Fat Bob sat on the tube and cursed every cunt
he could see. Them fuckin’ spooks with
their fuckin’ jeans half way down their fuckin’ arses. Kids that never fuckin’
shut up, screaming blue murder at some saggy norks excuse for a muva. Her
Kappa’s can’t even cover her fuckin’ arse. It was bad enough just having to go
north of the fuckin’ river.
Tommy Warren missed out on a new high score.
He had stuff on his mind. Sean Mitchum knocked and put his head around the
door. Tommy beckoned him in and pointed to the coffee machine. They sat
opposite each other on the office sofas, and took a minute. It was Mitchum who
broke the silence. ‘So, the Weevil is back in the bread sack?’
Tommy Warren narrowed his eyes and rued the
day he had not sent the fucker spinning off into deep space with a dishonourable discharge and no pension. Detective Inspector Daryl Weaver, a copper you could
once trust. A copper who understood equilibrium. Weaver knew that his job was
made much easier by cutting some slack, and adopting a blind eye to certain
people. They would do his policing for him. When the borough of Westminster had
put an ASBO on all street drinkers and homeless, they simply upped sticks to
the next borough; NW1. Tommy Warren had no intention of allowing the tube
station, nor his club queues, to become a place where people spending money
might be fleeced or made to feel uncomfortable. Short and sharp. Two good
beatings; people who would forever shit into a bag on their hip. However, the
message had been received and understood, and the tribe of Super-Brew had
packed up their tent and fucked off sharpish.
When all that shit went off with that
northern geezer, Tommy had turned to Weevil to smooth it out. Sean had been out
of line but it should not have been a big issue. Instead, some cunt decided to
see it as a step up in his career. Sean gets a two, Rose gets practically a
life sentence, and yours truly spends 3 months on remand.
Tommy Warren had long since realized that
accommodating the plod was simply a longer road to them nicking you for more
stuff. Detective Inspector Daryl ‘The Weevil’ Weaver had initially been a
copper you could do business with. On the odd occasion Tommy’s name had been
associated with any investigation, he had arranged a meeting with the Weevil
and asked his usual question. ‘How can we sort this out?’ It had been sorted in
the same way as always; an envelope with
money in it. However, after Sean and Rose got remanded in custody for that
thieving northern cunt, Weevil had changed tack. He had forgotten who had
helped make his name, and to whom he owed a debt.
Tommy Warren sipped his coffee and continued
to think about what Sebastian had told him. He looked up at Sean Mitchum. ‘I
thought Weevil had been transferred to another manor?’ Sean Mitchum lit a smoke
and pulled an ashtray towards himself across the coffee table. ‘I’m not sure he
was transferred, Tom. I heard a whisper that he was on the sick; an operation
or something.’ Tommy Warren sat back in the sofa and continued to think. That
would account for why he’d not been spotted feeling collars in recent months.
However, it appeared he was back in the saddle once more, and if there was one
copper in NW1 with the brass neck to lift a weight of Charlie, it was the Weevil.
Tommy Warren blew out his cheeks and shook
his head. ‘I don’t fucking believe this. Ivan gets lifted for some personal and
the whole fucking shit storm has just cost me close on thirty five grand.’ Sean
Mitchum furrowed his brow. Arithmetic was not his strong point. Tommy Warren
rolled his eyes. ‘The gear was worth twenty five grand, all told, and I've had
to let that bald headed cunt off with the ten he owed.’ He lit another
cigarette and reminded himself that the Weevil nicking the gear was probably
the best outcome when all said and done. At least it meant he didn't have to
rely on Ivan keeping to his side of the agreement. A few months on remand in
Pentonville might have been enough for him to have had second thoughts before
it came to trial. Tommy Warren looked at his watch. It was time he was making
tracks. ‘Stay here, Sean, I’ll be back in an hour.’
Tommy Warren walked over the road, past the
tube station, and crossed the high street. Left into Inverness Street and
through the market stalls to towards Bar Solo. Little whistles echoed as he
walked between the tarpaulins. ‘You need weed mister?’ The last thing he needed right now was a
joint. The next half hour called for a clear head. If Fat Bob had bothered to
come all the way from Plumstead, the chances were that tongues had been wagging
and south of the river were doing a bit of fishing. Tommy Warren walked in to
the bar and scanned the room. Fat Bob was not difficult to spot. Tommy Warren
walked over and slid into the booth opposite him. ‘How’s tricks Bob?’
The fat man looked up over the top of his
Daily Star. ‘Ello son, Ow’s yer self?’ Tommy Warren gave a vague shrug and
smiled. ‘Plodding a long, I suppose.’ He composed himself and took the menu
from its holder. ‘What you having, Bob?’ Fat Bob put on his readers and held a
menu at arm’s length. He read down the list for a moment. ‘‘I ain’t eatin’ any
of this fucking ponced up continental shit.’ He took his readers from his nose
‘A full English and a cuppa tea, son.’
Tommy Warren returned from the counter and
slid back in to the booth. ‘I don’t know how you do it, Tom.’ said Fat Bob.
Tommy looked bemused. ‘Do what?’ Bob looked around. ’Fuckin’ live around here, son. It’s like fuckin’ wog
land.’
Bob was never going to change, thought Tommy.
He’d been exactly the same when they’d first met, back in 86. Been sent to an
open nick was about as cushy as prison got. Your own room and key, decent food,
nice grounds, and practically no bang-up. However, the minute the screws
detected anyone being a disruptive influence, or getting the niggle with
someone; they were shipped straight back to Brixton and 23 hours a day behind
the door. How Bob had managed it was anyone’s guess. Brixton nick had probably refused
to have him back.
Tommy Warren nibbled nervously on his smoked
salmon and scrambled eggs on toast, as Fat Bob dived head long into his heart
attack on a plate. ‘Oi, Tom, you’ll never guess who I bumped in to last week?’
Tommy raised his eyebrows. ‘Only that fucking Nigel cunt that helped us shift
all those T.C’s.’ Tommy Warren raised a laugh and took a sip of his latte.
‘You’re joking? I thought he’d have been long gone after that caper. He made
enough bunce.’
The TC scam had been Tommy Warren’s induction
into the world of south London. At 35 years old he had been handed five years
jail, after been nicked with three hundred ecstasy pills in the boot of his
car.
He’d spent the first three months in HMP Brixton, where he’d been cell
mates with Fat Bob Wardell. Bob was two years into a seven stretch for money
laundering when Tommy had arrived, and they had both got shipped out to Ford
open prison on the same day. It was true what they said, thought Tommy. Prison
just teaches you to be a better criminal. It doesn’t teach you the error of
your ways; it just teaches you not to make the same mistake twice. He’d been released after thirty months and it
hadn’t been long before Fat Bob Wardell had given him a ring and suggested they
meet for a pint.
Bob was working for a crew who were about to
knock off a bonded warehouse at Gatwick. Their single target was TC’s;
traveler’s cheques. It was a proper sawn offs and ski mask affair, by all
accounts. They had started up a forklift and lifted two pallets of American Express
T.Cs, into the back of a truck and driven out through the fence. Bobs proposal
had made Thomas Warren a wealthy man. A few months later, Tommy had been one of
several, given the job of converting the traveler’s cheques back into cash. As
far as criminal activity was concerned, it didn't get much more appealing. He
was to head abroad with a sports bag full of TC’s and convert them back in to
cash at every bureau de change and hotel reception he could find. Each week he
was to find a bank and have the cash wired to an account in Jersey. When he ran
out of TC’s he was to get a flight home.
The trick was to head for the wealthy
parts of Europe. Monte Carlo, the Cote de Azure, Nice; the kind of places were
changing up two grand in one go wasn't going to attract any attention. After
six weeks of plush hotels and living the high life, Tommy Warren had returned
home and claimed his percentage. A hundred grand, just for going on holiday.
Tommy knew this wasn't a social call. Bob
hated north of the river almost as much as he hated immigrants. There was no
way he had come over the water just for a catch up on old times. The fat man
finished his fry up and sat back exhausted. ‘So, Tom, ‘ow are things?’ Tommy
Warren wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘That’s the second time you've asked me
that, Bob; Any particular reason?’
Bob knew Tommy Warren was no mug. For the
last few years he’d been a good asset. He bought regular weights, he paid his
credit off on time and most importantly, he’d always kept his head down. OK, there
had been the incident a couple of years back with the kid who’d ended up dead,
but the dust had settled on that and things had got back to normal. However,
word had got over the water that Tommy might be slipping up and letting things
get away from him. That would never do. Tommy Warren had climbed along way up
the food chain since the days when he was dealing pills at raves from the boot
of his Vauxhall Nova. He knew how it worked and who worked it. They couldn’t
afford for a player like Tommy to get careless, or the whole fucking lot might
come crashing down. Fat Bob liked Tommy Warren. From the day he’d been banged
up with him they had rubbed along just fine, but business was business. To keep
a tree strong, you had to prune off a few branches from time to time.
Fat Bob raised his palms and answered Tommy’s
question. ‘Just interested, Tom.’ He took a slurp from his mug, ‘You know how
it is; rumours go around, but most of the time it’s just cunts stirring the
shit pot.’ Fat Bob took another noisy slurp. ‘We’re mates, right? I just came
by to make sure everything is OK.’
Tommy Warren gave half a smile and acted none
plussed. ‘Everything is fine, Bob. You know how it is, mate; there is always
something to deal with, but nothing more than normal.’ He moved his plate and
leaned forward on the table. ‘Now get back south of the water and go tell that
to the king of the fucking sprout people, alright?’
Tommy Warren saw Fat Bob off at the tube
station and thought about what to do. He needed a walk. Who the fuck did that
fat cunt think he was kidding? He owed
Bob a lot for getting started, but those fuckers over the water had absolutely
no right to start interfering on this manor. What the fuck did they want? They
all went fuckin’ purple, the minute they crossed London Bridge, so it wasn’t as
if they were planning to bounce him out and run the place themselves. They
wouldn’t last five minutes.
It worked for him because he was in to what was
happening. He liked a mod suit; he had the haircut because he liked the haircut.
The Underworld was part of this happening because he liked what was happening.
What the fuck did south of the river know about Camden Town? They were all
still listening to Sham 69, the fuckin’ Muppets. Fat Bob might have played the, me and you are mates; card but Tommy
Warren knew him far too well. Twenty three hours a day for three months, behind
the door of Brixton tended to open people up like a book. Fat Bob would clip
him for a grand, and he knew it.
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