Crusher (6 page)

Dad’s script was about an ageing London gangster called Grosvenor—rich, successful, feared and respected in the underworld. He had a faithful lieutenant called Dunbar, an Irishman with some sort of dodgy terrorist history who took care of Grosvenor’s dirty work. That was obviously the part my dad had written for himself. In the script this Grosvenor had a nephew—young, hungry and ruthless—who wanted to make a name for himself even if it meant starting a gang war, and Dunbar was caught in the middle.

The script featured a raid on a van transporting
bullion for Heathrow airport. That bit had sounded familiar; a raid like that had really happened, six months ago. A security guard had been shot and killed, and no one knew for sure how much gold had been nicked. The cops hadn’t made any arrests or any progress. There were rumours it was pulled off by professionals, big-time organized criminals, but the witnesses were too scared to testify.

I drained the pasta, stirred in some pesto from a jar and grated some stale Cheddar into it.

The thing was, I could guess who Dad had based his story on. During my brief and undistinguished career as a criminal I’d heard one name spoken with fear, awe and reverence: Joseph McGovern, the Guvnor. The hardest nut in London, the gangster the cops had never been able to touch. Grosvenor, McGovern—Dad had barely bothered to change his name. Not that it would have fooled anyone if he had.

Dad used to say that the best stories came from the horse’s mouth. As an actor, if he wanted to research a part, he didn’t read about it or take the writer’s word for it. He went out and found a real person who did what his character did, and learned from them, and watched what they did, and listened to their stories. He had driven a few writers and directors mad, I remembered, insisting he knew more about his character than
they did. As a writer he would have done the same. He would have gone out looking for guys involved in organized crime and asked them lots of questions. And now he was dead. I couldn’t help smiling—I could just picture Dad saying,
I must have been asking the right questions
.

I chased the last smear of pesto around the dish with the last spiral of pasta, pushed the dish away. I knew what I was going to do. My dad had been murdered, and even if there was something wrong with me, even if I couldn’t mourn him or weep for him, I could try to find out who killed him, and why. I had no idea what I’d do when—if—I did find out; I’d burn that bridge when I came to it. But I wasn’t going to carry on with my shit life as if nothing had happened and none of it mattered, and I wasn’t about to sit on my hands while Prendergast and his crew farted around trying to pin Dad’s murder on me.

I knew where I was going to start. Prendergast had told me.

The Weaver’s Arms was fifteen minutes’ walk from our house, a little mock-Tudor building that had once been a neighbourhood pub among London terraces crowded back to back. When the back to backs were demolished and replaced by high-rise flats the pub had been left,
sitting alone in its little scruffy concrete beer garden in a rolling sea of landscaped council lawn dotted with litter and dog shit. At this time of night it looked warm and welcoming from the outside, the yellow glow through its frosted windows making it look like a cosy English pub. All it needed was a few feet of snow to cover up the cracked stained pavement out front, and it would have looked like a Christmas card.

I pushed the door open and was immediately hit by a stink of sweat and stale spilt beer, and the racket of voices raised over a jukebox pounding out thirty-year-old music. The place was doing good business for a Tuesday night—half a dozen blokes my dad’s age were leaning on the bar, snorting and barking at each other, cackling at each other’s gags. Dotted around were knots of drinkers murmuring over halves of lager, and an enormously tall and skinny bloke in the corner was feeding coins continuously into a slot machine—the sort that would silently eat a tenner in change, but make an enormous noisy fuss when it paid out fifty pence.

Nobody looked at me twice as I approached the bar. I was underage, but with my height and build I could easily pass for eighteen. The problem was, I didn’t know the form. I rarely went into pubs—training was cheaper than drinking—and now I was here I didn’t know where to start. Which of these guys had been drinking with
Dad a few nights ago? I cursed myself—I hadn’t even brought his photo with me. I had one on my mobile phone, but it was ancient, and the screen on my phone was crap.

“You’re Finn, aren’t you? Noel’s boy. I’m very sorry for your trouble.” The guy talking to me was Indian or Pakistani, a head shorter than me, incongruously dressed in a blue nylon quilted coat and fingerless gloves. I recognized him; he ran a newsagent’s on the Griffin Estate. He was clutching a pint glass half-full of lager and he was swaying slightly. That’s why all these old blokes were leaning on the bar—by this time of night they could barely stand up.

“Thanks,” I said. “Can I get you another?”

“No, let me,” said the newsagent. “A pint? Maureen, a pint of best for Noel’s son, here.”

Two old blokes nearest my end of the bar looked up, and I noticed their faces registered not just curiosity, but pleasure, like I had turned up to stand in for my dad.

“You’re Finn? The boxer? Your dad told us all about you,” said one, extending a bony hand. He was about sixty, I guessed, smartly dressed in a crisp shirt and freshly pressed trousers, like he’d just come off a golf course. The man beside him was ten years older, dressed in jeans and sweatshirt, looking like a student who’d been seriously overdoing the fags and booze.

“Very sorry about your dad. He was a good lad,” said Scruffy.

“It was awful, what happened,” said Smart Shirt. They each shook my hand in turn, and there was genuine compassion on their faces. “I’m Jack,” said the smartly-dressed one. “This is Phil”—pointing to the scruffy bloke—“and you’ve met Sunil.”

Sunil the newsagent passed me a pint. “Here—to your dad. A good friend, a great talker, and an amazing drinker.”

“Cheers,” I said.

We drank.

I was glad I’d eaten that pasta. As far as drinking was concerned I was a lightweight, and after my second pint I could feel my concentration wandering, and I cursed myself inwardly. I’d meant to drink slowly, nursing a half of lager and asking lots of questions, but Dad’s old drinking buddies kept buying me beer as if getting shitfaced was some form of therapy, which I suppose it is. They were falling over themselves to tell me what a great geezer my dad was, as if I’d never met him.

But in a way, I never really did know the Dad who went drinking. Right now, Sunil was telling some story I’d guessed he often told before, of how Dad had once
hidden under a pub table from some huge bloke with Maori tattoos who claimed Dad had been knocking off his wife. While he told the story the other two butted in with what they thought were hilarious details. I’d been trying to be subtle, but I thought if I didn’t get to the point soon I’d end up with my arms round these guys singing along to Frank Sinatra on the jukebox, like those ancient old girls in the far corner, screeching like foxes fighting over bin bags.

“Wasn’t my dad here a few nights ago?”

“Which night was that?” They frowned at each other and scratched their heads as if I was asking them to recall their earliest memory. “Friday?” said Jack. “I wasn’t here, the wife was coming out of hospital—”

“The night before last,” I said. “Sunday.”

“That German bloke,” said Phil. “You were there, Jack, he bought you that cigar.”

“Oh right—Hans,” said Jack, brightening.

“Hans?” I asked.

“A journalist,” said Sunil. “From
Suddeutsche Zeitung
.”

“Why was a German journalist talking to Dad?”

“He was doing a story on the Guvnor. Noel said he was too, and they were sort of comparing notes,” said Phil.

“What did this guy Hans look like? What age was he?”

“Forties?” shrugged Phil.

“Bit under your height, pretty fit as far as I could tell,” said Jack.

“Generous,” said Phil. “He bought drinks all night.”

“Blond hair,” said Jack. “Great English.”

“And he could hold his drink,” said Sunil. “He must have had, what, twelve vodka and oranges? You’d never have known.”

That rang a bell. Oh yeah, Delroy, who ran the boxing club. He didn’t like booze that much, but if he had to fit in and look like he was getting pissed, he would let everyone think he was drinking vodka and orange. But it was just orange juice. Unless you taste it, you can’t tell there’s no vodka in it.

“Did you tell the police about this guy Hans? When they came asking about Dad?”

“They didn’t seem to think it had much to do with anything,” shrugged Jack. “Here, finish that pint and we’ll have another.”

“What about the Guvnor? What did Dad tell Hans about the Guvnor?”

There was a tiny hiccup in the flow of conversation. Phil pulled his nose. Sunil sipped his pint.

“He told him not to ask questions,” said Jack at last.

“Why not?” I said.

“Because you never know who’s listening,” said Sunil.

“You don’t mess with the Guvnor, that’s all,” said Jack. “We told your dad that, he didn’t care.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know who’s listening?”

“McGovern owns businesses all over West London,” said Sunil. “Strip joints, casinos, restaurants, even dry cleaners. For all we know, he might even own this place.”

“And the less said about it the better,” said Jack firmly. He pointed at my glass. “What’s that, bitter?”

“My dad was writing something about McGovern,” I said. “I was wondering if that was why he was killed.”

Jack sighed, looked away. Phil leaned forward. He hadn’t shaved in a few days and his stubble glinted grey.

“Finn,” said Phil, “If your dad pissed off the Guvnor, and he sent someone to sort your dad out, no one will ever be able to prove it. Doesn’t matter in the end if he did or he didn’t. You go around telling people the Guvnor had your dad killed …” He plonked down his glass, as if he’d gone off beer suddenly, and rose unsteadily to his feet. “I’m starving. I’m off to find a kebab.”

“Missus will be expecting me, and all,” said Jack. He gulped down the last of his pint.

“I have to be up at six,” said Sunil. “It was good to meet you, Finn. Take care, yeah?”

“Yeah, take care,” said Phil, as he pulled on a greasy Army greatcoat.

“See you around,” said Jack, slipping into a smart blazer. He clapped my shoulder, waved to the barmaid and headed for the door. The other two did the same.

I let them go.

When I shut my front door the sound echoed through the house like I’d slammed it. It was colder inside than out; we had central heating, but Dad hated switching it on. “Put a bloody jumper on, if you’re cold,” he’d grunt. Actually he felt the cold worse than me, and would sometimes sit watching the telly in a greasy old sleeping bag with a woolly hat on his head, like a dosser in his own living room. I certainly couldn’t switch the heating on now; I’d never even opened a utility bill, I didn’t know how much we used to pay, or how we paid it. I pulled out my wallet. One twenty-quid note left. How long would that last? I knew Dad’s wallet was in that box of effects Prendergast had brought back, and I knew the PIN for his bank card, but I had no idea how much money was in Dad’s account—not much more than a hundred quid, I guessed. And wouldn’t his account be frozen, now that he was dead? Or would the
bank even know he was dead, unless I told them? I didn’t think they’d do me for fraud for spending my dad’s money. But most of that money was Government benefits. If nobody told the DSS Dad was dead they’d keep paying out, but as soon as they learned the truth, they’d ask for their money back. And unless they were feeling generous, or they lost track of the paperwork, they’d quite likely demand interest or prosecute me. Or both.

I had about a hundred and fifty quid saved up from my job, stashed away in a Post Office account Dad had opened for me years ago. When he was alive, that had seemed like a lot, but now … I’d call that social worker, Kendrick, in the morning, I decided. At the very least she’d be able to tell me what I should be doing next, as far as finances were concerned—every day there seemed to be more things to worry about. I thought I’d been the practical one, looking after my dad. I’d never been aware of all the boring grown-up shit he’d handled, and never discussed.

I put the kettle on. It was too late for tea and coffee but there was some just-add-hot-water powdered soup in the cupboard that Dad used to buy because it was cheap. I’d turned my nose up at it whenever he’d offered to make me some, but now I thought it would warm me up, at least.

I wrapped my hands round the hot steaming cup while my laptop wheezed into life, its little hard drive rattling away like a matchbox full of ants. Eventually the desktop appeared with a tinny fanfare. I’d never bothered with a password, because I’d never had anything I was that desperate to hide, and anyway I found it a huge pain in the arse to enter one. All that appeared on the screen was a row of dots, and I could never tell which character I’d gotten wrong or how I’d screwed up.

Now I opened a browser and carefully typed “McGovern, organized crime” into the search engine box. My finger hovered briefly above the Enter key. I found myself thinking, what if the Guvnor sees me Googling him? Then I felt stupid, as paranoid as those old pissheads in the Weaver’s Arms. As if McGovern didn’t have better things to do than watching all of the Internet to see if his name came up. I stabbed the Enter key.

Lots of hits, pages and pages. The ones at the top were newspaper articles. I sighed; this was going to take me for ever. But I started clicking.

It was weird. McGovern’s name, and his nickname, seemed to crop up in loads of newspaper stories, with lots of waffle about his underworld connections and his property empire, but it was hard to find any clear
details. Once McGovern had even been summoned to appear in court, charged with tax evasion, but all the charges had been dropped when paperwork had mysteriously gone missing. If McGovern had nobbled the case somehow, nobody dared to suggest it. Maybe the newspapers were scared of being sued for libel, or maybe the Guvnor had other ways of handling unfavourable publicity.