Stephen Leather - False Friends

‘This is Mickey. He’s an old mate from London,’ said Kettering.

Mickey nodded at Fenby but didn’t say anything. He clasped his hands over his groin and studied Fenby with cold blue eyes.

‘Haven’t got any bubbly, have you?’ asked Kettering.

‘Afraid not,’ said Fenby. ‘Just lager.’

‘Not really thirsty anyway,’ said Kettering. He took out a leather cigar case, tapped out a cigar and lit it. He blew smoke slowly up at the ceiling and smiled. ‘Can’t beat a Cuban,’ he said.

Fenby wasn’t sure what to say. Something was wrong, he was certain of that, but he couldn’t for the life of him work out what it was.

‘How about we sit down and have a chat?’ said Kettering.

The three men bundled Fenby into his sitting room and pushed him down on the sofa. Kettering sat down in an armchair while Mickey stood by the door, glaring at Fenby. Thompson went over to a bookcase by the window and began flicking through the books there.

‘So how are things?’ asked Kettering.

‘Good. All good,’ Fenby said, nodding.

‘Spoken to James and Garry at all?’

Fenby frowned and shook his head. ‘No. Why?’

‘Just wondering.’ Kettering grinned. ‘How long have you known them?’

‘Is there a problem, Simon?’

Kettering’s smile hardened. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’

‘I’m confused, mate,’ said Fenby. ‘Has something happened?’

‘I think it has,’ said Kettering. He looked across at Thompson. ‘What do you think, Paul? Has something happened?’

Thompson nodded. ‘It looks like it,’ he said.

Fenby’s heart was racing. He was outnumbered three to one and it looked like he had a major problem on his hands. ‘Guys, come on, what is this, a wind-up?’

‘How long have you known Gracie?’ asked Kettering.

Fenby’s throat had gone dry and when he swallowed he almost gagged. ‘A few years. I don’t know. I mean, we’re not bosom buddies. I met him in a pub. We got talking, like you do. And he’s sold stuff to friends of mine.’

‘Edwards too, yeah?’

‘I know James better than Garry. But like I said, I’m not in his pocket. We’ve had a few beers, watched a few games, had a few nights on the town, but he doesn’t have me around for Christmas dinner.’

Kettering nodded slowly. ‘What team does he support?’

‘What?’

‘His team. What’s his team?’

‘Rangers. He’s Scottish and doesn’t bother much about the English teams. But he’d take Liverpool over Man U.’

‘Married?’

‘He’s never mentioned it.’

‘Where’s he live?’

‘I’m not sure. Croydon, maybe.’

‘What car does he drive?’

‘We’ve always been drinking so we’ve been in cabs. Look, Simon, what’s going on?’

‘Just answer the questions, old lad. You’re doing fine,’ said Kettering. ‘Where was the last time you saw him?’

‘Couple of months ago.’

‘I said where, not when.’

‘A pub.’

‘Where, exactly?’

‘Central London. The east end.’

‘On his own?’

‘There was a group of us.’

‘What was he drinking?’

‘Champagne. He’s big on the old bubbly, like you guys.’

‘Who else was there?’

Sweat beaded on Fenby’s forehead as he felt Kettering forcing him into a corner. He was having to lie but without being able to base his lies on anything solid; and without a foundation of truth the tower of lies he was building threatened to come crashing down around him. He had to do something to break the line of questioning. He stood up. ‘I need to take a leak, guys,’ he said.

‘Sit the fuck down,’ said Thompson.

Fenby tried to smile, hands out, showing his palms, forcing his body language to be as open as possible. ‘Guys, come on, this is me. Let me take a leak.’

Kettering looked over at Mickey and nodded. Mickey reached into his jacket and pulled out a revolver.

‘For fuck’s sake, guys, what’s going on?’

‘Sit down,’ said Kettering. ‘Or I swear to God Mickey’ll put a bullet in your nuts.’

Fenby stared at the weapon. It looked real enough. It was a big gun and he figured it would make a lot of noise if it went off. His bedsit was one of a dozen in the building and a lot of the occupants were unemployed, which meant there was a good chance that someone would call the police. That wouldn’t help him, of course, but it might make them think twice about pulling the trigger. ‘You’re going to shoot me? The cops’ll be all over you. Even in Birmingham they dial three nines when they hear gunshots.’

Just as Fenby finished speaking Mickey stepped forward and whipped the gun across his face, smashing several of his top teeth and ripping open his lip. Fenby fell back on to the sofa, blood pouring down his face.

‘Get him a towel,’ said Kettering and Thompson went through to the bathroom.

Tears trickled down Fenby’s face, mingling with the blood that was streaming from his torn lip. His jaw felt as if it was on fire but he also felt light-headed, as if he was seconds away from passing out. He blinked his eyes and realised that both of his hands were shaking. He folded them, but his upper body was still wracked with tremors. Thompson came out of the bathroom and threw a towel at Fenby, who grabbed it and held it to his face. Pain lanced through his jaw and he swallowed blood.

Kettering got up from the armchair. He walked over, sat down on the arm of the sofa and leaned towards Fenby. ‘Here’s the thing, mate,’ he said. ‘Mickey here saw your pal Gracie at the boxing thing I was at in London. He didn’t say anything at the time because he was on another table but he recognised Gracie. Except he wasn’t Gracie when Mickey saw him. His name was. .’ He looked over at Mickey. ‘What was his name?’

‘Alistair something or other,’ said Mickey. ‘He was putting together a cannabis deal. Tons of it, coming in from Morocco. This was about a year ago.’

‘And tell him what happened,’ said Kettering.

‘Ship was boarded when it arrived in Southampton. Three tons of cannabis got seized by Customs and half a dozen guys got sent down. But Alistair wasn’t touched. No one could understand why, because he was involved from the start.’

Fenby shrugged. ‘That’s news to me.’

‘Yeah, well, it does make you think, doesn’t it?’ said Kettering. ‘So I asked Mickey here to make a few enquiries. And you know what? No one in London has heard of your mates. James Gracie, Garry Edwards. No one’s heard a dicky bird.’

‘They’re fucking arms dealers,’ muttered Fenby. ‘They don’t advertise.’

‘We weren’t looking in the Yellow Pages,’ said Kettering. ‘We asked people who asked people and no one knows anything about them. They don’t exist, mate. They’re on nobody’s radar.’

‘Except yours, Ian,’ said Thompson.

‘Yeah, except yours,’ said Kettering, staring at Fenby.

‘He was an undercover cop, that’s what I was told,’ said Mickey.

‘Bollocks,’ said Fenby. ‘I know guys he’s sold guns to. If he was a cop he couldn’t sell guns, could he?’

‘He showed us guns, didn’t he?’ said Thompson. ‘That doesn’t prove a thing.’

‘It’s entrapment,’ said Fenby.

‘That’s a big word for a football hooligan,’ said Mickey.

‘Fuck you,’ said Fenby. He took the towel away from his mouth and stared at it. It was wet with blood. ‘I need to get to hospital.’

Kettering looked across at Thompson and gestured with his chin. Thompson went into the kitchen.

‘Where’s he going?’ asked Fenby. Blood was trickling down his chin so he pressed the towel against it, wincing with the pain.

‘He’s going to have a look around, Ian. A good look.’