It was the Nobbler's moment. He had sat in the car for three hours and his eyeline had given him a decent enough view of the white-painted front door, and the wheelie-bin; the little wicket gate was askew on its hinges. The house reeked neglect, financial hardship and lack of pride, which was as Benny Edwards wanted. He had read a newspaper from cover to cover and eaten a sandwich; the last dregs in the coffee Thermos were cold. He shifted in his seat to look through the sunlight blazing on to the windscreen and knew that the wait was over.
The buzz ran in him — excitement, adrenaline, expectation. It was always the same when it was his moment. The day was long past when he had worked for money and what money bought him. Today or yesterday he could have gone to an agent — he could go tomorrow — and bought the airline tickets for Faro or Malaga, have done the electronic cash transfers and bugged out to the southern sunshine, could have found the place — with a wide patio, a pool and a view — where he would spend the rest of his days, but he would be without the buzz. He craved it, could not exist without it.
They came out of the door. The Tango first, then a girl who had a holdall in her hand. The wife followed her daughter to the step, kissed and hugged her, but had nothing for her husband. The Nobbler had allocated the whole of that day, and Sunday, to searching out the optimum moment for the approach. It was never an exact science, needed the flexible thinking on which he prided himself. The only place that an approach, first time up, never worked was at the home when the juror's partner was there, and the doorstep was the poorest option. He wanted the Tango alone and off his beaten track. In his car, on the back seat, a canvas satchel held the carrot, and in his pocket was the photograph that would be the stick. For some Tango subjects the carrot or the stick was quick, for others slow, but the Nobbler had the two days of the weekend to make his approach with carrot or stick.
They were off down the pavement. He couldn't know where the Tango would lead him.
He liked what he saw of the scrote, his Tango. The girl was ahead of her father, as if she couldn't wait to be shot of him. He had those daft sandals on and bright socks that the sunlight caught, old trousers and the windcheater from court. He read the shabbiness that was the same as the front door, and the gate on to the pavement that was half off its hinges. He did not believe that the Tango would need the stick on his back, just a bite at the carrot — but he'd show the stick. It was his way and well practised, and he rehearsed the opening words: told his own boy, who would take over the trade when he was past it — not bloody yet — that the first words of the approach either sold or sank a deal. He nudged his car after them.
They went out of the road on to the main drag and were on the far side of it from the Nobbler.
They went to the station, crossed the forecourt and stopped where there was a rank for buses to pull in. He understood. The dutiful dad was doing his family bit, escorting his girl, maybe aged fourteen, to the bus and was going to stay with her till it came. He would see her off and would say, doubtless, 'Have a good time at your friend's, don't drink tonight and don't get shagged.' The Nobbler parked on a double yellow, nowhere else, took the Disabled card from the glove box, displayed it and waited some more.
The bus came.
As if it was a chore, the girl pecked the Tango's cheek and was away up the step and inside.
The bus left. The Nobbler noted that the Tango watched it go across the forecourt, raised his arm and waved, and was still waving when it was round the corner and gone, as if he didn't want to let it go.
The car door closed quietly after the Nobbler. He straightened, his hands flicked over his clothes, smart casual with a decent jacket, as if to smooth creases from them. Important to look good — a grin swept his face — and respectable.
He came behind him.
He said pleasantly, 'Excuse me, isn't it Mr Julian Wright? It is, isn't it?'
He spun awkwardly. 'Yes, that's me. I'm Jools Wright.'
'I was hoping to meet up with you. Actually, I was trying to.'
He had been far away in a cloud of thoughts. His daughter and Hannah. Bad thoughts and good thoughts. The little cow, cheekier by the day, sided with her mother…Hannah, whom he'd be with that night. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, as if it would rid him of the cloud.
'Do I know you?'
J don't think so, but..
'Are you a parent of one of my students? I have to tell you — sorry and all that — I cannot discuss school affairs here.' A new cloud had formed: suspicion.
'Steady on, Mr Wright. Nothing about school.'
'About what, then?'
'About something that might be of advantage to you, Mr Wright.'
'I'm in rather a hurry I have to get home — I have to—'
'Considerable advantage, Mr Wright.'
'Well, some other time. If you'll, please, excuse me.'
He wanted to run but felt caged — as if he were fettered. A hand was on his arm. The grip tightened. He knew it then: he would have to fight to be free…but Jools had never fought in his life. Had never struggled, never kicked, never eye-gouged. He felt panic rising.
'Nothing for you to worry about, Mr Wright. What I said, something of considerable advantage, and that's going to be worth a few minutes of your valuable time — yes?'
'I don't know, I really don't.'
'Let's go and sit in my car for those few minutes. Where's the harm in that?'
His arm was held vice tight. Jools said limply, 'I can't be late home. I've got to go out again.'
'So I'll drop you. Now, let's go to my car. No problems, are there?'
He was walked to the car, his liberty gone. Only when a passenger door had been opened was the grip on his arm loosened. He sagged down into the seat, the door was closed on him and the man walked round the front, then sat behind the wheel. Jools realized that this was the first time he had registered the man's appearance: middle age, average height, average build, average hair, a jacket of a neutral grey, and a shirt with a light check in it, slacks that were a darker grey. But the eyes burned with authority and the grip had been fierce on his sleeve. Under that veneer of reasonableness, almost charm, there had been the implication of violence. Jools sat hunched and taut; his teeth bit into his lover lip. The radio was turned on and there was a low babble of voices from the speakers.
'Now then, Mr Wright, I hope you'll listen very carefully to me. You will?'
'Yes.'
'And you'll hear me right through till I've finished?'
'I'll hear what you have to say.'
The man leaned back and edged himself more comfortably into his seat.
'You, Mr Wright, are currently sitting as a juror in court eighteen at Snaresbrook, right?' His voice was quiet.
Oh, God…He understood. Jools sighed. What chance of getting clear of the car and running? None. His head dropped and he whispered his answer: 'Yes, I am.'
'I represent some friends of friends, Mr Wright. The friends of my friends are the Curtis brothers, and you are hearing their case. Now, my friends say that you look to be a reasonable, fair man, one with an open mind 'and not prejudiced. You see, Mr Wright, the Curtis boys have been stitched up by the Crime Directorate. They have been subject to lies and untruths. They are good family men and they are honest, straight businessmen, but you wouldn't know that from the perjured evidence of the police. They are also, Mr Wright, men of exceptional generosity, most of which is directed towards local charities — a child with leukaemia near where they live was sent to the States for treatment, a Boys' Club needed premises, which were funded — but a substantial example of their generosity would be directed towards anyone who stood up for them against all that untruthful police evidence. It's why I said, Mr Wright, that meeting me could be to your advantage. No, don't say anything, just listen, please. To be rewarded with that generosity, you would have to guarantee that your vote would go to a not-guilty verdict, and that you would give your best effort to persuading others on the jury to follow you. Your advantage, their generosity, adds up to twenty-five thousand pounds, Mr Wright, cash in hand. I think you'll agree it's an attractive offer…and I am aware that your financial circumstances are not healthy. It would be a new start, a fresh page. It's on the table.'