added another fifteen hundred to the wad I’d taken out the other side of midnight.
14
The kebab wrappers and splashes of vomit gradually retreated as we moved into a more residential landscape. Every traffic light was red, but we were soon surrounded by terraced houses and little bay windows. They might have been nice and shiny when they were built during the Boer War, but Easton had definitely seen better days.
We followed the railway line, carried above us on a plinth of grime-covered brown brick. The roads were only just wide enough to take the people-carrier. They were designed for the odd coal cart to trundle up and down, not for the world of Grand Theft Auto. Vehicles were parked up on both sides, half on the pavement, half off.
We drove past three or four mosques and endless rows of dirty brown houses. All the old corner shops had become fast-food joints. Box-fresh knights sat astride rusty mountain bikes outside them, waiting to fulfil their delivery promise. But it wasn’t late-night pizza these kids in their immaculate white high-sided trainers and ball- caps were in the business of bringing to your door. It was something even more addictive.
We stopped at a junction, and he pointed to our right. ‘That’s Barratt. I can’t get down there.’
I paid my ?17.50 with a twenty-quid note and told him to keep the change. A big old industrial building that had been converted into a gym stood on the corner. Lights glared from the first and second floors, but nobody was inside. I turned down the narrow and dimly lit street beside it.
15
There were no front gardens as such, just walls a couple of feet from the front windows. Some were slabbed, some had weeds springing out of broken concrete. One had a mattress decorated with Coke cans and McDonald’s wrappers. Most of the cars and vans alongside them were at least five years old. I walked past a jazzed-up 1.2-litre Peugeot with the world’s biggest exhaust extension.
I rolled the three grand as tightly as I could and shoved it down into the front pocket of my jeans.
All the windows had been fitted with plastic or aluminium double-glazing at some stage, the kind that meant you couldn’t possibly escape if someone torched your house. That was just the cheapest way to do it.
Black wheelie-bins and matching Sky dishes lined every front wall.
I checked my Breitling. I’d had a little bit of a spending spree with Anna in Moscow and thought it was time to step up a notch. Funnily enough, it told me the same time as any other watch, but it still gave me a kick every time I looked at it.
It was 01.35.
I slipped it off my wrist and out of sight.
Nadif had told me to keep an eye out for Ali’s convenience store. A car passed, stopped at the junction behind me, and then drove off. I was impressed. Frank’s lads had done really well staying with me.
Now and again a TV blared and light flickered in the gap between the curtains. The only other noise came from trains rattling past the end of the road behind me.
Back in Queen Victoria’s day, Ali’s front window would probably have boasted neat displays of coal-tar soap and jars of imperial jam. Now it was full of Chinese pots and pans and offers of a thousand tea-bags for 99p. Peeling stickers announced it was a gas and electricity pay point, sold SIM cards, Mars bars, the
The only thing they didn’t advertise was
Billions and billions of dollars had been moved all over the world in this way for decades. It’s the money- movement method of choice for criminals and terrorists, for obvious reasons, and a law-enforcement nightmare. Not that any of the lads round here would be financing the next 9/11. They’d just be slipping a few bob to their families back home so they could eat.
The shop was closed, but it wasn’t cut-price tea-bags I was after. It was the blue door to its left, which belonged to the flat above. The wrought-iron knocker was in the shape of a lion’s head. I tapped it three times. I didn’t bother checking whether Ant and Dec were breathing down my neck. I’d brief Frank as soon as I knew what he needed to know.
A light came on behind flimsy curtains on the second floor. The silhouette of a body moved across the room. A few seconds later, two lever locks were being turned and I had to step back as the door was pushed open. I soon saw why. There was an ornate wrought-iron security gate behind it, fastened through the first two bars with a D- ring bicycle lock.
I could tell the lock was an old one by its circular key well. It was probably another of Ali’s bargains — and a complete waste of time. Before manufacturers wised up and introduced flat keys, me and a couple of mates used to supplement our rifleman’s wages by nicking mountain bikes from Andover’s sports centre when we were squaddies in Tidworth. We’d hire a van for the weekend, throw as many in the back as we could liberate, and flog them on the London estates.
A steep, narrow stairway with a threadbare brown carpet led into the gloom the other side of the gate. The woodchip wallpaper could have done with a few licks of paint.
My new best Somali mate stood at the bottom of the stairs, wearing the kind of smile that any vicar would have been proud of. A good six feet tall and slim, with fine features and high cheekbones, he really did come from the place where Africa meets Arabia.
‘You are Nick.’
The voice belonged to a man about three stone heavier. Mr Lover Man back in Moscow would have given his right arm for a voice like that.
I nodded. ‘Nadif?’
16
He checked left and right my side of the gate.
‘Where is your car?’
‘I took a cab.’
‘You do not have a car?’
‘It’s nothing to shout about.’
‘What sort of car do you drive, Nick?’
‘An old beat-up Renault. Why?’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Where do you come from, Nick?’
‘I was in Hereford this morning. That’s where Tracy comes from. Her sister, Janet — you called her, yeah? — she still lives there.’
He nodded slowly and undid the D-lock. The gate squeaked open. It looked like it had come from a garden centre. He was in jeans, cheap brown Burberry-check slippers and a grey hoodie with a faded black star across the chest, none of which matched his stature and his long, thin, delicate hands. This lad could have followed Jules down the Calvin Klein catwalk. He’d never been near a building site or a fishing boat in his life.
I stepped inside. The stairwell stank of cigarettes and microwaved ready-meals. His eyes never left me as he closed both doors. I moved to the bottom of the stairs. He gestured politely. ‘Please, after you, my friend.’
