Born Bad: A gritty gangster thriller with a darkly funny heart. Marnie Riches
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tearing a black bin liner from a fresh roll and opening it up. He started to pile the cash into the sack. Motioned that Lev should follow suit. ‘Quickly.’
Knocking on the shutters sounded impossibly loud inside the empty factory. Insistent rapping with knuckles that denoted the impatience of a confident man. Possibly with a warrant.
‘What we gonna do?’ Lev asked, sweeping uncounted twenties and fifties into the bin liner, seeing Jay’s operation and life disappearing along with the money.
Jonny snatched the bulging sack from him. Stuffed another pile into a Home Bargains carrier bag until only the counting machine remained.
‘We’ll have to let him in. What choice do we have?’ He thrust the money into Asaf’s arms. ‘Take the gelt up to the ladies on the second floor. Lock yourself in a cubicle. Don’t come out until I say. Okay?’
‘Act natural,’ Tariq told Lev. ‘We were just stopping by to check everything was okay because I had a call from someone, saying the alarm had gone off. Right?’
For a man of sub-ordinary stature, Ellis James walked with a degree of swagger. He reminded Lev of a psychopathic PE teacher who had given him a hard time at school. Had the manic look of a man who was on the hunt for something that was always just out of reach.
‘Evening, gents,’ Ellis said. Hands thrust into his raincoat pockets.
‘Detective,’ Jonny said, sitting legs akimbo on a worker’s high stool. Arms folded. Owning the place, as was his right. All of the jubilation after the gallery meet had gone now. His tone was prickly, almost combative, though a wry smile remained on his face along with a sheen of sweat. ‘Funny time to come shopping for fancy goods. Can I interest you in a nice handbag for the wife? Bit of jewellery, perhaps?’
Ellis James approached Lev and stood closer than he was comfortable with. The copper only reached collarbone height on him. But Lev could smell his breath. Sickly sweet, with a lingering hint of farts, as though he had been eating doughnuts and drinking coffee in the Mondeo. The classic stereotype of a cop on a stakeout. Lev took a step backwards.
‘Leviticus Bell,’ he said, staring up at the zig-zag bolt of lightning shaved into Lev’s scalp. ‘I’ve had you in my station. I remember your mugshot.’
Play it cool, Lev. Don’t get on his wrong side. Think of Jay. If you get your collar felt by this tosser, you’re gonna be sod all use to your son. Defiant words were desperately trying to push their way out, but he held it together.
‘I think you must be getting me mixed up from somewhere else, mate. I sometimes do charity work for me mam’s church.’
The cop turned to the bosses, finally, thankfully.
‘Bit late for a lads’ get-together, isn’t it?’
‘You got a warrant?’ Tariq asked.
‘I don’t need a warrant to make friendly enquiries.’ There was no mirth in the detective’s smile. ‘A friend of mine – Ruth Darley from HMRC – says she found some interesting paperwork in here the other day. Showing some transactions between T&J Trading and a couple of Chinese shell companies. Seems you’ve been importing fresh air from ghosts. What would you say that sounds like?’
Tariq rounded on the uninvited guest, toying with the cuffs of his shirt. ‘This is a legitimate business, Detective James. Right? And my associates here and I came out to check on the premises because the alarm apparently was going off. If we’ve been swizzed by some dodgy company in China, that’s not our problem. We export and import goods from all over the world. Sometimes we get lumbered with a dodgy business contact. It happens.’
Jonny finally abandoned his stool. Pulled the belt of his trousers up. Positioned himself next to Tariq, standing shoulder to shoulder. Presenting a united front that made Lev wish for the solidarity and support of a reliable friend, relative, woman … anybody at all!
‘I don’t see what our accounts have got to do with you, detective.’ For a man with a high-pitched voice who normally came across as affable, Jonny sounded like the dangerous gangster he was. ‘And I don’t see the point in you being here at nearly midnight unless you’ve got a legitimate reason to be here and a warrant. Now, we’ve got homes to go to and we’ve got to be up very early in the morning. And I think you’ll find, if you check our company’s records, that we pay enough tax to keep you and all your little harassing friends back at the station in your jobs.’
‘Where’s Smolensky?’ the detective asked. Beady eyes through the lenses of those glasses had clearly clocked all of them on their approach in the people carrier.
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Jonny said.
‘Asaf Smolensky. The lunatic fishmonger. Where is he?’ Ellis James took those steel-rimmed glasses from his nose and started to polish them on the edge of his coat, as though he had time to kill.
‘I don’t know Asaf Smolensky personally, detective, but my wife tells me he gives excellent weight and his smoked salmon’s the best in Cheetham Hill. You fancy some herring or a nice piece of hake, detective, I suggest you go to see Mr Smolensky yourself at his splendid fishmonger’s on Monday. Because it’s Friday night right now, and I’m sure even an ignoramus like you knows that religious Jewish people are tucked up at home on the Sabbath. So, as for him being here …’ Jonny cast an arm around the empty, dimly lit factory. ‘I really don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, I’m afraid.’ Glanced at his watch. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, my associate here will show you to the door.’
‘Well, wish Mr Smolensky a happy Sabbath from me, won’t you?’ Ellis said with a maniacal smile that barely belied the pure acid in his voice. ‘I’ll see you again very soon, boys. Very soon.’
Nasim ushered the persistent interrogator out. Finally.
‘Shit,’ Tariq said, tapping at the face of his watch. ‘We’ve got to get this cash down payment across town to McFadden in fifteen minutes or the O’Brien deal’s off.’
‘Have a drink, Conks,’ Frank shouted over the thud, thud, thud of the garage music. Thrusting a bottle of Cristal in his general direction, so that the foaming liquid sploshed onto his suit trousers.
Conky pushed the bottle away. Stood abruptly, sick of being penned into that damned VIP area, surrounded by a wall of gyrating young girls dressed like cheap strippers, though the club had only just started to fill up in earnest. Early birds, catching the worm. All of them, on the lookout for a man with a fat wallet, a small dick and lack of moral fibre. He hated it. This was nothing more than a prison made from fat silken rope instead of bars.
‘No. Thanks all the same.’
Frank looked momentarily crestfallen. ‘But we’re celebrating.’
‘The boss is celebrating,’ Conky said, looking over at Paddy, who was in the process of pouring champagne onto the cleavage of a blonde girl, sitting on his lap. Licking it off, as though that was merely hors d’oeuvres for the main course, which would inevitably be enjoyed in the back room of the club later. Poor bloody Sheila. ‘I don’t see why you’re so happy, Francis.’
But Frank wasn’t listening. He shrugged. Smiled. Swigged from the bottle himself and started to dance along to the deafening music as though he hadn’t a care in the world. A harmless prick, but a prick nonetheless.
Checking his watch, Conky assessed with some relief that it was time to escape the childish, hedonistic bullshit of M1 House. He didn’t bother excusing himself. Paddy would not thank him for the interruption.
Pushing