Civvies

by Lynda La Plante

  'Okay, that's the last,' Jimmy said, ticking it off. 'Want me to lock up?' he asked Dillon.

  Harry answered. 'Naaa, I'm dossin' down here.' Slumped on a crate, fanning himself, he looked up and down. 'If I can find room for me sleepin' bag.'

  Footsteps coming down from the street, and Barry Newman walked in, bringing the bracing tang of Gucci aftershave into the ripe sweaty atmosphere. His minder, the thickset guy with the widow's peak that Dillon had seen in Newman's office, lurked by the door.

  Newman wore a dark-blue double-breasted overcoat and held a thin black cheroot in his gloved fingers. 'Any problems?' he asked Jimmy in that soft, silky voice that had been soaked overnight in Dettol.

  'No.' Jimmy was suddenly all bright attention, doing his three-bags-full act. 'You know Frank, and this is Harry Travers.'

  Newman ignored Harry. He slid his hand into his overcoat pocket and took out five grands' worth of brown envelope. 'I appreciate this, Frank.' He indicated the crates with the envelope before tossing it over. 'Be off your premises by the morning.' Faint glimmer of a glacial smile then, and the narrow, deepset eyes roamed up to the ceiling. 'My girls upstairs'll give you a special rate…'

  Dillon's face changed. His eyes went from Newman, bored into Jimmy. 'Outside. Now.'

  As he strode out, Jimmy behind him, Harry wore a delighted grin. 'It's a knockin' shop upstairs, isn't it? I knew it, what did I tell you…?'

  Dillon was standing stiffly on the pavement, one hand clenched round an iron railing. Jimmy bounded up, saying brightly, 'Frank, listen -' and Dillon cut him off, eyes blazing. 'This is his place, isn't it?' he said, low, throaty.

  'He owns the building, yeah,' Jimmy admitted, shrugging, a bit sheepish.

  'What's in the crates? And don't give me the Indian artifacts crap -'

  'Frank, he's opening market stalls…'

  Before Dillon could respond to that load of bull, Newman came up the steps, trailing cheroot smoke. In his arms he carried a large glazed Indian elephant with an ornate woven headpiece of gold, black and azure blue, set with beads in the shape of pearls, diamonds and rubies of coloured glass. He plonked it on Dillon.

  'Give it to the wife, Frank.' Newman removed the cheroot and blew out a plume of smoke, not quite in Dillon's face. 'Tell her it's a gift from an old friend.' He nodded to Jimmy. 'Thanks, son.'

  'I couldn't get out of it, Frank – I mean, with the weddin' comin' up we got to get the place fixed up. This yours, is it?'

  Cliff was studying with interest the monstrosity of an elephant on the kitchen dresser, where Dillon had dumped it the night before and not looked at it since.

  Dillon sat at the table, a frown on his face, an open accounts book and wads of notes, neatly separated into three piles, in front of him. Through a mouthful of toast, Flora and marmalade, he said, 'Have it as a weddin' present. We got half a ton at the office.' He slipped rubber bands on the money, stood up wiping his hands on his jeans. 'Okay, let's pick up the Granada, put the deposit on the wagon… Cliff, you set?'

  Cliff nodded, dead chuffed, the elephant tucked under his arm.

  By the time they'd collected the Granada and done battle with the rush-hour traffic it was gone half-ten; even so, Dillon was surprised to see the crates had been moved, Harry sweeping up straw and polystyrene bubbles in the empty passage. Jimmy was leaning in the office doorway, leafing through a sheaf of pamphlets, every pastel shade under the sun.

  'You got any collateral, Harry? Harry?'

  Harry leaned on his broom. 'What do you mean?'

  'You own anythin' – flat, house – you can borrow against?'

  Dillon stood with the log book and car keys, taking it in.

  Harry considered, scratching his moustache. 'My Auntie left me a house in Manchester, but me sister lives in it…'

  Dillon jangled the keys. 'Got the Granada, put the deposit down on the wagon. Elephants out?' he said, eyebrows raised. 'Where you goin'?' he asked Harry, who had propped up his broom and was putting his jacket on.

  'Get movin', Jimmy said to Harry, jerking his thumb, and to Dillon, 'Few cards I got made up, stick 'em round the pubs, clubs.' They went into the office, basking pinkly in the slanting sunlight. 'Me and Harry shifted the crates first thing… Here, present.' Jimmy took out his cordless phone and placed it on the desk. 'My contribution, nothin' to do with Newman. Where's Clifford?' He bellowed past Dillon's shoulder, 'Go on, Harry, don't hang about!'

  Like a bleeding puppet-master, Dillon thought. Did he never let go the strings, never ever let up, not even for a second?

  'What you want the deeds of Harry's house for?' Dillon asked, pinning up a large-scale street map of central London.

  'Collateral. An' I got these forms from the bank, to apply for a government grant.' Jimmy tossed the pamphlets on the desk. The phone rang, and it was as if they were both frozen for a moment, stunned with the shock of it actually ringing.

  Jimmy picked it up. 'Stag Security and Chauffeur Drive…' He listened, nodding, then glanced at Dillon, giving the thumbs-up. 'I'll just see if we have a car available.' He covered the mouthpiece. 'Taxi…'

  Big ecstatic grin from Dillon, who grabbed a notepad and pen, shoved them across the desk.

  'We have a Ford Granada available, yes… and the address? Yes… destination?' Jimmy scribbled. 'Fine… be with you in ten minutes.' He put the phone down and stuck out his hand for Dillon to shake. 'We're in business – that's our first fare! See? It's workin' out – Oi, Cliff!' Jimmy tore off the sheet, handed it to Cliff as he came in the door. 'Can you pick up at 12 Thresherd Street, a Mrs Williams, going to Bond Street.'

  Jimmy was fizzing like a Roman Candle. Tossing the car keys, reaching for the cordless phone, mouth working overtime.

  'Use the Granada, an' take this, it's a portable. You got money for petrol?' Snatched aside to Dillon: 'We'll have to get a kitty box organised, all receipts, etcetera…' And even while Dillon was patting his pockets: 'Okay, Frank, I got it, here's twenty.'

  Cliff stuffed the noted away, and as Dillon went past him, 'Where you off to, Frank? We need the phones manned…'

  'Takin' a leak,' Dillon said, not looking back, 'if that's okay with you, Jimmy!'

  The puppet-master stared after him, but for once kept his trap shut.

  CHAPTER 24

  Having got the boys sorted, sitting in front of the telly watching Neighbours, plates of fish fingers, beans and potato waffles on their knees, Susie went into the kitchen to the smell of burning bacon. On top of a long, hard day saying 'Marway's MiniCabs' ten thousand times, it was just what she needed. 'I told you to watch the pan!' Idle bugger hadn't even budged, elbows on the table with his back to the stove, a can of Tennents Export in his hand. Susie took it out on the eggs, cracking three into the hot fat, breaking one yolk.

  'You're not workin' for that Paki any more.'

  'Oh no? That an order is it?' Susie looked over her shoulder, teeth pressed together. 'You think you could get yourself a plate, knife and fork?'

  Dillon's chair scraped as he got up. He made a performance of slamming open the drawer, clattering inside, grabbing a plate from the draining rack.

  Susie counted to ten but only got to five, unable to help herself.

  'The rent is due! The milk bill, the kids need new gym gear. Got the money, have you, Frank?' She slid two rashers and the two unbroken eggs onto his plate, then did her own. She stood holding the empty pan. 'There's no money coming in from you, Frank… who you think's been paying the bills while you were gallivantin' all around Scotland?'

  Dillon stared down at his plate, decided he was too hungry to pick it up and hurl it at the wall. It hadn't been a good day up to now, and he could do without Susie rubbing salt into an open wound. Two calls they'd had so far. Two measly, stinking calls. All afternoon they'd sat around the office, dozing, scratching their arses, waiting for the phone to ring. Finally, Jimmy had suggested putting in a call to Newman. Work was work, another five grand in the mitt, just for doing the airport run… W
hat about it, Frank?

  Dillon folded a slice of bread, dunked it in the eggs. 'I was workin' in Scotland, started up the business with the cash,' he reminded her. He took a bite, chewed, glared at the Daddies Sauce bottle. 'Not that you've shown any interest. Not even been to see the place…'

  'I'm not actually flushed for time, Frank,' Susie said, attacking the bacon. 'I shop, cook, clean the house, as well as washing, ironing. You think your shirts walk into the wardrobe?'

  'I don't want you workin'.'

  'We need the money from Marway -'

  Dillon swiped his plate off the table, along with the cutlery, salt and pepper, sauce bottle. He wrenched a bunch of crumpled fivers from his pocket and flung them on the table, white to the lips.

  'Take it, take it – an' get on that phone, tell your Mum, tell her not to come, I want you here lookin' after my kids!'

  Jimmy pulled up in the metallic gold Granada just as Susie was leapfrogging across the central courtyard in an L-plated Nissan Micra, gripping the steering-wheel in both hands, a frown of concentration on her face. Marway sat beside her, composed and calm as ever.

  Grinning, Jimmy did a sweeping bow, ushering Susie on her way. 'Left hand down a bit, love!' he laughed, and then caught a glimpse of Dillon in the flat above, lurking behind the bedroom curtains.

  'Big Brother's watchin' you, Susie!' Jimmy waved. 'Hi, Frank!' and hooted again as Dillon ducked out of sight.

  Dillon was livid. Susie had paid no attention to the 'I will be obeyed ' act and it pissed him off. She had started getting at him, not listening to him, and he felt inadequate. She'd even got her ruddy mother coming over even though he told her that he didn't want her in the flat, but the frustrating thing was, deep down, he knew Susie was right, they did need the money. He just hated feeling impotent.

  The boys were in the bath, and Jimmy got roped into towelling them down while Dad sorted out clean pyjamas. He emerged from the bathroom carrying young Phil wrapped in a towel, bouncing him up and down.

  'Second one all clean an' ship-shape, Sergeant! Where you want him?'

  In the boys' room he found Dillon, wearing a plastic apron and a scowl, wet shirt sleeves rolled up, buttoning Kenny's pyjama top. The doorbell shrilled, and Dillon said, 'That'll be your Gran… get 'em in their bunks, Jimmy, then we gotta get a move on.'

  He was halfway along the landing on his way to answer the door when Jimmy's mocking voice floated from the bedroom. 'Don't forget to take your pinny off, Freda!'

  Dillon dragged it off and furiously flung it over the banister. After all he'd said – after giving it to her straight, and she hadn't taken a blind bit of notice. Well, we'll see, he thought, thumping down the stairs. We'll bloody well see about that.

  'Awww shit! These bloody elephants are givin' me a hernia!'

  Sweat running down his neck, Harry staggered through the doorway into the passage, a tea chest clasped in his arms. He nearly tripped, grazed his elbow on the pink wall, and lost his grip. The corner thudded against one of the tea chests already stacked there, the side split open, straw and plastic bubbles spilling over the floor.

  '… five, six, seven,' Dillon counted, checking them off on his clipboard. Jimmy and Cliff panted in, carrying one between them. 'Eight,' Dillon said. 'This the lot, jimmy?'

  'Yeah, this is it…' Jimmy mopped his face, then noticed the gaping split. 'Which cack-handed twat did that!'

  'I just dropped it,' Harry said lamely. 'Weighs a ton…'

  'You're tellin' me!' Jimmy used the side of his foot to tidy up the straw. 'Get it back together, come on, they'll be here…'

  'I'm off,' said Dillon, handing over the clipboard. 'Check the cash, Jimmy. Knowing Newman, he's probably printin' it hisself.' And swapped Jimmy's dark look with an even darker one of his own. 'I don't wanna see him, okay?' He went out, banging the door.

  Jimmy squatted on his haunches. An elephant with no nose was sticking through the tangle of straw bulging from the split. He yanked it out.

  'Its trunk's off!'

  Cliff leaned over. 'I got the same back at the flat. We just switch it over, they won't know.'

  Jimmy jerked his arm out, pointing. 'Go an' get it – move! They'll be here…'

  The panel buzzed, lights flashed. In her little plywood-and-glass cubby-hole Susie swivelled round in the typist's chair, mug of tea to her mouth. She put one on hold, flicked a switch. 'Marway MiniCabs. Oh, hi, where are you, Tom? I've got a fare holding.' She flicked over. 'Sorry to keep you waiting… Heathrow. Do you need a collection return service? Okay, thank you… right, about fifteen minutes.' She flicked back. 'Tom, 12 Ranleigh Crescent to Heathrow, basement bell, Mrs Dunley.' Buzzing, flashing. 'Marway MiniCabs… I'm sorry, I'll just check where the driver is – will you hold?' Flick of the switch. 'Car 14, come in, Car 14 to base, please.' Crackle. Hiss. Voice from Mars. 'Car 14, I'm in Edgware Road. There's an overturned lorry…'

  Susie laughed. 'Yeah, I'm sure. Can you get the fare in Ladbroke Grove or not?' She paused, her hand on the switch, as Dillon walked in, lightly perspiring in a red vee-necked sweater with no shirt under his black leather jacket. He came up to the counter, stood there, feet planted, and she didn't need to ask what mood he was in; his face was eloquent testimony to that.

  The glass-panelled door to the inner office opened. Marway peered out. Dillon ignored him.

  'Susie, get your coat.'

  'Nothing wrong, is there?' inquired Marway, raising an eyebrow.

  'Not yet!' Eyes front and centre, voice deadpan.

  Susie didn't move, watching him carefully, waiting for the eruption. Instead Marway said in his pleasant, modulated voice, 'I've got some details of insurance companies for you.' He indicated behind him, a graceful wave of the hand, gold cuff-link glinting. 'You want to come upstairs?'

  Dillon shot a glance at the Sikh. His eyes clouded, more in confusion than anger. Susie didn't know what he would do next, and neither, she realised, did he.

  Shirley was up a ladder, paste brush in one hand, scissors in the other, when Cliff arrived at the flat. He stepped round the furniture, draped in dust sheets, the trunkless elephant under his arm, giving his fiancee's endeavours the once-over.

  'That bit over there's crooked,' he said, and started rummaging amongst the paint cans and decorating paraphernalia on the newspaper spread over the floor. 'Where's the strong glue?'

  'Crooked?' Shirley backed down the steps, her long legs and shapely rump camouflaged under a baggy check smock. 'You'll get this brush wrapped around your head… Ahh!' Seeing the elephant, she gave a cry of anguish. 'Did you break it?'

  'It's just the trunk,' Cliff reassured her, prising the top off the small plastic tube. 'I'll fix it.'

  'That's not the same one -!' Shirley bent down for a closer look. 'That's got green eyes, the other one had brown. I don't like that one! Where's the other one?'

  Cliff applied epoxy double-strength quick-drying glue to both surfaces and pressed the trunk back into place, using his finger and thumb as a clamp. 'I had to take it back.' He waited a couple of moments and then tried to let go. 'Oh!' Stuck. 'Shit!'

  'Which colour do you like?' Shirley opened a sample book of curtain material, marked with slips of paper. She held it up to the light. 'This one… or that one? I like this one,' tapping a lemon polyester with faint green stripes.

  'Yeah, great.' Cliff said through his teeth, attempting to unpeel himself from the elephant. He yanked hard, bringing tears to his eyes. One intact elephant. Minus two fingerprints.

  Mrs Marway poured tea into bone china cups from a silver teapot with an S-shaped spout. She leaned across the low table, and with a smile handed Dillon his tea, a bracelet of gold inlaid with lapis-azuli on her slender brown wrist, matching the heavy necklace displayed against her cashmere sweater. Perched on the edge of the sofa, Dillon tried to get his finger through the S-shaped handle, and couldn't, so he gingerly held the cup in both hands, scared to death of dropping it.

  Susie, seated next to him, watched with bated
breath. She nodded and smiled at Mrs Marway, who nodded and smiled back. The room seemed very warm, almost claustrophobic. It was lavishly decorated, with embossed wallpaper and fringed wall hangings and framed prints, rich fabrics and furry rugs everywhere, cabinets with built-in spotlights showing off shelves of china, crystal and copperware. Expensive, quite impressive, but a bit overwhelming for Susie's taste.

  'He's been fair to me from day one,' Marway was telling Dillon frankly. He leaned back at ease in his winged armchair, fingers clasped together, legs elegantly crossed, a crease in his trousers that could have sliced cheese. 'And if you open an account, show a good cash flow…' He spread his hands. No problem. Plain sailing.

  'We made over five grand, first week,' Dillon revealed after a slight hesitation. '… No thanks,' he said politely, refusing the small silver tray of cakes and biscuits proffered by their hostess.

  'That's good, just one car.' Marway was impressed. 'Word of advice. Don't ask for just the amount you need, you'll have to give yourself manoeuvrability. If I were you, I'd specialise. With the army experience your men all have, terrorist training… make that your speciality.' He pursed his lips, eyes gazing meditatively at a hanging brass lantern. 'At a low, thirty. But try for forty.'

  Dillon nearly dropped his cup. 'Thousand?!'

  Marway nodded. 'But you can't have my receptionist.'

  Dillon's head went forward at that, and Marway's grave face broke into a smile. 'Just joking. But I believe one of the reasons my business runs smoothly is because I use my family – my three brothers, a cousin, two uncles – all drive for me. It's a family concern.'

  Dillon finished his tea and gratefully put the cup safely back in its saucer. 'My lads are my family,' he said, standing. He put out his hand and Marway got up to shake it. 'Thanks for this,' Dillon added, meaning it, 'and for…' He indicated Susie. 'She driving yet?'

  'Test next month, isn't it, Susie?' Marway said with a smile.