Simon Kernick - The Crime Trade

Vamen’s trial has been put back yet again and he faces new charges as a result of the testimony of twenty-one-year-old Francis Taylor, the only survivor of the three-man assassination team. It’s believed that Taylor is going to implicate Melvyn Carroll and Vamen directly. Perhaps this time Vamen might finally get the comeuppance he so richly deserves.

Tina recovered from her injuries quickly and was out of hospital within the week, and back at work within the month. Two weeks after that, we went on safari to Kenya, spending five days in the Masai Mara before flying on to Mahe in the Seychelles where we stayed for another week, soaking up the equatorial sunshine in surroundings that seemed to melt away all the stress and pressures of the daily grind. I even got to take my advanced diving course. The whole trip broke the bank, of course, and for a long time afterwards we were both paying off the debts accrued, but it was worth it. Sometimes you’ve just got to let go.

In late July, a few weeks after we’d got back from the trip, the two of us (now officially an item at the station) went for a barbecue at the Malik household on a fine, sunny Sunday. Malik’s two daughters were eight and five, and Tina played with them like a natural. I even got the idea that she might be getting broody, and funnily enough, it wasn’t such a bad thought. An expensive one, perhaps, but not a bad one. We toasted our combined successes on the O’Brien case, and the fact that we were all still here to talk about it, and in the evening, when the kids had gone to bed, Malik raised his glass, and said, ‘To the future.’ Tina and I, and Malik’s wife Kaz, repeated the toast, and I remember that, at that precise moment, I was the happiest I’d been in a long, long time.

To the future. When we left that night, I felt a renewed sense of optimism. Which was ironic really, because I’d never see Asif Malik alive again.

But that’s another story. For this one at least, the book was closed.

The sea front at the resort of Fuengirola on Spain’s Costa del Sol is filled with English pubs, and restaurants that offer all-day full English breakfasts. If you want Spanish culture, or even Spanish people, you’ve come to the wrong place. If you want to blend into a crowd of fellow pasty Englishmen, then it’s definitely the right one.

Stegs Jenner took a seat at one of the tables outside a particularly shabby-looking English-style pub, an establishment he remembered being there and with roughly the same decor, including the tattered San Miguel canopy, when he’d come to Fuengirola on his first lads’ holiday in 1990. Other than him, the seating area was empty, which was one of the reasons he’d chosen the place. The food there was apparently renowned for being appalling.

A waiter covered in tattoos who looked like he’d just got out of Wormwood Scrubs, and probably had done, came over with his pen and paper.

‘Two pints of San Miguel,’ Stegs told him from behind his sunglasses, and the waiter skulked off again, without writing it down.

A minute later, Nicholas Tyndall slipped under the canopy, looking very suave indeed in a canary-yellow short-sleeved shirt and linen trousers, and took a seat opposite Stegs. He was carrying a black Adidas sports bag, which he placed on the seat between them.

Tyndall smiled, showing gleaming white teeth. ‘Lovely day for it again,’ he said, relaxing in his seat. Stegs noticed that he was wearing Armani sunglasses. Very nice. You had to give Tyndall top marks for style.

‘Always is down here,’ said Stegs.

‘You need a suntan, my man. You look too. . English.’

Stegs smiled back. ‘I’ve ordered you a pint of San Miguel. Hope you don’t mind.’

‘Not at all. It’s the only drink to drink down here.’

‘To be honest, I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought one of your minions would have delivered the goods.’

The beers arrived, and Stegs went for his wallet. Tyndall, however, put a hand up to stop him, and swiftly produced a twenty-euro note that he gave to the waiter. ‘Keep the change.’

The waiter grinned. ‘Cheers, mate. Just shout when you want another.’

‘I wanted to thank you personally,’ Tyndall said when he’d gone. ‘You’ve done a lot for me these past few months, and I appreciate it.’

‘That’s what the money’s for.’

‘Yeah, but let’s just say you went above and beyond the call of duty. You risked your neck on that hotel thing, and I don’t forget a thing like that. Know what I mean?’

‘It’s nice to be appreciated. Thanks.’

‘No, thank you . Your efforts have put two of my biggest rivals out of business. Vamen’s not going to be out now until he’s pushing a hundred, and that headcase Strangleman’s well out of my hair. You’ve done well. There’s even a little bonus in there for you.’

‘You’re too kind.’

‘I hope we can work together in the future.’

‘I don’t know how much use I’ll be to you now I’ve left the Force.’

‘You’ve got guts, Stegs. That’s always of use to me.’

‘We’ll see.’

‘What’s happening with the missus? Back with her yet?’

Stegs shook his head, and took a sip from his pint. ‘Nah, I’m enjoying the single life for the moment, and very nice it is too. I can sleep through the nights now.’

‘Off the speed?’

‘Just about.’

‘You should be. Very nasty stuff. Cigarette?’ He pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights.

Stegs took one and let Tyndall light it for him.

‘Tell me something,’ Stegs said, after he’d taken a drag. ‘What the fuck were you doing using Trevor Murk for the O’Brien job? Didn’t you know he was a snout of mine?’

‘Course I didn’t. And anyway, I didn’t think he’d get caught.’

‘I’m amazed you trusted someone as slack as him to carry it off.’

Tyndall smiled again, this time not showing his teeth. ‘Appearances can be deceptive, my friend. Mr Murk was one of the best hitters in south-east England. Very reliable and competitively priced. He must have done ten people down the years, and that’s just the ones I’ve heard about. Look how quickly he took out the Dutch bloke after you phoned me. I get a call from you, I put in a call to him, and that’s it — an hour later, the target’s dead. Very professional.’

‘Except he got tagged.’

Tyndall shrugged. ‘That just saved me paying him. Anyway, it’s not been a problem to you, has it?’

Stegs shook his head. ‘No, I’ve sorted it. I’m in the clear now.’

‘Good. So, what are you going to do with yourself now, then?’

‘This and that. I’m thinking of becoming a private eye.’ He’d ditched the idea of a security consultancy now. Too boring.

‘Well, if ever I want somebody found, I’ll give you a call.’

‘You do that.’

They finished their beers without saying much else. There wasn’t really a lot to say. Finally, Tyndall stood up, winked at Stegs and said he’d see him soon. Stegs nodded, picked up the black holdall and started walking in the other direction, a richer man now than he had been five minutes before, and thinking that he really ought to be feeling guilty for all the crimes he’d committed but not quite being able to make himself. It was the story of his life.

In the end, he couldn’t help thinking how clever he’d been. He’d been at it for years, of course, providing the odd piece of information to the Holtz crime family, ever since he’d crossed paths with one of their operatives on an op back in the late nineties, and had even told them about his SO7 partner, Jeff Benson, infiltrating their ranks. He’d always liked old Jeff as well, and almost certainly wouldn’t have grassed him up if it hadn’t been for the fact that he couldn’t risk him finding out from someone in the organization about Stegs’s own involvement with them. The problem, though, the one which had led to all this, was that Vamen and co. had treated him shabbily. He’d saved their skins by giving them Benson and they’d paid him a pittance: five measly grand for rescuing a multimillion-pound business empire. He’d tried to get more but Vamen had told him that it was all the info was worth, and that had been the end of it. There’d been nothing that Stegs could do, but he hadn’t forgotten either, and the bitterness had festered in him for a long, long time.