by AA Abbott
Vince stopped at one of his favourites, close to the North Circular Road where it sliced through Walthamstow. Here, the houses were pebbledashed thirties terraces, and the pub had been constructed at the same time, in a mock Tudor roadhouse style. The parking area wrapped itself around the building. Vince chose a spot at the rear, where high walls ensured privacy from surrounding gardens. There had never been any CCTV cameras there before, and he didn’t see any now.
It was a cold spot, too far from the road for the morning frost to have melted. Vince was glad of his leathers. Presently, the Transit pulled in beside him, followed swiftly by the pub landlord emerging from the back door. A shaven-headed local man in his thirties, tattooed and pierced, he looked like a younger version of Jerry and Scott, who were both heading for the big five-oh.
Jerry, balding and podgy, stepped out of the van to greet him. “All right, Gaffer?”
“What have you got for me?” Gaffer was a man of few words, and apparently no name. Jerry and Scott never called him anything else. Vince supposed that, if he was bothered, he could always read the alcohol licence sign above the front door.
“Stella, Duvel, Hoegaarden and spirits,” Jerry said. “Take a look.” Scott, shorter and hairier, was out of the van now and unlocking the back.
“Hmm, not much call for Hoegaarden at the moment. It’s a summer drink,” Gaffer said, picking over the crates in the Transit. “I’ll have three crates of Stella and another of rum. You.” He pointed at Vince, standing close to them in his leathers and helmet. “Help me take them in.”
“Not my job,” Vince replied.
“I’ll do it,” Scott said.
“Thought he was the muscle?” Gaffer complained.
“That’s not what the muscle’s here for,” Jerry said, balling his hands into fists.
“I get it,” Gaffer said. “Is he necessary? There’s never trouble in my gaff.”
“I’m the insurance,” Vince said, without rancour.
Once Gaffer had his free supplies, the back door opened once more, this time for paying customers. With Christmas just a few weeks away, they did brisk business before moving to their next outlet.
Jerry was proud of their work: it was like a social service, he always said. By importing beer from Belgium, they were making life easier for ordinary drinkers. How else could anyone afford booze, given the crippling level of tax in Britain? Vince thought Jerry and Scott were making life easier for themselves, too. Still, their profits were nowhere near what they used to be, with Brexit pushing prices up on the Continent. It was lucky they’d found a way to diversify.
With Vince for protection, they didn’t encounter so much as a murmur of dissent from customers, and the pistol stayed in his pocket. They’d sold out by the fifth stop on their tour.
“See you back at mine,” Scott said. “I’ve saved beer for later.”
Vince nodded. He returned to his home turf to stash away his bike and gun. There was no point taking the latter with him unless he needed it, and he wouldn’t at Scott’s cosy country hideaway. Paying cash, he caught a train from Tottenham Hale to Broxbourne.
Until then, he’d been too busy to brood. Vince stared out of the window at the passing scenery. However hard he tried to take an interest in his surroundings, Jon, Pino and a lifetime of prescription medicine stalked his thoughts. The fifteen-minute journey seemed longer.
As the railway slipped into the trading estates on the Tottenham Marshes, he tried to spot the industrial unit where Shaun had run an illegal casino. There, Vince had mixed cocktails for punters, his favourite job ever. It had come to an abrupt halt when Kat shopped Shaun to the police.
While the train rattled through Northumberland Park and Angel Road, Vince wondered how these dismal places had such poetic names. Industry gave way to suburbs at London’s edge, but it was only past Cheshunt that the railway broke out into the countryside, hugging the path of the River Lee. Brown, feathery winter trees and still grey lakes dominated the watery landscape. His lips tightened as he remembered Epping Forest.
Eventually, he was deposited in Broxbourne, prosperous and picturesque, quite unlike the start of his journey. Scott’s cottage was a ten-minute walk from the station. Vince marched past a few whitewashed twentieth century dwellings, a church and a park. A darkening sky stretched above and around him.
He understood why Scott, brought up in the East End like almost everyone he knew, had decamped to a village. Here, in his cottage with its huge garden, the bootlegger could keep secrets. It was much harder in the city, where it was wise not to rent a lock-up for too long. Rivals, policemen or simple busybodies might take an interest. Scott’s cottage was pretty, too, its mellow old brick softened further by pots of pink cyclamen in front of it.
Scott, opening the door, looked every inch the country gentleman, or at any rate, a pocket-sized one. He wore a tweed jacket, blue twill shirt and chinos. “Come in,” he said, a bottle of strong Belgian beer in his hand.
A dog, lean and grey, bounded forward at speed and stood next to the squat man, its brown eyes wary. “You’ve met Sooty before, haven’t you?” Scott said.
“Yes,” Vince said curtly. He’d never liked dogs, but the retired greyhound didn’t spook him as much as others: it was quite reserved. It hung back, tangling itself in Scott’s legs and staring at Vince.
“My family’s out,” Scott said, without explaining where they were. His girlfriend had teenagers, who were always being ferried to dance classes, cinema trips and sporting fixtures. Their lives were very different from Vince’s experience. He had virtually brought himself up, like the other kids on his estate.
Jerry’s voice boomed from the kitchen at the back. “Beer’s over here.”
Vince followed Scott and Sooty, taking care not to trip on the uneven flagstone floor or hit his head on the low doorway into the back. The cottage had been built in days of yore for shorter people than him. Scott fitted into it comfortably.
Jerry had left the crate on the oak table in the centre of the room, and was sitting on a matching chair. He was drinking Hoegaarden, evidently without a care for the season. “Help yourself,” he said.
“I’ll just warm the pasties in the microwave,” Scott said.
Vince raised an eyebrow.
“The vegans are away,” Scott said. “Obvious, innit?”
Vince hung his Crombie overcoat on a chair, sprawled in it and opened a beer. It tasted good. Since hitting twenty-five, he’d started experiencing evil hangovers, but that wouldn’t stop him drinking until the crate was empty.
Scott shoved a steaming Cornish pasty towards Vince. It was lying on a white plate with black lettering announcing TEA-TOAST-JAM around the edge.
“Is that to prove you can read?” Vince asked.
“Just eat it,” Scott said, handing another to Jerry and keeping two for himself. With great affection, he fed morsels to Sooty. No longer sulking, the animal seized them as if on the point of starvation.
“Doesn’t seem fair insisting the dog goes vegan,” Jerry said.
“S’what I thought,” Scott said, his mouth full. “Not fair on me neither, innit?” He swigged some beer. “I can’t wait for my holiday. We’re going next week. Barbie booked it last minute. All-inclusive package on the Costa Brava; five-star hotel. I’ll eat whatever I want: steak, bacon, pizza.”
“And drink,” Jerry said.
“Sounds pricy,” Vince said. Perhaps it was time to reduce Scott’s profit share.
Scott’s mean eyes glared at him. “We got it for free last time. I had all our money back. Barbie’s friend knows one of those claims lawyers. We told him we had food poisoning, and bingo. Easy cash, innit?”
“I fancy a holiday in the sun myself,” Jerry said.
“Can we talk about work?” Vince said, starting on his third bottle. “You won’t be bringing anyone in next week if you’re away.”
“Week after,” Jerry said. “Then booze the week after that, for the Christmas trade.”
&
nbsp; “I’ve got three customers,” Vince said, removing one of his smartphones from a trouser pocket. “Here are the photos. That guy,” he pointed to one of them, “has a passport already, so he doesn’t need the full service.” That was a shame, because they’d only make five grand out of him before expenses. They had no clue about the quality of the passport, either.
“Shaun got work lined up for them?” Jerry asked.
“Shaun and his friends,” Vince said. One of the travellers would be despatched to Shaun’s skunk farm. The others would disappear somewhere into the Hallorans’ huge web of contacts. Within their prison cells, Shaun and Jon bought, sold and bartered anything that would turn a profit. That now included people. Vince had to hand it to Jerry: it had been his idea. There was more money in migrants than booze runs.
“So, we’ve got to find passports for this pair?” Jerry said. “They’re Chinese-looking.”
“And young,” Vince said. “That makes it easier. Students, for instance.” He paid five hundred pounds to rent a passport for a week, no questions asked. Of course, there was a risk that both immigrant and passport would disappear once in Britain, but it hadn’t happened yet. He, and Shaun’s friends, could be persuasive.
“I’ll ask around,” Jerry said. “Might go to the local casino. Always Chinese gamblers there; I bet they’re keen for more cash.”
“Thanks,” Vince said. “While Scott’s away, can you collect the guy with the passport? He’s in Bruges, so you could fill the van while you’re there. In December, we can sell booze like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“Suppose so,” Jerry muttered, his tone unenthusiastic. He yawned. “Your kitchen smells of meat pies, Scott. Barbie will be cross. I’m going to do you a favour by having a rollie.”
“You will not. Go outside,” Scott commanded. “You and all, Vince.”
Vince was extracting the makings of a spliff from his pocket. In spite of the beer, he was on edge. It had been a long day. Once he’d assembled the giant roll-up, he donned his thick black coat and followed Jerry into the back garden.
Night had fallen. The dog streaked past, haring to dark corners unreached by the light spilling onto the patio from the kitchen. Vince and Jerry smoked companionably by the open door, standing on flagstones similar to those inside the cottage.
“Smells like strong stuff,” Jerry acknowledged.
Vince grinned and grunted. He vocal chords were relaxing already, along with the rest of him.
The greyhound returned with a small bone in its mouth. Jerry recoiled. “Awrgh! I bet that’s one of Anton’s fingers,” he said.
Vince laughed. It was the funniest thing he’d heard all week. He was chortling so much, the smoke almost choked him. Fancy Jerry recalling the dope farmer’s death at the exact moment that Vince was relishing a reefer. “Don’t be shilly,” he said, his speech sounding unaccountably slurred, “I put him shix feet under.” It had been hard work digging a grave for Anton after Jon had slashed his throat. Naturally, it was Anton’s own fault; he shouldn’t have tried to defraud Jon’s dad, should he?
Jerry stared at him.
Vince searched the corners of his mind for a sober thought. Perhaps it hadn’t been six feet: more like six inches. Still, the garden was massive, and being in the country, a wide variety of animals must have lived and died in it. It was probably full of bones. There was no reason why Sooty should have tunnelled through the soil to Anton’s. He tried to enlighten Jerry. “Dogs and bones,” he said. “Ish a rabbit, I ʼshpect.” Throwing the butt of the spliff into the darkness, he returned inside. “You tell ʼim, Shcott.”
“Tell him what?” Scott asked. He seemed somehow even smaller than before. “You’ll have to break up the party now. I’ve just had a text from the Barbster. She’s on her way back.” He wafted his hands around the still-open back door. “How am I going to explain this?”
“Exshplain what?” Vince said, puzzled as Scott began spraying air freshener all around the kitchen.
Jerry didn’t even offer a lift, which may have been just as well, as he’d had a few beers. Vince floated back to the station, the night’s chill bouncing off him.
The London train was hot, stuffy and practically empty. Vince fell asleep, dreaming of Anton clawing his way out of the cold earth. About to scream, he woke to find the train was just leaving Tottenham Hale. He had to walk home up the High Road from Seven Sisters.
Chapter 17.
Kat
The Monday evening before Christmas was surprisingly quiet in Birmingham’s Jewellery Quarter. Giant neon rings and chains sparkled colourfully, dangling from the attics of the old redbrick buildings that lined the area’s streets. Kat, whisked past in Tim’s Uber, was enchanted.
“The lights are beautiful,” she told him. “But where is everyone?”
“Suffering pre-Christmas exhaustion?” he suggested. “I sold every drop of Snow Mountain you could make this month; there must be a lake of it being drunk.”
“But not here,” Kat pointed out. A few pubs were brightly lit, with groups of smokers outside, but most premises were shuttered and silent.
She remarked on it to Marty, when they arrived at the Italian restaurant he’d booked for his works Christmas party.
“Monday night’s always slow, bab.” Marty chuckled. “That’s how I get a good deal for us.”
A good deal for him, Kat thought sourly. It appeared to be the one night of the year when Marty treated his staff. All his businesses were represented under one roof: she was there for Starshine vodka, her brother, Erik, for Darria Enterprises, and a horde of East West Bridges employees were making merry with bottles of champagne. Marty seemed to be related to half of them.
Amy materialised at their elbow with two glasses. “Have some fizz, Kat. You can’t talk to Tim and Marty all evening.”
Kat allowed herself to be led away. “Marty’s the last person I want to hang out with,” she said.
“I guessed as much,” Amy replied. “Look, just stay out of his way and get drunk. That’s what everyone else does.”
Kat sat with Amy and Erik as starters were served: a selection of bread, olives and cold meat on wooden boards, from which the diners helped themselves.
“You can see Tim later,” Amy said. Kat’s boyfriend was deep in conversation with Dan.
“If only he weren’t Marty’s son,” Kat said.
“It could be worse,” Erik said. “He’ll inherit the business when Angela persuades Marty to call it a day.”
“You’ve got it bad, haven’t you?” Amy was sympathetic.
“I have,” Kat confessed. “Sometimes, I imagine booking flights to Vegas and coaxing him into a wedding chapel. Then I remember that I work for his father. Marty’s not quite my boss, and not quite my business partner, but he controls the purse strings.”
“That’s the problem with our darria initiative,” Erik said. “He’s in command, and he’s not spending anything. I must admit, this research freeze is frustrating. I went into partnership with Marty because I thought he was more ethical than Big Pharma. But if I’d gone to the mainstream pharmaceutical companies, I’d have the funds I need.”
“He just wanted to make a quick buck from your herbal tea,” Kat said. “You should stick up for yourself.”
“Let’s forget about work tonight,” Amy said. She signalled to the black-clad waiter. “Can we have a tray of vodka shots, please? Say a dozen of them?”
The drinks arrived. “We’ll play a game,” Amy said. “I have never, ever, slept with Tim Bridges.”
Erik jolted forward in alarm. “What?”
“It’s a game,” Amy said. “If you’ve done it, you have to down a shot.”
Kat took a glass.
“In one,” Amy said.
Kat knocked back the clear liquid. It obviously wasn’t either Starshine or Snow Mountain. “Not ours,” she said.
“You must have words with the sales director,” Amy said, grinning. “Your turn next.”
“T
his is truth or dare, isn’t it?” Erik asked.
“With a vengeance,” Amy said.
“So, this is what they teach you at university?” Kat said.
They emptied the twelve glasses. Amy called for more.
Kat was dimly aware that Erik was plying both girls with bread in an effort to soak up the alcohol. “No carbs for me,” she told him.
He looked askance at her. “You’re drinking too much. Back to mine for coffee afterwards.”
There was espresso after the meal, though, in a tiny white cup with an almond biscuit next to it. Marty, hopping between each table, insisted on ordering one for each of them. “It’ll improve your singing voices,” he told them. “We’re going to a karaoke bar next.”
“Who arranged that?” Erik asked.
“Tanya’s idea,” Marty said. “She’s word-perfect on Duran Duran, and so am I.”
Kat looked longingly at Tim. Was there any way to escape the eighties revival and return to her flat with him?
Amy noticed. “Tim should come here more often,” she told Marty. “They don’t stock our brands.”
“I know,” Marty said. “I’ve got nothing to sell them, though. Kat can’t make Snow Mountain fast enough.” He looked more sober than anyone else, although he’d been drinking champagne as if it were lemonade.
“I didn’t even make Starshine this month. I had to switch all production over to Snow Mountain,” Kat said. As she’d feared, her new craft brand was suffering, its sales grinding to a halt almost as soon as they began. She had to tackle Marty about it, but now was not the time.
“Don’t I know it? We’re leaving money on the table,” Marty said. “The unit I gave you is too small.”
“Have you got somewhere bigger for me?” Kat asked.
“Not yet,” Marty said. “We should move you to a larger place on the outskirts of Brum, a purpose-built facility even. Then I’d transfer the warehouse from Florence Street. That building has had its day. The bomb scare in August was the last straw. I’m minded to apply for planning permission for a hotel, like the one they stuck around the corner. The area isn’t what it used to be. There are student flats popping up, and all the boozers are becoming gastropubs. I may as well cash in.”