‘Fuck sake.’ He flicks the glowing butt of the spliff into the river. It dies instantly. ‘Tell me exactly what they said on the telly.’ He’s on his feet, pacing. I tell him as much as I can remember. ‘Now, think, was the guy’s name Van Tuck?’ he asks.
‘That’s it, Van Tuck,’ I say, clicking my fingers.
‘I gotta get back to the house and make some calls.’
Trevor’s off immediately, leaving me sitting on the bench confused, but he appears single-minded and serious so I act the same. Where the path meanders in a gentle loop Trevor runs straight across, sticks breaking under his weight. Soon he’s ahead of me, then out of sight completely. As I come through the door and into the kitchen, he’s punching numbers into the wall-phone, cursing and swearing at Mandy to bring his mobile phone over. She brings it immediately and he starts running through the memory and pushing numbers on the speed dial. Suddenly he smashes the phone off the wall so it’s dangling by its cord, swaying backwards and forwards.
‘Where the fuck’s Shanks? . . . Where the fuck’s everyone?’ He’s got the two phones up against his ears, waiting for someone, anyone, to answer. The last time I saw Shanks he was in the hotel bar with the lads getting well hammered and that was about three hours ago. I’m baffled, standing in the doorway.
‘Give us a minute,’ says Trevor to me. Then he turns to his wife. ‘Mandy, where’s that address book I keep tucked away?’
Mandy goes down on her knees and removes one of the drawers in the fitted kitchen and taped to the back is a standard black pocket address book. She brings it over right away and Trevor starts flicking through it, still with one phone jammed to his head with his shoulder and the mobile in his hand. When he finds the number he wants, he disregards the phone under his chin, lets it fall to the floor and starts punching the number into the mobile. Someone answers.
‘Good, you’re there. Listen, I’m coming over right now . . . Fuck that. Listen, I’ll be there in about twenty minutes, okay? I’ll see you then.’
He flicks the phone shut.
‘Listen, babes, something’s gone off. I’ll be back as soon as possible. Keep ringing Shanks, tell him to ring me.’
Where’s that leave me? I’m thinking.
‘And you,’ says Trevor with a pointy finger, ‘you’re fuckin comin with me.’
Van Tuck’s Rude Awakening
‘Van Tuck is, or was, a mover. He moved stuff around for people, transportation was his thing. He would trade boats, some thieved, but mostly legit for the sake of appearances.’
Trevor’s throwing the Discovery around the dark country roads. Small branches whip across the windscreen. I instinctively jump back. He don’t appear stoned, either.
‘So he was a smuggler,’ I say.
‘You’re sharp. He put things together, people in touch. Van Tuck was a fixer, very handy he was, too.’
‘You did work with him?’
‘All the time. He was a fuckin genius, poor cunt, he could do anything. We’d get him to deliver our stuff from over the water. I’ve got a nasty feeling we had something on its way right about now.’
‘Something big?’
‘Anything else just ain’t worth the hassle, kid, course it was big. You ain’t talkin to a fuckin day-tripper, pal. Shanks was doing the business on this bitta work.’
‘It ain’t that acid Shanks was on about earlier?’
‘If it was those trips I’d laugh it off but I could be going down for a good few quid here if my parcel’s in transit. I won’t know till I talk to Shanks.’
‘He made the arrangements with the Dutchman?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. We buy over in Holland mostly, it gets delivered to Van Tuck then back to us in the UK but it’s our property once it’s with Van Tuck. You keeping up? Now, I can’t go back to the people I buy from, tell them Van Tuck’s history, I never got my gear so I ain’t payin ya.’
‘They heavy?’ I know the answer.
‘Course they’re heavy,’ says Trevor, shaking his head. ‘But we’ve done a deal, we owe them, don’t we. Ain’t their fault people get murdered.’
‘Ain’t no one’s, really.’
‘Don’t know about that. Someone’s to blame. I bet this has something to do with your pal’s trip to the Dam.’
‘How much we talkin here, Trevor?’
‘Our whack coulda bought your poxy pills a few times.’
We’re talking millions and tonnes here.
‘We ain’t goin to the boatyard, are we?’ I say, thinking Trevor might be on a kamikaze mission.
‘Don’t be stupid. It’s gonna be crawling with filth.’
‘Did Van Tuck have the paperwork for your consignment?’
‘It wouldn’t lead back to us. It gets landed in Van Tuck’s name. He was a cautious cunt, looked a div, did everything in codes, kept it all up here.’ Trevor points to his temple. ‘Thousands of codes and numbers.’
The roads are getting wider, straighter and better-lit.
‘Do the law know about this geezer?’ I ask.
‘That’s what I’m gonna try and find out now. Can’t wait for Shanks to turn up.’
‘You got a cozzer on the firm?’
‘I wish. We’ve got this reporter on the local paper who’s really sweet with all the CID, their big drinking buddy.’
‘So they tell him and he tells you.’
‘Or he gets his balls sawn off and I’ve told him that. For the time being he gets anything he wants, readies, coke, birds, holidays, but mostly he wants readies. See, the filth, race apart ain’t they, and he’s in the thick of it picking up titbits. Every now and again they tell him, or he earwigs, something juicy.’
‘It’s worth the readies?’
‘Well, we’ve got a lot knocking about, ain’t we? Don’t worry about this guy, we’ve got him well stitched up.’
Trevor’s chain-smoking, throwing the Discovery round corners without looking. We hit a bitta dual carriageway leading into Liverpool. Trevor puts the pedal to the floor. I’m pushed back by the force of the acceleration. Five minutes later we’re on the outskirts, two minutes after that Trevor’s slowing down and we’re into streets that look exactly like the sedate, leafy suburbs of London, rows of moody Tudor and Edwardian houses, Liverpool’s Nob Hill.
Trevor pulls the motor up, parks with two wheels on the pavement, gets out, don’t bother to lock it, flicks his fag into someone’s front garden and walks up one of the paths, gesturing for me to follow and fuckin hurry up ‘n’ all. The house has been chopped up into three flats. Trevor puts his finger on the middle bell and holds it there. After ten seconds the ringing starts breaking up so he takes it off for a split second then replaces it. He’s banging the knocker with his other hand. A light comes on behind the glass and a silhouette fumbles with locks and catches.
‘For fuck’s sake, hurry up you fuckin dozy cunt,’ says Trevor encouragingly, kicking the bottom of the door.
The door opens and there’s a sheepish-looking guy in a robe looking up and down the street to see if any curtain-twitchers have got us under observation, he gestures us up the stairs, puts us in the front room and says he’ll be back in a second. The room’s comfortable in a catalogue kinda way, like those mock-ups they have in furniture stores complete with nice lampshade, nice rug and curtains. You can see where some of Trevor’s readies went cos in one corner the guy’s got the state-of-the-art, top-of-the-range, Bang and Ollie hi-fi, wide-screen TV and video. I make it about twelve grand’s worth, almost what a reporter on a local paper would make in a year. Our host comes back into the room and pulls the curtains shut. He’s tense, fretting about, trying to tidy up the remains of an Indian takeaway, but in his nervousness he keeps dropping the tin containers. The brown paper bag it came in is splitting at the bottom cos it’s soaked in cooking oil. I notice that the meal was for two. He eventually gets it together and takes it out to the kitchen.
‘Trevor,’ I say, ‘that meal’s for two. Someone’s here.’
&nb
sp; ‘Duncan,’ says Trevor in a whisper as the guy walks back in the room, ‘is there someone else in the flat?’
‘Well,’ he says, grinning like a naughty schoolboy, ‘I’ve got one of the floozies from work in the other room. We were el copulas, you know, when you rang.’
‘This girl, does she have a name, Duncan?’ asks Trevor, quite gentle all of a sudden.
‘Yes, of course she does,’ Duncan replies, looking puzzled.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s Joanne.’
‘Go and tell Joanne to get dressed, give her some cab fare and tell her to fuck off. I need to talk to you.’
Duncan doesn’t like being told what to do in his own house but off he goes anyway. We can hear slightly raised voices, Duncan trying to pacify Joanne. Trevor gets himself a bottle of brandy from a drinks cabinet, uncorks it and starts swigging it, sits down back-to-front on a dining chair, looking a gunslinger. Duncan’s apologising and a woman’s telling him to ‘go fuck yourself, ya fuckin prick’. The front door slams. I can hear him coming back up the stairs two at a time. He swings back into the room breathless. He’s got a bit more composure, getting his balls back. He thrusts out a hand in my direction.
‘Good evening. I’m Duncan and you’re . . .?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Nobody likes a sneak.
‘Oh, you’re a Londoner, are you?’
‘Like I say, it doesn’t matter.’
He’s about thirty, his barnet’s swept over in a wedge, caddish, his hands stuck in the pockets of a Bahrain Hilton dressing gown. He looks like the public-school prefect who confiscates the younger kids’ snout, only to smoke them himself. Duncan ain’t got the scally accent that Trevor and Shanks have got.
‘Listen, Duncan, don’t worry about him. What’d you know about that geezer who got killed in the boatyard?’
‘It ain’t in the area I cover. Do you have an interest?’
‘Course I’ve got a fuckin interest. I wouldn’t fuckin be here otherwise, would I, ya divvy cunt.’
‘Can I take a glass of that?’ says Duncan, pointing at the brandy.
‘Get a glass and get my mate a beer. And hurry up.’
Duncan goes out to the kitchen again. Something inside me likes the fact that Trevor’s giving this arrogant cunt a hard time. Duncan comes back in. He gives me a Stella and Trevor pours him a very large drink.
‘Now, Duncan, sit down there,’ says Trevor, pointing at the cosy armchair. ‘In the past I’ve asked you to do me favours and I’ve always given you a bitta wedge for your trouble. Have I been fair with you?’
‘Yes,’ says Duncan, nodding his head.
‘Now, this might not be in your area but I want you to stick your neck out for me, okay? I want you to ring one of your detective mates and ask them what’s the score with this Van Tuck business, was he killed cos of his connections. See what you can find out.’
‘There’s no way I could do that.’
‘What are you saying? You don’t have the numbers?’
‘I do but . . .’ You can tell he wishes he’d lied.
‘But what?’
‘It ain’t appropriate. I’ve never done it before.’
‘There’s a first time for everything.’
‘I’m not sure how they’d react.’
‘Well, we’re gonna find out, ain’t we?’
‘But what if he cottons on to what I’m doing?’
‘You’ve got someone in mind, ain’t ya?’ says Trevor. Duncan looks sick cos he’s bubbled himself up twice in seconds.
‘There’s a detective sergeant, thinks the sun shines out my arse, one of life’s Labradors, lonely bastard.’
‘Okay, but will he know anything?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Until you ask.’
Duncan takes a slug of the brandy.
‘Trevor, I really don’t want to do this.’
‘Listen, bum-fluff, you’ve taken my cash and what you’ve come back with has been canteen gossip.’
‘And a lot of good information, you said so yourself.’
‘Granted, lad. I’ve always looked upon you as an investment for the future and now it’s the future. I always knew your day would come and today’s the day.’
‘Couldn’t it be tomorrow? It’ll look less blatant.’
‘I don’t give a fuck,’ says Trevor.
‘But –’
‘But nothing, you little cunt. Every-fuckin-thing in this place is paid for with my money. Don’t think I don’t know about your safe deposit box, yer sly little fuck.’
Duncan looks startled, like his big secret, the source of much smugness, hasn’t been a secret at all.
‘Now, Duncan, pay attention, you’re gonna ring this detective sergeant, box clever, sweeten him up, say maybe you can meet up for a shandy, but while you’re here, what do you know about this mischief up the coast.’
Duncan is thinking how it could be done. ‘It isn’t for publishing, just morbid curiosity,’ he says, bucking up.
‘That’s it, Duncan. See, my confidence wasn’t misplaced,’ says Trevor, ‘and Dunck, if he ain’t got the low-down get him to ring someone who has.’
‘That could be very, very tricky, Trevor,’ says Duncan, slightly deflated.
‘But not impossible.’
‘It could be done. Let me think.’
He gestures for a refill. I can see blood and arrogance returning. He’s busy thinking about how to carry this off, about superiority and dominating others. Suddenly he looks at his watch, picks up the remote control and turns on the local news that’s just started. It shows, lead story, the murder of Van Tuck. We watch, sniffing for clues. The story changes and Duncan turns it off. He goes next door and returns with a Filofax. He has a man-sized slug on the brandy, rubs his hands together and punches the numbers into the phone. I hear it ring three times.
‘Alan, it’s Duncan, you old bugger. How’s tricks?’
Alan and Duncan start exchanging small-talk. You’d really believe that they were the best pals in the whole wide world, through thick and thin. Duncan’s telling Alan that he should have got promotion over some other geezer. ‘He’s a good solid copper but how can I put this politely? I don’t think I can. He’s a wanker.’ They both laugh, now they got a naughty secret together, slagging off Alan’s superior. I can hear this Alan laughing from where I’m sitting. It must be murder to be in the same room as him. Trevor’s gesturing for Duncan to get to the point, cursing under his breath, but Duncan simply nods his head and carries on. He tells Alan a couple of jokes – ‘A Spook and a Paddy go into a boozer,’ blah, blah, blah . . . ‘This Welsh chap goes into a brothel . . .’ I can hear roaring at the punchlines. ‘Remember that one, Al . . . that’s a good ‘un.’
This Duncan is a real grafter. Cody Garret would be proud. I’m almost sorry for this Alan, plotted up in some scuzzy bedsit, half pissed, all the other cozzers gone home to the wife and coffin lids. It wasn’t happening down at the divorced and singles so he’s slopped off with a carry-out but, hang about, things are lookin up, his jolly good friend Duncan’s rung up. The saddest thing is that if he knows he’s being grafted he don’t care.
Duncan gets Alan onto a couple of old war stories of the all-the-gang-together variety. What about the time the strippers got the extra score apiece for doing the lesbo routine at Chas’s stagnight, the brawl they had with the bouncers at that night club before the lads pulled out their warrant cards. We must have a drink together soon. Friday night? I’ll ring, Al.
Trevor’s shaking his head. It sounds like Duncan’s bringing the conversation to an end. He’s even moving his head towards the phone rest on the coffee table. Trevor’s on his feet moving towards Duncan. He’s waving a massive fist about six inches from Duncan’s nose and pulling an evil face.
‘Maybe it would be easier if we arranged when and where now, better than me trying to catch you tomorrow. You’re a busy man. How about we say six-thirty in the Freemasons? Okay, I’ll s
ee you then and bring plenty of money.’
I could hear a laugh from the other end. Trevor’s gonna throw Duncan outta the window cos the conversation’s over, the business done.
‘That was a bad one up the coast today, wasn’t it?’
Trevor looks like he’s going to kiss Duncan. He gestures for Duncan to hold the phone so he can hear the gist of what’s being said.
‘They said on the telly it was a very sadistic piece of work. We ain’t got a serial killer on the loose, have we Al? Very good for circulation.’ He laughs.
Again a pause.
‘You’ve whetted my appetite, you old bastard. I know it’s against the rules, but that’s never worried you. You know I’d never print anything that would drop you in the proverbial brown stuff, but I like to have the inside story. I’ve got a sicko’s interest in this. I’m just a sick bastard, don’t quote me.’
Alan laughs at that. Trevor puts a fag in Duncan’s mouth and lights it for him. Duncan covers the mouthpiece.
‘He’s saying he’ll ring a bloke he was on a sergeant’s course with, who’s on the investigation, tell me Friday when we meet.’
‘Ask him to ring the guy now. You’re on a roll, Dunck. Try and find out if they think Van Tuck was iffy.’
Duncan puts up a hand to silence him.
‘Alan, is there any way you could ring him now? If you were at school together and you’re old chums, maybe he’d welcome a call, a chance to catch up. You know what interests me, Alan? Why did they pick on this guy? Was he kosher? Could you ring your comrade as a favour to me? On my honour, my solemn oath, I won’t breathe a word to anyone. Could you ring him and ring me back?’
Duncan listens intently and then laughs.
‘The first round’s always on me anyway, you old tosser. Ring me back. I’m going nowhere, Al.’
He puts the phone down, takes a hefty hit on the Andy Pandy and a long drag on the snout.
‘I think we’re pushing it, Trevor,’ he says. ‘I think his nose was a bit put out of joint.’
‘Fuck him and his nose. Listen, your best pal ain’t gonna say shit cos he’d look a cunt in front of the other busies. You fancy a cup of coffee, Duncan?’
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