Wolf in Shadow-eARC (12 page)

Sheila was a middle-aged Londoner who was the third member of their little team. Rhian rarely saw her as they inevitably worked on different days.

“Yes,” Rhian said uncertainly. So Frankie had covered for her. She was the first person willing to lie for Rhian since James. She was not sure how she felt about that.

Gary fussed about behind the bar, pushing glasses onto the spinning rubber head of the cleaning machine.

“Your landlady seems a nice person.” Gary said.

“Yes,” Rhian replied, noncommittedly, wondering where this was going.

“Does she have a significant other?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Rhian replied. “Why do you want to know?”

Gary kept his head down over the machine.

“Oh, no reason,” he replied casually. “Just making conversation. Would you do a sweep for dirty glasses, please?”

Rhian buried herself in the minutiae of work. She found the undemanding tasks soothing. There was a satisfaction to doing a simple job well.

Gary tapped her on the shoulder.

“Sorry, Gary, did you say something?”

“Yes, I just asked if you were okay on your own. This is my rest night, and I wanted to catch the documentary on the BBC.”

“Sure, you go ahead. What’s on?” Rhian asked.

“A Horizon program on string theory.”

“String theory?” Rhian asked, wondering what on earth Gary was blathering about.

“You know, modern physics, string theory, multiple dimensions and universes. CERN are setting up an experiment to test string theory using the Large Hadron Collider. Apparently quarks disappear in the plasma ball.”

“Riiiight, hadrons, quarks, plasma balls,” Rhian said, smiling and giving a thumbs up.

“Or I might just watch the football.”

“Plasma balls versus leather balls. I can see that you’re torn for choice,” Rhian said.

Gary fled.

The pub’s
clientèle
consisted of Old Fred and Willie the Dog reading the
Morning Star
at the bar and a small group of male students sitting around a table. Neither party was exactly splashing out. Rhian went over to collect empty glasses from the students’ table in an effort to shame them into spending. They were deep in conversation.

“But Wittgenstein’s duck-rabbit model clearly supports philosophical scepticism in that we can be certain of nothing,” said an earnest-looking student.

“I am certain that I came to university to get laid, not to sit in a grotty pub listening to you lot going on about Ludwig bloody Wittgenstein,” a second student said, gloomily.

“Can I get you more drinks, gentlemen?” Rhian asked brightly.

There was an abrupt silence. None of the students met her eye except the one who wanted to be laid. He took one look at Rhian and blushed bright red.

“I’ll, uh, get a round in,” the sexually frustrated student said.

A third murmured, “Bloody hell, is it Christmas or something?”

Rhian took the cash and brought the ordered drinks over. You did not normally get waitress service in a pub, but Rhian was bored. The second student examined his change carefully when Rhian plonked it in his palm. He did not give her a tip, not that she expected one. She returned behind the bar and washed the dirty glasses.

Two men came in and bought double whiskeys. Rhian noticed them because they stood out from the Black Swan’s normal patrons. She guessed their age at forty or so. That was far too old to be students and far too young to be one of the old working-class codgers left behind by the deindustrialization of the East End, like flotsam abandoned by the retreating tide. The men sat at a corner table, leaning forward to converse in low murmurs. Over the next twenty minutes they were joined by two friends. The last one asked for something in a thick Glaswegian accent.

“Pardon?” Rhian said, looking at him blankly.

“A half of bitter and a large glass of Scotch,” the man said, exaggeratingly enunciating each word. “Can’t you speak English?”

“In the same glass?” Rhian asked, ignoring his rudeness.

“Of course not,” said the Scotsman.

Rhian poured the drinks, assuming correctly that “large” was Scottish for a double. The Scotsman looked at the glass of whisky with contempt. He tossed it down in one go and held the glass out.

“Another. You English serve ridiculously short measures of Scotch.”

“The measure might be English, but I’m Welsh,” Rhian said, refilling his glass from the optic of Bell’s behind the bar.

The Scotsman shrugged, “Same thing.”

He joined the other three before Rhian could think of a suitably crushing answer.

The pub door flew open and a tall, well-built man strode in. He walked with a swagger up to the bar. His dark hair was cut neatly and brushed forward to hide a receding hairline. His pale blue tie set off a cream shirt in a blue suit tailored a little too tightly around an impressive musculature. Rhian noticed that he wore diamond-studded gold cufflinks. Everything about the man was flashy and expensive.

He stopped at the bar and gave Rhian a charming, broad smile that never quite reached his eyes. A gold tooth flashed in the light from the mirror behind the bar.

Old Fred and Willie the Dog vacated their stools and slid out of the pub. Rhian was alarmed to see that Willie did not even pause to finish his drink.

“You’re new,” the man said to Rhian, looking her up and down, “and a definite improvement on the usual barmaid in here.”

“Do you want a drink?” Rhian asked, refusing to respond to the compliment.

She took an instant dislike to him. There was a black void behind his eyes. He was a man without a soul. Like Max, she realised, just like Max. He would be uncaring and greedy with a woman, taking his pleasure without regard to her desires or fears.

“Scotch,” he said.

She picked up a glass and moved to the optic. He let her push the glass against the optic bar to release a measure before speaking.

“Not that blended crap, cutie. Get me down a bottle of malt.”

He surveyed the bar.

“The Isle of Jura, I think.”

That bottle was on the very top shelf. Rhian was obliged to fetch the small steps on wheels that Gary kept for this eventuality. She climbed up and reached for the bottle, feeling his eyes on her bottom. He was not really like Max, she realised. They might share the same air of menace and the same arrogance, but Max had style and manners. This man was a braggart and a bully. It did not make Max any less dangerous, but it did make him better company.

“I’ll take the bottle,” he said. “We’ll settle up later.”

The students were watching in fascination. They looked away when he turned around. He chuckled and walked to their table.

“The pub’s closing for a private party,” the man said to the students. “Piss off.”

“I haven’t finished my drink,” a student looked at him defiantly.

The man picked up the student’s pint and emptied it into his lap.

“You have now,” the man said.

The four men in the corner stood up and the students fled. Rhian casually reached below the bar and pressed the silent alarm that alerted Gary in the flat above. He appeared within seconds and took in the situation with a glance.

“You knock off early, Rhian. I’ll take over here,” Gary said, quietly.

Rhian looked doubtful.

“Don’t worry; I will pay you for a whole shift.”

“It’s not the money,” Rhian said. “Will you be all right?”

“I’ll be fine. I know these people,” Gary said.

Rhian did not move, wondering why Gary was acting so strangely.

He sighed. “The one in the flash clothes is Charlie Parkes. He’s a blagger.”

“What?” Rhian asked.

“Major-time gangster,” Gary translated. “The elite of the underworld. Guys who carry out the big jobs while the small fry run around organising dope sales and prostitution.”

“Like the Brink’s Mat raid?” Rhian asked.

“Exactly like the Brink’s Mat raid,” Gary said. “London has the finest blaggers in the world. Makes you glad to be British, doesn’t it. Anyway, Charlie uses this pub for business meetings, so he doesn’t like witnesses.”

“But you must be losing money,” Rhian said.

Gary shrugged, “True, but I am not troubled by the local street gangs or protection racketeers since none of them fancy taking Charlie on. He is very well connected.”

“I see,” Rhian said. “But couldn’t you get police protection?”

Gary laughed, “This is the East End, Rhian. You clock that one in the check shirt? No, don’t look too obviously.”

“I see him,” Rhian said.

It was the Scotsman.

“That’s Detective Inspector Drudge of the Flying Squad. Charlie contributes significantly to the Metropolitan Police’s unofficial pension funds. He also has a bad reputation with women, which is why I want you to shove off now. I did not know he was coming in tonight or I’d have changed your shift.”

Rhian could take care of herself, but she did as Gary ordered. She was sliding into the weave of East End life, losing her anonymity as she became part of the community. The idea both pleased and disturbed her.

A few days later, Rhian sat in the kitchen drinking a cup of tea and reading one of Frankie’s wicca books when the woman shot in waving her mobile phone.

“A client, a big one,” Frankie said, dancing around the room. “A construction company, no less.”

“You’d better have a cup of tea to steady your nerves,” Rhian said, pouring one.

“Business is looking up. I shall soon be turning away commissions the way things are going,” Frankie said. “Goddess knows, I need the money.”

“Your fame must be spreading,” Rhian said.

“Possibly,” Frankie replied. Her smile slipped. “Or maybe there is just more business around.” Frankie shook her head, as if to clear it. “Whatever, I’ve a meeting at their corporate offices. I could use someone to act as my personal assistant. Someone who has the right sort of clothes. Is there a business suit in that trunk of goodies of yours?”

“Of course,” Rhian said.

“Then go and change. We have an appointment in an hour and a half,” Frankie said.

Rhian managed to don her finery in less than ten minutes. She was still dragging a brush through her hair when Frankie dragged her out of the flat. Frankie set a brisk walk through the maze of terraced streets.

“Huh, the tube station is over there,” Rhian said, wondering why they were going in the wrong direction.

“I know that,” Frankie replied. “The client has an office in Cyprus, no tube stations in Cyprus.”

“Cyprus?” Rhian yelped. “I don’t have a passport.”

“Cyprus, the housing estate in Beckton,” Frankie said. “Not the Greek island. Do hurry up or we’ll be late.”

About half a mile further on, Frankie stopped in front of a row of garages and fumbled in her bag.

“The key, where’s the key to the lock-up? I know I had it when we left.” Frankie said, frantically searching.

Frankie’s handbag was a bit of a Tardis, or perhaps a black hole would be a better comparison. It slipped out of her hand, and various contents spewed all over the pavement.

“Is this it?” Rhian asked, bending down and pointing to a key that had a brown card tag attached by a bit of string.

“Yes,” Frankie said, pouncing on it. “And there’s the car keys.”

She shoveled the rest of the contents back into the bag. When she stood up, she pushed her glasses back up her nose from where they had slipped when she knelt down.

“You never told me you had a car,” Rhian said.

“Hmmm, you never asked.”

Frankie unlocked the garage door and pushed it up into the roof. Inside was the strangest motor Rhian had ever seen. It was van shaped, only with sliding windows and a rear seat. It had large wheel arches mounting round headlights. Rust-red spots marked where corrosion bubbled up through the dirty cream paint. The windscreen was small, flat, and vertical, quite unlike the molded glass on modern cars.

“How old is it? What is it? Was Postman Pat the previous owner?” Rhian asked.

“Cheeky mare, this fine example of English automotive history is a Morris Traveller. It was my mother’s until I inherited it so, I suppose it is older than you. I have a log book somewhere,” Frankie said, vaguely. “She’s called Mildred, the car, that is, not my mother.”

Rhian went to go in the lock-up, but something stopped her. Not something physical, but a sort of compulsion. She heard a howl in the distance, no doubt someone’s pet dog showing off its wolf ancestry. The compulsion faded and she walked into the garage.

Frankie frowned, “You should not have been able to go in without me inviting you. I put a negative compulsion on the building to keep out guests. The protection must have decayed.” She stuck her hand across the threshold. “Odd, the spell seems to be working fine.”

She looked at Rhian reflectively.

Rhian shrugged and examined the car.

“The panels are held on by shaped wood.”

“English craftsmanship at its best.”

“Wood with green stuff growing on it.”

“I haven’t had time recently to sand it down and treat it with preservative stain,” Frankie said, defensively. “Algae tends to get a hold on the varnish.”

Rhian was familiar with the idea that cars needed servicing, but not with anti-wood-rot and anti-algae preservatives. Somehow Frankie suited the car, like an owner grown to resemble their pet. It was quite small and noticeably narrow compared to modern cars, so left plenty of room in the lock-up for Frankie to store stuff.

And store stuff, she did. A vast array of bottles, wooden containers, and strange instruments were stacked high on the shelves that lined the walls. Carved elephants and daemons decorated a large wooden trunk stood against the wall. One of the daemons had six arms holding flaming knives. Rhian assumed it was a Hindu goddess, the elephants suggesting India.

“What’s this?” Rhian asked mischievously, picking up a little wooden statuette of a squatting figure supporting an enormous organ with one hand. Judging by the smile on his face, the figure was inordinately proud of said organ.

“That is a
Priapus
statuette, a Greek fertility god,” Frankie replied, deftly removing it from Rhian’s grip and returning it to a shelf.