Gerald Seymour - Battle Sight Zero

A few years back, he would have walked with Rosie, and they’d have gone up round the golf club. She’d been with him since he had exited Strangeways for the first time, a fiercely loyal confidante. They’d had two sons, both useless and both now banged up, and it was because of the elder that Crab now had the chance of the deal, conversations on the periphery of the exercise yard and then men turning up on Crab’s leafy doorstep. They had been polite, had almost scraped their noses on the gravel in respect, had said what they wanted and suggested a price. They had seemed to Crab to be serious men – a touch above ordinary seriousness when they had requested the use of a disused warehouse in Crab’s property portfolio, and all left clean and no criticism justified. It was an interesting proposition.

‘You’re sniffing, Gary. I sense that. Nostrils working overtime. Not our sort of people, that’s what you’re saying. God, Gary you are an old stick-in-the-mud. I have to go where the opportunity is. How do we make money now? Not payrolls? Not security vans delivering cash? Not going into a jewellers and waving a shotgun around? I have gone into the modern world. Those kids, the keyboards, their little viruses squirming up the tubes, that’s getting ahead of the game, and it pays good money and nobody notices us. You have to be ahead of the game And you have to believe in old Crab, Gary, have to… I tell you another thing, it’ll be good to hook up again with Tooth. Best man there is. Him and me, Tooth and Crab, what a team. Be good to do a deal with Tooth… I need it, Gary, need it to stay alive, not bloody vegetate. Look, it’s a dry run and we’ll watch how it rolls, and from what I see the security is good, or better than good. You worry too much, Gary.’

Four years ago, Rosie had been in her Porsche sports, and might have sunk a couple too many, and the ice had come down fast and she might have been going quicker than was sensible. A beech tree had ended her life: multiple injuries. An occasional girl, when he needed her, was Beth, but she only came at weekends and ironed and cooked and cleaned, and was useful at other duties, but not trusted with the confidences he had previously shared… Gary knew Crab’s business, lived in an annexe off the main house and – Crab’s belief – would die protecting his benefactor. They walked briskly. He was confident of Gary’s loyalty.

‘And you’re still sniffing. Not happy… I read your mind, Gary. You don’t know them and you don’t like them. Not happy that I’m mixing with them. Are they ‘‘safe’’, are they ‘‘decent’’? Trust me, Gary… am I allowed a little laugh? Humour me. Be a funny old day when Crab starts worrying whether the ‘‘associates’’ are ‘‘decent’’. Be a day when I might just laugh too much, even smile big… Are they ‘‘decent’’? They sound right, they take good precautions. They had a kid trying to push in, might have been a tout, and they dealt with it. Dealt quick and dealt clean. I liked it. And, they have this girl who is sharp as a needle, what they say. University. Intelligent, bright, committed. She’s a boyfriend who’s a dick-head and thinks the sun shines out of her fanny… that too vulgar, Gary? Are they enough at arm’s length from us? Yes, in my opinion, yes. Lighten up, Gary.’

He’d decided they’d walked far enough; he’d done his talk, it was time to be heading back, and there was racing on the TV that Crab would enjoy. It might be that Gary shared Beth with him, but he wouldn’t treat that as a matter to fall out over, as long as it wasn’t blatant, was discreet. They passed some kids, pushed them off the pavement, and he heard the giggling because of his uneasy gait, didn’t bother him. Good to have a deal in place. He noted that Gary’s face was still expressionless.

‘Gary, what’s eating? Is it because of who we’re doing business with? Or is it because of the cargo that we’re supplying, they’re buying? Any different to heroin, or coke, or girls? I think we made choices too long ago, Gary, to start acting squeamish now… .’

He laughed out loud, and wiped the rain off his glasses. Crab always laughed at his own cracks. Late to be worrying about ethics. Hadn’t before and wouldn’t start now. And he was off the law’s radar, sure of it.

The feed had come through from the Counter-Terrorist Command, what they had an eyeball on, and Pegs had grimaced, raised an eyebrow, and Gough had nodded. They’d seen a parked car, two in it, and a languid finger had directed them. They slid into a space, restricted parking for residents, but Pegs was good with intimidation if it came to a spat with a warden: could go high and mighty, could threaten torture and job loss. They watched the door of a convenience store. Pegs had her cigarettes out. Gough grunted. She lit up, using a lighter he’d given her two years back, a clandestine gift. He grunted again.

She said, ‘Spit it.’

He cleared his throat, coughed on her fumes, and spat it. ‘It’ll need Risk Assessment. Need Risk Assessment and a Mission Statement. A bloody nightmare.’

‘I can massage it… Worse than that, a fucking nightmare.’

Her language was usually fruity and Gough reckoned it the legacy of an independent schooling. Gough said, ‘And, what’s worse than worse, we need “liaison” down there.’

‘I hate nightmares.’

They did their collective moan, competed well with each other. He had a little French and she had some more but not fluent. Language was always a minefield, and French cops rarely spoke English, and if they did they’d not admit it. After the communication matter was the difficulty of breezing in, snapping out a ‘want’ list, this one would need surveillance and backup, and there would be no clear-cut Assessment and Statement because Gough was in the dark, pitch and black as a January night. She was smoking vigorously and tapping her phone, multi-skilled; a grin from Gough, because he was lucky, desperately so in his opinion, to have her alongside him. He saw her first, nudged Pegs, and ash dropped off her cigarette and landed on her lap, went unnoticed, and she kept texting.

A pretty girl… but Gough was supposed to be beyond the age when the curve of hips and bosom and the swing of a stride, and hair flying behind in the wind, was supposed to matter. She had a plastic shopping bag, came out of the store and turned right. One of the guys from the Counter-Terrorist Unit slid out of the car across the street, and started to follow her. He did not need to see her for operational necessity, it was a gratuitous moment. The people doing the tail on her were capable enough. Pegs was edging their car forward: he did not have to preach caution, fret over being noticed; she was as sharp as he was experienced.

He said, ‘It’s a good plan, I respect it.’

She said, ‘Call them short at your peril – nobody suggests they’re oafs, talk them down and you’ll lose.’

‘They’re in a car, they’re attractive. Where’s the threat?’

‘And she flashes her boobs, and…’

‘They’re waved through – and he’s white, and she’s a clean cookie.’

Pegs stared bleakly into Gough’s eyes; didn’t watch the girl, left that to him. She said, ‘A big new ballpark if there’s a weapon of choice involved. Worse than a suicide guy’s rucksack. A black suit, a busy night in a city centre, pubs and bars full, and the gook walks in with an assault rifle. We are humiliated, we failed. We lose the public’s confidence. A Kalashnikov assault rifle, even in an amateur’s hands, takes us to a new height of mayhem, on a scale we’ve not yet had – thank the good Lord. In the court of public opinion we will be torn limb from limb if it reached here on our watch. A gook, black kit head to toe, and a rifle spraying around. That is an horrendous scenario… Looks a nice girl.’