It was while at Wormwood Scrubs prison that he had met Bimbo Jardine and Adrian Owen. Stan liked them both – but especially Bimbo. The man had not an ounce of malice in his colossal frame.
There were few absolutes in Stan’s life. He wasn’t patriotic, his morals would have disgusted a sewer rat, and anyone who lent him money had to have less brain cells than an amoeba. But when it came to ‘mates in trouble’, Stan moved into a class of his own.
He knew what Bimbo Jardine was facing. It could be summed up in one word.
Pain.
And there was no way he’d allow Bimbo to suffer alone. Trouble was, he knew, that Bimbo would never believe just how far the likes of Reardon and Green would go. Stan, on the other hand, was under no illusions.
And when Jackie Green walked into the shop at 11.15 that morning Stan was well prepared. The boxer was wearing a white Lacoste sweatshirt and beautifully cut grey trousers. Stan grinned at him, his expression open, honest and welcoming, giving no hint of the tension he felt. Any mistakes in the next few minutes would see blood spilled on the shop’s new carpet. ‘’Ello Jackie, how ya doin’?’
‘Not bad, Stan. Yourself?’
‘Can’t complain. You got yourself a video?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Couldn’t have come to a better place. We’ve got all the latest. And for you there’s a free membership.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Green, moving to the door, dropping the latch, and switching the sign to ‘Closed’, ‘but I wanted a chat.’
‘What about?’
‘About a fire.’ Green’s pale eyes fixed on Stan’s face.
‘Sorry, mate, I quit that game. No point now. I’m doin’ pretty nicely. But I can put you in touch with a couple of old mates. Good geezers. They won’t blag.’
Green sat down on the stool beyond the counter and leaned in. ‘I don’t want a fire done. I’m talkin’ about last night.’ Stan’s heart began to beat faster, but he was also a fine poker player.
‘You lost me, Jackie.’
‘The snooker hall?’
‘Fred’s place? I drove past that this mornin’.’
‘Not Freddie,’ said Green, his eyes losing their malice. ‘Reilly’s. The Seagull in the Bush.’
‘Ah, insurance job was it?’ said Stan, knowingly.
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Reilly. Short of money is he?’
‘Not as far as I know. You think he done his own place?’
‘Dunno,’ said Stan. ‘Thass the normal way, innit?’
‘Talk me through it,’ said Green. ‘The “normal way”.’
Stan rose and walked back to the electric kettle, checking it for water, then switching it on. ‘Okay. Talkin’ general, right? A guy owns a snooker hall and it aint doin’ too well. He orders a load of new equipment: tables, carpets, decorations, panellin’, anything that costs a few bob. Then, late one night, he ships a load of it out, brings in the old rubbish what he’s kept in store. Then the place is torched. If he’s sensible he’ll have taken out a bloody great insurance policy about a month before.’
‘Bit obvious, innit? Big insurance policy? Wouldn’t they smell a rat?’ said Green.
‘Maybe,’ agreed Stan, ‘but it would also be strange if he didn’t – having put in a load of new equipment. Wouldn’t you increase your insurance?’
‘How do you know he put in a load of new equipment?’ said Green.
‘Who? I thought we was talkin’ general.’
‘Forget it. Go on.’
‘Well, that’s about it. Insurance people send an assessor down, and as long as the torch has done his job well they should pay up.’
‘What do you mean, done his job well?’
‘Made it look like an electrical fault. Set the blaze to a socket, like a plugged in TV. Accidental.’
Green nodded. ‘So you reckon they’ll pay up?’
‘They don’t like payin’ up. They’ll look for some loophole, but then if the job’s been done right they should have no option … unless …’
‘What?’
‘Unless they can claim negligence on the part of the management. You know, lighted cigarette left burning on top of a glass of paraffin, or a building that’s already been labelled a fire hazard by the Fire Brigade. That sorta thing.’
‘That’s all very well,’ said Green, ‘if Reilly torched his own club. But what about enemies?’
Stan shrugged.
‘Easy to find out,’ he said.
‘Yeah?’
‘Sure. Look at all the facts. I don’t know nothin’ about the way the Seagull operates, but, if it was a rundown hole and then it was torched I’d say the bloke … Reilly? … was turned over. But – and this is the big but – had he bought any new stock? Had he increased his insurance? Is he lookin’ to retire in Barbados? Cos if any of that is true then you can count out enemies. I mean people who don’t like you don’t go round doin’ you favours, do they? You want tea or coffee?’
‘Nothin’. But you go ahead.’
Stan made a mug of strong tea and returned to the counter. He could see that Green was undecided, but he wasn’t out of the woods yet.
‘You seen Bimbo lately?’ asked the ex-boxer.
‘Yeah. Saw him Saturday. He bought a video recorder. I dropped it round. Why?’
‘He had a grudge against Reilly.’
‘He never mentioned it to me. But anyway, he aint a torch. It would never occur to him. And if it did he wouldn’t do it himself – he’d come to me.’
‘Exactly the thought that crossed my mind, you and him bein’ cellmates and all.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Stan, keeping his reaction muted, but allowing an edge of anger to show. ‘That’s it, is it? Nice. What you gonna do then Jackie? Break me ’ands? Smash me shop?’
‘I don’t think you did it, Stan,’ said Green. ‘You’re not stupid. But I thought it was worth a trip out here. And it was. You’ve given me a lot of food for thought. You still mates with Bimbo?’
‘I won’t lie to you, course I am. We spent a coupla years in the same cell. But he fights his own battles, and I aint walkin’ on the other side of the street to avoid him just cos he’s got on the wrong side of his boss. It’ll blow over.’
‘Don’t bank on it. You stick by your friends, then?’
‘When I can – and when I don’t have to suffer any pain.’
‘Adrian Owen was a friend of yours.’
‘ls, Jackie. He aint dead yet.’
Green nodded. ‘It was Reilly that turned him over. Him and Roache and Taggart, and a few others.’
‘Yeah? Takes a lotta men to turn over one queen, don’t it?’
‘You knew then?’
‘No, but I’m beginnin’ to see how it all hangs together. And if you’re tellin’ me this so I can report it to Bimbo, forget it. I don’t want to see the lad gettin’ himself into more trouble.’
‘You think he’d go after Reilly?’
‘Probably. I don’t see where all this aggro is gettin’ anyone.’
Green shrugged. ‘Some people like aggro, Stan. What about the old Jew next door?’
‘Stuff me, Jackie, what is this? Twenty questions?’
‘Don’t make me angry,’ said Green. Stan drew in a slow breath.
‘He’s just that, an old Jew. Where does he fit in?’
‘He’s another friend of Bimbo’s. And he pulled a shooter on two of Reardon’s lads.’
‘Jesus, Jackie. There’s a man on the critical list, a place has been burnt down, and now there’s a shooter? Leave me out of it.’
‘You are out of it, Stan. For now. I should stay that way. I should cross the road to avoid Bimbo Jardine. Cos if I hear you’ve even waved at him, I’m gonna be back. And then we won’t talk. I’ll just bust your bone
s and nail your bollocks to the wall.’ Reaching down, Green lifted Stan’s tea and slowly poured it on to the computer keyboard. The screen shorted out and the programme disappeared. ‘Have a nice day, Stan.’
Sherry Parker was frightened, with the fear born of weakened nerves and destroyed confidence. The house was clean, though it had taken four solid hours of effort to bring it to its best. The wallpaper needed changing, and the paintwork was flaking, but everywhere else was bright. Even the kids had helped. Sarah had tidied her room and Simon had bundled all his toy soldiers in a cardboard box, tied it with string, and forced it under his bunk bed.
Sherry herself had stuck rigidly to a diet, and had lost three pounds in the last four days. Not much – but enough to allow her to squeeze into her favourite blue dress. Her friend Joan had cut her hair, and even added gentle blonde highlights. The mirror in the lounge confirmed that she looked better than she had in years. But the fear remained.
Wilks had taunted her with words of acid; had blamed her for his infidelities. She was ‘clumsy in bed’. She had ‘no understanding of a man’s needs’, ‘no imagination’. She was ‘the worst lay I’ve ever had’.
Now, with the meal over, the children asleep, and the coffee half finished, her nerves were at breaking point. Seemingly oblivious to her mental anguish Bimbo sat staring at the coal fire. He was dressed in light blue jeans and a new white roll-neck sweater. He seemed totally at ease, sprawled in front of the fire.
‘I love this,’ he said, suddenly. ‘We had a real fire at the Home. They used to give us our milk at night sitting in front of it. And there was this woman – not the matron, a sorta helper – she used to tell us stories. It was great. Yeah,’ he said, his voice fading, ‘good days them. All went bloody wrong somewhere.’
‘You wanna talk about it?’ asked Sherry.
‘Not much to say, love. There’s a friend of mine on the critical list, and another one dyin’ a cancer. I can’t do nothin’ for neither of ’em.’
‘You done a lot for me,’ she said. ‘Don’t that count for somethin’?’
He smiled, but his eyes still had a faraway look. ‘Yeah. It counts. But it weren’t nothin’, Sher. It was only money.’
‘No it wasn’t. It was carin’. You don’t know how good it is to have somebody care whether you live or die.’ She stood and began to gather the dishes from the table. Bimbo rose to help.
‘You just sit there,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Nah. I’ll wash, you wipe. Then you won’t have to worry about it in the mornin’. I always ’ate that. Gettin’ up to a chock-a-block sink and all that cold grease.’
In the kitchen Sherry’s nerves returned. Bimbo scrubbed at the plates and pans and whistled the theme from High Noon, his enormous frame making the tiny kitchen seem even more like an over-extended cupboard.
‘Lovely meal, Sher. The kids were great, weren’t they?’
‘On their best behaviour for uncle Bimbo. They like you, Bim. You’re very good with ’em.’
With the last of the dishes cleared away Sherry led Bimbo back to the lounge and poured him a glass of Sainsbury’s cheapest brandy. Bimbo took a sip and put it aside. ‘Don’t be on edge,’ he told her, as he resumed his seat in front of the fire. ‘I aint gonna rape you, or nothin’. So relax for a minute, eh?’
‘I didn’t know it was that obvious.’ She sat beside him and drained her glass. He stretched out his hand and she took it.
‘It’s nice ’avin’ friends. So you just sit there, enjoy the fire, and we’ll have a chat, then I’ll be on me way. All right?’
‘It’s a long time since I’ve had a man round for a meal. You don’t know what it’s like. Wonderin’ if the chicken is cooked through, or the puddin’s a disaster, or the house is a mess.’
‘And the sex bit,’ he said.
‘Yeah, specially that,’ she agreed.
‘It used to bovver me when I was younger. It don’t anymore,’ he said. ‘It aint that important. It’s nice, don’t get me wrong; but it aint the be-all-and-end-all.’
‘It is to some people,’ she told him, refilling her glass. ‘Wilks used to go on and on about it. Always braggin’ about who he was pullin’ and how good they were in bed.’
‘He’s a scumbag. He always was.’
‘You aint drinkin’ your brandy. Don’t you like it?’
‘Not much of a drinker.’ Lifting the iron tongs he added two more lumps of coal to the fire.
‘I don’t know why I’m talking to you like this. It probably aint right,’ she said. ‘I think I’m getting drunk. Why’d you pay me rent?’
‘That’s what friends are for. Anyway, I come into a bit of money I weren’t expectin’. Don’t worry about it.’
‘One of these days I’ll pay you back. Honest!’
‘It aint important. You lost weight, aintcha? Looks good.’
‘It’s not enough. I need another half a stone. Maybe then I’ll try sprintin’ again.’
Bimbo chuckled. ‘I remember that race you won. You beat Maggie Ames – and she was County. You was so ’appy. I thought you was gonna do a lap of honour.’
‘It was the only time I did beat her. Everythin’ was right, like I didn’t weigh nothin’ and I was floatin’. That was the only time. I was me and I won and everythin’ was right. Nothin’s bin right since.’ She drained her glass and stared into the fire. Bimbo reached out and switched on the table lamp. Then he rose and flicked off the main light. The room was more cosy now, flickering red in the light of the fire. Sherry tensed, but Bimbo just sat as he had before.
‘I aint very good in bed,’ she whispered, the words hanging in the air.
‘Me neither. We probably don’t get enough practice.’
She giggled and poured another brandy. ‘You got a girlfriend, Bim?’
‘Nah. Aint much of a ladies’ man. Bit of a loner really. There was this girl I used to like. But I never said nothin’. I just used to watch her. She won a race once.’
‘You shoulda said. Maybe that’s what she was waitin’ for.’
He moved to sit alongside her and lifted her chin. The kiss tasted of brandy. She lay back on the rug and he stretched out beside her, kissing her cheek and her brow. His hand rested on her hip, without moving, and she could feel the warmth from his touch. A large lump of coal split and fell apart, yellow flames licking at the chimney. Sherry’s arms circled his neck, pulling him down. For a long while they lay there in the firelight, his hand stroking her back and her hip. She sat up and unfastened the blue dress, lifting it over her head, then stood and moved to the sofa.
‘Give me a hand,’ she said. Together they opened it out into a large double bed. Turning to him Sherry tugged at his sweater, pushing it up his chest. He chuckled and pulled it off. Leaning down he swept his arms around her, lifting her from her feet. Laying her on the bed, he unfastened his jeans and stepped from them. She removed her bra and panties. Lying down beside her, he drew her to him.
They made love for more than an hour, sometimes slowly and gently, stopping often to kiss and touch, sometimes with fierceness and driving passion. Then they lay, arm in arm, in comfortable silence as the fire slowly died.
‘Are you happy?’ she asked him.
‘Yeah. You?’
‘I think you could say that.’ She rolled on top of him, her arms resting on his chest. ‘You lied to me. You said you were no good in bed.’
‘So did you,’ he said, pulling her into an embrace. She struggled free and straddled him. He smiled and slid his hands down her waist, pulling her into position.
‘Again?’ she asked, as she felt the movement beneath her.
‘Seems like a good idea.’
Later, as Sherry slept, he lay awake feeling content. Ever since his teenage days he had wanted to make love to Sherry Parker; from the moment he saw her joy at winning that race. Tha
t she had faked the first climax bothered him not at all. It had allowed her to relax, and maybe the second one was real. The clock on the wall showed 1 a.m. Bimbo eased himself from the bed and dressed. It wouldn’t do for the kids to come down and see uncle Bimbo in bed with mummy. Gently he roused her from sleep and kissed her goodbye.
‘You will come again?’
‘Try to keep me away.’
She smiled sleepily. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’
‘No. Go back to sleep.’
After he had gone Sherry got up and stirred the fire to life, adding more coal. The evening had been too pleasant to allow it merely to fade away in dreams. She wanted to burn the enjoyment into her memory so that at any time in the future she could relive every moment.
The phone rang. She glanced at the clock. It was 1.20 in the morning.
‘Hello?’
The voice was low, the words vicious and terrifying. She listened in frozen terror until the line went dead.
‘Oh my God!’ she whispered.
Bimbo jogged home from Sherry’s, enjoying the inner warmth of a dream satisfied. No, not satisfied, he realised, but begun. Thoughts of Reardon and Jackie Green were far away as he pounded into Ironside Towers, across the dark courtyard, towards the beckoning street lights outside his home.
A match flared.
Bimbo swivelled, fists raised and ready. Silver moved away from the young woman he was with and walked towards him. In the moonlight the tall, slender black man looked almost feral, his movements smooth, his eyes gleaming.
‘Cold night,’ said Silver.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Bimbo, embarrassed by his show of fear.
‘Three men hangin’ about your door. I think they busted your place, man.’
‘Recognise ’em?’
White Knight/Black Swan Page 17