Kinsella nodded gratefully and took the bottle of whiskey. He drank deeply, then coughed as the alcohol burnt into his stomach. ‘I’ll do better next time, lads, I promise,’ he said.
‘That’s for sure.’ Lynn laughed.
Present day
The barmaid put a pint of John Smith’s and a vodka and tonic in front of the two men and smiled professionally. ‘Can I get you anything else, gents?’ she asked. She was Australian, in her mid-twenties, with a sprinkle of freckles across her upturned nose, and breasts that rippled under her black T-shirt.
The younger of the two men raised his beer and winked. ‘Your phone number?’
The barmaid’s eyes hardened, but the smile stayed in place. ‘My boyfriend doesn’t let me give it out,’ she said.
The older man laughed and slapped the other on the back. ‘She’s got you there, Vince.’
Vince Clarke took a long pull on his pint and scowled at his drinking companion as the barmaid walked away. ‘Probably a lesbian,’ he said. Clarke’s head was shaved and a pair of Ray-Bans was pushed high on his skull. He was wearing a long black leather coat over a black suit and a thick gold chain hung round his bull neck.
‘Yeah, the boyfriend was the clue.’ Dave Hickey sipped his vodka and tonic and chuckled. ‘You never stop trying, do you?’ His hair was close-cropped and, like his companion, he had a pair of expensive sunglasses perched on his head. He wore a sovereign ring on his left hand and a bulky signet ring on the right.
‘It’s playing the odds,’ said Clarke. ‘If you ask often enough, you’ll get lucky.’
‘Yeah? How often do you get lucky?’
‘One in five,’ said Clarke. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
‘Seriously?’
‘Thereabouts. What about you? You’re not married, are you?’
‘Who’d have me?’
‘Girlfriend?’
‘No one special.’ He looked at his watch, a gold Breitling with several dials. ‘Where is he, then?’
‘He’ll be here when he’s here,’ said Clarke.
‘How long have you worked with him?’
‘Long enough to know that he’ll be here when he’s here,’ said Clarke. He drained his glass and waved at the barmaid to refill it. ‘You’re a slow drinker, aren’t you, Dave?’
‘I’m on spirits,’ said Hickey. ‘If I kept up with you I’d be flat on my back and no use to anyone.’
‘All right, lads,’ said a voice from behind them. The two men twisted on their bar stools to face a broad-shouldered man in his mid-thirties. He had a long face with a hooked nose and hair that was receding at the front but grown long at the back and pulled into a ponytail. Peter Paxton was wearing a grey leather jacket over a black polo-neck and blue jeans. ‘You ready for the off?’
‘Where are we heading, boss?’ asked Hickey.
‘Need to know, Dave,’ said Paxton. He gestured at the door. ‘Come on, the engine’s running.’
‘What about this?’ said the barmaid, holding up Clarke’s pint.
‘Put it back in the pump, love,’ said Paxton.
Hickey and Clarke slid off their stools and followed Paxton out of the pub. Clarke tossed the barmaid a twenty-pound note and winked at her. ‘Catch you later, baby,’ he said.
A Jaguar was waiting at the kerb. Paxton climbed into the front seat while Hickey and Clarke got into the back. Paxton nodded at the driver, a big man with a boxer’s nose. ‘Nice and steady, Eddie,’ he said.
Eddie Jarvis grunted and eased the Jaguar forward. Paxton said, ‘Nice and steady, Eddie’ to him at least a dozen times a day and had done every day for the two years or so that Jarvis had worked for him. He seemed to find it as funny now as he had the first time he’d said it.
‘What’s the story, boss?’ asked Hickey.
Paxton turned in his seat. ‘You writing a book, Dave?’
‘I don’t like riding into the dark, that’s all.’
‘We’re going to check that an investment of mine is paying off. Why? You’re not late for an appointment, are you?’
‘No rush here,’ said Hickey, settling back in the leather seat.
‘Glad to hear it,’ said Paxton.
They drove across the city, and after half an hour Hickey saw a sign for Stratford, the site of the 2012 Olympics. There were cranes everywhere, and trucks full of building materials packed the roads. Billions of pounds were being poured into the area in anticipation of the sporting event – new buildings were going up, existing houses were being gentrified and restaurants were opening.
‘You should all buy places here,’ said Paxton. ‘Prices are going through the roof. I bought six flats as soon as they announced the Olympics were coming here.’
‘Where am I going to get that sort of money?’ said Clarke.
‘Stop playing the horses for a start,’ said Paxton. ‘Gambling’s a mug’s game.’
‘I win more than I lose,’ said Clarke.
‘That’s what every punter says. The only people who make money out of gambling are the bookies. Put your money in property instead.’ Paxton pointed at a set of traffic-lights ahead. ‘Hang a left, Eddie. Then pull in, yeah?’ Eddie made the turn, parked the Jaguar at the side of the road and switched off the engine. ‘Right, lads, pin back your ears,’ said Paxton. ‘The guys we’re paying a call on are Algerians, two brothers, Ben and Ali. They’re the key to getting heroin right into London. Problem is, the delivery they were supposed to make didn’t happen and I want to know why.’
‘What are they, boss? Algerian Mafia?’ asked Clarke.
‘They work at the Eurostar depot at Temple Mills on the edge of the Olympic Park.’
‘They’re bringing heroin in on the Eurostar?’ asked Hickey.
‘They’re cleaners,’ said Paxton, ‘and part of their job is emptying the toilet holding tanks. They’ve got family at the French end where security’s lax. Their relatives put the gear in the tanks in France and Ben and Ali are supposed to get it out at Temple Mills. Except so far they haven’t done what they’re supposed to do.’
‘You want us to get heavy with them?’ asked Hickey.
‘You’ve got it in one, Einstein,’ said Paxton. ‘I had the North Pole sewn up for years, so I want to make sure no one gets the jump on me at Temple Mills.’
‘I thought Santa Claus had the North Pole sewn up,’ said Hickey.
Paxton glared at him. ‘The North Pole is the old Eurostar depot near Paddington. We were bringing in dozens of kilos a month and then they decided to move to Stratford. My guys at the North Pole weren’t moved to the new depot but they introduced me to Ben and Ali. What we’ve got here are just teething problems, and we’re the dentists.’
Paxton climbed out of the Jaguar and went to the boot. Eddie popped it open. Paxton moved aside a tatty sheepskin jacket to reveal a nylon holdall. He unzipped it, then glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching and pulled out a sawn-off shotgun. He passed it to Clarke, who hid it under his coat.
‘Shooters?’ asked Hickey.
‘You are on the ball tonight, aren’t you?’ said Paxton. He took a revolver from the bag and gave it to Hickey. ‘Not a problem, is it?’
Hickey looked down the barrel of the gun, checked the sights, then flipped out the cylinder. It was fully loaded. ‘No problem here, boss. It’s just that I’m more comfortable with automatics.’
‘Automatics jam and they spew cartridges all over the place,’ said Paxton, dismissively. He zipped the bag and closed the boot.
Hickey slid the gun into the pocket of his jacket. ‘You’re not carrying, boss?’
‘There’s no point in having a couple of dogs and barking myself, is there?’ said Paxton. ‘Right, stick with me. I’ll do the talking, you look mean, and only pull the shooters out if I say so.’ He walked down the pavement. Hickey and Clarke hurried after him.
The Algerians were living in a row of terraced houses, several of which had for-sale signs by the front doors. It was early evening and the street-lamps came on as they headed along the pavement. Three Asian boys with gelled hair and earrings walked towards them, stepping into the road to get past. ‘Bloody suicide-bombers,’ Paxton muttered. ‘Should ship ’em all back to Paki Land.’