The Crime Trade Page 6

  ‘Get ’em in the weights room,’ said Rentners, ignoring him, ‘and wake that cunt up. I don’t want him missing all the fun.’

  Vokes started to tell him that he was making a big mistake but never finished the sentence as Rentners let fly with a wicked right hook that sent him stumbling back into the wall. Vokes was a big lad, six two and about fifteen stone, but he was left dazed by the ex-boxer’s blow, and offered little resistance as Rentners grabbed his shirt and pulled him back out into the hallway. At the same time, the one with the gun against Stegs’s head hauled him to his feet and led him out the same way, keeping the weapon in position. ‘Make a wrong fucking move and you die,’ he told Stegs helpfully.

  The weights room took up the whole of the basement. It was even more sparsely furnished than the rest of the house and, being windowless, was brightly lit by strip lights on the ceiling. It was also carpetless, and consequently quite cold. At one end of the room were two racks of weights, a treadmill, and several other exercise machines. A single leather sofa was at the other end, about thirty feet away, facing this makeshift gymnasium.

  Rentners shoved Vokes onto the sofa, and Stegs followed a couple of seconds later. Their hands were then forced behind their backs by one of Rentner’s gunmen, and amid continued protestations they were tied with duct tape. While this was going on, Brewster was dumped unceremoniously onto the stone floor halfway between the sofa and the nearest rack of weights. For the first time Stegs noticed a steam iron plugged into one of the mains sockets a few feet away from him.

  ‘This is fucking ridiculous,’ he told Rentners, trying hard not to look at the iron. ‘We’re here offering you money for your merchandise, and you’re treating us like shit. If I’m a fucking copper, why aren’t I wearing a wire, then? Come on, search me. See if I’m fucking wearing one.’

  A tiny glimmer of doubt crossed Rentners’ features, then disappeared. ‘Tape their fucking traps up, Tone,’ he told the gunman.

  Tone stuffed the gun in his waistband and took the duct tape back out of his jacket.

  ‘He’s right, Frank,’ said Vokes, trying hard to keep the nerves out of his voice. ‘Search us if you don’t believe us. Don’t fucking do business with us if you don’t trust us, but tying us up and doing all this is just going to make your reputation—’

  He was forced to stop when Tone pulled the tape round his mouth several times over, before biting the end off it.

  ‘You’d better make sure you never run into me again, Tone, you cunt!’ snarled Stegs, as Tone prepared to do the same thing to him. When he’d finished, he punched Stegs in the side of the head, knocking him into Vokes. Their eyes met for a second, before they were pulled apart. Stegs thought that Vokes was more nervous than he’d ever seen him.

  Brewster was taking his time coming round, so one of the other men disappeared into an alcove round the corner. The sound of running water followed and then he returned with a full bucket. He chucked it over Brewster, and now Stegs realized why the room wasn’t carpeted.

  Brewster coughed and spluttered and tried to sit up. Rentners then stepped forward and kicked him in the face. ‘Lie on your front, now!’ he demanded.

  Brewster appeared confused but did exactly what he was told. Tone then came over, leant down, and ripped the shirt off his back, leaving only the arms still attached to him. He chucked the material to one side, then wrapped more of his roll of tape round Brewster’s wrists, binding them together. He did the same with his ankles. Brewster didn’t move while any of this was going on, or say anything.

  ‘You’re a grass, aintcha, Brewster?’ said Rentners gently, walking round the other man. ‘You’re trying to fit us up, aintcha? And these geezers, they’re coppers, right?’

  Brewster desperately protested his innocence, but it was no good. Stegs could see in Rentners’ face that they were going to punish him whatever he said. Rentners had decided he was guilty, and now that he had that thought in his head it was going to take a miracle to budge it. Stegs didn’t believe in miracles. That was more Vokes’s line. He’d bet that Brewster was praying for one, though.

  Rentners turned and smiled at the two undercover cops, then walked over to the iron, removing it from its base. He gently touched it with his finger, then pulled the finger away with mock suddenness, mouthing the word ‘Ow!’ He was still smiling, and his whole demeanour had calmed considerably. He looked like a man at peace with himself.

  ‘Do the honours then, Tone,’ he said, and Tone stepped onto the prostrate Brewster, putting a foot on each arm above the elbow, thereby severely restricting his upper body movement. Rentners stood there motionless, watching Stegs and Vokes. His expression was blank.

  ‘Aagh!’ yelped Brewster. ‘Get off. I ain’t done nothing. That hurts.’

  ‘That don’t hurt,’ said Rentners. ‘This hurts.’

  He dropped one knee onto the back of Brewster’s legs, careful not to conceal the view for the two SO10 men, then pushed the iron hard against the centre of his victim’s back, directly beneath the shoulder blades. Steam shot up as the iron sizzled and crackled, and Brewster unleashed a blood-curdling scream of agony that reverberated round the room. Rentners kept the iron in the same position, pressing hard, and using his weight to keep Brewster’s legs from moving. Brewster kept screaming, louder and louder, and Stegs suddenly had a desperate urge to piss. It took all his self-control to stop himself. He couldn’t have that. Couldn’t show them how scared he was. He avoided looking at Vokes but couldn’t help but catch the eye of the man holding the bucket. He blew Stegs a kiss.

  All of a sudden the screaming stopped, and Rentners removed the iron, revealing a red-raw, sizzling wound. The smell of burnt skin drifted through the air.

  ‘The cunt’s passed out,’ said Rentners. ‘Get some more water, Alan,’ he told the bucket man. ‘We need to wake him up.’

  Once again Alan disappeared into the alcove with the bucket. While he was gone, Rentners used a screwdriver to scrape off scraps of flesh from the iron before replacing it on its base and walking over to the sofa, stopping in front of Stegs and Vokes. He removed the gun from his waistband and put it against Vokes’s head.

  ‘You look nervous,’ he said, ‘and you ought to be. You’re next.’ He patted Vokes’s shirt, manhandling him in the seat as he hunted belatedly for a wire. ‘I know you’re coppers,’ he said when he’d finished without finding anything. ‘You know how I know, because earlier on you’ – he motioned towards Stegs – ‘said you’d done time in Parkhurst for dealing last year, on D wing. But you can’t have done. Tone was there then and he don’t remember you, do you, Tone?’

  Tone, who’d stepped off Brewster’s arms now, shook his head slowly. ‘Never seen him before in my life.’ He stepped out of the way as Alan the bucket man chucked more water over Brewster’s upper half.

  Brewster moaned and shook his head. ‘My back, my fucking back . . . What are you doing?’ He tried to move but Tone stood on his arms again, and the next second Rentners had grabbed the iron and reapplied it to the same area.

  The screams started again – animal-like howls of suffering – and out of the corner of his eye Stegs saw Vokes shift uncomfortably in his seat.

  ‘PLAAAAYYYSSE!’

  Stegs tried to shut out the sound but couldn’t; it seemed to be coming from everywhere. Tried to concentrate on anything other than the events being played out before him, tried to tell himself that they wouldn’t kill them (it’d be too much hassle). Knowing he’d made a mistake. Knowing he shouldn’t have been so specific about when he’d done his supposed time. Cursing his bad luck. And bad planning. They should have done a better job of checking out Rentners’ associates.

  The screams stopped.

  The room fell silent.

  Stegs would have given both his bollocks to have got out of there then.

  Don’t burn me, you fucks. Please do not fucking burn me.

  Alan the bucket man went to get some more water. Rentners smiled at them both. ‘If you both
admit to me you’re coppers, and you tell me what evidence you’ve got, and give me details of who you are and where you live, then I’ll let you walk as soon as I’ve checked them out. You don’t fucking talk, then you’re going to get the same treatment as this cunt. Understand? I’ve got a business to protect, and I’m going to fucking protect it. From grasses and undercover cozzers. You understand me? Yeah, I think you do now, dontcha?’

  More water splashed over Brewster, and slowly he came round again. This time, Rentners lifted him up by his hair and shoved his gun against his head. Brewster’s eyes were vacant. He looked drugged up.

  ‘Are these two cozzers?’ Rentners demanded, pushing him round so he was facing Stegs and Vokes. For a couple of seconds, Brewster didn’t answer, his eyes struggling to focus. Rentners repeated the question, pushing the barrel harder against his head. ‘Answer me or I’ll blow your fucking head off.’

  Stegs heard himself praying that Brewster, who could surely have no fucking idea that they were SO10, didn’t simply say yes to deflect attention from himself. Don’t say it. Don’t fucking say it!

  ‘No,’ Brewster croaked. ‘Course not.’

  Once again a sudden flash of doubt crossed Rentners’ features but was gone just as quickly. He let go of Brewster’s hair and let him fall onto the wet floor, then he walked purposefully over to the sofa and pulled the tape from Vokes’s mouth. ‘Last chance not to burn,’ he said. ‘Just admit it, tell me what you know, and you’ll be out of here inside an hour with your back in the same condition it’s in now.’

  Vokes was sweating profusely, but he held Rentners’ gaze. ‘I am not a fucking undercover copper,’ he spat. ‘I am a fucking businessman. I was here looking to make a deal, now I’m just looking to get the fuck out of here.’

  ‘What about him, then? How come he fucked up about doing time in Parkhurst?’

  ‘Fuck knows. Ask him.’

  Rentners ripped off Stegs’s duct tape and started to speak, but Stegs knew he was going to get only one chance to turn the tables, so he cut him off straight away. ‘Is that what this is all about? Are you putting us through this just because of something I’m meant to have fucking said? Because I tell you this, I was fucking there, and I was on B wing, you deaf cunt! Not D! And if he doesn’t fucking recognize me, then he obviously wasn’t looking very hard! Or maybe he’s the fucking undercover copper, because I’ll tell you something, I don’t fucking recognize him either, the cunt!’

  His words spilt out so fast that Rentners didn’t get even half a chance to interrupt. When he’d finished, the ex-boxer’s expression had changed. He looked thoughtful now. Stegs and Vokes both glared at him, letting it be known that they were not best pleased with the way serious liberties had been taken with them.

  Rentners appeared at last to realize he’d made a mistake and placed the gun back in his waistband. ‘Listen, I’m sorry about that, boys,’ he said. ‘You just can’t be too careful, though, can you? We’ve been hearing bad reports about Brewster for a while now, and then he gets all keen to introduce youse two to me. I put two and two together and it looks like I come up with five. Let me get you a drink.’

  And that was how it had ended. The two of them had been released and given a large brandy each, which they’d drunk while Brewster lay ignored on the stone floor. Rentners had then begun acting like nothing had happened, and had even started trying to put together a test purchase. In Stegs’s experience, that was how a lot of violent criminals acted. It was as if they couldn’t understand what was wrong with their actions. Vokes had told him to fuck off and to watch how he treated potential customers next time, which was the attitude to take. It demonstrated how pissed off they were and bolstered their credentials as bona fide buyers. Rentners had apologized again and had got Tone to drive them back to London. On the way back, Tone had said sorry too, admitting that he’d made up the bit about being in Parkhurst as a bluff. ‘The boss told me to’ was his explanation. Stegs had told him that he’d better never show his face in Southampton, otherwise he’d get an axe in it. Tone had actually looked a bit worried at that, and had brought up the partition.

  He’d dropped them off at Waterloo station, and as soon as he was gone they’d grabbed each other in a long and emotional bearhug that got the late-afternoon commuters giving them some very strange stares.

  Not that any of those bastards would ever know the half of it.

  He really was going to miss his partner. He wasn’t sure if he could trust anyone else like he’d trusted him. He wasn’t even sure if he could keep going with SO10 duties. It seemed one hell of a lot of risk for not very much reward. A few weeks earlier, he’d read in one of the Sunday newspapers about an investment banker in the City who was paid so well that he earned in three and a half days what Stegs made in a year, and he wasn’t even the highest paid in his department. Was some fucking accountant in a suit worth so much more than him? Did he really contribute so much more to society? It seemed plenty of people thought he did. He wondered how they would react if someone like Frank Rentners came knocking on their doors with a long-barrelled Browning in one hand and a steam iron in the other.

  ‘Do you want another one, Tam?’ asked Patrick, coming over.

  Stegs nodded. ‘Yeah, please. Same again.’

  He knew he was going to end up drink-driving, but he was past caring. The last time he’d been stopped, the previous year, he’d managed to convince them to let him go, although they’d warned him that if they saw him doing it again they’d have to nick him. Fair enough. He’d take his chances.

  The pint came and he paid for it with a twenty. As Patrick went over to the till, a thought struck him. Vokes had been a lot more nervous than usual today. He was usually pretty cool, but this time he’d definitely looked under pressure, even before they’d arrived at the hotel. Maybe he’d just been losing it, finally burning out under the pressure of the job. It happened. Plenty of times, particularly to undercover cops.

  Or maybe it was something else.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that a young blonde had taken the stool next to his at the bar. She was early twenties, dressed in tight-fitting hipsters and an oldish suede jacket. She flashed him a smile, and he knew straight away she was a pro. You got them sometimes in the Admiral, usually on their nights off. They had a couple of saunas on the high street nearby and some of the girls lived on the estate opposite, so they liked to stop in for the odd drink, and were tolerated by the management as long as they kept their activities discreet. Stegs hadn’t seen this one before and hadn’t noticed her when he’d come in earlier. Perhaps she was new. Patrick returned with his change, gave the girl a quick once-over, then turned away again to serve someone.

  ‘Hi,’ said the girl, smiling again. ‘How are you?’

  Her accent was eastern European, probably Romanian or Bulgarian. She was heavily made up with bright red lipstick, and her hair, cut into a bob, was dyed. She was quite attractive in a harsh, lived-in kind of way, but her blue eyes were weary and she was too skinny for Stegs’s liking. He wondered briefly whether she was on the pipe, then decided he honestly didn’t care either way.

  ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Very nice.’ The smile was now fixed on her face. ‘You look very nice.’

  He turned and gave her a vaguely dismissive glance. ‘Really? I shouldn’t do. I’m tired, pissed off, and my best mate got killed today. Some bastard blew his head off.’

  The smile dropped a little at the sides even though she made a valiant effort to keep it there. Her expression suggested she didn’t know whether he was joking or not. Stegs just looked at her with the same expression for a couple of seconds longer, then turned away.

  Patrick came over. ‘Everything all right here?’ he asked. He looked at the girl. ‘Do you want a drink?’

  She glanced at Stegs, saw that he wasn’t going to offer, and ordered a large vodka with ice. When she’d got her drink, she slipped off her stool and disappeared. Stegs took another huge gulp of h
is beer and lit a Marlboro Light.

  ‘Did you hear about Pete?’ asked Patrick as he poured a Murphys from the tap.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Yer man, Pete. The one you used to come in here with back in the old days. Pete Moss.’

  Pete the gun dealer. ‘What about him?’

  Patrick left the three-quarters-full pint of Murphys to settle for a moment, and looked hard at Stegs. There was something innately distrustful in his expression. Stegs didn’t react. He was used to that kind of look.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  Stegs dragged on his cigarette. ‘Shit. How did that happen?’

  ‘The old C. Throat cancer. Died in Ford a few weeks back. I’m surprised you didn’t hear.’

  ‘I haven’t seen him for a long time. I visited him a couple of times after he got sent down, but you know what it’s like. You lose touch.’

  ‘No way to die though, is it? Behind bars. The last four years of his life ruined. Another six months and he’d have been out.’

  He continued to look at Stegs as he spoke, with a greater intensity than he’d ever shown before, and Stegs wondered if he suspected him of having had something to do with it. Maybe he should have tried a bit harder to keep up with Pete’s progress inside. Still, it was a bit late to worry about that now.

  ‘That’s always the way,’ he said. ‘There’s no justice in this fucking world. Poor old Pete, I always liked him. Did you get to the funeral?’

  Patrick shook his head and went back to pouring the rest of the beer, having seemingly lost interest in the conversation. ‘Nah, I didn’t,’ he replied eventually, and walked away with the pint.

  They all fucked up in the end, thought Stegs. The small-time thieves, knifemen, the fences, the dealers, the thugs, all those who worked on the wrong side of the crime trade. They all thought they’d live for ever, breathing the ripe air of freedom, but it never worked like that. He’d always liked Pete, though. He’d been a laugh, a good bloke to be around. They’d had some good times together. Stegs tried not to picture him wasted and rasping in a prison hospital bed. Instead, he pictured a smiling Jack Brewster, the way he’d been before Frank Rentners had tattooed his back with a steam iron, and he remembered that Brewster too was now dead. Someone had garrotted him a few months back, then dumped his corpse in Mulgrave Pond in Woolwich, case unsolved.