False Friends (33 page)

Fenby frowned and shook his head. ‘No. Why?’

‘Just wondering.’ Kettering grinned. ‘How long have you known them?’

‘Is there a problem, Simon?’

Kettering’s smile hardened. ‘Why don’t you tel me?’

‘I’m confused, mate,’ said Fenby. ‘Has something happened?’

‘I think it has,’ said Kettering. He looked across at Thompson. ‘What do you think, Paul? Has something happened?’

Thompson nodded. ‘It looks like it,’ he said.

Fenby’s heart was racing. He was outnumbered three to one and it looked like he had a major problem on his hands. ‘Guys, come on, what is this, a wind-up?’

‘How long have you known Gracie?’ asked Kettering.

Fenby’s throat had gone dry and when he swal owed he almost gagged. ‘A few years. I don’t know. I mean, we’re not bosom buddies. I met him in a pub. We got talking, like you do. And he’s sold stuff to friends of mine.’

‘Edwards too, yeah?’

‘I know James better than Garry. But like I said, I’m not in his pocket. We’ve had a few beers, watched a few games, had a few nights on the town, but he doesn’t have me around for Christmas dinner.’

Kettering nodded slowly. ‘What team does he support?’

‘What?’

‘His team. What’s his team?’

‘Rangers. He’s Scottish and doesn’t bother much about the English teams. But he’d take Liverpool over Man U.’

‘Married?’

‘He’s never mentioned it.’

‘Where’s he live?’

‘I’m not sure. Croydon, maybe.’

‘What car does he drive?’

‘We’ve always been drinking so we’ve been in cabs. Look, Simon, what’s going on?’

‘Just answer the questions, old lad. You’re doing fine,’ said Kettering. ‘Where was the last time you saw him?’

‘Couple of months ago.’

‘I said where, not when.’

‘A pub.’

‘Where, exactly?’

‘Central London. The east end.’

‘On his own?’

‘There was a group of us.’

‘What was he drinking?’

‘Champagne. He’s big on the old bubbly, like you guys.’

‘Who else was there?’

Sweat beaded on Fenby’s forehead as he felt Kettering forcing him into a corner. He was having to lie but without being able to base his lies on anything solid; and without a foundation of truth the tower of lies he was building threatened to come crashing down around him. He had to do something to break the line of questioning. He stood up. ‘I need to take a leak, guys,’ he said.

‘Sit the fuck down,’ said Thompson.

Fenby tried to smile, hands out, showing his palms, forcing his body language to be as open as possible. ‘Guys, come on, this is me. Let me take a leak.’

Kettering looked over at Mickey and nodded. Mickey reached into his jacket and pul ed out a revolver.

‘For fuck’s sake, guys, what’s going on?’

‘Sit down,’ said Kettering. ‘Or I swear to God Mickey’l put a bul et in your nuts.’

Fenby stared at the weapon. It looked real enough. It was a big gun and he figured it would make a lot of noise if it went off. His bedsit was one of a dozen in the building and a lot of the occupants were unemployed, which meant there was a good chance that someone would cal the police.

That wouldn’t help him, of course, but it might make them think twice about pul ing the trigger. ‘You’re going to shoot me? The cops’l be al over you.

Even in Birmingham they dial three nines when they hear gunshots.’

Just as Fenby finished speaking Mickey stepped forward and whipped the gun across his face, smashing several of his top teeth and ripping open his lip. Fenby fel back on to the sofa, blood pouring down his face.

‘Get him a towel,’ said Kettering and Thompson went through to the bathroom.

Tears trickled down Fenby’s face, mingling with the blood that was streaming from his torn lip. His jaw felt as if it was on fire but he also felt light-headed, as if he was seconds away from passing out. He blinked his eyes and realised that both of his hands were shaking. He folded them, but his upper body was stil wracked with tremors. Thompson came out of the bathroom and threw a towel at Fenby, who grabbed it and held it to his face. Pain lanced through his jaw and he swal owed blood.

Kettering got up from the armchair. He walked over, sat down on the arm of the sofa and leaned towards Fenby. ‘Here’s the thing, mate,’ he said.

‘Mickey here saw your pal Gracie at the boxing thing I was at in London. He didn’t say anything at the time because he was on another table but he recognised Gracie. Except he wasn’t Gracie when Mickey saw him. His name was . . .’ He looked over at Mickey. ‘What was his name?’

‘Alistair something or other,’ said Mickey. ‘He was putting together a cannabis deal. Tons of it, coming in from Morocco. This was about a year ago.’

‘And tel him what happened,’ said Kettering.

‘Ship was boarded when it arrived in Southampton. Three tons of cannabis got seized by Customs and half a dozen guys got sent down. But Alistair wasn’t touched. No one could understand why, because he was involved from the start.’

Fenby shrugged. ‘That’s news to me.’

‘Yeah, wel , it does make you think, doesn’t it?’ said Kettering. ‘So I asked Mickey here to make a few enquiries. And you know what? No one in London has heard of your mates. James Gracie, Garry Edwards. No one’s heard a dicky bird.’

‘They’re fucking arms dealers,’ muttered Fenby. ‘They don’t advertise.’

‘We weren’t looking in the Yel ow Pages,’ said Kettering. ‘We asked people who asked people and no one knows anything about them. They don’t exist, mate. They’re on nobody’s radar.’

‘Except yours, Ian,’ said Thompson.

‘Yeah, except yours,’ said Kettering, staring at Fenby.

‘He was an undercover cop, that’s what I was told,’ said Mickey.

‘Bol ocks,’ said Fenby. ‘I know guys he’s sold guns to. If he was a cop he couldn’t sel guns, could he?’

‘He showed us guns, didn’t he?’ said Thompson. ‘That doesn’t prove a thing.’

‘It’s entrapment,’ said Fenby.

‘That’s a big word for a footbal hooligan,’ said Mickey.

‘Fuck you,’ said Fenby. He took the towel away from his mouth and stared at it. It was wet with blood. ‘I need to get to hospital.’

Kettering looked across at Thompson and gestured with his chin. Thompson went into the kitchen.

‘Where’s he going?’ asked Fenby. Blood was trickling down his chin so he pressed the towel against it, wincing with the pain.

‘He’s going to have a look around, Ian. A good look.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we think you’re a fucking slag copper, that’s why,’ said Mickey. ‘Same as your mate.’

Fenby stared at Kettering. ‘Simon, they took you out and showed you the guns. They gave you a hand grenade to throw, you said. A fucking hand grenade. The cops don’t do that.’

‘They do if they real y want to stitch you up,’ said Kettering. He took another long pul on his cigar. ‘They could be waiting for us to get the money so that they can seize that. Plus, they might be trying to see who else they can pul in. Your mates asked a hel of a lot of questions in the pub after their little demonstration. For al I know they were wired and it’s al on tape. So if you are a cop, Ian, and if you’re in on this, save yourself a lot of pain and just tel me now.’

‘Do I look like a fucking narc?’ asked Fenby.

‘Who knows what a narc looks like?’

‘How long have you known me?’

‘That’s not the point, is it? The question is, are you an undercover cop or not?’

There was a crash from the bedroom, the sound of a drawer hitting the floor.

‘If there’s anything in this flat that says who you real y are, then you’re fucked,’ said Kettering.

‘Total y fucked,’ said Mickey. ‘I’m going to see to that.’

Fenby stared sul enly at the two men as he dabbed at his smashed lips.

Chaudhry was walking up the stairs, about to leave the mosque in Dynevor Road with Malik, when he saw Khalid coming down.

Khalid beamed. ‘Salaam, brothers,’ he said. ‘Is everything good?’

‘You tel us,’ said Chaudhry.

‘You sound upset, brother,’ said Khalid. He put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Wait for me in the coffee shop round the corner until I have prayed,’ he whispered. His breath was rancid and Chaudhry fought the urge to retch.

Khalid leaned close to Malik, kissed him on both cheeks and then went down the stairs.

‘What did he say?’ asked Malik.

‘He wants us to wait for him,’ said Chaudhry.

‘That’s it? We wait? Like dogs? What about the fact that we sat in al last night and he never cal ed?’

‘Hush, brother,’ said Chaudhry. Half a dozen young Pakistanis came thudding down the stairs. One of them was wearing a coat over candy-striped pyjamas and was chewing gum. Chaudhry shook his head contemptuously.

They went out into the street. Fajr prayers had to be completed before sunrise so the road was stil il uminated by street lights and there were delivery trucks parked in front of many of the businesses. Chaudhry took Malik along to the coffee shop. It was a popular place for Muslims to take their morning coffee after prayers and was always busy at that time of the day. They found a corner table and Chaudhry ordered two coffees from the Turkish girl behind the counter. She was pretty and he watched her slim figure as she busied herself at the coffee-maker. She glanced over her shoulder and caught him looking and he felt his cheeks redden.

‘You’re Raj, aren’t you?’ she said with a smile, as she put the two cups down in front of him.

‘Yeah. Do I know you?’

‘I’m the girl that keeps serving you coffee,’ she said. ‘I heard your friends cal you Raj.’

‘Yeah, that’s me.’

‘I’m Sena.’ She smiled again and went on to the next customer.

Chaudhry took the coffees over to the table. ‘I think she fancies me,’ he said as he sat down.

‘Who?’

‘The girl behind the counter. Sena.’

‘You’ve got a girlfriend.’

‘Who?’

‘You know who. That bird your dad fixed you up with. What was her name?’

‘Jamila? She’s not a girlfriend.’

‘Got on like a house on fire, you said. Brains and beauty.’

‘It’s early days,’ said Chaudhry. ‘And she’s from a good Muslim family so it’s going to go very slowly.’

‘Whereas Turkish girls are easy, is that what you’re saying?’

Chaudhry laughed. ‘No, I’m just saying that she told me her name and I think that she fancies me.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘The Jamila thing is a bloody minefield,’ he said. ‘It’s like every second thing I say to her is a lie.’

‘What, you don’t fancy her?’

‘I fancy her, sure, but because of what we’re doing I’m going to have to keep lying to her. I want to tel her the truth but I can’t. I don’t want our relationship to be based on lies but it is.’

‘So put her on the back burner until this is over,’ said Malik. ‘Like you said, she’s a Muslim; she’s not going to rush into anything.’ He looked at his watch. ‘What’s taking Khalid so long?’

‘You know he likes to pray twice as long as anyone else,’ said Chaudhry. ‘It’s his thing.’

‘And treating everyone like mushrooms,’ said Malik. ‘That’s real y his thing. He likes control ing people. That’s what this is about. He wants us to be at his beck and cal .’

They had waited in al evening expecting Khalid to phone, but he hadn’t. At just before eight o’clock a man they didn’t recognise had turned up and asked for the backpacks and phone and taken them away. Both backpacks had been locked with smal padlocks but they had been able to peep inside and it looked as if they contained only old telephone directories. Chaudhry had asked the man when Khalid would cal but he had just shaken his head and said nothing.

They had almost finished their coffee when Khalid appeared in the doorway. He looked around, then waved at them to join him on the pavement.

‘Too many ears,’ he explained. ‘These days the mosque leaks like a sieve. We can trust nobody.’ He gestured with his chin. ‘Walk with me.’

He headed off along the pavement and Chaudhry and Malik joined him, Chaudhry on Khalid’s left, Malik on his right. ‘You seem tense, brothers,’

said Khalid.

‘Tense?’ repeated Malik. ‘Of course we’re tense. What were you playing at? Was it a test, is that it?’

Khalid’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you questioning me, brother?’

‘If I was questioning you I would have done it when you told us to get into the van,’ said Malik. ‘We did everything you asked of us. And then you told us to go home. So I ask you again, brother, was it a test?’

Khalid nodded slowly. ‘Yes. You were being tested.’

‘So we’re not trusted? After everything we have been through you stil don’t trust us?’

‘It’s not a matter of trust,’ said Khalid.

‘Are you sure? Because trust shouldn’t be an issue, brother. We have met The Sheik, remember? Have you, brother?’

‘No,’ said Khalid. ‘I was never granted that honour.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Malik. ‘We had tea with The Sheik. He told us how valuable we were to him, how we were a resource that would be used with care, that our mission would be as important as that of the martyrs of Nine-Eleven.’

‘You are angry,’ said Khalid. ‘I understand.’ They looked right and left and crossed a side street.

‘Harvey, chil , brother,’ said Chaudhry. ‘We’re just a bit concerned that nobody told us what was happening,’ he said to Khalid.

‘I understand,’ said Khalid.

‘You understand?’ Malik glared at Khalid. ‘Do not patronise me, brother. Was it your idea to test us?’

‘Harvey, mate, give him a break, wil you?’ said Chaudhry.

‘We were told to run a rehearsal,’ said Khalid quietly. ‘It was a question of testing the logistics.’

‘The logistics?’ repeated Malik.

‘We needed to make sure that we could get everyone in the right place at the right time. We had to arrange vehicles and drivers. We had to check that phones worked and that we could get everyone to work to a schedule.’ Two Pakistanis walked towards them and Khalid stopped speaking until they had gone by. ‘You are very important to our organisation, brothers,’ he said. ‘We have a lot riding on you so we have to be sure that everything works. We must leave nothing to chance.’