So, finally, I've updated!
My sincere apologies to those of you kind enough to R and R for me that I've left you dangling for so long, but a quick look at my profile will hopefully mean that you'll understand and forgive!
In the meantime, here be Chapter 4, and whilst I'm sure it's not worth the wait you had I hope it's at least up to par.
Other chapters will follow more quickly that this one did, though I grant you that ain't saying much!
Thanks again for your kind patience
Handy x
Chapter 4
He'd cracked it, Sean decided, as he flung open the doors of the big white van and began passing out the gear. After a period of close study, he'd divined the secret of Albert's success.
Up until now, the rookie grifter had felt himself to be a little distant from the veteran. He'd worked alongside Ash, mostly, and taken Mickey as his guiding light; Albert had remained an affable but slightly remote figure to be by turns listened to, marvelled at and avoided whenever he descended upon Sean with a pack of cards in his hand and a particular gleam in his eye. The last couple of weeks, fulfilling the role of fixer together with the older man, Sean had been able to observe for himself the way Albert operated and had become more and more intrigued.
In typically perverse fashion, although Albert possessed charm, intelligence and resourcefulness by the bucketload it was none of these things which formed the keystone of his grifting career. The deciding factor was that he was a walking oxymoron – an honest con-artist. He might present himself to the world as a smooth-talking rogue, and the actions he performed on a day-to-day basis were frequently both illegal and rooted in a web of half-truths and downright fictions, but at the core Albert Stroller was a man of the highest integrity.
Take their ongoing job as an example. It was wholly typical of Albert to have spent much of the last week squiring a retired dancer around London (and even more typical that the lady in question should bear a strong resemblance to Helen Mirren). It was also par for the course that he should be doing so under entirely false premise that he was one of the financial backers behind an independent film company who wanted to use her Victorian house as a set for a forthcoming production, when in fact it would be used as part of the crew's current elaborate con. And it was central to the whole way in which Albert worked that the alterations being performed upon said house by Sean and his team would, by the time they had finished, make considerable improvements to the property in terms of its décor, its layout and its long-term value.
Lifting out the stepladders, Sean passed them across to Ambrozy and Karol, the two brawny Polish builders Ash had recruited to carry out the actual building work. Ash had also, much to Sean's relief, sat down with his apprentice for the last few evenings and gone through everything that needed to be done, drawing diagrams and making detailed annotations when Sean began to look out of his depth.
As he locked the van Sean patted his pocket to check that the precious sheaf of papers was still in situ and then headed off to join the builders in Mrs Carmen's kitchen–diner. Retaining the information he'd been given was never a problem for Sean, but he was concerned that passing it on to two blokes who (a) knew what they were doing far better than he did and (b) had English very much as their second language was going to be a little bit interesting.
Fortunately it proved well within Sean's capabilities to spread Ash's drawings across the well-scrubbed table, put the kettle on and undertake to decipher Ash's handwriting when required. Karol spoke English a little better than Ambrozy, which wasn't saying much, but between the three of them they managed to make use of a couple of pencils, a fair amount of frowning, headshaking, nodding, exclamations, table thumping, pointing, and several cups of very sugary tea to reach a consensus. By mutual agreement Sean was initially allocated the tasks of sheeting-up and beginning to strip the wallpaper in the living-room, on the grounds that these were things even he couldn't cock up, whilst the other two began sawing and hammering with great industry.
Physical labour had never been Sean's first love, but as he unfolded acres of cotton canvas he could understand the satisfaction that Ash took in his work. His part of the whole was proceeding as planned, and whatever the wallpaper might have in store for him at least he could be sure it wasn't going to ask him an awkward question or suddenly spot at the crucial moment that he was wearing the wrong shoes. Content with his lot, Sean began to whistle.
As her brother's mood improved, Emma's was darkening. She had the uncomfortable feeling that she had talked herself into a situation she was less than happy with – and worse, she could see no way to back out.
Although she'd had to fend for herself and look after Sean from an early age, native intelligence, quick wit and a good scoop of luck had saved her from ever having to join the prostitutes on their street corners and in their cheap hotel rooms. She'd known many of the girls and their pimps over the years and had paddled in the shallows of their world. Not until she had begun to voluntarily immerse herself again had she realised how deep those waters could be, nor how afraid she was of them.
Over the last two or three weeks she'd spent most of her time sitting in bars in the red-light districts and chatting to working girls on street corners and coffee shops, gleaning the information she wanted and establishing herself as a new face in the area. The longer this had gone on, the more sharply aware Emma became that her life now was cocooned from reality; with that awareness came a queasy, fearful understanding of what might happen if she should ever lose that protection. Since joining Mickey's crew, Emma had been absorbed by the thrill of working the long con alongside three accomplished operators, riding a wave of adrenaline. Dipping back into the world of her past had jolted her back to reality, and she found herself considering Albert's age, Mickey's restlessness. After years of priding herself that she could deal with anything and anyone, she had let herself become dependent upon the reassuring unit that Mickey had forged. If the crew broke up – what then?
In other circumstances she'd have gone and chatted to one of the others about her fears – probably Ash, who would listen without judging and offer good common-sense advice and reassurance. But her spirited and very public outburst to Sean in the early days of the project had closed this avenue to her – after insisting so vehemently for all to hear that she was perfectly fine with this plan, her pride would never let her admit that she was having doubts.
Emma sighed and glanced up from her wine-glass as a movement caught her eye, and was forced to abandon her introspection as the force of nature that was Danielle Ashcroft swept down upon her in a gust of Chanel and a clatter of gold jewellry.
"All right, darlin'? Thought you was workin' tonight?" Flopping down onto the banquette opposite, Danielle loosened the straps of her teetering heels and sighed lustily. "Gawd, that's better! You been stood up?"
Emma shook her head, mentally giving her brain a shake at the same time. "Just postponed. He called to rearrange a later time, so I've got a couple of hours to kill." Lifting her almost-empty drink she drained the dregs and then wiggled the glass enticingly. "I'm getting another – you want one?"
"I'm finished for the day, love, so you can get me a Cheeky Vimto."
"At five in the afternoon?" Emma shuddered and pulled a "yuck!" face.
"You'd be knocking the strong stuff back at five in the afternoon if you'd been boosting Sweaty Eric's ego for the last few hours." Danielle shrugged off her fake leopardskin coat with a martyred air.
"You're absolutely right – I would!" Emma responded in heartfelt tones as she headed for the bar.
"Where's Mr Gorgeous, then?" Danielle demanded, as Emma returned to the table bearing one dark-red sticky concoction and one soda-water masquerading as a vodka and tonic.
"Keeping his distance and finding me some business, I hope."
Having made sure that he had been seen sufficiently in Emma's company to establish his role as her pimp, Mickey had now retreated, not altogether willingly, into a supporting part until such time as the con demanded him centre-stage once more. He was, in fact, sitting round the corner in a borrowed Renault which would later be returned, unharmed, to its owner and replaced by a different vehicle on the next excursion. Theoretically Mickey was reading the paper; in practice he was drumming his fingers on the steering-wheel and glancing at his watch with increasing frequency. It was almost time for Emma to check in.
Ash was feeling distinctly uneasy. Not about roping Billy Forgan – he could see his target sitting a few feet away at the bar and already had his opening line ready for the appropriate moment. The problem was Julie the barmaid, who had clearly taken quite a shine to Ozzy the biker and was going to find herself unceremoniously dumped once the con was played out. It wasn't often Ash found himself in this position, and it had begun to prey on his mind so much that he'd gone so far as to mention it to Albert.
"Don't worry," his friend had said, patting Ash's knee in a fatherly fashion. "She'll soon get over being mad at you, and in years to come you'll be a fond memory for her to look back on."
Ash watched Julie give him a quick smile as she hurried by with a freshly-pulled pint. Albert's theory was all very well, he thought, if you were Albert Stroller or Mickey Bricks. Either of them could walk into a room and have every soul in it eating out of their hands in seconds. Ash had no doubt that there were women all over England spanning three generations who looked back with a smile on their memories of the roguish stranger who'd charmed them off their feet and then vanished as suddenly as he'd arrived. Not quite so straightforward if you were a mere mortal. Ash strongly suspected that he – or at least Ozzy – would live on for Julie less as the memory of a romantic adventure and more as a feckless git who talked a load of bollocks. Every time he winked or smiled in response to a look from Julie, Ash felt that little bit worse.
It was something of a relief to see Forgan sit up in his seat and start slapping his pockets in search of a lighter. Ash slid down from his stool and followed Forgan to the door, flipping his own lighter from his pocket. He knew Forgan wouldn't find what he was looking for, because Ash had nicked it when he'd knocked into Forgan by the fag machine about an hour before.
Stepping out into the beer garden Ash paused, a roll-up dangling from the corner of his mouth, beside the frustrated Irishman. "Need a light, pal?" he enquired, his accent heavily laced with an Australian twang.
Forgan grunted. "Cheers." He leaned forward to dip the end of his cigarette into the flame Ash obligingly sparked from his lighter.
Ash lit his own cigarette and stared round the car-park filled with motorcycles of every conceivable shape and size. "Bloody amazing place, this, mate. Only just found it. Haven't been in London long." His enthusiasm elicited only a second grunt, and a sideways glance told him that Forgan was a fast smoker and had already disposed of half his cigarette. Time to alter tack. "Now that…" Ash pointed his rollup at a nearby Harley Davidson, "...is one hell of a bike."
"Damn right she is." There was a pause which felt roughly a year long, and then Forgan went on: "She wants to be, for what she cost me."
Got you, you grumpy little arse! thought Ash, who had been careful to take note of Forgan's bike when he'd watched him arrive an hour or so ago. Aloud he exclaimed, in suitably impressed tones: "That one's yours? She's tremendous!"
Forgan shrugged, but there was a light in his eye. "You want to take a look at her?"
The rest of the afternoon would have been quite pleasant in other circumstances. Ash liked bikes – he liked anything you could take apart and put back together – and a few hours talking bikes and drinking beer would ordinarily be a pleasant way to end the day. Unfortunately, Forgan's company could have taken the shine off the Crown Jewels. Ash had known crooks of all sorts, from charming rogues to out and out psychopaths, and Forgan was one of the less pleasant. Egotistical, aggressive and totally lacking in any sense of irony he was just about as personable as his photographs had suggested. He knew his bikes, though. Ash strongly suspected that if a fire broke out at his home Forgan would save his bike over any living thing that happened to be on the premises, quite possibly including his mother. Whilst this made Ash's job easier, it didn't make it any more agreeable. The beer helped, but not that much.
In the bar, Danielle shook the hair back off her face and drained half her glass in one gulp. "Business all right?" she asked
Emma shrugged. "Going okay. I've got a couple I could put your way, if you like."
"Ooh, no, I don't like those city types." Danielle grimaced and took another, smaller sip of her drink. "They're too used to chucking their weight around. Bunch of pervs. Give me a nice straightforward brickie any day!"
That made Emma give a genuine laugh. "What – like Sweaty Eric?"
"Listen, love – Eric might have a bit of a personal odour problem, but he's a good boy who's nice and reliable and does as he's told. And he pays in cash! Give me an Eric any day over one of those…" Danielle abruptly broke off in mid-flow and gaped across the room over Emma's shoulder. "Well, now, there's something you don't see every day. Don't look yet!" she added in a hissed whisper as Emma instinctively began to turn her head. "Hang on… yeah, now!"
Half-turning in her seat as though picking up a dropped napkin, Emma covertly peered at two or three heavily-built men accompanying a young woman into the hotel. "So? she shrugged, turning back to Danielle. "I was expecting Kylie at the very least…"
"Don't you know who that is?" Danielle seemed genuinely stunned. "Thought you'd been here long enough to know… that's Billy Forgan's new bird, that is. Poor cow. He don't let her out much, and never on her own. Bet he's meeting her here."
Emma kept the alarm from reaching her face and stooped again to rummage in her bag. Swivelling in her chair as she picked the bag up she managed to grab a few seconds for a proper look at Alise Balodis, whilst at the same time using one of the mobile phones in her bag to speed-dial the other one. As though she felt Emma's gaze upon her the other girl turned her head, and for a fleeting instant their eyes met. Then the heavies closed in tighter around her, and Alise was hurried away.
Ten minutes later, after a conversation with an imaginary punter on the mobile and a hasty apology to Danielle, Emma was yanking open the door of the Renault, startling Mickey as she flopped into the front seat. She was vaguely aware that he was asking her something, but it was only when he put his hand on her shoulder that she focussed on his worried face and realised that he was asking if she was OK.
Her head still reeling from the moment when Alise's desolate eyes had looked into hers, Emma dug in her pocket, produced a tissue and blew her nose fiercely. "I've seen her." Mickey looked blank. "Alise Balodis," she snapped. Anger was safer than sympathy at the moment. If he was nice to her again she was going to dissolve. She sat up, decisive. "We need to change the plan, Mickey. We need to get her out. Now."