by Ian Patrick
As for Zara Stone, she never commented on the money going over before the guns. That never happens and tells me Big H is careful in how he educates his business associates. Hamer has seen me briefly but not enough that he would have any positive recall of me. Even more so when I have hair. I leave and get into a hotel cab. The cab drops me at a twenty-four-hour supermarket and I use the public call box. I dial an international number and wait. I don’t think about the time difference. I know it will be picked up. It rings four times and is answered.
“Yes”
“Sky. It’s done. Book me a flight for eleven hundred hours my time. I’ll collect the tickets at the airport desk.”
The line goes dead. I replace the receiver and get back in the waiting cab. He knows I’m a good fare and is prepared to wait whilst I pack. He drops me at departures. On the journey I talk about how my father is gravely ill and I need to get back. He’ll feed that back to the hotel and that will get to Stoner via Sinta who will be looking to offload my laundry to the next bell boy servicing their villa. My belongings are all in a rucksack, the contents of the crate, including passport and cash. The night sight I’ve dumped. It’s been a long wait. I need to get home.
4
This is one of the things I love. Waiting for the prey to enter my territory, then stalking it until I pounce. I don’t kill. I collect.
It’s 1900 hours. I’m in a restaurant looking out of the window at Mount Pleasant Sorting Office. Watching North Londoners busying themselves on their routes from work to home or work to pub. Miss Stoner is late. I order a coffee, pay my debt and wait. The waiter offers me a receipt. I decline. Receipts are a record of where you go or have been. Cops hang on to them to claim expenses. Pockets are for hands, nothing else. I will always get expenses back. I’m never out of cash.
1910 hours. The coffee is tepid. I glance down at my phone on the table. The screen is blank. I look out and see the black cab, the one that was in the photo DS Hudson showed me, pull up opposite the post office. Stoner gets out. Doesn’t pay and the cab drives off towards Holborn. She’s alone. She takes out her phone and my screen lights up and the table vibrates. I keep looking before answering.
“Alright. I’m here. Where are you? It’s fuckin’ starting to rain.”
Small droplets appear at my window providing good cover from the street looking in. I remain seated.
“See the phone box to your left.” She turns.
“Yeah. What about it?”
“Go in there and wait.”
“You’re fuckin’ weird. I’m only doing it because it’s pissing it down. Hurry up. Hang on…how do you know where I am?”
I hang up.
I watch her go in. The collar on her three-quarter-length Marc Jacobs coat is up. She still has a good tan. I was hoping she’d be casually dressed. I grab my jacket and leave. This is a time that I feel most on edge. The moment before meeting. Not knowing who could be watching the watcher. I know the NCA team weren’t out. They were all at a leaving drink in the city. The cab hadn’t come back and wasn’t parked up. Road works wouldn’t permit it. A stag party is coming along Pentonville Road. I cross and tag on the back. They welcome me with drunken arms as we cross towards the telephone box. As we approach I break off and knock on the glass. She turns.
“Fuck off I’m trying to make a call.”
She pauses then the recognition takes place. She comes out.
“Didn’t recognise you without your white suit on.” She kisses me on the cheek. We walk down towards Smithfield.
“You fucked off pretty sharpish. Was it something I said?” She’s smiling.
“My old man passed on. Had to leave. I didn’t get to him in time.” She squeezes my hand.
“Sorry babes.”
“How was your holiday?”
“Shit. He got the arse because he wasn’t getting any. I told him I had the decorators in. We had to move villa because there was a stink of shit and no one could tell us why. The filth came around and I did what you said. Hamer paid them off.”
“So it was alright then.”
“Could’ve been worse, I s’pose. I got a massage each day and some sunbathing, whilst he got pissed. He knocked me about a couple of times, mind. Fat cunt can’t run though.”
I could see faint bruising on her neck. The upturned collar wasn’t a fashion statement. It was hiding finger marks.
I know where we’re going. A small pub tucked away off Smithfield Market. We go in, she finds a booth. I go to the bar and order drinks. For her, vodka cranberry. I get a Scotch, no ice. The pub’s quiet but enough conversation to drown us out. I sit down and make sure I’ve got a view of the only entrance and exit. She has her back to the door and the frosted window means we won’t be seen. I need assurance on our first meeting in London. I don’t need any interruptions from her side or mine. Anonymity is our shield.
She brings out her phone, puts it on the table whilst she searches her handbag. I’m conscious of the phone. Is she recording? Is it set with location services on? Is she stupid enough to be on Facebook with her current location popping up to be liked or shared? She finds the lipstick she was looking for and reapplies.
“Hey, I’d prefer it if we turned phones off. Old habits die hard.”
She doesn’t question and adheres to the request.
“Great to see you again. I didn’t think I would.” Best opening line I could come up with.
“I keep my word when someone looks out for me. Even a stranger. I know if you were still out there I wouldn’t have taken a beating. But I understand why you had to leave.”
“I’m glad you understand. Have you seen him since? Hamer?”
“Oh yeah, I haven’t left his side much since we got back. It’s not love or anything, it’s more of a business arrangement.”
“Business?”
She looks about before she continues. A trait that warms my heart.
“I do have a fella. He’s the one I told you about that’s looking for a driver. He’s a fucker, an’ all, but we get on alright. He never knocks me about unless I deserve it. He’s Hamer’s boss. Hamer looks after his cash flow. He should be making sure it’s flowing in a positive direction. Recently he’s been shoddy. Had his fingers in the till. I was sent to see if he spilled. Whilst we was out there other enquiries were being made into his lifestyle. Anyway, enough about me what about you? I thought you’d found religion, so what’s with the Scotch?”
Cute. Clearly not the typical villain’s bird. She’s observant. Has a memory for detail. Something I’m glad to be aware of early doors.
“I had nothing when I was out there. The monastery put me up in return for me teaching English. I liked the lifestyle. No ties, no baggage. It runs out though. Life takes over. You can’t run from responsibility. In the end you have to face the music.”
I leave her with that and go back to the bar. The pub is fuller, which is a good thing. I watch her. She seems so young to have been caught up in violence and shit. She’s only thirty-two and being pimped around blokes like Hamer. The Hugh Hefners of pond life. Still it’s not my job to babysit the snout. It’s my job to infiltrate her lover’s firm. I return, drinks in hand. She looks up from her nails.
“I haven’t got long. His lordship’s driver will be back for me in about twenty minutes. I told him I was makeup shopping.”
“Hamer uses a cab?”
“Nah, not him. My fella, Big H. It suits him. He can go anywhere and if he’s ever asked, he’s taking a cab. Ron is his driver. A big lump but handy with his fists and a toy if the heat’s up.”
I say nothing. I now know his transport, chauffeur, chauffeur’s name and that he carries a gun every now and then.
“So what’s this job?” It would be rude not to ask.
She leans in closer. Close enough for me to smell the last cigarette she had but not enough to feel like I should grab her head and stick my tongue down her throat.
“He wants to reference you before he makes a decision.
He has a different method though. He has a job for you and if it comes off then he’ll consider taking you on.”
She sits back and waits to see how I react. It’s times like these you have to be careful not to appear too keen. Keenness can come across as desperation. I’m not desperate but I don’t want to appear available for hire at any rate. Only a novice or street-level dealer would make that mistake.
“Well, that’s mighty generous of a man I’ve never met. I’m no Johnny-fly-by-night, someone he can try and fit up with gear. Now I’m not saying fuck off, but I need to know what the job is he wants me to do and what the prize will be at the end for doing it. You know I need cash. I’m not looking for one hit of Charlie. I’ve got funeral bills to pay and people looking for me. I need to make hay then go back to my previous life of sun, sea and education.”
She smiles. She knew I wasn’t about to jump all over the first offer that came along. But she does know, or at least thinks she knows, I like her. How do I know that? Her tits are on show in a low-cut Nicole Farhi top and her pupils are as large as the bulge in my pants. Aside from that, she called me. Met me discreetly and is prepared to lie to Big H and Da Do Ron Ron.
I also know she has fifteen minutes left of her twenty to report back positive news and avoid a fist from the big man.
“You’ll never meet him. That’s not the way he works. You will see me again, and me only, until you’re on the job. The first job is simple. I’ve a number and you need to call it and pick up a parcel and take it to the location you’ll be given on collection. If you decide against it then it’s been nice knowing you lover.”
I finish my drink and she does the same. “Give me the number.” She hands me a SIM card. “Ask for Ghost. He knows this number and is expecting the call. He’ll tell you where to go. Oh, you won’t need anything bigger than a Mini for this job. Once you’re done, call me.”
She turns to go, I gently take her arm.
“My new number’s in your coat pocket. Never text or leave a message. Once you’ve called clear your call history. If I don’t pick up I’ll call back and ask for Sinta.”
“Oh cheers. The name of that whore from the hotel who told me you left and wanted cash for your fuckin’ laundry? You owe me a score. Your laundry ain’t here, it’s in the hotel bin.”
She smiles, leaves the pub and I go back to the bar and order another Scotch. I give her five minutes and leave. I have limited time. I need to get back to my digs.
5
By the time I get to Elephant and Castle the sun is setting. The sky appears blood red. I don’t believe in omens. I don’t have the luxury of time to sit on this job. Both my paymasters want results and quick. Every second gone is lost revenue. I find a call box. I dial in.
“Yes”
“It’s Sky. I need a motor for tonight. Nothing flash but nothing shit. I have something. I’ll leave details at the drop point. Leave the keys there in an hour.”
“You alright?” My superintendent asks.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good. All’s good. I just need the keys and car. The details will be waiting for you.”
I hang up. I go to a twenty-four-hour Tesco store and buy a pay as you go phone and car charger. I make my way home. It’s good to be back in the sanctuary of my room. There’s a retreat on in the Buddhist Centre. Everyone is in the main prayer room. The chanting is soothing. I got my room generously donated by the manager. I’d told him about my work abroad and the death of my father and that I was looking for work. He bought the story and agreed to put me up for a month. I intend to make a sizeable donation to their efforts to bring about peace and harmony. I don’t drink or smoke. I plan. I scheme. I lie. Not the same three jewels the residents take refuge in.
I devour some leftover food the café has put out. I need my energy. Mentally and physically. Nerves are an occupational hazard. I’ve learnt to control them enough over the years but not to the point of complacency. I’ve changed into an old tracksuit. I put on a tattered baseball hat and shabby trainers. I don’t look like a typical drug runner; more like a guy who needs to take a long look at his dress sense.
The streets are buzzing tonight. The air is warm. The night sky obscured by the animation of the city’s lights. People are smiling. The city feels vibrant. I embrace this energy as I make my way to the gym. I nod to the new female on reception and show my card. She buzzes me in. I go to the locker room, unlock the padlock to locker 066. Inside is a padded envelope. I take it and leave another containing notes I’d made of today’s meeting and my new number. I shut and lock the door. I put my parcel in my bag.
I grab a coffee and sit down in a quiet area of the gym cafe. I put the SIM in the phone I’d bought. There’s enough battery for the call and I have the charger for the car. I’d already switched my old SIM over for Stoner’s benefit and my bosses.
I check the time. It’s 2230 hours. Time to make the call. The phone rings twice. A deep voice answers.
“Yo. Wassup?”
“Ghost?”
“The one and only.”
“You have something for me.”
“Damn right bruv. Where you at?”
“Just tell me where to meet.”
“Get to The Emirates, by the cannon, then bell me again. Come on your own. If you ain’t here by midnight then I’m thinkin’ you’re a fuckin’ pumpkin and the deal’s off.”
The line goes dead. I get another coffee. I’ve no intention of turning up early to this party. The host is rude. Rudeness is unnecessary. The courier is like the fast food producer. He’s your lifeline to feeling satiated. Don’t fuck with the cook unless you want him to piss in your broth.
I open the envelope. There’s a set of keys for a BMW 3 Series and a card attached with Danvers Street written on it. There’s also £1,000 in twenty-pound notes. I put the money in the bag and put the label in the bin and leave. Danvers Street is a mile away. I take advantage of my attire and exit the gym, moving at the best pace I can manage. In a war zone a soldier never leaves base slowly. You must move and weave. I keep a steady pace and cross footways regularly. You never upset traffic in your traverse. You must flow like mist.
I hit Danvers Street. There’s no follow. A BMW 3 Series is parked on the nearside footway. I stop and tie my lace. No one is in the street. I click the fob and the vehicle’s lights flick twice and the interior light stays off. Last thing I need is to be an illuminated target as I get in. I cross and enter driver’s side flinging the bag into the passenger footwell. Key in. Ignition on and move off towards N7 and the Emirates Stadium. I have an hour.
The traffic is light over Blackfriars Bridge. The London Eye is lit for all to see. Red, white and blue tonight. As I pass Smithfield I think of the meeting earlier. I need this to work. Failure is not an option. My future depends on the outcome of this next meeting. The only thing I’m armed with is my wits.
I reach the agreed meet point with twenty minutes to spare. I park near Drayton Park tube and cut across the stadium concourse. I stop at the Gunners shop window and look in. I can see a set of garages opposite. Industrial not commercial. The unit’s lights are on and a main gate shuts off the premises. Everywhere else is unlit. I can’t get nearer to look. I figure my mystery voice is on the other side of the eight-foot double steel doors. I move off to a grassed area and make the call.
“Yo bruv. You here or what?”
“I’m here.”
“You should be able to see some big fuck off doors bruv. Come over there and knock.”
“I can see them.”
I kill the line. Pull down my cap and walk over. A small trickle of sweat forms and runs down my neck. I get a sense that this is it. My body already knows and is indicating its preparedness. I acknowledge it by tilting my head left and right, stretching my neck and shoulders. The gate has a camera to the upper left and I avoid looking into the lens. The lens moves down and I know they’ve seen me. They know I’m alone. There used to be backup in this job but those days have gone. I’ve chosen t
his path and it’s up to me to keep it clear of debris.
I knock as directed and wait. I hear footsteps on the other side and a male’s voice either talking to someone with them or on a phone. I hear the voice say they’d bell them later and the gate opens enough for me to move in. I’ve reached the other side. A black male greets me. Late thirties, tied back dreadlocked hair, small goatee and a wide smile. He’s dressed in mechanics overalls and reeks of engine oil and hard graft.
“Alright bruv, come, come.”
The main garage is under a railway arch. It houses one hydraulic ramp and a floor pit. Work benches either side. A black Range Rover Evoque with blacked out windows is in the air. A mechanic stops welding and lifts up his weld visor. He takes it off. He’s a white guy, mid-forties, large build, hands like shovels. He puts his equipment down and comes over. Sweat runs down his face from his bald head. I remain steady. Only one entrance and exit. I can see no one else. I make the first move and walk towards a wooden workbench and lean against it. The bald heavy comes over.
“Quick pat down mate. You know how it is.” I lift my arms up. He pats down my upper body checking my sides, neck and crotch.
“Take the top off.”
I do as asked.
“Turn around.”
“You seen enough?”
“Yeah. Nice ink.”
On my back is an image of Jos A Smiths, Priest Of Dark Flight. It depicts a dark priest with hands in prayer. An eagle above his head with wings expanded and looking directly at you. The priest is anything but saintly. He’s clad in medieval armour. I choose to use part of my cover story.
“I had it done in Bali by a monk. He was fucked off doing the usual tribal and religious shit.”
My top is now on and I’ve seen enough.
“Get mine in Chapel Market.”
