Crunch Time (17 page)

‘What?'

‘I want your mobile.'

‘Why would that be?'

‘This is one of those incognito journeys.' He shifted his bulk and faced Henry, who noticed a wafting smell of body odour mixed in with that of soap and cheap deodorant. Obviously BO was an ongoing problem for Mitch that even a shower could not overcome. The smell reminded Henry of a dead man on a mortuary slab.

Henry made a show of annoyance and disgust at the inconvenience of having to give Mitch the phone, which he slapped down into his hand.

Mitch immediately checked it, tabbing through it, checking numbers dialled and received, sent and received texts.

He found nothing and looked curiously at Henry, whose inside curdled.

‘It's empty. All the files are empty.'

‘So?'

‘Who empties files, other then someone who's trying to hide something?'

‘Force of habit,' Henry quipped. ‘And that silly bitch I just binned,' he ad-libbed, ‘has been firing me loads of calls and texts. I just deleted 'em all and all the others, too.'

Mitch's fat jaw edged from side to side. ‘Oh, right.' He wasn't convinced. He sniffed and looked at the phone itself, slightly puzzled. The furrows in his brow were deep. Something nagged at him, something he could not quite fathom. He tossed the phone on to the dashboard.

‘I wonder if she'll keep sending you texts today?'

‘Hopefully she's got the message – not interested.'

‘Got the message in what, twenty-four hours? Women don't get messages that quickly, mate,' Mitch said knowledgeably. ‘Not in my experience.'

Henry looked at him levelly. ‘What would your experience be?'

‘More than you'd fuckin' imagine.' He started the car and reversed out of the parking bay. Henry sat back. Suddenly he felt very vulnerable.

‘What's today about, then?'

‘Collection and delivery.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘What it says on the tin … you'll find out in due course. First things first, though.'

Henry decided to keep quiet for a while and let things pan out. Maybe Mitch would start to fill in some of the pregnant pauses, start blabbing a few titbits which would be useful for Henry to pass on.

He was driven across Manchester in the direction of the Trafford Centre retail park, a place Henry avoided like the plague. Kate and his daughters seemed to be at home there, though. Henry only went under sufferance, letting them free whilst he went to a bookshop, bought a thriller and then found a coffee house. The Trafford Centre itself was bordered by various qualities of industrial areas and Mitch found one under the shadow of the newly erected indoor ski slope which dominated the skyline. He turned in to a massive area which was a warren of roads with big, medium and small units lining them.

The car turned in to a cul-de-sac and pulled up outside the sliding door of a small unit. Mitch pressed a button on a fob and the door began to clatter open. When it was high enough he drove the Peugeot inside and parked alongside a Hyundai Sonata. Henry clocked and stored the route to the premises in his memory.

‘Transport for the day,' Mitch announced, heaving his bulk out of the driver's seat.

The Sonata was a grey colour, as big and sloppy as the Peugeot, obviously with enough room in it to house Mitch in comfort. He needed big cars. Henry glanced around the interior of the unit, but it was virtually bare, apart from a couple of Tesco carrier bags next to the Sonata.

Picking up one of the bags, Mitch handed it to him. ‘Here, change of clothing.'

‘What for?' Henry peered inside the bag to see a pair of jeans, tee-shirt, a zip-up jacket, socks and underpants, all still with price tags still attached.

‘I reckon they'll be your size,' Mitch said, as though he hadn't heard Henry's question.

‘I said, what for?'

Mitch looked critically at him. ‘Use your noggin.' He tapped his head.

It dawned on Henry, like being struck by a demolition ball.

Forensics.

Replacement clothing was so cheap these days – Henry estimated he was probably holding about £30 worth of goods in his hand, max – that most savvy crims went shopping at places like Tesco or ASDA before they went on any jobs. They then did the job in new clothing, disposed of it after, showered, got dressed in their own gear and whey-hey! – no forensic links.

‘We're going on a job?' he asked incredulously.

‘It's just in case … can't be too careful these days.' Mitch winked. ‘Now, don't be a shy boy – get fucking changed!' he ordered Henry. He himself was already pulling his shirt off over his fat head, revealing a chest bearing very saggy man-boobs and great rolls of gut fat. Henry wanted to retch, but retreated so he was partially hidden by the back wing of the Sonata and quickly got changed. The clothes, all XXL in size, and size ten trainers, fitted perfectly.

He folded up his own clothing and held it in his arms.

‘Leave it in the back of the Peugeot' – Mitch hitched up a pair of super-sized jeans, which fastened tightly under the folds of his belly – ‘then get in here.' He nodded at the Sonata.

‘Cat got your tongue?'

Henry glanced sideways at Mitch. They were on the M6, heading south, Mitch at the wheel. They'd had little conversation on the journey. They were now approaching the outskirts of Birmingham.

‘I thought you were going to tell me what was happening?'

‘Suppose I can, now.'

‘How generous,' Henry quipped.

‘Basically we're gonna meet a couple of guys who are gonna give us something … that's about it.'

‘What are they going to give us?'

‘Use your imagination. You thick or something?'

Henry sighed. ‘Why two of us?'

‘Necessity.' Mitch did not expand.

The car sped on to the Midlands Expressway, the new M6 toll road which cut out the requirement to travel through Birmingham.

‘Not much further to go, but I need a brew, and some breakfast.'

Henry guessed what sort of breakfast Mitch would prefer and wasn't wrong when he sat down opposite Henry at the services on the Expressway and tucked into the largest all-day breakfast they did. Henry contented himself with more coffee.

The food seemed to have a euphoric effect on Mitch, relaxed him, made him more garrulous. Henry picked up on his mood and thought he'd try a few questions. He knew from experience that given the right environment, criminals liked to boast about their exploits and Henry hoped that a few innocently put, chatty questions would start to prise him open.

‘How long've you been with Ingram, then?'

‘Ages, years.' He folded the white of an egg into his mouth.

‘You seem to have a pretty big' – Henry almost said appetite, but refrained – ‘operation.' Criminals, he also knew, liked to bask in praise.

‘You could say that.'

‘Porn's pretty big business.'

‘Phenomenal, worth millions.' Now a fork full of fried mushrooms disappeared with obvious relish.

‘Only if you know the business,' Henry suggested.

‘True enough.'

‘You and Ingram obviously do.'

Mitch's eyes sparkled. ‘That we do.'

‘What, like just selling DVDs?'

Mitch chortled. ‘That's just a tiny part of it.'

‘Oh, right,' Henry said, leaning forward. ‘Tell me more.'

Mitch shrugged. ‘DVDs, sex shops, strip clubs, hookers …' He shrugged again.

‘You mean you've got a sex shop? What, dildos and all that?'

‘
A
sex shop?'

‘Yeah, a sex shop.'

Mitch ran the back of his hand across his chin to catch some fat dribble. ‘He's got twenty.'

‘Fuckin' hell!' Henry pretended to almost choke on his coffee.

‘Twelve clubs, runs prostitutes all over the county, does porn movies, too.'

‘Bloody hell!' Henry said in continuing amazement.

‘And on top of that, guess what?' Mitch picked up a sachet of white sugar, which he tapped on the edge of the table, tore open and shook into his coffee, the white crystals disappearing into the black liquid. ‘Not that I take sugar, but does that give you a clue?'

‘What do you mean?' Henry asked stupidly, but knew what Mitch was alluding to.

He picked up another sachet and waved it in front of Henry's nose, tore it open and added it to his drink. ‘White powder?' he said, eyeballs rising.

‘You mean …?'

‘Drugs.' He stirred the coffee. ‘Oh, aye, drugs. We have a distribution network from London to Manchester,' he boasted.

‘You must be worth tons.'

‘Add a property portfolio – legit – on top of that. Student flats, maybe two hundred of them … small shopping arcades … in fact, that might be where you come in, Frank.'

Henry leaned forwards eagerly.

‘We're always after people who can work for us and keep their gobs shut, especially since we relocated.'

‘Relocated?'

‘Yeah, we just moved up from London. Didn't he tell you?'

‘Told me nowt.'

‘Well, anyway, that's why we checked you out.' Mitch regarded him as he sliced his fried bread. ‘We need some help on the property side of things – management, like.'

‘I could do that. Sounds interesting.'

‘Anyway' – Mitch crunched the hard bread – ‘said too much already.'

‘So, what's this collection and delivery thing? A test or something?'

‘Frank, it's a job. If you do it competently, back me up, then all well and good. A test? Ha!' He scooped up a big circle of black pudding and shovelled it into his mouth.

Henry watched him, repulsed.

Back on the motorway, Mitch looped off the M6 on to the M42, then the M40, picking up the signs for London.

‘If we're going to the Smoke, wouldn't it be easier to have stayed on the M6?' Henry commented.

‘Don't make assumptions.'

‘So it's not London?'

‘Nah.'

‘Isn't it about time you told me? There's only so much being fed shit I can stand. I don't do ambiguity well.'

‘OK, OK, we're picking up some packages off a couple of gents, then taking them home with us, that's all the job is.'

‘Drugs?'

‘Cocaine.'

‘Big packages?'

‘Try half a million quid's worth big.'

Henry/Frank blew out a whistle. ‘Bugger.'

‘Bugger indeed.'

‘These guys think they're brainy, a cut above,' Mitch complained as he came off the M40, junction 16, and cut south to Stratford-upon-Avon.

‘Which guys?'

‘You don't need to know their names. A and B, say. They think they're arty-farty, which is why we're going to Stratford … know who was born there?'

‘Shakespeare?' Henry offered hopefully, hoping he didn't come across as too arty-farty himself.

‘Bang on! Well, these guys purport to be into Shakespeare, but it's all bollocks to me. Hey nonny-no and all that shit.' Mitch raised a cheek of his backside and revealed his contempt for the arts by breaking wind and filling the car with a terrible smell. ‘Anyway, they're down here tonight to watch a play.'

Henry opened his window. ‘Which one?'

‘How the fuck should I know? You're not arty-farty, are you?' Mitch asked suspiciously.

In real life Henry quite enjoyed a bit of the bard. However, he didn't think that Frank Jagger would. ‘Not my cuppa,' he said. ‘Only thing I like to see on stage is live sex and strippers.'

‘Me, too,' Mitch agreed sagely. ‘Anyway, we're meeting them in Stratford so they can go to the theatre after.'

Henry shook his head. Drug dealers into Shakespeare.

‘But it's not that simple,' Mitch added. ‘Thing is, as is so often the case, these guys have got greedy.'

A cramp of the stomach made Henry wince at these words. ‘How d'you mean?'

‘They've got greedy. Greed leads to theft. Theft is skimming' – Mitch's words hung in the air – ‘and Ingram doesn't like skimmers.'

He turned to face Henry, gave him a knowing look.

Although Henry, as Frank Jagger, denied having ever been to Stratford, he had actually been, as Henry, a handful of times. Firstly when studying English Literature at sixth form college in the 1970s when he was forced to go down and watch the Shakespeare play he was studying; since then he had been on a voluntary basis to watch plays occasionally with Kate. He had always enjoyed the experience and spectacle, even though he only had a passing interest in Shakespeare. He also enjoyed the ambience of the town, which he found quite laid back and civilized. Even the yobs spoke with posh accents, he once observed.

It was about 4 p.m. when Mitch drove into town and parked the Sonata in a car park behind a hotel by the river.

‘These guys are staying here,' he explained, nodding in the direction of the hotel, ‘but I don't think they've landed yet. They're due about six, they said, and are having a pre-theatre meal at a place in town. Fuckin' jessies,' Mitch spat derisively. ‘Pre-fucking-theatre meal! Jesus.'

Sounded quite nice to Henry, who'd done the same thing once or twice, but he went along with the façade with nods of agreement and concurring facial expressions.

‘What's the plan?'

‘We kill time.' Mitch checked his watch. ‘Ten past four … we meet them in their hotel room, get the stuff and head home. Simple,' he said, but Henry did notice there seemed to be a fatal omission in the running order: no mention of the ‘skimming' issue.

‘In that case I'm going to stretch my legs and have a wander around town, maybe get a bite … if that's OK with you?'

‘Time's your own, just be back here at half five.'

‘No worries.' Henry was out of the car in a shot, striding out before Mitch could decide to tag along. He cut through the car park, found himself near a footbridge which spanned the Avon that he crossed quickly towards town, the Royal Shakespeare Theatre over to his left. Mitch, he was glad to note when he shoulder-checked, was not in sight as he crossed Waterside and turned up Bridge Street, the main shopping thoroughfare, and went in search of a mobile phone shop.