by Dan Fletcher
‘Once again I promise you there is absolutely nothing to worry about. I’ll let you know the moment there is,’ said the Commander-General, holding out his hand.
‘I certainly hope so Ibisi. I’ve been very generous to you and your family,’ the Chief replied, shaking his hand, squeezing just hard enough to make the man wince, ‘I’ll see you next week then.’ The Chief liked to keep regular tabs on what was going on within the NDLEA. More specifically he liked to know where, and when, the next bust was going to be.
‘Yes, can we make it a bit earlier, say 7 o’clock?’ said the Commander-General, bits of mud flying as he tapped his shoes together.
‘That’s fine, the earlier the better. You know I’m a busy man,’ the Chief replied.
‘I’ll see you later, father,’ Tunge said, shaking both their hands. He had a few plans of his own before his flight later that evening. Like trying to relax and forget about Mujide.
‘OK. I’ll see you before you go? I have a few things I want to discuss with you,’ said the Chief, picking mud out of his golf shoes with a wooden tee.
‘Yes, I’ll see you this afternoon at the house. I’ve got a few hours before I have to leave for the airport and I still haven’t packed,’ Tunge replied, wandering off to his car.
The only direct flight to Heathrow left at 11.30pm, and arrived at around 5am UK time the next day. Most people found it inconvenient, but Tunge had been going backwards and forwards to England since he went to boarding school, at eight years of age. Tunge learnt long ago to sleep through the movement and vibration of the plane, only the most severe turbulence ever waking him. Generally he arrived in London rested and refreshed the next day.
Ghani, his driver, put his clubs and trolley into the boot of his BMW X5 as Tunge handed his caddy a Fifty Naira note, about ten times the going rate.
‘Thank you sir! Thank you sir!’ exclaimed the astonished youth, his eyes wide with excitement, thinking how he would spend the equivalent of more than a week’s earnings.
Tunge waived him away, and checked the time on his titanium Tag Heuer watch. Only ten to one, plenty of time to enjoy a few drinks at the members only Ikoyi Club, followed by a light lunch, a swim, and a sauna, before going home to pack his things.
In the colonial settings of the social club, Tunge lunched on grilled sole, served by a waiter clad in immaculate whites. He washed it down with a glass or two of crisp cold Sancerre. Afterwards he took a moment to call Miss Fielding Brown. Although probably unnecessary due to her efficiency, he wanted to make sure a car would be waiting for him at the airport in the morning. The phone only rang twice before she picked up, ‘Good day Mr Akintola. How is everything in Nigeria?’
Smiling at her businesslike tone, Tunge said, ‘Hello Sarah, just checking that everything is in order for tomorrow.’
‘Yes, the painters left an hour ago and the removals people are already putting the furniture back. Mr Smithers will be at the airport in the morning to pick you up, 5am sharp, Heathrow,’ she replied concisely, and with no hint of achievement in her voice.
Tunge’s heart sank, and his pulse started racing. ‘What do you mean the painters have been in? They’re not due in until Monday,’ he said, pausing on each word as if it was sticking in his throat.
‘I’m afraid the painters that Mr Davies recommended called to reschedule. I agreed to move everything forward, as you were conveniently away. Not to worry, it will all be back in this afternoon, long before your return,’ replied his assistant, confident that she had taken the only appropriate course of action. The shorter of the two had been an animal after all.
Tunge was irate, ‘Who gave you permission to change things! I don’t want strangers in my apartment when I’m not there! If anything’s broken I’ll hold you personally responsible!’ Really his only concern was for the cocaine.
Nonplussed by his outburst, she had after all had many fickle employers, Miss Fielding-Brown replied, ‘I assure you Mr Akintola that they are professionals. Unlike the two reprobates that Mr Davies recommended to do the decorating! Everything is insured by the removal company, and anyway, most of it is already back, no harm done.’
‘It better be,’ shouted Tunge. Hanging up, he threw the mobile phone onto the table, attracting the attention of the surrounding diners. Not that he noticed. Unsettled by the call, he realised it was going to be a long, long, journey back to London.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Steve sat through the exchange in the pub hardly saying a word, all the time worrying about his cut and nothing else. As things developed, and Steve realised he wouldn’t be able to leave Max’s side, he wondered whether he would get his five grand at all.
Once John and Alan finally left the pub, Max insisted that Steve accompany him back to the Tattoo Parlour in Stamford Hill. Holding Steve responsible, he wanted to weigh the stuff and check it before releasing him. Not that he really expected anything to be wrong, again, just being careful. Also the sadistic side in him was enjoying watching Steve squirm under the pressure.
Back in the safety of his lair, Max and Steve watched as Frank put the cocaine onto some scales on the coffee table. ‘It’s a bit over guv, but that’s to be expected on account of the plastic so fair doos.’ Frank took the packet and scales, and walking behind the desk, put them into the drawer that Max held open for him.
Closing the drawer, Max dismissed him, ‘You can clear off now Steve. Well done, here’s a nifty for your trouble.’ Holding out the note, Max beckoned Steve to come forward and collect it.
‘Fifty fucking quid,’ thought Steve, but took the money subserviently from Max, mumbling thanks as he did.
Hearing Steve close the door at the bottom of the stairs, Max opened the top drawer of his desk, and removed a brown, leather-bound, diary. Opening it to the back page, he scrolled down the list with his forefinger, until he found Mike’s name. Picking the phone up from in front of him, he dialled the number, and lent back in his chair, swinging his feet up onto the desk.
After a few rings Mike picked up, ‘Hello ‘Stamford Spares’, how can I help?’
Max smiled to himself, it was amazing how many of the old school had hung up their gloves to become respectable citizens. A new generation of slicker, more organised, criminals taking their place. Max included, or so he liked to think.
‘Hello Mike! It’s been a long time,’ said Max, trying to sound as if he really missed his old cellmate. ‘How’s business?’
Mike was shocked to hear Max’s voice, and reluctant to talk. The last thing he wanted in his life these days was anything to do with the likes of him.
Carefully, he replied, ‘Can’t complain mate, can’t complain. We’re busy enough here. What can I do for you? Got a motor you want bringing in?’ Hoping it could be that simple.
‘No, I was wondering if you were in contact with an old mate of ours, Alan Shorey. I might have a bit of work for him but I seem to have lost his number,’ Max said, in the same over-friendly tone.
They had got to know each other well enough in prison for Mike to know this was a lie. Even inside Max had been particular with his personal belongings. Everything always stored in precise locations on the shelves above his desk, and God help anyone who moved them. Not wanting to get involved, but deciding that it was the easiest way to get rid of Max, he gave him what he wanted.
‘I haven’t got a phone number anymore, but I hear he’s got a yard in Tottenham, under the arches, does painting and decorating. Just round the corner from his house, you know 17 Woodside Gardens,’ Mike paused for a reply, but Max didn’t say anything, so he continued, ‘you’ll probably catch him at the yard in the week. I wouldn’t go round the house, if I were you. His missus has got a right temper on her, and doesn’t like him getting involved, if you know what I mean. Anyway last time I was there the kids were running around like lunatics. No place to talk.’
Max couldn’t believe how easy it was. With the added bonus that he now knew Alan lived with his wife and children. Great l
everage there if he needed it. ‘Thanks Mike. I’ll try and pop down there next week and see him,’ and to stop Mike wondering about the call, he finished with, ‘I’ve got to do a bit of redecorating and thought I might as well give the work to a mate. Better than giving it to some wanker I don’t know. Anyway take care of yourself, and maybe I will bring the motor round sometime.’
Mike thought it was unlikely that the conversation had anything to do with decorating. He also hoped that he wouldn’t bring his car to the garage. Glad at least that Max didn’t want anything to do with him, he said, ‘No problem mate. Happy I could help out. Let me know if you ever need any work doing. Cheers mate.’ The line went dead, and looking very pleased, Max replaced the receiver.
Around the corner, using the same phone box he had been in two nights previously, Steve was dialling John’s number. After three rings the answer phone cut in.
‘Shit,’ exclaimed Steve, searching for John’s business card in his wallet. Finding it he dialled the landline number for the yard in Tottenham. Again after a few rings it went to answer phone.
This time Steve decided to leave a message, ‘John! Phone me when you get this message, I want my fucking money!’ Steve slammed the receiver down for the second time in as many nights.
Where was John? Probably spending his bloody money, that’s where.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Once they finished laughing and regained control, John and Alan drove back to Poet’s Road to divide the money. Still jubilant they emptied the contents from the rucksack onto John’s bed and divided it into two piles. Both of them were sitting at either end of the bed, looking in wonder at the loot.
‘Fifteen grand each! Plus,’ Alan said, and reaching into his jacket pocket pulled out the roll of fifties they had found, ‘another two and a half.’ Dividing the bank roll, he put half on each of their piles.
‘Thanks mate,’ said John, who had forgotten about their initial find.
‘You didn’t think I’d stitch you up did you? Just saving you from yourself, mate. Now let’s put most of this lot away and get out on the fucking town, shall we?’ said Alan. Putting a few thousand pounds in his pocket for good measure, Alan stuffed the rest of his half back into the rucksack, and zipped it shut with a flourish.
After storing it under the bed, and hiding John’s share, they each snorted a huge line of coke off a CD cover. Alan wasn’t a regular user, but if he was out partying he was more than happy to participate. He used the term ‘social user’, thinking it made him sound educated, and trying to justify the use of narcotics to himself at the same time. Alan rarely went out these days, but when he did he tended to over compensate and get carried away. Tonight was no exception, and he insisted that they do another line each before leaving
They walked to the pub they had been in with Griff, less than two weeks earlier, ‘The Edinburgh Cellars’, to get their evening started. Under new management it was transformed by a recent revamp and was making a name for itself as a venue for new musical talent, especially on Friday night. There was a good vibe, and the place was already buzzing with budding musicians, and others, who were waiting to hear a Reggae band setting up in the corner. The microphone whined briefly, as they made adjustments to their equipment. Wycliffe, who’s Takeaway was only a few doors down Newington Green Road, was stood at the bar, with what turned out to be the lead singer.
John and Alan snuck up behind Wycliffe, grabbing his shoulder simultaneously, making him jump and spill a bit of his rum and coke.
‘What you having mate? Drinks are on me,’ grinned Alan, speaking loudly to make himself heard over the ruckus. He too had known Wycliffe for a number of years, long before he sold chicken sandwiches.
‘Ya nearly give me a heart attack man,’ shouted Wycliffe, beaming toothlessly at Alan and giving him a huge hug. ‘Haven’t seen ya fa a long time! How ya doin bredren?’
As they drank numerous pints Wycliffe and Alan shared stories about their previous exploits. Although he felt a little left out, being no part of them, John loved to hear their tales of brushes with the law. He knew the stories were greatly exaggerated. They grew every time he heard them, but he enjoyed them nonetheless.
‘Da a remember when that security guard wet himself man! When ya pointed the shotgun at him. I could hardly stop myself from laffin,’ howled Wycliffe, clinking glasses with Alan.
‘Yeah I remember mate,’ replied Alan, laughing back, ‘what about the time you told Darren to wait outside, and he got the wrong fucking bank! Silly fuckwit. He was fifty yards down the road at the Abbey National.’ Alan nearly choked on his beer, ‘We had to run like hell with that bloody do-gooder behind us!’
Wycliffe rolled with laughter as he remembered the pensioner chasing them out of the bank.
‘Fancy another one?’ John said, he knew that the more alcohol they consumed the better the stories got.
‘Yes please mate,’ they replied, unanimously.
A few drinks later, and after listening to the first few numbers from the band, they decided to hit the West End and called a taxi.
The band was reaching full tilt now, and the lead singers dreadlocks were whipping back and forth in beat to the music. They were quite good and reminiscent of Peter Tosh in his early years, a steady beat and simple heartfelt lyrics.
‘Taxi! Shorey!’ was the cry from the door.
‘See you later Wycliffe,’ shouted Alan, ‘you take care man.’
‘And you bredren, the next sandwich is on me,’ Wycliffe said, giving John a hug.
‘Thanks mate. I’ll see you soon,’ John said, beginning to feel the effects. He wobbled a bit on his way to the door.
They bundled in the taxi laughing, fighting to get in the door first. Alan pushed John playfully to one side and grabbed victory. Joining him his friend flumped down in the seat next to him, realising he hadn’t shut the door John leant forward to shut it, and was thrown back in his seat as the cab pulled away.
‘Where to then mate?’ said the driver, wanting to get as many fares in that night as possible.
‘Covent Garden driver and step on it,’ Alan replied, in his poshest voice possible. John went into fits of laughter, already merry and high on the cocaine.
It was going to be a long, and messy, night.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The flight had been over half an hour late landing, which only helped to increase Tunge’s anxiety. The night had been long for him. The security procedures or distinct lack of them, at Lagos airport, meant that you had to check in at least six hours before the flight. Quite why it took that amount of time to pass the luggage through the x-ray machines, and load it onto the plane, was a mystery. When Tunge enquired in the past, none of the airport staff seemed to know the answer either.
‘I don’t know sir but I’m sure they’re working on it,’ was the reply he had got from the BA staff member on the check-in-desk. With a shrug and a smile, as if to say that’s just how it is. What’s the problem? People were resistant to change in Nigeria, very resistant.
Tunge didn’t want to go back home, and be forced to spend more time discussing business matters with the Chief. Instead he opted to stay in the airport, and Ghani kept him company at the bar until departure. A strict Muslim, the driver didn’t drink, and would not normally be seen near alcohol. His job dictated that he was responsible for Tunge’s safety as long as he was in the country. Not allowed to leave his side, he sat and drank soft drinks, listening as Tunge complained about the excessive wait, the hours passing painfully by.
Eventually they boarded, and although the flight was smooth and uneventful, Tunge found himself unable to sleep. No matter how hard he tried not to, every time he closed his eyes Tunge started thinking about the cocaine. Now finally taxiing towards the terminal, Tunge looked out through the porthole at the rain sodden tarmac and willed the plane to go faster. He was desperate to get home and put his mind at rest.
After waiting for what seemed an age for his suitcase to come through, Tung
e passed through ‘NOTHING TO DECLARE’ and was greeted by Mr Smithers in the arrivals foyer.
‘How was your trip sir?’ said the chauffer, taking his bags.
‘Dreadful Mr Smithers, I just want to get home as quickly as possible,’ Tunge replied, striding for the exit with him scurrying behind.
There were few cars on the road at this hour, and they made short work of the journey to Knightsbridge. Passing through Earls Court, Tunge didn’t even notice the massive posters advertising the ‘Erotica’ exhibition, which normally would have caught his attention.
It would have looked strange to insist on taking his bags in, so Tunge waited patiently for the chauffer to leave. As soon as he did, Tunge ran into his bedroom and saw that everything was back in its place, just how he’d left it.
‘Thank God,’ he thought, beginning to relax. Tunge threw his jacket on the bed, and taking a screwdriver from the bedside cabinet, he went over to the ventilation duct in the corner.
Getting down on his knees, almost in prayer, Tunge removed the cover. He couldn’t see anything there. Frantically he reached into the void, searching desperately for the packet, even though he knew it wasn’t there.
Tunge rocked back on his haunches, burying his head in his hands, bewildered. His mind started turning, trying to work out who might have stolen it.
There was no way of getting into the building, not without setting off one of the numerous alarms. Besides, there was no sign of a break in. Sarah was the only other person with a set of keys and the codes to get in, but he knew her integrity was beyond doubt. It had to be either the removals people, or the painters.
Unsteadily he got up from the floor, and made his way to the living room. He went to the cabinet to the right of the fireplace and opening it was relieved to see that at least the whisky decanter was back where he left it. Taking a crystal glass from the shelf above, Tunge’s hand shook as he poured himself a rather large scotch.
