The Graft (23 page)

Nick gulped down the last of his hot chocolate.

‘Oh, shut up, you stupid woman, I ain’t answering any of your questions. And before you start again, Tams, if I hear one more word I am going to walk out of this house and I ain’t coming back until you either fuck off or shut the fuck up.’

It was not what he wanted to do but he knew how to scare her. He hated using the power he had over her but at times like this it was all he could do to get some peace and quiet. Gary Proctor’s words had thrown him and then he had done something terrible, something so bad he wondered if he was going mad suddenly.

He could still hear that screaming.

It was as if everything was falling apart around Nick, every aspect of his life disintegrating, and he didn’t know how to stop it. Sonny Hatcher had started off a chain of events that could only lead to catastrophe. It was as if all Nick’s years of skating on thin ice were over. Now he felt jinxed. As a reasonable man he knew that was stupid but at times like this he could almost believe it.

He had felt a rage inside himself tonight like he had never felt before. He knew he could sometimes be formidable, but then he could not have achieved what he had without that kink in his nature. But it had always been controlled violence before, undertaken in pursuit of a clear objective. Now it felt as if he could harm anyone and not even blink an eyelid.

The more he thought about Gary, the more he felt that urge to kill. It was such a shock knowing that Stevie’s nephew had been trounced by him and that his oldest friend had had a capture. How could he ever hold his head up if something like this was to become common knowledge? He consoled himself with the fact that Stevie wanted it kept as quiet as he did. But Stevie had a loose lip with a drink in him.

Nick closed his eyes in distress once more.

It was an abortion, the lot of it.

Tammy’s voice was sawing through his head and he tried his hardest to tune her out. He had Sky News on low, and watched to see if anything came on about Gary. It would be a gruesome death and therefore newsworthy. Nick knew that much from experience. He kept one eye on the TV as he watched his wife’s mouth moving.

She just never stopped going on. It was as if someone had turned her volume up and never bothered to turn it off again. He wished he could take the batteries out once and for all and pictured himself strangling her. It was a picture he had seen in his mind’s eye many times over the years and he sometimes thought that perhaps it stopped him from
really
strangling her. Just the thought of doing it calmed him, seeing her mouth moving but hearing nothing was such a wonderful thought.

He stared into her eyes. The strain was showing and finally he found it in his heart to feel sorry for her. He wished he could take her from this room and give her what she wanted because that was the only thing that would reassure her once and for all that he loved her. If he threw her on the floor and fucked the arse off her she would shut up in a second. Because it was fucking Tams needed, not lovemaking or gentle caresses but deep down and dirty sex.

She thrived on it. He wished to God he felt the same.

Since his problem had started years ago he’d thought she would have accepted it by now. He had offered her an out many times in the past, would have agreed to a divorce on her terms, but she had always refused. He knew she loved him, and in his own way he loved her, but not the way she wanted to be loved.

He only wished he could give her what she wanted.

But he couldn’t. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t do it any more.

He wondered who had been on the phone. Whoever it was had caused untold hag and he would like to smack them one in the teeth at this moment in time. He wondered if it was one of Lance’s cronies. They would be looking for him by now. He wished it
had
been a woman, it would have made his life easier all round, but of course poor Tammy believed he was getting it up with all and sundry except her.

Why did she make him feel so guilty?

He gave her everything she wanted.

Except, of course, the only thing she had ever been interested in.

He pushed past her and, picking up his car keys, left the house once more. She was still screaming at him as he drove away in his Range Rover.

Nick knew his earlier threat was going to give her a sleepless night. She really would believe he had a woman now, and that he was going there, but he was past caring. He had slept in the motor before, he could easily do it again.

Especially if it meant he did not have to listen to his wife’s ranting and raving.

 
Carlos Brent was surprised to see Tyrell sitting in his flat, if for no other reason than he knew that Tyrell was not into big-time skulduggery. Not on his scale anyway, he didn’t rob or thieve.

Tyrell, though, did the dirty work, doors, debt collecting and so on. He also bought debts which was how he had made the majority of his money.

Carlos had sold a few debts to him over the years and, in fairness, he had collected where most people had not. In fact, Tyrell used a network of Rastas with bad attitudes and a penchant for kickings that had made him a legend in his own way. But, so far as serious crime was concerned, he was not what anyone would call a bad man. But that wasn’t to say he couldn’t be if he wanted to, he had the muscle and he had the connections: he just didn’t bother to utilise what he had.

More fool him.

If Carlos had been fortunate enough to have the friendship of people like the Clarkes he would have run the whole fucking gaff in no time.

The Clarkes were legends in their own lifetimes. Vicious and uncompromising, they were behind some of the most audacious and frightening incidents in the criminal world. No one would go up against them, at least no one in their right mind, and Tyrell had the ear of the whole family and was acknowledged almost as a brother to the youngest one. Yet he was still kicking a living, not a bad living admittedly, but not the kind of living he could have commanded with a few words from his cronies.

In short, Carlos Brent thought Tyrell Hatcher was a cunt. But he still gave him his due, his friendship with the Clarkes would see to that.

It was Carlos’s particular job to provide iron. He came up with guns for all sorts of people and all sorts of situations. It was what he did, and even if he said it himself he did it very well. None of his guns was traceable, and none of them could ever lead the police back to him. Carlos was far too shrewd for all that.

The only way he could be put in the frame was if someone grassed him up to the police, and that was not liable to happen to him.

He’d made sure of that.

Carlos also knew about Tyrell’s son. Even while one part of him loudly sympathised, another part did not really care one iota about the little bastard’s demise. He kept that to himself, though, and carried on making all the appropriate noises.

The fact was Tyrell had arrived with his friend Louis, who although not a heavyweight in his own right, had all the right connections because of his three brothers. The other Clarkes were the handful of the year, especially as they tended to work mob-handed. Louis himself had always been seen as a bit of a maverick, but even so was not someone to dismiss out of hand. Particularly when he’d brought his brother Terry with him. So Carlos acted agreeable to the meet even though all he wanted to do was get back to bed and shag his latest amour.

Flora was an eighteen-year-old blonde with large breasts (a must-have as far as he was concerned), long legs and a tight ass. Her only drawback was a particularly strong Bradford accent, but as he did not want to discuss anything of importance with her Carlos felt he could overlook that fact for a while. She was up for it, game as they came, and he was growing tired of listening to Tyrell’s catalogue of fucking woes. He’d had more stimulating conversations with strangers in pubs. At least you could fuck off and go home when they bored you.

‘It must have been hard, man.’

He tried to put some emotion into his voice but it stayed flat because all he wanted to do was yawn.

Tyrell nodded, aware he did not have the other man’s full attention but unable to do a lot about it. Terry Clarke, the youngest brother, had other ideas though and was vocal about what they were.

Terry was naturally argumentative. He was renowned for his belligerent streak and, seeing Carlos’s behaviour as a personal slur on him and his family, said sarcastically, ‘What’s the matter? We fucking keeping you up, mate?’

Carlos was stunned.

‘You what?’

Louis closed his eyes in distress.

‘Leave it out, Terry.’

But Terry shook his head. He was a big man and imposing. He knew his own worth down to the last ounce.

‘Bollocks! We arranged this meet. It ain’t like we just turned up on his doorstep, is it?’ He turned back to Carlos. ‘If you didn’t want this you only had to say, mate. We just want the answers to a few questions, that’s all. It ain’t fucking rocket science.’

Terry had a personal grievance with Carlos but would never let him know that. He had the hump because Carlos had provided the iron that had eventually been used on one of the Clarkes’ own workforce in a revenge attack. Now Terry knew that was their line of business, and he knew that it was not really anything to do with Carlos personally, but it still rankled. A gunshot was a bastard of a wound, and as most of the gunshot wounds round and about could be traced back to this prick he felt he had a legitimate reason to take umbrage.

’All we want to know, Carlos, is if you provided the iron that was used by his son? Now do you want me to get Anne Robinson out of bed to ask you or are you going to answer the fucking question now so we can all go home and get some sleep?’

Louis smiled. Terry was a little sod in some respects but you couldn’t help liking him. Both men and women did, much to the chagrin of Renee, his long-suffering girlfriend and mother of his five kids. On the downside he had once chased three men through Rotherhithe tunnel with a machete and he had only been seventeen at the time. Stories like that tended to follow you around and Terry knew this better than anyone.

Carlos was staring at him in dismay but also with slow-burning anger. He was a big man in his own right, half-Spanish and half-Antiguan. He had inherited his Spanish mother’s temper along with his Antiguan father’s business acumen. He could not in all honesty take this on the chin; he had to come back at the boy and was not really in the mood today.

Tyrell, though, saved the situation.

’As you can see, Carlos, my Sonny Boy’s death has caused a stir in our community.’

He was saying to him, Help us out, and get Terry off your back at the same time. He was also giving the other man a mild threat. It was how things were resolved in their world and Tyrell knew the game back to front. It was just strange playing it again after all these years.

When he had been young he had been one of the lads, one of the boys. But he had never been a lover of extreme violence, or any kind of violence for that matter, even though it was an integral part of their world.

Sure his doormen had to have reps, otherwise it was a waste of time having them. Some were armed and he knew that and appreciated it; he also knew most of them had probably purchased their iron from Carlos so he knew the man could help out if he wanted to. This was a compromising situation for Carlos and they all understood that, but he hoped that Sonny’s extreme youth would sway the man before him.

Carlos, however, was annoyed now and saw an out. He had almost decided to give them a taste but now he was determined not to give them anything.

‘Look, guys, supposing I sold you some firepower tonight, right, and you shot another known associate with it?’

They all nodded.

Carlos opened his arms expansively to thrust his message home.

‘Well, suppose this person you shot had brothers and they wanted to know the score and I listened to their sob story . . .’

He nodded at Tyrell.

‘No disrespect meant, mate. But suppose, after listening, I told them who I had sold the iron to and they came after you, where would that leave me?’

Terry grinned.

‘Fucking dead.’

Carlos laughed.

‘Precisely. So why should I break my silence to you lot? I sell the brand, it’s up to you what the fuck you do with it, right? I supply a demand, no more, no less. If I didn’t sell it to you, some other fucker would. And, I might add, at greatly inflated prices. I am not responsible for the use of any of the purchases made on my premises, and unfortunately I cannot break the confidentiality involved without fear of being seen as the Bertie Smalls of South London. Do you all get my drift?’

Terry sighed.

‘He has got a point.’

It grieved him to say so but he had to be fair. He himself wouldn’t like Carlos preaching to all and sundry who had bought what. It could cause untold fucking hag for all involved.

Carlos knew he was on to a winner.

‘I never, and I repeat
never
, talk about any of my transactions, with anyone. If I did Old Bill would be round here so fast they would burn up the tarmac on the road. I have been banged up and still kept my own counsel as you fucking know.’