Thinking about his meal, Dave is reminded how a few years back a friend had told him how much money could be made in the food business. So when he heard about a takeaway kebab shop where the owner wanted a fast cash sale, a quick deal was done. To help promote the business, he had people put large posters all the way along Mill Road. A rival takeaway owner made the mistake of threatening to tear them down, so the first thing Dave did was to smash his rival’s shop windows after they had closed for the night.
When this failed to stop the owner of Tasty Kebabs from complaining, Dave visited his shop in the early hours of the morning, ran a hose through the letterbox, poured petrol in and set light to it. Luckily a passer-by noticed the fire and dialled 999.
In his report to the police, the Fire Brigade Chief stated that ‘It was a miracle none of the people in the upstairs flat were killed or seriously injured.’ In his notes, he detailed that ‘Five minutes later and there would have been fatalities.’
That same night, the shop owner received a note through the letterbox of his home saying, “Keep quiet or your house will be next.” He was too frightened to go to the police.
A similar thing happened with Dave’s first business, Trent Taxis, when he got his control room to listen in on the radio calls of his main rivals, Cresta Cabs, and sent his taxis to arrive before theirs to steal their fares.
When the two brothers who ran Cresta went to see Dave about this, he and three of his accomplices beat them up, put them in the boot of an old taxi, and ceremoniously dumped them, battered and bruised, on the pavement outside their own taxi office.
The next day, Dave phoned them and made an offer to buy their business for half its true value. When they refused to do so, they started getting messages from an untraceable pay-as-you-go mobile with photos of their wives and children saying things like, “Whoops. Almost ran over your daughter as she left school today.”
After two weeks of constant messages and late night silent phone calls to their homes, the two brothers had enough and sold the business to Dave.
A traffic warden who had once given him a ticket was attacked the next day. Someone came at the man from behind, put an iron bar across his head, and then jumped on his knees.
Two years later, he is still recovering and unlikely to ever work again.
Dave was questioned about the incident but a lack of evidence meant he could not be charged. He had an alibi: he was with three friends on their way to the races. The ‘friends’ were quite happy to lie about it in court. It made for a good laugh in the pub afterwards.
Dave is aware he is dreaming again. The plane is due to land in less than fifteen minutes. As he sips his glass of wine, he allows himself a smile about his third business – purchasing a launderette to help launder the cash generated from his drug-dealing operation. The irony isn’t lost on him.
As he finishes his wine, he thinks about the moment the plane will start its descent into the airport from where he will make his way to his beautiful villa in La Manga. He can relax now.
Once he’s had a good night’s rest and spent some time soaking up the sun he will set about thinking up new ways to ensure the tax authorities and police believe the top-of-the-range Mercedes, the luxury foreign villa and the expensive lifestyle are funded entirely from his honest endeavours.
It is a nice problem to have but Dave needs to find places to hide the ever-increasing amounts of cash coming in from his expanding drug dealing and prostitution ring. Dave Rex, once just a petty crook, is now a player in the big league, and he has even more ambitious plans for the future.
And woe betide anyone who gets in his way.
Chapter Three
JAMES
After the funerals, the next eight months became a blur as I hit the drink.
In the beginning, friends tried to help but I couldn’t bear to see them so eventually they gave up trying. I just wanted to be left alone.
I stopped caring about my appearance. The only time I ventured out was to the local corner shop for cheap whisky. A bottle or two a day. Probably more? I lost count. And the odd tin of soup. Most days I just lounged around the house until the alcohol numbed the pain, and quite often things weren’t helped by the return of the migraine headaches I’d suffered as a child.
To be honest, I really didn’t care if I lived or died.
Bills went unpaid as I couldn’t be bothered to deal with anything. I do recall the letters the mortgage company kept sending but I told myself I would deal with them later, which turned into the next day and the next. Finally, after eight months of ‘tomorrows’, I guess they’d had enough and repossessed the house. I can’t say I blame them.
One morning at around seven thirty am, there was a loud thumping on the front door. I staggered from the front room sofa, where I’d drunkenly passed out the night before, to find three burly men who informed me they were court bailiffs. One was holding a piece of paper and explained it was an eviction order. The guy holding the paperwork was sympathetic but told me straight. “It’s the court’s decision. There’s nothing we can do. My advice is to grab some clothes and anything you need, put it all in a suitcase and go and put yourself at the mercy of a friend or relative until you get things sorted. I’ll give you a few minutes, but that’s all I can do.”
I couldn’t even find a suitcase, so I left thirty-two Langham Close
