Layer Cake

by J. J. Connolly

  ‘So I’ve been duped by Mister Price.’

  ‘I think this is the least of your problems,’ he says.

  So he knows about the pills and the Germans.

  ‘So Charlie’s okay? I don’t have to worry about her?’

  He steps forward. ‘Don’t fucking worry about my fucking daughter, you understand, you little cunt.’ He gives me the pointy finger in the chest, glaring eyes, genuinely angry, twitching, but then something else kicks in. He takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes for a split second like he’s doing something he’s been tutored into doing at times of emotional overload. I’m taken aback by this sudden flash of anger. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ he says. ‘Thank you for your concern but my daughter is in excellent physical and mental health.’

  That sounds like an official version. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ I say with a forced smile.

  ‘You should worry about yourself,’ says Eddy.

  ‘How did you know that Jimmy had told me to find your daughter?’

  ‘You left some photographs of Charlotte on the table at Pepi’s Barn.’

  ‘For about five seconds.’

  ‘That’s as long as it takes. Angelo, the major dee, spotted them and rang me, or rather rang Troop. I’ve dined with Charlotte there on many occasions and he recognised her from the glimpse you allowed him.’

  ‘So you were keepin an eye on Jimmy?’

  ‘I always keep an eye on Jimmy’s lily-white arse. They detest Jimmy with a passion out at Pepi’s. It was a bad day’s work, the day I took him down there, because now he’s got the place block-booked.’

  ‘I got the impression that he’s their favourite customer.’

  He thinks that’s funny.

  ‘Well, it’s not in their nature to tell people to fuck off, and maybe because I introduced him they give him a squeeze. They delight in getting him into trouble.’

  ‘I can’t see Gene goin along with kidnapping people, especially young girls, civilians.’

  ‘I’m sure he wasn’t delighted, but Gene’s a tad too loyal for his own good. Loyalty can be a curse as well as a blessing. I think Jimmy wanted you out and about, blundering around, getting caught trying to find Charlotte.’

  ‘To show he meant business?’

  ‘Possibly. God only knows what goes on with some people. Now, you tell me something. What’s these pills Jimmy was talking about on the phone this morning?’

  So someone was listening in earlier. I shake my head and give him a blank look but he tuts.

  ‘I think I’ve been very understanding to you, young man, someone who was conspiring to snatch my only daughter and hold her to ransom.’

  I go to protest my ignorance but he puts his finger over his lips to quieten me before he goes on.

  ‘Okay, you came here in a wooden box, got kidnapped yourself, but have I been unreasonable? No. I don’t think I have. I could have Mister Troop over there inject you up with truth drugs and all sorts of chatty serums. You’d be telling us things you didn’t know you knew. I’ve seen it before and it’s ugly. Some people find it funny.’ He nods over at you-know-who. ‘I personally find it rather distasteful watching people become infantile.’

  I have a sly glance over my shoulder at Mister Troop, who’s pretending to be miles away, looking up, studying cloud formations, but I know he’d find it hilarious. He’d look upon it as reward for being a good boy all day.

  ‘Okay, these pills . . .’

  I tell him the story of the pills.

  ‘So those were the Germans you were telling to go fuck themselves this morning?’

  ‘I hope I didn’t offend Mister Troop with my language on the phone this morning, Mister Ryder.’

  ‘It’s a bit bold of you to be telling a far-right politically motivated gangster to fuck off. How many of these tablets are we talking about here, son?’

  ‘About two million, give or take a few thousand.’

  ‘Fucking hell, that’s a lot of pills.’

  ‘I think the whole country could have a very good weekend with that lot. Apparently, and this is not my area of expertise, they’re very fuckin good.’

  ‘And do you have a buyer in mind?’

  ‘Possibly. I think they’re keepin us roastin so we take any price they give us.’

  ‘Roasting?’

  ‘Waiting, sitting on our hands, in suspense.’

  ‘And how much would this parcel fetch on the open market?’

  ‘That quantity, about one-fifty each. They’re very good quality as well so they may go to two quid a pop. Why, you interested?’

  It was meant as a joke but Eddy doesn’t laugh.

  ‘I think you’re in too much trouble for me to be dealing with you. I could do something with those. I know people. You’ve got me thinking.’

  ‘Trouble? I thought we’d straightened all that out, Mister Ryder. I was duped, played for a mug by Jimmy. Learn from your mistakes, you said, and that’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna go and talk to my accountant and see how I can bob and weave to get outta town. I ain’t gonna be havin anything more to do with Jimmy fuckin Price.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong. I think your fates are forever interlinked. Getting away isn’t always that easy.’

  I bet Eddy fuckin Ryder’s got the trippy-hippie, make-believe eastern-mystic wife parked up at home. All this talk of auras, Buddhist monks and fate is a dead give-away. I reckon if he takes her from behind the feng shui’s got to be right.

  ‘You still haven’t got it, have you, son. Me, these Germans or the Bushwhackers, are really the least of your problems right now.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘Maybe I better let Jimmy explain.’

  ‘Fuck! You’ve got Jimmy coming here?!’

  ‘Have I fuck. Be patient, son. You’re in shit but . . .’ He shrugs, flicks his fag butt towards the deerstalker but narrowly misses. The archaeologist carries on brushing and scraping, oblivious. ‘. . . Come upstairs, son. It’s probably easier that way.’

  Shit in Your Eyes

  Eddy’s motor is like one of those cars that, as a kid, we used to see the lagging-boat local mayor roll by in. Shiny, black, tall at the back and bulbous all over. In the back it’s like someone’s put a Chesterfield sofa in and built the coachwork around it. The black leather is as soft as silk. Separating us from the driver is a panel of polished walnut with small doors intricately built into it. The grain of the wood is uninterrupted across these, like the door fronts and main panel were cut from the same huge piece of wood. When Eddy’s finished brushing small specks of dry clay off his suede loafers, he pushes a button on a control panel on his side of the seat and a glass window shuts, giving us complete privacy.

  ‘You want a drink?’ he asks.

  ‘Some water would be nice.’

  He pushes a panel in the walnut and the door jumps back. Inside there’s a drinks cabinet. He looks inside and comes out with two bottles of soda water.

  ‘This okay?’

  ‘Any water, Mister Ryder. I’m dyin of fuckin thirst. I had a bit of a night last night.’

  He hands me one, keeps one himself, shuts the drinks cabinet and opens another panel. Inside this one there’s a music system that, because of its sleekness, all silver and matt-black, is completely at odds with the old-school motor. Maybe he wants some sounds on while we have our chat but he goes inside his immaculate suit and brings out a cassette tape. Maybe he’s got a band. Eddy opens the tapedeck and puts in his tape, picks up the remote control and sits back. The tape is hissy even on this pukka system. I hear Jimmy Price’s voice.

  ‘Is that ‘kin all, Albie, seven fuckin grand? Fuckin ‘ell, hardly worth the fuckin bother.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t fuckin want it, pal, I’ll fuckin keep it,’ says a voice I don’t know.

  ‘I didn’t say that, did I. I just said it’s fuckin meagre, that’s all, seven gee.’

  ‘You’d fuckin moan if it was seventy grand, Jim. I fuckin know you, you old cunt, remem
ber that.’ He starts to laugh and I can hear Jimmy laughing too.

  ‘I’m just sayin, ain’t I, it ain’t like years ago with your fuckin lot, you’ve all gone squeaky on me.’

  ‘Tell me about it. I’ve gotta box so fuckin clever with those cunts from CIB3 sniffin around, listenin on the dog, firing people into yer all wired up, some dozy cunts ain’t as discreet as you, Jimbo.’

  Jimmy’s talking to a bent cozzer, fair play Jimmy. CIB3 are the old bill’s internal Gestapo, out to catch wrong’uns, CID gathers with big houses, multiple bank accounts and the holiday homes in Spain. Eddy stops the tape.

  ‘Before you ask, the other gentleman is Albie Carter. He’s a DS in the Regional Crime Squad, a plodder, bit of a dimwit, lacks a bit of flair.’

  ‘And Jimmy’s got him bent,’ I say. I catch on fast.

  Eddy raises his eyebrows, starts the tape again and looks out the car window across the river to the south bank.

  ‘But is what you’re doin that fuckin bad, Albie? You bring in some very good stuff, they always get their fuckin money’s worth, don’t they?’ says Jimmy.

  I’m getting confused.

  ‘But I ain’t meant to be gettin a whack out, am I?’

  ‘You do okay, Albie.’

  ‘And so do you, Jim. You’d be gone years ago if it weren’t for me.’

  ‘I know that, but don’t start gettin all squeaky on yourself, leave that to the spotty herberts in your Squad.’

  ‘I’m only saying, Jim–’

  ‘Look, don’t be a fuckin cry-baby on me now, Albie. You’re up for retirement soon anyway, done your fuckin twenty.’ Jimmy’s half shouting now.

  ‘Okay, okay, Jim, but you wanna tear the arse outta everything and there’s only so much in those informer funds, they ain’t made of money.’

  That fuckin word ‘informer’ makes my blood run cold. Jimmy’s at it. He’s gone the other way, the cunt.

  ‘So take more stuff straight into the banks, they’ll always weigh-on to know when someone’s fiddling in Aunt Maud’s drawers.’

  Eddy stops the tape.

  ‘That means, apparently, the financial institutions will pay handsomely to be informed if outfits are committing organised fiscal fraud,’ he says. ‘You getting the hang of it now, son?’

  He starts the tape again but my head’s gone. Jimmy Price is the mystery informant that everyone who’s any kinda player knows has been working for the last few years in London. Everyone knew it was someone big-time cos the kinda full SP the law were fronting people with could only have come from someone near the top of the Premier League. They’ve been getting a result too often, ‘acting on information received’. If Jimmy’s been at it, then me, Morty, Terry and Mister Clark are guilty by association cos Jimmy would be putting the bubble in and expecting a squeeze from the Other People in return. This is the cash crop Eddy was talking about. Jimmy brings information to this fuckin Albie and he feeds into the various squads, working through other gathers who are half bent and coming away with reward money, readies, outta the grasses’ fund to pay a string of fictional informants. If Jimmy gets anything choice about people working long-haul frauds, like what Billy Bogus does, he gets his fuckin gofer, Albie, to take it straight to the finance house concerned. Their security teams, mostly ex-old bill, are always pragmatic, don’t wanna undermine security with the public, take a powder, sort it out themselves or maybe sometimes they put together a snare operation where the guys walk in to collect but find they’re nicked big-time instead. The old bill, not being stupid like some doughnuts think, always protect their source so they can do the same bitta work again. By the time I’m paying attention again Jimmy’s talking about how a top white South London family, the Tylers, are bringing in shooters from Jamaica.

  ‘He means people to shoot people, not firearms,’ Eddy interrupts.

  ‘I don’t think anyone gives a fuck if spooks shoot spooks, Jim,’ says Albie. They both laugh.

  ‘I couldn’t give a fuck about dead Johnnie darkies,’ says Jim.

  ‘Jimmy, what about the O’Maras? They want anythin at all? Danny especially, any sniff at all?’

  ‘Danny don’t like me, tells people I’m sneaky.’

  ‘Not a bad judge, is he.’

  ‘Fuckin behave, Albert.’

  ‘Calm down, Jim, it was just a joke. What about Gene?’

  ‘They fuckin love Gene, those O’Maras, but I can’t just send him over there on the earwig, can I?’

  ‘Does he suspect anything, Jim?’

  ‘Gene? ‘Bout what?’

  ‘Fuck’s sake. About you being . . . you know . . .’

  ‘Working it both ways? Listen, Gene can answer every fuckin question on those quiz shows on the telly, but he’s a bit tick around people and that. He’s my trusty gundog, is Gene. You know what I say, don’t yer?’

  ‘No, James, enlighten me.’

  ‘Why have a dog and bark yourself, ay, Albie, why have a dog and call him “Fuck Off”?’

  I can hear Jimmy laughing himself sick and slapping his thigh, probably slapping Albie as well. I bet his eyes were watering.

  ‘Where did you get the tape, Eddy, one of Troop’s extra-curricular activities?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh no. Albie Carter recorded it for me. Why have a dog and bark yourself?’

  ‘Why’d he do that?’

  ‘Money,’ says Eddy in his speaking-to-a-child voice.

  ‘I heard a little whisper that . . .’ And Jimmy’s off telling Albie the whereabouts of a guy who had to go on the trot over a very serious robbery, the kind that don’t happen much these days. I’m so fuckin glad I’m getting out.

  ‘Listen, Eddy, someone like Troop could’ve put this tape together, that’s what them sorta outfits spend their day off doing, he could very fuckin easi–’

  ‘Be your fuckin age, son. That’s called denial. How old are you? Twenty-nine and you don’t want to believe that your sugar daddy’s been a fucking supergrass for years, after hearing the man denounce himself on tape.’

  ‘Yeah, but they splice different bits togeth–’

  ‘Shoooosh, son.’ He leans forward and playfully slaps me on the side of the knee. ‘Don’t you want to hear what he’s got to say about you?’

  ‘I got a nice one who’s plucked and ready for the pot,’ Jim’s saying.

  ‘Who’s that then, Jim?’

  ‘I ain’t tellin you now, yer fuckin doughnut. I don’t wanna reward on this one, I just want him out the way.’

  ‘Why?’ asks Albie.

  ‘You’re a nosy fucker, ain’t you, Albie.’

  ‘It’s my job, Jim. I am a policeman, a detective to boot. Why do you want him out the way?’

  ‘Got a few bob, ain’t he, tucked away, but I’ll fuckin find it, once I get my hands on the paperwork.’

  ‘So who is this geezer, Jimmy? Would I know him?’

  ‘Doubt it. Flash little prick but very low-profile. Thinks he’s retiring, the silly cunt. He’s gonna do a coupla errands for me then he’s yours. I want him away for twelve.’

  ‘If he’s got over a kilo of Class A on board, brown rather than white, he’s guaranteed double figures.’

  ‘I’ll guarantee he has on the day, even if I gotta put it there myself.’

  I can feel my skin burning with heat but I can’t breathe. I wanna cry, to be honest. I want my mum to come and take me home. I don’t wanna play no more.

  ‘It sounds personal, Jim. Ain’t never been personal before.’

  ‘Shut yer fuckin mouth.’

  I can hear Jimmy spitting bits of cigar out.

  ‘Okay, Jim, fuck’s sake,’ says Albie.

  ‘There’s something about this geezer that gets me at it. He’s fuckin smug.’

  ‘And you reckon you can get your hands on his goodies?’

  ‘I fuckin know I can. It was me told him to go and see this dodgy accountant years ago and spread his readies about in moody names. The book-keep ain’t gonna cause no fuss. He’ll poop his pants whe
n I go and talk to him. A snide name can be just about anyone,’ says Jimmy Price.

  ‘I’ll put that down in the “forthcoming events” column, shall I?’ says Albie and they both start to laugh.

  Eddy stops the tape.

  ‘The rest of it is just some pretty sordid sexual stuff, Albie pumping Jimmy again about the O’Maras, they seem desperate to lock them up, and Jimmy getting the hump with him about it,’ says Eddy.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ I’m saying to myself with my head in my hands.

  ‘Believe what you want to believe, son, that’s what everybody else does in this life.’

  ‘I mean I believe it but I don’t believe it.’

  ‘That’s you on the tape he’s talking about, the flash cunt who thinks he’s going into retirement.’

  I can only nod my head.

  ‘I think Jimmy’s got a different kind of retirement planned than you, different retirement home, too, Parkhurst, Isle of Wight.’

  To be honest if I wasn’t starving hungry and had a full stomach I’d be throwing up down the side of Eddy’s motor or straight into the Thames.

  ‘You seriously had no idea that Jimmy was at it?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘See, years ago Dewey would be obligated to put up names to stay in business. He indulged in a bit of habeas corpus, produce the body, as well. Truth be told, Dewey watched a lot of guys who were overdue but slippery go away for stretches on his say-so. If people didn’t play ball, Dewey got the police doing his dirty work for him. When he marked your card with the law, you were gone.’

  ‘So old Dewey was a grass as well?’

  ‘Listen, son, while we’re about it there’s no fucking Santa Claus either. How the fuck do you think these guys stay in business? They buy a licence to work. Dewey accepted the inevitable and would use it to cull out all the toe-rags and blokes who would only be getting caught anyway. He fed them to the law. He used it to almost regulate the lawless, but Jimmy’s psychological raison d’être is different. Jimmy saw it as an earner, a way of getting his retaliation in first. You heard it yourself on the tape, Jimmy’s a spiteful, horrible, nasty man. My wife says he’s a sociopath, incapable of feelings of attachment or seeing human beings as anything other than commodities to be used.’