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  He slapped it, staring at his own hand afterwards and then at her retreating figure. Until he’d finished another cigarette, he wished he was twenty years younger.

  Chapter 7 Jeb

  Jeb had just taken the condom out of its packet when the door buzzer sounded. He always used condoms, and the girls saw him as a knight in shining armour for that reason. In reality, he was protecting himself more than them. He literally didn’t know where they’d been. Besides, he didn’t want anyone calling him Dad, ever. His childhood had taught him dads were evil, violent drunkards.

  “Aren’t you going to get that?” Charlene asked.

  “No way,” Jeb said, looking hungrily at her firm fifteen year old body. He’d waited long enough, letting Charlene have her hit before exacting his price. Usually, he wanted payment in advance, but she hadn’t brought enough cash. “I’m going to take it slow,” he promised her.

  The buzzer fell silent. Jeb began taking his pleasure. Charlene was tighter than most and she whimpered a lot, whether from pain or desire he didn’t care. He wasn’t doing this for her.

  Charlene heard the knocking first. “There’s someone at the door.”

  The thumping noise continued for ten minutes, growing louder. He heard the hinges rattle, and a man shout angrily, “Open up.”

  Jeb made a fist and rolled off the girl. He dragged a grubby blue dressing gown around his heavy frame. “I’ll sort it,” he told her, picking up a flick-knife to make sure.

  He peered through the glass spyhole in the front door. It was a young Asian man, seemingly unarmed. Jeb relaxed, expecting a potential customer. “All right, don’t wake the neighbours,” he said, unlocking the door. It was a top floor flat in a quiet East London backwater by Epping Forest. At 11am, the neighbours were probably out at work. All the same, Jeb didn’t like to draw too much attention to himself.

  The man who dashed into his lounge was furious. “I want my money back,” he shouted, black eyes flashing.

  “Ahmed,” Jeb said, recognising a previous client for one of his more specialist services. “What’s wrong? Bride not to your liking? I don’t offer a money back guarantee, you know.” He kept the small flick-knife hidden in his fist, just in case.

  “No, no,” Ahmed said impatiently. “It’s the police. They raided the Imperial Turban on my night off – luckily. I’d have been arrested if I’d been there, and off to prison at Yarl’s Wood. They jail you and ask questions later. Everyone knows that. They were telling my boss it was a scam, a sham marriage.”

  “Well, of course it was a sham,” Jeb said. “You don’t get undying love for a – for ten grand. That’s not what you tell the filth, though. What did Mo say to them?”

  Ahmed didn’t notice the slip. “He said me and my wife, we’re very much in love. We marry and she moves in. Then she suddenly deserts me. I wait for her to come back.”

  “Right,” Jeb said. “Word perfect.” It was almost a true description of the marriage. Where it veered from reality was that, in fact, Kat had abandoned Ahmed within ten minutes of the ceremony, leaving no one under the illusion she might return.

  “I want my money back,” Ahmed repeated. “I paid you for a wedding, so I could stay in this country. If I can’t stay, I’m taking that money with me.”

  “Calm down,” Jeb said. “The police can’t prove anything. Anyway, how do I know they’ve been raiding Mo’s? You could be lying to scare me into giving you ten grand.” He sucked his teeth. “Do you know what I do to liars?”

  “They’ve arrested the reverend,” Ahmed said.

  That put a different complexion on the matter. First of all, it proved the veracity of Ahmed’s story. He couldn’t be telling a falsehood because the priest’s fate was so easy to check. Secondly, it put Jeb at risk. True, the reverend had barely seen Jeb and was also bound to deny any wrongdoing. A mere pawn, he had been delighted at the increase in his flock as unlikely couples turned to him for instruction in the ways of God. It didn’t seem to occur to him that the newly-weds never set eyes on each other or his church again after marrying.

  Jeb clapped a palm to his forehead. No, the vicar wasn’t a problem. The danger for Jeb lay in the church’s wedding register. All the names and addresses of brides and grooms were neatly summarised there. A few enquiries from Plod, and the trail would lead to him. Someone would give him away, he was sure of it.

  He could play rough with Ahmed, but then the man would go straight back to the filth. Also, Ahmed and Mo had friends.

  Jeb shivered. “Come back tonight. I’ll have your money ready.”

  “I want it now.”

  He didn’t have enough in the flat, but he knew where to find it. “I’ve got to go to the bank first,” he lied.

  “Meet me in an hour, then,” Ahmed said. “Outside the Golden Turban, Mo’s other place. I’m not going near the Imperial again.”

  Jeb nodded, recognising from the venue that Ahmed didn’t trust him. The restaurant bristled with CCTV cameras. There was no chance of pulling a knife on Ahmed there, even if Jeb had wanted to. “You’ll get your money,” he said.

  As soon as Ahmed left, he returned to the bedroom. Charlene still lay naked on his bed. “Give me a quick blow job,” he commanded. “I’m in a hurry.”

  Once she’d obliged, he was in a better mood. “Want a lift?” he asked. “I’m going your way.”

  His beamer was parked in a lock-up round the corner. Jeb placed a friendly arm around Charlene’s shoulder as he led her to it. “You know,” he said to her, once they were sitting in the car and there was no danger of being overheard, “you give good head. You could be making money out of that. Just think about it. I’ll always help you.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes unfocused. “Yeah, I’ll think about it,” she said.

  She’d come running to his door when she needed a hit, Jeb thought, pleased to have sowed the seeds for another little money-spinner. He dropped Charlene just off the High Road on his way to Tottenham, congratulating himself. If he wanted to make it big, have an empire like Shaun’s, he had to take every opportunity he could. One day, he’d have a mansion in Wanstead like his boss. Not those good-for-nothing sons, though.

  It was nearly twelve when he arrived at AKD Trading. The speakeasy had been open for a week. Jeb had sat at the reception desk, twiddling his thumbs for five days until Shaun told him there was no longer any need. He’d found someone else to do door security. As Shaun’s right hand man, Jeb could be expected to visit the premises to check nothing was amiss, though. Armed with that cover story, he would speak quietly to Kat and access the cash Vince always left locked in a back room.

  Jeb breathed a sigh of relief when he was admitted beyond the reception desk. While a few early punters were clustered around one of the roulette tables, Shaun wasn’t there. He knew Shaun was supposed to be seeing his white van man that afternoon, but you never knew for sure. Shaun was capable of changing his mind. AKD was his passion; he was like a child with a new toy.

  “All good in the hood, Vince?” Jeb asked the ginger-haired barman.

  “Sure,” Vince said. “The place was packed out last night. I took six grand behind the bar alone.”

  “Is Kat around?”

  “Should be here any minute,” Vince said.

  “Tell her I need to see her in the office,” Jeb said. “You got the keys?”

  Vince handed them over.

  There was no safe, just a desk with a drawer that Jeb swiftly unlocked. To his dismay, the drawer appeared to be filled with A4 notepads. Jeb cursed, then saw the edge of a banknote peeping out below the stationery. Bundles of notes were neatly stacked underneath. He took most of the fifty pound notes, laboriously counting them. Tearing several pages from a notepad, he crumpled them and stuck them under the rest of the pads to provide an illusion of bulk. His haul was just over twenty thousand pounds; more than enough for Ahmed, with plenty left for a few nights on the town. He’d just finished stuffing the banknotes in his pockets and underpants when K
at knocked on the door.

  “Come in.” Jeb deliberately looked downcast.

  “What’s wrong?” Kat asked.

  “The Rev. He’s told the law. I’m getting out of town,” Jeb said, “and I suggest you do the same. Here’s a grand. Take that and go back up north. That’s where you come from, isn’t it?” He reached into his jacket pocket. He had counted out exactly twenty of the fifty pound notes for her.

  Kat looked shocked. Her usual equilibrium deserted her. Silently, she took the cash from him.

  “Cheer up; it may never happen,” Jeb said. “Not as long as you lie low.”

  “I don’t want any trouble from the police,” Kat said.

  “Who does?” Jeb said. He wasn’t sure if he was more afraid of the police or Shaun. If you annoyed the filth, they sent you to gaol rather than tying bricks to your ankles and inviting you to take a late night swim in the river. He was confident Shaun would never know he’d stolen the money, though. Even if the theft were noticed, Kat was an obvious scapegoat. There was every chance of slipping the cash back secretly if he had a good win on the horses, anyway. Jeb smiled reassuringly at Kat. “Just finish your work here, then get out of town. I’ll send the girls into the office to see you.”

  “Okay.”

  He left her in a subdued state. “Lock up after Kat, will you?” he commanded Vince. Vince stared at him for a second, then shrugged his shoulders. It was rare for anyone who knew Jeb to start an argument with him.

  In the safety of his beamer, behind smoked glass windows, Jeb placed exactly ten thousand pounds in a carrier bag, locking the rest in the glove box. He’d never double-crossed Shaun before, apart from keeping the wedding scam a secret so he didn’t have to give Shaun a cut. Fear suddenly gripped his throat, and he knew even the Marlboro Man wouldn’t be enough to steady his nerves. Before he set off for the Golden Turban, he snorted a pinch of white powder.

  Chapter 8 Shaun

  Shaun’s white van team had just returned from Belgium. “What’ve you got?” he asked Jerry, the driver.

  “Lots of that strong Belgian lager you asked for,” Jerry said. “Bought it cheap – special offers.”

  Shaun nodded. They’d run out of lager at AKD by Sunday morning; he’d had to send Vince to the cash and carry to fetch more. “Spirits?” he asked. “I wanted more premium brands this time. Snow Mountain vodka, malt whisky.”

  Jerry scowled. “No Snow Mountain vodka. The warehouses don’t sell it. I bought Smirnoff as usual.”

  Shaun sighed. “All right. Let’s take a look at your haul.”

  Scott, Jerry’s mate, was unloading from the van into the storage unit they used about half a mile from AKD. He grinned. “It’s all here, boss. Vodka, rum, whisky, gin.”

  They were the mass market brands that always sold well in the car parks of pubs and clubs. Not quite what Shaun had in mind for AKD, but he could always send the Transit boys on more frequent trips across the Channel. Jerry and Scott would do anything if the money was right, and it was a pleasant lifestyle for them; a couple of nights boozing in Bruges before they picked up the bootlegged liquor. They both had paunches to prove it. Shaun recalled the days he’d played truant with them. As teenagers, Jerry and Scott had been thin as rakes; now they were all showing their age.

  He filled his car boot with crates of beer and boxes of spirits for the speakeasy. “Have a rest today and start flogging the stuff around Walthamstow tomorrow,” he told them.

  It was three o’clock, just time to catch Kat before she left AKD. He had no need of her services there again, which was a pity. On a whim, he stopped at an off licence and asked for Snow Mountain. They didn’t have it – distribution was restricted to high end outlets, they said unashamedly – but they gave him the importer’s name: Bridges.

  He called them. The phone was answered with the single word, “Bridges.”

  “Can I speak to the boss?”

  “It’s Marty Bridges speaking.” He was somewhere up north; his vowels flatter and consonants more pronounced than in Shaun’s everyday world.

  “I want to order Snow Mountain vodka for my club,” Shaun said.

  “Sorry, I’ve got a full order book.”

  Shaun was dumbfounded. Just for once, he was offering to buy alcohol legitimately, and the seller wasn’t interested. “You don’t know who you’re talking to,” he said. “I’ve a mind to come round to see you.”

  Bridges’ tone remained offhand. “You’re welcome to visit, but you won’t change my mind,” he said. “I can’t buy enough of that product to satisfy demand. I supply it to longstanding customers only.” He gave Shaun an address in Birmingham, repeating that he was happy to meet and asking if Shaun might like a different vodka.

  Shaun admitted defeat. He had little interest in anywhere beyond the M25. Like Jeb, all he knew of Birmingham was that it was north of London and south of Scotland. He couldn’t be bothered to travel there, or indeed send Jeb, to rough up the arrogant businessman. Returning to AKD, he looked eagerly for Kat among the gaming tables.

  “Where is she?” he asked Vince.

  “Kat? She left early,” Vince said.

  “Shame,” Shaun said. He would have to return to Diamonds to see her, he supposed.

  Chapter 9 Marty

  Marty Bridges put down the phone. He had little time for Cockneys, especially shady nightclub owners. While he had no evidence that his caller was anything other than a hard-working businessman, he had a sixth sense that usually served him well. Erik, for instance, was straight as an arrow.

  He saw Erik every month, allegedly to collect the modest rent he charged the young man, but also because he wanted to be sure Erik was keeping body and soul together. He owed it to Sasha. Although Erik’s sister would always land on her feet, Erik was a dreamer and idealist like his father.

  Marty had been toying with the thought of walking to the old workshop where Erik lived. It was less than two miles away and he still retained a basic level of fitness from his decades as an amateur boxer. Instead, with the sun grilling his bald head as soon as he stepped outside the office, he decided to drive. It would be cooler – he could have a quiet pint afterwards and head home when the rush hour was easing.

  He counted himself lucky to find a pay and display space. Parking was heavily restricted in Birmingham’s Jewellery Quarter nowadays. He remembered when it was called Hockley. It was rough as a hedgehog’s bottom then; he had picked up the workshop for a song at auction.

  Now his tenants, artisan jewellers, had moved out, he wanted to redevelop the site. Many of the area’s handsome red-brick buildings had already been converted into homes, bars and media offices. The quirky Victorian Gothic properties appealed to yuppies. Marty was hoping for a substantial profit once he’d cleared the red tape. “I’ve been turned down for planning permission again,” he complained to Erik.

  Erik nodded, in that attentive way of his. He sipped a mug of tea. They were sitting in the lounge, a large but shabby space that had once been used to display stock. Marty sank into his armchair, noting it was still well-sprung. Erik’s lodgings might be draughty and basic – there was no bath or shower, and only a tiny kitchen – but there was plenty of space, and the furniture was of good quality. Most of it had been discarded from Marty’s house, and he didn’t buy cheap rubbish.

  He studied the younger man, noting Erik’s thin face and nose, his whippet skinniness and the dark, spiky hair that was starting to recede from his high forehead. He was the image of Sasha at the same age. When he spoke, his words were exactly those Sasha would have used.

  “Don’t give up,” Erik said. “Look for a different way. What do the planners want?” He had a very upper crust voice, the legacy of a childhood at English boarding schools. Sasha, who always spoke English with a strong accent, would have been proud of him.

  “I don’t know.” Marty grimaced, letting his frustration show. “I just want to convert the building into flats. It’s already been done for several other factories in thi
s very street, so I can’t see a problem. But both designs I’ve submitted have been rejected.”

  “What reasons did they give?” Erik’s interest probably went beyond idle curiosity. After all, Marty wouldn’t need a caretaker living in the property once it had been redeveloped.

  “They didn’t like the proposed cellar conversion. I dropped that, and applied again. The second time, they said they wanted to retain industrial use. Crazy. This road isn’t an industrial zone.”

  “I wonder,” Erik said, his face tight with concentration, “perhaps they were worried about the tunnel in the cellar.”

  Marty sat bolt upright, intrigued. He’d toured every nook and cranny of the old building, or so he believed. “What tunnel?” he asked.

  “Didn’t you know?” Erik looked surprised. “There’s a door at one end of the cellar, behind some metal racking the jewellers left. It leads to another room, with a vertical shaft and ladder descending into the earth.”

  Marty whistled. “And? Did you climb down the ladder?”

  Erik shook his head.

  “I don’t understand why my architects never spotted that door,” Marty said.

  “There was a lot of junk in the way,” Erik pointed out. “Do you want to take a look now?”

  “Yes, and find out what’s at the bottom of the shaft,” Marty agreed. He switched on his smartphone flashlight.

  The cellar itself was accessed from a door in the hallway, from which stone steps led to a bare-earthed room, roughly oblong but narrowing considerably at one end. This was obscured by white-painted metal racking, grey with dust and piled with rusted tools and machinery.

  Marty’s eyes widened. “It’s behind that?” he said. “How on earth did you get past all that rubbish, or, for that matter, find a door in the first place?”

  “I wanted to build a coffee table and I was looking for parts,” Erik said. “That was when I noticed the door. As for access – well, I’ll show you.”

  He removed the rusty detritus from the bottom shelf, crouched down and wriggled through to the gap beyond, appearing to expand like a rubber band as he stood up.