by Jan Toms
‘Good afternoon, Mr Hickman.’
It was nice that, being recognised. Barry liked it too because she was polite, realised that he was one of the bosses.
‘What you doing tonight?’ he blurted out.
‘Working, Mr Hickman.’
‘And afterwards?’
She shrugged and smiled.
Amazed at himself, he said, ‘Good. I’ll pick you up then. What’s your name?’
‘Elaine.’
‘You can call me Barry.’
He walked out of the club and onto Ryde’s Union Street with a jaunty step, clutching the canvas bag in which the money was secreted. At the bottom of the hill, the glittering seascape of the Solent showed a startling cascade of sunlight on the water. As he made his way to the office he was jostled by holidaymakers. This was the busiest time of the year for the tourist trade – lobster pink parents, toddlers painted war-paint white to keep the sun at bay. These passing visitors were not the clients of the club, but they put money into the pockets of those who were.
It wasn’t far to his destination and, cushioning the bag against his chest, Barry concentrated on the night ahead. It was the first time he had dared to proposition one of the girls. Quickly he fought down any misgivings about how he might perform. Instead he dwelt on the misfortune of being the youngest in his family.
More than ten years separated him from his brothers – Harold (Harry) and Garfield (Gary) – an unfortunate interlude when their old man, Lawrence, known as Larry, had been in Parkhurst. Once Hickman Senior was released, there had been some more trouble and he had fled to Spain, leaving the rest of them to ‘run’ things while he orchestrated events from afar.
Barry missed his father. He had been his favourite son. The other two had always seemed to be grown up, been expected to look after themselves, but Barry had been the baby. Unfortunately, his brothers still treated him as if he was a child, even though he was twenty-one. It was two years since he had seen Larry, his dad. He still missed him.
Never mind though, he’d actually asked that girl out. He thought of the number of times he’d chickened out, gone over the words in his mind but in the end never quite had the nerve to say anything. Meanwhile, Harry and Gary seemed to work their way through all the girls in the club. He was fed up with being teased about being scared of women. This time he’d show them. Elaine was going to be his.
Arriving at the office, it was Barry’s job to count the money and see if the figures added up. If they didn’t, he was to tell Gary and he would sort it out.
To look at the modest frontage of the Victorian terrace in Prince Arthur Court, one would never think that it was the headquarters of an international syndicate. The narrow front door was flaked in green paint, the once cream stucco on the walls was peeling and the downstairs windows were conveniently coated with years of grime. Juggling the bag, Barry slipped the key into the lock and turned it, pushing the door open and stepping into a neglected stairwell. Slamming the door behind him, he took the stairs two at a time.
Upstairs it was a different matter, like stepping from a tenement into a palace. On the first floor Barry had his own small room. Like the three bears in the fairytale, the brothers had an office each, but as the eldest Harry had the biggest, while Gary had the middle-sized one and it was left to Barry to make do with the smallest. He spent much of his time feeling affronted.
Quickly he sat down at his desk and went to work. As he counted piles of notes he felt an all-too-familiar sense of what he thought of as exam nerves, that feeling that came when he knew that later he would have to prove himself, be the man he wasn’t sure he was.
A couple of hours later, just as he was getting ready to go over to the club and wait for Elaine, his brother Harry sent word that there was going to be a board meeting. Urgent.
‘What, now?’ he asked the messenger.
‘That’s what the Gov said.’
It annoyed Barry that Harry was always called the Gov, or sometimes Boss. Just because he was the eldest didn’t automatically put him in charge. Anyway, the real boss was Dad; only he still couldn’t come back to England because the Filth was after him. He’d heard that every port and airport in the country had a permanent notice up to look out for him. In a funny way it pleased him, for it showed that his Dad was really important.
Feeling fed up, he walked along to the boardroom. The corridor was lined with mock marble pillars and each room leading off had large sash windows and heavy curtains. From the window he could see the building opposite that housed a bank and a property development company. The developer had his eyes on the Hickman building, thinking to pull it down and renovate it. They had no idea what it was like inside, the expensive wallpaper, Persian carpets, chandeliers and genuine antiques. There were proper portraits in oils on the walls too, of old-fashioned, rich people. Nothing was said, but those admitted inside were left to conclude that they were Hickman ancestors, part of a dynasty. Barry couldn’t suppress a sense of achievement. His dad had taste all right. Proper posh was that, it screamed money.
The boardroom was kitted out with a long, gleaming mahogany table, and twelve comfortable chairs ranged on each side. Barry couldn’t ever remember when there had been more than five people around the table, but it looked good.
An ornate silver inkstand thing with a rearing horse stood in the middle and each place setting had a leather pad in front of it with a leather-bound notebook and a pen, not a plastic one but made of silver. They had been expensive and Harry had moaned because someone had walked off with one of them. Crystal glasses and a heavy water jug stood on a tray on the side table, and a sideboard doubled as a drinks cabinet.
Barry was the first to arrive and he walked silently across the deeply carpeted floor to the window. In the street below, a Bentley was just pulling in at the kerbside. It bore the registration HH I. His brother Harry knew how to look good. Barry was hoping to get something similar with BH I but unfortunately he had failed his driving test – eleven times. Barry had sulked and asked why they couldn’t simply buy him a licence, but Harry insisted that he should pass his test legit and he was not to drive until he had done so. ‘We’ve got to be kosher Bar, can’t have you getting done for driving without a proper licence, can we? Besides, you can always have a chauffeur.’
Having a chauffeur was alright but it wasn’t the same.
A few moments later, the boardroom door opened and Harry and Gary came in along with Sonia, a former dancer at The Earthly Delights and now Harry’s secretary. She was also his mistress. Barry studied her and thought that she wasn’t nearly as pretty as Elaine at the club.
‘How long is this going to take?’ he asked.
‘As long as it takes.’
They took their places around the table, Harry of course at the head and Gary and Barry on either side. Barry noticed that his elder brother always sat on Harry’s right – his right-hand man. It was like some Bible thing he remembered – about sitting on the right hand of God. Their mother had brought them up to go to church. ‘You need to know the right way to live,’ she had always said. ‘A good grounding in religion and in table manners and you can go anywhere.’
‘Right, the meeting is called to order.’ Harry banged on the table with a gavel.
Why did he have to behave as if there were dozens of people present instead of just him and his brothers? Barry opened his notebook and wrote Eelayne on the first page, then he sketched a sort of hourglass girl with top-heavy tits. He was not very good at drawing.
‘Right, item one.’
Sonia was seated below Harry and taking notes. He tried to catch her eye but she ignored him.
Harry was talking. ‘As you all know, Reggie and Randy Rodriguez have both been locked up. This, as you will realise, is important. With business left in the hands of Roger Rodriguez – ‘Dodge’ – they are in a vulnerable state. This, gentlemen, is our chance.’
Barry drew another picture of Elaine, bending forward and waving her tassels at him.
He felt warm and yet nervous at the prospect of meeting her. He wondered why Harry couldn’t talk normally instead of putting on that public school accent he was so fond of using. Silly sod.
‘What have you got in mind?’ Gary asked.
‘Simple. A take-over.’
‘And how do we go about that?’
‘We-ell,’ Harry paused significantly and looked around at them. ‘We,’ he said, turning his attention to Gary, ‘need to go and see Pop in Spain, urgently. Sonia’s already booked the tickets so we are leaving tomorrow. That means…’ He now settled his eyes on Barry, who was busy colouring in his portrait of Elaine, ‘You will have to take charge of things. Do you think you are up to it?’
Barry was caught unawares. He couldn’t stop the panic momentarily showing in his eyes before he managed to say, ‘Of course I am.’
‘That’s alright then.’
Barry’s mind was working overtime. There was a lot to oversee – the clubs, the drug runs, the money, everything.
His thoughts were interrupted as Harry said, ‘We can’t afford to wait. I want you to set things in motion.’
Having no idea what things Harry was referring to, Barry hoped for enlightenment. Fortunately it soon came.
‘We’ve heard through certain sources that the Rodriguez boys are having trouble with a certain smuggling scam. They’re planning to sort it out – permanently. They’re going to send Gruesome Hewson to fix it.’ Here he paused significantly and looked at Barry. ‘You, my son, will arrange to fix Hewson.’
‘How?’ The question was out before he could stop it and he cursed himself. If he had waited, no doubt Harry would have told him the solution and he wouldn’t have looked such an idiot.
Harry, however, showed no irritation. ‘We need to keep our hands clean on this one. We need to get someone special in, someone who can be in and out before anyone even realises.’
Barry waited for his brother to give him more details, a name, a telephone number, but he merely said, ‘Get Vincenzo Verdi.’
Who? Panic began to set in, for Barry had never heard of him. Gary was looking increasingly restless. Clearly, he wanted to get away. Harry tidied a pile of papers he had placed on the desk in front of him.
‘Er, what about payment?’ Barry asked, hoping for some clue, anything that might explain what he was supposed to do.
‘Twenty grand should do it. Use the Swiss account. Right, any other business?’
Barry had plenty – like where in hell was he to find this Vincenzo Verdi, how did he get in touch with him and what was he to tell him to do? But before he could formulate any of his questions, Harry announced, ‘That’s it, the meeting is closed,’ swept up his files and prepared to leave the room with Gary on his tail.
‘Harry!’ Barry called out. At the door his brother slowed down but looked impatient. ‘Where do I find this Verdi?’ he asked, feeling humiliated in front of Gary.
Harry shrugged. ‘Rumour is that he’s somewhere in the area – oh, and he might be using the name Vincent Green – you know, verdi is green in Italian.’
Barry didn’t know. Already Harry was off down the corridor with his shadow Gary in pursuit. Barry was left alone with his thoughts.
He continued to sit at the table. In his notebook, beside the portraits of Elaine, he had written Get Vinnie Verdi. £20k. Knock off Hewson.
Easy-peasy.
The evening out with Elaine was not a success. It turned out that she was a student topping up her university fees and this was just a summer job. She was doing something called a D Fill, whatever that was, and her naturally educated voice made Barry feel nervous.
The firm’s odd-job man, Sean, was appointed to drive Barry for the evening, so he took Elaine to the Bai Ram Singh club along Shanklin’s Keat’s Green, where there was late dining. The club was named after some Indian bloke who had done a spot of decorating for Queen Victoria. Like the Durbar Room at Osborne House, where the Queen had spent her holidays, the Bai Ram Singh was coated in ornate white papier-mâché decoration, with statues of elephants and peacocks and other Indian gods. As they waited for their food, Elaine told him all about university life and her plans to be a lecturer. They had a couple of dances. Barry liked to dance but the proximity of Elaine made him clumsy and he kept treading on her toes.
‘Sorry.’
‘Not to worry.’ She laughed and he thought that this was how she treated the customers, always polite although what she was thinking was anyone’s guess.
When it came time to leave, Barry’s invitation to come back to his place was politely refused.
‘Go on, just for a nightcap?’ he pleaded.
‘No thanks, really. My boyfriend will be waiting up for me.’
‘Boyfriend? Then what did you come out with me for if you’ve got a boyfriend?’ His initial disappointment made Barry’s tone petulant, although already relief was beginning to flood him. He had drunk rather a lot and a wild thought came to him. ‘Why don’t you dump him and move in with me?’ That would show his brothers what he was made of!
Elaine looked amused. She even laughed. ‘I don’t know you. Rick and I are doing the same degree. Besides which, we get on well together.’
‘Then why did you come out with me?’
She gave an endearing little shrug. ‘To be honest, I was curious. I wondered what it would be like to be a gangster’s moll, like in all the films – sorry.’
She didn’t even wait for a lift home, just picked up her jacket, popped a kiss on his cheek, thanked him for the meal and walked out, leaving him feeling as if he was about twelve. He sat there for ages, trying to look calm and confident. To be honest, he was hugely relieved that she had gone and, on the plus side, she thought of him as a gangster. This thing with women, however, it reminded him of having to learn to swim. He remembered teetering on the edge of a diving board, his head already swimming with fear and his brothers teasing him.
‘Go on Bar, jump!’
In the end he was pushed. He’d literally taken the plunge and survived without drowning, but he still didn’t like swimming.
Meanwhile, invading every thought was the problem of how to find Vincenzo Verdi, aka Vincent Green.
Two days later and Barry was no nearer to finding a solution. It even kept him awake at night. If he failed over this then Harry would probably take away the few duties he had already entrusted him with. Everyone would know about it and he would be a laughing stock.
It was his night for picking up the takings at the Prince Leopold, along Sandown’s seafront. It was a glorious evening, the sun lancing down its last spears of light onto the sea. The beach was nearly deserted and the enveloping hiss of the waves was broken only by the occasional echoing growl from the tigers in the neighbouring zoo.
Sean dropped him at the entrance to the club and he walked into the office, where he found the manager, Bernie Lowther, reading the paper.
‘You seen this?’ Bernie asked by way of greeting. He pushed the Clarion towards Barry. Barry didn’t read too well but he struggled through the gist of the thing. What he saw caused his eyes to widen. It was rather a weird story about some bloke falling out of a tree and snuffing out another bloke passing by, but the dead bloke was none other than Tommy Hewson.
It also said that the first bloke up in the tree was called Vincent Green. Brilliant! Barry thought that before he left for Spain Harry must have made contact with the hitman after all. What a relief. The paper even printed his address. He felt a huge weight lifted from his shoulders. All he had to do now was send him the cheque.
Back in the office later, he dug out the paperwork for the Swiss account and carefully wrote out a cheque for £20,000. Just to make his mark he thought he’d add a little note of his own: Be more discreet next time. Discreet was a word he had come across recently and, although he wasn’t sure exactly what it meant, he thought it had something to do with being careful. Dropping blokes out of trees onto other blokes didn’t sound at all discreet to him.
&nb
sp; Satisfied with his evening’s work, he placed the note and cheque in an envelope, carefully copied the address from the Clarion, stuck on a stamp and popped it in the post.
FIVE
Constable Alan Grimes let himself in at the front door of his home at No. 24 Prince Consort Crescent to be greeted by the aroma of cooking. From the kitchen he could hear banging and sizzling and a low commentary on the food’s progress from his daughter Charity.
‘Hello? What’s this?’ he asked, falsely jolly, poking his head around the door.
Charity, looking rather flustered, was chasing something unidentifiable around a frying pan.
‘Chicken.’
‘Chicken?’ He perked up.
‘Well, Quorn.’
‘Quorn.’ Charity, a great animal lover, had transformed the house into a meat-free zone. Since her arrival back at home a month ago, Alan had been treated to all kinds of culinary mysteries, some of which he would have been happy to forego.
He had just been getting used to being alone. Margaret, his wife, had died eight months ago, a blow because it was so sudden, a tumble down the steps of an escalator on a day trip to London, then complications, and then the awful news.
Both his daughters had come flying home to offer comfort. Charity worked in Guildford as manager in a branch of M&S. Prudence lived in Chelmsford and was married to Ray, who ran a builders’ merchants yard. Prudence didn’t work but looked after their two boys, Ralph and Geoffrey. Both daughters had been full of advice.
‘You are coming up to retirement Dad, why on earth don’t you sell up and come and live with us?’ – this from Prudence. The thought of incarceration in Essex with Pru and her family made him gratefully but firmly decline the suggestion, no easy task in the face of her determination to look after him.