‘And Brycey didn’t know that?’
Layton shook his head.
‘One of the most powerful gang bosses in East London, and this Morton geezer is cutting a slice off his fucking cousin,’ he chuckled.
‘So Morton didn’t know who this bird was?’
‘No, not a clue. ’Course, the fact that she’s only seventeen didn’t exactly please Brycey, did it? I mean, from what I’ve heard, she’s a right little slag anyway. Could suck a golf ball through a fucking garden hose, that type.’
Both men laughed.
‘More pricks than a second-hand dartboard,’ Doolan added.
‘Yeah – and the rest,’ Layton continued.
‘So Brycey wants you to do him up?’
‘What was I going to say? If Geoff Bryce asks you to do something, you fucking do it, don’t you?’
‘With less than a month to parole?’
‘What would you have done? Told him to go fuck himself?’
‘No, of course not. But I haven’t got less than a month to jam roll, have I?’
‘Look, if I do this job for Brycey, I walk out of here with a few bob in my pocket. If I don’t do it, I don’t walk. Besides, I couldn’t give a fuck. I don’t know this Morton bloke, so what do I care?’
David Layton slid the blade beneath his pillow and lay back on his bunk.
He lay on his side, gazing across at the opposite wall of the cell: at the array of photos showing naked women in every manner of pose. He’d stuck most of the pictures up there himself, Blu-tacked to the discoloured stonework.
On the bunk above him, Paul Doolan was flipping slowly through the daily paper, occasionally reading sections aloud.
He was thirty-two, four years older than Layton. Both men had spent the majority of their lives in and out of various institutions. Layton himself had begun with a remand home at thirteen and then, as theft had become receiving stolen goods, then possession of cocaine, and finally several charges of assault and grievous bodily harm, he had graduated to a series of prisons.
This cell in Wandsworth was his latest.
A three stretch for glassing some fucking ponce inside a nightclub in Hackney. It had left the victim with one hundred and twenty-six stitches in his face, and Layton with another listing on his record. He had once joked that he had more form than Red Rum.
Prison life didn’t bother him. Why should it? He knew the system here inside out. He knew how to work it to his advantage. Lots of men folded inside. Not David Layton: he had blossomed.
‘So,’ said Doolan, leaning over to look down at his cellmate. ‘How did you get that blade out of the machine shop? You didn’t tell me. You couldn’t have crutched something like that.’
‘Does it matter?’ said Layton.
‘Just curious.’
‘Well, you know what curiosity does, don’t you? And not just to cats.’
Doolan grinned.
‘Why’s the blade so dirty?’ he wanted to know.
‘I covered it in shit. When I cut Morton, that will infect the wounds. They’ll turn bad. The cunt might even end up with blood poisoning, with any luck. If he does, Brycey might bung me a bonus.’ He grinned crookedly.
Beneath the pillow, he closed his hand around the weapon.
5
‘WELL, I HAPPEN to think it matters quite a lot,’ snapped Robert Gibson into the mouthpiece of the receiver. ‘I’ll explain why, and I’ll try to keep it simple for you. Our company is called BG TRUCKS, right? Every day, lorries and removal vans go all over the country with that logo painted on the side of them – like a mobile advert, right? You’ve just sent us headed notepaper that says BEE GEE TRUCKS, which makes us sound as if we only do removals for that pop group who did the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever. It’s a spelling error, understand?’
The person at the other end was having difficulty.
‘BG TRUCKS is different to BEE GEE TRUCKS,’ Rob said, spelling out the disparity. ‘Are we clear now?’
The voice at the other end still couldn’t see the problem.
‘I’ll make it very simple,’ Rob continued. ‘If this headed notepaper isn’t replaced, then you get no money. N- O. No. Know what I mean? Or should I say k-n-o-w what I mean?’ He hung up.
‘Dickhead,’ Rob snarled at the phone, then he leant back in his seat and stretched his arms, feeling the beginnings of a headache gnawing at the base of his skull.
The responsibilities of management, he mused.
Eight years earlier he wouldn’t have needed to deal with such petty concerns. Eight years ago, his only concern with the haulage business was in driving trucks, not working out where they should be at what times of each day, for fifty-two weeks of the year. His and his partner’s decision to start up their own business had been vindicated by its success, and so far they had encountered few problems. Business had been plentiful to the point that they’d had to employ two more drivers the previous year, and there was certainly no sign of that business drying up. And why should it? They provided a good service for their customers, and at cheaper rates than most of their competitors.
At thirty-four, Robert Gibson could, if he wished, consider his life to be a success. A thriving business, an expensive house and a loving family. Life didn’t get much better, did it?
He exhaled deeply.
Did it?
He looked across his desk.
A photo of his daughter smiled back at him. It had been taken at her birthday party just nine months earlier.
Hailey had taken it. The two of them there together, laughing happily.
The perfect dad.
He smiled, then his thoughts were interrupted as his office door opened.
‘Every time I walk into this bloody office you’re staring at that photo,’ said Frank Burnside.
‘Do you blame me?’ Rob asked.
Burnside shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. She’s a beautiful kid. It’s a good job she got her looks from her mother and not you.’
‘Ha-bloody-ha. What do you want?’
‘You know those two other vans we were after? I spoke to the boss at the garage, and he now wants five grand each for them.’
‘Tell him to fuck off. No, better still, give me his number and I’ll tell him to fuck off. Three and a half each, we said. He agreed it.’
‘Well, he’s changed his mind.’
‘Then we’ll change our supplier, sod him. Come to think of it, Frank, don’t ring him. Put it in writing. That makes it more official. Just don’t put it on any of this new notepaper.’ He grimaced.
‘I’ll get . . . um . . . her to type up a letter,’ Burnside said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.
‘Sandy, you mean. You can use her name in front of me, you know. She is our secretary after all. Don’t try being tactful now, Frank. It’s a bit late for that.’
