David Szalay - London and the South-East

‘I just made them up.’

‘Well … All right. What if Martin phones them?’

‘He’ll know something’s up. But he’s not going to phone during the meeting , is he?’

‘No.’

‘And afterwards it’ll be too late.’

‘Yeah.’

Watt says that the strawberry price is very high — the early-season crop has been poor. There is especially a shortage of quality classone fruit. On the wholesale markets the most usual price is well in excess of four hundred pence a kilo. ‘A spike,’ he says, summing up.

‘Strawb’rry price spike,’ Paul murmurs.

Watt shoots him a nervous, irritable look. ‘Yes. That’s why I went for strawb’rries.’

‘M-hm.’

‘Your mate should say he has a crop of early-season Elsantas, ripened in polytunnels, and ready for shipping. He should say an agreed sale has fallen through, leaving him in immediate need of a new purchaser — for which reason he is willing to offer the whole crop for a very low price. It’s all here.’ He presses on from the text: ‘The fruit will be supplied in 227-gram punnets, unlabelled, with twenty punnets to a tray. A tonne of produce in total, which he should offer at two hundred pence a kilo.’ Martin, Watt says, will find it impossible to withstand such an offer. Strawberries will sell. It is early in the season, supplies are scarce, there will be a powerful sense of post-winter novelty, of the first red berries of summer — and several thousand pounds’ profit. What’s more — Watt points out — Tesco’s are promoting their own strawberries, imported from Spain, and pulling in the punters with summery images in their ads.

All of which, he says, is important — Andy will have to know it inside out to persuade Martin that he is not an impostor. More important, however, is what follows.

They turn to the next page.

Martin’s initial response, Watt says (lighting a new cigarette with the end of his old one), will undoubtedly be to suggest that Morlam Garden Fruits join the list of approved suppliers and submit to an inspection. Andy should say, first off, that even if the inspection were in forty-eight hours, it would be too late — he needs to shift the fruit within forty-eight hours. And then he should say, ‘Anyway, to tell you the truth, there might be problems with an inspection.’ When Martin asks him what sort of problems, he should say, ‘Oh nothing serious.’ And then mention the fact that some of his pickers might not yet have secured their work visas, that the firm might not be BRC audited, or a member of the Assured Production Scheme. Having mentioned these things, he should ask, ‘Would that be a problem for you?’

‘And if Short says no,’ Watt says, smiling toothsomely, though with fear in his eyes, ‘we’ve got the bugger.’

‘What if he says yes? What if he says it would be a problem?’

‘Well. Then your mate says —’ Watt puts his fingertip to the words — ‘Would it be a problem for you in principle ?’

And if Martin were to say no to that (which Watt seems to think very likely if he uses unlisted suppliers) then they had him too. It would not even be necessary to follow through and make the sale, though of course Andy should do so if possible. When Paul wonders aloud whether selling non-existent strawberries to someone might fall within the legal limits of fraud, Watt says that no money will move, and no papers will be signed — one-off fresh-produce transactions, he says, are always settled COD.

‘Still …’ Paul says.

Watt starts to shuffle papers, to stuff them into his briefcase. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I’m not entirely sure. It’s another reason I wanted my name kept out of it.’ Andy should be dressed in a suit, he says, and arrive with two unmarked punnets of excellent, extremely fresh Elsanta strawberries. ‘ Extremely fresh. That means bought the same day.’

They leave the hotel. Watt will not stop talking. He says the same things over and over. ‘ Extremely fresh,’ he says. ‘That means bought the same day.’

‘I understand.’

‘And he has to ask, Would it be a problem for you in principle ?’

‘I know.’

‘And test the equipment before you use it. I’ve tested it myself and it works.’

‘I will.’

‘I’ve booked a room for him at the Queensbury guest house.’

‘Yes, you said.’

‘And I will need a receipt …’

They part in front of the illuminated hotel. Watt is about to hurry off when Paul says, ‘The money. The two hundred quid. Plus you owe me about forty quid for expenses as well.’

Watt frowns. ‘Afterwards,’ he says. ‘I’ll give it to you afterwards.’

‘No. Why? I’ll need it to pay Andy.’

‘Pay him. I’ll give you the money.’ Watt laughs. ‘Look … I haven’t got it on me.’

‘Let’s get it then …’

‘Why? I’ll pay you. Don’t worry.’

They eye each other without much trust. Paul sighs. ‘If I don’t get that money,’ he says, ‘you won’t get the tape.’ Watt stares at him for a moment. Smiling slightly, he looks innocent. Perplexed. Even offended. The threat seems to have upset him. He says, ‘Fine. I’ll pay you. Don’t worry.’

Paul is worried though. There is something that he did not tell Watt, something important. Two nights earlier he had once more spoken to Gerald in the frore shadows of the warehouse. When he mentioned Martin, Gerald seemed not to know what he was talking about. Then he said, ‘Oh yeah that. That’s all shit.’

‘What?’ Paul said.

‘It’s shit.’

Paul laughed. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘It’s some other bloke. It’s not Martin Short. Over in Soufampton. Terry told me, yeah?’

‘Terry? Who’s Terry?’

‘Terry. The lorry driver.’

‘What did he tell you?’ Paul had turned pale, though in the ghostly light of the warehouse it did not show.

‘He told me all that stuff. It was some manager over in Soufampton. Fresh-produce manager over there. Not Martin Short.’

‘So Martin doesn’t use …’

‘No,’ Gerald said.

It was a shock to hear this. In the non-foods aisle, Paul’s hands had trembled as he packed the shelves with soap-filled pads. And he had intended to tell Watt. To tell him when they spoke on the phone on Friday; then he thought he would wait until they met face to face on Saturday. And he had been about to tell him — to say, ‘Listen, there’s something …’ — when Watt produced the equipment. He had already paid for the equipment. If Paul then told him that the whole thing was a mix-up … Well, he would surely tell Macfarlane, and Martin, everything. This way, Paul thought, it was possible — possible — that he might not. It would be Andy’s performance on the tape that would settle it one way or the other — a thought which did little to soothe him as he waited in Eastbourne station.

The Queensbury is one of several guest houses on Russell Square, a small rectangle of Regency terraces slowly discolouring in the shadow of the Churchill shopping centre. One end of the square is open, and there Cannon Place sends the traffic down to the seafront, past the unobtrusive patch of green and its somnolent, grubby B&Bs. The Queensbury is in the corner of the square furthest from the road. There, the decay seems worst. The house-fronts are nothing but flaking brown paint, weeds grow thickly in the corroded railings and the windows are dark grey with dirt. Even the Gothic lettering of the sign –

Tea and coffee in all rooms

Contractors welcome

— is mottled, faded, and losing pieces of itself into the damp of the sunless area below. A plastic tablet, yellow-edged like a smoker’s fingers, in one of the ground-floor windows says VACANCIES. Next to it is an ancient decal promoting the tourist industry of the south-east. The door is held open by a rubber wedge. Inside — a narrow corridor with a torn carpet and a payphone on the wall.