The Tale of the Wolf (The Kenino Wolf Series)

by Cyrus Chainey

  ‘Her?’

  ‘What ...?’ he flustered.

  ‘You said her. Your boss is a woman?’ I queried. I’d presumed it was a man. He’d never said so, but he’d never said otherwise.

  ‘Yes.’ He looked shifty. It was a slip. ‘Is it a problem?’ He was regaining his temporarily lost composure.

  ‘No ...’ I said making a mental note that it was what he didn’t say you had to watch for, not what he did.

  ‘Good,’ he sneered. ‘I want the bitch to suffer.’ The hate was real, that was for sure.

  ‘Well, I want the money,’ I returned.

  ‘So do I, Mr Wolf,’ he replied. There was greed there. I was glad to see it. Greed’s a more trustworthy emotion than revenge, but it was clear which one dominated. ‘Miss Lane says you can convert the stones. I take it this is true?’

  ‘I know someone. It won’t be instant, take a week minimum, possibly two, but I can do it.’ I was lying. I could have done it in a day. A guy in Golders Green named Soly would have bitten my hand off for them, but I wanted to see his reaction.

  ‘That will have to be acceptable then.’ An odd reply; aggrieved yet concessionary.

  ‘If it’s done any faster than that we won’t get a fair price,’ I continued, lying.

  With the hate this guy had I doubted he’d continue butling with a mill in the bank. The pay-out needed to be delayed. Him running off the day after his boss was robbed would be suspicious to say the least. All I needed was for this nutcase to get nicked and squeal out the rest of us.

  He’d made the big speech about how his boss couldn’t report it, which if I knew for sure was true might have changed things a tad. But I was trying to minimise my risks. It was bad enough I was involved, but four mill is four mill. I’ve never heard anybody let that slide.

  I told Colin I’d speak to him again tomorrow as I had to get some more info off him. I needed a conflab with Curtis. I knew we needed the layout, alarms and the household routines, but this was his speciality not mine so I thought it best to check his needs before I got Colin to do anything. I knew we needed to do a stake-out. Run a little recon operation. This was too big to just wing it. It had to be done right. I took his number and said I’d call him later.

  I still hadn’t fully committed to it. Okay I was in deeper than I’d intended. I thought meeting him would have given me an excuse. But, in truth, I didn’t really have a reason. Okay my hackles were up, but I was broke, hackles or no hackles.

  Plus, Tabatha was doing it, whether I liked it or not. So really my only choice was to try and control the situation as best as I could and try and keep all our arses safe.

  I gave her a quick ring.

  ‘Tabs?’ I said once she picked up.

  ‘Wolfy. Did you see Colin?’

  ‘Yeah. Look Tabs, I don’t like him. I don’t trust him and think this is all going to go arse over elbow. Are you sure you want to do this?’

  ‘Wolfy, I’m doing this with or without you. I want them stones.’

  ‘Fine. I’m in then. I’m going to see Curtis. We’ll speak later.’

  ‘We’re gonna be rich, babes, you’ll see.’

  ‘Maybe. Later, Tabs. I gotta keep this moving.’

  ‘Later,’ she hung up.

  I jumped into Betsy and headed to see Curtis: my ace in the hole, my master burglar. This job was big, too big. Even Tabatha knew it, which is why she knew I’d want Curtis. Knew we needed him.

  Curtis lived in Hammersmith. He had a small terraced flat just behind Ravenscourt Park that used to be his mother’s. She’d gone back to Jamaica and he’d taken it over. I’d known him for ages. It had started as business but over the years had turned into friendship.

  Curtis had originally been a Communist stealing for the cause, filling the war chest for the revolution. He became disheartened though when he saw his superiors driving round in Mercs while he was trying to flog his bus pass for food.

  He left the Communists and became a Social-Capitalist; exploiting people but feeling guilty about it later. He was an idealist; a left-wing liberal who would leap at the chance of redistributing some of the wealth. He was also an extremely seasoned burglar and trustworthy, which I thought were two qualities I was going to need for this venture.

  ‘Yes, Curt,’ I said as he opened the door.

  Curtis was average height and average build. His dreadlocks were thick like rope and hung below his shoulders.

  ‘Wolfy.’ Curtis had his left top canine capped and when he smiled it glinted at you. ‘Come in.’ I followed him into the front room.

  Curtis’ flat was cramped. It was a single bedroom apartment that he was slowly turning into a second-hand bookshop. Books lay everywhere, and I do mean everywhere. All you could see were books. They lined every wall, covered nearly every piece of floor. Curtis had created a small path between the hundreds of towers of books that led into his front room. I followed him through. The front room was equally packed. I sidestepped through this paperback city until I reached his settee. I felt like Godzilla stomping through Tokyo.

  I plonked down on his sofa.

  ‘What the ...?’ I said standing back up. I’d sat on a book (what else). ‘Advanced Knitting Patterns and Crochet? Okay, Curt, this is interesting,’ I smirked.

  ‘There ain’t nuthin’ wrong with that book. Tha’s a good book,’ he said with all seriousness.

  Curtis was a man that read everything; any book on any subject. As long as it was on paper he’d read it.

  ‘Advanced knitting?’ I said still laughing. ‘I take it you’ve already read Basic Knitting and Crochet?’

  ‘Don’t knock knitting. It’s very therapeutic.’

  ‘I’m sure it is.’ My side was starting to hurt from holding in the laughter. ‘Is that one of yours?’ I said noticing he was wearing a baggy mohair jumper.

  ‘No. I got this from the Oxfam shop in Sloane Square. It’s designer. Anyway wha’ ya want? You didn’t come here to talk about my knitting.’

  ‘That’s for sure.’ I could feel my eyes starting to water. A big Dread Rasta knitting a scarf. I had to pass Curtis again to just to catch him in the act.

  ‘So, wha’ you want?’

  ‘What …? Can’t I just pass and say hello?’

  ‘You can. Course you can ... but you don’t.’

  ‘That’s not very nice, Curt.’

  ‘So you’re just passing are ya?’

  ‘Well … no.’

  ‘See! So wha’ ya want?’

  ‘I want to make you rich,’ I replied in all seriousness.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m serious. Something’s come across my path that needs your particular skill set.’

  ‘You mean burglary.’

  ‘Well, I certainly don’t mean doilies … You don’t do doilies, do you, Curt?’

  He didn’t respond. He just looked down. ‘Shit, Curt! That shit ain’t right. A big man sitting here alone making doilies. You need to get out more.’

  ‘There ain’t nuthin’ wrong with handicraft,’ he said defensively pulling out a crochet needle and some cotton from behind him.

  ‘You need to get out of your yard more. But don’t worry I’ve got just the thing; a million quid in diamonds.’ His eyes popped out. He edged closer. ‘Careful, Curt, you’ll drop a stitch.’

  He grimaced. ‘Stop fucking about, Wolfy. Tell me wha’ blow. You serious?’

  ‘Why else am I here? Like you said, I don’t do social calls. Although after what I’ve just seen …’ I said pointing at his stitching, ‘I’d better start. I think you need a visit every now and again. I think you left to your own devices is a bit disturbing.’ I was laughing again. I couldn’t help it.

  ‘Tell me wha’ blow or come out me yard. I ain’t got no time to waste.’ He was getting annoyed.

  ‘Emergency cable stitch situation is it?’ I was breaking up.

  ‘Get out me yard. GET OUT ME YARD,’ Curt said, rising.

  ‘Sorry, Curt.’ I was still gi
ggling. ‘Sorry. Look, I’m really sorry. I’ll be serious. Just give me a minute, and maybe hide the filigree so I can concentrate.’ He reluctantly put it behind him. ‘Thanks thanks.’

  ‘Well?’ he pressed.

  ‘Gimme a minute. Hold on.’ I was finding it extremely difficult. I hadn’t laughed in a while and was enjoying this respite. ‘Okay, I’m ready.’

  ‘You’re a fucking piss-taker, Wolfy, you know that?’

  ‘I know ... I know. Okay, I’m ready.’ I composed myself. ‘There’s a job, £4 million in uncut diamonds, split four ways. One million each.’ I said it all without taking a breath. If I paused I was going to start laughing again.

  ‘This real talk?’ He was sceptical and rightly so.

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Wha’ you mean looks like it? It either is or it ain’t.’

  ‘Well gimme a drag on that spliff and I’ll fill you in.’

  He passed it across. I took a couple of drags and handed it back

  I explained to Curtis exactly what was going on with Colin, emphasising my lack of trust in the crafty Colin. He was interested though; money always interests a poor man.

  He didn’t ask why I was doing it when I didn’t trust Colin. He was well aware of the situation concerning Tabatha. He understood even more when I told him about Longy.

  ‘Get the address and I'll scope the place.’ He said when I’d given him the rundown. ‘After that I’ll know what we need.’

  ‘We need to move fast, Curt. I want to use Adriano’s stag night as a cover.’ Adriano was the groom in the Puglia wedding saga. A nice enough bloke from what I knew of him. I’d only met him a few times; seemed pleasant enough. He was Muzzi’s friend really which was why Muzzi was hosting the stag night; a three-day bender, a classic Muzzi party.

  ‘As soon as you get the address I’m ready,’ Curtis said.

  ‘Cool, I’ll shout you soon,’ I replied, getting up. ‘I gotta keep this moving. Later Curt.’

  ‘Later.’

  I tiptoed back out through Book City and headed to Betsy. It was Sunday and the stag do was Tuesday. We were cutting it fine. If we were going to do this we needed to hit it by Wednesday; midway through the party. I had three days.

  My mobile was vibrating. Answering it I heard Marisol’s voice on the other end. The coroner’s hearing for Longy had finished. They recorded his death as ‘suspicious’. He’d suffocated from the plastic bag, but the coroner had found a large quantity of a mind-altering drug in his system.

  She wanted me to know how I was getting on finding his killer. I told her I was checking out a lead. Well I was: Patrice Laussant. Okay, he was dead, and about as much use as a chocolate fire hydrant, but he was a lead.

  ‘Call me when you find this bastard, Wolfy,’ she commanded.

  ‘Yes, Marisol.’ I lied.

  I had no idea what to do about Longy, so I went home to plan the diamond heist.

  Monday 9:00 a.m.

  I was broke, proper broke. The recession was chewing me out. Things were harder than I’d ever known. I understood Tabatha’s hunger, understood it all too well. I probably would have been just as hungry if all the shoot-outs hadn’t happened. But making money had taken second fiddle to staying alive.

  Sitting in a cafe with the relative peace of the morning, I realised I had to risk it, had to have a go. It was time to move, time to get started. The fry up had given me a little power boost; the energy to keep pushing.

  I’d already phoned Curtis and Colin. Curtis was going to do the stakeout alone and fill me and Tabatha in that night at The Hanging Man, his objective and professional eye being far more useful than either Tabatha or my clouded ones. I still didn’t trust Colin and was relying on Curtis’ judgement.

  I had the rest of the day free and was torn between a few particular options. I was tempted to go look for Michael, Longy’s brother. Longy had said he was going to see him when he left The Hanging Man, but I doubted he’d reached him. I didn’t think there was enough time. I’d phoned Marisol already. Michael still hadn’t reared his head. And as much as he was a scumbag, he loved Longy. His continual absence was definitely cause for query. Then there were the Russians. They were looking for Longy too, but they didn’t know he was dead, which meant the killer wasn’t with the Russians. So who were the Russians with? I considered going on a bit of search for them too. One of them was injured and may have ended up in hospital. I’d have to be a bit careful searching for them though. They opened a conversation with a gun.

  Then there was Tabatha. Longy’s death had put the fire under me. I could feel my own mortality, could feel life slipping away, the swiftness of existence. I wondered whether to just go and see her and tell her how I felt. All of these thoughts were rolling through my head as I returned to Betsy.

  ‘Is this your car, sir?’ I heard from behind me as I got in the driver seat.

  ‘What?’ It was a policeman addressing me, a normal constable. ‘Yes, officer, this is my car.’ I said as I got back out. There was a temptation to get sarky but as I didn’t know this copper I let it slide.

  ‘Have you got your details with you, sir?’ He was your standard six-foot copper, a patrol officer.

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘This car doesn’t appear to have a registered owner, sir.’

  ‘Are you joking? That can’t be right hold on.’ I was scrambling around in the glove box. No matter what I’ve done in my life the one thing I could say about Betsy was she was legit. More than legit she was saintly: insured, taxed and MOT’d. I didn’t mess with Betsy.

  I pulled out my details; logbook, insurance certificate her latest MOT pass.

  ‘Here,’ I said handing it to him. He took it from me, called through the details on the radio. ‘Your driving licence, sir?’ He was being pleasant. None of the hard-arse copper bullshit that you sometimes got. He was just doing his job.

  I pulled out my licence and handed it to him. He took it from me gave it a quick scan and called my details through.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I was frantic. This was Betsy. Something was wrong with Betsy.

  ‘Just trying to find out now, sir. Just putting the details through.’

  His radio crackled and I listened as the distended voice announced to my horror that Betsy was road legal, but I wasn’t her registered owner. No one was. The officer looked as puzzled as I was. He was holding my logbook with my name on it.

  ‘That’s odd.’ The officer said looking at me. ‘Can I get a check on the driver, a Mr Kenino Wolf?’ He called back into his radio.

  ‘How long have you had the vehicle sir?’ He was being comforting. He could see my horror.

  ‘Years. Bloody years.’ I was shaking.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir. The DVLA must have made a mistake. Shouldn’t take long to sort it out.’ He was still doing the non-comforting comfort talk.

  The radio crackled back into life. I didn’t know who was on the other end but I hated them more than anyone I’d ever known. The officer responded and to my horror the voice announced that I didn’t have a driving licence.

  ‘What?’ I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. Neither could the officer.

  ‘Are you sure?’ The officer called back through. ‘Can I get a double check on the name. Kenino … Kilo, India, November, India, November, Oscar. Wolf ... Whiskey, Oscar, Lima, Foxtrot.’

  ‘Confirmed.’ The radio crackled back. ‘No such driver.’

  He looked at me while holding my licence. I was dumbstruck. Not only did I not own Betsy, but now I had no right to be in her.

  ‘I’m holding his licence,’ he called back.

  ‘DVLA problem,’ the heartless voice responded.

  ‘Received.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ I pleaded.

  ‘It would appear, sir, that the DVLA have lost you.’

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘It happens, sir. Computer problems. Don’t worry. A quick visit to the DVLA should fix it. Just take your papers dow
n and they’ll sort it all out for you.’ He handed back my papers.

  ‘I don’t understand. How they could have lost me?’

  ‘Between you and me, sir, they’re not the most efficient branch of government.’

  ‘I’m going there now.’ I said opening Betsy’s door. ‘Where’s the nearest one?’

  ‘Wimbledon, sir, but I suggest you don’t drive.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Right now, sir, as it stands this car is correctly parked, but you do not have a valid licence. If you try and drive you will be breaking the law.’

  ‘But I do have a licence.’ I was waving the pink card at him.

  ‘Not according to the DVLA, sir.’ He was being apologetic. ‘If you try and move the vehicle one of my colleagues may arrest you and crush the car.’

  ‘Are you winding me up? I’ve got a licence. You can see my licence.’ I was still waving it.

  ‘Yes, sir. But the system says you don’t and until it says you do, you are an illegal driver. But don’t worry, bring all your paper work to Wimbledon and they’ll sort it out for you.’

  ‘How am I supposed to get there?’

  ‘That’s your choice, sir. But you cannot drive.’ With that he continued along his beat leaving me holding a hand full of paperwork and car keys for a car that I could no longer drive.

  ‘Bollocks to this! Wait here. I’ll be back,’ I said to Betsy and stomped off towards East Dulwich Station.

  This was not part of my plan. I gave Tabatha a call. The officer said Betsy was safe where she was parked but I wasn’t taking any chances. I told her what had happened and she thought it was extremely funny, until I mentioned how it was buggering up our little diamond adventure, at which she became a lot more helpful.

  I kept a spare set of keys with my Uncle Clement. I told her to get the keys, rescue Betsy and park her in Leon’s yard, which was private land. There Betsy would be safe.

  The DVLA’s office in Wimbledon was a rather attractive red-brick affair with a grey awning. It was on the Alexandra Road. I took a ticket and joined the queue and got comfy. It was always an all-day adventure dealing with the government. Tabatha phoned after an hour saying she’d rescued Betsy.