by Dan Fletcher
THE STASH
DAN FLETCHER
Watch out for the next in the series by Dan Fletcher
CONCRETE JUNGLE
THE STASH
DAN FLETCHER
THE STASH
First printed in Great Britain
in 2011.
Copyright © Dan Fletcher 2011
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
FOR GHANI,
YOUR SPIRIT LIVES ON MY FRIEND
Acknowledgements
Thanks must go to all my friends and family who support me in more than this project. Without them the book would never have been started, let alone finished.
Special thanks are owed to three people. Firstly, to Andrew Papaconstantinou, who is the best friend, co-writer and editor anyone could ever ask for. Secondly, to Jacqui Underwood, whose printing and publishing advice has been invaluable. Finally, thanks to Danielle Rossel, the most thorough and gifted proof reader there is.
CHAPTER ONE
John shut the rear door of their battered Transit van, looked up at the gloomy morning sky and sighed deeply. Another bloody week, how had he ended up here? Public school educated, and with a good degree under his belt, he must be the most over qualified painter in the whole of London, if not the world. Life was full of choices and it seemed that John had always made the wrong ones. Whether it was deciding which car to buy, or which girl to go out with, it usually ended in disaster.
The only thing John was good at was choosing his friends. He looked across the yard at the back of Alan’s shaven head and stocky frame, and smiled to himself, remembering the number of times his friend had helped him out of ‘sticky’ situations. It was always good to have someone like Alan watching your back.
At a shade over six foot and with an athletic build John was reasonably capable of taking care of himself. But there were times when ‘the brick’, as he was known to both friends and enemies alike, came in handy.
The night before they had been discussing today’s job with Griff Davies in John’s local, the Edinburgh Cellars, , just around the corner from his apartment in Newington Green.
Griff was a well respected builder with some highbrow clients. He was also a terrible gambler with a serious cocaine problem, which was how he had come to meet John. They happened to share the same vice and dealer. John had helped Griff score when their regular guy had been out of stuff in the past.
Fortunately Griff had overrun on a complicated hotel refurbishment and was thinking about passing the work on to John as a trial.
John was forced to buy him a few pints of Guinness to ease the wheels. ‘Here you go Griff, there’s another one,’ he said, returning from the bar. He passed Alan his and took his seat at the table. The empty glasses were piling up in front of them.
‘Cheers mate,’ Alan said, raising his glass to Griff. ‘Now where’s this job then?’
‘Knightsbridge, just behind Harrods. Place belongs to the son of some filthy rich Nigerian, Akintola,’ Griff replied, taking a swig from his pint.
‘Nothing complicated, just needs a new lick of paint that’s all. Think you’re up to it?’
‘Yeah, no worries mate. We can start tomorrow,’ Alan said, pleased to get the work. Things were hard due to the current downturn. ‘Have you got a contact number?’ he said, pulling out a small notebook and pen, from his jacket on the seat.
‘Yeah, hold on a minute,’ Griff searched his pocket for his mobile, ‘here you go.’ He passed the number on to Alan, who scribbled it down.
They had a couple more drinks and then, a bit tipsy, Griff said, ‘Get it right and there’ll be plenty more work for you boys. Remember it’s my reputation at stake here as well as yours.’
‘You can count on us,’ replied John, ‘we’ll call them first thing in the morning.’ They said their goodbyes, leaving Alan and John alone at the table. A few minutes later John spotted a girl by the bar.
‘Just be a minute,’ he said to Alan, and sidled over carrying his pint.
Using a tried and tested technique, John said, ‘Hello, sorry to intrude. I was wondering if you could help me?’
‘Sorry?’ she replied, caught off guard.
‘See that guy over there,’ he said, indicating Alan with a slight nod.
‘Yes?’ she replied, none the wiser.
‘Well he’s threatened to beat me up. I was wondering if you would talk to me for a while, just until he leaves?’ John said, trying his best to look worried.
The woman glanced at Alan, who smiled and gave them a little wave. ‘He doesn’t look very angry?’
‘It’s all a front,’ John replied, pretending to be too scared to look at Alan. ‘He said he was going to rip my bloody head off. Can I buy you a drink, it’s the least I can do,’ he said, beckoning the barman with a nervous gesture.
‘Well...I suppose so,’ she replied, glancing quickly at the door.
She was a gorgeous blonde wearing a short skirt, and suggestive knee-length boots. Her name was Mandy, and things seemed to be going well, all smiles and giggles, until her steroid munching boyfriend returned from making a phone call outside.
Obviously over possessive, his face seemed to glow red as he loomed menacingly towards John. ‘OY! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’
Grabbing him by the throat, he pushed John back against the bar, sending their drinks crashing and neighbouring punters scattering in different directions.
It was at that point that the low, cockney, voice of Alan broke the silence, ‘Leave it out mate!’ He had seen the boyfriend heading towards John and could guess what was about to happen. Alan had a policy of striking first, the moment things looked like they were about to get ugly. A policy which he maintained had stopped him from getting hurt on numerous occasions. Whether this was true or not remained undetermined, as he never hung around long enough for them to regain consciousness. In his favour, usually the police had been called and were on their way.
Unfortunately the boyfriend didn’t know this. He turned towards the sound of his voice with a snarl on his face, ‘What?’ Alan took the opportunity to knock him out with a hammer blow. John heard the inevitable crack of bone snapping as his assailant’s jaw gave in. The hands around his throat released their grip, as his attacker slumped to a heap at the foot of the bar.
‘Thanks mate,’ John gasped, and already heading for the door to the somewhat shocked Mandy, ‘sorry love, gotta go.’ As both he and Alan made a quick exit from the pub.
‘Oy! Snap out of it. We’ve got to get across town and traffic’s only going to get worse.’
Alan’s shout broke John from his daydream, and he replied, ‘Alright, keep your bloody knickers on.’ He jumped into the passenger seat of the van, the door squeaking in protest behind him. John, luckily, was amongst a handful of people who could talk to Alan in that manner and get away with it.
They weaved their way through traffic, skirted Hyde Park and headed towards their destination. ‘Oy! Watch where you’re going,’ Alan screamed out of the window at a fellow motorist, sounding the horn.
‘What do you think this place is going to be like?’ said John, bracing himself against the sudden movement.
‘It’s behind fucking Harrods isn’t it?’ replied Alan, braking to avoid another car that swerved into the gap in front of them. ‘Bloody idiot!’ he shouted, shaking his fist out the window.
‘So it should be a good earner then?’
‘Well what the hell do you think?’ replied Alan, loo
king at his friend incredulously. ‘You heard what Griff said didn’t you?’
‘Yeah alright...just wondering,’ John said. The truth was they were both relieved to have landed such a prestigious job.
Hopefully it would lead to other wealthy clients and help clear some of the debts that the business had built up. They had even managed to move it forward, to fit in with a smaller job that they had been offered. Not as well paid, but more work nonetheless. They needed every penny they could get at the moment.
Griff had told them Mr Akintola was out in Nigeria for two weeks, visiting his father on business. His personal assistant, Miss Fielding-Brown, had agreed to reschedule so long as they agreed to complete the work before he returned. She was to provide them with access, and details regarding the finishing.
Alan said she came across as being a ‘frosty bitch’ on the phone, when he had called earlier to say that they were available. ‘Never mind,’ John thought, ‘I’m used to dealing with her type after all’. After his privileged upbringing and dealing with his ex wife’s solicitor, this was probably true.
They turned left off Brompton Road, pulling up outside a five storey building at the end of Beaufort Gardens. They both looked up at the top floor penthouse through the van’s mucky windscreen.
‘Not a bad place to have to rough it for a bit,’ muttered Alan.
John admired the simple classic design and layout of the Georgian facade. He much preferred it to the busy red brick Queen Anne architecture that the area was famous for. An accomplished structural engineer John had an eye and a passion for buildings. This was usually an asset to their work, but at times frustrated Alan. Like when he just wanted to get home and John got lost in the different possibilities and layouts. Needless to say Alan usually won out in these situations.
John reached for a clipboard and got out of the van heading for the door of the building, noticing a tall attractive blonde exit a silver Mercedes CLK Cabriolet as he did. She was wearing an expensive three piece suit and started to head towards him. Coming closer he could take in her pale blue eyes, pert nose and sensuous lips. ‘Got to be our Miss Fielding-Brown,’ John thought, ‘better looking than I expected.’ Maybe dealing with her wasn’t going to be so bad after all. This illusion was shattered as soon as she opened her beautiful mouth.
‘Am I addressing Mr. Simonds or Mr. Shorey?’ she said, in a short and abrasive manner.
‘Mr. Simonds but please call me John, and you must be Miss Fielding-Brown,’ he replied, trying to sound as confident.
‘That’s correct, I take it you have come prepared?’
Alan had spoken with her at length on the phone, so they had a good idea of what was needed, ‘Yes – we’ve got everything we need to get started, and we’ll pick up anything else as we go along. Why don’t we get inside and have a good look around to make sure that everything’s clear?’
Miss Fielding-Brown turned towards the door and inserted the key held in her perfectly manicured fingers, hiding seemingly delicate, yet capable, hands.
‘Good idea Mr. Simonds, if you and Mr. Shorey would like to follow me.’ Ignoring both Alan who had joined them from the other side of the van, and John’s invitation to be more amicable, she headed into the building. They followed her through the impressive tiled hallway to the elevator.
Inside it was as plushly decorated as the hallway with brass fittings and soft lighting. She began to speak again as the doors were sliding together silently, ‘Parking is a nightmare here, so I’ll give you a resident’s permit for the duration of the work, which I expect returned once it’s been completed.’
‘Thanks, and may I say how happy we are to be able to do some work for Mr Akintola,’ Alan said, being as polite as he possibly could.
‘Once the work is completed to a satisfactory standard then we can all be happy, Mr Shorey. You were highly recommended by Mr Davies so we expect this to go as smoothly and quickly as possible.’
Alan decided to remain silent, work being scarce.
The elevator stopped and Miss Fielding-Brown entered a code into the pad, embedded to the right of the doors. They slid open as quietly as they had shut, and the trio found themselves immediately in the entrance hall of the apartment. A wall to wall glass atrium let what little natural light there was outside into the room. John imagined that on a better day the room would be bathed in glorious sunshine.
‘There are two bedrooms,’ said Miss Fielding-Brown, turning left out the elevator. They walked into a bedroom facing the rear of the building. It had patio doors leading to a small terrace with wrought iron balconies overlooking the small but well kept gardens behind. ‘The bathroom’s through here,’ she said, opening an adjoining door to reveal a walk-in tiled shower, gold taps and Italian marble. ‘The other one’s exactly the same, so I won’t bother showing you that,’ she said, referring to the other bedroom.
She walked back through the hallway and into another enormous room. ‘As you can see this is the lounge. Please be careful with that, its original!’ she pointed to the tiled fireplace, crowned by an 8 foot tall gold leaf framed mirror and flanked by two floor to ceiling units. These spanned the rest of the entire wall.
She took them through some double doors into a dining room. ‘This leads on to the kitchen,’ she said, going through another set of identical doors. Alan was pulling faces behind her, whilst John tried not to laugh. The kitchen boasted the latest in design and appliances. Not surprisingly to John, Italian marble featured again in the worktops.
The three front rooms had patio doors leading out onto the terrace that stretched the whole length of the front of the building. The 12 foot high moulded ceilings and intricate ‘fleur de lil’ cornices made the rooms light and airy. The floors throughout were parquet, polished to a high lustre. All the fittings were brass, matching the elevator. As Alan had pointed out, not a bad place to have to rough it.
The apartment was devoid of furniture or personal belongings, which was ideal, a blank canvas for them to work with. ‘I’ve had all of Mr Akintola’s belongings put in storage,’ said Miss Fielding-Brown in a crisp tone, as if reading John’s thoughts, but looking directly at Alan, ‘so you won’t have to worry about breaking anything.’
Surprisingly, Alan once again managed to keep his cool. Knowing him as he did, John could tell that he was struggling to win the battle over his naturally quick temper, and offended pride.
‘I thought this would look good in here,’ said Miss Fielding-Brown, pointing at a swathe on the colour chart.
‘Yes that would look good, and what about these for the bathrooms?’ replied John, pointing to another.
‘Maybe a little lighter...what about this one,’ she said, pointing to the Powder Blue.
‘Yes, that would go well.’
Briefly they discussed the rest of the colour schemes and Miss Fielding-Brown handed John a folder containing keys, contact details and the security codes for the alarm system and electronic keypad to enter the apartment.
‘Right, I must dash. I have a number of important matters to deal with on behalf of Mr Akintola. I’ll be back later in the week to see how you’re getting on.’
Leaving this hanging in the air like a threat, Miss Fielding-Brown turned sharply on her designer heels and headed towards the elevator.
‘Ok, see you then,’ John replied, returning the charts to their folder.
Once he was sure that the elevator had left and it was safe to speak, Alan put on an exasperated face and began a sophisticated character analysis of her, ‘You know what she fucking needs don’t you? A good bloody...’
‘Alright, alright,’ John interjected, holding his palms out, ‘I can guess what you’re going to say, but I don’t think that even your no doubt tender love making skills would thaw the ice off that bitch.’ Alan’s face cracked into a broad grin as he punched John playfully on the shoulder, which still hurt.
CHAPTER TWO
The first week on the job passed pretty uneventfully, with the usual amoun
t of on-site banter and cursing that seemed to go hand in hand with the work. The ‘highlights’ were a couple of brief visits from Miss Fielding-Brown. She was as delightful on both occasions as when they had first met, Alan was still convinced that he held the solution to ‘sorting her out’. By the following Tuesday they had completed all but the bedrooms. Deciding to split up and keep out of each other’s way, they were busy working in separate rooms.
‘Alan! Come in here mate!’ John cried. Alan put down the roller and tray he was using and headed into the other bedroom to see what was up. When he got there he was greeted by John’s back, hunched over in the corner of the room.
‘Oh no, what have you fucked up now?’ said Alan.
‘Shut up and look will you,’ John replied.
Making his way around him, Alan could see that John had removed a brass cover from a ventilation duct to clean it. It was now lying discarded on the wooden floor. John was staring into the hole in the wall, following his gaze Alan could just about make out a rectangular object, slightly bigger than a household brick. Beside it was what appeared to be a role of banknotes. Alan pushed in front of John, reaching into the ducting.
‘What do you think it is?’ John said tentatively, not really believing what he was seeing.
‘What the fuck do you think it is, you plonker? Drugs obviously, coke or hash, let’s have a look,’ Alan replied. He removed the package from the duct with both hands to reveal a small red circle containing a triangle printed in the centre. He put it to one side, grabbed the role of banknotes and threw them at John, who just about caught them, fumbling nervously.
‘You might as well count that and I’ll see what we’ve got here,’ said Alan, returning his attention to the packet and pulling a Stanley knife out of his utility belt. John stood there staring down dumbfounded at the large role of fifty pound notes in his hands. Alan, noticing his friend’s transfixed state, shouted at him, ‘Well get on with it!’
