Close Call

Chapter 24

The two men sat in a dimly lit alcove on the raised dais at the back of the dining room. Slim’s, named after Joe Slim, the Manchester United footballer who’d started the club eight years earlier, was in Wilmslow, ten miles or so south of Manchester. It was said that the Aston Martin dealership in Wilmslow sold the highest number of Aston Martins in the UK, so affluent was the local lifestyle. The room was crowded this evening, loud with music and the raised voices of a group of young men and girls at a long table. One of the two men looked around and smiled in satisfaction at the packed tables.

He was the owner, a tall black man known as Jackson. No one at the club ever used his first name. Jackson had acquired the club after Joe Slim was found, early one morning, face down in the Manchester Ship Canal. It was generally assumed that he had fallen in from the towpath while he was drunk, but no one seemed to know why he was down there and no witnesses had ever come forward.

Jackson dressed as smartly as his well-heeled clients, and tonight he wore an elegant blue suit, a cream-coloured woven shirt, and a subtly patterned Hermès tie. His companion was less flashy but his suit looked equally pricey; he had the air of a successful self-made businessman – the kind of man who paid in cash from a roll of banknotes held by a silver money clip.

‘Good trip then?’ asked the man who looked like a businessman.

Jackson gave him a quizzical look, then seemed to decide the question was innocent enough. ‘Not bad. Though I had a spot of bother with the locals. I don’t know what sparked them off but they seemed to be wondering what this uppity nigger was doing over there.’ Jackson chuckled. ‘They didn’t find out though.’

‘What were you doing over there? Was it business?’

Jackson laughed sarcastically. ‘I wasn’t in Berlin for my health, man. I was chasing up a new opportunity.’

‘German girls?’

Jackson shook his head. ‘I’m getting tired of that line of work – too many hassles. I’m thinking of branching out a bit.’

When he didn’t elaborate, the other man said, ‘Well, it must have been important if you took a chance like that.’

‘What chance?’

The other man shrugged. ‘You don’t want to get European police forces on your tail. They can be a bit nasty. Just watch out if you’re up to something dodgy over there.’

Jackson said nothing at first. Then, ‘I don’t know if it was the police. I didn’t see any uniforms.’

The other man said, ‘But you got out all right?’

Jackson looked amused. ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

‘It looks that way to me,’ said the other man. His role there was hard to place. He didn’t act like a customer; he was too self-confident to be a dependant; yet the black man didn’t seem the type to have friends.

‘Anyway,’ said Jackson, ‘when are they coming?’

The businessman looked at his watch. ‘Any time now.’

And as if in response, the maître d’ came up to their table, looking agitated. ‘Mr Jackson,’ he said breathlessly. ‘There are Immigration officers outside the back door. They’re asking for you.’

Jackson raised his eyes but didn’t seem surprised. ‘Thank you, Émile.’

The maître d’ went on, ‘They have police officers with them. They say they want to check the papers of the girls.’

Jackson looked at his companion, who also didn’t seem surprised by Émile’s news. Jackson said to him, ‘You better excuse me. I like to leave by the front door of the places I own.’ He turned to Émile. ‘This gentleman’s my guest, so put our dinner on the house tab.’

‘Of course, Mr Jackson. But what should I tell the police?’

‘Tell them if they want to see me they need to make an appointment. Like my guest here,’ he added with a smile. And then, without any show of haste, Jackson was out of the front door of the club in ten seconds, leaving Émile to deal with the officers of the law. Jackson’s guest remained seated at the table, and after a moment signalled for a waiter and calmly ordered a large cognac.