by Hayden, Mark
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Well get in, then.’
Patrick went round and climbed into the van. There was a big slot on the dashboard for his coffee carton, and he put on the seat belt. Red Hand drove on to the M6.
‘Right then, Mr Lynch, what’s this all about?’
‘It’s about bad faith. And I don’t mean your heathen religion, either.’
‘Very funny. What’s the problem? Remember who’s driving this thing. I know a few secluded spots round here where they’d never find your body.’
‘Stop being a fool, man. I’ve just heard all about your last distributors – George Thornton and his pals. He got sent down for six years last week.’
‘He chose his friends badly. I’m sure you won’t make the same mistake.’
‘You didn’t ask how I knew about him.’
‘Because I don’t care.’
‘You should care, because his nemesis is sniffing round my patch right now.’
‘Morton? From the Fraud Squad?’
‘The very same. Arrived yesterday.’
‘That’s unfortunate for you.’
‘Not for me it isn’t: it’s unfortunate for you. I’ve put out the word to stop all distribution immediately. And don’t try and threaten me, okay?’
They had arrived at the next junction, and Red Hand (who looked older in the daylight) turned off the motorway and took the third exit at the roundabout. A short way along, he pulled into a lay-by.
‘And what if I threaten your wife and daughter instead?’
Patrick had seen this coming; he had even taken an angina tablet with the coffee while waiting.
‘This is my world, not yours. You can put me in a ditch if you like, but if you do anything, anything to hurt my girls, I’ll be after you. And not just me.’
‘I have a target to meet, Paddy, and you’re going to help me meet it.’
‘How about a change of direction? I have a contact in another part of the country who can shift more notes than I can. He’s already taken some. How about I take double the quantity at 10 per cent instead of 30 per cent? I’m sure your bosses would rather have an ongoing deal than another body to explain.’
The other man drummed his fingers on the steering wheel for a moment and stared through the windscreen. With no movement of air in the vehicle, Patrick could smell fish coming from the back.
‘How about 20 per cent?’ said the Ulsterman.
‘Fifteen per cent is my final offer. It’s double the quantity, remember, and I’ll still be doing the money laundering for youse.’
‘Okay. It’ll be with you in a fortnight. Now get out.’
‘Don’t be an eejit. Just drop me at the Northbound services; it’s only a couple of minutes up the road.’
‘I’m not having this van’s number plates on any other CCTV today. If you walk up the road for a bit there’s a garage. They’ll tell you the best taxi firm to call. Or you could hitch a lift.’
Patrick swore at him and climbed out of the van. As Red Hand drove off, he realised that he’d left his cup of coffee behind. Ah well, never mind. He’d have been willing to settle for 20 per cent, so all in all it was a good day.
‘This used to be The Bird in Hand,’ said Ian as they pulled into the car park of a large pub on the outskirts of Kidderminster. It was a classic 1930s roadhouse, built to service the growing business from motorists on their way south west to Bristol, Wales and beyond.
Tom looked at the intersecting roundabouts which had cut off the passing trade some years ago. It clearly had no future as a pub, and he wasn’t surprised that someone had taken it over. Ian had explained to him that a whole raft of pubs had come on to the market a while back and had been bought as a job lot by a local property developer.
He said that most of the pubs got converted for housing but this one, The Bird in Hand, had been designated as commercial premises only by the planners. It stayed closed for a bit, and then it was leased to this guy from Birmingham. It had been open as a pole dancing club for a few months now.
There was a thirty foot high silver stripe running down the gable end of the building, which had neon letters announcing The West Pole. A longer name probably wouldn’t have fitted.
Inside the club, there was no trace of the former bar, lounge or dining room for hungry motorists. One long room was split by a raised walkway. On either side were tables and chairs, nestling up to the stage like insects swarming up to a fallen tree. There were seven poles spaced evenly apart, and a young lad was spraying them with disinfectant; an older woman was Hoovering the carpet.
‘I’m sorry that I couldn’t bring you when it was open,’ said Ian.
‘Don’t apologise,’ said Tom. ‘I’m sure that neither of us wants to be clocked at a pole dancing club when it’s open. Unless we’re raiding it.’
‘This is a respectable club, Sarge. See, all the poles are at least five feet from the tables, so no touching. It’s just a place to unwind.’
‘Have you brought Ceri here?’
‘Well, no. It’s a bit out of the way for us.’
Tom said nothing. Their relationship was none of his business, and if DC Hooper chose to do his unwinding in front of dancing girls, then that was Ceri’s lookout. He peered at a poster. ‘I see they do hen nights, with the Worcester Vikings to entertain the ladies. You’ll have to get her a ticket.’
Ian turned red and shouted over to the disinfectant monitor. ‘Is rehearsal on this morning?’
The lad nodded and shouted back, ‘They’m just waiting for me to finish off.’ He gave the last pole a vigorous rub and walked back along the stage to a glittering beaded curtain where he disappeared. The cleaner with the vacuum also finished and disappeared after offering them a cup of tea. Tom was amazed. Not only was Ian familiar with the premises, he seemed to be a regular visitor. He winced as dance music assaulted his ears, got louder and then much softer. The curtain parted, and five women walked up the stage in a line.
The first four were wearing cardigans and leg warmers above bare feet; each was carrying a pair of high heeled shoes. The fifth was carrying notebook and gave Ian a wave and a smile when she noticed him.
‘All right girls, five minute warm-up, then we’re going to synchronise if it kills us. I’m just going to help the police with their enquiries.’
She hopped down from the stage and gave Ian a kiss. He blushed again and introduced the woman as Erin King, resident choreographer. ‘We’ve known each other for years,’ he added.
‘I can see that,’ said Tom. He held out his hand, and the woman seemed surprised. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Tom Morton from Economic Crimes in London.’
‘He means the Fraud Squad,’ said Ian. Erin had shaken Tom’s hand as if she were out of practice.
‘Sorry,’ said Erin. ‘I thought you were off duty, Ian.’
‘Hadn’t you heard? I got that secondment to CID. It’s Acting Detective Constable Hooper now.’
The women on stage had started to stretch and swing to the music. Tom turned around so that his back was to the dancers.
‘DS Morton’s come up from London to look into some counterfeit twenty pound notes,’ said Ian. ‘I wondered if you’d heard anything.’
‘From the management here, you mean?’
‘Here, there … anywhere. You know, has anyone started complaining that they’ve been given dodgy notes? Or have you heard anyone talking about having some for sale?’
‘You mean Rob, don’t you?’
‘Including him, yeah, but anyone.’
The dancers on stage had all been evenly tanned on the parts that Tom could see, but Erin was much paler. Their hair was loose but hers was pulled back in a ponytail; she seemed to be about the same age as Ian – a good five or six years older than the others. When she mentioned Rob, she had placed her hands on her hips and stared up with defiance.
‘I told you, Rob’s clean and has been clean since he came out of prison. I know the signs better than anyone. He hasn’t touched anythin
g stronger than dope since he was busted, and I know you’re not going to persecute him for that.’
They locked eyes for a second until Ian turned to Tom and said, ‘Tell her about the Essex gang: I want her to know that these people are serious villains.’
Tom gave a brief summary of the PiCAASA story and watched Erin’s reaction. When he got to the double murder, her eyes widened and they flicked involuntarily towards the back of the club, behind the scenes. Ian’s attention had been taken with the dancers and he hadn’t noticed.
‘So if you do hear anything,’ Tom concluded, ‘give Acting DC Hooper a call. I’m sure you’ve got his number.’
It was Erin’s turn to blush. ‘We was at school together. It was a small school, and everyone knew everyone else. Ian’s got a proper girlfriend, you know.’
‘I do know,’ said Tom. ‘I stayed at his flat last night. She’s very nice. And so are you.’
‘C’mon Tom,’ said Ian. ‘Erin’s got a job to do.’
He practically pulled Tom away from the stage and whispered in his ear. ‘She used to be married to one of the local dealers. Probably still is on paper. They had two kids before he got nicked for Class A distribution. She’s one of my best sources of information, and I don’t want you creeping her out.’
The cleaner appeared with two mugs of tea, and Tom was appalled at the prospect of standing around watching the rehearsals, especially because Ian was right. What was he doing flirting with this woman? He was never going to see her again, and this was most definitely not his patch. To his relief, Ian took the tray and led Tom behind the scenes to the manager’s office to ask about counterfeit notes. Along the corridor, a man was leading a toddler by the hand to the outside door. Tom gently pressed Ian’s arm and pointed, but the door had swung closed, and Ian couldn’t see anything. Tom couldn’t help wondering if he’d just spotted Rob King doing his parental duty.
The invitation had said Party Like It’s 1978!
James King could think of no earthly reason why anyone except his mother would wish to do this. The fact that Theresa King had celebrated her eighteenth birthday in that year was a feeble excuse to make her fiftieth birthday a carbon copy of the decade that taste forgot.
‘It was the night she met our dad,’ said his brother when James expressed his horror at the prospect.
‘I know that,’ he replied, nodding his head. That made it worse.
In September 1978, the newly minted adult, Theresa Murphy, had gone out with her friends for the day to Birmingham. After some shopping, they had queued at the Odeon to see Grease, and then gone for Theresa’s first legal drink in a pub.
None of the girls had had a camera to record what happened, but James had pieced it together over the years in conversation with his mother – starting, of course, with the music. Birmingham was awash with new sounds at that time, if you knew where to listen. Punk rock was making the headlines and reggae was coming out of Handsworth and into the mainstream; Motorhead were pioneering a new brand of heavy metal and all of these musical tribes looked down their noses at the most popular form of all – disco.
Theresa had been planning to go to the Madison nightclub after the pubs had closed, but one of her new friends from college had talked her into going to an alternative club instead. Before she was violently sick (isn’t everyone on their eighteenth birthday?), the bass player from the support band at the club had given her a ticket for the Bob Marley concert at Bingley Hall in Stafford. The rest was family history.
The fiftieth birthday had been planned for some time. Theresa had pestered James to get Queen Victoria to perform – and she would have done, if he’d asked her, but when James saw the songs his mother wanted to include in the set list, he gave her a very firm No. Vicci was no diva, but he knew she’d draw the line at You’re the One that I Want.
‘She hasn’t got that sort of voice,’ he’d told his mother. ‘I’ll get a friend to DJ, then we can all be family together.’
Theresa had patted his cheek and moved on to other subjects; James had breathed a sigh of relief. Even his brother had seemed quite positive about the event, especially when Robert learnt that family meant Hope has gone to university and isn’t coming back for mother’s party.
The evening had been split in two: the first half was a chance to remember the old days. Various relatives and old school friends caught up with each other and got slightly drunk. James wasn’t surprised to see Erin there with his nephews – Theresa’s grandchildren. What did surprise him was how much Erin had taken Robert back into her life. They arrived looking like a family and behaved like one. What surprised him more was that Theresa – resplendent in a bouffant 1950s dress from her stall – was being squired around the room by an old rocker, complete with denim jacket.
James knew that his mother was seeing someone (and why not?), but had no idea that it was Dave Parkes, aka Dave the Rave, owner of Music & Memorabilia, a shop on the High Street. Food was served, and Theresa adjusted the seating on the table for close family to accommodate everyone. Robert seemed completely unfazed by it all.
James and Dave got up to go to the buffet at the same time, and James said hello. ‘I hear your shop’s doing good business,’ he said.
‘Not bad, thanks. There’s always money in nostalgia if you get the gear right. The shop does okay, but that’s almost a store room, really. I do most of my trade online.’
They loaded their plates, and James asked if he had any reggae vinyl from Solomon’s era.
Dave’s eyes flicked back to the family table. ‘Sorry. No I haven’t. I don’t mind reggae, in small doses, but you have to specialise if you want to corner the market: srictly heavy rock and metal, that’s my trade. It’s what I grew up with, and how I got started.’
On closer inspection, Parkes looked a lot older than the image he projected. His hair was mostly white and his face was wrinkled all over. He must be a good twelve or more years older than my mother, thought James. ‘Did you start by selling your own stuff?’ he asked to try and keep the conversation going.
‘Oh yes. I tried running a pub once upon a time until someone told me the posters were worth more than the rest of the fixtures put together. I had some old Robert Plant stuff from the sixties, before he joined Led Zeppelin. I surrendered the lease on the pub, and sold two of the posters for a fortune. I’ve enjoyed every minute since then.’
James had no interest in rock or metal, just as Parkes had no interest in reggae. He changed the subject. ‘Which pub did you run?’
‘Oh, you wouldn’t know it. Closed down years and years ago. Are you all right for a drink? It’s my round.’
James spent most of the meal talking to his grandmother and trying to explain that just because he didn’t go to Mass, that didn’t mean that he was a Rastafarian – nor a Muslim – and, yes, he was allowed to drink and no, he wasn’t getting married any time soon. He had gone to get some more of the cheesecake when his uncle stood up and asked for silence. Theresa’s brother gave a very short speech saying that their father would have been proud to see his daughter grow into such a fine woman, and would they all raise their glasses? James was about to rejoin the table when his mother stood up to speak. He stopped dead in his tracks. Why hadn’t she warned him about this?
‘Thanks, Tony,’ she began. ‘I’m not going to make a speech, really, more of an announcement. Do you like my dress?’ She paused and there were cries of “Very sexy” and “Not very 1970s, is it?” from around the room. ‘As you know,’ she continued, ‘This item and others like it are available from my stall on Earlsbury market (Audience groans). But not for much longer. It gives me great pleasure to announce that I’m going into a special partnership with my good friend Dave the Rave.’
James’s mouth dropped open and he relaxed his grip on the plate so much that cream began to run from it on to the carpet. Damnation. Double damnation. What on earth is the woman doing? He looked around for a serviette to clean up the spillage as someone called out, ‘Are you going
to make an honest woman of her, Dave?’
‘It’s not that sort of partnership.’ continued Theresa. ‘Well, not yet. I am pleased to announce that David has just taken the lease on the double unit next door to Black Country Bargains. From next month, we’ll be sharing the same premises and working together to create a joint online business. No more standing about in the rain.’
There was spontaneous applause and cheers from around the room; Robert seemed especially happy, for some reason. James knelt down to scrub at the carpet, and his mother finished off by announcing that the disco would begin shortly and that unfortunately, for licensing purposes, the under-eighteens would have to leave in ten minutes. Next time he looked up, she had disappeared.
He said goodbye to Erin (who took the children with her) and was searching for his mother (and Dave the Rave) when the room suddenly went dark. A spotlight from the DJ’s area picked out the dance floor, and James’s world lurched on its axis again. His fifty year old mother strode into the middle of the room, having been away to get changed: the dress was gone, and in its place was a pair of wet-look jeans, red shoes and an off-the-shoulder top. There was thunderous applause and the music started.
Just when James didn’t think his day could get any worse, Dave the Rave appeared in a John Travolta wig.
James had chills, all right, and they appeared to be multiplying…
Tom had gone back to London over the weekend. The operation that DS Griffin had put in place on Thursday had produced some drugs, some smuggled cigarettes and a small quantity of counterfeit notes, but had taken them no nearer to finding the distributors. All suspects claimed that they had been the victims of other people’s malfeasance and that they wanted their lawyers. He had been promised something bigger on Monday morning.
When he arrived at Earlsbury division, they had already made the arrest. A grubby middle-aged man was sitting in the interview room alone, with his arms folded. Tom was watching via CCTV.
‘Where’s his lawyer?’ he asked Ian.
‘This is one of Griff’s top snouts,’ he replied. ‘We pick him up every so often with something dodgy in his possession, and then Griff puts the screws on him.’