‘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.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we think you’re a fucking slag copper, that’s why,’ said Mickey. ‘Same as your mate.’
Fenby stared at Kettering. ‘Simon, they took you out and showed you the guns. They gave you a hand grenade to throw, you said. A fucking hand grenade. The cops don’t do that.’
‘They do if they really want to stitch you up,’ said Kettering. He took another long pull on his cigar. ‘They could be waiting for us to get the money so that they can seize that. Plus, they might be trying to see who else they can pull in. Your mates asked a hell of a lot of questions in the pub after their little demonstration. For all I know they were wired and it’s all on tape. So if you are a cop, Ian, and if you’re in on this, save yourself a lot of pain and just tell me now.’
‘Do I look like a fucking narc?’ asked Fenby.
‘Who knows what a narc looks like?’
‘How long have you known me?’
‘That’s not the point, is it? The question is, are you an undercover cop or not?’
There was a crash from the bedroom, the sound of a drawer hitting the floor.
‘If there’s anything in this flat that says who you really are, then you’re fucked,’ said Kettering.
‘Totally fucked,’ said Mickey. ‘I’m going to see to that.’
Fenby stared sullenly at the two men as he dabbed at his smashed lips.
Chaudhry was walking up the stairs, about to leave the mosque in Dynevor Road with Malik, when he saw Khalid coming down.
Khalid beamed. ‘Salaam, brothers,’ he said. ‘Is everything good?’
‘You tell us,’ said Chaudhry.
‘You sound upset, brother,’ said Khalid. He put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Wait for me in the coffee shop round the corner until I have prayed,’ he whispered. His breath was rancid and Chaudhry fought the urge to retch.
Khalid leaned close to Malik, kissed him on both cheeks and then went down the stairs.
‘What did he say?’ asked Malik.
‘He wants us to wait for him,’ said Chaudhry.
‘That’s it? We wait? Like dogs? What about the fact that we sat in all last night and he never called?’
‘Hush, brother,’ said Chaudhry. Half a dozen young Pakistanis came thudding down the stairs. One of them was wearing a coat over candy-striped pyjamas and was chewing gum. Chaudhry shook his head contemptuously.
They went out into the street. Fajr prayers had to be completed before sunrise so the road was still illuminated by street lights and there were delivery trucks parked in front of many of the businesses. Chaudhry took Malik along to the coffee shop. It was a popular place for Muslims to take their morning coffee after prayers and was always busy at that time of the day. They found a corner table and Chaudhry ordered two coffees from the Turkish girl behind the counter. She was pretty and he watched her slim figure as she busied herself at the coffee- maker. She glanced over her shoulder and caught him looking and he felt his cheeks redden.
‘You’re Raj, aren’t you?’ she said with a smile, as she put the two cups down in front of him.
‘Yeah. Do I know you?’
‘I’m the girl that keeps serving you coffee,’ she said. ‘I heard your friends call you Raj.’
‘Yeah, that’s me.’
‘I’m Sena.’ She smiled again and went on to the next customer.
Chaudhry took the coffees over to the table. ‘I think she fancies me,’ he said as he sat down.
‘Who?’
‘The girl behind the counter. Sena.’
‘You’ve got a girlfriend.’
‘Who?’
‘You know who. That bird your dad fixed you up with. What was her name?’
‘Jamila? She’s not a girlfriend.’
‘Got on like a house on fire, you said. Brains and beauty.’
‘It’s early days,’ said Chaudhry. ‘And she’s from a good Muslim family so it’s going to go very slowly.’
‘Whereas Turkish girls are easy, is that what you’re saying?’
Chaudhry laughed. ‘No, I’m just saying that she told me her name and I think that she fancies me.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘The Jamila thing is a bloody minefield,’ he said. ‘It’s like every second thing I say to her is a lie.’
‘What, you don’t fancy her?’
