I’ve done a couple of jobs for The Chairman before, but only out of desperation. They were simple fetch and carry assignments, the main risk being if I failed to deliver. I didn’t enjoy them because I didn’t feel clean afterwards, and the last time he’d called, which was about a month ago, I’d declined. Politely.
I wish I had Malcolm with me.
Malcolm’s my little brother. I use the word little only in the age sense; he’s three years younger than me, but way, way bigger. He caught our grandfather’s bit of the gene pool, while I’ve been blessed with Grandma’s. Granddad - a rough, tough stevedore back in the days when they still had them - was apparently a shade under six-ten, with shoulders and hands to match, while Grandma was normal.
At six-eight, and weighing in at seventeen stone, Malcolm can pick me up with one hand. He’s also good-looking, with twin rows of pearly-white teeth, naturally swarthy skin and eyes which can bore right through you. Apparently it works wonders with the girls and means he never gets to go home alone.
The downside is, he’s disturbingly honest and has never been known to tell a lie or get in a fight. At school he was left well alone from an early age, especially when they saw how much he could lift with one hand. And if anyone gave me grief, all I had to do was mention his name and I got swift apologies and a promise of immunity from the scummies who liked to prey on smaller kids for their lunch money. Not great for my self-esteem, but if you went to the sort of school I went to, you used whatever means you had to keep afloat, even if it was your kid brother.
As the Americans say, go figure.
The Chairman’s office is in a smart, glass-fronted block in the West End, rubbing shoulders with a team of showbiz lawyers on one side and a well-known film company on the other. Like many top crims, The Chairman believes respectability comes from who you know, not what you do.
We troop upstairs with me sandwiched in the middle, through a set of armoured glass doors into a plush foyer with carpets like a grass savannah. An office at one end has the lights on and the door open.
‘Ah, there you are, Stephen,’ The Chairman says, like we’re old buddies. His English is faultless. He’s studying some spreadsheets under a desk-lamp and hitting the keyboard of a Compaq with quick fingers like the accountant he’s rumoured to have been before he went sly. ‘Sit down. Coffee?’
The offer and the first name familiarity are all part of the game of being in charge. Patrick pours me a coffee from a jug in one corner and hands me a cup. It looks like a thimble in his hand.
‘I’d prefer to be home in bed,’ I say tiredly. ‘Without the kerbstone for company.’
The Chairman looks up from his figures and seeks out Patrick with a look of reproof. ‘Say what? Have you been using those things again? Patrick, didn’t I tell you, there are people you don’t need them for. Mr Connelly, here, is one of them.’ He shakes his head like you would with a small child. ‘You’d better get the door repaired.’
‘OK,’ Patrick mutters, totally unconcerned. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’
‘No, you’ll do it now. Wake someone.’ He says it nice and soft, while tapping away on the keyboard once more, but there’s suddenly a chill in the air.
Patrick lumbers out, leaving Hooper to watch over me.
‘How’s that’s nice brother of yours?’ The Chairman sits back and smiles. Like he cares. If he ever met Malcolm, it must have been by accident.
‘He’s fine,’ I say, and wonder where this is leading. Malcolm doesn’t approve of my life, other than agreeing to the occasional meal round my flat when he’s up in London. He thinks all criminals should be locked up, sometimes me included. It’s not that I do anything overtly illegal, but he thinks anyone who doesn’t use Her Majesty’s Post Office to send letters and stuff must be pulling some serious strokes, and by association, I’m tainted by their guilt.
‘Good. And your Auntie Ellen. How’s her husband - is he any better?’
Now I’m seriously worried. Nobody knows about Auntie Ellen or Uncle Howard, for the simple reason that they live down in Devon and I don’t talk about them. A nicer pair of old folks you’ll never meet and I owe them a lot. They were instrumental in our upbringing after our parents died when Malcolm and I were kids.
‘Say again?’
‘Oh, come now.’ The Chairman picks up a photo from his desk and shows it to me. It’s a shot of a familiar white-haired old lady in her garden, innocently pruning her roses. In the background, made fuzzy by the distance but still recognisable, is the gangly figure of Uncle Howard. I can’t see what he’s doing but it looks like he’s talking to himself. He does a lot of that, bless him. Early Alzheimer’s, according to the doctors. ‘I know all about your family, Stephen. Your aunt and your loopy uncle. I make it my business, you know that. It gives me leverage. If I need it.’
The last four words are uttered with meaning, and there’s no misunderstanding; he needs leverage now. It’s still in me to try, though.
‘And if I don’t want the job?’
He shrugs and drops the photo in the bin. ‘Then you’re short one aunt and uncle and the county of Devon is a sadder place.’ He picks up a large manila envelope and flicks it across the desk. ‘I want that to arrive in Brussels first flight this morning. Kill another passenger for their seat if you have to, but get it there.’
‘Why not use Hooper or Patrick?’
He winces with impatience and I get a cool chill across my shoulders. ‘If I could use them I would,’ he says, like he’s talking to a particularly dumb child. ‘I’m using you.’
‘For a simple delivery? What’s inside - pictures of the Prime Minister? Funny money?’
He leans forward into the lamplight and I can see he’s got a bead of sweat across his brow. Only I don’t think it’s the heat. ‘You refused me once before, Stephen. I don’t like that; it undermines my reputation. You understand about reputations, don’t you?’ He sits back, suddenly aware that Hooper’s watching him now, not me. Men like Hooper are always on the lookout for chinks in the armour, and there’s no bigger chink than a boss who shows signs of letting a minor problem get under his skin. Loyalty in his world is a commodity, and can be sold. ‘There’s a rumour going round that you won’t work for me.’ He waves a dismissive hand. ‘Frankly, I don’t care if it’s true or not, and in any case, as you can see, it’s both false and at the same time, useful.’ He smiles coldly. ‘Ring me the moment you complete. Be back here afterwards to collect a payment. No hand-over or no return here by three at the latest and Hooper gets to play with his blowtorch in sunny Devon.’
I pick up the envelope as The Chairman goes back to his computer, and turn to find Hooper watching me with dangerous intensity. He’s hoping I’ll fail.
Outside I breathe deeply and search for a cab. Eventually I pick up one going my way and get back long enough to have a shower, make one important phone call, throw on some respectable clothes and dig out my passport. Then it’s off to the airport to wait for a plane and blag a ticket.
* * * *
Brussels airport is all aluminium and zero atmosphere, and there are few people at Arrivals save for a couple of cleaners, a man with a bunch of flowers, and a fat, sweaty individual in a green suit. This last one is carrying a section of brown cardboard with the name Bouillon scrawled across it in large, black letters, and is staring at me with a look of deep melancholy.
I check my instructions and the name matches. When I look up, he’s waddling away fast, his green jacket flapping in the breeze like an elephant’s ears.
‘Hey —’ I go after him, but the man has a head start and leaves me behind, in spite of his size. What the hell is this?
It’s only when I get a prickly feeling in the back of my neck and turn round that I realise I’m being followed by two men. One of them is the man with the flowers.
Shit, as we say in the courier business. This doesn’t look good.
I stuff the envelope in my pocket and go after Green Suit. I don’t know what his prob
lem is, or what the envelope holds which is so important he’s being tagged by two men. But I really don’t want to get left holding it and have Hooper go after Auntie Ellen just because of some local territorial disagreement by a bunch of Walloons.
Running is out of the question; nobody runs in airports anymore, not unless they want to be brought down by a burly security guard and have a Heckler & Koch stuck in their ear.
I settle for a fast walk, with occasional snatches at my watch, like I’m late for a meeting. Behind me, the two men have split up and veered off at angles, no doubt so as not to appear on the same security monitors as me. One man hurrying, fine; three men hurrying, cause for alarm.
I end up out by the taxi rank, and catch a glimpse of Green Suit across the road, panting his way up the stairs to the upper levels of the multi-storey. The place is bedlam as usual, with taxis and cars streaking by without paying too much attention to the pedestrian crossing, but I risk it and race across after him. I leave a trail of burnt rubber and angry horn blasts in my wake, but at least I make it.
I hit the top level to find him about to squeeze his way into a tan Mercedes.
‘What,’ I gasp, throat dry, ‘is your flicking problem?’
For some reason he looks puzzled, then scared. ‘OK,’ he hisses. ‘Give it to me!’
OK? Like I’m doing him a favour? Now there are certain formalities we go through in this business, like exchanging IDs. It’s not been unknown to have someone turn up for a collection who shouldn’t, if you know what I mean. And with Hooper and Patrick waiting to take a trip to Devon and perform industrial injury on two lovely old people, there’s no way I’m handing over this envelope to an unknown, two others in hot pursuit or not.
He huffs and puffs but hands over a business card. It confirms his name and I give him the envelope. Moments later he’s heading for the down ramp.
As I walk back down the stairs, I get out my mobile and dial a number.
‘Yes?’ It’s The Chairman. There are voices and the sound of glasses clinking in the background. Must be a breakfast meeting in gangland.
‘Delivered,’ I tell him. Then I see the two men at the bottom of the stairs. I show them my empty hands and they turn away as if deciding to cut their losses. ‘There seems to be some local interest, though.’
‘Local interest?’ The Chairman sounds bored. ‘What sort of interest?’
I tell him about the two men, and the enraged bellow begins to build the moment I say I handed the envelope to Green Suit. ‘You what?’ he snarls. ‘Bouillon’s tall and thin, you idiot! That was the wrong man! You’ve just handed over some priceless documents to the wrong person!’
There’s more along those lines, but I’m no longer listening. Something doesn’t sound right. How did he know my Bouillon wasn’t tall and thin? I hadn’t mentioned it.
Then it hits me. I’ve been set up. No wonder Bouillon was puzzled; I wasn’t supposed to catch him. And the other two were merely for show. It means The Chairman hasn’t forgotten my first refusal; in fact, he’s found a way to use me as an example to others and salvage his dented pride. There was no handover, and I’m willing to bet his tirade just now was within earshot of some influential people he was looking to impress. Or frighten.
I dial another number. Malcolm answers.
‘They OK?’ I ask him.
‘Fine,’ he replies. ‘We’re having breakfast. Nice hotel in —’
‘Don’t tell me,’ I instruct him. ‘Walls have ears.’
Malcolm laughs. It’s a game to him; a silly, ludicrous game in which he’s indulging me. He doesn’t know The Chairman like I do. I’d asked him to take Aunt Ellen and Uncle Howard out for the day, starting with an early breakfast somewhere swish and booking them into a nice, quiet hotel away from home. At short notice it was the only thing I could think of.
I travel back to London with a feeling of dread. If I call Malcolm again and warn him that Hooper and Patrick could be on their way down, he’ll either think I’m lying, or panic and call the cops. To him, the seamier side of life is what you read about in the papers. The best I can do is hope he keeps their heads down, wherever they are.
I’m halfway back to London along the M4 when he rings me. He doesn’t sound happy.
‘It’s Uncle Howard,’ he says. ‘He’s gone for a walk.’
‘Great,’ I tell him. ‘Get him back.’ Then I realise what he’s saying. Uncle Howard has reached the stage where he’s virtually forgotten everyone he knows and where he lives, and ‘going for a walk’ means he’s wandered off. He could be anywhere.
‘Shit, Malc,’ I shout. ‘How the hell did you let that happen?’
‘He went to the loo. I thought it was OK - he’s done it OK before and always come back. This time he didn’t. The hotel receptionist said she saw him walking towards Piccadilly.’
I feel a set of cold fingers clutch my guts. ‘You said where?’
‘Piccadilly, in London. You said take them out, so I thought a day in London...’
I want to shout and scream at him, and tell him what a stupid, naive great pillock he is. But it’s no use. It’s not his fault - it’s mine. Then I consider it. There’s as much chance of them hiding successfully in the Smoke as anywhere else. Better, in fact. Just as long as they don’t happen to walk past a certain office block in the West End just as The Chairman comes out.
‘OK,’ I say calmly. ‘You did good, Malc. Can you leave Ellen there and go look for him? I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’
He gives me the name of the hotel and I cut the connection. I have to get to The Chairman and get him to pull his dogs off. I don’t know what I’ll have to do, but there must be a way.
The Chairman is out and his secretary doesn’t know when he’ll be back. She won’t ring him, either. There’s no sign of Hooper or Patrick.
I drive along to Piccadilly and find the hotel where Malcolm has holed up with Aunt Ellen. It’s small and posh and they’ll have thought it beats the Savoy hands down.
Aunt Ellen answers when I call on the house phone. Malcolm has just called to say he’s found Uncle Howard and they’re on their way back to the hotel. I breathe a sigh of relief and tell her to stay where she is, then go downstairs to meet them.
Hooper is standing on the pavement, flicking his cigarette lighter.
He looks totally incongruous in that setting, and the hotel doorman is eyeing him with definite concern.
The Land Cruiser is at the kerb behind him, with Patrick in the driving seat. In the back sits the crumpled figure of Uncle Howard. Alongside him, Malcolm fills the other seat, looking drawn and pale and seemingly asleep.
‘Hey, man,’ says Hooper, grinning, his speech a deliberate Caribbean drawl. He normally talks straight London. ‘Guess who we foun’ walkin’ long the street jus’ now. I say to Patrick, I say, “Man, doesn’t that look like Mr Connelly’s big brother and his daffy uncle?” An’ sure enough, it is.’
As I begin to move, he steps in my way, a hand on my chest. In the car, Patrick is leaning back, his hand alarmingly close to Uncle Howard’s windpipe. He could snap it in an instant, the move says.
‘What say we go for a ride?’ says Hooper, dropping the drawl. He stands aside and I climb in alongside Patrick. Hooper slides in next to Uncle Howard, who smiles in a friendly, vague manner and doesn’t know me from a tent peg. To him, it’s all part of another day. Malcolm is breathing heavily and has a large bruise on the side of his handsome face.
The Land Cruiser blasts off and we twist and turn through the streets towards Paddington. In minutes we’re running alongside some railway arches and pull up at one with large double doors. The rest of the street is deserted save for a mangy dog and two kids on bikes. At a look from Hooper, all three disappear.
We’re bundled inside and the doors close. We’re in some sort of workshop, the air thick with the smell of oil, grease and burned metal, the floor littered with scrap paper, fags ends and small twists of shaved metal, iron filings, the lot
. On one wall is a storage rack full of lengths of steel, like giant knitting needles, and around the other walls is a collection of benches and machines, the use of which I can only guess at. Metalwork wasn’t really my subject at school.
Hooper produces a blowtorch and fires it up, while Patrick looks on, holding a length of half-inch steel rod.
Uncle Howard is staring at everyone in turn, not alarmed, merely curious. His gentle eyes alight on a metal lathe in one corner, and he smiles in vague recognition. He used to work in a factory years before. He probably feels comfortable in this sort of place.
I look at Malcolm slumped against one wall, wishing him awake. If there’s anyone who can help us it’s Malcolm, with his enormous shoulders and powerful hands. Only I know he won’t. Big as he is, he’s got as much aggression in him as a cotton bud.
Hooper steps across to Uncle Howard and shows him the blowtorch. The old man looks at the cold, blue flame hissing away in front of him with a half-frown, and I wonder if the confused and tangled brain cells inside his head can still recognise danger.
The Best British Mysteries 3 - [Anthology] Page 30