by Ripley, Mike
‘Is that everything?’
‘That’ll do until I can talk to him, thanks.’
She said goodbye ever so politely and I envied Murdo Seton. He seemed to have no trouble getting decent staff.
I hit the Memory button for where I had filed Nick Lawrence’s number under ‘HMCE’ and then Send. He answered on the second ring and sounded as if he was eating a sandwich himself. Something in a baguette, I guessed.
‘’Waurence,’ he said, or that was what it sounded like.
‘Roy Angel. You were checking out some car numbers for me.’
‘Oh, them. I might have,’ he said grumpily. I could hear him chewing. Now that’s something they don’t advertise when they try to sell you a mobile phone.
‘And I might have found out something you’d be interested in.’
I could play hard to get too. Not often, but I could.
‘Go on then, baffle me with your brilliance.’
‘You show me yours first.’
I heard a deep sigh followed by a rustle of papers.
‘The numbers all check out bar two, M 606 VRR and A 454 THG simply don’t exist. The rest are all legit but they’re registered to people all over the place. There’s no pattern to it. What did you do, go round collecting numbers in a car-park?’
‘Give me a few examples, especially the R-registered Jeep.’
‘Hang on. Here we are. That’s down to a Brian Anthony Scoular, S-C-O-U-L-A-R, of 23 Regiment Road, Guildford. The others are private cars registered to citizens in Cardiff and Salford, two in Birmingham, and a couple are company vehicles, both building firms, one in Somerset and one in Suffolk. Nothing stolen, all legit as far as we can tell. Mean anything?’
‘Probably not. I’ve got one more for you, grab a pen.’
I gave him the number of the Mercedes driven by Mel’s boyfriend Christian. I had no particular reason for doing so, but if you had access to that sort of info, why not use it?
‘Okay, got it, see what I can do,’ he said. ‘Now, what you got for me?’
‘The Mothership,’ I said smugly. ‘An amateur ring of bootleggers, very professionally run by a real whiz kid called Scooter, or Brian Anthony Scoular as you have him. He’s got a couple of dozen students working for him.’
‘Students?’
‘Students. They skip a few lectures, nip over to France on Le Shuttle and bring back a load of beer. He’s got them working almost round the clock, but mostly at night.’
‘Hang on, what sort of quantities are we talking about here? Is this a few students earning pocket money or what?’
‘That’s probably why they’re doing it, but they fill an articulated lorry which gets delivered to London two or maybe three times a week at somewhere around 18,000 litres a pop. Is that impressive enough for you?’
‘Sounds like it’s organised,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Must be going to someone with contacts at the retail end.’
‘Either that or somebody’s stocking up for one hell of a party,’ I added helpfully.
‘You any idea where it’s going?’
‘Not yet, but I might have something for you tomorrow.’
‘Where’s the base?’
‘Right here in Whitcomb, on an old hop farm. The front is a computer programming company called Soft Sell.’
‘And where are you right now?’
‘You remember that pub I told you about, the Rising Sun?’
‘Yeah, like in the song.’
Well, that dated you, I thought.
‘I’m sort of running it until the brewery –’
‘Have you told Murdo Seton about this?’ he interrupted.
‘Not yet, I haven’t been able to get hold of him.’
‘Leave that to me until I’ve checked things out. I’ll contact you at the pub.’
Then he cut me off. No ‘thank you’, no mentioned-in-dispatches, no nothing. He didn’t even ask for the phone number of the pub. He had no intention of getting back to me. If there were any Brownie points to be earned from this business, he was going to claim them all.
I dropped the phone and the dictaphone in my bag and wandered down to the bar.
Tony had transformed the girls by toning their make-up down a notch so that they looked like believable barmaids. Every time they pulled a pint or reached for a tankard or served a lunch, he was there, snapping away.
‘Only doing chest shots, darling,’ he confided, ‘to show off the product.’
He had ringed the bar with lights, hoisting the temperature up way above normal, and the girls took ages serving a drink so he could get his angles right. Half the food they served – preceded by a very bad-tempered ‘Ready!’ from Mel in the kitchen – must have been stone cold by the time the customers got it as Tony insisted on it being presented to them at least three different ways. Funnily enough, none of the customers – mostly male – seemed to mind.
‘Tony seems to have everything under control,’ I said to Neemoy. ‘I’m just nipping out to do a bit of shopping. Back in an hour. Don’t tell Mel I’ve gone until I’ve gone.’
Before she could argue I was out of there.
I drove Axeman’s Mondeo into Folkestone and found a Marks and Spencer’s where I treated myself to underwear, socks, deodorant, a black polo-neck shirt, black leather gloves and a slice of lemon cheesecake. (I have a weakness.) Then I wandered down the Marine Promenade to take in the sea view, or rather the view of the sea fret and the rain heading inland. As the rain started in earnest, I bought a stick of Folkestone rock to take back to Amy and some genuine Folkestone fudge for Fenella, then ran for the car.
Back at the Rising Sun the trade had thinned out, leaving only a couple of cars outside and no more than six genuine customers inside.
Tony was packing his lights away, two salesmen in suits were chatting up Sasha at a corner table, Max was nursing a glass of something clear and medicinal and Dan was on his bar stool by the kitchen door, peering over the bar as Neemoy bent over to steal another packet of crisps from the box on the bottom shelf of the back bar. All seemed right with the world.
‘I’m offski, outa here,’ Tony griped as soon as he saw me. ‘It’s like working in a madhouse. Gawd knows what Amy’ll say when she sees the contacts.’
‘They’ll be brilliant, Tone, relax.’
‘Can we go home now?’ asked Max.
‘Tomorrow. Promise.’
‘Mel’s quit,’ said Neemoy. ‘Went off in a right snit.’
‘Bound to happen. Surprised she stuck it this long.’
‘And they’ve sold off the family silver,’ Dan chipped in.
‘Come again?’
‘This American couple called in for lunch,’ said Neemoy. ‘Really sweet they were. Said they were interested in antiques and silver tankards so I let them have a look.’
She raised her eyes to the tankards hanging like bats from the beam above her.
‘And they gave you £250 for one, right?’
‘Yeah, how did you know? Dan said it wasn’t anybody’s in particular and we thought the landlady could use the money. I got the cheque made out to the pub.’
‘Show me,’ I said.
Neemoy pulled open the till drawer and handed me an American Express sterling traveller’s cheque. The signatures on it were for a Joseph M. Maron.
‘Did I fuck up?’ she asked me.
‘You’re not alone. I’ve got to ring somebody about this. Listen, if Mel’s not around, Dan here’ll help you get ready for tonight, won’t you, Dan?’ He nodded enthusiastically. ‘Just hold the fort for one more night and the cavalry will be here in the morning.’
‘It sounds like you won’t be around,’ Max said with only a slight slur.
‘Got a job to do, but I’ll be back before closing time,’ I said confidently.
Tony was snapping the locks on one of his camera boxes and I crouched down to whisper in his ear.
‘You didn’t by any chance get a shot of these two American tourists who bought the si
lver tankard, did you?’
‘Might have.’ He thought about it. ‘Yeah, think I did, when they were talking to Neemoy. Why?’
‘Can you knock off a print overnight and get it down here for tomorrow morning?’
‘Courier? Cost a bomb.’
‘Amy’s paying.’
‘No problem.’
Upstairs again, I changed my shirt, socks and boxer shorts and tried on my new gloves. I had no intention of leaving my fingerprints on a truckload of illicit booze but if I had worn the yellow washing-up gloves, I would have been pulled by any passing patrol car on the grounds of weirdness, not to mention being beaten up by real truck drivers for giving them a bad name.
I made two phone calls, one to Reuben Sloman at the Silver Vaults and one, when I had dug out his business card, to Ted Lewis, the landlord of the Old House At Home in Rye.
Then I pulled on my leather jacket, stuffed the gloves in the pockets and went down to the bar again where I changed a £5 note in the till for coins for the cigarette machine. There was so much money in the till I had trouble closing the drawer, so I decided Ivy wouldn’t miss a box of matches and I picked one off the back bar.
‘That’ll be 10p,’ said Max.
She was sitting in a window seat, her back to me, filing her nails.
‘Put it on my tab,’ I said, trying to work out how she’d known.
‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ she said as I fed coins into the machine.
‘Only in times of extreme stress, or when I’m bored, or after totally successful love-making,’ I said as the coins dropped.
‘That pack should last you then.’
I didn’t dignify that with a reply.
I walked round to Hop Cottage and the paddock leading to the hop farm, leaving Axeman’s car outside the pub on the grounds that it is always best to have one means of making a rapid getaway up your sleeve.
On a whim, I walked up to the door of Hop Cottage and knocked loudly, just to see if Mel was there and willing to make peace. There was no answer, although I thought I heard a thud from somewhere inside which made me crouch and peep through the letter box. All I could see was a small hallway and some stairs, which had been fitted with a disabled chair lift.
‘Mel! It’s Roy, from the pub,’ I shouted, but there was no answer.
I gave it up and strolled around the front of the cottage to the five-bar gate where I pulled on my gloves, grasped the top rail and vaulted over in one smooth movement which amazed even me.
Still with a spring in my step, I rounded the corner of the paddock.
There were eight vehicles parked outside the Soft Sell building. I recognised three of them, but none of the number plates. Painter had been busy.
Then I heard an engine and automatically drew back into the hedge. The sound wasn’t behind me, from the village, but from the other side of the hop farm buildings, down across the fields and the exit road through the woods.
It was Scooter’s Jeep, probably in 4x4 mode, bouncing up the track by the stripping shed where the Mothership was hidden and eventually pulling in alongside the main building next to the assorted pick-ups and estate cars.
Brian Anthony Scoular, aka Scooter, was alone and I watched him climb out of the Jeep and open up the rear door. He was wearing green Hunter boots, caked in mud, which he proceeded to kick off and change for a pair of Reebok trainers from the Jeep.
I stepped out from behind the hedge and began to walk towards him. He made no sign that he was aware of me but he did suddenly look up whilst tying the laces of his Reeboks to his right. I followed his line of sight, over the back garden of Hop Cottage to the back of the cottage but saw no sign of life, just the windows of the kitchen and an upstairs bedroom.
‘You’re early,’ he said, catching me looking where he had been looking.
‘Can’t wait to get to work,’ I said with a smile.
He threw his muddy boots into the back of the Jeep and made to close the door before I got level with him.
I managed one quick glimpse and spotted a small shovel, the folding type which the Army uses, and something which looked like one of those strimmer things for trimming the lawn, what the Americans call a ‘weed-whacker’. I didn’t think much about it at the time. Maybe Scooter was a closet gardener.
‘We’re ready to roll,’ he said as the Jeep door slammed. ‘You wait here, I’ll get Combo.’
I pulled the collar of my coat up as it began to rain again and shuffled my feet as Scooter pulled open the door to the Soft Sell building. From inside there came the sound of dull cheering and spattered applause. After a minute, Combo emerged, tucking a folded wedge of banknotes into the back pocket of his jeans.
‘What’s all that about?’ I asked him.
‘Payday. Always popular. Should be a good night for you down the Rising Sun, though it may be the last time for a while. You up for it?’ He produced the keys to the DAF and flipped them at me.
‘Let’s go,’ I said, catching them and falling into step beside him. ‘What do you mean, last time?’
‘A lot of the guys have done their last run today and Scooter’s paying them off. I thought he’d told you there would only be this run and one other.’
‘He did, sort of. I didn’t realise this was the end of the business, though.’
‘Needs must,’ Combo said chattily as we approached the big stripping shed.
‘How come?’
‘Because of Coquelles.’
‘What?’ I thought the rain must have got in my ears.
‘Coquelles. It’s the place in Calais where Le Shuttle comes out of the Tunnel, the same as Cheriton is the Folkestone terminal.’
‘And your point is what?’
‘There’s a French Customs post at Cheriton, right?’ he said patiently. ‘But it’s never used ‘cos the French basically don’t give a shit. But there’s a British Customs post at Coquelles, like a reciprocal deal. But it’s never been manned until now. Well, next week actually. That means the Customs officers have two chances to get you now, once in France and once here. That’ll scare off the odd day-tripper chancing their arm and make the chances of one of us getting pulled that much higher. Plus they’re going to confiscate the vehicles if you’re nicked and they can give you a driving ban. Scooter reckons the risks will be unacceptable, so he’s winding things down.’
We were at the far end of the stripping shed by now where there was a large sliding door and padlock just as at the other end. Combo dug a key on a chain out of his pocket and unlocked the door, then put his shoulder to it and began to slide it open.
‘How do you know all this?’ I said to the back of his head.
‘Scooter told me,’ he said over his left shoulder.
‘Who told Scooter?’
‘Our buyer, the guy we’re delivering to. He’s very well informed.’
‘Sounds like it. Who is it?’
‘A real South London wide boy who fancies himself something rotten as a bit of a gangster. I think he’s a bit of a psycho, myself. A big Jamaican ponce called Rufus Radabe.’
The door reached the end of its slide, revealing the DAF tractor unit and the trailer next to it up on its dolly wheels. I felt Combo turn to look at me.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yeah, I’m cool,’ I said.
But I kept my forehead pressed to the wet, cold metal of the shed while I took deep breath after deep breath; in through the nose, hold, one more sniff, hold, then slowly exhaling through the mouth.
It’s what they tell you to do when you’re having a panic attack.
17
I didn’t know Rufus Radabe; nobody outside the police’s National Crime Squad knew Rufus Radabe, but I knew of him. Anyone who had ever had any dealings in Brixton or Lambeth or Bermondsey or anywhere south of the river knew about Rufus Radabe.
He was said to have a finger in every dodgy pie going, starting from a base of minicab companies and a service for providing pubs with bouncers, or ‘doormen’.
There were the inevitable rumours about drugs and prostitution and protection rackets, most of which were probably legend rather than fact. But when the legend is more interesting than the facts, make an award-winning British film about the legend.
The one thing everyone who had crossed his path – and I knew a few who had – agreed upon was that if you did cross his path, you kept on walking. Ideally, you never crossed his path. Preferably, you were on the other side of the street or, even better, on another street in a different town altogether. If Rufus was into bootlegging then he would be just the person to know where he could retail it and how to lean on the outlets, whether Domino Social Clubs in Brixton or off-licences in Hackney, to ensure they took a regular supply. He would have worked out his profit margins and risks, realising that the penalties were less for beer-running than for drugs or most of his other businesses. The one thing he wasn’t was stupid. But then again, like most highly intelligent people with a large IQ, he was also a dangerously violent psychopath.
‘You deal with Radabe himself?’ I asked Combo when I had recovered the power of speech.
‘Most times. He doesn’t trust anyone else with the money.’
‘So we’re going to meet him tonight?’ Combo nodded. ‘Where?’
‘He has a big warehouse near Dartford, behind that big new shopping centre. You can see it from the Dartford Bridge.’
‘So there will be other people around?’
‘Yeah, he employs ten or twenty guys there.’
That, at least, was something.
‘You’ve been before?’
‘Once, with Axeman, when Scooter couldn’t make it. It’s a strange place, man, I’m telling you. He only employs blacks – hey, nothing against that – but he plays music all the time, through speakers, like all over the warehouse. And it’s not what you’d expect, it’s not like gangsta rap or anything, it’s big band swing. Cab Calloway, Benny Goodman, Count Basie, stuff like that. He makes them all listen to it.’
‘Basie doesn’t swing,’ I said automatically.
‘Huh?’
‘Nothing. Something we used to argue about after the pubs closed.’