Charlie and Jennifer drove to London the following morning in silence. It was another beautiful day: the sky was a cloudless blue, and the temperature was rising. But both were busy with their own thoughts, and both mapped equally exclusive paths; it was as though a glass wall had grown between them.
Charlie found Charlie, the man with the Mercedes Sprinter, at the end of a grubby mews close to the Grand Union Canal, somewhere north of Ladbroke Grove. A big black man in stained dark blue overalls, his eyes hidden by aviator shades, his head smooth and shiny and shaven, stood bent over the engine of a battered white Transit at the entrance to the mews. He watched Charlie park, and it was almost as though he were a sentry on guard.
Charlie nodded at him politely, and the black man jerked his thumb at an anonymously grubby green door. ‘Ring The Stag, he’s expecting you.’
Charlie hesitated. ‘I’ve come about a van.’
‘Yeah, the Sprinter. He’s waiting for you.’
The green door buzzed itself open onto a steep flight of stairs leading upwards. The stairs were as grubby as the door, and a second large black man, also with aviator shades and a shaven head, but in a black suit, white shirt and black tie, like an undertaker, stood waiting at the top.
‘Come this way, friends.’ He stepped back acrossed a small landing to open a door. Jennifer eyed him a little apprehensively, and he flashed what he plainly intended as a smile, all gleaming white punctuated with gold. But she shivered slightly. He was a big man, and powerfully built, and not a person she fancied meeting alone on a dark night.
‘Come in, come in.’ Charlie the Sprinter owner sat behind a large leather-topped desk, now a wholly corporate man in a well-cut lightweight business suit, with an office set out in wholly corporate style, expensive fitted carpet, a sofa and a couple of comfortable chairs away to their left, a window looking out over the mews to their right, several paintings of racehorses on the walls. Charlie noted them and knew the man to be a villain. Only villains have paintings of racehorses on their office walls.
Charlie the Sprinter owner levered himself to his feet. ‘I got someone bringing us in a bit of a buffet, executive lunch.’ He waved at a door beyond the sofa and armchairs, and waited politely for Jennifer to lead the way. The door opened into a small diningroom with a table laid for four. There were more racehorse oils on the walls, and a pretty blue-eyed blonde in a tight black satin French maid outfit, white lace pinafore, black fishnet stockings complete with seams, and improbably high-heeled shoes curtsied towards the Sprinter man. Charlie Tindal noticed that her blouse seemed even tighter than her skirt.
‘Thought you might fancy a spot of fresh lobster and salmon.’ The Sprinter man waved expansively at a pair of large serving dishes on a small sidetable garnished with lettuces and wedges of lemon. The pretty blonde steered Charlie Tindal to a chair on his right, with Jennifer at the end of the table facing him. But a fourth place facing Charlie was empty. A man dressed as a butler in black jacket and striped trousers began to open a bottle, and the Sprinter man glanced at his watch. ‘Got a French friend called Victor coming.’
The door to his office opened, and he beamed. ‘Here he is. Victor, meet Charlie and Jennifer.’
A small dark man came in, elegant in a blazer with gilt buttons and pale grey slacks, with a silk foulard knotted under his chin. He had close cropped hair and might have been Greek or Italian or Spanish. He bent low as he took Jennifer’s hand, brushing his lips on her fingers, and Charlie saw that she was mightily impressed.
But he also stared hard at Charlie as he took the chair facing him, and Charlie shivered involuntarily. The man’s eyes were snake eyes, wholly devoid of feeling, and he had a certain feeling that the Tindals were about to lunch with a pair of very fierce pythons.
The pretty blonde busied herself serving food, and they began to eat. Victor lost no time in preliminaries.
‘You have need of a van to look for some chandeliers?’ He spoke in French, with a strong Meridional accent: Charlie judged him to come from Marseilles, or perhaps Nice.
Charlie nodded. The Sprinter man had begun making polite conversation to Jennifer, and it was plain that both were now peripheral, acting out bit parts in a developing play.
Victor was silent for a moment, before speaking again. ‘It’s good. We shall equip you, but on condition that you mix an errand for us with your own.’
Charlie Tindal’s fork stopped half way to his mouth. He was eating a particularly tasty cucumber mousse with his chunk of cold poached salmon, and he judged the wine to be a Sancerre. But errands could be perilous.
‘No, no.’ Victor waved his fork. Jennifer had also stopped eating, because she had her eye on her husband. ‘Nothing difficult, nothing compromising. We just want to try an experiment.’
Charlie hesitated. ‘You want to put me as a rabbit in front of a fox?’
Victor shook his fork again in denial. ‘No, there won’t be any pate. We just ask you to take a parcel to some friends in Roubaix, and bring a parcel back to us.’
Charlie attacked a fresh forkful of salmon and cucumber mousse. Jennifer had returned to her small talk with the Sprinter man. ‘Parcels can sometimes hide traps.’
Victor smiled thinly. ‘We don’t eat postmen.’
They were both silent for a moment as they ate. Charlie made eyes at the pretty blonde maid, spearing half a lobster as she proffered a serving dish. His nose almost touched the front of her tightly filled blouse, and he remembered the girl in the bakery at St. Omer. ‘No risk at all?’
‘None.’ Victor leaned forward. ‘You make the crossing all the time, and you come back filled with antiques. You are known, because every frequent traveller is watched closely. But the van will be new, virgin. It will be your first trip in it, and when they see you all filled up, they will judge you an antique dealer of the first order.’
‘They?’
‘The people who follow these kind of things.’
Charlie understood completely. Victor wanted a courier for a while, maybe until he began to attract some official attention, and then he and the Sprinter man would move on. It was a game of chance, and risk. ‘So I take the van. I go to see your friends, I come back.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps several trips?’
‘You will find us generous.’
‘And if the people who follow these kind of things ask to whom the van belongs?’
‘You are renting it. We will give you the papers.’
‘I could run off with it.’
Victor smiled again, but he had death in his eyes. ‘You are an honest man.’
‘And if they search me?’
‘You will be a dealer carrying antiques.’
Charlie wondered whether he might also carry much else. But ignorance is also a form of insurance. However he picked up on one word. ‘Generous?’
‘Monsieur, you will not be disappointed.’
He thought for a moment. He needed to make one trip, to clear out the Moroccan, and then he would be away with Bella.. ‘Who will pay for the fuel?’
Victor laughed harshly. ‘My friend, the van will be full to the brim, and our friends will refill it. Beyond that? Perhaps a small present. But one must never ask for too much.’
Charlie nodded in assent. ‘It’s good.’
Afterwards, when they had nibbled at cheeses and Charlie and Jennifer had politely refused the Sprinter man’s brandy, it was time to leave. Charlie completed a file of rental documents, noting that he was listed as having paid £150 cash to rent the van for a day, with fully comprehensive insurance thrown in. Victor gave him an address and a contact mobile number, along with a letter to hand to a man named Osman who would be waiting, and Charlie the Sprinter owner added his blessing. Neither of them mentioned the parcel Charlie was supposed to deliver, but he assumed that it had already been tucked tidily away, and understood very well that he could not be expected to worry about something he knew nothing about. Then they all shook hands warmly, and Charlie edged the van out of the mews, following Jennifer in the Volvo, and found the Sprinter a dream to drive, and had joy in his heart. He had an address and a telephone number in Roubaix, and the Moroccan with the chandeliers was in the same town. He would run an errand, and make just one trip, keep his his promise to Jennifer, and then be away. After that all could go hang.
Charlie the Sprinter man and Victor watched the Tindals drive out of the mews, and then returned to Charlie’s diningroom. Charlie poured two generous large brandies, and Victor eyed the pretty blonde maid speculatively, but she was clearing the table, and she tossed her head. She counted herself as something rather more than a mere decoration, and made clear that she was not on offer.
‘You think that he’ll do it?’ Charlie the Sprinter man spoke in Turkish. It was his language, and where he felt safest. He also flashed a quick smile at the pretty blonde. This was his party, and Victor was merely a guest.
The pretty blonde flashed a quick smile back at him. Smiles often generated handsome bonuses, and he was not a bad-looking man, even if he was a bit on the bulky side.
The Frenchman shrugged sourly. ‘You lose nothing.’ He spoke the same language, though he had to reach for his words.
‘Expensive van.’
‘Cheap driver.’
Charlie the Sprinter man sighed. Gambling always entailed risks. ‘They have dogs.’
Victor shrugged. ‘No problem.’ He spoke in English. ‘There will be no smell.’
Charlie Tindal raced Jennifer down the M4. The Sprinter had an edge over the Volvo, and he grinned as he passed her: driving to Roubaix would be fun. They drove straight home, and Charlie made a beeline for the telephone.
The North African answered immediately, but sounded a little reserved. ‘My father was not very happy, monsieur.’
Charlie grunted interrogatively.
‘He thinks you bought very well for very little money.’
Charlie closed his eyes. Snap deals are always the same: sellers think about them afterwards, and invariably conclude that they have been done. ‘When can we meet him?’
‘He is very reluctant, monsieur.’
Charlie thought at speed. It was early afternoon, and he could book a ferry trip by computer. Wazemmes market would be open in Lille, giving him a chance to buy olives and couscous, and then he could call in at the big Cora discount store at Villeneuve d’Ascq before heading for Roubaix. ‘We’ll come tomorrow.’
The telephone gulped at him. ‘He is really not happy.’
‘We can always open a new deal.’ Charlie reached for a scrap of paper and scribbled the word ‘cash’ and ‘shortbread’. He might have to bargain hard, and he must not arrive empty-handed.
He hung up and made for the front door. Jennifer was still admiring their new acquisition, but Charlie was now a whirlwind of energy.
‘We’re leaving at two, to catch the five o’clock boat.’
Jennifer stared in alarm. ‘Tonight?’ This was wholly unexpected news, and would torpedo all her plans for a cosy little lunch with Freddie. ‘I’ll have to go to the shop.’
Charlie rushed on. ‘We’ll need all the cash we can mobilise – his father is cutting up rough. Get a nice fancy box of shortbread and some other biscuits as well. Something typically British, ginger snaps, something like that.’
‘Ginger snaps?’ Jennifer looked totally bewildered.
‘We’ll take presents.’ Charlie’s words were tripping over themselves. ‘We’ll make it into a social visit, and then his dad will have to talk to us. Get the best you can, and made sure you gift wrap them – I want them to look good.’
Jennifer nodded, barely understanding a word. She would have to seduce Freddie another day. ‘How much cash?’
‘As much as you can.’ He paused, doing quick sums in his mind. ‘A couple of grand, perhaps a bit more.’
‘That much?’
Charlie was masterful. ‘Look. I gave him seven for nine chandeliers. He said his father had filled two garages, so let’s say he has another fifteen or twenty, plus odd bits. That could put us somewhere between fourteen and eighteen hundred, and dad’s unhappy about what I paid him. So we’re up around a couple of grand, maybe a bit more. Try and get it all in fifties, and I’ll work on one and a half euros to the pound. Wave a couple of grand under dad’s nose: he’ll see three thousand euros. Wave three grand, he’ll see four and a half. It’ll be a lot of cash.’
Jennifer nodded doubtfully. She knew Freddie kept about that much in the shop’s account, and suspected that he also hid a fair bit away at home for unexpected forays. She glanced at her watch. It was already past three, and the bank closed at four-thirty. ‘I’ll have to go.’
Freddie and Leticia were gossipping at the back of the shop. Wednesday were always dull days, and the good people of Fulmer preferred tending their gardens on fine days to furnishing their homes.
Both looked up as Jennifer rushed in. She smiled at Leticia, and then focussed on Freddie, coming straight to the point because she was running against a clock. ‘Charlie wants a lot of cash to take to France tomorrow.’
Leticia drifted away tactfully as she began to explain Charlie’s plan quickly. But Freddie was already beaming before she finished speaking: Jennifer had been selling chandeliers well, and would made a killing if Charlie bought as well on Thursday as he had bought on Sunday.
‘Go and cash a cheque.’ He suddenly remembered that big number cheques had to be signed by them both. ‘Here, let me add a squiggle.’ He signed with a flourish, wrinkling his nose. ‘Take five: I’ve just paid some cash in.’
Jennifer was overcome. ‘Oh. Freddie.’ She looked at him, and knew that this was her moment, her very best time to be grateful and to mark her gratitude. She placed her hands on his shoulders, pulling him towards her.
Freddie seemed momentarily taken aback. But then he kissed her full on her lips, and she opened her mouth to welcome him, and it was a blessing. ‘Go to the bank now, before it’s too late.’
Leticia smiled as she watched Jennifer leave the shop. ‘She really likes you, doesn’t she?’
Freddie blushed slightly. ‘She makes a good partner.’
‘She’d be good for you.’
Freddie was silent for a long moment. He looked thoughtful, and nodded slowly in agreement. ‘Perhaps you’re right, Letty.’ It was a petname he only used when he was being very serious. ‘I think she would. I’ll really have to think of mending my ways.’
The Metropolitan Police has a special intelligence section dedicated to collecting and collating information on national and crossed-border drug trafficking. Two men sat in a small office at one end of the section with a panoramic view towards St. Pauls and the City. One of the men sat behind a desk, with a computer screen flickering at his elbow. He was perhaps in his forties, anonymously stocky and balding. The second man was perhaps ten years younger: keen, and with the attentive air of a retriever, with doggy brown eyes and an enthusiastically questing nose. Both were in civilian clothes, in their shirtsleeves, and the older man was smoking. He had the air of a man in command.
The younger man was holding a printout. ‘Customs and Excise want to know if we are keeping an eye on Temiciroglu.’
The older man took his cigarette out of his mouth and examined it thoughtfully. ‘They’re trying to poach.’
‘You don’t want to tell them?’ The younger man was deferential, but his deference held a note of doubt. He was new to the section, and enthusiasm still outweighed caution.
‘Listen, Jack.’ The older spoke with the weary experience of a senior police officer who had helped steer many, many criminals to justice. His name was Richard Donworthy, he held the rank of Detective Superintendant, and his name was a byword in police circles for perspicuity and thoroughness. The second man, Jack Boveny, was a Detective Constable, and a new recruit to the section. He was still very much finding his way. ‘We can tell them that he is sending a van out, and they’ll nab it when it comes back. Some poor fool may go inside, but it won’t be the Turk.’
‘We could ask them to let us know when it comes back.’
‘They wouldn’t.’ Donworthy shook his head. He had painted up more brushes with HM Customs and Excise than most policemen had attended police balls. ‘They’re all death and glory boys. They think we’re just in business to compile nice fat files for them.’ He drew on his cigarette and blew a stream of smoke into the air above him. ‘The Turk and Bianci are sending the van out on a trial run. They’ll wait and see if it comes home safely, because the Turk will be feeling us out. Then he’ll try for a big consignment. We’ll watch, and wait for the second run, then we’ll nab them red-handed.’
‘Do you think Tindal will shop him?’
‘Bound to.’ Donworthy blew a fresh cloud of smoke. ‘The Turk probably picked him up on a ferry, he’s tried it before. But I can’t see Mr. Tindal covering for him: his wife has a nice little antique shop, all very straight. We’ll make them sing, and smack them over their wrists. They’ll stitch him up to rights, no problem.’