Guns Of Brixton (16 page)

    'Course
I will. I just look like I'm going away.'

    'Let's
hope not,' said Jenner.

    'They'll
have to catch me first.'

    By
ten he was ready to go. 'Dev's expecting you,' said Jenner. 'Good luck, son.'

    'Later,'
said Mark and left.

    Outside
the temperature was plummeting again and he took off at a brisk pace for
Brockwell Park and Dev's garage beyond. The walk took about thirty minutes and
Mark enjoyed seeing the old landmarks, and he almost forgot the trepidation he
felt about what he was about to do. Suddenly the thought of the many places
he'd stayed in over the past eight or so years didn't seem so bad compared with
the prospect of a prison cell. The sky was still dark, but the snow was holding
off. When he reached the garage under the railway arches next to Heme Hill
station where he'd spent so many days being taught about car engines, the
sliding door was slightly ajar and he squeezed through. A partitioned-off
section at the back acted as an office and he pushed open the door to find Dev
sitting at a paper-strewn desk next to a space heater that blasted out hot air.

    'You
want to be more careful,' said Mark. 'You never know who's going to sneak in
here.'

    'Jesus
Christ,' said the white-haired man at the desk with a start. 'Mark. How the
devil are you?' Dev spoke with an Irish accent that fifty years in London had
hardly changed, though in other ways he had changed plenty. As he came round
from behind the desk Mark closed the door and saw that Dev had a acquired a bad
limp and that his hands shook slightly. His uncle's firm are all growing so
old, he thought. No wonder he wants some new blood.

    Dev
hugged Mark hard. 'It's been too long, boy,' he said. 'We've all missed you.'

    'I
missed you too.'

    'You
know it was hard keeping our letters and phone calls secret. John gave me a
right blocking when he heard I'd known where you were.'

    'That
was the deal, Dev. I'm sorry I made you lie to him.'

    'I
never lied, Mark. I was just a wee bit economical with the truth, as the
politicians say.'

    'Whatever.'

    'But
I tell you, we're all glad to see you back where you belong.'

    'I'm
glad to be back.'

    'Cuppa
tea?' asked Dev.

    'OK.
But let's make it a quick one. Places to go, people to see, you know what I
mean.'

    'Indeed
I do.'

    Dev
plugged in the kettle and put tea bags, milk and sugar into two shabby mugs
before adding boiling water, passing one to Mark and taking the other back to
his chair. Mark perched himself on the edge of the only other seat in the room,
a stained and sagging armchair missing one leg and propped up by a pile of back
copies of
Auto Trader.
'I see you've got the customer service part of
the business sorted, Dev,' he said,

    'Ah
fuck 'em. They come here to get their motors fixed cheap. That's all they care
about.'

    'So
what you got for me?'

    Dev
gave him a sly smile. 'A right little goer. A Cosworth Sierra. One of the last
ones made. Permanent four-wheel-drive, power brakes and steering. All in all a
sweet little motor.'

    'Nice.
But you don't have to sell it to me, Dev.'

    'Sorry.
I get carried away.'

    'I
know, mate. I remember. Kosher, is it?'

    'Well,
not quite. You know they were they most nicked motor in the country once.'

    'So I
heard.'

    'Well…
this one might be a bit, you know, iffy.'

    'Not
a cut and shut, promise me that. It ain't going to split in two if I put my
foot down.'

    'As
if. It's all one motor, but with a few bits of some others bolted on, if you
know what I mean.'

    'Great.
But then, as I'll only need it for the day, I don't suppose it matters.'

    'It
looks a bit scruffy too, but it goes great. That I can guarantee.'

    'As I
remember, your guarantees last until the motor's off the premises and the
cheque's cleared.'

    'Never
take cheques. That's for mugs. You're family. For you, it's only the best.'

    'Let's
see it then. Where is it?'

    'Out
back. I didn't want anyone getting too busy. I still get the occasional visit
from Old Bill, believe it or not.'

    'No,
really? I can't imagine why.'

    'Cos
they're nosy bleeders, that's why.'

    They
finished their tea and Dev followed Mark out into the garage, then through a
small door that he unlocked, and led into a yard at the back. Under a tarpaulin
that cascaded water when Dev pulled it off was a white

    Ford
Sierra Sapphire Cosworth on an 'L' plate. The paintwork was dull and the
leather interior needed some work, but it still looked like a ravenous shark
about to chew up some hapless swimmer. Out of his pocket Dev pulled a set of
keys big enough to choke a horse, flipped through them, selected one, pulled it
off the ring and gave it to Mark, who unlocked the boot - which was empty apart
from the spare wheel, a jack and a plastic petrol can - and dropped in the bag
of money. He went to the driver's door and settled into the bucket seat behind
the wheel, fired up the engine which rumbled into life on the first try and
soon settled down to a powerful-sounding burble. 'Sounds all right,' he said.

    'I've
done the brakes,' said Dev, 'Checked the levels and filled the tank. You'll be
all right with this one, I promise.'

    'I'd
better be,' Mark said.

    Dev
whacked Mark on the shoulder through the open window, before dragging the gates
of the yard open. Mark reversed through, then engaged first gear and steered
the car towards the main road. In the rear- view mirror, he saw Dev give him a
wave before he pulled the gates shut again. Mark gave him a thumbs up through
the open window, turned on to the Norwood Road and headed west. The car
responded well and Mark set the heater to warm and switched on the radio. He
found a music station and worked his way along the South Circular until he saw
the familiar signs for the M4 and the west. The traffic was heavy heading out
of town, not helped by the wet roads, and the clouds were the colour of old
bruises as he finally crossed the river at Kew and took the shortcut through to
the A4 under the Chiswick Flyover that dripped water down from its cracked
concrete. He drove the Ford up the ramp and joined the traffic flow before the
road became motorway, two lanes expanded to three and Mark could put his foot
down. Not too much, as he didn't want to get stopped by a traffic patrol, but
just enough to clear the Cosworth's throat and feel what it could do.

    He
listened carefully as the car's revs mounted and the needle on the speedo swung
up to the ton. Everything seemed to be working OK as Dev had promised, and
after a few miles Mark slipped the car into the slow lane, keeping an eye out
for anyone with undue interest in him. He'd been watching the road in the
rearview mirror since he'd left Dev's garage and didn't think he was being
followed. But there was something about his uncle's attitude that worried him.
He came off the motorway at junction five, went round the roundabout twice then
rejoined and pushed on to the services just past the Basingstoke turnoff. He
stopped for a coffee, taking the bag of cash with him. You can never be too
careful, thought Mark, looking out for hardfaced men of one side of the law or
other. All he saw were reps, truck drivers, mums, dads and kids at the fag end
of their Christmas holidays, selling, working, shopping or just having fun. All
the normal things he'd never really done in his life. Mark realised then how
alienated he'd become from regular people.

    As
the hands of his watch moved slowly towards the time of the rendezvous, he went
back to the car where he stuffed the money bag between the front and rear
seats, then drove back on to the motorway, came off at the next junction, went
round and headed back in the direction of London before taking the A33 exit and
driving down towards Basingstoke itself, as he'd been told to do. Within a few
minutes he spotted the Little Chef on the right hand side of the road and
stopped just past it in a layby with a view of the car park. It contained half
a dozen cars and vans, but so far no silver Mercedes truck. The building was
single storied, the tarmac area outside a little too big for the job since the motorway
services had opened just a few miles away, and the front was protected by a
white picket fence. Beyond this were flower beds, probably vibrantly coloured
during the summer, but now just muddy patches with a few bits of green poking
through yesterday's snow.

    At
ten to one, Mark did a swift U-turn and slid the Ford into the restaurant's car
park, drove to the end under a leafless, dripping tree, stopped the engine and
sat. The radio burbled in the background and just as the one o'clock news came on,
the truck he was waiting for came off the road, circled the car park and drew
up next to Mark's car, all but hiding it from observation from the Little Chefs
big picture window. There were two people in the cab who briefly spoke before
the righthand door opened and a tall, thin man in a parka, jeans and baseball
cap got out. Mark slid down the passenger window of the Cosworth and the chilly
breeze ruffled his hair as it finally began to snow. The man stepped towards
the Ford, hunkered down and said through the window: 'You got something for
me?'

    Mark
nodded, and the man opened the door and got inside. He smelled strongly of
foreign cigarettes and spearmint. 'Show,' he said. He had a faint trace of an
accent that Mark couldn't place.

    'Where's
the stuff?' asked Mark.

    'Don't
worry about that.'

    'But
I do.'

    Mark
hated this sort of thing. Everyone involved trying to show how hard they were.
How macho. It was always the same, nothing changed.

    The
man sensed his discomfort, got it confused with aggression and said: 'Be calm.
It's in the back of the truck.'

    Mark
sighed. 'OK,' he said. 'I was told you could be trusted.'

    'I
should think so,' said the man, the incongruity of his hurt innocence not lost
on Mark who leaned back and hauled out the money bag. 'Check it,' he said.

    The
man put the bag on his knee and opened it. He looked at the money all gathered
up in thousand pound bundles and smiled. 'Your side is trustworthy too,' he
said. 'No problems ever.'

    'Good,'
said Mark.

    'I'll
count this inside,' said the man.

    'Fair
enough.' Mark actually didn't care any more. If they were going to take him
out, so be it. But he checked the gun inside its holster nevertheless as they
got out of the car and walked towards the truck, just casually like he was
scratching an itch. The foreign man was facing away from him, and between him
and the driver, so Mark was sure neither of them noticed.

    The
man pulled open a sliding door on the side of the van and climbed inside. Mark followed.
The interior was warm and luxuriously furnished, with two revolving leather
captain's chairs, carpet, a sofa bed and built-in cabinets. Very nice, thought
Mark, a real home from home. The man flicked on a light switch and indicated
that Mark should sit. When he had, he slid the door shut and sat down himself.

    'This
is what you want,' he said, shoving a metal briefcase towards Mark, who hauled
it on to his lap and slipped the locks. Inside were the usual kilo packets,
neatly wrapped in clear film and sealed with tape.

    'Check
any one,' the man said, pulling bundles of cash out of the bag. 'Be my guest.'

    Mark
was no chemist but he knew dope. He picked a packet at random, split the film
with his thumbnail and took a taste. His tongue and gums numbed up nicely and
he shuddered as he tasted the metallic bite of good cocaine. 'Yeah,' he said,
sucking the residue from his lips and swallowing again. 'Seems all right. But
then I'm just the courier. Any problems and I daresay you'll hear from my principal.'

    'We've
never heard from him yet,' said the foreign man who was busy splitting the
bricks of money and feeding them through a note-counting machine which he'd
produced from one of the fitted cupboards. 'At least, only to order more.'

    'That's
OK then,' said Mark. 'Got any tape for this?'