To Kill For (34 page)

‘What?'

‘That bloke,' he said. ‘The one on the job with you.'

‘There were five of us on the job.'

‘The new one, the muscle.'

‘Simpson?'

‘Yeah, Simpson.'

He knew damn well who was on that job. Now he was playing forgetful. I had to wonder.

‘What about him?' I said.

‘He's dead.'

‘How? When?'

‘Three days ago. Day after the job.'

‘Where?'

‘In his house. Beaten to death.'

The job was a fuck-up now, whatever way you looked at it.

‘Who did it?'

‘How the fuck am I supposed to know that?'

‘What do the law know?'

He poured the rest of the vodka down his throat. I tossed him the bottle. He flinched.

‘Joe, look – ‘

‘The police, Kendall.'

‘They don't know nothing.'

‘Have they made Simpson for the job?'

‘No. Not as far as I know.'

‘What about Beckett and Walsh and Jenson?'

He pulled a cheroot from the pack on the coffee table. He patted his pockets for a light. I saw some matches on the table and tossed them to him.

‘Beckett, Walsh, Jenson,' I said, after he'd fired up the cheroot.

‘I dunno about them. They're gone.'

He blew smoke out.

‘Where?'

‘I dunno. Haven't heard from them.'

‘The money?'

‘Well, if you haven't got it, Beckett's got it. Or he ain't. I dunno.'

‘What do you mean, if I haven't got it? Is that what you think? That I ripped Beckett off, killed Simpson?'

‘I don't think anything. Christ, we've worked together long enough, right?'

‘But you still wanted protection to meet me.'

‘Look – ‘

‘Forget it. If Beckett's gone, why doesn't anyone think he's legged it with the money? He could've killed Simpson.'

‘Well, he's prime suspect, sure. But...'

‘But what?'

‘It's not just that.'

He hesitated and sucked on his cheroot. Ash fell into his lap.

‘Go on.'

‘That other mob. What's his name? Them black blokes. Ellis.'

‘What about them?'

‘They got turned over.'

For a moment I didn't understand him, and then I got it.

‘That Brighton job? That was four weeks ago. I wasn't on that.'

‘You worked with them on the job they did before,' he said.

Something cold moved over my skin.

‘That was the job before.'

‘They never use an outsider, Joe. Then, the one time they do, they get done on the next job.'

They'd used me that one time because Caine was a wreck after his wife left him, back on the smack. After the Brighton job, they'd had a haul of cash, but they got hit by some unknown firm. Someone had told someone about the cash. I thought that Caine had said something, perhaps in exchange for heroin, but since he and two others were blown apart by twelve-gauge shot I supposed it would never be known. There was no point me saying all this to Kendall. He wasn't the one that needed convincing. I looked at him and he half shrugged and made it look like it hurt him to do so.

‘You think I did the one job with them, learnt a bit about their next one and then passed the information on?'

‘No, Joe. I don't. Course I don't.'

‘But others think I did? Nathan King, for instance? That why I haven't heard from him about the jewellery job?'

Kendall held his hands up.

‘Like I'm saying, I know you're okay. It's just people are careful. Mud sticks. You're covered in fucking mud, Joe.'

‘Why would Beckett use me if my name's bad?'

‘It wasn't. Not then. Now that Simpson's dead... well, now it ain't so good.'

He was right, it looked bad. And if people thought I was bent, London was dead for me. The only people I'd ever get work with would be the type I'd never want to work with. It was nothing personal. I would've been just as nervy if I'd known someone with my kind of luck.

When I turned to go, Kendall struggled from his seat. He grabbed my hand and shook it. His handshake was limp, his hand warm and clammy. He held on a few seconds too long. When he finally let go, he patted me on the arm and told me again that he'd never doubted me. I wanted to throw him through the window.

So, that was that. I was fucked. My money wouldn't last long without any other income. My name was dirt. I was getting old.

Back in my car, I thought things through. There were two problems, as I saw it.

The first was this Beckett thing. Where was he? Where was the money? What had happened to Simpson? It might still be possible for me to survive if I could find out these things.

The other was more immediate. Nathan King. I was supposed to be doing that job with him. If he thought I was bent, I could be in trouble.

I decided to go to King's house. He wouldn't like me doing that, but I didn't think he'd try anything on his own property. I had an old Russian Makarov PM pistol taped to the underside of the passenger seat. I'd take the gun with me but stash it outside King's place. That way I could walk in without causing friction but still have some protection when I left. If I left.

The Makarov was a small piece, and heavy, but the blowback action gave it accuracy, and it was more reliable than most other automatics. I cleaned the gun and checked its action.

I drove the car to Oakwood tube station and left it in the car park. I walked a couple of blocks to a semi-detached house in a quiet road. I walked up the driveway and stopped next to King's black BMW. I slipped the Makarov beneath the car, just next to the nearside rear wheel.

The woman who answered the door was short, young and dumpy. She had bleached blond hair and make-up you could bang a nail into. She looked up at me and sighed, held the door open with one hand, put the other on her hip and called over her shoulder:

‘Nat, it's one of yours.'

She walked away, leaving the door open. I stepped in, but left the door ajar. I could hear a TV playing, kids arguing. There was a thick smell of fried meat and perfume. King came through from the lounge. He was a big black man, with greying temples and a hard, creased face. He was carrying a can of lager. He stopped when he saw me and the good humour slid away, its place filled with a deadened look. His eyelids closed slightly.

‘Joe. What are you doing here?'

‘I need to talk.'

‘About?'

‘Business.'

He took a swig from his can and, as he did so, his eyes moved quickly over my body. I stood still with my arms by my side. A man's voice called to King from the back of the house.

‘Come see who's here,' King called back.

Tony Daley was a stocky white man with a thing for chunky gold jewellery. He'd partnered King for the last twenty years. They'd grown up together in Wood Green, within sight of the Ally Pally. They owned a second-hand car lot in Muswell Hill that gave them their legitimacy. They never did anything half-cocked, never took chances, never tried to take down too big a score. I'd worked with them a couple of times and we'd got along well enough. King and Daley knew what their job was; they did it without fuss. They were smart and careful. If my name was dodgy, these two would tell me. They were also the two who might have most to lose if I was a grass.

Daley smiled when he saw me. It was an easy smile, and I thought that he at least didn't think me a threat. I relaxed a little and felt the tension in my shoulders ease.

‘Joe. What you doing here?'

‘Business, he says,' King said.

They exchanged quick glances. I didn't know them well enough to know what was in that look. If they suggested we leave the house, I'd agree, then grab the gun.

‘Must be important business,' Daley said. ‘You don't ever leave Tottenham, far as I remember. ‘Cept for a job.'

‘It's important.'

They exchanged glances again, weighing things up.

King said, ‘Come alone?'

‘Yes.'

‘Where's your car?'

‘Oakwood tube. I walked from there.'

He looked at Daley, nodding his head towards the street. Daley moved past me and out through the front door. We waited, not speaking. After a few minutes, Daley came back in.

‘Fine,' he said.

‘Come with me,' King said.

He led the way back through the house. I passed a few kids sitting in front of a TV. They were playing games on some computer console thing, arguing about whose turn it was. Two women, King's wife and another woman – Daley's wife, I guessed – were sitting on a sofa, drinks in hands. King's wife glared at her husband as we passed. He sighed and looked away from her. She was going to give him a bollocking later. Daley's wife glanced at me. She looked like she'd seen it all before. She turned back to her drink.

King led us into the bright kitchen, cluttered with dirty dinner plates and stacked pans, and hot from steam and cooked food. We went through the back door into another room that had once been the garage. A pool table had been set up in here, and a bar had been built along one side. Daley slumped into a black leather chair and reached to the ground for his glass of Scotch. I'd interrupted their game of pool. King leaned against the table. Nobody offered me a drink. I hadn't expected them to. I took a position between the two men, but away from them, near the bar. I had them both in sight. I could grab a bottle if I had to.

‘So,' King said. ‘Tell us.'

‘I hear you two don't want to work with me any more. That right?'

King took a deep breath.

‘No. That's not right. Not exactly.'

‘We were told you might not be safe,' Daley said.

‘And the job? You cutting me out?'

‘No, Joe,' Daley said. ‘You ain't in or out. We're not doing the job.'

‘Because of me?'

‘What does it matter?' King said.

‘It matters.'

‘We're not doing it,' Daley said, ‘because something smells fishy. No offence, Joe. We gotta take precautions.'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘But that doesn't mean we think you're a scalper. Nat said that was bollocks soon as he heard it.'

‘Right,' King said.

‘Besides, we didn't think you'd want to surface for a while. Certainly not to do a job.'

‘What do you mean?'

King picked up the cue ball and put it down again. Daley shook his head and said, ‘Fuck's sake, Joe. You can't hit a man like Cole and not expect any shit to come down on you.'

‘Cole? Bobby Cole?'

‘Of course Bobby Cole. The casino job.'

‘That was Cole's casino?'

‘Didn't you know?' King said.

‘No.'

Robbing Cole was madness. He wouldn't rest until he had us all strung up. Maybe he'd killed Simpson. And Beckett. If he had, why didn't Kendall realize it? But then, maybe he did. Maybe he was distancing himself from the whole thing.

‘Who told you I wasn't safe?' I said. ‘Was it to do with the Ellis thing?'

‘We didn't hear it from Ellis,' Daley said. ‘That was just bad luck, even Ellis says so. He blames Caine for that.'

‘It was Dave Kendall told us,' King said. ‘Last week. Said he was worried about you, wouldn't be putting any more work your way.'

Kendall. That explained his behaviour earlier, why he'd felt he needed a bodyguard. He must've thought that I'd heard he was throwing shit on my name.

‘I never liked Kendall,' King was saying. ‘Never trusted him. He talks too fucking much.'

One of Daley's kids, a small blonde thing, ran into the room and stopped dead when it saw me. It stared at me with huge eyes and mouth agape. Then it remembered it had legs and turned and ran from the room.

Daley said something to me about the kid's name meaning something or other in Dutch.

‘My mum was Dutch, see,' he said.

Something King had said was getting caught somewhere. It didn't fit. When Daley finished giving me his family history, I said to King, ‘Last week?'

‘Huh?'

‘You said he told you this last week.'

‘Yeah. After I saw you that time in the gym I called him up and told him we wanted you for the jeweller's.'

‘This was before the casino job?'

‘Yeah, of course.'

I felt a weight in the back of my head.

‘Did you tell Kendall that you'd seen me about the jeweller's?'

‘No.'

Kendall.

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