Not Dead Yet

49

Amis Smallbone had fury boiling inside him. He padded towards the edge of the turquoise water of the swimming pool, every step with his blistered feet utter agony, stared at the four green cylindrical conifers in metal tubs at the far end, and puffed hard on the Cohiba.

It wasn’t just fury. It was a maelstrom of rage. The eye of a tornado spinning inside his guts.

He sat in the swing sofa and took a slug of his drink. Focused so hard on his thoughts, he barely even noticed the icy, peaty taste of the vintage Jameson’s Irish whiskey. There was blue afternoon sky above him. A jet made a vapour trail across it. Wednesday; coming up to his first week of freedom. Although, since his encounter with Grace, he’d resentfully checked in with the hostel and with his probation officer, not wanting to give the bastard another hold over him.

Years ago he had lived in one of the finest houses in this city, worth three million pounds; plus he’d had a villa in Marbella; an eighty-foot yacht; a Ferrari Testarossa. Now what did he have? Forty-six quid given him on his release from prison, plus his weekly benefit, which was a pittance.

What would that buy him?

Not even a round of this whiskey he was drinking now in a London hotel bar.

And one man was responsible for taking it all away from him. Not content with that, he’d made it clear he wasn’t leaving him alone now that he was out of jail. The bastard had taken him to the top of the Devil’s Dyke and utterly humiliated him – for something he hadn’t done.

He had one small stash of money that Grace’s team hadn’t found. It was enough to tide him over for a few months in some comfort, but he needed to get back into business fast.

Henry Tilney, big and muscular, with a shaven head, black goggles over his eyes, was swimming laps in the kind of confident crawl that said I ain’t just the meanest sonofabitch in this pool, I’m the meanest sonofabitch in the world.

How had this man evaded conviction, Smallbone wondered, while he had got a life sentence? Out on licence after twelve and a half years, sure, but he’d be straight back in again if he screwed up his licence conditions.

Had Tilney, as he’d long suspected, grassed him up? Was that why he was taking care of him now? To keep him sweet and stop him prying?

He watched as Tilney finished his swim, strutted into the pool house, water running off his skin, his balls and dick twitching visibly in the crotch of his budgie smuggler trunks, and came back out with a can of lager in his hand. He popped it open with a sharp hiss and raised it to his mouth as froth foamed out. After taking a deep swig he said, ‘You should take a dip, twenty-nine degrees, mate – it’s glorious!’

Smallbone scowled. ‘Not my thing. Never liked water, you can’t trust what’s in it – or been in it.’

Tilney gave him a smile that masked unease. ‘Yeah, well, I ain’t pissed in it, in case you’re worried.’

Smallbone shook his head. ‘Not worried about you pissing in it, I’m more worried that Roy Grace pissed in it.’

Tilney frowned. ‘What the fuck do you mean by that?’

Smallbone shrugged, noting Tilney’s awkward body language. ‘He’s pissed on my life. You’re lucky if he hasn’t pissed on yours, too.’

Tilney sat down in a sunlounger opposite him. ‘Let him go.’

‘Let him go? After what he did to me back then? And what he did to me last night?’

‘He’s a dumb-fuck copper on fifty grand a year and that’s all he’s ever going to be. You’re sixty-two, Amis. Most people are thinking about retirement at your age. You don’t have a pot to piss in. You want to spend the next few years making serious dough for your retirement, or hitting back at the police? You know where antagonizing Roy Grace’ll get you? Spending your last years in some shitty Housing Association bedsit like Terry Biglow. That what you want? To be the next Terry Biglow?’

‘I want Roy Grace,’ Smallbone replied, his skin tightening so hard around his face that Tilney could see his skull beneath it. ‘I’ve got information about him. Apparently the Chief Constable’s made him personally responsible for looking after Gaia while she’s in town. You know what I’m going to do? Piss on his parade, that’s what. I’m going to make him look very stupid.’ Then he gave a leer. ‘I’m going to have her hotel suite burgled.’

‘And where’s that going to get you?’

Smallbone gave an oily smile. ‘Revenge, all right? And a bit of money. I’ve spent twelve years dreaming about paying him back. You know what he did to me last night?’

‘You told me twice already.’

‘Yeah, well, I ain’t Amis Smallbone for nothing.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘I thought you was my friend.’

‘I am, mate, so let me give you some straight talking. The world has changed in the last twelve years, in case you was too busy to read a newspaper. Burgling’s a mug’s game, too much hard work, too high risk. Drugs and the internet’s where the dough is – and with minimal risk. And you need to remember something.’

‘What?’ Smallbone asked, sullenly. He had the feeling he was being put in his place.

‘You were never as good as you thought you was. Your dad – now there was a class act. Everyone feared your dad, and everyone respected him. You’ve always lived on that, traded on being your dad’s son, but you was never half the man he was.’

‘Shut the fuck up.’

‘You need to hear this,’ Tilney went on. ‘You’ve always been small time, talking the big talk. You had all that flash stuff, the fancy houses, the cars, the yacht, but did you ever actually own any of it? It was all rented, wasn’t it? All smoke and mirrors, that’s why you ain’t got nothing now.’ He took a swig of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You know what I do? I look forward. You and Roy Grace, that’s history. Forget about it. Forget Gaia – she’s going to have bodyguards coming out of her jacksie while she’s here.’

Smallbone glared at him.

‘Grab yourself a beer, sit down, relax, chill out a little. In fact, hey, while you’re about it grab two beers – one for yourself and one for your ego.’