by Peter Cocks
“You don’t, do you?” she asked. I shook my head. She sat on the bed and lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply and blowing out. She seemed to relax instantly.
“Feel better?” I said.
“A cold beer, a fag, the door’s locked. I’m alone in a flat with a fit-looking bloke on a sunny afternoon. What’s not to like?” She looked at me and smiled.
“I just asked if you felt better,” I said. I could feel my breath coming faster.
“I will do in a minute,” she said. She patted the clean bed beside her and undid the zip on the side of her skirt. “Come here.”
“Is this place wired?” I asked nervously, looking at the corners and the light fittings for hidden cameras.
“Not yet,” she said. “Sit down.”
I took a swig of my beer and sat down beside her.
Who was I to argue?
TWENTY-THREE
“How was your trip?”
“Complete disaster,” Sophie said, shaking her head.
Tuesday. I’d given her the address and she’d come round to the flat. She’d looked around. Said it was nice.
“Did you sink?” I asked, but she didn’t look in the mood for a joke.
“We got there all right, but we had this big fat Russian bloke who Dad does some business or other with. He was getting pissed on vodka all the way there and started groping me and Mum, even though he’d got some twenty-year-old tart with him who didn’t speak a word of English.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Yeah, right,” she said. “It didn’t end there. When we got into the harbour, he and the mate he was with started singing and showing us up. And if there’s one thing Dad hates, it’s drawing attention to himself. He’s very … discreet.”
“So how did your dad react?” I asked. The picture I had in my mind was not of someone shy and retiring at all.
“He just goes really quiet. But Mum and I know he’s bubbling up and everyone should watch out. Then the Russian started picking a fight with the posh American client…”
“There was an American as well? Quite a party.”
Sophie looked at me; paused for a moment. “Yeah. Dad was introducing his American client to the Russian… Anyway, it all kicked off.”
“What sort of business were they doing?” I asked, knowing I was pushing it. Sophie obviously realized she was saying too much and brought the shutters down.
“I dunno,” she said. “Just business. You know, like blokes in the City do. Deals. Art and stuff.”
She gave me her sideways glance and I knew not to push it further. But then she carried on with the story, as if she needed to tell me something to compensate for cutting me off. “And if that wasn’t enough, we got pulled in by a customs boat on the way back and towed into Portsmouth. They turned the boat over completely. We were there till four in the morning. Nightmare.”
“Did they find anything?”
“Not a thing. I think we had a few bottles of champagne over the limit so they took them away. They were pretty embarrassed.”
“What do you reckon they were after?”
Sophie fixed me with her innocent blue eyes. “Search me.”
“Hey, and what about the present you promised me?” I reminded her.
Sophie smiled and put her hands on my shoulders.
“Search me…” she said again. She patted herself, then held her arms out as if she was waiting to be frisked and laughed.
Donnie hated boats at the best of times. He even got dicky on a boating lake. He had chucked his breakfast up over the side of the ferry on the way over to France, and now he had spent most of the night up on the deck of the yacht, honking his way across the Channel while Dave, Jason and the skipper sat below, smoking, laughing and drinking rum and Coke.
They had slipped out of Dieppe early Sunday evening, just as most of the other yachts were coming in. Just as Lady Sofia was being given a tug off the English coast, creating a useful diversion. Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs wouldn’t be looking for two Kelly boats in the Channel at the same time.
Donnie had taken the ferry to Dieppe, where he had hooked up with Dave Slaughter, the boss’s driver, who had arrived the day before to set up the van hire. They had driven out on the ring road to an English-owned bonded warehouse on an out-of-town industrial estate. The warehouse sold booze at rock-bottom prices and was a regular stop-off for English publicans and club owners.
Donnie rapped on the shuttered door and an unshaven Eastern European-looking man poked his head out. “We’re here to see the Bish.”
The man jerked his head in place of asking who they were.
“Tell him it’s Jonathan Toothpaste and Duncan Donuts,” said Donnie. Dave sniggered.
Seconds later, steel shutters rolled up and Kenny Bishop – the Bish – rolled out. He was tanned and rotund, his belly pushing tautly over his white trousers and against his pink shirt, which was unbuttoned halfway, revealing white chest hair and an assortment of chains. White Italian shoes finished off the look.
“Donald … David,” said the Bish, holding his hand high and sweeping it down in an elaborate handshake. He laughed loudly and bobbed and weaved in a display of shadow boxing as if he was an old sparring partner.
“Donovan,” Donnie growled, “not Donald.” Donnie couldn’t stand Kenny Bishop. Not that he liked anyone all that much. He knew one of his farts would knock the Bish over – and spoil his carefully coiffed grey hair.
“Come on, Bish, you silly old ponce,” Dave said. “Get the friggin’ doors open, we haven’t got time to talk about the old days.”
The Bish stopped smiling and looked chastened. He pressed a button that rolled up the steel shutters on the goods entrance. Behind him, the engine on the hired van started up and the Bish looked alarmed. He glanced from Dave to Donnie and back again.
“I thought it was just you two,” he said.
“And a driver,” Dave replied. “It’s expensive merchandise. Can’t have one of us distracted by driving. We have to keep our eyes open.”
The van reversed into the goods entrance, the driver obscured by the darkened windows. Stacked just inside the doors was a pile of boxes. Cases of champagne marked with the label of a well-known champagne house. The Bish got his Eastern European boy to load the van while Donnie and Dave took a case into the office to check the merchandise. Donnie levered it open with a crowbar from the van. The bottles were packed in papier-mâché moulds, just as they should be. Dave took a bottle out and examined it.
“Very good,” he said. “Classy work. Looks just like the real thing.” He handed the bottle to Donnie, who examined it and tapped it with his blunt fingernail.
“Cushty,” he said. “Top-dollar job, don’t you think, Bish?”
The Bish held up his hands, already looking guilty. “I dunno, Donnie. You know me, I don’t touch the stuff. It’s just for buying and selling as far as I’m concerned. Could be tins of sardines.”
Dave nodded reassuringly.
“The geezer from Marseilles just dropped it off as is, and here you see it.” The Bish was gabbling, waving his hands around, trying too hard.
“What’s up, Bish?” Donnie said. “You’re sweating like a paedo in a paddling pool.”
“Nothing, Don, honest. I just want the deal to go right. Smoothly, you know.”
“Eager to please, aren’t you, Bish?” Dave said.
“That’s it, Dave,” Bish gushed. “I paid up quite a bit of my capital to secure this transaction, so I’m keen to get the gear sold and off my stall.” He gave them a sickly grin.
“That’s fine then,” said Donnie finally.
The Bish looked instantly relieved, his eyes flicking from one to the other, and laughed again. Just like they were old mates in a pub back in Woolwich, Donnie thought. Instinct told him that Kenny Bishop was up to something. Maybe he hadn’t taken an extra cut from the consignment – after all he was being paid, on top of his stake in the merchandise. But he was a blabber, Donnie kne
w that. Probably why he didn’t like him.
This consignment was too high-risk for blabbing.
“Well, we’ll be off then,” Dave said. “If you’re happy, Don?”
Donnie nodded and loaded the crate they had opened with the forty-seven others in the van. Multiples of twelve.
The Bish looked expectant. “When will I see the wedge?” he asked.
“All in order,” said Dave. “Cheque’s in the post. Your money back plus the fee.”
The Bish looked disappointed, about to say something, then thought better of it.
Donnie slammed the back of the van shut and locked it. The Eastern European stood around, looking as if he was waiting for a tip.
So Donnie put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a small pistol and shot him in the face.
Dave looked away in distaste as if he’d just trodden in dog shit. The Bish blanched as the fountain of blood that squirted from the man’s head spattered his white shoes and pooled on the concrete floor.
“Czech’s in the post,” Donnie said with uncharacteristic wit.
“Oh no, Donnie … no … no,” the Bish stuttered. “What am I gonna do now?”
“You’re not telling me he was legal, are you?” Donnie asked. “Get rid. And if you squeak, you get some of the same. Right?”
Dave and Donnie got into the van and told the driver to leg it.
Jason Kelly looked in the wing mirror, where he could see Kenny Bishop standing over the body of the dead man.
“Go, Jase,” Dave shouted. “What you hanging about for?”
“You just going to leave Kenny Bishop there?” Jason put on the brakes. “You know that as soon as he gets his money, he’ll be down in a bar in Puerto Banús spouting about the deal he’s pulled off, like he’s Billy Big Bollocks. That’s if he hasn’t already tipped someone off.”
“He’s not getting any money,” Donnie said. “He just thinks he is.”
“So, if he doesn’t get it, he’ll be in a bar in Calais telling anyone who’ll listen how we turned him over,” Jason said.
“Jason’s right,” Donnie agreed with a sigh. “He’s high-risk. He’s got form for spouting. Both ways, we lose.”
Kenny Bishop looked surprised when he saw Donnie get out of the van again with the third, younger man in the white tracksuit and the big Rolex.
It didn’t take him long to realize why they had returned. Ten minutes later he was swinging by the neck from an RSJ by his striped Gucci belt, his life draining away with every twitch of his blood-stained moccasins.
By four in the morning they were off the south coast of the Isle of Wight. Donnie had just about stopped throwing up and was sipping sweet tea out of a tin mug. Just past Ventnor they saw a light flashing from the shore and the skipper flashed a light back. Ten minutes later a motor launch piloted by the skipper’s brother drew up alongside and they transferred forty-eight cases of champagne. While Jason, Dave and the skipper sailed the charter yacht back to Portsmouth, Donnie jumped on to the launch and accompanied the cargo ashore, where it was loaded into a goods van that was going across to the mainland on the six o’clock ferry.
Donnie was happy to be back on dry land by seven-thirty, and by ten he was unloading the champagne cases into the cellar of a wine bar in Orpington owned by Saul Wynter.
Bish, bash, bosh, he thought. Job all tied up by the time Tommy Kelly and his family were putting their pretty heads down after their comfortable trip. France and back without getting their hands dirty. Not that he was complaining. He would protect Tommy, Cheryl and Sophie with his dying breath. They had been good to him.
He wasn’t quite so sure about the other one.
Hearing his empty guts begin to gurgle, Donnie’s thoughts turned to breakfast, so he locked the van and went off down the high street in search of a packet of fags, a cup of tea and something to settle his stomach after a busy night.
III
Tommy
TWENTY-FOUR
“Mum wants to meet you,” Sophie said. “And Dad.”
My guts dropped through the floor. “What?” I said. “They can’t, I mean I can’t, I…” I didn’t know what to say. I felt an extra surge of panic.
Sophie just laughed. “Course you can,” she said. “They don’t bite.” I had imagined that they did. Hard. “I’ve told them all about you.”
It had been a few months now, I had to admit. I’d been seeing Sophie at college most days and then at the weekends – Friday night maybe, and Saturday. Sundays she was usually at home, which gave me a bit of time to catch up. I supposed they were getting curious. I knew that I would have to enter the lion’s den one day but had banished the thought from my mind. Although I had done plenty more research on the Kelly family’s activities, I’d mostly drawn blanks.
It had to be done.
I was able to feed snippets back to Ian Baylis about stuff that Sophie told me. I’d filled him in on what I knew about the sailing trip: about Russian businessmen and insulted Americans. About art. About them being hauled in by customs. But beyond that very little had happened, so when I called Baylis from the flat and told him that Sophie’s parents wanted to meet me, he sounded almost excited.
“Yesss!” he hissed. “Nice one.”
“Glad you’re pleased,” I said. “I’m filling my pants.”
“Look, you’re just a nice young man going to visit his girlfriend’s mum and dad. Pretend her dad works in a bank if it makes you feel any better. Imagine him sitting on the toilet. That usually brings people down to size, I find.”
“Thanks for the tip. He probably robs them, doesn’t he?”
“Toilets?” said Ian, humourlessly.
“Banks,” I said.
“Not quite his style.”
“So I’m just a boyfriend going to meet my girlfriend’s mum and dad, and her old man works in a bank. Right.” I tried to convince myself.
“Yes. Except you’re a boyfriend who’s also going to plant bugs in the kitchen, the lounge and the old man’s study if you can.”
“You’re pulling my chain.” I laughed. “You expect me to bug the place on my first visit, when they’ll be watching me like a bloody hawk?”
“Never know if you’ll get the chance to go back again,” said Ian. “We have to take the opportunity when it presents itself.”
***
“He wants me to bug the place. On my first visit.” I was whining down the phone to Tony Morris. There was no negotiating with Ian Baylis.
“Ian’s right, mate,” Tony said. “You have to strike while the iron’s hot. We haven’t had anyone get this close to Tommy Kelly before. Use your tradecraft, think what your brother would have done.”
His words took me back for a moment. It was the first time Tony had sounded anything but sympathetic. Reading between the lines, he was telling me to shut up and get on with it. Telling me to be a man.
Steve’s were big shoes to fill, and I realized that I was about to try them on for size.
TWENTY-FIVE
My legs were already trembling when Sophie picked me up in the Mini. I’d been waiting at the top of Greenwich Park for about twenty minutes and although the sun was shining, it was a chilly morning and the damp had worked its way through the soles of my shoes, freezing my toes. It was hard to tell where the shivering from cold stopped and the shaking from nerves started.
Whichever way you look at it, I was shit-scared.
Sophie kissed me on the lips. She smelt great and I got a taste of something like cherry lip balm and felt a little better.
“You look pale,” she said.
“Bit cold,” I said. “Not feeling a hundred per cent.”
She rubbed the back of my head, combing her fingers through my hair, and I felt better still.
“You’re not nervous, are you, Eddie?” Sophie challenged me, smiling.
“Course not,” I said, as if it was the craziest thing I’d ever heard.
“Liar! It’s only my mum and dad.”
“I
know, I know. But your dad does come with a bit of a rep, doesn’t he?”
“You don’t want to believe everything you hear.” Sophie smiled. “He’s a teddy bear underneath it all.”
I nodded. Yeah, right. From everything I’d heard about Tommy Kelly, “teddy bear” was a long way down the list. Only one or two higher than “fairy cake” and “fluffy bunny”.
A long way from “ruthless killer” and “psychopathic crime lord”.
We drove across Blackheath and out on to the motorway, through the ribbon of semi-detached houses to where red bricks gave way to greenery. Past a golf course and an outdoor ski centre. Sophie turned off after a few miles and threw the Mini round country lanes with more confidence than she should have had, seeing as she’d only passed her test a few months before. I put my hand on her leg and felt the soft muscle of her thigh tense and slacken through her tight jeans as she pumped the clutch.
The house wasn’t what I’d expected. Yes, there were electric gates. Yes, there was a camera. Yes, there was a long gravel drive. But the house at the end of it was lovely. Old. Pretty, with ivy on the walls and neat white windows that looked out over a tidy lawn surrounded by high hedges. I suppose I’d expected a big, flash villain’s bungalow fenced in by barbed wire and guarded by Rottweilers, with a hot tub and a drive full of four-by-fours.
For want of a better word, Kelly Towers looked smart. The kind of place you’d expect a rock star to live. Mick Jagger, or someone old-school like that.