says Staffe.
‘Quite an admission from the Inspector.’
‘I meant you. Now, about Fahd Jahmood?’
‘There’s a chap I know was sent into the Jahmoods to check out what the sons were up to. Young Fahd over there had fifty million in a checking account in Miami, not even getting interest. A two per cent return on that would bring in a million a year. Enough for most of us.’
Staffe watches Fahd and Attilio. Fahd talks to the wine waitress with his hand on her hip. Attilio fidgets, sipping wine then water and looking around constantly, not exactly at home here; Staffe wonders what would be enough for Attilio these days. What does it cost to be in his new club?
When the wine waitress has put the bottle back in its silver bucket and left them to it, Attilio leans across the table, grabs Fahd by the arm.
Fahd laughs, waving at Attilio dismissively as if he was a fly on his cuff.
Attilio stands, swings an amateur punch at Fahd, which glances off his handsome head, but is enough to have the Arab covering up like a boxer on the ropes.
A butler raises a white-gloved hand and through a door beyond the bar, a tall, athletic man in a suit emerges. He moves slowly, calmly. Staffe shifts in his chair and the leather squeaks. Attilio is standing over his Arab companion, his back arched and his arms outstretched, hands around Fahd Jahmood’s neck.
Fahd’s own protectors converge on Attilio, systematically laying hands on him, kicking him sharply behind the knees. They do it in tandem and Attilio falls like a caber, smashing his head on the table. The heavies get Attilio on his stomach, arms behind the back and fit him up in a pair of zip-tie cuffs, in the manner of secret police.
‘You lying bastard!’ shouts Attilio as the heavies carry him out. He writhes and kicks, and as they carry him past Staffe, Attilio looks up at him with pleading eyes. But his anger is spent; in its place, fear – as he recognises Staffe.
‘Where are you taking him?’ says Staffe.
The man in the suit says, ‘Steer clear,’ and when Staffe shows his warrant card, he swats it away.
Staffe follows them towards the room behind the bar but another man in a suit appears, blocking his path. ‘I’ll come back, with uniforms and warrants.’
The man in the suit looks down at Staffe, shakes his head slowly. ‘I don’t think so’ – and the door closes, onto its private world.
*
Josie looks up at the Attlee Estate, whose concrete is stained by the rain, as if it had been weeping from its windows. Some crosses of St George flap in the breeze alongside drying salwar kameez . Weed is in the air, and phug hip-hop. Somewhere, ‘Redemption Song’ breaks through.
A young teen in a black trackie comes towards the electric gate which buzzes open. He has the pall of crack about him.
‘Wait! I’m coming in,’ says Josie.
‘Fuck off!’ he says, trying to shut the door on her, but Josie is quick off the mark and pushes him back through the door into the estate and flashes her card.
He comes at her and Josie’s heart stutters, but she plants her feet wide apart and lowers her centre, watches his trainers. You can read the next move by watching their feet, and she kicks out at his knee. Not so hard that he would require an ambulance, but it fells him. She tries not to take any pleasure as his face turns grim.
He looks up at her from the ground, cussing. He is white as unbaked pastry but sounds Afro-Caribbean. She reaches out and pulls a handful of wraps from his pocket. He is a handsome boy with blue eyes and long, dark lashes.
Josie empties a wrap and crunches the small rock with her shoe. ‘What flat is Shawne Haddaway in?’
‘Give me my stuff.’
Josie empties another wrap onto the floor, grinds the rock to dust with her foot.
‘C thirty-four.’
‘Have you seen him today?’
He blinks his eyes slowly, to suggest ‘Yes’. Suddenly, he looks his age. Acts it, too, as the adrenaline must ebb and he holds his knee.
Josie bends
‘Quite an admission from the Inspector.’
‘I meant you. Now, about Fahd Jahmood?’
‘There’s a chap I know was sent into the Jahmoods to check out what the sons were up to. Young Fahd over there had fifty million in a checking account in Miami, not even getting interest. A two per cent return on that would bring in a million a year. Enough for most of us.’
Staffe watches Fahd and Attilio. Fahd talks to the wine waitress with his hand on her hip. Attilio fidgets, sipping wine then water and looking around constantly, not exactly at home here; Staffe wonders what would be enough for Attilio these days. What does it cost to be in his new club?
When the wine waitress has put the bottle back in its silver bucket and left them to it, Attilio leans across the table, grabs Fahd by the arm.
Fahd laughs, waving at Attilio dismissively as if he was a fly on his cuff.
Attilio stands, swings an amateur punch at Fahd, which glances off his handsome head, but is enough to have the Arab covering up like a boxer on the ropes.
A butler raises a white-gloved hand and through a door beyond the bar, a tall, athletic man in a suit emerges. He moves slowly, calmly. Staffe shifts in his chair and the leather squeaks. Attilio is standing over his Arab companion, his back arched and his arms outstretched, hands around Fahd Jahmood’s neck.
Fahd’s own protectors converge on Attilio, systematically laying hands on him, kicking him sharply behind the knees. They do it in tandem and Attilio falls like a caber, smashing his head on the table. The heavies get Attilio on his stomach, arms behind the back and fit him up in a pair of zip-tie cuffs, in the manner of secret police.
‘You lying bastard!’ shouts Attilio as the heavies carry him out. He writhes and kicks, and as they carry him past Staffe, Attilio looks up at him with pleading eyes. But his anger is spent; in its place, fear – as he recognises Staffe.
‘Where are you taking him?’ says Staffe.
The man in the suit says, ‘Steer clear,’ and when Staffe shows his warrant card, he swats it away.
Staffe follows them towards the room behind the bar but another man in a suit appears, blocking his path. ‘I’ll come back, with uniforms and warrants.’
The man in the suit looks down at Staffe, shakes his head slowly. ‘I don’t think so’ – and the door closes, onto its private world.
*
Josie looks up at the Attlee Estate, whose concrete is stained by the rain, as if it had been weeping from its windows. Some crosses of St George flap in the breeze alongside drying salwar kameez . Weed is in the air, and phug hip-hop. Somewhere, ‘Redemption Song’ breaks through.
A young teen in a black trackie comes towards the electric gate which buzzes open. He has the pall of crack about him.
‘Wait! I’m coming in,’ says Josie.
‘Fuck off!’ he says, trying to shut the door on her, but Josie is quick off the mark and pushes him back through the door into the estate and flashes her card.
He comes at her and Josie’s heart stutters, but she plants her feet wide apart and lowers her centre, watches his trainers. You can read the next move by watching their feet, and she kicks out at his knee. Not so hard that he would require an ambulance, but it fells him. She tries not to take any pleasure as his face turns grim.
He looks up at her from the ground, cussing. He is white as unbaked pastry but sounds Afro-Caribbean. She reaches out and pulls a handful of wraps from his pocket. He is a handsome boy with blue eyes and long, dark lashes.
Josie empties a wrap and crunches the small rock with her shoe. ‘What flat is Shawne Haddaway in?’
‘Give me my stuff.’
Josie empties another wrap onto the floor, grinds the rock to dust with her foot.
‘C thirty-four.’
‘Have you seen him today?’
He blinks his eyes slowly, to suggest ‘Yes’. Suddenly, he looks his age. Acts it, too, as the adrenaline must ebb and he holds his knee.
Josie bends
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