Peter Turnbull - Deep Cover

‘But I knew the guy.’ Penny Yewdall turned her head away; she looked down towards the floor. ‘Known him for years. We had a thing going once so I didn’t see myself as being a brass. . he wasn’t a stranger.’

‘How does he do it, the parking meters?’

‘He uses tweezers — slides them in and the coin pops back out. Filth to worry about and CCTV cameras but he’s real quick, real lively.’

‘In London?’

‘No. . up in Stoke-on-Trent.’

The man sneered and relaxed his grip, but still held her. ‘Now I know you’re telling the truth — can’t do that in London but up in Stoke they’re still fighting the Second World War. . primitive. Anyway, get yourself washed and clean your clothes, Mr Yates wants to see you — you’ll be working tonight.’ He dropped the bag of coins on the floor and let go of Yewdall’s arm, then left the room, and went out of the house.

Yewdall stood dazed for a moment, and then collected herself and went to the bathroom, where she stripped and washed herself, and then washed her clothing, rinsing them as much as she could. She wrapped herself in a towel and unlocked the bathroom door. Josie Pinder stood in the hallway. The two women looked at each other.

‘I heard you come in,’ Pinder said — short, frail, she had to look up at Yewdall. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Just a slap. . yes. . OK. . I’ve had worse. He says I’m going to work.’

‘Yes, they start you as soon as. That’s Sonya’s towel. .’

‘I. . sorry, I don’t have one. . I was told to wash.’

‘She’s out, dry yourself and put it back; I’ll tell her I used it.’

‘Thanks,’ Yewdall mumbled. ‘I have clothes that need drying.’

‘Bring them to my room; I’ll put them over the radiator for you.’

‘Good of you.’

‘OK, just do as you’re told; that way you survive. The last girl in that room, a Welsh girl, teenage runaway, she made good money working King’s Cross. . Michael brought her back here.’

‘Michael?’

‘The guy who had the room, he died on Hampstead Heath. . in the snow. He brought her back one night, bringing her off the street. . rescuing her. . left her here; said he would get her money to send her back to Wales but Rusher and “Mongoose Charlie” came round and strangled her. They made us watch. Watching someone get strangled. .’

‘Oh. .’

‘Well, that was “Mongoose Charlie” just now. They work for Yates. They left the Welsh girl in the room, told us we’d seen nothing, but said if we grassed then that would happen to us.’

‘Oh. .’ Yewdall sank back against the wall.

‘Yeah. . right. .’ Pinder slid past her. ‘Bring your kit to my room. That one — ’ she pointed to the door at the end of the landing — ‘you haven’t got much there so they won’t take long to dry — heater’s full on.’

The man closed the curtains of the front room window and sat in the deep armchair and picked up the telephone. He dialled the number which he had been given. ‘They’ve been,’ he said when his call was answered. ‘Checking up on her, heavy duty boys.’

‘Yes, we know. I mean we know they’re a heavy team,’ the voice replied. ‘What did they want?’

‘Usual stuff. . what you’d expect. . asking for her. I gave the angry father response. . don’t know where she is, she put her mother through hell. . the number agreed, sent her to good schools, Our Lady of Lourdes. . so she brings trouble to the door and runs away, sent us a postcard from London, so that’s where she is, London — that’s what I said.’

‘Good. When was that?’

‘Midday.’

‘Midday today?’

‘Yes. I didn’t phone you earlier because I can be seen from the street, and it would have looked suspicious if I had picked up the blower immediately.’

‘Yes. . good thinking.’

‘They hung about. They waited. Two guys with pinched faces — had wrong ’uns written all over them. I left the house and walked to the shop at the end of the street. One of them followed me so they were checking me out. They just sat in the car smoking fags, yellow BMW, no idea of blending.’

‘Bit clumsy for Yates.’

‘Well, you’d know that, I wouldn’t, but they tipped the contents of their ashtray in the road.’

‘Did they indeed?’

‘Yes, they did indeed. And it’s nice and dry up here. I saw the weather, you have rain in London.’

‘Yes, we do, intermittent showers, as they say.’

‘Well, dry as a bone here, no threat of rain either. So I’ll go out later, much later, walk around — I won’t miss a bright yellow BMW — pick up the fag ends; two lovely DNA profiles for you.’

‘Thanks. Take care though.’

‘Don’t worry; it’ll be much later though. I’ll phone you in the morning when I have them safe.’

‘We’ll send a motorcycle courier to collect them. Appreciate this.’

‘Your old man angry with you, girl?’

‘My old. . you mean my dad?’ Penny Yewdall sounded alarmed. ‘You’ve seen him?’

‘Yes.’ The woman had a hard, unforgiving face, Yewdall thought; a menacing tone of voice and cold, penetrating eyes. She reminded Yewdall of Mrs Tyndall — the formidable Mrs Tyndall — head of maths at her school. She had first seen then how true it is that fear is a great learning tool, as when one can recall with great precision the details of an incident in which one nearly lost one’s life. Exposed to Mrs Tyndall as she had been, it was, she realized, little wonder that she, and the rest of the form, had made such rapid headway with quadratic equations. But then, and now, she felt sorry for Mrs Tyndall’s family. And here was Mrs Tyndall again. Formidable, overbearing, but this time her name was Gail Bowling. Hard as nails, with a lump of granite where all other mortals have a heart. ‘Yes, we’ve met him, we like to know who we have working for us.’

Yewdall allowed a look of fear to cross her eyes.

‘But you checked out alright — you wouldn’t be standing here if you didn’t.’

‘That’s right,’ Curtis Yates added, sitting in the armchair by the log fire, pulling leisurely on a large cigar. ‘So we can’t make you work the street, but if you want a roof, you need to earn it.’

Yewdall nodded. ‘I need a roof.’

‘We all do.’ Gail Bowling, dressed in a severe black dress and black shoes, handed Yewdall a package. ‘Take this.’

Yewdall stepped forward and accepted the package. It was about the size of a paperback book, felt solid, and she thought it quite heavy in proportion to its size. She stepped back, allowing herself to seem nervous.

‘Deliver it,’ Bowling ordered her, curtly.

Yewdall glanced at the package. ‘There’s no address on it.’

‘Here.’ Gail Bowling handed Yewdall a slip of paper on which was a typed address.

‘I don’t know where this is. I’m new in London.’

‘You’ve got a lovely long train journey ahead of you.’

‘Oh.’

‘Rusher will drive you into Richmond — you needn’t change.’

‘These are the only clothes I have anyway.’

‘Trains, darling. . you need not change trains.’

‘Oh. . I see. . sorry.’

‘Just stay on the same tube. From Richmond to East Ham, follow the journey on the roof of the carriage, just above the windows.’

‘Yes. I’ve seen them — all the stations all in a line.’

‘Get off at East Ham, then walk to the address. Ask a copper if you get lost.’ She smirked.

‘OK,’ Yewdall mumbled and avoided eye contact with the woman.

‘Do you have money for the tube?’

‘No. . Miss.’

‘I like Miss but you can call me Gail — that doesn’t mean we’re friends. You start getting lippy, you start taking liberties. . well. . let’s just say I can be a bad bitch when I need to be and I don’t ever get my hands dirty. If someone needs a slap I get Mongoose or Rusher to do the honours. . follow?’