Serious People (15 page)

“Yeah, can’t wait. I know we’ll miss a few things here. I’ll miss getting down the Bridge and stuff,” Early said, putting his wallet back in his jacket.

“The Bridge?” Khan asked.

“You know the Blues? Chelsea? I’m a season-ticket holder. Down there every weekend I can,” Early said, lighting another cigarette.

“Oh,” Khan said wishing she hadn’t asked.

“What about you, Guv? You got people to come home to?” Early asked.

He figured the answer would be no but thought it only polite to ask.

“No, I live on my own,” Khan said, all her attention on the tall wall that ran around Payne’s property and trying to scale it with her eyes.

“If you don’t mind me saying, that’s pretty strange isn’t it?” Early asked innocently.

Khan turned back at early. “Strange?”

“Well, it’s just with a name like Khan, I’m thinking you’re probably Muslim, right?” Early continued.

“How very astute of you DS Early,” Khan replied with a scowl. “And there was me not wearing my hijab today.”

“Sorry Guv, I didn’t mean anything by it; but I thought most Muslim women were married pretty young, and you know, plop out a few kids,” he said, finishing his cigarette.

“It’s so refreshing to hear from a police detective who’s free from stereotypes and chauvinism.” 

Early looked unsure as to what to say to recover the situation and the uneasy silence was only broken by a knock on the window of Khan’s door. Khan almost jumped out of her skin at the surprise and then her face flushed self-consciously. Early did not want to get a caught up in anything with this broad; she was not made for the street.

A well-dressed man was stood on the path by the car and beckoned for Early and Khan to get out the car. Early got out first and approached the man; Khan slowly opened her car door.

The man spoke in a hushed voice. “You’re the police aren’t you?”

Early flashed his warrant card, almost as in reflex to the question, built through the years. “Yes sir, is everything OK?”

“I knew it. I saw you from the window, just sat in your car. I knew something was up with those people from yesterday.”

“Those people?”

“Well you couldn’t miss them. Their dirty old transit van was parked right in front of my drive for most of the day; and do you know I could barely get my car out when I left the house to get the weekly groceries” the man said, clearly not used to this type of problem. “Has Mr. Payne been burgled then?”

“What makes you ask that?” Early said, wishing he’d never go out of the car.

People like this were infamous to the police; nosey neighbours, just wanting gossip. At best they were just an irritation, but at worst they could ruin good investigations, with stupid misinformation that sent investigations completely off track. The quicker that got rid of this clown the better.

“Well, because I saw them get into their van and drive over to Mr. Payne’s house and they only used his fob to open the gates up,” the man continued. “I’d say that was more than a little strange wouldn’t you?”

“Did it not occur to you they might be workmen sir?” Early said, allowing a hint of annoyance to creep into his voice.

“No, you didn’t see them. There were three of them; they looked like villains to me. They were not the type of people we’re used to seeing around here,” the man said, gesturing to the row of mansions that filled the road.

“Did you take their registration sir?” Khan asked.

“Well of course, as soon as I saw one of them dangling out of the window and waving the fob to open the gate, I said to Doris… there’s something not right here Doris,” the man said. “Doris nodded; she always knows a wrong’un.”

“Is Doris your wife sir?” Khan asked now with her notebook in hand.

“No, Doris is my dachshund. I can tell you, she started barking, and she never barks at anyone,” the man continued.

Early rolled his eyes and looked back at the car, desperate for an escape. This guy was a classic; nothing better to do than twitch his curtains.

“So am I right, was it a burglary?” the man asked expectantly.

“No sir, we are conducting an separate investigation; but this may be connected to it. Have you seen Mr. Payne today?” Khan asked.

“No, oh dear, do you think something has happened to poor Mr. Payne?” the man said, fascinated by the potential gossip.

“No I’m sure he’s fine; what was the licence plate of the transit?” Khan asked.

Early was annoyed and didn’t care if his face showed it. This over-promoted woman was showing off her inexperience by letting this time waster have his moment of fame. He could be back at the office now, putting on the kettle for his long awaited coffee.

The man took a readied piece of paper out of pocket and passed it to Khan. “Here, I said to Doris, I should write it down while it was clear in memory. I also jotted down a description of those ghastly men as well.”

Khan looked pleased and took the paper. “Thank you sir, you’ve been very helpful.” She wrote down the man’s name and details.

“You don’t think I’m at a risk now do you. Will I have to testify as a witness?” The man looked suddenly rather nervous.

“No, we’ll keep your identity under wraps sir. You go back inside,” Khan said reassuringly.

“Thank you officers; I feel a great weight lifted from my shoulders,” the man said before hurrying off towards a large house further up the street.

“You shouldn’t encourage that curtain twitcher Guv,” Early said, shaking his head.

“DS Early this is our first lead.” Khan corrected him firmly.

Early couldn’t help but roll his eyes again. He wouldn’t mind but she actually meant it. This is exactly what happens when you have someone like Khan that never does a day out in uniform learning about the streets. Uniform teaches you the streets, about the characters you meet, the people who are important and should be listened to, and the people who are not.

“If these people had a fob to get in through Payne’s gates, then they must be some kind of associates of his,” Khan said looking down at her notebook.

“Guv they were probably just plumbers or something,” Early tried to argue.

“DS Early, need I remind you that our present list of connections for the two men—who are allegedly the biggest gangsters in London—consists of just three names, and that we may just be about to double that,” Khan said.

“But Guv, sometimes you have to split the wood from the trees,” Early protested.

“DS Early, I am beginning to see how Charlie O’Neil has managed to conduct such a successful criminal business, if this is the type of enthusiasm that a decent link is greeted with,” Khan snapped, then returned to the car.

Early swore under his breath and followed Khan back to the car.

After far more time than Early would have liked, the DS finally had a nice mug of coffee in his hand as he waked into the makeshift ops room. He had another mug for his boss, that he put in front of DI Khan, who was working on a laptop. “There you go Guv, any luck?”

Khan sipped the coffee and beamed. “This is why you must follow up even the smallest of leads. You are going to learn something from me Early.”

Early was thankful he had his mug of coffee to stick into his mouth; otherwise, he might have taken this moment to give his senior officer some feedback on her learning opportunities.

He took a gulp of his coffee. “So what we got?”

“What we have got is—a guy called Billy Blake. And this particular guy has a record as long as your arm and is just the type of person that I would expect to see on that chart,” Khan said, pointing at the five photos on the board above them. “He looks to be a complete psychopath!”

Early was more than a little concerned by the pleasure Khan seemed to take in this new found information. It was immature and likely to get her into trouble on the street.

“I’ve never heard of him,” Early shrugged, hoping she’d be influenced by his lack of interest. "You sure he's not a plumber of some form?"

“Well, I think we should take a trip down to his family home to find out,” Khan said still smiling and getting to her feet.

“Where’s that?” Early said, not getting up.

Khan was hastily putting on her jacket. “At a small bar in West London no less, the perfect criminal cliché.”

Early held his mug aloft. “To criminal clichés.”

Early and Khan were walking out the nick, when a young officer called out Khan’s name. Early barely noticed, that’s how irritated he was after a morning which had left him with only one half drunk coffee to his name and now a new stupid excursion. And this would likely cost him any lunch.

The police officer was a young-looking woman, who couldn’t have been more than a few months out of the training college. Probably thought of Khan as the perfect role model, Early thought bitterly.

“Yes Constable, can I help?”

The young officer was out of breath after what had been clearly a long pursuit. “Sorry Ma’am I saw you walk down the stairs. You're DI Khan aren’t you?”

“Yes” Khan replied.

“You put a white transit van as a code one interest on an on-going investigation you’re leading?” the young officer asked nervously.

Early opened the door impatiently. “We need to get going Guv.”

Khan shot him a cold look. “Hold on Detective Sergeant. Yes Constable I did. Have you got any further information?”

“Yes,” the young officer said. “I was just interviewing a girl who works at a nightclub around the corner. She was reporting an assault on her boss, and she took that registration down as the one of the van that the assailants got away in.”

Khan’s face lit up. “Really?”

“Yes, I was just typing the report up, and your alert flashed up on the screen; and then I saw you walk past. So I thought I should quickly make you aware.”

“What’s your name officer?” Khan asked.

“PC Archer, Ma’am,” she said looking down to her feet self consciously.

“PC Archer, you may well have given me a fantastic new lead in my case. You should be very proud of yourself,” Khan said, patting the young officer on her arm. “Do you think I could have a copy of your report?”

Archer almost jumped, out of keenness to give a response. “I can do better than that Ma'am. The lady is still upstairs waiting in an interview room!”

Khan turned to Early. “Now this is police work.” She spun on her heels and started to walk the way that Archer had come. “Lead the way officer.”

Archer smiled and lead Khan towards the stairs. Early watched the two women stride away and hissed to himself. “Whoop, whoop, girl bloody power. I wonder if she’s got any sandwiches?”

Mickey stood by Seamus looking at his reflection in the window of his associate’s Range Rover. His normal reaction to seeing his reflection would be to put his hands through his hair and adjust his quiff; then step back to admire it. It was a process he’s started in his early teens. He couldn’t even remember where he got it from; maybe from some old fifties film. But it served two purposes. Firstly, it fixed his hair—and this was key to Mickey—as your shit must always look good. Secondly, the motion just looked cool. Today though, the image that stared back was wearing a fedora.

Mickey did like fedora hats. He absolutely loved the nineteen-twenties style they seemed to give people, and the flawless way they could adapt to any jacket worn with them. His hair may be covered; but he still looked good. Since a young age, looking good had always been important to him. Everyday he wore a good clobber; never the same outfit more than a few times. If he’d had to pay for them, that that would have cost him and Dawn a fortune. But as it was he knew a few places that had always looked after him. And no outfit was complete without a nice overcoat, with the collar up of course—nice.

“She’s a great-looking car isn’t she?” Seamus said.

He was assuming Mickey had been admiring the car; what a cunt. If this fella’s brains were dynamite, he would have enough to blow more than just his head off.

“You know what Seamus, if your brain were dynamite…”

“Yeah, beautiful,” Mickey said. “C’mon.”

Mickey and Seamus walked towards the small terrapin type building serving as the reception for the school that the first member of Wild n' Weird now apparently worked at.

It didn’t really feel right to Mickey; what was a rock star doing working at a school? This must be something against in the rules of rock n’ roll. You wouldn’t have seen Elvis working in no school. The uneasy feeling he had was not helped by the lack of any appearance from Max Fame. He had promised to be there at eleven thirty but it was now practically midday and—no Fame. This kind of casual disrespect pissed Mickey off. They’d left Fame’s office a couple of hours ago, without him. He’d said he needed to cancel his appointments for the day with his other clients. Stupidly, Mickey had taken pity on him for a moment, largely due to a feeling he had Fame firmly under his control. The agent’s lateness was like a slap in the face.

Mickey shook his head. “Where the hell is Fame? I should have dragged him here by the ear.”

“Maybe we’re at the wrong place? I mean we’re looking for a former rock star; and we’re at a school,” Seamus said, seeming equally bewildered by their location.

Had Fame sold them a wrong-en? Had he told them to come down here, so he could make his escape. Maybe they’d pushed him too hard?

Before Mickey could worry further, a large luxurious looking limousine pulled up next to the two men. Mickey gawked at the long American car, in gleaming white with mirrored windows.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Mickey said. “The fucking Pope’s here.”

Fame stepped out of the back of the car, in a leopard-skin jacket, sunglasses and what looked like snake skin boots. Fame stopped to look at his reflection, fixed his hair and admired his ponytail, before ushering his driver to leave.

“What a complete twat,” Mickey said, shaking his head.

“That’s a cool car,” Seamus gasped.

“Yeah, I wonder how well it works in Tesco?” Mickey replied.

“Gentlemen,” Fame said, approaching them. “I’m so sorry to keep you; I can never get Adele off the phone.”

“The pop star Adele?” Seamus said.

“Yes that would be her,” Fame nodded.

Mickey glanced at his young apprentice and wore a look of disappointment on his face. “Right, unless you two want to continue the foreplay, do you think we can get on with this?”

Within a moment they’d made it into the school corridors; Mickey was more than a little dismayed at what this said about security in schools. If he was running schools you’d have doormen on every door. Any no-good could get into these places. They’d found the classroom they were looing for via a big planner in the centre of the school; not a sign of security in this place.

Mickey looked through the small window in the old styled classroom door and watched a balding man, who appeared to be in his early forties, conducting a lesson to a class of bored looking schoolboys. He looked back at Fame, giving him a look questioning if they were in the right place.

A shiver went down Mickey’s spine; he didn’t like schools. It wasn’t that he had been unintelligent or was even a disruptive influence in school. Mickey always thought that this was one of the most common misconceptions about the criminal fraternity; a bad attitude and a lack of respect would hardly be the skills that would help you travel a long way in a life of crime. Certainly if you wanted to work for Mickey, you had to have a good attitude and respect; if you didn’t you could piss off.

Mickey prided himself on loyalty and respect; there was no excuse for a bad attitude. He could remember many a time when he disagreed with the decisions that O’Neil or Payne had made. But he would never question them, never question their authority or right to be making those decisions, and would crush anyone who would.

“This is the fella?” Mickey said, pointing to the teacher who stood at the front of the class.

Seamus now looked through the small window and shook his head in disappointment. “What the hell?” he turned back and eyed Fame. “The guy is wearing cords, and a tweed jacket?”

“Fame this is him, right?” Mickey questioned again.

“That guy did not use to be no rock star—no way,” Seamus said defiantly.

“Rock star? I don’t know what you gentlemen have been told, but Wild n’ Weird were never that big. They made one good album, headlined a festival or two; but that was about the top for them,” Fame shrugged.

Seamus looked disillusioned. “I thought they were like the Stones or something?” 

“Wild n’ Weird could have been a big rock band. I mean of there can be no doubt; they were definitely the next big thing at one stage. Their debut album had reviews most bands could only dream of; from Kerrang to the NME they all said it was an instant classic. Nevertheless, they imploded long before they could get much real traction. The lead singer fell out with the song writer and guitarist, and—by the second album—that was the end of that,” Fame said.

“I’ve got to say though, I have a lot to thank them for. They did help put me on my way. After their first gig, they toured with some of the biggest in the game—helped me get some connections out there. After their split, the lead singer had quite a special career of his own too.”

“And I’m sure you were forever thankful to them and looked after them—and their royalties, Mickey quipped. “I mean that’s probably why that poor git’s in there in a classroom wearing cords.”

“Hey there is no room in business for sentimentality,” Fame said coldly. “I’m sure you have some empathy for this coming from your kind of occupation?”

Seamus looked back through the window. “Didn’t you say this guy is the songwriter?”

“Yes, his name is Steve Peters; he was known back then as Weird,” Fame explained, reminiscing. “Back then he was just a big mop of hair, so much so that you could barely see his face. Always had a cigarette in his mouth; he was the very epitome of a rock star, never separated from his guitar. He could have been the next Lennon.”

“You wouldn’t think it now,” Seamus said. “I mean, what happened to the guy? He’s meant to be a guitarist, playing all those cool solos and stuff.”

“Actually, he always played rhythm guitar. He was all about the chords and…”

“Chords?” Seamus said, confused.

“Jesus Christ!” Mickey shouted looking at the ceiling in anger. “Who gives a fuck? We’re here to get them together for one fucking show! One bloody show! Who gives a shit about anything else?”
But Seamus was on a roll. “But you always say the background work is important, Mickey. So I really need to clear something up; what’s the difference between lead and rhythm guitar?”

“For the love of God! He’s just a guitar player, who will be playing a fucking guitar! Background work done.” Mickey said exasperated.

“You need to calm down. It's not healthy to get so angry,” Fame retorted. “A man of your age…”

Mickey glared back at the showbiz manager, and Fame stepped back. “Or not—your choice,” Fame said, rapidly retreating.

The school bell sounded twice, stopping the three men’s conversation. Within a minute they were suddenly surrounded by boys carrying a variety of bags as they hurried past. The man in the tweed jacket and cords came through the door carrying a pile of books and called after the departing boys. “No running please!”

“Oh my God, that is so lame,” Seamus said, bitterly disappointed.

The teacher started to walk past the men, not noticing them in the hallway, which was now filled with boys. Fame grabbed his arm. “Steve! How are you?”

The man looked Fame up and down and confusion spread across his face. “Max Fame?”

Fame spread in arms out, in a preaching manner. “Yes that’s right Steve Peters; Max Fame is here to see you.”

“What on earth are you doing here?” Peters said, looking at the three men. “You’re not even allowed to be here.”

“Now, calm down mate, we’re just here to offer you a deal,” Mickey said sensing the panic that was starting to emit from the teacher.

“I thought he’d at least be wearing leather trousers,” Seamus said, utterly disillusioned now.

“That’s it. I'm getting the headmaster!” Peters said.

Mickey gave Seamus a subtle signal, and the large man quickly acknowledged it. He clenched the teacher’s right shoulder in his large hand, pushing him back into the classroom. Fame trailed them in and Mickey followed, slamming the door behind him. Mickey didn’t want this to get ugly; he had assumed that Fame was going to be able to talk this Steve Peters into performing based on the guy’s sheer love of music. But there was always Plan B: kick the shit out of him until he agrees.

“Look, whatever you want…” Peters said.

“We’re here to set up a business deal, but time is a major part of it. So all I want right now is for you to listen,” Mickey said, forcefully.

“I’m sorry,” Peters stammered. “I’ve got papers to mark. I really don’t have too much time before my next class.”

“This is so fucking lame,” Seamus said, letting go of the teacher.

Mickey sighed; this was heading for Plan B. They didn’t have time for this. They still had the rest of the band to locate and that didn’t allow for any delay caused by marking bloody papers.

“Steve, I’m here with a fantastic opportunity for you. I'm getting the band back together, for a big reunion gig.” Fame stopped for a moment, waiting for a reaction from the teacher. With none forthcoming, he continued. “Now is the time for the band to have another go at it.”

“I’m not really interested, sorry Max.”

Fame looked astounded. “What? You’ve got to be kidding me? Max Fame offers you a stepping stone back into the business, and you’re, not really interested?”

Mickey turned away in frustration. “I don’t believe this.”

“I really need to get back to my marking,” Peters said starting to filter through his pile of books.

Fame stepped towards Mickey and quietly said, “I knew this wasn’t going to work, I tried to tell you.”

Peters sat behind his desk, seemingly ignoring the other men around him, and started the task of marking books. It was disrespectful.

“Tell me something Max,” Mickey asked, holding a glare in Peters’ direction. “Did these boys wear a lot of make-up when they performed?

“Well, I suppose…” Fame replied.

“That is fantastic news. You know, having been in the brothel game before, I’ve learnt that make-up can cover a lot.”

There was a wicked way that Mickey had pronounced his words and every bit of it was deliberate; he wanted Peters to understand what was coming. Plan B had begun.

“Ronny said he would apologise!” Fame suddenly shouted out.

This took Mickey back a moment. If he didn’t know better, he imagined that Fame must have seen what Mickey and Seamus had planned and out of concern tried to help the stupid teacher out. The prick might have a conscience after all.

“Ronny will apologise; he knows you need that to get back together,” Fame repeated.

“Ronny said he would apologise?” Peters’ head rose from the books.

“Yeah, Ronny said there was no way, the band could get back together without its leader,” Fame continued.

Mickey sensed the teacher beginning to waver. “Ronny specifically said he’d apologise for being such a wanker. He knew you’d find it hard to take him seriously; so he promised that this would be the first thing you would hear him say when he saw you.”

Peters looked taken aback. “Ronny said that?”

“Ronny said that” Fame said, equally amazed with his own audacity.

Mickey could see he was going to have to take over this negotiation. Fame had made surprisingly good progress so far but this needed a bit more effort to get over the line.

“Absolutely, he said he’d behaved like a complete cock sucker the last time you saw him.”