by Nick Oldham
‘What is it?’ Kate asked blearily.
Henry was right.
It was a fire.
And burning brightly on his front lawn was a blue Ford Mondeo – his old car – flames gushing out of the window, rising high into the night sky. There was a loud crack and the rear window exploded.
Kate joined him at the window, pulling her dressing gown tightly around her, horrified at the sight.
‘That’s your old car,’ she exclaimed.
‘Yeah,’ he said sourly, ‘better call the fire service just in case no one else has.’
Twelve
Henry was feeling dithery and tired when he dropped off his slightly singed Rover 75 and picked up the Nissan from the unit, then headed for Manchester, desperately trying to get himself into the role of Frank Jagger.
His mind, understandably, was elsewhere, and even though Karl Donaldson had turned up out of the blue in the middle of the night – why, Henry did not have time to find out – and assured Henry he would keep watch over Kate, Henry knew it was his job, not someone else’s, to watch over his loved ones.
He thought that if Ingram or anyone else commented on his vagueness, he could always use the excuse of being distracted by the break-up with his ‘lover’, Andrea Makin.
Thinking of whom, Henry stopped at Bolton West services and called her from his mobile. She answered immediately.
‘Hi, Henry, how’re you feeling? Up for this?’
He hesitated before telling her about the incident of the Ford in the night-time.
‘Shit,’ she said tightly. Then, ‘You can pull out if you want to.’
‘No, I said I’ll see it through, and anyway, an old friend turned up out of the blue last night and he’ll be keeping an eye on Kate for me. Karl Donaldson – remember him?’
‘Yeah, do I!’ She had met Donaldson at the same time as she had first met Henry, in Blackpool, hunting down a bomber linked in with the white supremacist movement. ‘You’re a good one, Henry,’ she said.
‘Kate isn’t that impressed.’
‘She’s luckier than she thinks.’
‘I doubt that’s a point of view she shares … anyway, she’s got protection, so she should be OK.’
‘You can pull if you need to.’
‘No, let’s crack on.’
‘Still no inkling what the day will bring?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘You still going in without back-up?’
‘That’s the general idea.’
‘Is that wise?’
‘Who knows? At the first sign of trouble, I’ll do a Jesse Owens. I’ve got a hell of a sprint on me when the chips’re down.’
Andrea laughed. ‘I appreciate this – really.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘Just keep in touch.’
‘I will.’
Henry deleted all the details of the call from his mobile, then screwed the little Nissan down the motorway, blue smoke all the way. Half an hour later he was back on Salford Quays in the apartment, showering and doing his best to freshen up, get his brain into gear. He changed into clean jeans, tee-shirt and trainers, then made a strong coffee, flicked on the CD player at let Amy Winehouse perform a bit of rehab on him. He had only just picked up on her, after seeing her take the stage with the Rolling Stones at the Isle of Wight festival, viewed on YouTube. He was now deeply in love with her gravelly voice and superb music. He hoped she wouldn’t mainline her talent away and destroy herself.
The door intercom buzzed.
Henry shot to his feet, switched off the music and looked around the room. This time there were no stray mobile phones to give him palpitations. He had hidden his personal one and there was nothing else to indicate there was anyone else who lived here other than Frank Jagger, bits ’n’ bobs scallywag.
‘Yep?’
‘It’s Mitch – you ready?’
‘You coming up?’
‘Why, d’you wanna screw me?’
‘Not especially.’
‘Then get your arse down here, pillock face.’
‘Fuck you, too,’ Henry said, but only after he had released the speak button. Obviously Mitch had not particularly taken to him.
He shrugged on a leather jacket, patted down his pockets, took a breath and went for it.
Mitch was in the underground car park leaning against the Peugeot 607. Two fat things together, Henry mused.
‘Where’s Ingram?’
Mitch put a finger to his lips. ‘No names, nothing,’ he said, narrowing his porky eyes. ‘Get in.’ His stubby thumb jerked at the car and Henry climbed into the passenger seat whilst Mitch eased himself behind the wheel, giving Henry a grin as he got comfortable.
He held out his left hand, palm up. ‘Phone,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I want your mobile.’
‘Why would that be?’
‘This is one of those incognito journeys.’ He shifted his bulk and faced Henry, who noticed a wafting smell of body odour mixed in with that of soap and cheap deodorant. Obviously BO was an ongoing problem for Mitch that even a shower could not overcome. The smell reminded Henry of a dead man on a mortuary slab.
Henry made a show of annoyance and disgust at the inconvenience of having to give Mitch the phone, which he slapped down into his hand.
Mitch immediately checked it, tabbing through it, checking numbers dialled and received, sent and received texts.
He found nothing and looked curiously at Henry, whose inside curdled.
‘It’s empty. All the files are empty.’
‘So?’
‘Who empties files, other then someone who’s trying to hide something?’
‘Force of habit,’ Henry quipped. ‘And that silly bitch I just binned,’ he ad-libbed, ‘has been firing me loads of calls and texts. I just deleted ’em all and all the others, too.’
Mitch’s fat jaw edged from side to side. ‘Oh, right.’ He wasn’t convinced. He sniffed and looked at the phone itself, slightly puzzled. The furrows in his brow were deep. Something nagged at him, something he could not quite fathom. He tossed the phone on to the dashboard.
‘I wonder if she’ll keep sending you texts today?’
‘Hopefully she’s got the message – not interested.’
‘Got the message in what, twenty-four hours? Women don’t get messages that quickly, mate,’ Mitch said knowledgeably. ‘Not in my experience.’
Henry looked at him levelly. ‘What would your experience be?’
‘More than you’d fuckin’ imagine.’ He started the car and reversed out of the parking bay. Henry sat back. Suddenly he felt very vulnerable.
‘What’s today about, then?’
‘Collection and delivery.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘What it says on the tin … you’ll find out in due course. First things first, though.’
Henry decided to keep quiet for a while and let things pan out. Maybe Mitch would start to fill in some of the pregnant pauses, start blabbing a few titbits which would be useful for Henry to pass on.
He was driven across Manchester in the direction of the Trafford Centre retail park, a place Henry avoided like the plague. Kate and his daughters seemed to be at home there, though. Henry only went under sufferance, letting them free whilst he went to a bookshop, bought a thriller and then found a coffee house. The Trafford Centre itself was bordered by various qualities of industrial areas and Mitch found one under the shadow of the newly erected indoor ski slope which dominated the skyline. He turned in to a massive area which was a warren of roads with big, medium and small units lining them.
The car turned in to a cul-de-sac and pulled up outside the sliding door of a small unit. Mitch pressed a button on a fob and the door began to clatter open. When it was high enough he drove the Peugeot inside and parked alongside a Hyundai Sonata. Henry clocked and stored the route to the premises in his memory.
‘Transport for the day,’ Mitch announced, h
eaving his bulk out of the driver’s seat.
The Sonata was a grey colour, as big and sloppy as the Peugeot, obviously with enough room in it to house Mitch in comfort. He needed big cars. Henry glanced around the interior of the unit, but it was virtually bare, apart from a couple of Tesco carrier bags next to the Sonata.
Picking up one of the bags, Mitch handed it to him. ‘Here, change of clothing.’
‘What for?’ Henry peered inside the bag to see a pair of jeans, tee-shirt, a zip-up jacket, socks and underpants, all still with price tags still attached.
‘I reckon they’ll be your size,’ Mitch said, as though he hadn’t heard Henry’s question.
‘I said, what for?’
Mitch looked critically at him. ‘Use your noggin.’ He tapped his head.
It dawned on Henry, like being struck by a demolition ball.
Forensics.
Replacement clothing was so cheap these days – Henry estimated he was probably holding about £30 worth of goods in his hand, max – that most savvy crims went shopping at places like Tesco or ASDA before they went on any jobs. They then did the job in new clothing, disposed of it after, showered, got dressed in their own gear and whey-hey! – no forensic links.
‘We’re going on a job?’ he asked incredulously.
‘It’s just in case … can’t be too careful these days.’ Mitch winked. ‘Now, don’t be a shy boy – get fucking changed!’ he ordered Henry. He himself was already pulling his shirt off over his fat head, revealing a chest bearing very saggy man-boobs and great rolls of gut fat. Henry wanted to retch, but retreated so he was partially hidden by the back wing of the Sonata and quickly got changed. The clothes, all XXL in size, and size ten trainers, fitted perfectly.
He folded up his own clothing and held it in his arms.
‘Leave it in the back of the Peugeot’ – Mitch hitched up a pair of super-sized jeans, which fastened tightly under the folds of his belly – ‘then get in here.’ He nodded at the Sonata.
‘Cat got your tongue?’
Henry glanced sideways at Mitch. They were on the M6, heading south, Mitch at the wheel. They’d had little conversation on the journey. They were now approaching the outskirts of Birmingham.
‘I thought you were going to tell me what was happening?’
‘Suppose I can, now.’
‘How generous,’ Henry quipped.
‘Basically we’re gonna meet a couple of guys who are gonna give us something … that’s about it.’
‘What are they going to give us?’
‘Use your imagination. You thick or something?’
Henry sighed. ‘Why two of us?’
‘Necessity.’ Mitch did not expand.
The car sped on to the Midlands Expressway, the new M6 toll road which cut out the requirement to travel through Birmingham.
‘Not much further to go, but I need a brew, and some breakfast.’
Henry guessed what sort of breakfast Mitch would prefer and wasn’t wrong when he sat down opposite Henry at the services on the Expressway and tucked into the largest all-day breakfast they did. Henry contented himself with more coffee.
The food seemed to have a euphoric effect on Mitch, relaxed him, made him more garrulous. Henry picked up on his mood and thought he’d try a few questions. He knew from experience that given the right environment, criminals liked to boast about their exploits and Henry hoped that a few innocently put, chatty questions would start to prise him open.
‘How long’ve you been with Ingram, then?’
‘Ages, years.’ He folded the white of an egg into his mouth.
‘You seem to have a pretty big’ – Henry almost said appetite, but refrained – ‘operation.’ Criminals, he also knew, liked to bask in praise.
‘You could say that.’
‘Porn’s pretty big business.’
‘Phenomenal, worth millions.’ Now a fork full of fried mushrooms disappeared with obvious relish.
‘Only if you know the business,’ Henry suggested.
‘True enough.’
‘You and Ingram obviously do.’
Mitch’s eyes sparkled. ‘That we do.’
‘What, like just selling DVDs?’
Mitch chortled. ‘That’s just a tiny part of it.’
‘Oh, right,’ Henry said, leaning forward. ‘Tell me more.’
Mitch shrugged. ‘DVDs, sex shops, strip clubs, hookers …’ He shrugged again.
‘You mean you’ve got a sex shop? What, dildos and all that?’
‘A sex shop?’
‘Yeah, a sex shop.’
Mitch ran the back of his hand across his chin to catch some fat dribble. ‘He’s got twenty.’
‘Fuckin’ hell!’ Henry pretended to almost choke on his coffee.
‘Twelve clubs, runs prostitutes all over the county, does porn movies, too.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Henry said in continuing amazement.
‘And on top of that, guess what?’ Mitch picked up a sachet of white sugar, which he tapped on the edge of the table, tore open and shook into his coffee, the white crystals disappearing into the black liquid. ‘Not that I take sugar, but does that give you a clue?’
‘What do you mean?’ Henry asked stupidly, but knew what Mitch was alluding to.
He picked up another sachet and waved it in front of Henry’s nose, tore it open and added it to his drink. ‘White powder?’ he said, eyeballs rising.
‘You mean …?’
‘Drugs.’ He stirred the coffee. ‘Oh, aye, drugs. We have a distribution network from London to Manchester,’ he boasted.
‘You must be worth tons.’
‘Add a property portfolio – legit – on top of that. Student flats, maybe two hundred of them … small shopping arcades … in fact, that might be where you come in, Frank.’
Henry leaned forwards eagerly.
‘We’re always after people who can work for us and keep their gobs shut, especially since we relocated.’
‘Relocated?’
‘Yeah, we just moved up from London. Didn’t he tell you?’
‘Told me nowt.’
‘Well, anyway, that’s why we checked you out.’ Mitch regarded him as he sliced his fried bread. ‘We need some help on the property side of things – management, like.’
‘I could do that. Sounds interesting.’
‘Anyway’ – Mitch crunched the hard bread – ‘said too much already.’
‘So, what’s this collection and delivery thing? A test or something?’
‘Frank, it’s a job. If you do it competently, back me up, then all well and good. A test? Ha!’ He scooped up a big circle of black pudding and shovelled it into his mouth.
Henry watched him, repulsed.
Back on the motorway, Mitch looped off the M6 on to the M42, then the M40, picking up the signs for London.
‘If we’re going to the Smoke, wouldn’t it be easier to have stayed on the M6?’ Henry commented.
‘Don’t make assumptions.’
‘So it’s not London?’
‘Nah.’
‘Isn’t it about time you told me? There’s only so much being fed shit I can stand. I don’t do ambiguity well.’
‘OK, OK, we’re picking up some packages off a couple of gents, then taking them home with us, that’s all the job is.’
‘Drugs?’
‘Cocaine.’
‘Big packages?’
‘Try half a million quid’s worth big.’
Henry/Frank blew out a whistle. ‘Bugger.’
‘Bugger indeed.’
‘These guys think they’re brainy, a cut above,’ Mitch complained as he came off the M40, junction 16, and cut south to Stratford-upon-Avon.
‘Which guys?’
‘You don’t need to know their names. A and B, say. They think they’re arty-farty, which is why we’re going to Stratford … know who was born there?’
‘Shakespeare?’ Henry offered hopefully, hoping he didn’t come across as to
o arty-farty himself.
‘Bang on! Well, these guys purport to be into Shakespeare, but it’s all bollocks to me. Hey nonny-no and all that shit.’ Mitch raised a cheek of his backside and revealed his contempt for the arts by breaking wind and filling the car with a terrible smell. ‘Anyway, they’re down here tonight to watch a play.’
Henry opened his window. ‘Which one?’
‘How the fuck should I know? You’re not arty-farty, are you?’ Mitch asked suspiciously.
In real life Henry quite enjoyed a bit of the bard. However, he didn’t think that Frank Jagger would. ‘Not my cuppa,’ he said. ‘Only thing I like to see on stage is live sex and strippers.’
‘Me, too,’ Mitch agreed sagely. ‘Anyway, we’re meeting them in Stratford so they can go to the theatre after.’
Henry shook his head. Drug dealers into Shakespeare.
‘But it’s not that simple,’ Mitch added. ‘Thing is, as is so often the case, these guys have got greedy.’
A cramp of the stomach made Henry wince at these words. ‘How d’you mean?’
‘They’ve got greedy. Greed leads to theft. Theft is skimming’ – Mitch’s words hung in the air – ‘and Ingram doesn’t like skimmers.’
He turned to face Henry, gave him a knowing look.
Although Henry, as Frank Jagger, denied having ever been to Stratford, he had actually been, as Henry, a handful of times. Firstly when studying English Literature at sixth form college in the 1970s when he was forced to go down and watch the Shakespeare play he was studying; since then he had been on a voluntary basis to watch plays occasionally with Kate. He had always enjoyed the experience and spectacle, even though he only had a passing interest in Shakespeare. He also enjoyed the ambience of the town, which he found quite laid back and civilized. Even the yobs spoke with posh accents, he once observed.
It was about 4 p.m. when Mitch drove into town and parked the Sonata in a car park behind a hotel by the river.
‘These guys are staying here,’ he explained, nodding in the direction of the hotel, ‘but I don’t think they’ve landed yet. They’re due about six, they said, and are having a pre-theatre meal at a place in town. Fuckin’ jessies,’ Mitch spat derisively. ‘Pre-fucking-theatre meal! Jesus.’
Sounded quite nice to Henry, who’d done the same thing once or twice, but he went along with the façade with nods of agreement and concurring facial expressions.
