‘Pretty good.’
‘Glad to hear it. Kind Regards just popped round. He left that.’ Slim nodded at a stack of files on the table. Frankie opened the envelope on the top. ‘Your dad’s case notes, as promised,’ it said in Kind Regards’ familiar scrawl.
The Old Man’s best mate and cousin, Kind Regards, had represented the Old Man in his original trial for armed robbery. Not the glory boy barrister stuff in the actual court (not that there’d been much glory at all once they’d lost), but most of the grunt work behind the scenes. And that’s what was in here. The graft. The details. Including maybe something that all the lawyers had overlooked?
Kind Regards had tried putting Frankie off looking into it further. Repeatedly. He’d already explained how he’d tried arguing with the powers that be that the fifteen-year sentence was unreasonably excessive, but it had fallen on deaf ears. And now, in the absence of any new and compelling evidence, he was still struggling to get solid grounds to mount an appeal.
But Frankie couldn’t just leave it there. He picked up the files. Maybe all it needed was a fresh set of eyes.
‘Anything important?’ asked Slim.
‘Nah.’ Frankie didn’t want to get into it. Slim and the Old Man went way back, with Slim still visiting him each Wednesday down the nick like clockwork. If Frankie told him he was planning on looking into ways of helping get him out, then Slim would want to help too. And what was the point in getting his hopes up, until he knew if any of this was going to lead anywhere at all?
‘Mr Listerman was also kind enough to pay us a call . . .’ Slim said.
Daniel Listerman. Tommy Riley’s lawyer. His consigliere too, not that he’d ever get his own hands dirty. Left that to Riley’s other boys. The Tam Jacksons of this world.
‘What did he want?’
‘He’d got wind of that trouble yesterday with those lads from Liverpool.’
‘News travels fast.’ Especially bad news. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘That you sorted it all out. The same as you always do.’
Same as the Old Man always had as well. Prior to him taking over the club in ’84, the bloke who’d leased the club off Riley had paid him protection on top of his rent. But Frankie’s dad had put a stop to that when he took over. Had come to some sort of arrangement with Riley. Frankie didn’t know what. Didn’t want to either. Just so long as Riley didn’t try winding back the clock and stinging him any more than he already was.
‘And how was he with that?’ asked Frankie.
‘Sweet as a nut. At least, I think.’
‘Nice. Thanks.’ Maybe Listerman had just been passing by then. Had just wanted to check there’d not been any damage to what, as Jack had annoyingly but rightly pointed out, was still his boss’s gaff.
‘He did say see you next Friday, mind,’ Slim said.
‘Yeah?’ Meaning he’d obviously got wind of the Soho Open’s launch night too. Again, hardly surprising. But not good news either, because Frankie was still keen on keeping the tournament well out of the local firm’s reach. And had been doing pretty well on that score too, hooking up instead with a contact of Kind Regards called Andy Topper, a sports agent based over in Haymarket. ‘The Topster’, as he liked to be called, knew everyone in the industry and had taken a 20 per cent stake in The Soho Open Ltd, the company Kind Regards had helped Frankie set up. Friday night the plan was to get as many potential investors and partners into the Ambassador Club as possible and to sign them up with a view to launching the actual tournament next year.
‘Listerman said Tommy would be coming too,’ Slim said, ‘as well as a few of their lads.’
Frankie felt his skin prickle, liking the sound of this less and less. The last time Riley had set foot in the Ambassador was after Jack had been released last year. But otherwise he never came here to play and didn’t seem much interested apart from the rent – so why the show of force now?
‘You thinking maybe it’s just a friendly visit?’ Slim asked.
Frankie doubted Riley knew the meaning of the phrase. ‘Dunno, but I guess we’ll find out soon enough.’
Heading for the doorway, Frankie told himself not to be paranoid. So what if Riley was planning on tipping up? Was that really so weird? He knew everyone with a finger in every pie this side of Watford. Including probably half the bookies and promoters Frankie had invited along for the night. Chances were he’d use any opportunity to flex his muscles and remind anyone visiting that he still ran this part of town.
‘Oh, and I’ve loaded up the Breville for you,’ Slim called out. ‘Organic honey-roasted Devon ham. From my second-favourite corner shop, no less. You just need to switch it on.’
‘Cheers,’ Frankie shouted back, his stomach starting to growl.
Toasted sarnies. Food of the gods, that’s what Slim always said. Him and Frankie’s mum had always used to compete with each other for the most sophisticated fillings when she’d worked at the bar here before her and the Old Man had separated. Brie and grape. Pesto and crab. Christ, the eighties had a lot to answer for.
Frankie ditched the files on the bar top and flipped the Breville on, before going down into the basement and getting changed into his tatty old overalls, and picking up the painting gear.
The club didn’t open for another hour. Meaning he might as well get busy finishing off the decorating, before heading up to the flat for a shower. He grabbed his toastie and went back outside, nodding his thanks to Slim.
‘Lush,’ he said. ‘It’s got a lovely tang to it.’
‘That’ll be the Fortnum’s Piccadilly piccalilli.’ As in Fortnum & Mason’s, his second-favourite shop after only Harrods itself. ‘I’ve left you a jar in the fridge.’
‘Good man.’
Frankie jammed in his earphones and hit play on the Sony Discman clipped to his belt. Small Faces. ‘Itchycoo Park’. One of his favourites. He set to with the brush on the last of the brickwork that needed doing, nice and steady, wanting it to look good and professional, like.
He’d been tarting the place up himself in time for Friday to save money. The effing prices decorating firms charged round here were a bloody disgrace. Xandra had been helping out too. She’d done such a good job on her living quarters at the back of the club when she’d moved in here off the streets that he’d been happy for her to pretty much boss this new phase of the club’s renovation herself. She’d used to work for a building firm back in Northern Ireland, before she’d run away and had ended up here in the big smoke down on her luck and living on the streets.
As well as giving the whole club a fresh lick of paint inside, he’d already given the external wall and front doors a new coat. White for the walls. Green for the door. Was meant to be lucky, according to Beijing Barry, who ran the Chinese medicine shop round the corner. Said it was good feng shui, whatever the hell that was.
Frankie finished up round the back of the guttering. Leaving just the door frame to do. He covered the hinges and locks with masking tape first, just like Xandra had taught him. Then washed the wood down with sugar soap and got cracking with some serious sanding.
‘What the –’ Flinching, turning, Frankie jerked his earphones out.
‘Whoah! Steady on now, Chuck Norris. I was just saying good morning to you there, all right?’
Xandra was grinning, arms up. Meanwhile Frankie had his own arms up in a cover-up guard position as if he was expecting a fight.
‘Shit, sorry,’ he said.
He noticed she wasn’t alone. The girl standing next to her had sparkly blue eyes, a great big beamer of a smile, and jet-black hair that matched the little black cocktail dress she was wearing. Or not so little, just little on her. Because the girl herself was a couple of inches taller than Frankie, leaving her a whole head higher than Xandra. Not that this seemed to be bothering them much. The two of them were holding hands.
‘And you must be Frankie,’ the tall girl said. ‘Xandra’s landlord and boss.’
Landlord. He’d never real
ly thought of himself as that. Probably on account of never having actually charged Xandra any rent for living in the bunch of rooms at the back of the club that he’d helped her fix up into what was now her own little flat.
‘And mate,’ said Xandra.
‘Yes, quite,’ said Frankie. ‘I wouldn’t want your friend here thinking I was some sort of evil overlord.’
‘Maxine,’ Xandra said, shyly introducing her companion. ‘She, er . . . we, er . . .’
‘We met each other last night. In Mescalitos.’
The tequila bar round the corner. Where Xandra and Slim and a few others had headed off after Frankie had shut up shop here.
‘And got on well enough to end up back here,’ Maxine said.
‘And after how many shots was that?’ asked Frankie. He meant it as a joke, but it came out all Dad-ish and Xandra rolled her eyes and Maxine smiled awkwardly, both of them clearly big enough and street-wise enough to take care of themselves.
‘Oops,’ said Xandra in the silence that followed.
‘What?’
‘You missed a bit. Over there.’ She took the paintbrush from where he’d left it on the pot lid and stretched up on tiptoes to fill in a patch on the brickwork he’d not seen. ‘But otherwise not bad at all,’ she said, putting the brush back down. ‘You wouldn’t think it to look at him, but he’s quite a quick learner,’ she went on. ‘Not just a pretty face.’
‘Very funny,’ said Frankie. ‘Now if you don’t mind fecking orf, some of us have work to do.’
‘A quick learner, but a terrible mimic.’ Xandra smiled. ‘We’re off down Berwick Street for a coffee. Do you want us to bring you anything back?’
‘Nah,’ said Frankie. ‘Thanks, but I’m all right Nice meeting you,’ he told Maxine.
‘You too,’ she said, and her and Xandra wandered off down the street hand in hand.
‘Ah, love’s young dream,’ Slim said wistfully.
He was right. They could have been together for years. Well, good for them. Just so long as this Maxine took good care of Xandra, Frankie was happy. Because, just like Slim, Xandra was family now.
Crossing the street, he made a square with his fingers and thumbs to look through. Yeah, the old club didn’t look half bad with its new lick of paint. His dad’s old mate, Dickie Bird, was due over this afternoon to photograph the outside of the club for the little leaflet he was doing for the weekend to hand out to his potential sponsors and business partners. He’d already done the inside last week. Dickie normally just did porn, but he was the only bloke Frankie knew with a decent camera and he’d agreed to do it along with the printing too for a knock-down price. He had a neat little computer program of his he used for knocking out posh, bespoke porn mags for Mayfair toffs and City boys who liked whacking off over pictures of themselves on the job.
‘You all right to hold the fort?’ Frankie asked Slim, crossing back over. ‘I need to get that copy I’ve been writing for the tournament leaflet over to Dickie this morning.’
‘Sure,’ said Slim. ‘Ah, and before I forget, I put yesterday’s post upstairs outside the flat. Oh, and you owe me two quid.’
‘What for?’
‘Some postcard from Spain. Whoever sent it hadn’t put enough stamps on. I had to pay the postie before he’d hand it over.’
‘Spain?’ Who was that from, then? Frankie didn’t know anyone living there. Couldn’t think of anyone on holiday out there at the moment either. ‘Right then. Thanks. I’ll catch you later,’ he said. ‘Anyone needs me, just give me a bell.’
‘Or,’ an unpleasantly familiar voice interrupted, ‘I could just save us all the time and effort and have a little word with you now.’
5
Frankie felt the hairs standing up on the back of his neck, even before he turned round. DI Bloody Snaresby. The same bastard who this time last year had tried and failed to put Jack away for good.
And, yep, sure enough, here he was. All lanky, spidery six foot six of him. Flashing his cheddar rind of a grin at Frankie, as the sun beat down on his balding grey scalp. Suited and booted, even on a Sunday. For church? Frankie doubted it. The second he’d step inside he’d have gone up in flames.
Frankie said nothing. But he didn’t like it. He’d not seen this wanker in nearly a year. So what in the name of buggery bollocks was he doing here now? He walked slowly forward until his gaunt, angular face was barely inches from Frankie’s, so close Frankie could smell the stale Juicy Fruit gum on his breath.
The phone started ringing inside.
‘Do you want me to get it?’ asked Slim.
‘Yeah. Can you? Thanks.’
Snaresby watched him go, then turned back to Frankie and flashed him another short smile.
‘I’m sure you’re familiar with the history of the Kray brothers?’ he said, ‘Ronnie and Reggie? The Brothers Grim?’
‘What about them?’
‘It’s just that I’ve been thinking, about how they started their – how shall I put it? – careers? Managing a run-down little billiard hall not entirely dissimilar to this.’
He meant the Regent. Over Mile End. And, yeah, Frankie had heard of it and plenty of not so nice stories about what had gone down there. But so what?
‘What’s your point?’
‘That sometimes even the mightiest of empires can rise up from the humblest of beginnings . . .’ Snaresby waved his hand expansively across the front of the Ambassador Club, giving Frankie a blast of his Old Spice deodorant as he did so.
‘Fascinating,’ said Frankie, resisting the urge to take a step back, knowing that Snaresby would only see it as weakness.
‘And pertinent,’ said Snaresby. ‘Because the way I hear it, you’re planning on starting building a little empire of your own as well.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, but I think you do. This snooker tournament you’re setting up. The Soho Open.’
‘Which is completely above board.’
‘As I would very much hope.’
‘If you don’t believe me, you can go check with the council. Or Companies House too for all I care.’
‘Oh, I already have.’
‘Good, then you’ll see I’ve dotted every “i” and crossed every “t”. Everything I’ve got planned, it’s totally legal.’
‘And very impressive it is too. Although I have to say not entirely surprising. Because, as I think I’ve mentioned to you before, I never did have you down as being quite as . . . impulsive as the rest of your family.’
Impulsive. A euphemism. Crooked, he meant. But no way was Frankie getting into that now. He knew better than to let this bastard wind him up when he’d done nothing bloody wrong.
‘So why’re you here bothering me at all then?’ Because Snaresby might be many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. Meaning that if he’d come here on his day off, there had to be something in it for him.
‘No reason.’ Snaresby picked at something caught in his teeth. ‘Or perhaps every reason. I suppose that just depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On whether your snooker tournament attracts any, er, trouble.’
‘Like what?’
Snaresby poked his tongue into his cheek, still irritated by whatever it was he’d got caught. ‘Well, as I’m quite sure you remember, there was that incident last year, when person or persons unknown threatened to burn down your club.’
He meant the break-in, when someone had poured petrol all over one of the tables and a photo of Frankie’s parents, and had left a message telling Frankie to back off from looking into his brother’s case. Not that it had worked, but it had certainly given him a fair few sleepless nights.
Snaresby smiled thinly, clearly enjoying reminding Frankie of the fact. ‘And then only yesterday afternoon,’ he went on, ‘during our nation’s predictably disappointing draw with the Swiss, I hear there was some kind of an altercation here again. With some young gentlemen of the Liverpudlian persuasion, or so
I understand.’
‘One that got resolved without anyone getting hurt.’
‘And very glad I am to hear it,’ said Snaresby. ‘You see, the last thing I’d want, or would indeed tolerate, is any kind of trouble or criminal activity here on my manor.’
Snaresby whipped out a brass Zippo and a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He sparked one up, surprisingly fast, his watch glinting in the sun. A Breitling. Pricey. Looked as nicked on this bloke as his suit.
‘I mean, I’m sure you’d agree,’ he said, taking a long, thoughtful drag, ‘it would be a great shame to see a noble and innovative venture like your tournament falter and fail at a prematurely early hurdle for reasons of violence and criminality outside your control.’
What was this? A shakedown? ‘Are you threatening me?’ The words were out before Frankie could stop them. Because surely not even Snaresby would have the bollocks to try something this blatant in broad daylight?
‘Who? Little old me?’ Snaresby laughed a short, high-pitched laugh, but then his smile flattened. ‘Oh no, Frankie – I mean, Mr James – I’m just here to give you a little advice, that’s all. To ask you to keep your venture on the right side of the law. To keep in with the right people. To make absolutely sure that you protect both their interests and yours.’
Frankie just stared. Because what the hell? Was he hearing this right? Was Snaresby here as some kind of a messenger? But for who? Who were the right people? Riley? Was Snaresby really in his pocket, like Frankie had started to suspect last year? Or Hamilton? Because he’d wondered that too. And because with all them lot growing up round here together, along with his mum and dad too, anything was possible. Whatever screwed-up relationships they had, they went back for years.
‘You seem to have run out of your usually amusing comebacks,’ Snaresby said.
Frankie wanted to hit him then. To wipe that superior smile off his face. That same smile that said, no matter what Frankie thought he knew, Snaresby always knew better, Snaresby always knew more.
But, no. He wouldn’t give him that. The satisfaction of having baited him. Or the moral high ground that went with it and the chance to get his claws into Frankie’s life.
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