by Ray Banks
"No, it's fine. I can spare a couple of minutes."
"Great." Crosby smiled, replacing the Filofax. "I heard that you're thinking of expanding."
"Really? Who told you that?"
Crosby moved his shoulders. "General chatter. Is it true?"
Wasn't supposed to be common knowledge that he was looking at purchasing Five Star, and Gav wondered if perhaps Bernard King or one of the others had been asking around about him. It would make sense. On the other hand, Gav couldn't help but feel that the source was one of that lot out in the office, listening in to his phone calls. He reached for his Regals and lit one. "There's been some talk of a possible expansion, but nothing's set in stone yet. You know how it is."
Crosby nodded. "You don't mind me asking, what's currently holding you up?"
"I’m not really at liberty to say."
"Just, in my experience, these things normally come down to two reasons: the personal or the purse. And if you want, I can help with both."
"You want to help?"
"That's why I'm here."
"So you're after a partnership?"
"Of sorts, yes."
Gav looked at him sideways. "You're a policeman."
"That's not why I'm here, I told you that."
"I know, but that doesn't stop it being your job title. I thought there were rules about moonlighting."
"Not really. Nothing official anyway. I mean, yeah, if you're working forty-hour shifts and whatever else you do jeopardises that – you're too tired, your head's not with it, whatever – then it becomes a problem and they do something about it. But then I'm not looking to tread on anybody's toes here. I'm an investor, Mr Scott. I put money into a project, invest it in those who can use it to best advantage, and then leave them to it. To date, I have a smallish portfolio, but a profitable one. A couple of restaurants, a snooker club, a café down on the quayside. I'm not going to lie, it's been a lot more lucrative than the police work, and it's something I hope will set me up for a nice early retirement, but it's also a way of helping people – good business people – to get to that next milestone. We're not that different, I think. We're both invested emotionally and financially in the community. We want to see the north east prosper, don't we? You did it with this place – not just with the cab firm, but with the estate—"
"I didn't do anything." Gav tapped his lighter on the desk. Watched it bounce between his fingers. "It's nothing."
"The patrols? The community watch service? I'd say that was something. I'd say that was something very important. I saw that and I have to say, I was really impressed. The word gets round – Andrea Lynch was talking about you not so long ago. Do you know Andrea?"
"We've met."
"Good, then I won't need to introduce you." Crosby attempted a winning smile. "When everyone notes what you've done, Mr Scott, you should probably consider it noteworthy."
"And you want to give me money for it, do you?"
"Yes." Crosby's smile became parted lips and good teeth. "That's exactly what I want to do."
"Why?"
"So you can close this deal with Bernie King, expand the business, meet your potential head on."
"What makes you think I need money to close a deal?"
"Because I happen to know Mr King."
"Of course you do."
"And I know what he's like."
Gav tapped ash, tried to look as if he didn't care. "You know him well?"
"I've had dealings with him. He's a tight bastard. He's been talking about selling Five Star for the last ten years – he wants to retire, he's fed up with the whole business, he wants to stay at home and raise whatever it is ... roses or strawberries or something – and he says all this, says it loud and proud, but he won't jack in the cab business unless he's offered something that knocks him out. Only thing that knocks him out is money." Crosby paused, regarded Gav a bit closer as if waiting for him to admit something. "Of course, if it isn't about money, then I could help with that, too."
"What d'you mean?"
"If it's a clash of personalities."
Gav shook his head. Smiling without humour, his face hurting as he did so. "Nah, mate, you've got the wrong end of the stick there, like."
"Just offering my services."
"How'd you hear about this?"
"Like I said, just general—"
"No, specifically. What got you interested?"
"Your good deeds. The fact that you're already so far ahead. That you've turned this from a dead loss to a credible business. I think it could be bigger and better, though. I think you're hamstrung by your inexperience and your limited funds."
"So you want to invest in us."
"That's correct. I think you're a man on the up and I'd like to be a part of that."
"How?"
"However you need. I have money. I know you're having trouble with Five Star, so maybe I can ease that deal a little for you. Finesse it, you know? Get everything going through nice and easy and quick and get you making more money."
Aye, if there was one thing this bloke knew how to do, it was finesse. "What's in it for you?"
"Thirty per cent of net profit."
"How long?"
"As long as I'm investing."
"So forever, then."
"Yes."
Gav laughed. "You're joking."
"I'm not."
"Then you can get fucked."
"Can I?"
"Yes, you fuckin' well can." Gav nodded. "And I know who's been talking to you an' all. How do you know Phil Cruddas?"
"He's a regular down that snooker hall I mentioned."
"And you like to chat business with the common man, is that it?"
"How else am I going to find good opportunities? The rich man's not going to talk to me about them, is he?"
"Fair enough. So what's Phil angling for out of this? Finder's fee, something like that?"
Crosby smiled. "He thought you might need an assistant manager, maybe someone to run things here while you dealt with the expansion into Newcastle."
"Ah, right." Nodding at Crosby, telling him with one look that there was no fucking way he'd trust Phil Cruddas with running this place here. Not with his background. Not with his rep. "You don't know him that well, then."
"You can't run two sites at the same time, Gavin."
Gavin now, was it? All right. "You watch me, Michael."
"Okay."
"No, it's not okay. I don't know what he told you, but I'm not in the fuckin' market for a partner, you get me?" Gav stubbed out his cigarette. "Sorry. I appreciate you probably mean well an' that, but I'm not interested. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do."
Crosby didn't say anything. The smile was gone. He reached into his pocket, pulled out an envelope and tossed it onto the desk.
Gav stared at the envelope. "What's that?"
"A down payment."
"Something the matter with your hearing, son? I already told you, I'm not fuckin' interested."
"I don't think you heard me out. I think we got sidetracked."
"Nah, I think you said everything you're going to say."
"Not quite." Crosby nodded at the envelope. "That's to show I'm serious. If you need further proof, I'll provide it, but it might not be what you want to hear."
"What're you talking about?"
"Phil told me you hired some new drivers recently."
"I'm hiring all the time. I'm understaffed. So what?"
"So I know you've got a chap named Brian Turner working for you."
"Yeah, Brian, what about him?"
"Is he licensed?"
"Course he's fuckin' licensed."
"A private hire licence?"
Gav didn't say anything. He didn't know. He didn't think so. One of those things he'd meant to get to, but everything else had conspired to keep him from it. The licences were paperwork, and paperwork had been secondary and tertiary priorities for a while. He tried to shrug it off. "Probably."
"
Can you provide a copy at short notice?"
"You what?"
"This is what I'm talking about, Gavin. One of the benefits of having the police on your side is that you don't need to worry about things like that. I can take care of it. Another benefit is that your cabs might skip through the odd red light or speeding ticket. I'm not saying it'll happen all the time, but it's certainly worth bearing in mind."
"I don't give a fuck—"
"Then you should consider the flip side." Crosby's tone had hardened as his volume dropped. "I don't want to have to push this, Gavin, but if you force my hand, then I want to make sure you're forewarned. That money is a gesture of good faith. As far as I'm concerned it'll be a mutually beneficial business relationship, and I'm sure Phil will be over the moon with his new position just as soon as we – together, the two of us – manage to get Bernard King to sign on the dotted line. But if you're determined to play the hard arse, Gavin, you should be warned that I've seen plenty like you, and I've watched them hit the gutter head on. I might have helped some of them on their way."
"You threatening me?"
"I'm advising you to take a moment and stow the testosterone. Understand that my offer will make you a very rich man. Work with me, not just because I'll fucking wreck you if you don't, but because it's the best course of action for a smart man of business who wants to get on in this life."
Gav looked at the envelope. Then he looked at Crosby. "I'll think about it."
Crosby got to his feet. "I'll be back tomorrow with contracts. Have a good afternoon, Gavin."
The policeman went to the door, opened it to reveal Phil waiting outside. Crosby nodded a goodbye and left. Gav and Phil shared a long, venomous look. Gav didn't know where he'd dug this one up from, but it was obvious that Phil had plans of his own. Gav shut the door and sat back down. He rocked his swivel chair a little as he thought. Maybe he'd underestimated Phil Cruddas. No, strike that, he had underestimated Phil Cruddas. Hell had no fury like a moron scorned. Thing was, if Phil thought this copper was going to treat him any better than a bloke he went to school with, then he had another think coming. This Crosby bloke was a lizard, but he had sharp teeth. If Gav accepted his investment, he could kiss goodbye to the whole business. Maybe not right away, but he knew that a weakness shown early was just waiting to be exploited.
On the other hand, good business meant compromise, didn't it? And as Gav lit another cigarette, his free hand edged towards the envelope and touched the edges of the notes inside. There was a stack of twenties in there, easily a thousand pounds in total. The copper apparently meant business, and if he played that way with Bernard King, well, maybe there was a future after all. He'd just have to see what those contracts had to say. Until then, he decided to count his new money.
47
Saturday chips round Gavin Scott's house wasn't as much fun as it used to be. Looking at it from the outside, you wouldn't really know the difference. The Scott family still sat in the same places around the table – Fiona next to Sophie, the two boys opposite each other with Andy on Gav's side. They still ate the same things. They might even have shared a word or two, but that was where the cracks were beginning to show: their conversation was monotone and inoffensive; they were doing little more than mouthing platitudes at each other, because it was an unspoken fact that Gavin Scott was no longer the kind of bloke who put up with dissent at the dinner table.
Gav was the patriarch, the Scott family's fearless leader. The man of the house, to be respected at all times. If he was quiet, they were quiet. If he was talking, they were quiet. He had too much on his plate to deal with the petty day-to-day of family life. There was no arguing with him, and Andy had taken a backhand to the left ear last week for trying just that. Seven days on, and Gav could still feel the kid tight with indignation at the thought of sitting next to his father for an entire meal. Gav remained firm. If the lad had to learn through a smack, then there was plenty more where that came from.
The problem was that Andy had been hanging out with that Orton lad again. His mother had warned him plenty of times in the past, even went so far as to forbid him to see that gnarly little bastard, but Andy wasn't the kind of lad who took his parents' orders to heart and Gav had heard rumours that he'd been seen with Wayne round the Orton house. Jason Orton was out of prison, and apparently his first point of business now that he was free was to kit out his Capri. The car was a garish, growling thing. It was the kind of car that young lads adored, and Andy was no exception. When it had been parked outside the Orton house, it was a distraction; now Jason was out, it was a joyride waiting to happen, and that was when Gav decided enough was enough. The car was a menace. Gav heard it tearing around the estate late at night. It had reached the stage where people were coming to him to ask if maybe there was something he and the Puma Cabs lads could do.
It wasn't the first time he'd been asked to do something about the Ortons. Back when he'd established the patrols, Gav had given strict instructions to cruise past the Orton house as much as possible. They were, after all, scum to a man (and woman if you counted Sharon, which people invariably did), and their kind of antisocial tendencies couldn't be tolerated.
So when Jason got out, that was the end of it for Gav. He couldn't have his eldest palling around with a jailbird. It wouldn't look right. Fiona had already told him that the Ortons had connections to one of the dealers who used to live at number thirteen, and from what Gav had managed to find out, Jason was a tack smoker himself. Which meant he had to get it from somewhere. And didn't this whole thing with the dealers kick off because of a bit of tack? Exactly. And what happened to Brian wasn't going to happen to him. So he'd told Andy to stay away from the Ortons. No more excuses. If Gav found out Andy was hanging around with Wayne, he'd get a smack. The more he did it, the more trouble he'd get. "I'll put a lock on your door if I have to."
But Andy was at an age where his lip worked quicker than his brain. Hormones bucking his system, making him belligerent and entitled. So he got lippy, and Gav had fattened that lip for him. Fiona wasn't happy about it. Even now she sat with Sophie and didn't give Gav so much as a second glance; he might as well have been face down in his chips for all she cared. She hadn't talked to him in days. She'd said stuff – the usual could-you, would-you, don't-forget-to stuff said by couples to each other just to keep the household from going to shit – but they hadn't actually talked about anything important, and gone were those little acknowledgements, those moments of affection.
Gav didn't know why. He guessed that smacking Andy was part of it, but it certainly wasn't the whole. He watched her eat. She was careful, her movement slow and controlled. She looked handicapped and haggard, and Gav couldn't watch her for long.
Kevin sat opposite, his head down as he ate. A comic sat on the table next to his plate, the cover curled round to the back. He cast glances across at it as he chewed. Gav watched him pretend he was just eating and not reading.
"Put the comic away."
Kevin looked up. "What?"
"Put it away. Now."
Kevin snatched the comic. Dropped it onto the empty chair next to him. Went back to his plate.
Gav watched Kevin with vague disgust. He didn't know what was worse; this one's immediate capitulation or Andy's lip. At least Andy had some fucking spirit. Kevin might have been younger, but Gav couldn't picture the boy ever growing into a man. And while he knew that out of two boys, there would always be a stronger one – in his case, it had been his older brother Steven – he still reckoned that Kevin was uncommonly soft. The kid was fat, too. Pudgy. Pale. His mouth was wet all the time, his eyes forever darting around behind his glasses. Bewildered and frightened. And then there was the eczema. The thought of it put Gav off his chips. He pushed his plate away. The eczema flared up whenever Kevin was upset, and Kevin was upset most of the time because this world wasn't built to house someone as milky as him. They'd tried everything. Kevin wore short-sleeved shirts in the summer so he could get some sun at it.
They'd bought a medicine cabinet's worth of pills, creams, lotions and ointments. When it got really bad, Fiona used to run him a bath and put a couple of caps of baby oil in the water. Once she ran a bath for him, and Sophie managed to pour the whole bottle of Johnson's in there. They didn't know until Kevin tried to get out. He couldn't get a grip on anything, slipping and sliding all over the shop. Fiona couldn't get a grip on him either; her hands kept slipping off his greasy, naked body. In the end, Gav had to help, and the two of them manoeuvred Kevin into a warm towel where he sat, blazing red with embarrassment and mute for days afterwards.
"What'd I tell you, Kevin?"
Kevin stared at him. His lips were pursed, his eyes wide and searching. Playing innocent.
"I said put the comic away, didn't I?"
Kevin looked at his mother for assistance, but she was busy with Sophie.
"Don't look at her. She's not going to help you."
"I was just—"
"I don't care. Close it up and hand it over."
Kevin's mouth kept going, but he didn't say anything. He was trying to protest, Gav could tell, but he didn't have the balls to do it properly. Instead he swiped the comic from the empty chair, rolled it up and handed it to Gav. Gav snatched the comic out of his hand. He glanced at the cover as it unfurled. X-Men. Jesus wept. Batman, he could handle. Superman, okay. But this lot looked like bondage freaks. Too many pairs of tights on display. No wonder the kid was turning poofy. Gav turned the comic cover down and slapped it onto the table before he pointed his fork at Kevin. "Next time I tell you to do something, you do it, all right?"
Kevin went back to his chips. He looked as if he was about to cry.
"You hear me?"
"Yes." A tone there. Barely perceptible, but Gav was listening out for it.
"What's that?"
"Yes." Harder, stronger.
"Look at me."
Kevin looked up. So did Fiona. Both were worried.
"Next time I tell you to do something, Kevin, you do it and you do it the first time." Gav paused for effect, didn't take his eyes off the kid. "Because the next time I tell you to do something, I'm not going to tell you a second time, is that understood?"