by Tom Bale
Joe shrugged. He was still holding the phone, hoping there would be a call, a text. An explanation. He let it eat away at him for a while, and then said what was on his mind.
‘The text came from Alise’s phone. It didn’t necessarily come from Alise. Every time I call, the phone’s switched off. And the girl she was staying with didn’t mention anything about her leaving.’
‘Yes.’ Diana sounded puzzled. ‘And?’
‘Well, bearing in mind the accusations that Alise was making, I wonder if Leon might have taken some action of his own?’
‘Are you saying he not only abducted the sister, but now he’s taken Alise as well?’ She shook her head. ‘If you believe he’s capable of that, how can you even consider going to work for him …?’ She faltered, saw the apologetic grin on his face. ‘Oh, Joe. Why can’t you leave things alone?’
The question had the feel of a general lament. It prompted him to ask: ‘Could Roy?’
But Diana went on as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘Lord knows, the last undercover work you did brought tragedy upon your family.’
He held up his hand. ‘I took the job because the money will come in handy. Because I’m not comfortable accepting handouts, and because I can’t just sit around doing nothing all day.’ He gave a sad smile. ‘I’m becoming a stubborn old fool, like my dad.’
‘Happens to us all, I’m afraid. Turning into our parents.’
Another easy, gentle silence. Joe took a sip of wine before he spoke again. ‘Diana, I really don’t mean to pry, but I can’t help thinking that something’s wrong here.’
She looked at him, her eyes shining. ‘Here?’ she repeated.
He nodded. ‘With you. Glenn. Leon. Alise. Trelennan. The whole place feels like it’s off-kilter, somehow.’
She went on staring at him for a long time, then abruptly shook her head.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Thirty-Seven
‘VICTOR SMITH.’
Leon gestured at Fenton to stop the tape. ‘What?’
‘Victor Smith,’ Glenn repeated.
He was standing by Leon’s desk, one hand on his mouth. While he listened to the recording he kept pulling his bottom lip out and letting it plop back into place. Leon had a stapler to hand; he’d seriously thought about throwing it at Glenn, or maybe stapling his lips together. Now, at last, there was something positive to distract him.
‘Who the hell is Victor Smith?’
Glenn shut his eyes, pushed his fingers through his hair.
‘One of the guys hanging round with Larry … Milligan, five or six years ago. The cut-and-shut merchants, up in Cheshire someplace.’
There was silence while they considered it: Leon, Fenton, Derek Cadwell and Warren Fry. Half-eight in the morning, and Glenn was a bit livelier than the rest of them. Fenton had teased him about it: ‘Staked your claim last night, did you?’
‘No, ’cause I had to go to Plymouth, didn’t I? Traffic was shit. By the time I got back I decided on an early night.’
‘Anyone else clued up on this Smith bloke?’ Leon asked.
Shrugs. Blank looks. Then Warren said, ‘It does ring a bell.’
‘Rod Dutton might know,’ Glenn said. ‘He was connected to Milligan’s lot.’
Fenton sat forward on the sofa, spraying flakes of his third croissant on to the carpet. ‘So do we confront Smith with this knowledge?’
‘No way,’ Leon said. To Glenn: ‘Where do you reckon he lives?’
‘Dunno. I can ask around. Start with Rod. Do it subtle, like.’
‘Yeah. Find out where he’s likely to be right now. Then we plan the counter-attack.’
The phone buzzed: an internal call. Fenton took it and reported: ‘He’s here. Twenty minutes early.’
‘That’s keen,’ Cadwell remarked. But he didn’t like the idea of Joe working for Leon, and had made his views clear. Leon had ignored him. It was none of Cadwell’s business.
‘Off you go,’ Leon told Glenn. ‘Show him round, then rustle me up an address for Victor fucking Smith.’
Joe felt like a new boy on the first day of term. Not anxious, particularly; it was more a kind of weary anticipation of the processes that lay ahead. Knowing he’d have to find his way. Knowing, also, that his presence wouldn’t be welcomed by some.
The front door was opened by a lean Welshman with dark hair and ears like walnuts, who introduced himself as Phil Venning. He told Joe to wait in the hall, then vanished into a side room. Joe glimpsed a desk laden with CCTV monitors.
The wine last night had left him with a thick head. He’d eaten breakfast with Diana, who seemed to have suffered no ill effects. The conversation didn’t stray from neutral ground.
He walked up to Leon’s during a dry spell between heavy showers. Alise’s phone was still switched off, so he sent her a text, then put the whole issue aside. Time to focus on work.
* * *
The man who strode out to greet him was tall and ruggedly handsome, with strong features and big brown puppy-dog eyes. Joe could see how Diana had fallen for him.
‘Joe Carter,’ he said, offering his hand.
‘Glenn Hicks.’ Glenn had a crushing grip, and Joe had to make an effort not to wince. ‘I hear you and Di go back a long time?’
‘Yeah. I was friends with Di and Roy for years.’
A muscle in Glenn’s jaw twitched at the mention of Roy’s name. ‘Right. Quick tour before you start. This is the base for most of our operations, so you’ll be in and out a lot.’
He marched across the hall, and it struck Joe that this was also the man he’d glimpsed in an upstairs window on Wednesday, watching him out on the decking.
‘Upstairs is Leon’s private quarters. Totally out of bounds at all times.’
‘Okay.’ Joe wondered if every new employee received such a stern warning.
‘Down here, it’s pretty much all public.’ Glenn pointed out the living room where Joe had first met Leon, as well as the larger room used as an office. Joe could hear the faint murmur of voices from inside the room.
‘With the office, you knock first and wait to be called.’
Next was the kitchen. Joe was introduced to the housekeeper, Pam, a plump, homely woman in her sixties. She had two enormous frying pans on the go, filled with about thirty rashers of bacon. She paused in cutting open a stack of bread rolls and beamed at Joe.
‘I do my best to keep you all fed and watered, don’t I?’ She gave Glenn a simpering look, and almost melted when he winked at her.
Then into the depths of the house, and a storage room full of boxes and cartons, their contents unspecified. Finally Glenn opened what appeared to be a cupboard door, revealing a set of stairs. ‘Basement,’ he said.
He led the way down to a large, comfortable den that reeked of maleness. A low ceiling, studded with spotlights. Walls painted dark brown, adorned with black and white prints of nude women that were just slightly too graphic to be called artistic. A thick beige carpet and black leather sofas placed like pews before a gigantic TV screen. Games consoles and DVDs and a rack full of men’s magazines.
‘You can hang out here between jobs.’ Glenn showed him an alcove with a kitchenette. ‘Tea and coffee in there. Toilet’s the other side, but the plumbing’s dodgy.’ He snickered. ‘If you’re gonna drop a bomb, best use the upstairs loo.’
Joe said nothing. With no natural light, and the over-illumination of the spots, he imagined it wouldn’t take too long down here to end up with a hell of a tension headache.
He had a sudden flashback to the Shell Cavern: the sense of being trapped; the pounding water; a scream in the darkness …
He shook off the memory, saw Glenn frowning at him, then realised the pounding noise wasn’t just a memory. He tilted his head, listening hard. There was a deep thrumming sound, like blood heard through a stethoscope.
‘The falls.’ Glenn indicated the wall on which the TV was mounted. ‘The ravine’s about three feet away, but there’s a stat
e-of-the-art waterproof membrane. Nothing can penetrate it.’
As they headed back upstairs, he launched into an explanation of the process involved. It bored Joe rigid but he was grateful just to get out of there.
In the kitchen Pam was assembling a mountain of bacon butties on a silver platter. Both men helped themselves, adding brown sauce from a catering-size bottle on the unit.
Glenn wolfed his down in a couple of quick bites and opened the back door. It was raining hard again, rustling in the trees and beating on the roof. Under cover of the veranda, Glenn lit up as Joe followed him around the back of the house.
‘No smoking indoors,’ he muttered. ‘Pain in the arse, but there it is.’
They reached the corner by the viewing platform. Two men were huddled close to the set of doors that Joe had used the other day. One was in an LRS uniform, a paunchy middle-aged man in glasses, introduced as Warren. The other one, in cargo pants and a lumberjack coat, was Bruce. About forty, broad and muscular, with short black hair and a closely trimmed beard. Joe made an effort to shake hands; Warren just settled for a nod.
They stood and made small talk, while Glenn sucked on his cigarette and glowered at no one in particular. Joe stepped out from the veranda and onto the viewing platform to take a look at the falls. The water was frothing and churning a little more wildly today, swilling leaves and other debris along with it.
‘You wanna be careful,’ Bruce called out. ‘That rail’s not very secure.’
‘Yeah. Bloody cowboy builders,’ Warren added. Both men were sniggering.
Glenn gave them a sour look. ‘I built this,’ he explained.
‘Really?’ Joe said. ‘You’re a useful man to have around.’
Without a hint of modesty, Glenn nodded. ‘Yeah. I am.’ And he turned and stalked back along the veranda.
Joe reached the kitchen door in time to hear a burst of giggles from Pam. Glenn had snatched another buttie from under her nose.
‘Jesus, these are too good. You’re gonna make me fat.’
‘Ooh, I hope not.’ She patted his belly. ‘You look just right as you are.’ She saw Joe and smiled. ‘Are you having another one?’
‘He hasn’t got time,’ Glenn said.
The next stop was the living room, and the big functional cupboard. Glenn took out a worksheet and attached it to a clipboard. ‘Did Leon explain the set-up?’
‘Not in any detail.’
‘Right. Listen up.’ He perched on the arm of a sofa. ‘There are various businesses. Some of ’em, like the security firm, you won’t get involved in at all. Too many regulations. Same with the taxis. Insurance costs a fortune, and the bastards will jump on any reason to avoid paying out.’ Glenn sighed, tapping the clipboard in his lap.
‘With the vending company, the pubs and whatnot, we can be a bit more flexible. They’re spread out all over the South-West, and most days we get problems. Someone goes sick, or has to change his shift. Your job’s to fill in for any absences.’
‘Okay.’
‘The actual work’s a doddle. An idiot could do it.’ Glenn raised one eyebrow, cryptically, as though he hadn’t yet decided if Joe fell within that definition. ‘The money’s not great, but on the plus side nobody cares how many hours you do. Especially as I hear you’re completely off the books?’
He turned the statement into a question, so Joe had to nod.
‘Of course we’ll need some ID. Proof of a clean driving licence, as a minimum.’
Joe had a licence in the name of ‘Joe Carter’ in his pocket. He’d hoped they wouldn’t ask to see it, but hadn’t really believed he could be that fortunate. He showed it to Glenn, who plucked it from his hand and stood up. ‘Just got to make a copy for our records.’
He slipped out of the room, and Joe felt a tiny chill creep along his spine. This was a stupid idea. Diana was right. He was crazy to be getting involved with an organisation like this. If they subjected the ID to any careful scrutiny …
Glenn was back, giving no sign that anything was amiss. He returned the licence and said, ‘I’d better take your mobile number, as well.’
He jotted it down, then consulted the clipboard. ‘Truro’s gone to shit. Derek Stillwell and his slipped disc.’ He indicated an address on the worksheet. ‘Threemilestone industrial estate, just west of Truro. Ask for Brian. Once you’re loaded, you’ve got five deliveries and a collection. The vans have satnav, and getting lost doesn’t wash it with Leon. He’ll work out the time and dock your money.’
‘What about meal breaks?’
‘Grab a burger or something. But don’t take too long.’ Back to the clipboard. ‘Your last call is Padstow. Right next door is St Merryn. You need to collect a guy called Carl and drop him off at the Crow’s Nest, which is a pub about a mile out of Trelennan.’
Joe nodded. He vaguely remembered seeing the sign on Tuesday night. That already seemed like a long time ago: Bristol, Ryan Whittaker, Lindsey Bevan …
‘Earth to driver!’ Glenn clicked his fingers in front of Joe’s face. ‘Any questions?’
‘No.’
‘Good. You’re in the Vauxhall Combo. Make sure you’re back before six, because that’s when Carl’s shift starts. He can’t afford to be late, which means neither can you.’
He gave Joe a long stare, clearly debating whether to add something.
‘What’s on your mind?’ Joe asked.
‘How long you planning to stay at Di’s?’
Joe kept his tone neutral. ‘I’m not sure yet. A week or two.’
‘A paying guest? I hear she’s put you up on the top floor.’
‘That’s right.’
Glenn went on staring at him, nodding slowly until it was clear that Joe had got the message: Stay away from my woman.
As Joe got up to leave, Glenn murmured: ‘You and Roy, eh? Best buddies?’
‘What about it?’
A tiny, twitchy shrug. ‘I never did like Roy.’
Thirty-Eight
WHEN VICTOR SMITH called back at midday, Leon was ready and waiting.
‘He’s a total loser,’ Glenn said. He’d spent the morning pushing his contacts for information. ‘Been on the slide for years. His wife died. Kids buggered off somewhere. Milligan and that crowd won’t touch him any more. He’s said to be scraping a living, fencing stolen copper, and that’s only because his brother-in-law’s a scrap-metal dealer.’ He gave Leon a rueful glance. ‘Oh, and he’s scamming the social for invalidity benefit.’
‘Scum,’ Leon spat. He didn’t believe in social security: thought you should either stand on your own feet, or starve – and if you starved, tough shit.
Glenn had a look on his face like he was expecting a rant. Leon, taking a deep breath, decided to let it pass.
‘If he’s been ostracised,’ Fenton chipped in, ‘how did he get to see the photo of Joe?’
‘He drinks in one of the pubs that Milligan’s lot use. Sounds like he hangs round them, hoping to worm his way back in.’
‘Is that going to happen?’
‘No chance. Milligan’s white-collar now. Making a fortune from insurance fraud – whiplash and all that. Cops don’t give a toss. Money for old rope.’
Leon scowled. He’d had a chance to get involved in a couple of similar schemes and had declined. Was Glenn having a dig at him?
Irritably, he said, ‘So where is he living?’
‘Possibly Tunstall, wherever that is.’
‘Stoke-on-Trent, if I recall correctly,’ Fenton said. When Glenn continued to look blank, he added: ‘The West Midlands. Between Birmingham and Manchester.’
‘Geography’s not your thing, eh, Glenn?’ Leon said. ‘Still, once you’ve been there you’ll know it for the future.’
Glenn crumpled. ‘You’re not serious?’
‘Course I am. I want an address, and I want it by tonight.’
Then the call itself. Leon didn’t want Smith to be spooked by putting him on speaker, so Fenton and Glenn had to share a handset, squas
hed together like lovers in a cinema.
‘Mr Race. I take it you’ve had some time to reflect?’
‘Fifty thousand. If the information’s good enough. You get half up front and the other half when we’re sure it all checks out.’
‘I said a hundred—’
‘Fifty,’ Leon repeated. ‘Paid in two stages. I don’t negotiate.’
‘In that case, we won’t be doing a deal.’
‘That picture went out to a lot of people. I’ve already had some promising calls.’
‘Well, of course you would say that …’
They all heard the desperation creeping into Smith’s voice. Leon sniffed.
‘Yeah. I do say that. So stop wasting my fucking time. Fifty or nothing.’
A long, pensive silence. Then sweet surrender.
‘Very well. Fifty grand in used notes.’ Smith’s tone became whiny and apologetic. ‘You understand how I’ve gotta be careful? It’s not an easy situation.’
‘Look, I’m a businessman. I’m after a good deal, but I’m not going to cheat you. If what you’ve got is of value to me, then I’ll pay for it. Simple as that.’
‘So what about the details? The where and when?’
‘For your sake, it needs to be tomorrow. I’m serious about those other calls. You know where I am, do you?’
‘Cornwall, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah. North coast. A town called Trelennan. You got a pen to take my address?’
‘I ain’t coming to your gaff. No offence, but I could walk through the door and get clonked on the head or something …’
Leon sighed. He moved the phone away from his ear, knowing that Smith would pick up on the alteration in the background noise. He had anticipated this objection. Welcomed it, in a way.
Smith said hurriedly, ‘It’s not that I mind travelling. Maybe somewhere neutral, like?’
Leon pretended to think. ‘There’s a place called the Crow’s Nest, a couple of miles out of town. A gastro pub.’
‘Gastro …?’
‘A pub that serves posh food. Saturday night, it’ll be packed. Safe as houses. No one’s gonna clonk you on the head.’