Give The Devil His Due (25 page)

       ‘No.’

       ‘Then why are we having this conversation sir?’

       ‘What I'm trying to say is Martin Sedgely was under severe provocation.’

       ‘Ah! This is interesting, so now you're telling me that Mr Sedgely started the violence?’

       ‘Er, no.’

       ‘So what are you telling me?’

       ‘I'm not sure.’

       ‘In that case sir, let me help you. Seeing as I was one of the officers that had the great misfortune of having to attend that particular incident, I know for a fact that since his arrest, no-one other than police staff have had any contact with Mr Sedgely.

       ‘I also know that you, by your own admission, had left
The King’s Head
before the time of the arrest and therefore cannot have talked to him. So why don't you try telling me that Sedgely's contacted you via
The Psychic Hotline
, that he's completely innocent and even if he wasn't, there wouldn't be any need to worry because Superintendent Richard Elliot who, by chance also happens to be his uncle as well as your manager friend's in the minimart, will make sure everything’s OK!’

       I had a sneaky suspicion that PC Adams might have rumbled me. I didn't know what to say. ‘Er ...’

       ‘Might I make a suggestion Mr Rees?’

       ‘Yes?’

       ‘That you leave police work to the police.’

       ‘Yes that's probably a good idea.’

       ‘I'm assuming that Martin Sedgely is a friend of yours, so for your information he's due to be released from the custody suite very shortly. As far as I'm aware no charges are being brought.’

       ‘What about the attempted murder?’

       ‘Might I also suggest that in future you don't believe everything you hear on the radio?’

       ‘Yes thank you officer.’ I hung up and made myself a promise: From that moment on, unless it was a matter of life-threatening urgency, I would have no further dealings with the police. I looked at Neil and gave him my news. ‘Mart's got off, Neil.’

       ‘You're fucking kidding!’

       ‘No serious. He's being released without charge. I got the impression from plod that the murder thing is an exaggeration by the radio.’

       ‘Jesus, what about the injured police officers?’

       ‘I don't know, but if it was down to him they wouldn't be letting him go would they?’

       ‘Fuck. I bet all the drivers love him. He starts a riot, walks away scot-free, and now half the fleet's banged up. What about that bloke he head-butted?’

       ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Why don’t we go down the station and wait for him to come out so we can hear the full story?’

       Tegan interrupted. ‘You're going nowhere. If you two go down there and something happens outside that station, you might get yourselves locked up. Don't be stupid.’

       She was right. If Mart came out of the station and clapped eyes on any of Bryce’s yes-men it might well kick off again and this time we'd probably have to help him. Besides we would get a full run through of what’d happened in the morning. The meeting would go down as a momentous episode in the annals of our local taxi industry. I was sure we'd be hearing about it for years to come.

       To say we were excited about the evening’s events was putting it mildly. We tried to play dirty-word scrabble but no-one was really interested.

       What really shocked me was when the Welsh TV news came on around 11 p.m. they had an outside broadcast unit in
The King’s Head
car park. The reporter was speaking to a couple of local residents who claimed to have witnessed the whole thing.

       OK, they may have seen the police man-handling some of the drivers into the meat wagons and then off to the station, but they certainly weren't at the meeting and didn't have a clue to the background of the trouble.

       The fleet was also getting some really negative publicity because, although the reporter didn't name the firm, you could see all the cabs in their full glory parked-up in the background. The owners, while in custody, unable to collect them.

       The question was: Would it be worth keeping the radio after this? I was sure that come morning, some of the bigger account customers would be re-evaluating whether to continue their patronage of Bryce Brothers’ Taxis. How things would turn out no-one knew, but one thing was certain: Bob and Roy would have some serious regrets asking for that rise.

Chapter 19

The next day I decided to keep the radio for another week and then assess the viability of the firm from thereon. When Neil and I went to the rank, we weren't surprised to hear that Mart had been booted off the fleet. There were drivers on the rank showing off black eyes, cuts and bruises. I heard that Kelvin Morgan and Peter Rogers (Glyn's younger brother) had both been remanded in custody over the wounding of two police officers. The rest of the drivers had been let out.

       Unbelievably, we were busier than ever before. People were phoning up for taxis just so they could ask the drivers what had gone on the previous night. When I went into the office to pay my radio-money for the week both Bob and Roy were conspicuous by their absence.

       Doreen, one of the senior job dispatchers, had been put in charge of collecting the money from drivers. Nothing was said about the melee. Neil and I agreed we would work till about six before heading off to Bristol, picking Phil up on our way to London for Tuesday’s meeting.

Monday 10.48 a.m. London
De Villiers-Moncourt (Chairman's Office)
Charles De Villiers’ trip to New York had not been a happy one. With profits at their lowest in five years, De Villiers had been the bearer of bad tidings. Two senior heads at the New York office had toppled like skittles in an alley. Charles De Villiers was the man at the end of that alley, bowling ball in hand.

       The firing of personnel came easy to De Villiers. It was the headache of how to replace them that was difficult. Now back in London, his power base, De Villiers stared at the piece of paper that lay on top of his desk. He pressed the intercom button.

       ‘Pamela, tell Ian Walters I'd like to see him immediately.’

       ‘Yes sir.’

       De Villiers wasn't a man who wasted time on
please
and
thank you
, much to Pamela's irritation. But she was paid near enough one and a half times the salary her ability would have commanded anywhere else. So it was a case of put-up or shut-up. Pamela put-up.

       Pam had been with De Villiers-Moncourt for nearly two decades. In the early years – long before she'd been promoted to the dizzy height of the fifth floor – she had occasionally sucked De Villiers’ cock while on her knees underneath his desk. She'd enjoyed it, not because she found him physically attractive, but because she felt a sense of power. A man of De Villiers’ worth was allowing her, an office junior to pleasure him. There was the hope that he’d fall in love and propose. Marriage would  bring a fairytale ending, making her queen of all she surveyed – it hadn't happened. She was in her mid fifties now, and De Villiers preferred the feel of younger lips round his private parts.

       An embittered Pamela phoned Walters’ extension and gave him the message. In a couple of minutes Walters was standing in front of her, awaiting the call from within. Pam pressed the intercom.

       ‘Yes?’

       ‘Ian Walters is here to see you sir.’

       ‘Send him in.’

       She motioned Ian towards the chairman's door. He knocked. In theory a pointless exercise, due to the fact that De Villiers was expecting him, but in practice a ritual that still had to be performed or risk the wrath of the man the other side. He waited.

       ‘Come.’ He entered, closing the door behind him.

       Again, De Villiers didn't bother with the pleasantries. ‘This is our man then?’ He was clutching the piece of paper that had been inside the envelope Walters had left with Ms Stokes the Friday before.

       ‘Yes sir.’

       ‘Do we know anything more about this Philip Andrew Simms?’

       ‘At the moment – no. I didn't delve any further, because I wasn't sure how you wanted to handle things sir.’

       ‘Quite right. Has the system been breached in any way?’

       ‘No sir.’

       De Villiers thought for a moment. ‘Do you think he's aware that we now have an ID for him?’

       ‘I doubt it sir. I'm betting he thinks we haven't even noticed he's been trying to gain access. Some of these hackers are so arrogant, they consider themselves to be on a different planet to the rest of us as far as intelligence goes.’

       ‘He’s just on a fishing expedition then?’

       ‘No, I don't believe so. The attempts were protracted and directed only towards your personal files sir. No-one else in the company has been targeted.’

       ‘Very well. We're absolutely one hundred per cent sure about this ID are we?’

       ‘Absolutely sir.’

       ‘Thank you Ian. I don't need to tell you not to discuss this with anybody?’

       ‘No sir.’

       ‘Good. That will be all for the moment.’

       As Ian left De Villiers’ office, he felt a certain satisfaction. He'd delivered what the chairman had asked for and hopefully that would be the end of it. He'd even got a thank-you out of De Villiers.

       As he strode confidently past Pamela Stokes, Ian failed to notice the light on the intercom control unit. It wasn’t flashing – an indication that De Villiers hadn't closed his switch while Walters had been in the meeting.

       Pamela Stokes had heard everything the two men had said.

Monday 6.00 p.m. South Wales
Neil and I had worked the entire day. We’d arranged to meet back at the house around six. I called Phil and got his answerphone. I suppose he must’ve been in the john or on his mobile. I left a message: we’d pick him up around sevenish, and not to eat anything heavy because Peach had said we’d be having a late supper when we got to London.

       We picked Phil up an hour or so later and drove to Little Venice. Most of the journey's conversation was taken up not by the following day's meeting with Vaughan, but with the sequence of events that had taken place in
The King’s Head
the previous evening.

       The riot had been such a big story that it had made it on to Phil's TV. Not just confined to South Wales. Our cabbies' meeting was now being talked about by most of the population in the southwest – a totally different broadcasting region to ours. I guess news must have been in short supply around the Bristol area on that Sunday night.

       With the fancy dress party and other goings on, Phil now felt he was missing out on something. His mind was made up. A visit from him in the very near future was on the cards, whether we liked the idea or not. I’d have to ask Tegan if she had any other friends that were young free and single, on the lookout for a good man, and if so, warn them to steer well clear of Phil!

       The traffic had been light most of the way. We got the car parked and arrived on the boat a shade after 9.30 p.m. Our overnight bags stowed on board, a quick freshen-up to revitalise ourselves and it was time to go ashore.

       Peach led us to one of the local hostelries where we had a reasonable meal during which he skilfully avoided each and every single question about his masterplan. He obviously wanted to keep it under-wraps until the following day when all would be revealed.

Chapter 20

Monday 8.45 p.m. London’s West End
At JoJo's the customers sat in near darkness. There were bright lights, but these shafts of brilliance focused on and around the poles where the dancers performed. For the price they were paying, the clients didn’t just want a good look, they wanted a microscopic examination of the bodies that wiggled and jiggled to the music playing in the background.

       Charles De Villiers sipped his drink, seated in one of the small semicircular booths that were the choice of JoJo's less extrovert customers. De Villiers preferred to watch from the periphery. Should he see anything that took his fancy, as was often the case, he’d retire with his special new friend, or friends, to one of the private suites provided by the club.

       Across the table from De Villiers sat Brian Lazarus. A formidable presence, Brian Lazarus was just over six four and very heavily built. A face of intimidation, Lazarus had been one of the rising stars in the Met. After less than ten years’ service, amid widespread rumours of corruption, Lazarus was given two options: resign or be investigated, prosecuted and jailed. He knew the kind of treatment he'd face if he went to jail. Banged-up villains hated coppers, especially bent ones. Lazarus resigned.

       For several years now, Lazarus had run a security agency. Lazarus was connected and could offer extra services to his more demanding clients. His underworld contacts, plus one or two of the rotten apples he was still in touch with inside the force, gave Lazarus an edge. He'd done a couple of messy jobs for De Villiers in the past. People that needed to know who they were dealing with had been taught unforgettable lessons. The result – he always got De Villiers' repeat business. When something that might be a little outside the law was required, Lazarus was the man De Villiers turned to.

       De Villiers handed Lazarus the piece of paper with the hacker's name on it. ‘Someone’s taking too keen an interest in my affairs Brian.’

       Lazarus stared at the name and address on the paper. ‘Do you want me to take a closer look at our Mr Simms?’

       ‘If you could, it would be most helpful.’

       ‘And warn him off?’

       ‘No. Just find out exactly what it is he's after then report back to me. Discretion for the moment is the order of the day.’ Lazarus nodded. He knew exactly what De Villiers wanted. The big man stood up and walked away from the table. With a two hour drive ahead of him, Lazarus exited the dimly-lit venue.