Simon Kernick - The Crime Trade

Vokes was sweating profusely, but he held Rentners’ gaze. ‘I am not a fucking undercover copper,’ he spat. ‘I am a fucking businessman. I was here looking to make a deal, now I’m just looking to get the fuck out of here.’

‘What about him, then? How come he fucked up about doing time in Parkhurst?’

‘Fuck knows. Ask him.’

Rentners ripped off Stegs’s duct tape and started to speak, but Stegs knew he was going to get only one chance to turn the tables, so he cut him off straight away. ‘Is that what this is all about? Are you putting us through this just because of something I’m meant to have fucking said? Because I tell you this, I was fucking there, and I was on B wing, you deaf cunt! Not D! And if he doesn’t fucking recognize me, then he obviously wasn’t looking very hard! Or maybe he’s the fucking undercover copper, because I’ll tell you something, I don’t fucking recognize him either, the cunt!’

His words spilt out so fast that Rentners didn’t get even half a chance to interrupt. When he’d finished, the ex-boxer’s expression had changed. He looked thoughtful now. Stegs and Vokes both glared at him, letting it be known that they were not best pleased with the way serious liberties had been taken with them.

Rentners appeared at last to realize he’d made a mistake and placed the gun back in his waistband. ‘Listen, I’m sorry about that, boys,’ he said. ‘You just can’t be too careful, though, can you? We’ve been hearing bad reports about Brewster for a while now, and then he gets all keen to introduce youse two to me. I put two and two together and it looks like I come up with five. Let me get you a drink.’

And that was how it had ended. The two of them had been released and given a large brandy each, which they’d drunk while Brewster lay ignored on the stone floor. Rentners had then begun acting like nothing had happened, and had even started trying to put together a test purchase. In Stegs’s experience, that was how a lot of violent criminals acted. It was as if they couldn’t understand what was wrong with their actions. Vokes had told him to fuck off and to watch how he treated potential customers next time, which was the attitude to take. It demonstrated how pissed off they were and bolstered their credentials as bona fide buyers. Rentners had apologized again and had got Tone to drive them back to London. On the way back, Tone had said sorry too, admitting that he’d made up the bit about being in Parkhurst as a bluff. ‘The boss told me to’ was his explanation. Stegs had told him that he’d better never show his face in Southampton, otherwise he’d get an axe in it. Tone had actually looked a bit worried at that, and had brought up the partition.

He’d dropped them off at Waterloo station, and as soon as he was gone they’d grabbed each other in a long and emotional bearhug that got the late-afternoon commuters giving them some very strange stares.

Not that any of those bastards would ever know the half of it.

He really was going to miss his partner. He wasn’t sure if he could trust anyone else like he’d trusted him. He wasn’t even sure if he could keep going with SO10 duties. It seemed one hell of a lot of risk for not very much reward. A few weeks earlier, he’d read in one of the Sunday newspapers about an investment banker in the City who was paid so well that he earned in three and a half days what Stegs made in a year, and he wasn’t even the highest paid in his department. Was some fucking accountant in a suit worth so much more than him? Did he really contribute so much more to society? It seemed plenty of people thought he did. He wondered how they would react if someone like Frank Rentners came knocking on their doors with a long-barrelled Browning in one hand and a steam iron in the other.

‘Do you want another one, Tam?’ asked Patrick, coming over.

Stegs nodded. ‘Yeah, please. Same again.’

He knew he was going to end up drink-driving, but he was past caring. The last time he’d been stopped, the previous year, he’d managed to convince them to let him go, although they’d warned him that if they saw him doing it again they’d have to nick him. Fair enough. He’d take his chances.

The pint came and he paid for it with a twenty. As Patrick went over to the till, a thought struck him. Vokes had been a lot more nervous than usual today. He was usually pretty cool, but this time he’d definitely looked under pressure, even before they’d arrived at the hotel. Maybe he’d just been losing it, finally burning out under the pressure of the job. It happened. Plenty of times, particularly to undercover cops.

Or maybe it was something else.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that a young blonde had taken the stool next to his at the bar. She was early twenties, dressed in tight-fitting hipsters and an oldish suede jacket. She flashed him a smile, and he knew straight away she was a pro. You got them sometimes in the Admiral, usually on their nights off. They had a couple of saunas on the high street nearby and some of the girls lived on the estate opposite, so they liked to stop in for the odd drink, and were tolerated by the management as long as they kept their activities discreet. Stegs hadn’t seen this one before and hadn’t noticed her when he’d come in earlier. Perhaps she was new. Patrick returned with his change, gave the girl a quick once-over, then turned away again to serve someone.

‘Hi,’ said the girl, smiling again. ‘How are you?’

Her accent was eastern European, probably Romanian or Bulgarian. She was heavily made up with bright red lipstick, and her hair, cut into a bob, was dyed. She was quite attractive in a harsh, lived-in kind of way, but her blue eyes were weary and she was too skinny for Stegs’s liking. He wondered briefly whether she was on the pipe, then decided he honestly didn’t care either way.

‘How do I look?’

‘Very nice.’ The smile was now fixed on her face. ‘You look very nice.’

He turned and gave her a vaguely dismissive glance. ‘Really? I shouldn’t do. I’m tired, pissed off, and my best mate got killed today. Some bastard blew his head off.’

The smile dropped a little at the sides even though she made a valiant effort to keep it there. Her expression suggested she didn’t know whether he was joking or not. Stegs just looked at her with the same expression for a couple of seconds longer, then turned away.

Patrick came over. ‘Everything all right here?’ he asked. He looked at the girl. ‘Do you want a drink?’

She glanced at Stegs, saw that he wasn’t going to offer, and ordered a large vodka with ice. When she’d got her drink, she slipped off her stool and disappeared. Stegs took another huge gulp of his beer and lit a Marlboro Light.

‘Did you hear about Pete?’ asked Patrick as he poured a Murphys from the tap.

‘Who?’

‘Yer man, Pete. The one you used to come in here with back in the old days. Pete Moss.’

Pete the gun dealer. ‘What about him?’

Patrick left the three-quarters-full pint of Murphys to settle for a moment, and looked hard at Stegs. There was something innately distrustful in his expression. Stegs didn’t react. He was used to that kind of look.

‘He’s dead.’

Stegs dragged on his cigarette. ‘Shit. How did that happen?’

‘The old C. Throat cancer. Died in Ford a few weeks back. I’m surprised you didn’t hear.’

‘I haven’t seen him for a long time. I visited him a couple of times after he got sent down, but you know what it’s like. You lose touch.’

‘No way to die though, is it? Behind bars. The last four years of his life ruined. Another six months and he’d have been out.’

He continued to look at Stegs as he spoke, with a greater intensity than he’d ever shown before, and Stegs wondered if he suspected him of having had something to do with it. Maybe he should have tried a bit harder to keep up with Pete’s progress inside. Still, it was a bit late to worry about that now.