turned.
Sir?
Fielding went over, they had a brief conversation, then they disappeared up the stairs.
Tubs came back from the bar. ‘Catchin’ up on old times?’
‘What’s his game?'
‘Same as yours,’ Tubs said. ‘Eddie Pike.’ He explained that Fielding had arrived half an hour before; it was the first time anyone had seen him in four or five years. Only now he wasn’t in uniform. Now he was a detective. I gazed up the stairs where Fielding had gone. A detective. Maybe that figured too.
‘Anyway,’ Tubs said, sliding my Coke across the table. ‘What kinda help you after? You in some kinda trouble?'
‘It’s for work. We need to know if Sebastian had acquaintances who might go in for arson. If he was in trouble himself somehow.’
‘You think he dug himself in a hole, got someone to burn him out of it?’ He saw me hesitate. ‘Well, am I right, or am I right?' he said.
‘It’s one possibility.'
He made a scoffing sound.
I’d been wondering just how much I’d have to tell him about the K and R, but now that he’d latched onto this other idea I saw that I wouldn’t have to mention kidnap at all. He could nose around just as easily thinking he was trying to pin an arson on Sebastian.
‘It has to be discreet, Tubs.’
‘How much was the place insured for?'
I plucked a figure out of the air. ‘Eight million.'
He smiled, his eyes disappearing. ‘Some fuckin’ house. Sebastian Ward, ay.’ He studied his beer. ‘Figure that one. Bloke has his arse hangin’ out; twenty years later he’s got a house worth eight million quid.’
‘Not any more.’
‘Yeah, not any more.' Tubs took a swig from his beer. ‘Anyway I can tell you for nothin, he hasn’t dropped that kinda money. Not at the dogs.’
‘He doesn’t have to have dropped it. He could’ve had other problems.'
‘Like what?'
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’
‘His insurance thing, that’s the real money. What are the dogs to him these days? Chicken shit. Maybe he lost big on his insurance racket?'
‘Broking,’ I said.
Tubs cocked an eyebrow.
‘It’s not a racket, Tubs. It’s an insurance broking company.' When he smiled like he thought I was splitting hairs, that got my goat, so I added, ‘And businessmen aren’t in the habit of burning each other’s houses down.’
‘Oh yeah? And us lot down here, we are, are we?’ He thumbed his chest. "Things go wrong, we up and torch an eight million-quid house?’ He sculled the rest of his beer and put down the glass, staring past me. I glanced around but no-one was looking our way.
‘Tubs,’ I said, ‘will you help?’
‘The man’s a tosser.’
‘You’d be helping me, not him.'
Tubs thought about that. He’d never liked Sebastian, even in the old days, and what he’d said about Sebastian having his arse hanging out back then, it wasn’t strictly true.
I was about fifteen when Sebastian started appearing for the occasional Monday night session at the Gallon. He wasn’t a bookie, he was a punter — I think it was Nev Logan who fiirst brought him along. Sebastian had sold Nev some insurance on the cheap, Nev thought the other bookies might be interested. It turned out they were; Sebastian did business with just about all of them. And not just insurance, he started betting with them too, on account, and then he’d come in to settle up at the Monday night session. Tubs never liked that. And he never liked the way Sebastian would pull out this little blue book he had, and write insurance for everyone like he was taking bets, just one of the lads. Sebastian came pretty regular for a while, but as his business got bigger we saw less of him; he was down to about one visit every three months when I saw his name in the paper. He’d bought an insurance broker; he’d told the journalist he was going to change its name to WardSure. I remember that I showed the article to my old man. He just leant across the kitchen table, flipped me a copy of Greyhound
Sir?
Fielding went over, they had a brief conversation, then they disappeared up the stairs.
Tubs came back from the bar. ‘Catchin’ up on old times?’
‘What’s his game?'
‘Same as yours,’ Tubs said. ‘Eddie Pike.’ He explained that Fielding had arrived half an hour before; it was the first time anyone had seen him in four or five years. Only now he wasn’t in uniform. Now he was a detective. I gazed up the stairs where Fielding had gone. A detective. Maybe that figured too.
‘Anyway,’ Tubs said, sliding my Coke across the table. ‘What kinda help you after? You in some kinda trouble?'
‘It’s for work. We need to know if Sebastian had acquaintances who might go in for arson. If he was in trouble himself somehow.’
‘You think he dug himself in a hole, got someone to burn him out of it?’ He saw me hesitate. ‘Well, am I right, or am I right?' he said.
‘It’s one possibility.'
He made a scoffing sound.
I’d been wondering just how much I’d have to tell him about the K and R, but now that he’d latched onto this other idea I saw that I wouldn’t have to mention kidnap at all. He could nose around just as easily thinking he was trying to pin an arson on Sebastian.
‘It has to be discreet, Tubs.’
‘How much was the place insured for?'
I plucked a figure out of the air. ‘Eight million.'
He smiled, his eyes disappearing. ‘Some fuckin’ house. Sebastian Ward, ay.’ He studied his beer. ‘Figure that one. Bloke has his arse hangin’ out; twenty years later he’s got a house worth eight million quid.’
‘Not any more.’
‘Yeah, not any more.' Tubs took a swig from his beer. ‘Anyway I can tell you for nothin, he hasn’t dropped that kinda money. Not at the dogs.’
‘He doesn’t have to have dropped it. He could’ve had other problems.'
‘Like what?'
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’
‘His insurance thing, that’s the real money. What are the dogs to him these days? Chicken shit. Maybe he lost big on his insurance racket?'
‘Broking,’ I said.
Tubs cocked an eyebrow.
‘It’s not a racket, Tubs. It’s an insurance broking company.' When he smiled like he thought I was splitting hairs, that got my goat, so I added, ‘And businessmen aren’t in the habit of burning each other’s houses down.’
‘Oh yeah? And us lot down here, we are, are we?’ He thumbed his chest. "Things go wrong, we up and torch an eight million-quid house?’ He sculled the rest of his beer and put down the glass, staring past me. I glanced around but no-one was looking our way.
‘Tubs,’ I said, ‘will you help?’
‘The man’s a tosser.’
‘You’d be helping me, not him.'
Tubs thought about that. He’d never liked Sebastian, even in the old days, and what he’d said about Sebastian having his arse hanging out back then, it wasn’t strictly true.
I was about fifteen when Sebastian started appearing for the occasional Monday night session at the Gallon. He wasn’t a bookie, he was a punter — I think it was Nev Logan who fiirst brought him along. Sebastian had sold Nev some insurance on the cheap, Nev thought the other bookies might be interested. It turned out they were; Sebastian did business with just about all of them. And not just insurance, he started betting with them too, on account, and then he’d come in to settle up at the Monday night session. Tubs never liked that. And he never liked the way Sebastian would pull out this little blue book he had, and write insurance for everyone like he was taking bets, just one of the lads. Sebastian came pretty regular for a while, but as his business got bigger we saw less of him; he was down to about one visit every three months when I saw his name in the paper. He’d bought an insurance broker; he’d told the journalist he was going to change its name to WardSure. I remember that I showed the article to my old man. He just leant across the kitchen table, flipped me a copy of Greyhound
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