So the first call was to Fat John, my best supplier. This is a two-way business, you see. I supply blokes in other areas with goods they want. In return, I buy in stuff I can sell on my own patch from their areas. You don’t mess on your own doorstep, right?
Once or twice the Trading Standards blokes have tried to make out some of the gear was counterfeit. But honest to God, I bought it in good faith, your honour. Well, what I say is — if people can have faith in the British justice system, I can have faith in Fat John when he tells me I’m buying top grade stuff. John says you you’re getting Reeboks or Levis, and just like the constitution tells you, you’re innocent until proved guilty. Well you either buy that shit or you don’t. As far as I can see, the only difference is that Fat John gives it to you in black and white, and it’s right there on the labels. But the constitution? The constitution only ever exists in the head of some decrepit judge, and depends on whether his piles are playing him up or the cheese he had for lunch is giving him indigestion. British justice? Don’t make me laugh. I’ve seen more attractive concepts on the pavement after the pubs have shut.
A fat voice answered the phone with a string of numbers, giving nothing away.
“John? Stones. All right?”
“Ah. Hello there, my friend. How goes it?”
“Fine, fine. You trading, John?”
“As ever, my friend. More watches for you. Rolex and Seiko. They shift well for you, yes? Also lots of videos and perfumes. Good names, good stuff.”
“I can take a load at the end of the week.”
“You have it, Stones. Usual arrangement?”
“I’ll see to it.”
“It’s a pleasure, my friend.”
“See you, mate.”
The next call was to one of the boys. He goes by the name of Metal Jacket, because his shoulders are never out of a car engine. He took a long while to answer the phone.
“Yes?”
“Metal? Stones.”
“All right, Stones?”
As usual, he was somewhere noisy. There was the banging of metal and a radio turned up too loud in the background, and a terrible echo. I could picture him pulling the phone out from under a pile of junk in a blacksmith’s shop or something.
“What’s this message about a motor?”
“Yeah, yeah. You ought to take a look at it, Stones. Nice wheels.”
Metal Jacket is one of the best when it comes to motors, but scores of them go through his hands. I couldn’t understand what he was on about here.
“Why should I take a look? I’ve already got a motor.”
“Yeah, I know. But this one’s a real nice motor. Special. You know what I mean?”
“No.” I sighed. Communication isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be sometimes. “Where is it, Metal?”
“Oh, down the workshop.”
“I’ll be along tomorrow.”
“Right, man. See you.”
“See you.”
The third call was to a legit contact. I do still have some of these, and they’re really useful. It’s like a packet of condoms — they’re no fun at the time, but it’s always best to keep a few in your pocket, and you’re always glad you had them afterwards.
“Hello. Newsdesk. Can I help you?”
“Nah then. Is that the whatsit, the editor?”
“This is the news editor, Mel France. Can I help you, sir?” The voice was cautious, like someone who never knows quite what to expect when he answers the phone.
“Well, I’ve got this bit of news, like, that I thought you might be interested in.”
“Oh yes?” Encouraging, but non-committal. A professional.
“It’s about my dog, you see. My neighbours are taking me to court complaining about the noise he makes.”
“Oh. And how do you feel about that?”
“Well, I’m barking mad.”
There was a brief silence, then a click, like your car key turning in the central locking.
“That’s McClure pissing about, isn’t it?”
He still sounded annoyed, but relieved too. It wasn’t some irritating member of the general public to deal with, but just me after all.
“Shit, Mel. You’re so sharp, you catch me out every time.”
“I’m up to my neck in deadlines here, Stones. What the hell do you want?”
“I want to be informed, educated and entertained. Where do you think I can find those things, Mel?”
“Piss off. You’re bad news.”
Mel France is one of my favourite contacts. I think it’s the way he falls over himself to be helpful. I must have done him a real big favour some time in the past. Now that he’s news editor on a big evening paper, he’s always delighted to get the chance to pay me back.
“You journalists are so full of bullshit. Why don’t you just cut the guff and get to the point?”
“I’m pretty close to the point, Stones. To the point of hanging up.”
“There was a van fire on the A614 last night. What have you got on it?”
“Why don’t you read the bloody paper and find out?”
“You’d have to write it in language I can understand first, Mel.”
“There’s a limit to how much you can say in words of one syllable.”
“Oh yeah? I mean, there was a headline the other day that said ‘Bespoke oak folk are tree-mendous’ What the hell does that mean? Is it in English?”
“What did you want to know about this van?”
“Anything you’ve got. What are the police saying?”
“Damn all, as usual.” There was a rustling of papers at the other end of the phone. Somehow I’d imagined everything being on computer screens in newspaper offices these days. Maybe Mel was doing the Sun crossword. If so, he wouldn’t keep me long. “We’re talking about a Renault Master, right? Near the Clumber Hotel? Normanton entrance to Clumber Park?”
“That’s it.”
“The fire service were called, but the van was totally destroyed, it says here. No other vehicle involved.”
“Casualties?”
“Two. Taken to Bassetlaw Hospital and treated for minor burns, but not detained. No serious injuries.”
“Pity”
“What?”
“Names?”
“Er, no names given. Withheld at the request of the victims.”
“Victims, right.”
“That’s perfectly normal these days. People can say they don’t want their names giving out to the press.”
“Yeah, I know. So if there were no other vehicles involved, what was the cause of this fire?”
“Mmm, doesn’t say. Some sort of electrical fault, surely.”
“Maybe.”
“Do you know otherwise, Stones?”
“No, no. I was just passing, and I thought it was someone I knew.”
“Oh yeah? Nobody important, then.”
“Ta.”
“Well, as long as the van was insured, there’s no harm done, is there? I mean, it wouldn’t have been nicked or anything, by any chance? We’re not talking about a crime here, after all, are we? Just an insurance job. So nobody loses.”
“That’s right, Mel. Dead right. Nobody loses.”
I hung up and tapped my fingers. Nobody loses. You’ve heard people talk about victimless crime. Well, there are some crimes that not only have no victims, but everyone benefits from them. Nearly everyone, anyway.
Did you know those big companies write off huge losses to theft? In fact, they take them into account in working out their budgets for profit and loss. They call it slippage. It’s one of those words business types like to use to cover up something they’d rather not talk about. They probably call going to the toilet ‘dumpage’. Anyway, the point is that if a few loads of their stuff didn’t go missing now and then, it would throw their accounts out completely. So I’m doing the accountants a big favour. Right? They ought to pay me for it. I could be a Freelance Slippage Consultant.