Authors: Mike Ripley
Did that mean I’d got something right? I tried to look world-weary and philosophical, rather than just weary.
‘Even worse,’ Murdo went on, ‘the gap is getting wider. Look closely. I’m sorry it’s a bit small but it really stands out when I do a presentation with a big
screen.’
‘You do this as a . . . a . . . presentation?’
I was gripped with an image of Murdo boring the pants off the Seagrave Women’s Institute in the church hall on a wet February night.
‘Oh yes, it’s my party piece. I’m a bit of an expert on the subject, though I say it myself. Of course, you’re only seeing a bit of the whole thing. When I showed it to
the Treasury Select Committee last week I concentrated on the failings of their macro-economic model when it came to disposable income and the positive effect of a duty cut on the Gross National
Product. Not to mention the Retail Price Index.’
‘Right,’ I said slowly, trying to remember not to mention the Retail Price Index. ‘So what am I supposed to be looking at?’
‘The UK column. See? Every other country is moving towards the target rate for beer duty except us. The Irish, the Danes, the Swedes are all coming down and the French and Spanish and so
on are all coming up. Every single country is moving towards that line except Britain. We’re going
away
from it. Our government is continuing to put our beer duty up when it should be
reducing it. So now we’re not just out of line with our partners in Europe, we’re
way
out of line. That means a big differential in tax which gives the smugglers more incentive
and more profit and makes smuggling one of the fastest growing businesses in the UK. There.’
At the flick of a finger the screen dissolved and turned into a cartoon graphic. One half of the screen was a line-drawing or print depicting eighteenth-century pirates, complete with hooks,
eye-patches, cutlasses and flintlock pistols, off-loading wooden casks from a beached longboat and rolling them up a beach to a cave. It could have been ripped from an illustrated edition of
Treasure Island
. The other half showed a scanned-in colour picture of a procession of white Ford Transit vans rolling off a car ferry docked under the White Cliffs of Dover.
‘On the eve of the twenty-first century,’ Murdo said portentously, ‘we have reinvented the eighteenth-century crime of smuggling.’
‘But if they go round looking like that, even the cops should be able to spot them. Maybe they could get one of the parrots to grass them up.’
Murdo frowned and I had the distinct feeling that my credit at the bar was in jeopardy. Then his face brightened.
‘Oh, I see. Yes, an excellent point.’
What was?
‘If only it was that simple. But you’re quite right, the smugglers don’t go around shouting ‘Yo-ho-ho’ and delivering brandy to the vicar and ‘baccy to the
clerk.’ What was he talking about? ‘Well, actually they do smuggle tobacco, quite a lot of it, but that mostly comes in from Holland and goes through Harwich or Felixstowe. But your
basic point is correct and a very astute observation.
‘Not only do today’s smugglers not look like that,’ he pointed to the pirates, ‘but they don’t look like that much either.’ This time he pointed to the fleet
of white, unmarked vans.
‘As you rightly say, Mr Angel, the smugglers are becoming more sophisticated – more organised. The “van trade” as we call it is simply too obvious these days, in fact the
anonymous white van has become something of a symbol of the beer smuggler, almost a what-do-you-call-them . . . like a trademark . . . a . . .’
‘Logo,’ I supplied.
‘That’s it. It’s almost shorthand for the newspapers. They show a picture of a white van and slam the word “Bootlegger” underneath it, though
“bootlegging” is inaccurate. The crime is smuggling.’
‘Most people don’t think so,’ I said, though even I could hear I was slurring.
Murdo looked horrified. This time I had gone too far.
‘Exactly! You’ve put your finger on it again!’ He slapped his hand down on the table, rattling his laptop and almost sending my empty glass flying. ‘Miss Blugden said you
were sharp, that you cut right to the quick. You’re just the sort of man we’re looking for.’
I tried to look humble and smile at the same time. I don’t think either worked.
‘It’ll be your round, then?’ I asked, offering my glass.
I hadn’t been back in the safety of London for more than twelve hours before I was beaten up, tortured and left for dead.
When I came round I could see a weak and watery sun climbing over the rooftops, which told me it must be morning. My spine and kidneys hurt as if they’d been speared and twisted with a
corkscrew and my head felt as if an anvil had dropped on it and was still resting there. I could only open my right eye, the left seemed glued shut with something thick and sticky, and the back of
my left hand throbbed with a three-inch diagonal burn.
I was wearing only a T-shirt (a ‘Somebody Killed Kenny’ Christmas present) which explained why I was cold and starting to shiver. A plastic bag drifted by my face and I could see
empty take-away food cartons, an old shoe, a pile of cigarette butts, empty beer bottles and, from the corner of my good eye, something sleek and furry scuttling away.
Various smells assailed my nostrils; rotting, vegetable smells like . . .
‘Angel? Was that you falling out of bed? Are you awake?’
Oh,
bloody hell
.
From the knees down, my legs were still on the bed. My bed. My old bed, in the Stuart Street flat. The rest of me was face down on the floor, which explained the bend and incredible pain in my
spine. I was facing the bedroom window which was wide open, which was why I was so cold. The second-degree burn on the back of my hand fitted exactly the corner of an aluminium food box on which
the word ‘Rice’ was written in green pencil. Who’d have thought they could hold so much heat? My eye seemed to be gummed with a prawn curry of some description and the flattened
box told me that’s where my face had landed when I had rolled off the bed. The fact that there was no sign of any prawns any more explained the sleek figure of Springsteen, who was circling
me in the hope that I was dead and therefore suitable for lunch. All the empty bottles – and some full ones – bore Seagrave’s Seaside Ales labels.
‘Angel? Are you sure you’re all right?’
Oh bloody, bloody,
bloody
hell.
It was Fenella, clumping up the stairs. I must have left the door open as well as the windows. Why didn’t I just get a neon sign saying ‘Burglars Welcome’?
I tried to get off the floor, or off the bed. Either one, I wasn’t proud, but everywhere I tried to put a hand or a foot down, there seemed to be cold food or a rolling empty bottle.
Eventually I found room to put my feet down.
I pulled my T-shirt out and wiped my face with it. It came away with unspeakable orange stains but at least I could see out of both eyes. What I couldn’t do was work out why my kidneys
hurt.
‘What a sight!’ shrieked Fenella from the bedroom doorway. ‘You look absolutely awful!
She put her hands to her mouth to hide her giggles.
‘Didn’t you make an exhibition of yourself last night, young man? I hope you feel as bad as you look.
Half
as bad as you look! You should be grateful we were here to look
after that nice Mr Seton and get him a minicab. And you should say thank you to Lisabeth for putting you to bed after you fell down the stairs . . .’ She paused for effect. ‘. . . the
second time.’
That explained the bruised kidneys.
I touched my hair and found food there too, so I pulled my T-shirt off and towelled my head with it. That gave me a brilliant idea: I needed a shower. Right now. Nothing else mattered. Speech
would come later.
Fenella shrank back into the living-room as I staggered by her, heading for the bathroom. I could see her nostrils quiver as the scent of prawn curry – a korma perhaps? – wafted
towards her.
‘Is there anything I can get you, Angel? Seriously, you look like something the cat dragged in.’ Then, over my shoulder, she said: ‘Sorry, Springsteen.’
I stopped in front of her and waited until she stopped giggling at her own joke, then I held three fingers up in front of her face.
‘Three things?’ she asked innocently, like it was a game of charades.
I ticked off the fingers one by one.
‘Para. Ceta. Mol.’
I found small words came easier.
I slouched under the shower long enough to put a dent in the water table, then raided my emergency stash of spare clothes for clean underpants, socks and a T-shirt which read
‘My Other T-shirt is a Paul Smith’. One of these days Amy would notice that I came home in clothes she’d never seen before.
Amy.
I rushed to the door of the flat which Fenella had thoughtlessly left open and yelled down the stairs:
‘Fenella! Have there been any messages for me?’
‘Just a couple,’ she said from somewhere close behind me, shredding what few nerve endings I had left.
‘Jesus! Don’t ambush me like that! What the hell are you doing anyway?’
She had bright yellow rubber gloves on and was carrying a plastic bucket in one hand.
‘I’m soaking the curry stains out of your carpet,’ she said primly and then waited, practising her lemon-sucking expression, for me to say something like:
Oh, you
didn’t have to do that
.
‘Why don’t you just run the hoover over it?’ I said.
‘Then the stain would stay and it doesn’t match the pattern.’
It didn’t? Oh come on, who knows what colour their bedroom carpet is?
‘Whatever. My messages?’
She breathed heavily down her nose then pulled off a glove and reached into the back pocket of her jeans to produce my mobile phone.
‘It says “Five Missed Calls” but I think they’re all from Veronica,’ she said, then she unclipped my pager from her belt. ‘And this says you have to call Amy
on her mobile.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, taking the mobile from her and holding out my hand for the pager.
Fenella’s lower lip jutted out and she glared at her feet.
‘Lisabeth said you wouldn’t let me keep them,’ she said under her breath.
‘I gave them to you? Last night?’
She nodded. ‘Twice.’
‘Hmmm. Look, Fenella my dear, I’m going to put some coffee on. When you’ve finished with the carpet, come and have a cup and you can tell me everything that happened last
night. OK?’
‘I suppose so,’ she sighed, turning back to the bedroom and pulling on her rubber glove with an elaborate
thwack
.
‘Oh, and can I borrow some milk?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ she said over her shoulder.
‘And some bread? And orange juice? Oh, and you haven’t got any Corn Flakes, have you? I’ve got a distinct touch of the munchies. I must have missed dinner.’
From the bedroom she shouted:
‘No, you didn’t.’
Ooh. Sharp.
She was getting good and I felt a twinge of pride. It had been me who’d taught her everything she knew.
The pieces began to fall into place but it wasn’t the sort of jigsaw you’d give your aunty for Christmas.
I remembered being in the Sampling Cellar down in Seagrave and suggesting to Murdo Seton that as he’d always wanted to drive a real, live London taxi (or as near as damn it) and he was
going ‘up to town’ that evening, why didn’t he drive Armstrong back – as I sure as shooting wasn’t in any fit state to do so.
Naturally, he’d loved the idea and said it was perfect because he could finish briefing me on the way, but would I mind staying in the Sampling Cellar for an hour or so while he nipped
home to change into his dinner jacket? I had agreed to this, reluctantly of course, I convinced him that I could work my way through the rest of the Powerpoint presentation on his laptop while he
was gone, so I could get up to speed. (For some reason, bringing yourself ‘up to speed’ really impresses people in business.)
He hadn’t been gone five minutes before I was into his Jazz Jackrabbit 2 program and, fuelled by another pint of Seagull Special or whatever, had made it to Level 3 before the killer
tortoises cornered me in a treasure cave and zapped me to pieces. Or at least I think that was what happened. Either way, I managed to shut down the laptop just as Murdo returned, fairly confident
that he would have saved his economic presentation somewhere in the memory.
Murdo, thankfully, didn’t ask what I thought of his presentation. He wanted to continue the briefing as he drove and could he have the keys, please, as he was really looking forward to
this?
So was I. I’d never been driven by a man in full evening dress before.
Somewhere between the Sampling Cellar and Armstrong, I acquired a crate of bottled beer which fitted neatly on the floor of the cab while I stretched out on the back seat. Murdo even gave me a
metal opener embossed with the legend ‘Seagrave’s Seaside’. I do remember asking him why the word ‘Ales’ seemed to be missing and he muttered something about it being
faulty stock, but I didn’t mind: it worked fine.
I was grateful for Murdo’s souvenirs of my visit for the way he drove I certainly needed a drink. I began to work my way through the crate as Murdo talked, keeping my head down so I
didn’t have to see either the road or the speedometer.
Amazingly, some of it went into my fuddled brain and stayed there, because even the morning after, with four out of the five voices in my head telling me to call in sick, I could still remember
the gist of it.
Murdo was obviously the moderniser in the family firm. Not only was he getting the business computerised but he was trying to be environmentally friendly along the way. Where possible, he had
enrolled his pubs in a scheme called Bottleback, which basically involved a large plastic bin in the carpark so that people could recycle their empty bottles. Country pubs helping to keep the
countryside tidy was the tag line and it made a lot of sense, with a truck coming round once a month or so to take away the full Bottleback bin and leave an empty one.
Some bright lad down at the local waste recycling plant (though I remember when they were called rubbish tips) noticed that one of the Bottleback bins was crammed full of small, French lager
bottles and nothing else. When it happened again he phoned the brewery and reported it, having checked which collection route it had come from. Murdo investigated and identified the actual pub
where the bin had been parked, one of his small country tenancies called the Rising Sun at a place called Whitcomb about ten miles south of Canterbury.