‘Two days or three.’
‘And we’d fly from Manchester, and . . .’
‘No, you would drive. Yes, drive there and drive back.’
He could have said that it would hardly be three days of choice if he were to drive – what would it be, close to 1000 miles each way? – and look at a French resort city off season and walk around a bit. Most times when she spoke to him it was with the confidence that she was a young woman from an intellectual grade higher than himself, but this was difficult for her. Refuse? No. He would show hesitation, gently question what she intended, but would accept. Would do what she asked – as if he were besotted, smitten. She would buy into it because she was an innocent.
‘You want me to drive?’
‘You drive, you are a good driver.’
‘It’s a fair question, Zed, would I be going as your friend or as your driver?’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Do we go so as we are together, sitting in a car most of the time, or because you don’t know anyone else who would – for whatever reason – drive you?’
He had pushed her, might as well have given her a punch in the stomach. She pushed herself up off the bench. He thought they were poker players, bluffing, each seeking to exploit the other, neither knowing how far to take it. ‘I ask you. If you do not want to, do not. I don’t order you. I offer the chance. Don’t. If you don’t want to, Andy, then don’t.’
‘What do you know about Marseille, Zed, am I permitted to ask that?’
‘Have read a guidebook? No. Have I researched the place? No. But, I have to go.’
‘Just, what I heard, it’s a tough city.’
‘What do you say?’
His heart pounded because success nestled close, within reach, but he played the necessary game and acted hesitant. ‘I heard it’s a hard city . . . and I don’t have the sort of money that . . .’
‘You drive, I pay the bills.’ She said it decisively, a toss of the head, a small matter.
‘The family business? Take much of your time?’
‘It would be a chance for us. Not too much time.’
‘I’d like that. A few days, you and me, that would be good.’
‘You can fix it with your work?’
‘Think so . . . and you, you can take the time off, you don’t have lectures, a tutorial?’
‘Of course, I can.’
‘I’ll get it sorted in the morning.’
‘You and me, just you and me.’
‘And the family business won’t take too much of your time?’
‘My problem, Andy, not your problem.’
Settled. She had a good hold of him and kissed him hard, as she had before, and her tongue went inside his mouth and roved behind his teeth, and she seemed to have enthusiasm for it. Most of the time it was Andy Knight who did the lying, and had told lies that were smaller and lies that were bigger when he was Phil Williams and when he was Norm Clarke. He was paid to lie, not particularly well paid, but adequately. He eased clear.
‘If that’s what you’d like, Zed. Us, together, down across France and to Marseille and a few days there, and I give you room for your business, the family stuff, and then we head on back. It’s a long drive but at this time of year the roads won’t be heavy. Brilliant . . . it’ll be good.’
Not much light reached them from the edge of the park and the street lamps around a kids’ play area. It was enough. He saw that she was smiling. Like a cat with cream, a whole bowl of it. He thought he had done well, struck a good balance.
He had tried to ask what was natural, what he had the right to be told, but not have her on her feet and flouncing away. He put a hand on her arm. She took the side of his head, then pulled off her glove, then her fingers ran down the skin of his throat. Time for her to do the flirt bit. He thought it did not come easy to her. Her other hand was inside his anorak, and wouldn’t have been able to get closer because of the raised zip on his company overalls. He gave her a kiss, not passionate, more like a friend. Another kiss that sealed it, and her hand came out from under his anorak. They had both done, Andy Knight reckoned, a plausible job of deceit. He told her that he would get one of the guys at the depot to run the rule over his car to be certain it was right and ready for such a fierce run, and he’d be in the manager’s office first thing in the morning to nail down the time off . . . He knew next to nothing of Marseille except that it had deep roots in organised crime, a tough gangster scene that was run by north African ethnic migrants, that it was not a clever place to mess, to play games. He was pleased with how the session on the bench had gone, enough to forget that his backside was cold and wet and his hip joints stiff, and thought he had done the innocent bit as far as was necessary, then had done the guy who was obsessed with her. She was a good-looking girl, pleasant to look at and nearly pleasant to be with, and he wondered how far she would take him . . . He hoped he did not egg it, but thought she’d appreciate hearing it. Not the first time and wouldn’t be the last. He thought she was being nurtured for great things, a big moment, and there would be boys round her who pushed her forward, and he didn’t think she’d have the savvy for suspicion, not be as clear on risk as the boys behind her.
‘I just want to say, Zed, that we may have met up in daft circumstances, but I’m really pleased that I had the chance to meet you, get to know you. Really pleased because you are important. More important than anyone has been.’
Chapter 3
‘Would a young lady be involved?’ The boss allowed himself, rare for him, a dry wriggle of a smile.
‘Something came up.’ Andy Knight wore a poker player’s face, part of the game.
‘I take it as read, a young lady.’
‘And I haven’t asked for leave since being here.’
‘Pretty little thing, is she?’
‘It would just be a week.’
The boss was rolling a pencil across the desk. A trifle of fun, a sort of formal dance being played out. Not as though there was a cat in hell’s chance that the request would be denied.
‘I’ve a heavy week in front of us – you did say you might be pushing off in the next couple of days. I heard that right? A pile of deliveries, and all needing a schedule kept, and I’m about to lose one of my drivers. Prepared to say one of my ‘‘better’’ drivers, and the guys left behind – who won’t be on a cuddle and kiss – will need to put in some overtime, if that suits at the other end of the chain. And . . .’
‘I appreciate it’s inconvenient, but was just hoping you could see your way to . . .’ Andy shrugged. Gave that near helpless look which seemed to confirm that totty was on offer, too good a chance to pass up and the implication would be that, once, the boss had been young, footloose, not married with three kids, and a dog and a mortgage, and a little villa losing money on one of the Costa del Sol estates.
‘I suppose I could.’
‘I’d be very grateful.’
‘Sure you would, least you could be. Is this – not my business, but I’ll ask it anyway – the big one in your life, know what I mean?’
He would not have expected an answer, and would not get one. Would not have it confirmed that a girl was in the melting pot, and would not be told where the love tryst was to be staged. Some, not Andy, would have slipped in a remark about the south of France, a rather adventurous and exhilarating city, and raised an eyebrow, but he gave nothing. He was not aware of what deal had been done, what the link was that had brought him to the depot: the selection process had been vague, and it was a sought-after job. Somewhere down the line there would have been a tap on the shoulder, a nod and a nudge, and there could have been a mason’s handshake, small talk over hospitality at a United or City game, could have been a debt called in or a favour begged. It had happened to him twice before when a legend was in the careful process of construction, but behind him and better not remembered. He assumed the boss knew something of where he came from, but would remain far outside the detail loop . . . Tittle-tattle down at the golf
club about the contacts he had made and what was required of him, and to whom he gave a helping hand were all to be discouraged. It was all about secrecy, a commodity not to be slack with, and lives would be at stake . . . Top of the list, with a pink ribbon round it, would be Andy Knight’s.
‘Thank you, really appreciate it.’
‘What I asked, Andy: the big love of your life – for real, for ever?’
‘Which is what I didn’t answer. But thanks.’
He stood. The boss was gazing up at him. The man’s mind would have been going at flywheel speed. Who did he have driving for him, what was his purpose, where did he go at night, and what was the danger level? Was it organised crime or national security, or was the boss off the track and understanding nothing? In the past, Andy had found himself applying for work as a delivery driver – the only Brit in a team of Poles and Hungarians and Romanians – and going round Exeter and its satellite villages doing internet shopping deliveries, and enough people had said, after being in contact with him, that Phil Williams was a ‘straight up’ guy. A pub in Swindon, far end of the Thames valley, had thought it a good idea to offer Norm Clarke the chance of work – basic wages and occasional tips because it was not the sort of establishment where money was flashed. He should live, he had been told, one life at a time. It was good advice, and the life now did not include the months when Williams or Clarke were top of the heap. He smiled. The secretary from the outer office was at the door. She’d have heard every word, Andy’s and the boss’s, and would be none the wiser, and she’d gossip with the general manager, and the head of finance, and the story would stay rock solid that young Knight, good-looking boy, was off somewhere with his new squeeze. They were decent people, kind to a stranger, welcoming to an intruder, and he’d walk out of the depot the next day or the day after, and likely not come back. It was what happened . . . there, then gone. They’d have a master key and would check his locker and would find it emptied, and no clue as to who he was. It was how it had been in Exeter and how it had been in Swindon . . . and his parents were not inside that loop, and would have been hurt deeply, but it was the way things were done.
Some would always be hurt. Could not be helped. Causing hurt went with the job.
His parents were already hurt . . . they’d not have recognised the name of Andy Knight, nor of Norm Clarke, and would have denied any connection with Phil Williams. His father was a science teacher, in a comprehensive school, and his mother ran the reception desk in a dental practice close to their home on the outskirts of Newbury in Berkshire. They had done well, lived carefully and had managed to make a home close to a cricket ground, pleasant and decent. He was out of their lives and did not go back, didn’t claim his bedroom at the back, and they’d not have known why, and would have been bruised, bewildered. Two sisters there, or were when he’d left for the last time, and the best chance was that they’d regard him as wet dog mess for the damage he had done to the family. It could not be different . . . talk had a way of getting into crannies. One way to damage his work would be through his father and mother, and his sisters. The best protection for them was to cut them adrift. The hard thing about it was that he had now become – almost – immune to emotion about family, friends, people who had once seemed important. He had gone, disappeared.
The boss was rewarded with a smile. It would be around the depot within an hour, thanks to the good offices of the secretary and the manager who dealt with the drivers’ pool, that Andy was off for a week with a girlfriend. Talk of it would brighten their lives.
‘Oh, just one thing . . .’
‘What now? Want me to pay for a box of chocolates, or something?’
‘Bit of a liberty.’
‘One big liberty – what do you want?’
‘Can I just have the guys in maintenance run an eye over my motor?’
A nod, and a mock sigh of exasperation. The boss understood a bit, not much but a little. The chances were high that Andy Knight was history as far as this delivery service for builders’ sites was concerned. They’d run inquests over what he might have been and where he had come from, and where he had gone, and be left none the wiser, which was how it should be.
Where had his life changed, gone off the straight and the narrow? All down to a rabbit. A rabbit had done the dirty on him . . . a rabbit’s hole.
‘See you back, Andy. Hope the young lady realises the sacrifices we’re making on her behalf.’
‘Yes, boss. See you back.’
‘My trouble – if I have a trouble – is that I’m fond of a deal.’ Crab, with his minder alongside him, walked.
There were times when Crab wanted to talk, not to have a debate and opinions pushed at him that were the opposite of his own instincts, but just to talk and have Gary at his shoulder; the simple pleasure of hearing his own voice. But never at home – they would leave the house and walk the pavements, walk where there would be no microphones – mobile phones, of course, switched off – and they would pass the electric gates of the orthopaedic surgeons and barristers and accountancy partners, and the occasional footballer’s pile, and anyone who had a home that had cost the earth and a fair bit more. Walk and talk. Could only be with Gary now that Rosie was gone.
‘Life without a deal, sort of empty. Have to have a deal on the run.’
Crab, despite his disability, went at a good speed and threw out his right leg with each stride, then launched his weight on to it, looked as if he might stumble, but always kept his balance. The pavement was treacherous in this weather but he had confidence. If he slipped, Gary was at hand. Rain spattered on his face, ran down his cheeks, distorted the lenses of his dark glasses, and dribbled from his sandy moustache. He had poor teeth, a mess, but they flashed as he talked, and the wind clasped his coat close around him. To go outside to talk was a natural precaution against any of the Manchester crime squads that might have seen him, a veteran, a soft target, worth pursuing.
‘It’s going to be a trial run, Gary. We see what we like, feel happy with it, then we go forward and into the big time. This occasion we bring only one through, and we do the switch there, and hand it to them there, and it’s their job to transport the goodies off French territory and bring it back. It’s a joyride. We set it up, Tooth and me, we watch it happen and take our cut. Removed enough for it not to matter if the kids blow themselves out of the water. If they don’t, and it’s good, then we take the money. Personally, I think it’ll work well . . . A girl and a boy coming back from the south of France, all romantic and perhaps a couple of violins scraping, nice-looking fresh kids, in love, clean skins, and the merchandise hidden under the seats. It’s good . . . We start with just one and see how it goes. It works, so the next time it’s five and that gets through and we look again and this time it’ll be ten. Probably about the limit, but by this time some good money is heading our way, and no kickbacks. Have to say, I like it.’
A few years back, he would have walked with Rosie, and they’d have gone up round the golf club. She’d been with him since he had exited Strangeways for the first time, a fiercely loyal confidante. They’d had two sons, both useless and both now banged up, and it was because of the elder that Crab now had the chance of the deal, conversations on the periphery of the exercise yard and then men turning up on Crab’s leafy doorstep. They had been polite, had almost scraped their noses on the gravel in respect, had said what they wanted and suggested a price. They had seemed to Crab to be serious men – a touch above ordinary seriousness when they had requested the use of a disused warehouse in Crab’s property portfolio, and all left clean and no criticism justified. It was an interesting proposition.
‘You’re sniffing, Gary. I sense that. Nostrils working overtime. Not our sort of people, that’s what you’re saying. God, Gary you are an old stick-in-the-mud. I have to go where the opportunity is. How do we make money now? Not payrolls? Not security vans delivering cash? Not going into a jewellers and waving a shotgun around? I have gone into the modern world. Those ki
ds, the keyboards, their little viruses squirming up the tubes, that’s getting ahead of the game, and it pays good money and nobody notices us. You have to be ahead of the game And you have to believe in old Crab, Gary, have to . . . I tell you another thing, it’ll be good to hook up again with Tooth. Best man there is. Him and me, Tooth and Crab, what a team. Be good to do a deal with Tooth . . . I need it, Gary, need it to stay alive, not bloody vegetate. Look, it’s a dry run and we’ll watch how it rolls, and from what I see the security is good, or better than good. You worry too much, Gary.’
Four years ago, Rosie had been in her Porsche sports, and might have sunk a couple too many, and the ice had come down fast and she might have been going quicker than was sensible. A beech tree had ended her life: multiple injuries. An occasional girl, when he needed her, was Beth, but she only came at weekends and ironed and cooked and cleaned, and was useful at other duties, but not trusted with the confidences he had previously shared . . . Gary knew Crab’s business, lived in an annexe off the main house and – Crab’s belief – would die protecting his benefactor. They walked briskly. He was confident of Gary’s loyalty.
‘And you’re still sniffing. Not happy . . . I read your mind, Gary. You don’t know them and you don’t like them. Not happy that I’m mixing with them. Are they ‘‘safe’’, are they ‘‘decent’’? Trust me, Gary . . . am I allowed a little laugh? Humour me. Be a funny old day when Crab starts worrying whether the ‘‘associates’’ are ‘‘decent’’. Be a day when I might just laugh too much, even smile big . . . Are they ‘‘decent’’? They sound right, they take good precautions. They had a kid trying to push in, might have been a tout, and they dealt with it. Dealt quick and dealt clean. I liked it. And, they have this girl who is sharp as a needle, what they say. University. Intelligent, bright, committed. She’s a boyfriend who’s a dick-head and thinks the sun shines out of her fanny . . . that too vulgar, Gary? Are they enough at arm’s length from us? Yes, in my opinion, yes. Lighten up, Gary.’
Battle Sight Zero Page 7