Hearts of Stone (4 page)

8

‘S
o who exactly are these people?' I asked.

Endesleigh smiled triumphantly, and took an envelope from his jacket pocket and opened it. He extracted a small stack of Polaroid photographs and dealt them out, one by one, in front of me. I looked at them as he placed them on the table top. Six photos: two men – three photos of each. The first was solid and meaty. He looked tough through a three-day growth of beard. In one photo he stood by a pool, wearing an Hawaiian shirt. In the others he was against an anonymous background wearing a dark suit jacket. I knew him from the bar.

Endesleigh tapped one of the photos of him. ‘Patsy Hughes,' he said. ‘He's done time for ABH, GBH, armed robbery, obtaining money by menaces. Nice bloke.'

The other geezer looked like a TV presenter, and he knew it. He was young and handsome, with a deep tan and thick dark hair. He was smiling in all of the photos, and showing lots of white teeth. In each he was wearing a white shirt. I knew him too.

Endesleigh tapped one of the photos. ‘Roy Seeley. Not the violent type, our Roy. Arrested for living on immoral earnings, fraud, car theft. Never done a minute inside, apart from remand. Do you know them?'

I nodded. ‘Not by name, but I've seen them around the bar. The portable phone and Pina Colada mob. Not my types.'

‘They will be,' said Endesleigh. ‘You're going to learn to love them.'

‘Sweet,' I said. ‘Is that all? I've got an early shift tomorrow. Today,' I corrected myself.

It was his turn to nod.

‘Is someone going to give me a lift home?' I asked.

‘No,' said Endesleigh, shaking his head.

‘Fine,' I said. ‘Lend us the money for a cab. I came out without any cash either.'

‘No,' he said again.

‘What the fuck then?' I was getting well pissed off, and wasn't ready for an early-morning round of Twenty Questions.

‘You'll be driving yourself.'

‘Do what?'

‘You heard.'

‘You've brought my car here?' It was late, and I was getting confused.

‘No.'

‘What, then?'

‘You'll see. You're going to like this. Come on.' He stood up and walked over to the door of the cabin. ‘Come on,' he said again, more impatiently this time. I stood up and followed him. We crossed the wide empty floor, passed through a set of fire doors, down two flights of stone steps, and through another set of doors on to the next level. Endesleigh turned on the ceiling lights as we went. There were four or five vehicles parked against one wall. They were all shrouded in dust sheets. Endesleigh walked over to one and tugged the sheet free. Underneath was a Ford Sierra.

Big deal, I thought. A fucking rep's car.

Then something about it made me look closer. The paint job was well up to speed. Maroon it was. It gleamed under the lights like a new shoe.

I walked around it. The front bumper swept down almost to the ground, and slightly flared wheel arches covered low-profile tyres on wide Mag wheels. There were air vents in the bonnet and a big spoiler mounted on the boot. Then I saw the discreet badge on the back of the car.
Cosworth 4x4
, it read.

Very good, I thought.

Endesleigh threw me the ignition key. One of those new ones, to fit a high-security lock. I opened the motor up. The interior was upholstered in leather, with Recaro seats at the front. There was a tiny leather steering wheel, in-car CD, and more switches and digital read-outs than you could decently shake a stick at. I looked inside. The speedometer was calibrated to 170. And that was MPH, not kilometres.

‘Shit,' I said. ‘Why?'

‘Roy Seeley's got one. Black. It's his pride and joy. When he sees this, he's going to talk to you whether you like it or not. They're pretty rare. Just park it outside the bar and Bob's your uncle.'

‘Crafty,' I said.

‘Don't knock it. The tank's full. It's taxed for a year. The registration, insurance and instruction book's in the glove compartment. There's only three thousand on the clock. It's just run in.'

‘You must have been pretty sure of me,' I said.

‘We were.'

‘It's manual,' I said.

‘So?'

‘I only drive autos. My foot, you know.'

‘You haven't driven one of these. The clutch is as light as a feather. Try it and see. Enjoy.'

‘I hope I live long enough.'

‘You will. Unless you try and fly this. I believe you can get one-fifty out of it, no sweat.'

‘Will you pay my speeding tickets?'

‘Sorry. From now on you don't know me. Your contact is Brady.'

‘What, that fucking speed freak? If you ask me he's a couple of gallons short of a full tank.'

‘Don't judge a book. Sergeant Brady's not all he seems.'

‘I certainly hope not,' I said.

I got in the car and started the engine. It caught right away, and ticked over like a pussy cat. A big pussy cat. I switched on the lights. The dash lit up like the cockpit of Concorde. I reached for the window-winder. Nothing. I looked around and found the button that rolled down the electric window. ‘I'll see you, then,' I said.

‘Sooner or later. Brady's waiting for you by the main door. Drop him off at home, will you?'

‘Sure,' I said. I pushed down the clutch pedal. At least he'd been right about that. It was light. I put the Sierra into first and touched the gas. The purr from the engine turned into a growl. I let the clutch pedal out, and the car rolled gently away. I lifted my hand to Endesleigh, and pointed the nose of the Cosworth towards the ramp heading down.

Brady was leaning against the frame of the big open door downstairs. I drove through and stopped. He pressed a button and ducked under the door as it closed, then ran to the passenger side of the Sierra and got in.

‘Don't say we never give you nothin',' he said. ‘A Cossie all of your very own. Very nice.'

‘I've
got
a car,' I said.

‘I thought you said it needed a re-bore.'

‘It does.'

‘It's an old Jag, isn't it?' he asked.

‘Yeah. How do you know?'

‘Silly question. We know what colour shorts you wear.'

‘That's nice,' I said.

‘Junk heap,' he said. I surmised he was talking about my car, not the state of my shorts. ‘Give me a Kraut car any day.'

‘Like?' I said.

‘Porsche 911 Turbo. Now, that is a car.'

‘And you've got one?'

‘On the firm,' he said.

I shook my head. ‘But not tonight.'

‘No. Ollie picked me up. We don't want too many cars in and out of here. It might make the local law sus.'

‘And we wouldn't want that,' I said.

‘No, we wouldn't. This isn't an attachment. We're freelance.' Looking at his eyes in the dawn light, that was what worried me.

‘Endesleigh tells me you're my contact.'

‘That's right. I'm the mad buyer,' he said. ‘Just call me Charlie. My name, my game.' And he giggled again.

‘Suit yourself,' I said. But I was still having some doubts. ‘Where to, then?'

‘Beautiful downtown Kennington. I've got a sweet little drum there. You must come over to dinner sometime.'

‘I'll take a raincheck, if you don't mind.'

‘Please yourself, babe. It's your loss.'

I drove him to Kennington through empty streets. It took about three minutes. The Cosworth's acceleration was like a kick from a mule. By the time I got to his place I was really motoring, and I didn't mind using a clutch at all.

‘Coffee?' he said.

Well, I had to work with the geezer, like it or not. ‘Go on then,' I said.

‘Remember you're in character.'

‘What does that mean?'

‘You'll see.'

His house was in a new development, shoehorned between a church and a row of beautiful Georgian houses. One of those private estates built in the eighties, when interest rates were low and mortgages as easy to get as falling off a log. It was an upside-down L-shaped cul-de-sac of smart little terraced red brick boxes, each with its own postage stamp of a front garden and garage, and trailing vines up the walls. His was on the corner, in the angle of the L. He let us in through enough locks to keep a jailer happy.

‘Babe!' he shouted as he shut the door behind us. ‘I'm home. I'm not alone, so get decent.' He turned and winked at me.

We went through into the kitchen which looked out onto a tiny walled garden, mostly paved, but with two small flower beds and several wooden barrels cut down and full of more flowers.

From somewhere above us I heard movement. Brady put on the kettle. He was good at that.

He took off his jacket and tossed it over one of the kitchen stools. He was wearing a shoulder holster. I could see the butt of a revolver sticking out. It looked like a heavy-calibre weapon.

‘You always armed?' I asked.

‘Always. You never know what's going to happen, or who you'll meet. I even take it to bed with me. And I'm a good shot. Very good.'

‘I'm on your side, remember,' I said.

‘Just
you
remember,' he said menacingly, then grinned that maniacal grin again.

Nice bloke, I thought. I'd hate to see the way he treated real villains.

I heard footsteps on the stairs and a young black man, no more than twenty-one, came into the room. He was wearing just a pair of black silk shorts that did nothing to hide a semi-erection. He was bare-chested and muscular, with his hair cut into a high top fade. He stopped at the doorway and struck a pose.

‘Who's your friend?' he said in a Geordie accent.

9

B
rady didn't turn a hair. Why should he, it was his house.

‘Alfie,' he said. ‘Meet a friend of mine called Nick. Nick meet Alfie.'

I looked over at Brady, and then at the boy with his dick sticking through the material of his kecks like a flag, and wondered what the hell I'd got myself into this time.

‘Hello,' I said.

The black youth ignored me. ‘You've been out all night,' he said accusingly to Brady.

‘Business,' said Brady back.

‘What kind of business?' Alfie looked archly at me.

‘Mind your own kind of business,' said Brady, and all of a sudden he wasn't grinning anymore. His face darkened and his eyes gleamed through narrowed lids.

‘You could have phoned,' said Alfie. But he'd seen Brady's face, too, and he softened the tone of his voice.

‘Who died and made you my keeper?' demanded Brady.

‘No one,' said Alfie.

‘I phone when I want to phone.' Brady was getting petulant and boring.

‘You're always staying out all night with someone,' moaned Alfie.

I didn't quite know what to say. Was this boy accusing me of having it off with Brady, or what? I think he probably was. The whole business was going from bad to worse. ‘I'll push off,' I said.

‘No,' said Brady. ‘Have some breakfast.'

The thought of hot food and liquid, and sharp knives and a gun, and this pair in their present mood didn't do a thing for me.

‘No,' I said. ‘I need some sleep. I've got work later.'

‘I'll catch you at the bar at lunchtime,' said Brady.

Oh, good, I thought. ‘I'll look forward to it,' I said.

‘What bar?'asked Alfie.

Shut up, Alfie, I thought.

But Brady didn't explode as I thought he might. He just said. ‘Where he works.'

‘Whereabouts?'

‘Norwood,' I said.

‘Can I come too?' asked Alfie.

‘Another time. It's business,' said Brady.

‘See what I mean. It's always bloody business,' complained Alfie. ‘I'm going back to bed. You and your friend can do what you like.' And he left.

I looked at Brady. He looked back at me.

‘So?' he said.

‘So what?'

‘I'm glad you said that.'

‘Don't keep on,' I said. ‘Don't keep pushing. If you're going to be my contact, just be that. If you want to fight, I'm going home. You can keep your fucking car, and do your worst with that bit of trick evidence you fixed up earlier. I told your guv'nor I'm in. Just don't push it. And, by the way, I don't give a shit who you fuck, or what hole you fuck them in, or for that matter if they fuck you. OK?'

‘Sure,' he said.

I couldn't resist it. ‘But don't the powers that be rather frown on it?' I asked.

‘I get special dispensation.'

‘Don't you get your leg pulled in the showers?'

‘If I do, that's
all
I get pulled, believe me. You were in the job yourself for long enough. Some of those fuckers are so far in the closet they'll never get out. That's how I got started in the clubs and vice squad. No problem with me getting a freebie off a brass.'

I didn't bother mentioning rent boys. ‘Listen, I've got to get some kip. What's the time?'

‘Half six.'

‘Shit, I'm working at ten-thirty. I'm going home. Lunchtime you said?'

‘Yeah, we've got to work fast.'

‘Those guys don't come in at lunchtime.'

‘That's OK. Now, don't forget, when I come in we're close friends.'

‘Not
too
close, though.'

‘Close enough.'

‘You'll get me talked about.'

‘Not for the first time, I bet.'

‘That's a point. Right, I'm off. I'll see you later.'

‘I'll let you out.'

‘You believe in security.'

‘And you don't. We got into your place last night in twenty seconds flat.'

‘I'll get it looked at.'

‘I would, if I were you. Seriously.'

And on that happy note I left, and drove home to bed.