To Kill For (9 page)

‘What's wrong?'

‘We're out.'

‘What?'

He took a step forward, looked up and down the road.

‘Did anyone follow you?'

‘No.'

His dark face shone with sweat. His short blonde wife came out of the lounge and took a look down the hallway and saw me.

‘Get rid of him.'

King nodded and waved her away. She didn't move.

‘Get rid of him,' she said again.

King sighed heavily. He was surrounded; the wife behind, me in front. I don't which pissed him off more.

‘We're out. Me and Tone. Out. I don't know what this shit is, Joe, but it's too fucking heavy for us.'

I'd known King and Daley for years, I'd worked with them on a couple of big jobs. They'd never lost their bottle. But I was looking at King and he was sweating and gripping his revolver tightly and his wife was hovering, not letting him out of her sight.

‘What's this about?'

‘You're on your own, man. That's what it's about.'

‘Did you get anything on Glazer?'

‘Fuck Glazer. Fuck you.'

‘Tell me what happened.'

‘Fuck off, Joe.'

‘Tell me.'

He looked down at the revolver, put it in his jeans pocket, wiped the palm of his hand on the denim.

‘I phoned a few people. Got nothing. Asked a couple people to ask around. Next thing I know, my wife is crying. Some cunt called up, threatened my kids, Joe. My fucking kids. I take that seriously.'

His wife was watching me, her arms crossed, her face grim and set, her mouth thin.

‘It's Paget,' I said, ‘that's all. He's frightened, making a lot of noise.'

‘Bollocks. They were onto us half-hour after I made the first call. This cunt knew my kids' names, where they go to school, when my wife's birthday is. Said he'd hit the kids first then come for my wife. That's heavy shit.'

Glazer had clout, then. Or Paget did.

‘And it wasn't Paget, neither,' King said. ‘He had a Manc accent.'

‘You sure?'

‘My brother-in-law's from Salford. I know the accent.'

‘It doesn't matter. It's a bluff.'

‘I don't give a shit. I don't get my family involved.'

‘Who was it?'

‘I don't know who. And I don't fucking care. Tone got the same message.'

‘Did you get a number?'

‘No. Fucker blocked it. I'm not going to say it again, we're out. Keep your fucking fifty grand.'

‘Who did you call?'

‘Fuck off, Joe. Seriously.'

‘Who?'

‘Nat,' his wife said. ‘Get rid of him.'

He glanced back at her.

‘Get packed,' he told her. To me, he said, ‘We're taking off for a while.'

King's wife unfolded her arms, gave me a last lingering stare and marched off. She knew what the score was. You couldn't be married to a man like King without days like these. He turned back to me.

‘I called three people, but the third I called only ten minutes before I got the message, so I reckon whoever grassed me up comes from the first two. Ben Green and Harry Siddons.'

I knew Ben Green, a small-timer out of Bow. He was into fraud, receiving, fencing, that kind of thing. Nothing heavy. He was someone you went to if you needed some information, new documents, bits and pieces like that. He was one of those blokes who knows lots of people. I suppose he was what they would call sociable, chummy. I didn't trust him, of course, but I'd never heard anything against him.

Harry Siddons I didn't know.

‘Tell me about Siddons.'

‘He used to do jobs, but then they diagnosed him with something, epilepsy I think. Now, he fixes jobs. Knows a lot of people. Me and Tone used him once when Ricky pissed off to Amsterdam and left us in the lurch.'

‘Where is he?'

‘Works as a salesman in a garage in Collier Row. The Ford place, off the A12. Know it?'

‘I'll find it.'

‘Right, now clear off.'

He slammed the door in my face.

I finally tracked Green down to the bakery in Stepney where he worked. I hadn't seen him in a few years. In that time he'd traded his hair for weight. He worked for the bakery as a delivery man, hauling boxes of bread and bagels to local restaurants, pubs, that sort of thing. When he saw me, he was red and sweating. He told the boss he was taking his tea break, and we went out back into a walled yard. He lit a smoke and wiped some sweat from his brow, leaving flour there instead. He sucked on the cigarette.

‘Haven't seen you in ages,' he said. ‘You alright?'

‘Fine.'

‘You hungry? Want anything to eat, bagel or anything?'

‘No.'

‘I get as many bagels as I want. Fed up of the bloody things.' He dragged some more on his fag. ‘Been hearing a lot about you lately.'

‘Such as?'

He shrugged.

‘You know, rumours.'

‘Go on.'

‘I heard Cole hired you and Beckett to knock off his casino in some insurance job. Heard that Beckett was in with Paget and Marriot and that they decided to keep the money and make like you'd nicked it. Then I heard you didn't like that idea and went and got it back and somewhere in there Marriot and Beckett got themselves killed. That's what I heard, but I don't listen to rumours.'

So, he didn't know about Brenda. It wasn't common knowledge. That was good.

‘Anything I can help with,' he was saying, ‘let me know, alright?'

‘What do you know about Mike Glazer? Friend of Paget's.'

Green nodded.

‘Thought as much,' he said. ‘When King called me, I remembered that you and him knew each other. I wondered if this Glazer bloke was anything to do with what's going on.'

‘You ever heard of him?'

‘Glazer? Can't say I have. Sorry.'

‘Did you ask around?'

‘Haven't had a chance yet, mate. I'm run off my feet here till eleven. Thing is, like I told King, I'm a bit out of the loop these days.'

‘You straight now?'

‘I wouldn't go that far. Man cannot live by bread making alone.' He grinned. ‘I'll see what I can do, though, alright?'

‘You haven't spoken to anyone?'

‘Not till you got here. The boss don't like us making personal calls. He's a bit of an odd one, exacting, you know? Type who'd get out of the bath to have a piss. 'Sides, we get busy this time of day.'

He took another drag on his cigarette and looked around the yard, as if he was looking for a way to escape.

‘Can't afford to lose this job,' he said. ‘My wife's expecting another.'

He made it sound like it was all her fault.

‘See what you can find out for me. There's a couple hundred in it.'

‘I could use it.'

‘Be careful. Someone doesn't want questions asked, and they know I'm asking.'

‘Right. Don't worry. I still know some people to ask.'

I was about to leave him to it when he said, ‘She wants to call him Jaydon. The kid. Believe that shit?'

I believed it.

‘Joe,' he said, ‘this stuff, it's not going to come back on me, is it? These are dangerous people and, well, I got a family.'

There wasn't much I could tell him. He was right, they were dangerous people.

I found the Ford garage easily. You could hardly miss it. You travelled down the A12 for a while and it was like you'd hit one of those American strips, all huge signs and used cars and burger joints. It looked like everyone had conspired to make it as ugly as possible, as a kind of joke on the people who came here to spend their money.

An old bloke was on the forecourt cleaning cars. I asked him where I could find Siddons. He pointed at the showroom and I could see a tall, thin man with a tanned, pinched face and a flat, pudding-bowl haircut. He had a gangly look, as if his limbs and trunk had been stretched. It made him look sly for some reason.

I went inside. He was showing a silver Ford Focus to a young Asian bloke. The car was the kind of thing half of Britain drove. Siddons had that mean cockiness that all successful salesmen have – a smugness that made them look like they had a mirror stuck in front of their eyes and they were always talking to themselves.

The young man kept glancing over at a red ST injection model, five grand more than the silver one. Siddons knew this and kept saying things like, ‘The 1.6 is great at fuel economy, a nice car, really. Doesn't give you any trouble. My brother-in-law's got a 1.6 five door. Takes the family out, every weekend, three kids.'

The young bloke was getting the idea that the cheaper car meant family and mortgage and a safe, steady, boring life. His eyes were spending more and more time on the sports model, which, after all, had alloy wheels.

There was a blonde secretary at a desk in the corner of the showroom and a small salesman who wandered around with a clipboard, making some notes on the cars there. The blonde woman glanced at me once, and then didn't take her eyes off the typewriter. The small salesman didn't want anything to do with me. I suppose I didn't look the type who would seriously want to buy a new car. Maybe they thought I was there for the pleasant surroundings.

After I'd stood around for a minute, the small salesman decided he'd better at least see if he could sell me something. I told him I wanted to speak to Siddons. When he heard his name mentioned, Siddons turned and looked at me. I could see his mind working. He could see straight off that I wasn't a customer, and he was trying to work out if he knew me and what I might want. Finally, he left the young bloke to look the cars over for himself and came over to me and said, ‘Can I help you?'

‘You spoke to a friend of mine on the phone. Man called King.'

‘Ah, yes. A Ford Transit, wasn't it?' Not a second's hesitation. ‘Come into my office and I'll give you the details.'

He went over to the small salesman and muttered something and pushed him towards the young Asian. Then he walked past me and I followed him out of the showroom and down a corridor.

‘Fucking Pakis,' he said over his shoulder. ‘Want everything half price.'

He took me into a windowless, cluttered office. He closed the door. He didn't sit, but went over and leaned against a filing cabinet along the side wall.

‘You lot are jumpy. I only got a call from King couple hours ago.'

‘Heard anything?'

‘No. What's your name, anyway?'

‘It doesn't matter.'

‘Oh, right. One of them. Well, look, I'm doing this as a favour, yeah? I don't like doing this sort of business during work hours. I don't like people like you coming around here. So, why don't you fuck off and I'll make some calls and if I hear anything, I'll call King.'

He started to go back out of the office and I put a hand on his chest and stopped him.

‘Who did you call?'

‘The fuck you doing?'

‘Who did you call?'

‘Look, old son, you don't come into my place and make demands. Got it?'

He tried to push past me. I held him. I said, ‘I won't ask again.'

‘Fuck off.'

I snapped my arm out, the flat of my palm still on his chest. He flew backwards, smashing into his desk, knocking folders and paper onto the floor. He came to rest on the floor.

He stood up slowly, keeping his eyes on me. He brushed himself down. The cockiness had gone from his thin face now.

‘I'm phoning the police,' he said.

He didn't move, though, and we both knew he wasn't going to phone anyone. I said, ‘Who did you call?'

‘I didn't call anyone. I didn't fucking call anyone. I told you, I don't do that shit at work.'

He was too angry to be lying.

‘Does King know you're here?' he said.

‘It doesn't matter what King knows.'

He shook his head.

‘Who the fuck are you?'

‘That doesn't matter.'

‘Does anything matter to you?'

‘Yes. Glazer.'

He watched me for a while then leaned over and started to pick up the fallen folders and papers. He bundled them together and tossed them onto the desk. Then he turned and looked at me again. His face cleared. He said, ‘Wait, I know you. You're one of Dave Kendall's boys.'

‘Was.'

‘Huh? Oh, shit. Yeah. Someone killed him. You used to be a fighter, yeah? Joe—'

‘I haven't got all day.'

‘Right, Glazer. Why the fuck didn't you tell me who you were? You come in here, I don't know you from Adam. You might have been Filth or something. I mean, I can see you're not, but you might've been.'

‘Glazer.'

‘Yeah, right.'

He walked over to the filing cabinet and tilted it back and pulled a folder from beneath. He took it to the desk and sat down.

‘Why did you want to know if I'd called anyone?'

‘Someone called King and threatened his kids.'

‘Shit. That's bad. Wasn't me, though.'

He didn't fidget or look away or do any of the other things people do when they try to hide something. I kept looking at him, though. I didn't want to make it easy on him if he was lying.

He said, ‘Look, I've got a reputation, and I don't like it fucked with. You say someone put someone onto you, well, it wasn't me. And I don't need grief from King, yeah?'

He took some reading glasses from his desk drawer and opened the folder and ran his finger down a sheet of paper. I went nearer so that I could see. On the paper was a handwritten list. He turned the page to a second sheet and scanned this one, then a third. When he reached the bottom of that, he looked up.

‘No Glazer.'

I turned the folder around so that I could see for myself. The list was coded; a surname and first name in a column on the left side, a series of letters and numbers in the middle column, phone numbers on the right. There was no order to the names that I could see, but the earlier entries were more faded and had more amendments and crossings out, so I supposed that the whole thing was an ongoing record.