The lawyer had warned them that the family’s arrival was imminent, then had hurried to the car park to greet them.
Bentley Horrocks was a half-pace ahead of Jack and stood with his arms folded and feet a little apart. He was working at the look he would give the man when he pitched up. Bent had enjoyed his walk in the sunshine, but now he had changed into an expensive shirt and trousers: Jack had polished his shoes. In his head he had the figure he would pay, and he knew the profit margins. Nervous? A little. Far from home and what he knew? A long way. He thought Humphrey, the lawyer, was a smarmy little bastard. He had been good in the old days when he’d practised close to the Central Criminal Court, and at Snaresbrook and Southwark, but had gone downhill since he’d moved to the sunshine and new avenues.
He broke his silence. ‘Getting near the big-time, Jack.’
‘Too right, Bent. The big-time, nearly there.’
‘I’ve come a long way for this.’
‘You have, Bent. A proper long way.’
‘And I’ll not be fucked about.’
‘Wouldn’t be clever, Bent, to fuck you about. They won’t, though. You’re meeting a main man, not just a gofer. Know what I mean?’
‘Someone at my level. Yes.’
He heard the sharp intake of Jack’s breath and a little involuntary whistle. It was a noise similar to the one Trace made when he shagged her. He missed Trace – missed everything he’d left behind in London or at the big house in the Kent countryside. Might even miss his wife.
‘Can I say something, Bent?’
It wasn’t often that Jack struck up a conversation. Far down the corridor, he heard a fire door slam. He nodded, waited to hear the footsteps. It was about status and prestige, him being accepted as a major player, meeting a leader of equal importance – not of greater importance – and doing business with a man such as himself who had clawed his way up the ladder to the heights. A man such as himself would value meeting Bentley Horrocks, who ran an area of south-east London, a man who stayed free and was, at a cost, untouchable. He had bought enough police to fill a section house, he liked to joke to himself, when he walked in his garden with the dogs for company.
‘Bent . . .’
Now he heard the footsteps. ‘Shoot.’
A touch of a stammer: ‘Give them respect, Bent. My advice is—’
‘I don’t beg, Jack. You learned nothing?’
‘You don’t have to beg, Bent. Just give them respect. It matters to them. Do it like you’ve never had to before. Please, Bent, respect.’
Of course he would. It would be an old man, a veteran of survival, like himself. There was a light tap on the door. He said, ‘Enter.’ First through was the lawyer, who stepped aside. Bent’s jaw sagged. It was a fucking kid. The lawyer was gabbling a name, but Bent didn’t take it in. His fists clenched. A fucking kid. Anywhere on his territory, south of the river, a kid of that age would reckon himself honoured to be tossed Bent’s car keys and told to park the motor. It would make his evening if he were given a few notes and told to fetch Trace and him a takeaway.
A hand was offered. He took it. The handshake was indifferent. He thought the kid reckoned it a chore to have to shake his hand, like he was doing Bent a favour. The kid looked into his face, seemed to evaluate him and showed no indication of being impressed. He sat down in the chair that Bent would have taken, and Humphrey lowered himself towards the carpet – he needed help to get down, then produced a notepad and pencil. That was how they would do business: with a notepad.
Jack whispered in his ear, ‘Steady, Bent. Outline agreed now, then a handshake, and no going back. The detail tomorrow, or the day after. The handshake is final, Bent. It’s the big man’s grandson. Bent, please, smile at him. They’ll want to know how much weight, cost per kilo and shipment, which is extra.’
The kid lounged in the chair, then swung his feet onto the low table, scattering the magazines and brochures. His eyes went to the TV and lit up – girls were dancing on the screen. The kid had good hands, solid, chunky fingers. No acne, only a small scar. Humphrey reached to Bent, tugged at his trouser leg, pointed to a hard chair and started to write.
Bent brought the chair forward. The kid ignored him. The lawyer had written on three lines: Weight. Price. Delivery. No hassle, no barter, no bargain – he could have been in a fucking pound shop down the Elephant and Castle. He bit his tongue, held tight to the pencil, and considered what he would do to Jack when he was shot of the business. He considered what weight he’d buy, how much he would pay, and where he would want delivery. But the kid turned away from the TV screen. Humphrey muttered in his ear, then wrote down the figure for the weight they would sell, the price per kilo and where they would deliver to. The pad was passed back to Bent. No negotiation, no respect. He seethed.