Simon Kernick - The Crime Trade

Vokes’s family lived in Ealing, a few miles down the road from the station in Acton where he’d been based for the past ten years. By the time Stegs had meandered his way down there, it was one o’clock and time to eat. Hungry, tired and still vaguely hung over, he had a rank taste of old beer in his mouth and the best way to get rid of it was to sup a bit of hair of the dog. The pub beckoned.

He parked on a backstreet near Ealing Common and made his way down on to the Broadway, keeping an eye out for a decent boozer as he strolled along the crowded shopping street. He and Vokes had never really drunk round here so he didn’t know the watering holes and wanted to make sure he found a good one. Stegs was a traditionalist where pubs were concerned. He didn’t want a wine bar serving tapas or somewhere where they only flogged bottled beer at?2.50 a pop. He wanted carpets with fag burns on them, the smell of beer and smoke; the noise of loud, rasping, unhealthy laughter. Pork scratchings; a dartboard; food with big chips on the side; barmen who look like barmen, not fucking students.

He eventually found a place near Ealing Broadway Tube that at least had some of what he was looking for. It was a bit big, and there were a few too many businessmen and estate agent types, but they did do steak and kidney pie and chips and they had a good variety of beers on tap. He asked the barman, who unfortunately did look like a student, whether the chips were chunky or those little thin ones like you got in McDonald’s. The barman, who said he was new, had to go and check with the kitchen, and when he came back he said that they did bakers’ chips, which were apparently in between.

‘That’s not a bad marketing idea,’ said Stegs, and ordered a pint of Stella and steak and kidney pie with bakers’ chips, before taking a seat at the bar.

The grub, when it came, was good and he finished the lot. There are very few men in the world who can have just one pint and leave it at that, and in Stegs’s opinion those who can have something wrong with them. He wasn’t going to be driving for an hour or two so he ordered another Stella and drank it swiftly with two smokes. That was the point when he should have stopped — he could usually last just about on two — but the knowledge that stopping meant heading round to Gill’s place made him think that perhaps one more would be in order.

He shouted for another pint, paid for it, then made his way to the toilets, taking the drink with him. They were clean enough for pub bogs, but they still had that stale, pissy smell you always get in such places, and the sight of a cockroach floundering on its back in a pool of water by the sinks did little to add to the ambience. There was no-one else in there so he went to the nearest cubicle, stepped inside and locked the door. He then fished a small, transparent packet filled with white powder from the inside of his jacket, opened it, and chucked half of its contents into the new pint. The beer fizzed up angrily, then settled again as the speed began to dissolve, the chunkier bits sinking towards the bottom. Stegs didn’t consider himself an addict by any means, but more and more these days he needed the speed as a pick-me-up for when he was feeling knackered or hung over — or in this case both. He’d been introduced to it by Pete the gun dealer, had liked it (particularly the fact that it was cheap) and, given his excellent and varied contacts within the criminal classes, had never had a problem getting hold of it. He never took it more than two or three times a week though, and considered his usage firmly under control.

With one hand, he flipped himself out of his jeans and opened fire directly into the bowl, while using the other hand to guzzle the drug-fuelled lager in a classic example of recycling. One minute later he’d given his dick and the half-full glass a good shake, and was feeling better already. He went back out, his heart thumping and teeth grinding, a grin already erupting on his face, knowing that now he was ready for anything. A vision of Vokes marched unwelcome into his mind, and he pushed it aside with a survivor’s laugh that had a group of businessmen standing near the door to the gents giving him the resigned, moderately contemptuous look that so many Londoners aim at the mentally unstable. Stegs ignored them.

His seat at the bar had been taken by a young woman with a pudgy face and a big arse who was sitting talking to a spotty teenager in a cheap suit. The teenager was making a pretty lame attempt to appear interested in what the girl was saying, but he perked up noticeably when she put a flabby arm on his and leant forward, giggling, to tell him something. Stegs imagined the two of them naked and on the job, and it made him feel a bit sick, so he turned away and found some space by a pillar in the middle of the floor. He leant against it and took another huge swig of his pint, wondering whether he had time for just one more.

At that moment, his private mobile rang. He instantly recognized the tone: Mission Impossible . This was the phone used by family, friends, work and informants who knew his real identity. He had another purely for undercover work. The ringtone on that one was The Magnificent Seven .

He removed it from the pocket of his jacket and checked the number, not immediately recognizing it. ‘Hello,’ he said, putting it to his ear. The bar was crowded now with office workers on their lunch-break, and he had to speak up.

‘All right, Stegsy?’

Only one man called Stegs ‘Stegsy’, and that was Trevor Murk, a petty criminal and informant whose activities matched his name, and who occasionally provided him with tidbits of information about the activities of small-time crims operating out of his Barnet locale. Stegs hadn’t heard from Murk for a while, which was why he hadn’t recognized the number.

‘Hello, Trevor. What can I do for you today?’

‘I think it’s more a matter of what I can do for you, me old mate. Got a little bit of info that might be of great use. Great use indeed.’

Murk spoke like Michael Caine did in Get Carter . Loud enough to stop a conversation, yet taking care to enunciate every word individually with an air of cheery cockney menace. It was all an act, though. He’d actually been brought up in St Albans.

‘Oh yeah?’ said Stegs, not sure whether it was worth mentioning that he was suspended. ‘What’s that, then?’

‘Behave, sweetboy. Not over the blower. This sort of thing requires some alcoholic lubrication. Are you in the boozer at the moment?’

‘I am, but nowhere local. I’m in Ealing.’

‘What the fuck are you doing there?’ asked Murk in a tone that suggested he might as well have been in Kathmandu.

‘I’m having a drink,’ said Stegs, who was already beginning to get tired of this conversation. Murk wasn’t bad company as informants go, but he did rate himself highly and could therefore become severely irritating on occasion.

‘Well, I can give it to someone else, Stegsy, but I reckon you’ll regret it if I do. This’ll be a nice little collar, and I reckon you’ll have a laugh doing it as well.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Exactly what I said. I’ll tell you more if we meet up. And I’m going to need a nice little drink for my troubles.’

In spite of himself, Stegs was intrigued. He took another gulp from his pint, leaving nothing but a powdery mouthful in the bottom. He could hear his heart pounding but knew it was the gear. ‘There’ll be no money until I hear what you’ve got to say, all right?’

‘Fair do’s, but you’ll like it, I promise you that.’

‘We’ll see. I can meet you tomorrow lunchtime. Soon enough.’

‘That’ll do. Usual place?’

‘I’ll be there at one o’clock.’