The loansharking business was getting squeezed nowadays by those Internet lenders with adverts everywhere and interest rates in four figures, but even so there was always room for bottom-feeders like John Sherwood, taking on borrowers no big firm would touch. He ran small ads in free newspapers and put postcards in newsagents’ windows describing himself as a “local friend in need” who would even bring cash to your house. That sounded like good service, but then his operating methods relied on knowing where you lived. As soon as something went wrong—and something always went wrong—he wasn’t so easy to reach. His adverts featured a mobile phone number, but if you called it, all you got was a voicemail message telling you to leave a number for someone to call you back.
When I was thirteen or so, running wild around West London, one of the places me and my fellow brats had hung out was a snooker hall that had seen better days. A sign outside the door barred entry to anyone under sixteen, in theory, but no one could be bothered to enforce it. If you could cough up the hefty deposit for balls and cues and had enough pound coins to keep the table light on you could play all day. There were usually older blokes hanging around, some offering a range of drugs to anyone who asked. For the most part we ignored the pushers, but one thing I did learn was that a loan shark called Sherwood had an office nearby. Once or twice I’d glimpsed a slim bloke in a sharp suit, usually with a couple of heavies in tow, slipping in through an unmarked doorway in the alley outside.
The snooker hall was a few minutes’ walk from the bus stop on the main drag, lined with pubs and clubs that only came to life at weekends. The entrance was off a narrow side street, and its doorway was barred now by a steel grille filled with rotting litter and leaves; behind the dusty filth-spattered windows slabs of chipboard had been screwed up to stop looters ripping the place apart for its pipes and wiring. Either it had run out of money or the cops had finally got their act together and put it out of business. As I glanced at the doors, their handles wrapped in rusted chain, I couldn’t work out whether I felt nostalgic for the fun I’d thought I’d been having here or angry at myself for wasting so much of my youth in this dump playing bad pool and losing all the money I’d made from shoplifting cigarettes and booze.
But all that was past, I thought, and there was no point in beating myself up—especially in this neighbourhood, where you could usually find a crack addict to do that for you. I went round the side to the grimy alley with its unmarked door, noticing a sleek new convertible Merc parked in a private off-street bay opposite—a motor way too classy for this part of town.
It looked like my luck was in.
I banged on the blank double doors and after a few moments heard footsteps clomping down the stairs and a rattling of the lock. When the door was shoved open Sean’s head emerged, and when he clocked who it was standing there his face went bright scarlet, adding a lovely pink tinge to the purple bruise my fist had left on his face the day before. Even though he was indoors he was still wearing his leather gloves, I noticed. Maybe he had a skin condition.
“I’d like to talk to Mr. Sherwood,” I said.
I could see uncertainty and indecision jostling under Sean’s beefy features. He seemed unsure whether he should tell me to piss off and slam the door again, or step out into the alley and see if the previous day’s encounter had been an unlucky fluke. I stared at him and waited, ready for either but hoping for neither. If he did slam the door again I’d have to stand there knocking on it till Sherwood came out for lunch or something, and it was starting to rain, and I’d look like a berk.
“You got an appointment?” said Sean finally. I nearly laughed at his effort to sound efficient and professional—he came across like one of those self-important grannies who work as doctors’ receptionists so they can have a nose through patients’ medical records.
“I’m here to repay a loan,” I said.
Sean squinted, and his little eyes nearly disappeared into the fleshy folds of his face. “Wait here,” he said, and slammed the door shut.
It re-opened a few minutes later and Sean urged me in with a sharp jerk of his head. The stairs were covered in cheap vinyl, but at the top the floor was so thickly carpeted I couldn’t hear my own footsteps. The long hallway was moodily lit, painted in muted beige colours and lined with bland abstract prints in metal frames. The effect was meant to be classy and upmarket, but it reminded me of one of those budget business hotels where travelling salesmen watch porn. Sean led the way up the corridor to a pair of wooden doors, rapped gently with one leather-gloved knuckle and waited, while I examined a nearby oil painting showing a hay cart fording a stream. It looked old, and it didn’t really go with the modern abstracts, but maybe Sherwood thought it gave the place class.
“Yeah,” said a voice from inside.
Sean opened the door and stood back reverently.
Behind the desk, flicking his finger across a tablet PC, was the same slim, sharp-suited guy I used to glimpse in the alley. Sherwood was in his late thirties now, I guessed, with an overdone tan, neatly cut hair and rimless glasses. He looked quite respectable, more like an accountant or a high-street estate agent than a loan shark. But then he had goons like Sean and Elvis to handle the business that involved smashed teeth and turds through letter boxes. Elvis was here right now, I noticed, perched against a side table eating peanuts from a bowl, relaxed in stone-coloured chinos and a sweater. His outfit didn’t go with the greasy quiff, but then only a glittery glam-rock jumpsuit would have gone with that quiff.
Either Sherwood was genuinely checking something on his screen or he was merely feigning a lack of interest in my arrival. I approached his broad, bare, bleached-wood desk and stood there waiting. At last he put the tablet aside and looked up at me over his glasses with eyes of washed-out blue.
“Mr. Maguire, hello,” said Sherwood. His accent was Scottish, Glasgow at a guess, with a hint of head-butts and razor blades. There was a solid modern chair facing his desk, but he didn’t look at it or invite me to sit. It didn’t surprise me that he knew my name; by now he knew what had happened at Delroy’s house the day before, and he would have found out I was responsible. Addressing me by name was meant to rattle me—to make me think he knew everything about me there was to know. But of course he didn’t.
“Mr. Sherwood, I came to apologize to you and your staff about what happened yesterday,” I said. That took Sherwood by surprise, as I’d intended; he was expecting me to act defiant or macho. But he’d struck me as vain and egotistical, and I guessed that flattery might be the best way to get his guard down. “I’d no idea your people were there to collect on a legitimate debt,” I went on. “I thought they were stealing Mr. Llewellyn’s TV, and I sort of waded in. I’m very sorry.”
Sherwood did a good imitation of being amused. “These misunderstandings do happen,” he said. “Just as well no one called the police.” Yeah, right, I thought, like they’d back you up. Then I thought of all the coppers I’d encountered, and how they would have looked at me, a scruffy overgrown teenager, and then at prosperous, plausible Sherwood. They’d have done whatever he wanted them to.
“Fortunately I made my own enquiries first,” went on Sherwood. “From what I heard, I thought you would come looking for me. And here you are.” He smiled, not warmly, and let the silence hang a minute in the air. He liked playing games, I could tell. Getting customers to sweat was one of the perks of his business.
“Take a seat,” he said finally. I sat, and tried to shift the leather-and-wood armchair closer to his desk, but it was too heavy to move easily. I could sense Elvis lurking behind me, where I couldn’t keep an eye on him.
“I understand you’re here to repay a loan,” said Sherwood. “But I don’t think you’re one of my clients.”
“Delroy told me he borrowed six grand from you,” I said. “I can get hold of that much in a day or two.”
Sherwood sighed and smiled and fiddled with a fat black fountain pen. “Sorry, Mr. Maguire,” he said. “I wish it was that si
mple.”
“I understand there’s interest on top,” I said. I didn’t name a figure; I suspected whatever figure I suggested, Sherwood would double it.
“My arrangement was with Mr. Llewellyn, not with you,” said Sherwood. “In fact, strictly speaking I can’t even discuss Mr. Llewellyn’s business with anyone but him. We take the Data Protection Act very seriously in this firm.”
Data protection? Now he really was taking the piss. I bristled, but tried to hide it.
“The thing is, you’re a successful businessman, Mr. Sherwood,” I said calmly. “I can’t understand why you lent Delroy that money in the first place. He’ll never be able to pay it back. You’ve taken his TV, and he doesn’t have anything else worth seizing.”
“Yes, that TV is pretty much worthless, but that’s not the point,” said Sherwood. “He promised to make his payments on time, and he broke that promise. It was by way of a reminder.”
“Look, like I said, I can repay that loan myself, with interest. You won’t need to send any more—reminders.” I glanced at big Sean to show I could think of a better name for him. “And realistically it’s the only way you’ll ever get your money back.”
“That’s not quite true,” said Sherwood. “Mr. Llewellyn offered his family home as collateral, and I accepted.”
I felt my mouth opening and closing gormlessly. When I finally managed to stammer, “His home?” it came out as a pathetic squeak.
Watching me flounder, Sherwood’s chilly grin finally reached his eyes.
“You can’t take his home,” I said. “Where are he and Winnie going to live?”
“The local authorities have a wide range of bed-and-breakfast accommodation,” said Sherwood. “They cater for all sorts—asylum seekers, gypsies, benefit scroungers …” Behind me I heard Elvis snickering.
“Delroy’s had a stroke. He still uses a crutch. That house has been specially adapted for him. He can’t live in a B and B.”
“Then maybe he should race back to Jamaica,” shrugged Sherwood. “Those people have huge families, so somebody over there will look after him. He’ll probably be happier back where he came from anyway.”
You smug, slimy racist, I thought. But I didn’t say it. I had done enough futile bleating, and it was time to bring the discussion back to the only thing Sherwood cared about.
“How much do you want?” I asked. Let him name the figure.
“Even in that area, that house of theirs is worth … a hundred and fifty thousand pounds?” He grinned as he said it, as well he might. Delroy had borrowed six, and Sherwood wanted one hundred and fifty to cancel the debt? That must have been how he paid for his fancy oil paintings.
“That’s presuming you can get hold of Delroy’s house,” I said.
“The paperwork is watertight, believe me,” said Sherwood. “I do this for a living.”
“There might still be complications,” I said. I knew Sherwood would have a brief on his payroll—but then I had Nicky. She decorated her office with the shrunken heads of shyster lawyers.
“Ah,” said Sherwood. “I wondered when we’d come to the threats.”
“I’m not the one making threats,” I said.
“I know you’re acquainted with McGovern,” said Sherwood. “But so am I. And believe me, I’ve been dealing with him a lot longer than you have. I wouldn’t count on him backing you up.”
McGovern? Who the hell had told him I knew McGovern? Last time I’d seen London’s most notorious gangster he’d held a gun to my head and told me to forget I’d just seen him shoot a man in the face. I still hadn’t figured out why the Guvnor had let me live that time. Why on earth would he lift a finger to help me now?
But if Sherwood thought he might …? I could see now why he’d told Sean to let me in, why we were having this conversation, why we were negotiating. I was still only seventeen years old. I couldn’t spend any of my inheritance without my lawyer’s signature. Whoever Sherwood had spoken to, they’d told him that I was pals with the Guvnor. And it was true McGovern liked me—otherwise my corpse would have been piled up with the others in that blood-spattered Pimlico restaurant. All the same, I’d have to tread carefully. I’d seen what happened to the last bloke who invoked the Guvnor’s name without permission—he was the one with his brains all over the wall.
“Mr. Sherwood, let’s call it twelve grand, cash. No strings, no lawyers, and I can get the cash to you by Wednesday. Nobody else will ever get involved, that’s a promise.” It was funny how trying to sound calm and reasonable, when really I was ready to smack someone, made me feel calm and reasonable. I’d have to remember that.
“Fifteen,” said Sherwood. I chewed my lip while I pretended to think about it. Then I shrugged and smiled, and stood up, offering him my hand. He stood too and grasped my hand in both of his. His touch was cold and slimy, like a handful of old dead fish.
“We have a deal,” he said. But he didn’t let go of my hand. “That means you and I have a deal, Mr. Maguire. Fifteen grand by this time on Wednesday, and Mr. Llewellyn’s debt will be cancelled. Otherwise …” He sighed, like a ham actor in a TV soap.
“I’ll be here,” I said.
As I rode the Tube into the City for my appointment with Nicky, I wondered how I was going to explain why I needed fifteen thousand pounds in cash at such short notice. It was my money, of course, and she always insisted it was up to me what I did with it, but the way things had been set up I still needed her signature to get hold of it. She was bound to be curious about what it was for, and I wasn’t sure if I should tell her. I’d back her any day to take on Sherwood in court and string him up with his own rancid guts, but once we left the courthouse all bets would be off. He’d find a way to make Delroy and Winnie, and me, pay. I decided I’d just tell Nicky I needed cash for some second-hand gym equipment. She’d probably guess I was up to something, but with any luck she’d just think I was buying bent gear that had been pushed off the back of a lorry, and wouldn’t ask too many questions.
All the same it was going to place a barrier between us, for the first time, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Nicky was like the big sister I’d never had, except what I felt about her wasn’t at all brotherly, I knew now. I thought I’d been doing a good job of hiding my feelings from myself and everyone else, but I hadn’t fooled Delroy for a minute—and if I hadn’t fooled him, I probably hadn’t fooled Nicky either. I didn’t know if I would even be able to look her in the eye at this meeting.
As usual Lincoln’s Inn Fields was a mêlée of lawyers in gowns and smart suits scurrying back and forward between their offices and the Royal Courts of Justice on the eastern side of the square. Nicky’s building didn’t look quite as intimidating as the first few times I’d been there; I knew now that she and her partner Kamlesh Vora were just tenants on one half of one floor, sharing a receptionist and secretarial staff with other small firms in the same building. The woman at the front desk gave me a professional smile, like she recognized me, but with an odd hint of tension and weariness.
“I’m afraid Ms. Hale isn’t in today,” she said. That explained the weariness—she must have been telling people the same thing all morning. It didn’t explain much else, though.
“I had an appointment at three,” I said.
“I’m sorry. Would you like to reschedule?”
“Did she say what the problem was?”
“She hasn’t been in touch at all, I’m afraid. She just didn’t come in this morning.”
“Have you tried her mobile?”
“We’ve left messages, but no one’s heard back from her yet. We do have access to her diary, if you’d like to make another appointment.”
For the moment I was stumped. It wasn’t like Nicky to drop off the radar. I’d always been able to contact her, even way out of office hours. Once when I’d got through to her in the evening I gave her a hard time for answering her phone when she should have been having a life. She’d laughed. “I do have caller ID, Finn,” she�
��d said. “I didn’t think you’d be ringing me up to waste my time.”
“What about Mr. Vora?” I asked the receptionist. “Is he in?”
“I’ll try him for you.”
When Vora opened the door to let me into his and Nicky’s office it took me a moment to recognize him. He was normally neat, dapper and expensively dressed, but today his tie was crooked, his neat white fringe of hair stuck out at odd angles and it looked like he hadn’t even shaved. When I told him I was supposed to be signing completion documents with Nicky that day—I didn’t mention the fifteen grand—he actually wrung his hands. I’d never seen anyone do that before.
“I am sure this will all be sorted out when Nicky returns,” he insisted, but he didn’t sound convinced.
“But where is she? It’s not like her to just disappear and not let anyone know where she’s going, is it?”
“We are all human, Mr. Maguire.” Vora pulled at his hair in agitation. “She maybe has problems at home, or a personal crisis of some sort …”
“Have you tried her home number?”
“Her husband says she went out late last night and did not return. That is all he knows.”
“Did they argue?”
“Look, Nicky has always been one hundred per cent reliable. I am sure when she returns she will have a perfectly reasonable explanation.”
He sounded like he was trying to persuade himself as much as me. In fact, Vora’s appearance was rattling me more than the mysterious missed appointment. It was far too early to be panicking like this, unless …
“Jesus, Mr. Vora … Look—never mind the documents for now. I need to get hold of fifteen grand. By Wednesday. What about you—can you authorize it?”
Vora blinked some more. His lips worked as if they were trying to form words but had forgotten how.
“I am not strictly speaking a partner in the firm,” he stammered finally. “I retired recently. I am merely acting as a consultant while Nicky looks for a new partner.”
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