'She won't be workin' for him long,' said Dillon, more a dire threat than a vague promise. He had to brace himself against the dashboard as they pulled up outside Stag Security. Jimmy blasted the horn, then slammed the door as he got out. His portable telephone beeped. He went over in a huddle next to the basement railings. Harry thudded up past him and opened the passenger door.
'Where's Cliff?' Dillon asked.
'He rung in, he can't make it. Somethin' to do with that mealy-mouthed chick of his…'
Dillon glared. 'He's gettin' married to her!'
Harry was somebody else not exactly overflowing with the milk of human kindness this morning. 'I don't care if he's workin' out with Sylvester Stallone – he should be here!' Squashing his big arse in next to Dillon on the bench seat.
Jimmy came round the front of the wagon, folding his portable phone, and climbed in. 'Little change of plan… we hold the stuff here until the morning. Newman's not got the space cleared yet.'
Dillon punched the windscreen, which visibly shifted in its rubber mounting. 'This stinks already!'
Jimmy twisted the key to start up, and as the wagon moved off in a haze of swirling blue smoke, he said tightly, breathing through his nostrils, 'I'm just tryin' to get things organised, Frank…'
Nine large tea chests, which at Dillon's conservative estimate must have weighed two hundred pounds apiece. While Jimmy signed the release dockets under the watchful eye of two Customs officials, Dillon and Harry slid the last one into the back of the wagon, already sagging down to the axles. 'That Cliff's a connivin' sod, I'm knackered!' Harry grumbled, mopping his face. Dillon said so was he, and told him to belt up. Back at base they had it all to do over again, in reverse. It was after six when they'd finished, the crates overspilling the passageway into the office, and now they really were knackered.
'Okay, that's the last,' Jimmy said, ticking it off. 'Want me to lock up?' he asked Dillon.
Harry answered. 'Naaa, I'm dossin' down here.' Slumped on a crate, fanning himself, he looked up and down. 'If I can find room for me sleepin' bag.'
Footsteps coming down from the street, and Barry Newman walked in, bringing the bracing tang of Gucci aftershave into the ripe sweaty atmosphere. His minder, the thickset guy with the widow's peak that Dillon had seen in Newman's office, lurked by the door.
Newman wore a dark-blue double-breasted overcoat and held a thin black cheroot in his gloved fingers. 'Any problems?' he asked Jimmy in that soft, silky voice that had been soaked overnight in Dettol.
'No.' Jimmy was suddenly all bright attention, doing his three-bags-full act. 'You know Frank, and this is Harry Travers.'
Newman ignored Harry. He slid his hand into his overcoat pocket and took out five grands' worth of brown envelope. 'I appreciate this, Frank.' He indicated the crates with the envelope before tossing it over. 'Be off your premises by the morning.' Faint glimmer of a glacial smile then, and the narrow, deepset eyes roamed up to the ceiling. 'My girls upstairs'll give you a special rate…'
Dillon's face changed. His eyes went from Newman, bored into Jimmy. 'Outside. Now.'
As he strode out, Jimmy behind him, Harry wore a delighted grin. 'It's a knockin' shop upstairs, isn't it? I knew it, what did I tell you…?'
Dillon was standing stiffly on the pavement, one hand clenched round an iron railing. Jimmy bounded up, saying brightly, 'Frank, listen -' and Dillon cut him off, eyes blazing. 'This is his place, isn't it?' he said, low, throaty.
'He owns the building, yeah,' Jimmy admitted, shrugging, a bit sheepish.
'What's in the crates? And don't give me the Indian artifacts crap -'
'Frank, he's opening market stalls…'
Before Dillon could respond to that load of bull, Newman came up the steps, trailing cheroot smoke. In his arms he carried a large glazed Indian elephant with an ornate woven headpiece of gold, black and azure blue, set with beads in the shape of pearls, diamonds and rubies of coloured glass. He plonked it on Dillon.
'Give it to the wife, Frank.' Newman removed the cheroot and blew out a plume of smoke, not quite in Dillon's face. 'Tell her it's a gift from an old friend.' He nodded to Jimmy. 'Thanks, son.'
'I couldn't get out of it, Frank – I mean, with the weddin' comin' up we got to get the place fixed up. This yours, is it?'
Cliff was studying with interest the monstrosity of an elephant on the kitchen dresser, where Dillon had dumped it the night before and not looked at it since.
Dillon sat at the table, a frown on his face, an open accounts book and wads of notes, neatly separated into three piles, in front of him. Through a mouthful of toast, Flora and marmalade, he said, 'Have it as a weddin' present. We got half a ton at the office.' He slipped rubber bands on the money, stood up wiping his hands on his jeans. 'Okay, let's pick up the Granada, put the deposit on the wagon… Cliff, you set?'
Cliff nodded, dead chuffed, the elephant tucked under his arm.
By the time they'd collected the Granada and done battle with the rush-hour traffic it was gone half-ten; even so, Dillon was surprised to see the crates had been moved, Harry sweeping up straw and polystyrene bubbles in the empty passage. Jimmy was leaning in the office doorway, leafing through a sheaf of pamphlets, every pastel shade under the sun.
'You got any collateral, Harry? Harry?'
Harry leaned on his broom. 'What do you mean?'
'You own anythin' – flat, house – you can borrow against?'
Dillon stood with the log book and car keys, taking it in.
Harry considered, scratching his moustache. 'My Auntie left me a house in Manchester, but me sister lives in it…'
Dillon jangled the keys. 'Got the Granada, put the deposit down on the wagon. Elephants out?' he said, eyebrows raised. 'Where you goin'?' he asked Harry, who had propped up his broom and was putting his jacket on.
'Get movin', Jimmy said to Harry, jerking his thumb, and to Dillon, 'Few cards I got made up, stick 'em round the pubs, clubs.' They went into the office, basking pinkly in the slanting sunlight. 'Me and Harry shifted the crates first thing… Here, present.' Jimmy took out his cordless phone and placed it on the desk. 'My contribution, nothin' to do with Newman. Where's Clifford?' He bellowed past Dillon's shoulder, 'Go on, Harry, don't hang about!'
Like a bleeding puppet-master, Dillon thought. Did he never let go the strings, never ever let up, not even for a second?
'What you want the deeds of Harry's house for?' Dillon asked, pinning up a large-scale street map of central London.
'Collateral. An' I got these forms from the bank, to apply for a government grant.' Jimmy tossed the pamphlets on the desk. The phone rang, and it was as if they were both frozen for a moment, stunned with the shock of it actually ringing.
Jimmy picked it up. 'Stag Security and Chauffeur Drive…' He listened, nodding, then glanced at Dillon, giving the thumbs-up. 'I'll just see if we have a car available.' He covered the mouthpiece. 'Taxi…'
Big ecstatic grin from Dillon, who grabbed a notepad and pen, shoved them across the desk.
'We have a Ford Granada available, yes… and the address? Yes… destination?' Jimmy scribbled. 'Fine… be with you in ten minutes.' He put the phone down and stuck out his hand for Dillon to shake. 'We're in business – that's our first fare! See? It's workin' out – Oi, Cliff!' Jimmy tore off the sheet, handed it to Cliff as he came in the door. 'Can you pick up at 12 Thresherd Street, a Mrs Williams, going to Bond Street.'
Jimmy was fizzing like a Roman Candle. Tossing the car keys, reaching for the cordless phone, mouth working overtime.
'Use the Granada, an' take this, it's a portable. You got money for petrol?' Snatched aside to Dillon: 'We'll have to get a kitty box organised, all receipts, etcetera…' And even while Dillon was patting his pockets: 'Okay, Frank, I got it, here's twenty.'