Serious People (22 page)

DI Khan and DS Early were sat uncomfortably close on a sofa next to the main dance floor in Zebbie’s After Dark Club. Early could almost feel Khan’s body tremble, being so close to another. He wondered if it was racial or religious thing, whatever it was though she was a complicated person with some real issues.

“I bet you could give it some on that floor Guv,” Early said.

Khan showed a flush of embarrassment induced by Early’s comments. “Not all women in their twenties are sluts DS Early.”

“Sorry Guv, I didn’t mean to…” Early said, beginning an apology.

“Didn’t mean to stereotype me as a young slut, DS Early. Oh thank you very much, you’re very kind,” Khan replied with a glare.

It was a lie though, Early had meant to stereotype his boss. He wanted to find out if she was really as uptight as she came across—and she was. He had questioned if he should have passed on the info he had to Hawkins and now he couldn’t help but continue the questions. There was an innocence to Khan. She was a strange combination of a highly driven woman, and one who had achieved promotions she’d never earned. She represented everything that Early thought was bad about the Force these days, but still there was something delicate about her. He started to wish he hadn’t made that call to Hawkins.

Zebbie walked through a door on the other side of the dance floor and beamed with delight at the sight of the two detectives waiting to speak to him. It was a fake delight, a face of delight that had been developed over time. Developed out of necessity. Zebbie was clearly well used to dealing with the Police and used to trying to pretend not to dislike each encounter. Early glanced at Khan, who seemed to be giving the nightclub manager a sympathetic smile; she was obviously too green to see through Zebbie’s mask.

“Officers, good morning,” Zebbie smiled.

Zebbie was fifty-two years old, Early had learnt from reading his file. He seemingly tried to hide this by the way he dressed, which was somewhere between a seventies pimp and footballer bling. His skinhead hid any grey hairs, which would obviously have tarnished his appearance, and had earrings in both ears. He was the very stereo-type of his industry.

And he was clean. Zebbie’s only entry, on the record Early had dug out for Khan, was for traffic offences and he was completely clear apart from this—the perfect guy to run a place for organised criminals. The other nice give away that the place was connected to something underhand was that Zebbie had bought the nightclub
in cash
ten years before; which either meant he had real money or he was being backed by some.

Zebbie sat down on the sofa opposite Khan and Early. His damaged face from the assault earlier in the week was now clear to see under the bright lights of the club. “Can I get either of you a drink?”

“No,” Khan replied quickly, apparently not wanting to give Early the opportunity to respond.

“You’re here cause of what that silly girl Crystal said, aren’t you?”

“That silly girl was worried about you and took a very brave step to protect you by coming forward,” Khan replied.

Her initial sympathy had gone and was replaced by disgust at the man’s uncaring words about the young bartender.

“I’ve got to be honest, I was expecting some uniformed cops, not some suits to come down for this,” Zebbie continued, demonstrating more than a foundation level of knowledge in how a police investigation works.

Early glanced again at Khan, wondering on if she’d picked up on this.

“I guess that just makes you lucky,” Khan replied.

"Now you just need to think carefully about what you say," Early added.

“Why did the Blake brothers do this to you?” Khan said, displaying no need to hide what she knew.

“Who? You mean how did I do this?” Zebbie said, pointing to his face. “I did this the other night; I fell down the storeroom stairs. The one time I decide to change a barrel myself and this is what happens,” Zebbie replied.

He was playing along to the sound of someone trying to protect dangerous people. Early had heard these lines before hundreds of times from different individuals.

“Really? Crystal said she witnessed the Blake brothers doing this to you,” Khan said, watching for any reaction.

“Ah that girl has such an imagination. You know she’s got a bit of a drug habit. I've been trying to help her through it, you know in a fatherly kind of way,” Zebbie said, keeping a straight poker face.

Early could see Khan’s disgust at the nightclub manager’s words; he could feel her body trembling with anger. Early thought about stepping in to calm the situation, but decided it was best just to watch what happened.

Khan leant forward. “You disgusting little man.”

“Sorry?” Zebbie said, looking taken aback by Khan’s comments.

“That young woman risked everything to protect you, and this is how you repay her?” Khan said, her words full of emotion.

Zebbie looked to Early. “Is she new to this?”

Khan stood up and shook her head. “Let’s go. I've heard enough from this little man.”

Khan and Early had been sat in the car, outside Zebbie’s club without saying a word for a few minutes before Early decided to break the silence. “So I guess that ends our investigation? I’ll give you, it was looking pretty damn promising for a while… but sometimes this stuff happens.”

“I can’t believe he could act like that? That young girl risked her safety for that pig of a man, just to try and protect him, and he acts like that,” Khan said.

Early surveyed the young Detective Inspector—the woman looked in shock. He wasn’t sure if it was more to do with the demise of the case, even before it got started, or because Zebbie had broken some rule of chivalry.

“What were you expecting Guv?” Early asked. “If he was really into some big time chaps, he won’t be telling us nothing..”

“I was expecting someone who could see an opportunity to change their life and maybe want to talk to us for a bit—out of respect for someone they love doing something remarkably brave for them,” Kahn replied.

“Love? Be fair Guv; the ain’t no love there.”

“I should have asked for all his CCTV tapes,” Khan said, clearly angry at herself.

“Guv, he would have scrubbed them, as soon as he heard Crystal had walked into the nick,” Early said, winding down the window to light a cigarette. “This is what these people do—this is how they survive. They don’t talk to us, no matter what.”

“They think that’s strength, but it’s just weakness,” Khan replied, scowling at the nightclub.

“So like I said Guv; what’s next?” Early said.

“Next we go to the Blakes’ home and bring the whole lot of them in. Then we make them talk,” Khan said in a focussed manner.

Early almost chocked on his cigarette—talk to the bloody Blakes! Did this woman not know when to give up?

“Are you sure that’s a good idea Guv?” he asked. “I mean I’m just saying that, in my experience, you have to be very delicate about these matters. You don’t want the Blakes to fly the coop. I think it would be better if we got something solid on them first—then bring them in and charge them. This way they won’t walk or do a runner.”

“We do have something solid. We have Crystal’s statement?” Khan replied angrily.

“The statement of a junkie teenager?” Early questioned.

“She’s not a junkie. Oh my word you actually believe that creep!”

“Guv, I’m just saying what a jury would think,” Early replied calmly.

Khan started the car, put her foot down on the accelerator, and the car screeched away. Early fell back into his seat, almost dropping his cigarette.

“Shit Guv!”

Khan gripped the steering wheel and kept her foot down. “We’re going to arrest those thugs and make them tell us everything they know!” 

Shit, he had to think fast; he had to come up with a new plan. He had hoped Zebbie’s resilient character would have been enough to put her off, to make her discontinue the investigation. But it was clearly not the case. Early racked his brain for a new strategy, but all he could think of was how much crap he would be in if this case continued. His panic driven thoughts were broken by Khan’s phone starting to ring. She pressed a button on her steering wheel and the familiar voice of Hawkins bellowed out— “Kahn?”

“Yes sir?” Khan replied.

“Where the hell are you?” Hawkins asked, continuing to bellow.

“We are carrying out our investigation's sir, into Charlie O’Neil,” Khan explained.

Hawkins took a moment to respond before giving an answer. “I need you back in the office.” 

“No problem sir, we’ll be back just after lunch.” Khan replied.

“No, I mean now!” Hawkins shouted back.

“But sir…”

Khan started to argue until she realised she was talking to a dialling tone—Hawkins had slammed the phone down. Early allowed himself some hope that this might mean he was now in no crap whatsoever after all. Maybe this case was over.

“I guess we’re going back to the nick?” Early said.

Within the hour, Early was following Khan into Hawkins’ office. As he entered he could see Hawkins behind his desk, his face was red with rage.

“Get out Early!” Hawkins shouted.

Early was quite happy to sit down at his own desk instead of enduring the roasting that Khan was about to be getting; he had enough of those during his career for his liking. He took his phone out of his pocket and plugged it into the charger on his desk. His eyes stayed on it for a moment. He fought back the regret he had for making the call informing Hawkins of the progress on Khan’s case. What could he do? If he didn’t tell the guy—who paid his monthly deposits—how the hell was he ever going to get to Portugal. And anyway, what’s the worst that can happen from it? Khan could get a stern talking to about what cases she should be going after—and which she should leave alone. She’ll live.

John sat next to his brothers in front of the bar. All three brothers were fixated on the door, waiting for it to be pushed open by the Mexican.

His mind began to wander, reflecting on what Emma might think if she knew what he was doing with his morning. If she knew that he and his brothers were waiting for a gangster from Mexico she would probably leave him. Then, if she also knew that they were looking to make a deal to give a green-light to copious amounts of drugs being sent into London, all courtesy of the Blake brothers, she would probably leave him and phone the police.

Emma knew both his brothers had a bad criminal past and, though it was never spoken about, she must have wondered about John. It did worry him occasionally that she might think he too must have had some first-hand experience with criminality, and he did, albeit just by being around in the wrong place with the wrong people—his brothers. He had definitely never done anything that was anywhere near Billy and Nick’s level, though; that was stuff that came with a sentence. Half of John knew that it was crazy he was messing around with this so close to the start of his new life. But the other half knew that it was essential if he was to escape properly from his family’s past.

Emma saw his brothers as petty criminals, horrible and nasty men with it. But they were ultimately just small time criminals, with an equally despicable aunt. The Blakes were certainly not the type of family that Emma could ever have seen herself getting involved with.

John smiled as he thought back to the day they first met. It was in the late hours of a Monday evening eighteen months ago. He had been sat in a hospital café, nursing a mug of coffee, when he first encountered his dream woman. His Uncle Roy had told him to wait there for him, after the two of them had raced Aunt Mary into casualty; she had been complaining of chest pains.

Of course Mary’s two favourite nephews were nowhere to be found that evening. Both of John’s brothers had decided to go to the local snooker hall and, despite constant attempts to get hold of them via voicemail and text messages, there had been no response. John couldn’t completely blame them for this, as Aunt Mary’s journeys into Hammersmith hospital’s casualty department were quite frequent. Mary was at best a hypochondriac, and at worse an attention seeker who always felt she should be at the centre of everyone’s thoughts. It was one of his Aunt’s many traits that John hated.

He had, by this stage, been waiting for more than an hour with only a cold cup of coffee for company and had been mulling over the waste of another one of his evenings when he saw her. She was arguing with the café’s cashier about being short changed and, despite the man’s best efforts, she had refused to budge. John had found himself watching the scene, intrigued at how it would end.

The woman had long ginger hair and, though John had always made a rule that he would never go near a red head, he couldn’t help but find the girl attractive. There was something about her determined green eyes as she crossed her arms, putting her petite body into a assertive posture, watching the cashier count the money remaining in his till.

Eventually, the cashier gave a shrug and passed the woman a handful of change coupled with an insincere apology. Emma shook her head and stormed into the dining area—then—much to his surprise she sat down in front of him on his small table.

“Did you see that tosser?” Emma said, opening the can of coke that had been the cause of the recent inquest.

John looked back at the woman, still taken back that she had chosen to sit with him, instead of choosing one of the many empty tables that surrounded them.

“You seemed to stand your ground well,” John said, hoping the woman had not been talking to herself.

“Well you’ve got to haven’t you? He probably makes his so called tips that way,” Emma said, taking an angry swig of her coke.

John doubted this. After growing up in a rundown bar with a family that knew every trick in the book on how to make a quick pound, he knew an honest mistake when he saw one.

“I think the cashier must have just made a mistake. It's late—he’s most likely half asleep,” John replied.

Emma looked at him, and her eyes seemed to widen as she evaluated his face. “You look a little old to be so innocent?”

“You’ve got to have a little faith in people sometimes, don’t you think?” John shrugged.

“That’s very sweet,” Emma said scowling.

John wasn’t sure how to respond to this and looked down at his lukewarm mug of coffee; Emma picked up on John’s self-consciousness at hearing her words and her face softened. “Sorry, you don’t mind me sitting here do you. I just hate hospitals, and sitting on my own only makes it worse.”

“No, it’s fine,” John replied.

“So what brings you here?” Emma asked.

“My aunt, she had some chest pains,” John replied.

“Oh, I hope she’ll be OK,” Emma said looking concerned.

“She’ll be fine,” John smiled. “Evil never dies.”

Emma laughed and her face lit up. Despite her ginger hair, John began to properly notice how beautiful the girl was.

“Honestly, she’ll be the only woman who, on her death bed, won’t get the last rites from a priest; she’ll get a bloody exorcism!” John said, hoping to make the young woman laugh again.

“You can’t say that!” Emma laughed. “I’m sure she’s lovely. She's most likely just misunderstood.”

“I suppose you’re right,” John said, looking thoughtfully. “Swear words can always have a variety of meanings”

Emma laughed again. “Stop it. That's really bad!”

“So what brings you down this fantastic night spot tonight?” John asked, hoping she wouldn’t say it was anything to do with a boyfriend.

“My stupid friend decided to almost cut three of her fingers off, whilst cutting up vegetables tonight. We were having a girl’s night that was
meant
to celebrate our singleness,” Emma explained.

“That’s fantastic,” John replied, letting his mouth engage before his brain.

“What’s fantastic about almost chopping off your fingers?” Emma asked, looking uneasy.

John felt unsure how to reply. He briefly thought he might explain how it was fantastic that they had this chance meeting, and that hopefully it might lead to a date. Instead, he gulped down the remains of his coffee.

“He’s here,” Billy said, almost in a whisper.

John focused back on the door. As he did so a Latino man, aged in his forties, walked into the bar. The man’s face was nondescript, aside from an elaborately manicured goatee beard that hung off his chin. But he was wearing an expensive looking suit—John guessed Armani or something—and looked more likely to have turned up for a big business meeting than drug deal.

Billy jumped up from his seat to greet the Mexican, quickly followed by Nick and, out of obligation, John.

Billy offered his hand to the Mexican. “Hi. I'm Billy Blake and this…”

“Where’s Payne?” the Mexican interrupted, not interested in the brothers.

“Today’s meeting’s with us. Please take a seat,” Billy said, pulling up a chair for the Mexican at a nearby table.

“I said; where is Robert Payne?” the Mexican repeated, not moving.

It was at this moment that John noticed two dark coloured Range Rovers, parked right outside the bar. The windows were tinted, but it was clear they were full of muscle bound backup, ready if required.

Billy’s eyes grew dark—his mood was turning. “Robert Payne set this meeting up, so that you and I could speak. Have a seat
please
.”

The Mexican, evidently noticing Billy’s mood change, sat down and started to look around, in the way John thought a cornered animal might do before fighting its way to freedom. There was no concern or anxiety there though. If anything the man looked intrigued.

Billy turned to Roy. “Let’s have some tequila, Uncle; it’s always best to have a drink when you’re making a deal.”

“I prefer vodka…” the Mexican said, squinting his eyes to a glare at Billy. “Thank you.”

For a moment, John wasn’t sure what was going to happen. His brother was not used to being glared at and when he was, it normally resulted in one of his wild mood swings. John looked again at the Range Rovers outside; they hadn’t moved but all the occupants were now probably staring into the bar. Please don’t do anything stupid Billy, John thought.

Billy smiled back at the Mexican. “Good, I hate that shit too."

John, now slightly relived by Billy’s cool response, took a seat by the bar and watched Billy and the Mexican patiently sizing each other up while they waited for their drinks. The meeting had started better than John had hoped it would.

The drinks arrived. The Mexican didn’t pick up his glass—he just looked at the vodka, as if examining it for imperfections. Then—suddenly—he downed it in one, slamming the empty glass down on the table.

“Cheap shit. So—you talk,” the Mexican snapped.

Billy looked back at the Mexican. John could tell he wanted to react; Billy must have been using every bit of restraint that John didn’t even know he had inside him to keep his equilibrium. Billy smiled and downed his glass of vodka. His face briefly grimaced, at the taste of the harsh liquor, before his expression of deep concentration returned.

“My name’s Billy Blake; that’s my brother Nick; and this is my other brother John.”

The Mexican made an icy stare at each brother. “I’m not here for no fucking family get together.”

“We’re a family business; I know family means a lot to you South Americans,” Billy said. John cringed at his brother’s naivety and his lack of knowledge.

The Mexican smiled. “Stupid gringo,” he said, now waving his glass in the air. “I want another fucking drink.”

John moved off his stool, took the Mexican’s glass and passed it to his Uncle to refill. He was beginning to think that he should take over the negotiations; it seemed all Billy had achieved out of their conversation so far was to offend his visitor.

John passed the drink to the Mexican, their ey's meeting as the glass passed between their two sets of hands. John knew this was his opportunity to enter the fray. “You didn’t say your name?”

The Mexican looked back at John, almost staring straight through him. “Where’s Payne? This is boring me.”

“Let’s pretend he’s at the bottom of the Thames,” Billy said holding the Mexican’s stare, his eyes now as black as the night. “And that he’d refused to do a deal with my family and—what can I say—I don’t like the word no.”

For the first time since the Latino man had walked into their bar, John thought he could see something in the man’s expression falter. He clearly was not used to surprises.

“We’re taking over London,” Billy declared.

The Mexican looked around at the brothers. “You’re taking over London. You must be some serious mother fucking gringos.”

John could feel the situation starting to tip towards becoming something of an argument. “We just brought you here to make a deal.”

“We’re serious people,” Billy said, not waiting for the Mexican to respond.

The Mexican nodded. “You must be.”

Billy must have felt the conversation swing in his favour. “O’Neil’s finished; you’ll soon need a new link to London, and we would like to think we could offer you a solution. What do you think?”

“You think Charlie and Robert are big business men?” The Mexican said, looking around.

John and Billy didn’t reply; it didn’t seem like the type of question that was looking for an answer.

“There fucking nothing to my company’s operation; they’re about as important as a fucking ant. We run ten times as much produce into Miami to what we run into here. Let me tell you something, my little gringo friend. If you cross my company, you’ll be dead, your family will be dead, your friends will be dead, and any fucking other persons you associate with—they be dead too. Nobody ever find your corpses. You cannot fucking fathom how big we are. And I’m only interested in dealing with gringos that have London secure. No issue—no loss of merchandise. We have a zero dollar loss limit.”

“We’ve secured London; everything O’Neil had or thinks he still has, we now own,” Billy replied.

John couldn’t believe how his brother was acting; he didn’t even have a sweat on. If John hadn’t know that was complete bullshit then even he would have believed Billy that they run London.

“You plan to run your world from here?” the Mexican asked, looking unimpressed with the bar.

“Best somewhere no one chooses to look,” Billy shrugged.

“You have a distribution system that could cope, and the money?” the Mexican enquired.

“Yep,” Billy lied, looking at John to keep him from objecting.

The Mexican looking to the ceiling for a moment, seemingly weighing up his options. “A gringo’s a fucking gringo, I suppose.”

Billy beamed at his brothers. “I love how this guy’s racist—towards us! I fucking love it!”

“I’ll deliver my next batch as usual. You give me one and half million dollars, and I take sixty per cent of your sales with it,” The Mexican said emotionless.