East of the City (7 page)

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

‘His insurance thing, that’s the real money. What are the dogs to him these days? Chicken shit. Maybe he lost big on his insurance racket?'

‘Broking,’ I said.

Tubs cocked an eyebrow.

‘It’s not a racket, Tubs. It’s an insurance broking company.' When he smiled like he thought I was splitting hairs, that got my goat, so I added, ‘And businessmen aren’t in the habit of burning each other’s houses down.’

‘Oh yeah? And us lot down here, we are, are we?’ He thumbed his chest. "Things go wrong, we up and torch an eight million-quid house?’ He sculled the rest of his beer and put down the glass, staring past me. I glanced around but no-one was looking our way.

‘Tubs,’ I said, ‘will you help?’

‘The man’s a tosser.’

‘You’d be helping me, not him.'

Tubs thought about that. He’d never liked Sebastian, even in the old days, and what he’d said about Sebastian having his arse hanging out back then, it wasn’t strictly true.

I was about fifteen when Sebastian started appearing for the occasional Monday night session at the Gallon. He wasn’t a bookie, he was a punter — I think it was Nev Logan who fiirst brought him along. Sebastian had sold Nev some insurance on the cheap, Nev thought the other bookies might be interested. It turned out they were; Sebastian did business with just about all of them. And not just insurance, he started betting with them too, on account, and then he’d come in to settle up at the Monday night session. Tubs never liked that. And he never liked the way Sebastian would pull out this little blue book he had, and write insurance for everyone like he was taking bets, just one of the lads. Sebastian came pretty regular for a while, but as his business got bigger we saw less of him; he was down to about one visit every three months when I saw his name in the paper. He’d bought an insurance broker; he’d told the journalist he was going to change its name to WardSure. I remember that I showed the article to my old man. He just leant across the kitchen table, flipped me a copy of
Greyhound Life
, the racing form, and told me to keep my mind on the job. Later on I tore out the article about Sebastian and kept it. I’m not sure why I did that, maybe because Sebastian had this air about him, sophisticated, he wasn’t like anyone else I knew. Down at the Gallon he seemed like a visitor from another world.

‘If we find he’s involved somehow,’ I told Tubs now, ‘we don’t pay out.'

‘You don’t pay out nothin’?’

‘Not a penny.’

‘He’s down the gurgler for eight million?’

‘Maybe. But I need to get to the bottom of this fast.’

‘How fast?’

‘Hours.’

Tubs snorted.

‘Okay, days, but it can’t drag on.’

Tubs stuck out his bottom lip. I could see it appealed to him, the idea of upsetting Sebastian’s apple cart. ‘I’ll be wastin’ my time,’ he said, ‘but if that’s what you want.'

Before I could thank him, someone came over from another table. He was completely bald, his face was like a skull, and it wasn’t till he spoke that I recognized him. ‘Ian,’ he said, offering me his hand. ‘Been a while.’ It was Nev Logan; I tried to hide the shock. His grip when we shook was almost nothing, like a ghost.

‘Nev,’ I said, trying to look him in the eye.

‘Just wanted to say sorry I couldn’t make the funeral. Terrible bloody thing,' he said. ‘Terrible. How’s the sister?’

‘She’s staying with me.'

‘Good. Stick together. Good people, your Mum and Dad. Good people.’ He rested a hand on my shoulder and I felt the most desperate urge to get out of there. At last he smiled; it made him look even worse, and his hand fell away. ‘Come and see us sometimes, ay?’ Turning gingerly he shuiiled back to the bar.

‘Jesus Christ.'

‘Yeah. Looks shockin’,’ Tubs remarked. From his tone he could have been sizing up a dog at the track. ‘He’s' not normally that bad. Must be the treatment or somethin’. Cancer. They told him six months ago.’

‘You never told me.’

‘Would you’ve been interested?'

This. Again. Tubs always thought I’d betrayed Dad somehow when I went and joined Lloyd’s. And not just Dad, but all of them, like I thought I’d become too good for dog people once I started to wear a suit. There was no point arguing the point now, I had real problems to deal with, so I stood and put my card on the table.

‘I really need your help, Tubs.’

‘Okay,’ he said raising his hands. ‘Okay.’

As I went up the stairs I looked over to the bar. Nev was leaning against it, the barman pouring his drink, they were laughing. Nev Logan the joker, the man who used to fill my head with tall stories, he was old suddenly, and dying, and no-one had thought to tell me. The Gallon Club. Nev Logan, slowly dying. But I had other worries. I hurried up the last stairs and out the green door, into the bright glare of the street.

'S
o you’re it,’ Bill said, leading me into the surveillance room upstairs. ‘The fall guy.’

I’d just finished explaining what Allen had asked me to do.

‘He thinks it might help.’

‘Oh, it’ll help,’ Bill said smiling. ‘You find whoever’s got Ward, you’ll get your fuckin' head blown off.’ He propped himself against the table. ‘Big help.’

Green lights bobbed up and down on the surveillance gear, the needles on the dials bouncing to and fro. The soundman had his headphones on lopsided, just one ear covered.

‘We’ve got monitors on the direct lines into the senior WardSure people,’ Bill said indicating the sound gear. ‘Another one on their switchboard, Max Ward’s home-line, and his mobile.’

‘Anything?’

‘Dick shit. Tell me again who that security guy was?’

I took him through it a second time, explaining what Eddie Pike used to do for Sebastian. When I added that I already had someone digging round, Bill frowned. You could see he didn’t think much of our chances in that direction. ‘What about the Name?’ he asked. I gave him the note from the pigsticker. ‘How old's this?’Biil asked as he read it.

‘Two years.'

He pulled a face. ‘Fucking hell.' He handed it back to me, saying maybe I didn’t have to worry about getting my head blown off after all. Then he stared at the sound gear a while, watching the green lights flicker up and down the scale.

When I was helping Bill on the Ottoman report it crossed my mind at least once that maybe he wasn’t up to the job. He went at things like a bull at a gate, crash through or crash, he had a way of really upsetting people who might have been helpful. There was an Ottoman Air stewardess he spoke to, a bright girl; he grilled her like she was responsible for stealing the plane herself. When he left the room she asked me what Bill’s problem was. She said he was worse than the crooks she worked for, but when I asked her what she meant by that she immediately clammed up. I told Bill later but he dismissed it out of hand. Fucking airhead, he said.

But the K and R business was different, you could see he was loving every minute of it. Men with guns, phone taps, the urgency and secrecy. I think if Sebastian had suddenly turned up safe somewhere, Bill would have been disappointed as hell.

He reached across to the sound gear now and hit a switch. A woman’s voice came over the speakers; she was talking about commissions on some WardSure policy. Bill pressed a button. Now it was a man’s voice, another WardSure employee, he seemed to be bitching to his wife about their nanny.

‘Dickhead,’ Bill said, pressing the button again.

The next channel was a blank. Bill was about to hit the button a third time when a high-pitched beeping started up. ‘Max Ward,’ the surveillance man said. ‘On the speaker?'

Bill nodded.

The man tlicked two switches, Max’s voice came over the speaker, excited as a kid. ‘Hello. Hello, Bill Tyler?’

Bill shook his head, theatrically. ‘Is that the code?’

‘What?’

‘The code. I gave you a fucking code.’

‘Full cover. Full cover.’

‘Great,’ Bill muttered. The surveillance man grinned, enjoying the show.

‘It’s an email,’ Max said, completely wired. ‘It just came in, you want to hear it?’

‘Max.’

‘I’m here.’

‘Calm down.'

‘Did you hear me? It’s an email—’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Bill exploded. ‘Get a grip, Max. Calm down and read us the sodding message.’

Bill glanced at the surveillance man who nodded; he was getting it all on tape. He picked up a pen as well. ‘Now, Max,’ Bill said, ‘Whenever you’re ready.’

‘You ready? Okay. Here it is. It’s like a list. The first line says, “Re Sebastian Ward, further instructions". Then the next line’s the date, today, and then it says 5 p.m. The next line there’s an address, you want me to read it?'

‘Yes,’ Bill said, rolling his eyes.

‘Lower Park Bam,’ Max said; ‘Park, P.A.R.K. Brentwell near Lepping, Kent. No postcode.’

‘What about the money?'

‘Doesn’t mention money. Just Brentwell, near Lepping, Kent, that’s it.’

When Bill looked at his watch I glanced at mine. Three thirty.

‘What happens now?’ Max said. ‘You going down there?’

Bill tapped his hand on his thigh. The surveillance man was already digging through the pile of ordinance survey maps in the corner. He found what he was looking for and opened it out on the spare table. Bill went over and joined him, both of them studying the map.

‘Bill?’ said Max over the speaker.

‘Hang on, Max,’ I said.

‘Ignore the bastard,’ Bill muttered to me. He studied the map some more then he looked over his shoulder. ‘Max?’ he called.

‘Yeah?’

‘Stay put. If anything else comes through, call us. And fax over a copy of that e-mail.’ He told Max the number. A second later Max was quizzing him again, asking if he was going down to Brentwell.

Bill stalked back to the sound gear. He asked if Max had the fax number. When Max said ‘yes,’ Bill said ‘goodbye’ and flicked the switch. All we heard on the speaker now was the dial tone. Bill returned to the map. The pair of them traced their fingers left and right, searching; they seemed to be having some trouble finding it.

I said, ‘I know where it is.’

They both turned in surprise. ‘Brentwell?’ Bill said, looking at me curiously.

I had a sinking feeling. ‘Yeah, Brentwell,’ I said, glancing down at my shoes then back up. ‘Brentwell, and also Lower Park Barn.’

Ten minutes later we were in the van motoring through the City, heading for the Old Kent Road. There was a driver and Bill and me in the front, and four men with guns in the back. I caught a glimpse of the Lloyd’s Building; it made me wonder what the hell I was doing.

Bill had the folded map on his knees, now he pointed to Brentwell. ‘Which way from the village?’

I told him I wasn’t sure, there were a couple of lanes, but I’d know when we got there. He glanced at me like he was having second thoughts about taking me along.

‘There’s no racetrack marked on the map,’ he said.

‘It’s an old flapping track,’ I told him. ‘It’s probably just fields now.’

He folded the map up and tossed it onto the dash. ‘You’re sure this barn’s derelict?’

I reminded him that I hadn’t been near the place in fifteen years, I wasn't sure of anything. His glance lingered on me just long enough this time to make me feel uncomfortable. I suppose I couldn’t blame him for having doubts; it must have seemed pretty strange to him, me knowing about the barn. Right then it seemed pretty strange to me too.

Lower Park Barn. I hadn’t given the place ten minutes’ thought in the past ten years; it was just one more place on the circuit where the old man used to put up his stand. Flapping tracks are the bottom rung of the dog-racing ladder. Not properly regulated, the dogs racing there are generally third-raters, trained by their owners, and the tracks aren’t much more than sandy circuits on a conveniently flat stretch of ground. Thirty or forty years back there were dozens of them all over the country, but now most of them have gone the way of Brentwell, abandoned and ploughed up or turned into industrial estates. As a kid, going out for a day at some flapping track was like going on a picnic. Good times.

‘What’s on your mind?’ Bill said.

‘The place,’ I said. ‘The old track.’

‘Exposed?’

‘What?’

‘The barn,’ he said. ‘Is it out by itself, in a hollow, up a hill, what?’

I tried to remember. Took a stab. ‘In a hollow.’

‘How many access roads?’

‘Come on, how many roads? This is fifteen years ago.’

‘There’s four guys in the back,’ Bill jerked his thumb that way, ‘who’d be grateful if you tried to remember.’

I tried. ‘I’m not sure. I think just farm tracks, I couldn’t swear to it.’

‘Any woods nearby?'

He just didn’t seem to get it. There were heaps of these flapping tracks we used to go to, and the years had blended them all in my mind. I was confident that once we got to Brentwell I’d remember the way there; I used to be the old man’s navigator on those trips out of London. To Dad and Tubs, out of London was off the edge of the world. But exactly what we’d find at Lower Park Barn now I couldn’t say. I was even having second thoughts about it being in a hollow. I reached for the map. There were a few patches of dark green around Brentwell. Woods?

A voice came over the CB. Bill picked up the handset. ‘Go ahead.’

‘We got the fax.' It was the surveillance man we’d left back at the house, you could hear him quite clearly, it wasn’t your average CB. ‘Reads just like Max Ward said. Name, time and address.’

‘Any chance of tracing the e-mail?’

‘No.’ There was a pause. ‘Your friend Max, he scrubbed it.’

Bill stared straight ahead. ‘Okay, keep us in touch.’ Bill double-clicked the button on the handset then hung it back on the hook. He stared ahead a few seconds, quiet, thinking. Then he lifted one leg and drove his foot straight through the glove-box. The sound of breaking plastic was like a gunshot, but the driver didn’t bat an eye. We drove on in silence.

After nearly an hour we got to the King’s Head in Brentwell, I felt like I was on home ground.

‘Straight on,’ I said. ‘On past the Post Office.' I handed Bill the map. He’d calmed down a bit; he even tried to fix the glove-box, but when he couldn’t he just tossed the lot out the window.