Passed the piece of paper to Brant, then said, ‘I didn’t know you had a wife.’
‘I don’t.’ Not any more.
Mary had left him over ten years ago. Hadn’t heard a dicky-bird since.
Called the number and when a woman answered, said, ‘It’s Brant.’
‘Oh Tom, thank you for calling me back, I wasn’t sure you would.’
‘What do you want?’
‘No hellos or how are you?’
‘You rang to see how I am?’
‘Well, not completely but…
‘So get on with it.’
He heard the click of a lighter, the inhale of smoke, nearly said, ‘You smoke?’ But then, what was it to him? She could mainline heroin, what did he care?
Then:
‘My husband, Paul … I married again five years ago … he’s in trouble.’
‘What kind?’
‘He was accused of shoplifting at M amp;S, at their flagship store.’
‘Their what?’
‘The big one at Marble Arch.’
‘What did he nick?’
‘Oh Tom, he didn’t … the store detective stopped him outside, said he didn’t pay for a tin of beans. He’d over thirty pounds of shopping. Would he steal a tin?’
‘Would he?’
‘Course not. Can you help?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Thank you Tom, I’ve been so worried.’
‘What’s the name?’
‘Silly me, it’s Watson, he’s the security officer on food.’
‘Your name, your married name.’
‘Oh.’
‘It would be useful if I had your husband’s name.’
‘Johnson … Paul Johnson, he’s… Brant hung up.
What he most wanted to know was why he was so reluctant to use the word ‘husband’.
Kebabed
Spiro the Snitch was having a bad morning. The VAT crew had been on the phone and promised a visit soon. Plus the health inspectors he’d managed to twice defer. But, he knew he couldn’t do that indefinitely. He’d have to get Brant to do it for him.
Aloud he said, ‘Mallakas’-or seeing as he was born and reared in Shepherd’s Bush, he could have simply said, ‘Wankers’.
He had a few words of Greek but rationed them carefully. He was attempting to clean the spit for the kebab meat. Standing vertical, usually it was shrouded in meat and he carved accordingly. Now, it was bare and red hot. It gleamed with heat and hygiene. About to turn if off when there was a loud knock. A voice said, ‘Police.’
‘Now what?’ he fumed as he went to get it.
Tommy Logan and two of his men.
Spiro said, ‘You’re not police.’
‘We lied.’
With a dismal record in the Eurovision, the Greeks were familiar with the winners. Spiro stared at Tommy, asked, ‘Are you…?’
‘Trouble? Yes I am, let’s take it inside.’
They bundled Spiro back into the taverna.
Tommy said, ‘Spring cleaning or should that be spit cleaning?’
Spiro said, ‘I’ll turn it off and perhaps I can get you gentlemen a drink.’
‘No, leave it on, gives the room a cosy atmosphere.’
Tommy stared at Spiro, said, ‘Let’s do this quick and easy. You’ve been telling tales to the Old Bill, haven’t you? No lies or I’ll make you lick the spit.’
Spiro was close to emptying his bowels, and yet his mind registered how awful a dye job Tommy had.
He put out his hands in the universal plea of surrender, said, ‘On my mother’s grave, I didn’t.’
Tommy grabbed Spiro’s hands, said, ‘Hold him.’
The men did, then dragged Spiro over to the spit. Tommy said, ‘You’re a hands-on kind of guy, I can tell.’ And slapped Spiro’s hands to the hot metal.
His screams were ferocious and Tommy screamed right along with him. Then he let go and Spiro fell to the floor, whimpering.
Tommy said, ‘Next it’s your tongue, then yer dick. We’ll kebab till the early hours. Or would you prefer to talk?
He talked. Tommy listened, then said, ‘Spiro … it is Spiro, am I right?’
Nod.
‘Do you know me?’
Shake.
‘So why are you making trouble? What should I do now? Do you feel up to a solid beating?’
‘No … please…
‘OK.’
Spiro was too terrified to hope. Then Tommy said, ‘You’ve cost me an arm and a leg so let’s break one of each … you choose.’
It got a bit messy and they had to break both arms and his left leg.
Tommy said, ‘You’ve a fine pair of lungs on yah.’
As they were leaving, Tommy asked one of his men, ‘You eat that Greek food?’
‘Me … naw, I like Chinese.’
Tommy shook his head, said, ‘Irish stew is hard to top … Give the polliss a call, say their Greek takeaway is ready.’
Shopping
Brant went to ‘records’, gave Shelley his best smile. She wasn’t buying, least not right away, said, ‘You want something?’
‘To take you dancing.’
‘Yeah … sure.’
‘Honest, the Galtimore on a Saturday night, all of Ireland and oceans of sweat and porter.’
‘How could a girl resist … whatcha want?’
‘A security guard with Marks and Spencer, name of Watson. He’s at their flagship. You know what that is?’
‘Sure, Marble Arch.’
‘Jeez, everyone knows it, eh?’
‘Do you want the straight CV, or do I dig?’
‘Dig please.’
While he was waiting he lit a cigarette. Shelley looked at the profusion of NO SMOKING notices but said nothing. Ten minutes later, she said, ‘Gotcha.’
Got a printout, showed it to Brant. He said, ‘Looks OK.’
‘Take a look at 1985.’
‘Ah.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Thanks, Shelley, I’ll remember you in my prayers.’
‘Is that a threat or a promise?’
Brant enjoyed his excursions to the West End. To be in a part of England no longer English … pity the parking was such a bitch. Finally he got a space off the Tottenham Court Road end of Oxford Street and hiked to Marble Arch. His hangover was crying out to be fed but he decided to wait. The crankiness might help his endeavour.
At the entrance to M amp;S was, as luck would have it, a security guard. Tan uniform, tan teeth. Brant flashed the warrant card, asked, ‘Where might I find Mr Watson?’
‘He’ll be in the basement, foodstuffs are his manor.’
‘All right is he?’
The guy looked at Brant, the look that yells, ‘Do me a favour pal,’ but said, ‘He’s a supervisor.’
‘All right as a supervisor is he?’
‘I couldn’t say, I only know him on a professional basis.’
Brant had an overwhelming desire to kick the guy in the balls, but said, ‘Don’t give much away do ya, boyo?’
The guard put a hand on Brant’s arm, moved him slightly to the left, said, ‘You’re impeding free access.’
‘God forbid I should do that. Tell you what though, do you have a good friend?’
‘What?’
‘Cos if you put a hand on me again you’ll need a good friend to extract it from yer hole. No carry on, no slouching.’
In the basement, Brant clocked him instantly. No uniform but eyes that never saw civilians. He was standing near the fire door. Brant let him see his approach. Nice and easy, loose, asked, ‘Mr Watson?’
‘Yeah.’
Oh lots of hard. This was a guy who doled out the shit, always. But Brant knew they were mostly cop wanna-be’s, so he flashed the card, said, ‘Could I have a moment of yer time?’
Deep sigh. Like, not really but for a brother in arms, only don’t lean on it. Said, ‘Come to my office in back.’
It was a broom closet but if he wanted to call it that, be my guest. There was one swivel chair and a small desk. He sat, put his feet up, said, ‘Shoot.’
You knew he’d rehearsed it a thousand times. Brant could play, said, ‘You got a guy on shoplifting a few weeks back.’
Watson sneered ‘Buddy, I get hundreds every week.’
‘Of course, this was literally a tin o’ beans.’
Now Watson’s eyes lit up, ‘Yeah, he freakin’ cried, can yah believe it? Big baby.’