by Mick Scully
I did, of course, consider the possibility that one of his daughters would be a more effective target, but it was difficult to see how that situation could be contained. The mother, sister, friends would all quickly become aware of her absence and the police would inevitably be involved. Stretton would have no time to consider negotiating with us. Trudy’s life, however, seemed to revolve around Stretton and the club. Once she was taken, he would have the opportunity to consider his response without pressure from others.
Cathedral Apartments is a beautiful building. One of three blocks of very expensive apartments in St Stephen’s Square, one of the oldest parts of the city, each block named – Cathedral, Monastery, Priory – in keeping with the presence of St Stephen’s Church at the heart of the square. Yes, lovely to look upon and I am sure wonderful to live in – a mark of success in life. Very different from my own home on the Mendy, which I had decided was also to become Trudy’s – for a day or two at least.
On the first morning of my surveillance, a Tuesday, I was in St Stephen’s Square in overalls, carrying a tape measure and notepad. I moved among the bare trees at the centre of the square, marking and measuring distances, taking photographs with my phone, the perfect workman, but keeping my attention on Cathedral Apartments. Yangku had provided me with a schedule of the times Trudy arrived at the club, and on Tuesday it was usually about two o’clock.
As English workmen tend to do, I took several breaks for tea in one of the cafés that occupy the square and observed the apartments from the window there.
‘Going to be building work is there, mate?’ the man who served me green tea asked.
‘Possible cable extension. I’m just checking measurements.’
‘Still disruption though, ain’t it?’
On my second break he had another question. ‘So when’s all this going to start? You’re not going to wait till the summer and first sunny day we get turn up with drills and diggers?’
I knew how workmen respond to such questions. ‘No idea, mate. Not my job. Just check the measurements I was told – and take all morning to do it!’
The man laughed.
I was sitting on a bench in the square, eating my sandwiches, when the electronic grille of Cathedral Apartments rose and Trudy’s Z4 drove out into the square. It was one-thirty p.m.
The next day, a little before ten, having given most occupants of the apartments time to leave for work, I was in the underground car park looking for the Z4. Mr Stretton’s Jaguar was there too. In a relationship as established as theirs people tend to follow a routine. Tuesday was likely to be a night he regularly stayed with her.
I found a spot behind a concrete pillar and squatted down to wait. Just after eleven the door opened and Stretton and Trudy emerged dressed for business, each carrying a briefcase. From behind the pillar I watched them. He opened her car door for her, gave her a brief kiss. ‘See you there.’
Thursday was a busy morning. Again I had taken up my position in the car park. First a resident arrived with the concierge to complain about a buzzing neon strip light, then a couple coming and going loading bags into their car. When the concierge returned with an electrician to inspect the offending light they started to chat with the couple about the few days away they were taking in Devon.
I decided to leave. And it was fortunate that I did, for as I emerged from the car park, I saw Trudy crossing on foot the square ahead of me.
I have said that surveillance is not something at which I excel but there was no denying the exhilaration I felt as I followed her. She wore a tracksuit and carried an exercise mat rolled under her arm. The gymnasium was just around the corner, situated above a row of offices. People on exercise machines could be seen inside the plate-glass windows above.
It was a busy gym for so early in the day. As I watched, several other women followed Trudy in, each with a mat rolled under her arm.
A muscled and tanned young man in shorts and a vest was happy to answer my questions about membership. ‘You will have full use of the gym. We can offer a personal trainer, and a wide range of organised classes. Body pump. Body Combat. Zumba. Pilates. There’s a yoga class going on right now.’
‘A weekly one?’
‘Yep, the eleven-thirty, but it’s women only. We do mixed ones. The mixed yogas are’, he consulted a printed sheet on the reception desk, ‘Wednesday afternoons, Tuesday and Thursday nights. Eight o’clock.’
When Trudy left the gym she turned away from her apartment and into Constitution Hill. Halfway up she disappeared into a nail bar. As I took up a position a little further up the hill I considered how nearly I had missed this opportunity of observing what might well be a regular Thursday routine. If it was, this could be an ideal time to take her. The walk between the gym and the manicurist’s looked promising. The streets around there, although close to the city centre, were very quiet at that time of day, but obviously there was a lot of CCTV.
An hour after she had entered the nail bar, ignoring double yellows Stretton’s Jaguar pulled up and waited. This was interesting. She could have walked back – it wasn’t raining. Domestic details like this encouraged my growing conviction that through Trudy we could gain very persuasive power over Mr Stretton.
15
Yangku is a handsome man, tall and slender, his dark hair neatly cut with a side parting. Many of the Dragons prefer to shave their heads. I do myself. For me it is a visual link with Shaolin monks of my Chinese heritage; others see it as a sign of toughness, of being, in the Western way, a hard man.
Yangku is a young man, still only in the middle of his twenties, but he conducts himself with the dignity of one who is older and more experienced. His dress is impressive. He uses the same tailor as Hsinshu, a declaration of his ambition, for such suits are very expensive. But his modest behaviour reduces the suspicion with which the openly ambitious are usually regarded. Most importantly, though, he is a man of courage. I saw not a flicker from him as he and I hoisted Jimmy Slim through the window on the sixteenth floor of Nimrod House; it was to here that he had now returned at my invitation.
Sharing food from my cousin Feiyang’s restaurant round the corner, I told Yangku of my plan for Trudy. I explained that I wanted him, above all others, to help me in this endeavour. An easy smile took his lips and he bowed his head politely. ‘It will be an honour to assist Shuko in anything he requires.’
‘We will take her on her way to the manicurist’s.’ I pointed to the map laid out beside us. ‘She turns from St Stephen’s Square, here. A few metres down is a narrow passageway. As she passes I will step out – with a gun. You will have the car level at exactly this time. She will not struggle when she sees the gun. She is not a stupid woman. I will tell her she is safe so long as she co-operates.’
Yangku spoke his question confidently, and it needed to be asked. ‘If Stretton co-operates then I am sure she will be safe. But if he does not?’
Would I resort to soft words, to euphemism? Yankgu watched. ‘Then we will kill her,’ I told him.
16
‘My name is Shuko. I am the negotiator for the Chinese syndicate. We met when I visited Mr Stretton at the Norway Room.’
‘I remember.’ The voice was cool. ‘What do you want?’
‘Merely a couple of minutes of your time. The opportunity, hopefully, to explain to you things we would like Mr Stretton to know, that might help to resolve the current unsatisfactory situation.’
This was a moment of maximum risk. I waited. There was nothing more I could do. The intercom clicked off and the electronic lock of the entrance buzzed its release.
The concierge moved from his desk. ‘Good morning, sir. Number eleven. It is on the third floor. The lift is this way.’ He made to turn.
‘I’ll take the stairs.’
‘Very good, sir. Over here.’
I wondered as I climbed the stairs if she was now on the phone to Stretton. I had watched him leave an hour ago. This was a gamble. If I could persuade Trudy to make Stret
ton see the reality of the situation it would save time, money and possibly bloodshed.
When I turned into the corridor she was there, in the doorway of number eleven, leaning against the door to keep it open. A simple red dress, bare feet, bare legs. She glanced, surprised, at the flowers I carried.
‘White flowers. A symbol of peace.’
Her golden hair shimmered as she turned pushing the door with sufficient strength for me to follow her in before it started to close.
‘In here.’
It was hard to believe that anything had ever been cooked in this large kitchen that shone with magazine perfection. Pop music was playing in another room. I placed the flowers on the counter. She looked at them, then at me.
‘Nice music.’ I remarked. ‘Who is it?’
She pressed an indentation on the unit beside her and a drawer slid open from which she took cigarettes, a gold lighter, an ashtray. She lit a cigarette, inhaled, and leaned back against the counter. ‘Take That.’
‘Very nice. Thank you for seeing me, Trudy. I don’t wish to be familiar, but I do not know your surname.’ There was no response. ‘It is not I think Mrs Stretton.’
‘Trudy is fine.’ The smoke rose in a slender, unwavering column above her.
‘Not Mrs Stretton, but I know Mr Stretton is very fond of you – that you are fond of each other. And given your affection for him, I am hoping that you might be able to persuade him to negotiate.’
There was a snort of derision and her lovely hair swayed. ‘If he knew you were here he would kill you.’ The words were aimed. The eyes hard and direct. The gloss on her pink lips shone like everything else in this room – it was just the smoke that changed things.
‘The people I represent, who want to buy the Norway Room—’
‘The Dragons. I know who you are.’
‘– are powerful people …’
‘The Dragon is a mythical creature. Fiction,’ she sneered. ‘You don’t frighten us. I know that might come as a shock to you, but it’s true.’ Her Birmingham accent was strong.
‘Those I represent’, I persisted, ‘are powerful people, Trudy, with access to resources beyond finance. Mr Stretton has resorted to an almost military style of defence, in response to our initial overtures—’
‘Overtures. What sort of music starts with burst of gunfire?’
‘I am no expert on European music but I believe that Beethoven starts a symphony with cannon fire, perhaps not—’
‘Very clever.’
‘Look, Trudy, the people I represent, yes, the Dragons, they are not going away. Mr Stretton may not recognise this fact of life, but I hope you will. Your lover’s little army is unsustainable. You know how these people work. We could go in with a better offer and they would change sides immediately. Mercenaries do. We just have to wait.’
‘You’ll wait till hell freezes over. He’s not going anywhere. Don’t you understand? It’s our club, and it’s staying that way. You’re not the first, you know. Crawford’s been trying to get his hands on it for years, and there have been others too. But it’s still ours.’
‘An hour ago I watched Mr Stretton leave here. He didn’t see me, but I was watching him. I have come unarmed. All I have is a bouquet of flowers – and reason. But you don’t seem impressed by either.’
We looked directly at each other. I smiled. She didn’t blink, didn’t move. But something was changing. She inhaled again. The scarlet nail varnish that she wore on both her hands and feet matched her dress, and in that still moment as she smoked and thought I had to resist the urge to touch her. Just gently. A finger stroking her arm perhaps.
‘When a successful transfer of the ownership of the Norway Room is complete, my employer would like you to become its manager. You have worked with Mr Stretton for a long time, you know how everything operates, you know the staff.’ I allowed myself another smile. She was listening, but it was impossible to tell what she was thinking. ‘You are tough, Trudy, bright. You would do a good job. And your salary would be high, very high.’ I could not resist the temptation of the word – though it is not easy to say. ‘Commensurate with your responsibilities.’ A reaction. Only a movement of the eyes, but it was there. I moved a step closer. Put my hand on the counter, leaned in a little. She didn’t move. ‘I can see you enjoy a high standard of living, appreciate quality. That you have a taste for the finer things in life.’ She turned a little to look at me – always direct. We had reached a point in the road, a junction – and I took the path most travelled by men like me. ‘And you have been prepared to pay a high price, a hard price for it.’ A different look. Quick. Intense. I think she knew what was coming. Realised she had been lulled. ‘To leave a husband, well that is nothing. But to abandon a child for your lover, for the good life…’ Her cigarette came down on my hand with sufficient control for it rest for a second before she pressed and turned stubbing it out. It was too quick to prevent a wince, but I kept the hand in place. And she was immediately away from the counter, upright, assessing my reaction, ready, her face raised defiantly; obviously a woman used to violent men, but not one to succumb to them.
Satisfied there would be no retaliation she returned the dead cigarette end to the ashtray which she carried across the kitchen. The press of another indentation opened a cupboard revealing a waste bin. There was a pocket in the skirt of her red dress, as carefully disguised as the cupboards and drawers in the kitchen. She took from it a small vial and sprayed her mouth.
She walked back to the sink and turned on the tap. ‘Here.’ And this was when she came closest to a smile. I raised my fist into the stream of cold water and watched her looking at it; there was comfort in the moment.
She took a towel from another concealed area and threw it at me. ‘Now look Mr Fat Chinaman. You and your powerful mates can make me all the big promises you like. You can obviously find out anything you want. But I could try every trick in the book, every trick’ – she repeated the two words clearly and slowly as if I might be lip-reading – ‘and there is no way Stret is going to give in to you lot. He’s the same as you, that’s what you have to realise. He may not be part of a syndicate as you call it, he’s not a gangster like the Crawford mob. He’s a businessman, but he’s just as hard, just as tough as the rest of you, and he’s going to hold on to what’s his. He enjoys the battles. Like you all do.’
‘And you, do you enjoy the battles?’
‘I hate to see anyone getting hurt, Mr Fat Man.’ She picked up the flowers. ‘These are lovely, and thanks, but no thanks. You must have lots of mates in the cemetery, why don’t you drop them in there on your way home.’
I counted the flowers before dropping them in a bin. Three white roses, two white chrysanthemums, three white carnations and two white lilies. It is just such bouquets as these, a mixture of white flowers, that one sees Chinese families carrying to cemeteries on the morning of Ching Ming, the festival of the ancestors. The husband carries the flowers, the wife the cleaning bag with which to attend to the family tombs, the child the picnic they will share when their task is done. Three white roses, two white chrysanthemums, three white carnations and two white lilies – I would see that exactly this bouquet awaited her when she came as my guest to the sixteenth floor of Nimrod House. I would go before that time to Miss Blossom’s Oriental Emporium in Digbeth and purchase a Chinese pot, one of the large white ones with a pattern of blue dragons. This I would place, filled with her rejected bouquet, beside the futon upon which she would sleep while she was my guest.
It would have been easy then, as I walked away from St Stephen’s Square, to let my imagination play, making pictures of Trudy lying on the futon, the dragon jar of white flowers beside her. I resisted, and concentrated instead on the practicalities of my plan. I would get final approval from Hsinshu and then settle on dates and times with Yangku. The purchase of futon, vase and flowers would be the final act of preparation – the last thing I would do for her.
ASHLEY
17
There were none in casualty, although it looked like the front line: full of bleeding, broken, sighing people. An old woman sat with her foot up on a chair. It was wrapped in a towel, blood seeping through. Ashley registered; Kieran said he was his uncle, next of kin.
They took it in turns going outside to a little cubicle like a bus shelter that was the only place you were allowed to smoke. Ashley had lit up right outside the casualty doors and was surprised when Kieran had said, ‘Behave, Ash. This is a hospital. Go in there.’ The first time there were three women in there with him, all in dressing gowns, all patients, the second, two girls and a kid in a buggy, the third a young bloke in a wheelchair with only one leg, and that was only half, thickly bandaged. A bandaged stump really. Ashley asked him if he was from Iraq. ‘No,’ he said. Then, after a long pause, ‘Motorbike.’ He was still there the next time Ashley went back, chaining.
The nose was broken. But no ribs. Nothing hurt. ‘It will,’ the doctor told him. ‘Tomorrow. For a few days.’ They cleaned him up. Four stitches under his eye. Checked his teeth. ‘Seem okay. See how they go.’ Kieran told the doctor it was a fight, with the kid next door. ‘Big lad. Much bigger than Dean.’ That was the name they had given. No, they weren’t going to report it. Just a fight between lads. There was a fight going on in the waiting room as they left.