‘Why is he still walking around free?’
‘Because he’s a devious bastard,’ said Burgess. ‘All right, I know. I’ll say it before you do. I’m a devious bastard, too, and not above bending the rules when it suits my purposes. You and I, we’re from the same side of the tracks. We should understand one another. Thing is, Monty is, too.’
‘But he’s a crook. And he changed his name because he thought it sounded more posh.’
‘It was a business decision. Monty grew up in the East End, like me, when it really was the East End, if you know what I mean. Thing is, when Thatcher started putting the economy to rights and commies like you went off feeling sorry for the poor fucking miners and electricians and factory workers, some of us knew a gift horse when it kicked us in the face, and we took our opportunities where we found them. There were billion-pound privatisations, hostile takeovers, corporate raids, asset stripping. And very few rules. Great times, and open to all. You didn’t have to be from Eton and Oxbridge to make it back then. All you had to do was throw out your lefty social conscience – something you could never do, old mate. Those City lads were practically printing money, and they came from the same place as you and me. The mean streets. Shitty council estates. Comprehensives. If I hadn’t already been busy climbing the greasy pole of policing, I might have been one of them, myself.’
‘I’m sure you would have made a lot more money. But things have changed.’
‘Tell me about it. Bunch of wankers we’ve got in there nowadays couldn’t manage a kid’s piggy bank, let alone a fucking economy. But that’s not our concern. If you want to understand people like Monty Havers, you’ve got to understand people like me. The barrow-boys made good. We were young, we were quick-witted and we were cocky. Not a shade of shit different from the criminal classes, you might say, and you’d be right. But we had vim and vision and stamina and, by God, that’s what the country needed. We got things done. So what happened to them when the dream ended? Well, I imagine some of them were damaged for good by the lifestyles of excess, same way as the hippies who’d taken too much LSD. But the others, like Havers, wormed their way into legitimate businesses, like specialised banking, and learned the ropes and how to get around them. Like I said, we were bright and the rule book was out of the window. Now, if you ask me, there’s not a hell of a lot of difference between most of your merchant banks and organised crime, so it shouldn’t come as such a big surprise that Havers is bent. Things is, he’s learned his tradecraft He knows intimately the ins and outs of money laundering, invisible transfers, hidden accounts, offshore shelters, shell companies and so forth. He’s always one step ahead of the legislation. That’s why we know him only by his contacts, and by what they do. Some of them do very unsavoury things, but Havers never puts his name to anything that can get back to him, never gets his hands dirty. He knows the people who can ship you anything anywhere any time, for a price. He knows where you can get your hands on fake passports, phoney bills of lading, thirteen-year-old virgins, you name it. He knows which palms need to be greased, and he might supply the funds – from somewhere squeaky clean – but he doesn’t do the greasing. See what I mean? He stays out of the world he helps to run, even socially. You’ll find him at the Athenaeum, not some dive in a Soho basement.’
‘I suppose he just had to become a Montague, then. But why the rural crime? I mean stolen tractors, for crying out loud, when according to you Havers could make a million just from the blink of an eyelid. Where does that fit in?’
‘Because there’s a market for them, old son. Multiply one tractor by ten, twenty, whatever. Do you know how much those things are worth? They’re not going to peasants in Bolivia, you know, Banksy. They’re going to people who can afford them. It’s not just tractors and combines and pitchforks and what have you, it’s forklifts, backhoes, Land Rovers, Range Rovers, along with all the Beemers and Mercs from the chop shops. Seems country people are often a lot more sloppy about security than us city dwellers. It’s easy pickings, and when you have the know-how to get it from A to B, you’ve got it made.’
‘There are a lot of people to pay off.’
‘Peanuts. I know where you can get an arm broken for twenty quid, two for thirty.’
‘Twenty quid? Them’s London prices, then?’
Burgess laughed. ‘Yes. I’m sure you can get it done for half in Yorkshire.’ He finished his lager and set the glass heavily on the table.
‘Another round?’ Banks asked.
‘Don’t mind if I do.’
Banks walked back to the bar. It wasn’t too busy. He thought over what Burgess had said as he waited to get served. If Havers were even half as smart as Burgess gave him credit for, he would be very hard to bring down. On the other hand, Banks thought he’d put the wind up him by the end of their meeting. For one thing, he had let him know that the police knew the names of pretty much everyone they thought was involved. That ought to be cause for concern, even if two of them were dead and Havers believed none of the survivors would dare talk. Whether he would be cocky enough to carry on business as usual remained to be seen. In a way, it wasn’t so much him as the northern branch of his operation that Banks was interested in, especially the person who had killed and cut up Morgan Spencer. If Beddoes was involved, Banks would also make sure he went down one way or another. Someone would talk, given the option of a softer deal.
When it was his turn, he ordered the same again. The barmaid had an American accent and hennaed hair. She smiled sweetly at Banks as she pulled the pint, but he didn’t think she was coming on to him. It was just her style. Besides, she was young enough to be his daughter. Which reminded him, he had to get in touch with Tracy. They’d planned to go and see Brian’s band the Blue Lamps at the Sage next week. Banks was excited about that, seeing his daughter and watching his son perform on a prestigious stage. He’d call her tonight when he got back home. If he got back. But he had to, he realised. There was so much to be done up there, he couldn’t desert the team and enjoy an overnight in London. There were plenty of trains, and he wasn’t far from King’s Cross. This would have to be his last pint.
Burgess was jotting something down in his notebook when Banks got back with the drinks. He put it away. ‘I knew Havers when I was growing up,’ he said. ‘Not very well – I’m a bit older than him – but I knew him. He lived in the next street over. That’s why I’m taking more of an interest than usual, I suppose.’
‘Ever heard of a John Beddoes?’ Banks asked.
‘I can’t say as I have.’
‘It was his tractor got stolen, but now I’m wondering if he isn’t in it with Havers. They were close mates back in those good old days you were just talking about.’
‘It’s entirely possible,’ Burgess said. ‘But he’d hardly steal his own tractor, or get someone to do it, would he?’
‘No. I’m working on that. It’s just been found outside Dover, so that should make him happy.’
‘That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’
‘I agree. The thieves must have run into some sort of a snag and had to abandon it. I imagine it was due to ship from somewhere near there. But we think the whole operation was a maverick job, or at least it’s rated as one. A young lad called Morgan Spencer acting alone. It was probably what got him killed.’
‘He’s the boy who was killed with the stun gun and cut up, right? I heard about that. No, the name hasn’t come up in any of our investigations.’
‘Very low level, I should imagine,’ said Banks. ‘You had a murder with a similar MO some time ago, if I’m not mistaken?’
‘A bolt gun? Yes. Very nasty. Polish bloke. It wasn’t a case I worked on at all closely, but I took an interest. Anything out of the ordinary like that gets my attention. As far as I know, it was never solved. Maybe I’ll have another look at the case file. Something might leap out. Didn’t they find some prints?’