Long Reach

by Peter Cocks

  “No,” I said honestly. We had snogged and all that, but I hadn’t actually slept with her. Something held me back. Fear of involvement, maybe.

  Or maybe just fear.

  “You need to get back on track,” said Anna. “Don’t let her cool off too much, will you?”

  It suddenly dawned on me. “You’ve been reading my text messages, haven’t you?”

  Anna shrugged and raised her eyebrows. I realized she had been sent to check me out, to find out why there had been so little contact with Sophie Kelly for the past couple of weeks. They were watching my every move, every phone call, every text.

  “Don’t take it personally,” Anna said. “It’s the nature of the business. It’s for your own protection.”

  “Do you know everything about me?”

  Anna smiled. “Almost everything,” she admitted. “But I’ll try to find out a bit more if I can.” She reached across the table and I felt her sharp fingernails dig into the back of my wrist. “Let’s go eat,” she said. “I’m hungry.”

  We ate at a conveyor-belt sushi place in Brewer Street, and drank hot sake and cold beer. Anna suggested that I soften Sophie up a little: send a couple of gooey texts and a bunch of flowers.

  “I haven’t done anything wrong,” I said.

  “It doesn’t matter, just send some flowers. Get her back on message.”

  “Is that what it takes?” I asked.

  “It won’t do any harm,” she said. “Women like men who look like they know what they’re doing. Show her you do.”

  I ate raw pink salmon and creamy scallops. Anna wolfed down oysters, tuna and tempura prawns. We spilled out on to the street, my gut warm and contented from the food and the sake.

  Anna hailed a cab. “Better head back,” she said. A black taxi screeched up beside us and I got in. Anna followed and sat down beside me, her leg pressed against mine.

  “Deptford Green,” she said to the driver. He initially baulked at the idea of going south of the river, but then caught Anna’s eye and became charm itself.

  “You coming back with me?” I asked. I could feel her brushing against me.

  “All the way,” she said. I felt her nails again, this time on the top of my leg. “For coffee. Do you mind?”

  I didn’t mind. The cab pulled away and Anna leant across and kissed me. I didn’t mind a bit.

  The flowers worked a treat. I sent Sophie a couple of soppy messages and told her how well I was doing on the market. She called me later in the week and seemed a lot friendlier. She said she had a plan. Said we should meet up at the weekend … maybe I could go to her place for Sunday lunch – her dad was doing his roast beef. I said I’d speak to her after I’d done the market on Friday.

  I’d been stalling out for a few weeks. Between times I had been out and about with Danny, picking up odds and ends. We had been to a huge midweek antique fair near Gatwick and bought plenty of cheap stock. Danny had introduced me to some colourful characters: he knew pretty much everyone and they were all happy to do the new boy a deal.

  I’d bought a couple of nice watches, one a big, military pilot’s watch with a huge winder. I’d also got a few other bits from planes: an altimeter from a Hurricane, a clock made out of the end of a propeller and a bookshelf made from an old, riveted wing tip. I paid two hundred pounds for the lot. I quite fancied them myself – thought they’d look pretty smart in the flat. Danny quipped that I should probably have a go at flogging them first.

  We set up the stall as usual, my fourth week at Bermondsey, but we had done a Sunday fair the weekend before, which had been a bit of a washout. I had plenty of stock. Most of it was new, but Barney Lipman’s painting was having another outing. Danny told me that dealers can smell new stock. When something comes on to the market, they have an instinct for it, like fresh meat.

  His theory seemed to hold true. We had a busy couple of hours early on and then it calmed down. Most of the dealers thought my new bits were too dear for them to make anything on. I didn’t really mind, I was quite happy to hang on to them. Barney’s Kurt Schwitters stayed in a stack on the ground at the front of the stall.

  Around nine, a murmur went round among the dealers. Someone important had turned up. I looked past the tea van to a parking bay where two big cars had drawn up, a navy-blue Merc and a metallic-blue Bentley.

  “Stand by your beds,” Danny said.

  A nearby stallholder, an old cockney with an impressive moustache, sidled up to us. “They reckon it’s some big face come to pay a visit,” he said.

  I went cold immediately. Surely not…

  “Ron says it’s Tommy Kelly.” My heart began to pound. Why the hell was Tommy here?

  Danny tried to put me at ease, told me that the market had a tradition of visiting villains, especially in the old days when the ancient rules applied. It looked like a royal visit. I watched as Tommy Kelly, flanked by two giant minders in good suits, browsed the stalls. The blokes looked like heavies from a gangster movie, one massive with a face that looked like it’d been through the mill, the other just as large, with a less bashed-up boat race but an air of calm menace.

  Tommy didn’t look like a villain by comparison. He wore a long, charcoal-grey coat, a striped scarf, a baker-boy cap and shiny black boots. He looked more like someone who owned a chain of smart clothes shops – not flash, but quality. I watched from a distance as he walked up and down the rows, saw how the stallholders smiled in that ingratiating way people do when they meet film stars or the Queen. As he came closer to our stall, I noticed Danny becoming increasingly nervous.

  “Do you know him, Danny?” I asked.

  “Only by reputation,” Danny said. “Here we go. This is the one we’ve been waiting for.”

  And then Tommy Kelly was approaching our stall.

  “Hello, Eddie,” he said. “Sophie told me you had a stall down here.” His voice was light and friendly, just as it had been at the house. If anything I could detect a bit more South London in his accent, as if he adjusted it for the market. I struggled to say something.

  “Yes, I’ve been doing it about a month,” I said. “It’s going well.” The minders stood either side of him. The brutal-looking one frowned, the other had a glimmer of a smile, maybe because his boss was being friendly. Tommy Kelly looked at the bits and pieces on the stall. He picked up the propeller clock.

  “You’ve got some nice stuff,” he said. “Quality gear. How much is the clock?”

  I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t imagine taking money off him for anything.

  “I was looking for one-twenty,” I began. “But I’m sure I could—”

  “What about the shelf?”

  “Best would be one-fifty, but—”

  “I’ll take them both,” he said. “You know I like old planes.” He scanned the rest of the stall, then knelt down to look through the stack of pictures and frames in front. I could feel all the other stallholders staring at me. It was as if Bermondsey Market had suddenly frozen and I was held in the beam of a cold spotlight. Tommy stood up again. In his hands he held Barney Lipman’s Kurt Schwitters collage.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s supposed to be by some German artist, but—”

  “I thought you didn’t know anything about art,” he said.

  Tommy Kelly seemed to have a habit of cutting me off every time I tried to explain myself.

  “I don’t really, I—”

  “Kurt Schwitters?” he asked.

  “I think so.”

  “How much is it?” He turned it over and studied the back.

  I glanced at Danny. His face was white. Like he didn’t want to be passing fakes to the most notorious crime lord in South London.

  “We were after three hundred,” I said. “But really we’re not sure if it’s right or not.”

  “Of course it’s not right,” he said. “It’s a good one, but it looks like a Barney Lipman job to me. Am I correct?”

  I shrugged. Danny shrugged too, and
looked guilty.

  “I’ll take the other stuff,” he said, “and what about two-fifty for the fake? I know someone who will like it. I might even sell it to him for twenty grand.” He laughed, showing white teeth, his eyes crinkling good-humouredly. One of the minders laughed with him, the other looked a gnat’s less scary for a second, then went back to resembling a stone wall. Tommy Kelly took out a cigar and lit it. “Well?” he asked. I realized I hadn’t given him an answer. I looked at Danny, who nodded nervously.

  “Sure,” I said. “If you’re sure?”

  “Course I am.” He blew out a stream of fragrant smoke, then as an afterthought added, “Did Sophie say anything about lunch on Sunday?”

  “She did mention something.”

  “Good. Come at half twelve for a drink. I’m doing my roast beef.”

  “Thanks.”

  Tommy grinned and nodded at Danny while the unfriendly minder gathered up the purchases.

  “Pay the man, Dave,” Tommy said to the other one and began to walk away, business done. The big man took a roll of cash from his pocket and peeled off eleven fifty-pound notes.

  “That’s too much,” I called after Tommy.

  “Buy yourself some breakfast,” he called back. “I’ll see you Sunday.”

  And as he walked away, the rest of the market traders looked at me, mouths hanging open, awestruck.

  THIRTY-TWO

  “I sold the picture,” I said.

  “I know,” Tony replied, bursting my bubble. “Danny told me.”

  “So you know who bought it?” I asked.

  “What are the chances?” Tony sounded like he wasn’t at all surprised by the coincidence of Tommy Kelly buying the fake. “It’s amazing the shit people will buy. I still don’t get the appeal of that piece of crap, but it’s now a piece of crap with a microchip in its frame in the hands of Tommy Kelly. Be interesting to see where it ends up.”

  “So does Barney Lipman work for us?” I asked. “I thought he was a proper forger, you know, criminal.”

  Tony chuckled down the phone.

  “Barney works for whoever pays him. But no, Danny planted the chip, drilled a little hole in the frame and filled it afterwards.”

  “Oh, right,” I said. “He didn’t tell me.” I was beginning to feel stitched up. After my evening with Anna, and talking to Tony now, it seemed like everyone knew what was going on except me. I was the one who had charmed Sophie Kelly and her old man, and I was the one they were keeping out of the loop. It felt like I was being set up by all of them, when it was me taking the major risks. I started to feel my temper rising.

  “I’m going for lunch with them, Sunday,” I said snippily. “But I expect you know that already?”

  “Don’t be like that. You’re doing great.”

  “I won’t need to let you know how it goes because you’ll probably be listening in.” I was getting quite shirty. “In fact you probably shoved a mic up my arse when my back was turned.”

  Tony didn’t respond.

  I remembered my night with Anna and thought that it might have been a real possibility.

  On Sunday I took a train from Lewisham down towards Sevenoaks and got off at the station Sophie had told me to. I texted her five minutes before, but she was already there when I arrived.

  I had put on a white button-down shirt with jeans and a navy-blue jacket, with white Converses so I didn’t look overdressed – like I was trying too hard. It was bright, so I wore my black Wayfarers. I felt pretty sharp. I wanted to look good when Sophie saw me.

  I hadn’t seen her for a few weeks and I had almost forgotten how lovely she was. Tall, blonde. Denim jacket, skinny jeans and boots.

  “I’ve missed you,” she said, kissing me.

  “Missed you too,” I replied. I kissed her back and got into the Mini. Sophie slipped into the driver’s seat and I smelt her familiar perfume. It brought back all the good feelings I had about her. I leant over and we kissed again until she pulled away.

  “Better get home. Heaven help us if we’re late for his roast beef.” She left the little station and drove fast down the country lane. I looked across at her. She was chewing her lip.

  “Just thought I should warn you…” she said. “My brother’s going to be there.”

  “OK.”

  “It’s just he can be a bit awkward with people he doesn’t know.”

  “Fine,” I said. From everything I had heard about Jason Kelly, awkward didn’t figure on the scale. By all accounts he was a right bastard.

  First impressions didn’t prove me wrong.

  Cheryl was all over me with hugs, telling me I looked too thin, like mums do. The boss was in his office as the dinner was underway in the oven. Jason Kelly sat at the big kitchen table, drinking a beer, leafing through the “News of the Screws”, and didn’t look up when I came into the room. Rude. Starsky and Hutch paid me far more attention.

  “Jason,” said Sophie, “this is Eddie.”

  He looked up. He was dark, olive-skinned with black hair, and he had an earring. Nineteen, maybe twenty. He looked hung over and pudgy; a bit sweaty with dark rings round his eyes. He didn’t hold eye contact for long. I took a step towards him, my hand held out.

  “All right?” he said flatly, shaking it. His hand was big and damp, and he didn’t return my firm grasp. I could smell strong aftershave on my own hand afterwards.

  He perked up a bit when Tommy Kelly came in. Jumped to attention. Tommy came towards me and clapped me on the back.

  “Hello, son,” he said. “Glad you could come.”

  “Thank you for asking me,” I replied.

  “Doesn’t smell too bad, does it?” He opened the oven to check. It did smell good. “Three ribs … organic, from a farm down the road. Knew the cow’s name and everything,” he said. “They always see me right.”

  I supposed they did.

  “Shall we have a drink, Cheryl?” He opened the big steel fridge. Gold-foil tops poked out from the wine rack inside.

  We drank two bottles of champagne before lunch and the atmosphere was full of loud laughter. Jason laughed at everything Tommy said but shut up abruptly if I joined in. Tommy made some gravy while I took hot dishes over to the table. Jason sat still, watching me.

  Tommy was very proud of his Yorkshire puddings, which had risen impressively. I’d helped him by whisking them. “Two eggs and a splash of beer” was his secret, he told me.

  “Great Yorkshires, Dad,” Sophie flattered him. “Eddie must have given them a proper beating.”

  “He’s got the touch,” Tommy said, winking at me.

  Jason sniffed and stabbed one with his fork, deflating it slightly before pinning it to his plate.

  We wolfed down the beef, hungry after the bottles of bubbly. Jason helped himself to plenty more wine and Tommy topped up my glass.

  After lunch, Tommy walked through to his office. Jason and I followed. He snipped the end off a cigar and lit it. Jason smoked one too, making smacking noises as he puffed, smoking it too fast and filling the room with clouds of smoke.

  I guessed it must have been quite hard growing up as Tommy Kelly’s son. But there was no denying that Jason was a complete arsehole.

  “I bought a picture off Eddie,” said Tommy. I began to feel nervous. Was this why we had been summoned to the inner sanctum? He gestured towards an easel with his cigar. My Barney Lipman-Schwitters was presented on it. Alongside the other paintings in the room, it certainly didn’t look out of place.

  Jason Kelly glanced at it and grunted. He clearly wouldn’t have known the difference between a picture and a bar of soap.

  “We didn’t know Mr Savage was bent, did we?” Tommy said, laughing. I felt increasingly uncomfortable. He seemed to be trying to get a reaction from his son. And somehow trying to catch me out at the same time.

  “Danny – the bloke I do the stall with – found it,” I protested.

  “Where does Danny fit in?” Tommy asked. I needed to be careful.

&nb
sp; “He’s an old mate of my dad’s,” I said, adopting the slightly sad tone of voice that I put on when I talked about my imaginary dead parents. “He took me under his wing.”

  Tommy nodded. “Don’t know him. And I know most of them down at Bermondsey.”

  “He used to do Portobello until recently. He lives up that way,” I bluffed. “He started Bermondsey because it was nearer to me.”

  Tommy appeared to accept my explanation. He looked at the picture again. “Thought it might be up Lexi Bashmakov’s street,” he said to Jason. “Bashi likes a bit of Dada. I might not tell him it’s a moody one.” Tommy grinned at his own subterfuge.

  Jason shrugged. “Looks like an old bus ticket to me, Pa.” He looked closely at the picture. “But you know best what the Russians like.”

  “My son’s not a big fan of modern art, I’m afraid,” Tommy said.

  “To be honest,” I said, attempting mateyness, “I didn’t know what it was either, Jason.”

  Jason shot me an unsmiling glance that shut me up.

  “More of a hands-on man, aren’t you, Jase?” Tommy looked at his son, who was still puffing hard on the cigar. “You want to take it easy on the lardy stuff and the sauce if you’re training.”

  Jason stubbed the cigar out in a big ashtray.

  “Jason’s got a big fight coming up,” Tommy told me by way of explanation.

  “I didn’t know you were a boxer,” I said. Another attempt at communication. Jason unconsciously made a fist and caught it in the palm of his other hand.

  “I’m not, I’m a businessman,” he said. “I do a bit of martial arts … kick-boxing, ju-jitsu and that. It’s just a charity boxing match.”

  “It’s not just a charity match,” Tommy filled in. “It’s a big event, next month, up in Woodford. A benefit in aid of the son of one of my colleagues, who’s in a wheelchair.”

  “Good cause,” I said. I didn’t like to ask how the colleague’s son had ended up in a wheelchair.

  “Maybe you should come,” Tommy suggested.

  “I’d like to,” I said.

  I looked at Jason. He didn’t seem so keen.