. Blue lights appeared in the rear-view mirror, and sirens wailed. Shaun sat bolt upright, stomach knotted and fists ready. “Give me the gun,” he hissed.
“It’s an ambulance, boss,” Scott said.
“No, it’s the filth.”
It was both. While the mirror showed an ambulance gaining on them, there was a stripy patrol car almost alongside.
“I’m going to have to pull over,” Scott said.
“No,” Shaun screamed. “Step on it.” He tried to wrest the steering wheel from his rescuer.
Scott braked suddenly. The emergency vehicles sped past into the distance. Without a word, Scott accelerated, continuing their journey. Shaun discovered his hands were shaking, his ears attuned to the sound of absent sirens.
Signs announced that the A10 was now called the Great Cambridge Road. As Shaun glanced twitchily over his shoulder, London slipped seamlessly into Enfield, then the green fields of south Hertfordshire. Finally, Scott turned onto the slip road for the slumbering village of Broxbourne.
“Nearly there,” he said, zooming through boxy modern estates and country lanes. At last, he arrived at their destination, parking on the brick-paved drive in front of his home.
Shaun had never visited the cottage before. He was city born and bred, uninterested in rural life. It was a relief to see that Scott’s property stood in a large plot, well apart from its neighbours. To his discomfort, however, a light could be seen at the edge of a curtain in one of the windows that flanked the front door.
“Who’s the reception committee?” he asked.
Scott wrinkled his brow. “I guess Barbie’s up,” he said.
“Your girlfriend?” Shaun had never met her. Jerry and Scott weren’t part of his inner circle. That made them especially useful now, however.
“Yes,” Scott said. “I’ll tell her to go to bed.”
“You do that,” Shaun said. “I’ll have the gun too, please.”
Scott reached into his pocket and handed it over, his eyes betraying unease. “Don’t wave it around in front of Barbie.”
“Then get her to behave.” Shaun felt the smooth weight of the weapon, his fingers settling into familiar positions. It was a Glock 17 pistol, his favourite. He put it in his pocket. Still barefoot, he followed Scott as the bootlegger opened the front door.
The floor within was as cold and hard as the ground outside. Before Scott could flick a light on, a dog, barking with excitement, collided with Shaun’s right knee and stood on his foot. He cursed.
“Down, Sooty,” Scott ordered. He found the switch, illuminating the flagged hallway and a smoke-coloured greyhound.
“Nice dog,” Shaun said, petting the animal’s ears. He’d assumed it was a highly-strung breed, but it was affable enough. It stopped barking and regarded him with soulful brown eyes, reassuring him that he wouldn’t need to shoot it.
The hallway was oak-beamed, with rosy pink walls. There was a galleried staircase and chunky oak doors leading to other rooms. The lady of the house made her entrance from one of these.
Barbie was unexpectedly taller than Scott, of rake-like proportions. She, too, looked to be in her late forties, which meant her cropped blonde hair must be dyed. She wore a long, fluffy blue dressing gown, and a sour expression. “What have you been doing all night? Who’s this?” she asked.
“Barbie, Al. Al, Barbie. Al’s an old schoolmate, here on business from Australia.”
“A last minute thing,” Shaun said, smiling despite the effort involved in adopting a fake Antipodean twang. “I’ve not been out there long. But long enough to miss the British ladies, though.” He extended his right hand.
Barbie didn’t move. Her gaze swept over him like a burst of acid rain. “Where’s his luggage? Why’s he wearing your clothes, Scott?” she sniped.
“A sad story of incompetent baggage handlers,” Shaun said, fingering the weapon inside his pocket.
Scott noticed. Panic filled his eyes. “Al’s just here for a day, or so,” he said.
“Until I’ve bought a camper van to go touring,” Shaun said. A hazy recollection told him this was what Australian tourists did.
“Until he’s bought a camper van,” Scott repeated. “Come on, love, hadn’t you better go to bed?”
“Too right. I’ve got work to do in the morning,” Barbie sniffed, stomping upstairs.
“I’ll put Sh…Al in the spare room,” Scott called after her.
“I want to call Vince,” Shaun said. “Where’s a phone I can use?”
Scott groped in his pocket, handing over a basic model. “Here.”
“Thanks.” Shaun glared at him. “I’ll speak in private.”
Scott took the hint and followed Barbie upstairs.
Shaun dialled Vince’s number, one of a few hard-wired into his brain.
The phone rang for a minute before Vince answered drowsily. “How goes it, Scott?”
“It’s Shaun. I’m at Scottie’s. Wearing rags, but I’m on the out. How am I getting to the airport?”
“I’ll be round in a minicab at ten thirty,” Vince said. “Can make it later if you like; your flight isn’t until the evening. It’s going from Luton.”
“Ten thirty’s fine,” Shaun said. “Can you get me clothes, shoes, a razor…”
“Got a suitcase all packed for you.”
“Thanks,” Shaun said, ringing off.
Scott reappeared, yawning. “Want to sleep now?”
“Spot on, mate.”
The spare room turned out to be a boxroom on the first floor, a space not quite big enough for a bed and consequently filled with junk. Scott tossed a few cushions on the floor between a computer desk and a broken exercise bike. He added a blanket. “Sorry it’s not luxurious,” he muttered.
“Four-star hotel to me,” Shaun said. Compared with Belmarsh it was. Still, he didn’t wish to linger. It was obvious who wore the trousers in this household.
She was far too mouthy, but Scott clearly adored her. Her presence, and that of the gun, was eroding the trust between Shaun and his host. Scott would want to protect his happy home, but how far would he go? Would he attack a sleeping guest, or command his dog to do so? Worse, would he risk his own liberty and call the police?
Shaun couldn’t sleep. He crept downstairs, looking for exits. At the back of the house, he found a kitchen, with a large window and a solid oak back door. Reassuringly, the key had been left in the lock.
He investigated the fridge. It was stocked with tofu, beansprouts and coconut milk. More promisingly, there were six bottles of strong Belgian lager at the back. He helped himself to one of these, and to oranges from a fruit bowl. Taking a knife and bottle opener from a drawer, he returned to his room.
Shaun left the scraps of the feast on the desk. Finally, he smoked two cigarettes in succession, grinding the butts on the perfect carpet.
Chapter 34.
Kat
“Ready for breakfast?” Tim asked. Freshly awake in the dawn light, he looked boyish: eyes wide, curls springing out at random angles without the wax.
Still in the mental fog between night and day, Kat yawned and stretched. A wave of nausea caught her throat. “You go ahead without me,” she said. “I can’t face it.” She couldn’t even bear to watch him eat.
“They do a full English downstairs,” he said. “It always hits the spot.”
“So you’ve stayed here before?” Kat asked. “I can’t believe your father’s nerve. He booked himself into a five-star hotel, and we’re in the Kings Cross Travelodge.”
Tim shrugged. “He’s careful with the company’s money. If it wasn’t for Angela, he’d be here too.”
“Sharing our room, to save even more cash?”
Tim laughed. “Go back to sleep, Kat. You had a busy night, and you need to save your energy for the wedding.” He stroked her cheek. “I’ll help you wake up later.”
Bleary-eyed, she watched his naked body disappear into the bathroom. It would be a treat to spend time with him after breakfast. As Charles and Dee’s ceremony wasn’t until the afternoon, she could relax with Tim first. She snuggled under the soft white duvet to slumber again.
The previous evening had been hectic, unveiling Starshine vodka to influencers at two popular London clubs. Marty and Amy had left once the presentations were over. Kat, by contrast, had chosen to dance the night away with Tim at the second venue, a converted warehouse near Kings Cross. She recognised that Tanya had made a sensible choice in booking a hotel for them nearby. It was comfortable, but Kat was annoyed that Marty’s lodgings were ritzier.
Anyway, being a couple of miles away, she wouldn’t need to see Marty for breakfast. They’d never been friends, but she’d felt trust developing between them before Christmas. That was over, as if shutters had fallen on his jovial façade. While he was never less than polite, he maintained an emotional distance. He was taciturn with her, their contact limited to business meetings that he kept as short as possible. She hadn’t been asked to join family gatherings at Wellington Road again.
Last night, when the East West Bridges team was invited to drink and dance as guests of the management, he hadn’t wanted to linger. He’d even insisted Amy take a cab with him. To be fair, Amy had hit the vodka rather too hard, and she was staying in Marty’s hotel. Marty wasn’t paying for that, of course. Dee was picking up the bill, because Amy was a bridesmaid.
Clubbing had been fun without them, though, worth the blisters from stilettos designed for style rather than comfort. Kat’s drowsy thoughts turned to t
he bridal celebrations later, a twinge of envy nagging her. She’d technically been married more than once herself, years before, but that didn’t count. Each union had been a sham, arranged to help illegal immigrants to stay in London. Kat had received a thousand pounds a time for her trouble. She was lucky that Ross had paid for lawyers to set the marriages aside and to rescue her from a police investigation.
That was when she’d been engaged to Ross. Now, she couldn’t imagine what she’d seen in him. He had looks and riches, but his personality was less than appealing. His apparent devotion had swiftly soured into selfishness. She’d found herself dressing and acting to please him, while he focused on pleasing himself.
Her relationship with Tim was different: she was an equal partner, rather than a pretty slave. She’d marry him in an instant, without an expensive party, if only he’d ask. As it happened, she still had the lacy white dress she’d worn as a fake bride in the past. Soon, her waistline would expand, and it wouldn’t fit anymore.
Her pregnancy wasn’t showing yet. If Kat ignored her sickness, her rejection of alcohol, and the tiny lump she could feel in her abdomen, she could imagine there was no baby at all. She wanted Tim, and the upmarket vodka business now, but the child still seemed to be an intruder, gatecrashing her life at least five years too early. Tim had persuaded her to keep it, but who did he really love – her, or the growing infant?
Perhaps it was both. She hoped so, holding the thought as she dozed through uneasy dreams.
Her phone rang. Groggily, Kat retrieved it from her bedside. She recognised Amy’s number.
“You’ll never guess who’s on the front page this morning?” Amy’s voice bubbled with energy.
“Dee?” Kat groaned. It was too early for guessing games.
Amy giggled. “You, in your slinky dress. We were papped arriving at the nightclub in Kings Cross. The rest of us were cropped out of the photo.”
“No way.” Kat allowed herself a grin. “Save me a copy, please.” She’d have to start a scrapbook for press cuttings.
