The Tale of the Wolf (The Kenino Wolf Series) (13 page)

She wanted me to know how I was getting on finding his killer. I told her I was checking out a lead. Well I was: Patrice Laussant. Okay, he was dead, and about as much use as a chocolate fire hydrant, but he was a lead.

‘
Call me when you find this bastard, Wolfy,’ she commanded.

‘
Yes, Marisol.’ I lied.

I had no idea what to do about Longy, so I went home to plan the diamond heist.

Monday 9:00 a.m.

I was broke, proper broke. The recession was chewing me out. Things were harder than I’d ever known. I understood Tabatha’s hunger, understood it all too well. I probably would have been just as hungry if all the shoot-outs hadn’t happened. But making money had taken second fiddle to staying alive.

Sitting in a cafe with the relative peace of the morning, I realised I had to risk it, had to have a go. It was time to move, time to get started. The fry up had given me a little power boost; the energy to keep pushing.

I’d already phoned Curtis and Colin. Curtis was going to do the stakeout alone and fill me and Tabatha in that night at The Hanging Man, his objective and professional eye being far more useful than either Tabatha or my clouded ones. I still didn’t trust Colin and was relying on Curtis’ judgement.

I had the rest of the day free and was torn between a few particular options. I was tempted to go look for Michael, Longy’s brother. Longy had said he was going to see him when he left The Hanging Man, but I doubted he’d reached him. I didn’t think there was enough time. I’d phoned Marisol already. Michael still hadn’t reared his head. And as much as he was a scumbag, he loved Longy. His continual absence was definitely cause for query. Then there were the Russians. They were looking for Longy too, but they didn’t know he was dead, which meant the killer wasn’t with the Russians. So who
were
the Russians with? I considered going on a bit of search for them too. One of them was injured and may have ended up in hospital. I’d have to be a bit careful searching for them though. They opened a conversation with a gun.

Then there was Tabatha. Longy’s death had put the fire under me. I could feel my own mortality, could feel life slipping away, the swiftness of existence. I wondered whether to just go and see her and tell her how I felt. All of these thoughts were rolling through my head as I returned to Betsy.

‘
Is this your car, sir?’ I heard from behind me as I got in the driver seat.

‘
What?’ It was a policeman addressing me, a normal constable. ‘Yes, officer, this is my car.’ I said as I got back out. There was a temptation to get sarky but as I didn’t know this copper I let it slide.

‘
Have you got your details with you, sir?’ He was your standard six-foot copper, a patrol officer.

‘
What’s this about?’

‘
This car doesn’t appear to have a registered owner, sir.’

‘
Are you joking? That can’t be right hold on.’ I was scrambling around in the glove box. No matter what I’ve done in my life the one thing I could say about Betsy was she was legit. More than legit she was saintly: insured, taxed and MOT’d. I didn’t mess with Betsy.

I pulled out my details; logbook, insurance certificate her latest MOT pass.

‘
Here,’ I said handing it to him. He took it from me, called through the details on the radio. ‘Your driving licence, sir?’ He was being pleasant. None of the hard-arse copper bullshit that you sometimes got. He was just doing his job.

I pulled out my licence and handed it to him. He took it from me gave it a quick scan and called my details through.

‘
What’s going on?’ I was frantic. This was Betsy. Something was wrong with Betsy.

‘
Just trying to find out now, sir. Just putting the details through.’

His radio crackled and I listened as the distended voice announced to my horror that Betsy was road legal, but I wasn’t her registered owner. No one was. The officer looked as puzzled as I was. He was holding my logbook with my name on it.

‘
That’s odd.’ The officer said looking at me. ‘Can I get a check on the driver, a Mr Kenino Wolf?’ He called back into his radio.

‘
How long have you had the vehicle sir?’ He was being comforting. He could see my horror.

‘
Years. Bloody years.’ I was shaking.

‘
Don’t worry, sir. The DVLA must have made a mistake. Shouldn’t take long to sort it out.’ He was still doing the non-comforting comfort talk.

The radio crackled back into life. I didn’t know who was on the other end but I hated them more than anyone I’d ever known. The officer responded and to my horror the voice announced that I didn’t have a driving licence.

‘
What?’ I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. Neither could the officer.

‘
Are you sure?’ The officer called back through. ‘Can I get a double check on the name. Kenino … Kilo, India, November, India, November, Oscar. Wolf ... Whiskey, Oscar, Lima, Foxtrot.’

‘
Confirmed.’ The radio crackled back. ‘No such driver.’

He looked at me while holding my licence. I was dumbstruck. Not only did I not own Betsy, but now I had no right to be in her.

‘
I’m holding his licence,’ he called back.

‘
DVLA problem,’ the heartless voice responded.

‘
Received.’

‘
What’s going on?’ I pleaded.

‘
It would appear, sir, that the DVLA have lost you.’

‘
What? How?’

‘
It happens, sir. Computer problems. Don’t worry. A quick visit to the DVLA should fix it. Just take your papers down and they’ll sort it all out for you.’ He handed back my papers.

‘
I don’t understand. How they could have lost me?’

‘
Between you and me, sir, they’re not the most efficient branch of government.’

‘
I’m going there now.’ I said opening Betsy’s door. ‘Where’s the nearest one?’

‘
Wimbledon, sir, but I suggest you don’t drive.’

‘
What?’

‘
Right now, sir, as it stands this car is correctly parked, but you do not have a valid licence. If you try and drive you will be breaking the law.’

‘
But I do have a licence.’ I was waving the pink card at him.

‘
Not according to the DVLA, sir.’ He was being apologetic. ‘If you try and move the vehicle one of my colleagues may arrest you and crush the car.’

‘
Are you winding me up? I’ve got a licence. You can see my licence.’ I was still waving it.

‘
Yes, sir. But the system says you don’t and until it says you do, you are an illegal driver. But don’t worry, bring all your paper work to Wimbledon and they’ll sort it out for you.’

‘
How am I supposed to get there?’

‘
That’s your choice, sir. But you cannot drive.’ With that he continued along his beat leaving me holding a hand full of paperwork and car keys for a car that I could no longer drive.

‘
Bollocks to this! Wait here. I’ll be back,’ I said to Betsy and stomped off towards East Dulwich Station.

This was not part of my plan. I gave Tabatha a call. The officer said Betsy was safe where she was parked but I wasn’t taking any chances. I told her what had happened and she thought it was extremely funny, until I mentioned how it was buggering up our little diamond adventure, at which she became a lot more helpful.

I kept a spare set of keys with my Uncle Clement. I told her to get the keys, rescue Betsy and park her in Leon’s yard, which was private land. There Betsy would be safe.

The DVLA’s office in Wimbledon was a rather attractive red-brick affair with a grey awning. It was on the Alexandra Road. I took a ticket and joined the queue and got comfy. It was always an all-day adventure dealing with the government. Tabatha phoned after an hour saying she’d rescued Betsy.

The day was dragging the way only sitting in a government office could: miserably. After about three hours that felt like forty years, during which I was sure I’d grown a beard, the receptionist informed me that Mrs Hardwicke would see me soon. I smiled meekly. It was already one o’clock, and whatever strength the fry up had given me had long since dissipated.

I left just after seven exhausted, drained from my encounter with the system. The various forms and bureaucratic red tape that I’d had to get involved in wiped out my strength. But I’d recovered Betsy, she was mine again and I was allowed to drive her. I grabbed a mini-cab and raced towards The Hanging Man. Curtis had phoned and told me he’d done the recon.

I reached just after eight. Tabatha and Curtis were already there, keen as mustard, sitting in one of the booths.

‘
Did you sort it or are you still a pedestrian?’ Tabatha said laughing when she saw me.

‘
Yes. It’s sorted.’ I returned.

‘
Shall we begin?’ Curtis was being ultra-professional.

On the table was a folder, I sat down and Curtis flipped it open. As much as Curtis can be a bit of a clown, when it came to things like this I had to respect his professionalism.

‘
Okay.’ He continued. ‘I went down to the address you give me: big swanky place, proper country house. Your man was right … the place is empty’

‘
How do you know?’ I queried.

‘
I knocked the door.’

‘
What!’

‘
Don’t worry I was pretending to be a gardener. I had a load of tools in the ride. ’

‘
What if someone had answered? ’

‘
I would have done the gardening. Money’s money, Wolfy. I know what I’m doing. Anyway this is the place.’ He pulled out a couple of photos of the building. ‘I think the car switch is a good idea. We can park the second vehicle here.’ He pulled out an ordinance survey map. He’d circled the location. In one of my fits of paranoia I'd phoned Curtis and told him that we needed a car switch. I still didn’t trust any of it.

‘
What about the hedge? ’ Colin had said there was a secret entrance in to the compound; a hedge that overlapped another one, giving the impression from a distance of unbroken greenery.

‘
It was there. Everything your guy said was true to the letter. ’

‘
See?’ Tabatha said digging me in the ribs. ‘I told you Colin was alright. You’re just paranoid.’

I smiled mockingly. I couldn’t be arsed to get in to it. Curtis finished giving us the run down. He’d really done his homework. It was really on. We were really going to do this.

With Betsy stuck at Leon’s I got Curtis to give me a lift. I wasn’t going to move her until I’d double-checked the status of my beloved motor at the local police station, as well as my own. Regardless of what the DVLA was saying I was being cautious.

I walked into my flat tired and weary, but excited, and then I saw him sitting in my armchair, and understood how joy is truly fleeting. It was Bosley.

‘
What d’fuck are you doing in my house?’ I’d just been planning a diamond heist and had come home to find Bosley sitting in my front room. To say my heart was pumping was an understatement. I had to play it cool. ‘I hope whatever reason you have is accompanied by a warrant.’

He didn’t respond, just continued to stare daggers.

‘
A warrant? You know … the bit of paper that gives you the right to turnover my house?’

‘
This isn’t how it’s meant to be?’ he asked, looking round at the debris. The flat was wrecked. Bosley was raging but holding it in.