‘That’s not a bad marketing idea,’ said Stegs, and ordered a pint of Stella and steak and kidney pie with bakers’ chips, before taking a seat at the bar.
The grub, when it came, was good and he finished the lot. There are very few men in the world who can have just one pint and leave it at that, and in Stegs’s opinion those who can have something wrong with them. He wasn’t going to be driving for an hour or two so he ordered another Stella and drank it swiftly with two smokes. That was the point when he should have stopped — he could usually last just about on two — but the knowledge that stopping meant heading round to Gill’s place made him think that perhaps one more would be in order.
He shouted for another pint, paid for it, then made his way to the toilets, taking the drink with him. They were clean enough for pub bogs, but they still had that stale, pissy smell you always get in such places, and the sight of a cockroach floundering on its back in a pool of water by the sinks did little to add to the ambience. There was no-one else in there so he went to the nearest cubicle, stepped inside and locked the door. He then fished a small, transparent packet filled with white powder from the inside of his jacket, opened it, and chucked half of its contents into the new pint. The beer fizzed up angrily, then settled again as the speed began to dissolve, the chunkier bits sinking towards the bottom. Stegs didn’t consider himself an addict by any means, but more and more these days he needed the speed as a pick-me-up for when he was feeling knackered or hung over — or in this case both. He’d been introduced to it by Pete the gun dealer, had liked it (particularly the fact that it was cheap) and, given his excellent and varied contacts within the criminal classes, had never had a problem getting hold of it. He never took it more than two or three times a week though, and considered his usage firmly under control.
With one hand, he flipped himself out of his jeans and opened fire directly into the bowl, while using the other hand to guzzle the drug-fuelled lager in a classic example of recycling. One minute later he’d given his dick and the half-full glass a good shake, and was feeling better already. He went back out, his heart thumping and teeth grinding, a grin already erupting on his face, knowing that now he was ready for anything. A vision of Vokes marched unwelcome into his mind, and he pushed it aside with a survivor’s laugh that had a group of businessmen standing near the door to the gents giving him the resigned, moderately contemptuous look that so many Londoners aim at the mentally unstable. Stegs ignored them.
His seat at the bar had been taken by a young woman with a pudgy face and a big arse who was sitting talking to a spotty teenager in a cheap suit. The teenager was making a pretty lame attempt to appear interested in what the girl was saying, but he perked up noticeably when she put a flabby arm on his and leant forward, giggling, to tell him something. Stegs imagined the two of them naked and on the job, and it made him feel a bit sick, so he turned away and found some space by a pillar in the middle of the floor. He leant against it and took another huge swig of his pint, wondering whether he had time for just one more.
At that moment, his private mobile rang. He instantly recognized the tone: Mission Impossible. This was the phone used by family, friends, work and informants who knew his real identity. He had another purely for undercover work. The ringtone on that one was The Magnificent Seven.
He removed it from the pocket of his jacket and checked the number, not immediately recognizing it. ‘Hello,’ he said, putting it to his ear. The bar was crowded now with office workers on their lunch-break, and he had to speak up.
‘All right, Stegsy?’
Only one man called Stegs ‘Stegsy’, and that was Trevor Murk, a petty criminal and informant whose activities matched his name, and who occasionally provided him with tidbits of information about the activities of small-time crims operating out of his Barnet locale. Stegs hadn’t heard from Murk for a while, which was why he hadn’t recognized the number.
‘Hello, Trevor. What can I do for you today?’
‘I think it’s more a matter of what I can do for you, me old mate. Got a little bit of info that might be of great use. Great use indeed.’
Murk spoke like Michael Caine did in Get Carter. Loud enough to stop a conversation, yet taking care to enunciate every word individually with an air of cheery cockney menace. It was all an act, though. He’d actually been brought up in St Albans.
‘Oh yeah?’ said Stegs, not sure whether it was worth mentioning that he was suspended. ‘What’s that, then?’
‘Behave, sweetboy. Not over the blower. This sort of thing requires some alcoholic lubrication. Are you in the boozer at the moment?’
‘I am, but nowhere local. I’m in Ealing.’
‘What the fuck are you doing there?’ asked Murk in a tone that suggested he might as well have been in Kathmandu.
‘I’m having a drink,’ said Stegs, who was already beginning to get tired of this conversation. Murk wasn’t bad company as informants go, but he did rate himself highly and could therefore become severely irritating on occasion.
‘Well, I can give it to someone else, Stegsy, but I reckon you’ll regret it if I do. This’ll be a nice little collar, and I reckon you’ll have a laugh doing it as well.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Exactly what I said. I’ll tell you more if we meet up. And I’m going to need a nice little drink for my troubles.’
In spite of himself, Stegs was intrigued. He took another gulp from his pint, leaving nothing but a powdery mouthful in the bottom. He could hear his heart pounding but knew it was the gear. ‘There’ll be no money until I hear what you’ve got to say, all right?’
‘Fair do’s, but you’ll like it, I promise you that.’
‘We’ll see. I can meet you tomorrow lunchtime. Soon enough.’
‘That’ll do. Usual place?’
‘I’ll be there at one o’clock.’
‘Are you pissed?’
‘Eh?’
‘You sound a bit pissed down there. How many have you had?’
‘What are you? My fucking mother? I’m fine. See you tomorrow.’
He hung up, hoping he didn’t sound too inebriated. He’d been thinking about having another, but decided he’d better knock it on the head for now.
He didn’t know why he’d agreed to meet up with Murk. Even if it was an easy collar, in the end it was none of his business now that he was suspended, his future in the Force looking shaky to say the least. No-one likes a copper involved in controversy, least of all the politically sensitive Brass. But regardless of all that, that’s what Stegs Jenner still was. A copper. And a copper likes getting collars. Plus, it would give him something to do tomorrow. If Murk wasn’t being too cocky, it might even be quite a good afternoon.
He finished the last bit of his drink and put the glass on a shelf on the pillar he’d been leaning against, then headed out the door, trying to compose a few fitting sentences of commiseration for the recently bereaved widow.
It took Stegs close to half an hour to find the Vokerman household. He’d only ever been there once before, and this time had forgotten to bring the address or the directions with him. Or the flowers, come to that. He knew the number, and the rough location, but couldn’t think of the street name, so he’d had to tramp around the whole area until he’d come across it, quite by chance. A quiet residential road made up of bland but spacious 1940s semis in view of the Thames Valley University campus.
He walked along until he came to the house where his friend had lived for more than ten years. He stopped for a moment at the gate, recognizing the familiar yellow paint, then steadied himself before walking the three yards through the tiny but well-kept front garden up to the front door. A bunch of flowers wrapped in black paper had been placed in the porch. He knocked hard on the door.