The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries

THE DEBT by Simon Kernick

Now I’ve got a cousin called Kevin. Just like in that song by the Undertones. Unlike in the song, though, the Kevin I know isn’t going anywhere near heaven. In fact, the no-good cheating dog’s far more likely to be disappearing through a trapdoor into the fiery underworld, and deservedly so too. In fact, if I could get hold of him now, I’d gladly give a helping hand sending him there. Only problem is, there’s a queue of people wanting to do just that, and I’m sitting opposite one of them now. None other than Jim “The Crim” Sneddon: gangland legend and all-round wicked hombre, renowned for his extreme cruelty to his fellow human beings, although they do say he loves animals.

The Crim leans forward in his immense leather armchair and points a stubby, sausage-like finger in my direction. I’m sitting on his “guest” sofa, a flashy leather number that’s currently covered in tarpaulin, presumably in case things turn nasty, and as you can imagine, not being either cute or furry, I’m feeling less than comfortable. The Crim’s thin, hooded eyes are a cold onyx, and when he speaks, the words come out in a low nicotine growl that sound like a cheap, badly damaged car turning over.

“A debt is a debt is a debt,” he rumbles, speaking in the manner of a Buddhist monk imparting some great metaphysical wisdom.

“I’m aware of that,” I say, holding his gaze, not showing any fear, because if you let them see your weaknesses, then you may as well throw in the towel, “but the debt in question is between you and Kevin.”

“No no no no,” chuckles The Crim, shaking his huge leonine head. “It don’t work like that. Do it, boys?”

There are two men in charcoal black suits flanking the sofa on either side, and they both voice their agreement.

To my left, blocking out much of the room’s ambient light, is one Glenroy Frankham, better known as “Ten Man Gang”, a six feet six, twenty-five stone hulk of a human being, with a head so small it looks like it’s been professionally shrunk, and hands that can, and probably do, crush babies. Such is his strength, he’s reputed to be the only man in British penal history to tear his way out of a straitjacket, although I’m surprised they found one that fit him in the first place. His belly looks like a storage room for cannonballs.

To my right stands Johann “Fingers The Knife” Bennett, so-called because of his propensity for slicing off the digits of uncooperative debtors while The Gang holds them in place. The going rate’s a finger a day until the money’s been paid in full. As you can imagine, The Knife’s somewhat “hands on” approach has an enviable success rate, and only once has a debt not been cleared within twenty-four hours of him being called in. On that occasion, the debtor was so broke they had to start on his toes before he finally came up with the money. The guy was a degenerate gambler and I still see him limping around sometimes, although he plays a lot less poker these days.

It’s poker that’s been Kevin’s downfall. That, and the fact that he chose to play his games against Jim the Crim, a man whose standards of fair play leave, it has to be said, a great deal to be desired. You don’t rise to multi-millionaire status in the arms and loansharking industries by adhering to the rules of the level playing field, or by being compassionate.

“It ain’t my fault, is it?” continues The Crim now, “that your cousin decides to take off into the wild blue yonder without paying me the thirty-four grand he owes.”

“You told me it was thirty-three.”

“That was Monday, Billy. Today’s Wednesday. I’ve got the interest to think about. It’s a lot of money we’re looking at here.”

“And I still don’t know why it’s suddenly mine and my family’s responsibility,” I say, thinking it’s time to get assertive.

The Crim bares his teeth in what I think must be a smile, it’s not too easy to tell. “It’s the etiquette of the matter,” he says, clearing his throat, then spitting something thick and nasty into a plate-sized ashtray balanced on one of the chair’s arms. “I can’t be seen to be letting off a debt this size. It would do my reputation no good at all. And since there’s about as much chance of your cousin reappearing as The Gang here taking up hang-gliding, someone’s got to pay. And that someone’s his mother.”

And this, my friends, is why I’m here voluntarily. Because it is my aunt Lena – my dead mother’s only sister, and the woman who brought me up from the tender age of thirteen – who is the person currently being treated as The Crim’s debtor, and this is a situation that, as an honourable man, I can’t allow to continue. She’s prepared to pay up too by selling her house, in order to protect her only son from the consequences of his rank stupidity, but I’ve told her to leave it and let me see what can be done to alleviate the situation, although I’m beginning to think that it’s not a lot.

“I understand your position, Jim,” I say, trying to sound reasonable, “but my aunt hasn’t got the money to pay you, it’s as simple as that. However,” I add, wanting to avoid a confrontation I know I can’t win, “I haven’t come here empty-handed. I’ve got five grand in my pocket. Consider it a deposit on what’s owed. Then, when I track down Kevin, which I promise I’m going to do, I’ll make sure I get you the other twenty-eight. You’ve got my word on that.”

“Twenty-nine, you mean, and I want the lot now.”

The trick in circumstances like these is always to have some room for manoeuvre. “I can get you ten by the end of tonight,” I tell him, hoping this’ll act as a sweetener.

It doesn’t.

“I don’t think you’re hearing me right, Billy,” he growls. “I told you what I want. Now, if you ain’t got it, we’ll have to see if we have better luck extracting it from your auntie.”

“He came in a nice car, Mr Sneddon,” says The Knife, his voice a reedy whisper, like wind through a graveyard. “It looks like one of those new BMW 7 Series.”

Uh-oh, I think. Not my pride and joy. But, oh dear, The Crim’s craggy, reddened face is already brightening. It is a most unpleasant sight. “Now that’s what I like to hear,” he says. “And it’ll cover the cost of your cousin’s misdemeanours, no problem.”

I shake my head, knowing I’m going to have to nip this one in the bud pretty sharpish. “That car belongs to me, Jim, and it’s not for sale. I bought it with the proceeds of my last fight.”

“I remember that last fight. Against Trevor ‘The Gibbon’ Hutton. I had a bet on it. Cost me five grand when you knocked him down in the eighth.” His expression suddenly darkens at the memory, as if this is somehow my fault.

“Well, you know how hard I had to work for it then, don’t you?” I tell him, making a final stand. “I’m not giving it up, no way.”

The Crim nods once to The Knife and I feel the touch of cold metal in the curve of skin behind my ear.

My heart sinks, especially as I still owe fifteen grand to the finance company. I love that car.

Although I feel like bursting into tears, I keep my cool. “You’ve changed your weapon, Johann,” I say calmly, inclining my head a little in his direction.

“A gun’s less messy,” The Crim replies, answering for him. He puts out a hand. “Now, unless you want The Knife here to be clearing the contents of your head off the tarpaulin, you’d better give me the keys.”

So, pride and joy or not, I have no choice but to hand them over.

The Crim thinks he’s doing me a favour by driving me home. Instead, it is akin to twisting the knife in a dying man.

“This really is a sweet piece of machinery,” he tells me as we sail smoothly through the wet night streets of the city, the tyres easily holding the slick surface of the tarmac. As if I don’t already know this. “Ah, this is what it’s all about,” he adds, sliding his filthy paws all over the steering wheel, and reclining in the Nasca leather seat. And he’s right, too. There’s nothing like the freedom of the open road, coupled with all the comforts the 21st Century has to offer; it’s like driving in your own front room. The problem is it’s now The Crim’s front room. And it’s his music too: a Back to the Seventies CD he picked up from his office, which is blaring out track after track of retro rubbish.

As we drive, a Range Rover containing The Knife and The Gang inside brings up the rear. The Crim tells me he never likes travelling in the same car as his two bodyguards. He strokes the car’s panel and tells me that they’re Neanderthals who don’t appreciate the finer things in life, although quite how Tiger Feet by Mud fits into this category is beyond me. He tells me all this, even though I am hugely uninterested, and when he drops me off, he even gives me a pat on the shoulder and requests that I punch Kevin for him, next time I see the treacherous bastard.

I tell him that I will, meaning it, and clamber lonely and humiliated from the car as the Range Rover pulls up behind us. The Knife is driving and he gives me a triumphant little smirk. The Gang just stares with bored contempt, like he’s viewing a side order of green vegetables. Then both cars pull away, and I’m left alone.

I used to be a handy middleweight boxer. I never troubled the top division but in a career spanning nine years and twenty-seven professional fights (seventeen wins, two draws and eight losses, before you ask), I managed to save up enough money to invest in property. I own a flat in Hackney outright, and I put down fifty percent on a house in Putney last year, which I’ve been doing up ever since.

But my main job these days is as a doorman. I don’t need the cash particularly, but it’s easy work. The place is called Stallions, not that there’s much of the stallion about any of the clientèle. They’re mainly middle-aged men with plenty of money. It’s billed as a gentleman’s establishment but, to be honest, it’s more of a high-class brothel with a bit of card-playing and drinking thrown in.

Two hours after being dropped off by Jim The Crim, I arrive at the door of the club in Piccadilly, freshly showered and dressed in a dickie bow and suit, having had to get a taxi all the way down here. Needless to say, I’m not in a good mood, but I’m on floor-duty tonight, which is some compensation.

The club itself is a lavish split-level room with cavernous ceilings, and was obviously kitted out by someone who liked the colour burgundy. It’s busy tonight, with all the tables taken, and the girls outnumbering the clients by less than two to one, which is rare. How it works is this: you pay an annual fee of several grand to be a member, but you don’t have to sleep with any of the women. You can just come and drink and play cards if you want to, but most people indulge in the more carnal pursuits. There are private rooms upstairs to which you take your chosen girl. You pay her cash, usually along the lines of £200 an hour, and then pay a separate room fee to the management which equates to the same amount. It’s pricey, but these are men without money worries and ladies with very generous looks.

As I pass the small, central dance-floor, I’m greeted by several of the girls. They wink and blow me kisses, and one – Chanya from Thailand – brushes against me like a cat as I pass, her expression inviting. But I know it’s only a bit of fun. She doesn’t want me. Like all the girls here, she’s after a ticket out, and someone of my standing simply hasn’t got the resources to provide that.

Still, the attention puts me in a better mood, and this lasts as long as it takes to round the dance-floor and take the three steps to the upper level. Because it’s then I spot the man who is my current nemesis, none other than The Crim himself.

This is a surprise. I’ve not seen The Crim in here before. He’s sitting at a corner booth talking animatedly to one of our regulars, the right honourable Stephen Humphrey MP, a former junior defence minister, who always seems to have plenty of money. There’s some skulduggery afoot, I’ve no doubt about that, and I wonder what it might be.

I watch them from a distance for a full minute as they hatch whatever evil plot they’re hatching, and I think they make a right pair. The Crim is a big lumpy ox of a man with looks to match, while the MP is tall and dapper, with every pore of his Savile Row besuited form oozing expensive education. He sports a quite magnificent head of richly curled, silver-white hair that makes him look like Julius Caesar on steroids. To be honest, I’ve heard it’s a very expensive rug, but then you hear a lot of intimate details in a place like this, not all of them pleasant, or true.

I’m not so bothered about all that at the moment, though. What I am bothered about is getting my BMW back, since it was taken from me under duress, as I think you’ll agree. Clearly, if The Crim’s here then so is the car. And what’s more I’ve got my spare keys on me. I’m taking a risk by repossessing it, of course, because The Crim is definitely not a man to cross, but I can’t bring myself to do nothing when I know that it’s probably in the underground car park, only yards away.

I take a look round for The Gang and The Knife, but they’re nowhere to be seen.

However, when I look back at the Crim’s booth, I see that one of the girls, Vanya, a tall, statuesque blonde from Slovakia with an icy smile and a model’s poise, has approached the table, and is leaning over talking to Humphrey. The Crim meanwhile is surreptitiously peeking down the top of her cleavage, and trying without success to be all nonchalant about it.

As I watch, The Crim reaches into his pocket and pulls out what look suspiciously like my car keys. With a reluctant expression, he hands them over, not to Humphrey, but to Vanya, and she gives the big ox an enthusiastic peck on the cheek. What the hell’s going on here, I wonder, as the politician gets up and the two men shake hands?

A second later, Humphrey and Vanya turn and walk hand in hand across the length of the club and disappear out the exit.

Not for the first time in my life, I’m confused. What’s he done with my car now?

It’s one of the club’s rules that senior members (i.e. those the management want to keep on good terms with) can take selected girls off the premises and back to their own places, by prior agreement. Stephen Humphrey is one such member, but since he’s married with a sizeable brood of kids, I doubt he’s taking her back to his place for a bit of slap and tickle.

Which means they could be going anywhere.

So, what do I do now?

For the next half hour or so, I don’t do a lot, just keep walking the floor of the club, making sure that everyone, clients and girls alike, feels happy and secure. But all the time I’m thinking about my car and the heinous way it’s been taken from me. And, of course, what I need to do to be reunited with it.

Finally, I can take no more. I’ve got to have it back. It’s just turned midnight when I head outside and make a call to the firm who monitor the tracking device that’s installed in it. I tell the man on the other end of the phone that a friend of mine’s driven off in my car for a prank. I don’t want to involve the police but I do want the car back, so can he please activate the tracker and let me know where it is? He doesn’t like the idea, and to be fair, it’s a bit of an unusual request, but eventually, having ascertained that I am who I say I am, he does the honours and informs me that my car is currently outside Number 21 Bowbury Gardens in Hampstead.

Ah, the wonders of technology. Now all I need to do is get there.

As I turn round, putting the phone back in my pocket, I see The Crim hurrying down the steps with The Knife and The Gang in tow. They don’t see me, but keep on going round to the entrance of the underground car park. Something’s up, I think, but I’m no longer so worried about them. The important thing is to get my rear across to 21 Bowbury Gardens before anyone else does. So, after a quick few words with my fellow doorman, Harry “The Wolverine” Carruthers (so-called because of the thick black mat of hair that covers his body from neck to toe), he agrees to lend me his car. He’s not too happy about it, obviously, since number one he’s going to have to cover for me and number two, when finishing time comes round at the unearthly hour of 4 a.m., he’s going to have some trouble getting home.

I tell him not to worry about this since I’ll have it back well before then, and anyway, he owes me one. The Wolverine’s not happy, there’s no doubting that, but eventually he parts with the keys, and I drive off towards Hampstead in the hunt for truth and justice.

It’s just turned quarter to one and raining when I pull into Bowbury Gardens, a quiet residential road of rundown three-storey townhouses, and I’m immediately confronted by an alarming sight. The front door of one of the houses about halfway down is open and I can see Vanya, the girl who left the club in my car, being manhandled by a number of men who all have their back to me.

Hearing my car approach, one of them turns round and I see that it’s Jim The Crim. He immediately turns back and grabs Vanya by the arm, pushing her back into the house. I carry on driving, looking straight ahead, hoping they won’t recognize me, and as I pass I see that they’ve all now disappeared inside. I also see my motor – sleek and metallic-black, like a crouching panther – parked at the side of the road.

I find a space nearby and pull in. The spare keys are in my pocket. Now is the time to pretend I never saw Vanya being accosted by The Crim and his boys, grab my car and drive off, end of story. Obviously, I’m going to have to get out of London for a while, in order to escape The Crim’s wrath, but I was planning a holiday anyway, and Stallions isn’t exactly a job I’ll miss.

But the problem is that I’m an honourable man, as I’ve told you before. I can’t just walk away from a damsel in distress; it’s not right.

However, there’s another problem. I am outnumbered, and if I remember rightly (which I do), the Knife is carrying a gun. Since I know that The Wolverine is a man who sometimes strays on the wrong side of the law, I check in his glove compartment for any useful accessories and, lo and behold, I find a can of pepper spray. It’s not a lot but it’ll have to do.

Putting it in my pocket, I get out of the car and jog through the rain past my car, resisting the urge to kiss the paintwork, and carry on to the door where I saw the altercation. I try the handle and it’s locked. There’s a buzzer lit up on the wall beside it and I see that the house is split into three flats. Taking a step back I note that the third floor’s the only one with lights on, so figure that this one’s Vanya’s place. I come forward again and launch a flying karate kick at the lock on the door. It looks pretty old and it gives easily, flying open with an angry crack.

Surprise has never been my strong point and I wonder again why I’m helping Vanya. She’s never been particularly friendly to me. In fact, I’ve always thought her aloof and cold. I think maybe I’m simply a sucker for punishment.

I shut the door behind me and move forward in the darkness, listening. I can’t hear any sounds from above so I head over to the stairwell opposite and take the steps upwards, my shoes tap-tap-tapping on the cheap linoleum floor. It smells of damp in here and I suddenly feel sorry for Vanya, coming thousands of miles to work in a brothel servicing middle-aged men, and living in a dump like this.

There’s a scream. It’s short and faint, but it’s definitely coming from the top floor. Before my fights, I used to get so nervous and pumped-up that I’d be bouncing off the walls, counting down the seconds to the action. I get that feeling again now. I can sense impending violence and it’s weird, but I’m actually looking forward to it. It’s like I’m living again for the first time in months, years even.

And now, of course, I know why I’ve come here, and why I’m defying Jim The Crim Sneddon himself. I crave the excitement. It’s like a drug.

The pepper spray’s in my left hand as I mount the last step, see a door in front of me, all plywood and chipped paint, and do a Jackie Chan on this one as well. It flies open as well and this time I’m confronted by a sight that’s alternately hilarious and shocking.

First, the shocking part: Vanya, dressed in civvies, is sitting rigid on her threadbare living room sofa, her pale blue eyes as wide as saucers. Above her, with one foot on said sofa, stands The Knife, the tip of his trademark stiletto touching the little fold of skin just below her left eye. In his free hand, he holds a thick lock of blonde hair that he’s clearly just lopped off, and it looks like he’s about to embark on some more physical damage. The expression on his face is one of cold pleasure.

Now for the hilarious part, and believe it or not, there is one. Wailing like an angry baby in the middle of the room, is the right honourable Stephen Humphrey MP. Except his resplendent silver mane is no longer attached to his head, but is actually bunched up in Vanya’s hand, like a sleeping Jack Russell, where she’s obviously removed it with some force. So, the rumours are true. Humphrey really is as bald as a coot, and I think it must have been his screams I heard, because his shiny dome is red and raw, and laced with the remnants of torn adhesive.

The Crim is the only other person in the room, and he’s having a bit of a laugh at Humphrey’s plight. At least he is until he sees me bursting in like some avenging angel. The MP is the nearest to me, but I don’t bother with him. As Defence Minister, he had a reputation as a tough guy in parliament. But it’s one thing making the brave decisions that send other men to their deaths, and another getting in the firing line yourself. He makes his intentions admirably plain by jumping out the way very fast, and burying his newly naked head in his hands.

I identify the priority target as The Knife, since he’s the one with the weapons, and as he turns my way, I let him have it with a liberal burst of the spray. He tries to cover his face but he’s not fast enough, and as he chokes and splutters against the fumes, at the same time bringing his knife round in my direction, I knock him down with a swift left hook. He hits the sofa, out for the count.

But The Crim’s a bit quicker, having had that much more time to react, and he yanks his head away as I fire off another burst of the spray. He’s exposed in this position, and I come forward and punch him in the kidneys, twice in quick succession. He stumbles and loses his footing, and I grab him by his coat and pull him close, shoving the canister against his nose and spraying off the last of its contents straight up his nostrils.

He starts gasping for air and twisting round uncontrollably, smashing into the stereo unit, part of which falls on his head with a loud clunk. I let go of him and turn round to look for Vanya, who’s giving the prone, mewing Humphrey a bit of a working over. I pull her off him and, at that moment hear the sound of a toilet flushing round the corner, just out of sight.

Oh no! The Gang! In all the excitement, I’ve forgotten about him, and now I’m out of spray. A second later, he comes into the room – twenty-five stone of muscle and jelly. The guy’s amazingly fast for one so immense, I have to give him that.

“Run!” shouts Vanya rather unnecessarily, but he’s almost upon me, leering like a demented clown and, worse still, The Knife is starting to get to his feet, obviously not quite as knocked out as I’d thought.

I strike The Gang with a three-punch combination, every blow slamming into his tiny, childlike face, but they might as well be kisses for all the damage they’re doing, and he keeps coming forward, wrapping great arms round my torso, and dragging me into a vice-like bearhug that quite literally takes my breath away. I try to say something but no sound comes out. I feel my ribs giving way. I have never been in such pain in my life, and I think that if I die like this, it will be a truly terrible way to go. And it’s all because of that arsehole, Kevin.

In the background, I can see The Knife rubbing his eyes. He hisses to his colleague not to kill me. He wants to end my life himself. It almost seems preferable to what I’m going through now.

But then The Gang’s grip loosens, and he suddenly goes boss-eyed. I get my right arm free and deliver an uppercut that catches him under the chin. The grip loosens still more and I struggle free, bumping into Vanya, whose hand is thrust between The Gang’s legs, twisting savagely. As the Americans would say, this girl has spunk.

We turn together, just in time to see The Knife slashing his weapon in a throat-high arc, and it takes all my old reactions to fend off the blow, using my right arm to block his, and my left to deliver two vicious little jabs – bang bang – right into his pockmarked mug.

He actually says “Ouch!”, then goes straight over backwards, landing on the carpet, only to be trampled on by The Crim, who is still blundering around the room like a drunk gatecrashing a ballet performance.

And then we’re out the door and down the stairs, taking them two and three at a time, and I can hear The Gang lumbering behind us. Vanya stumbles and I grab her arm and pull her upright. We hit the street at a mad dash, veering right in the direction of the BMW. She starts fiddling in the pocket of her jeans for the keys, thinking that’s she’s going to be the one driving, but there’s no way that’s going to happen.

“This is my car, darling!” I shout, pulling out the spares and flicking off the central locking.

Reluctantly, she jumps in the passenger side, while I leap in the driver’s seat and switch on the ignition. The engine purrs into life, and I pull out into the road. I can see The Gang in the rear view mirror, coming down the road after us. He’s gaining but there’s not a lot he can do now and I accelerate away, feeling pleasantly satisfied, at least until Vanya tells me that the Bow-bury Gardens is actually a dead end road, and I’m going in the wrong direction.

I do a quick three-point turn in the middle of the road, and swing the car back round, accelerating. Twenty yards away, The Gang is in the middle of the road, looming up like an immovable stone monolith, but this is a strong car, and a good deal more substantial than the man currently standing in front of me.

I think The Gang must belatedly realize this because at the last second, he leaps to one side, belly-flopping onto the bonnet of some poor sod’s Renault Megane with a huge crash. It takes me a moment to realize that it is in fact The Wolverine’s car and that now he’s definitely going to be walking home tonight.

I keep driving, gliding round the bend and onto the main road. Mission almost accomplished.

“Thanks for that,” says Vanya, leaning over and putting a hand on my arm. She smells nice, and I think there might be passion in her pale eyes, although to be fair, I’ve been wrong about this sort of thing before.

“What the hell was that all about?” I ask her, and she tells me.

Apparently, Stephen Humphrey is providing lucrative defence contracts to one of The Crim’s front companies in return for cash. A very big contract is coming up and, on hearing that The Crim is driving one of the new BMWs, Humphrey wants to take possession of the car in lieu of his usual payment. The Crim reluctantly agrees and Humphrey and Vanya go for a spin. Vanya, however, has been tiring of Humphrey of late, and they end up having a violent argument. In the ensuing mêlée, Vanya physically removes the MP from the car, damaging his toupee in the process, and then drives off home, concluding that actually London life isn’t for her. She decides to take the 7-Series and drive it, and her meagre possessions, back to Slovakia.

But just as she’s leaving, The Crim and his boys turn up, along with a crooked-haired Humphrey thirsting for revenge. Which is where I came in.

I ask her if she’s going to take the plane home now.

She looks disappointed. “Is this really your car?” she asks.

“I’m afraid it is,” I tell her.

“So,” she says, looking at me with an interest she’s never shown before, “what are you going to do? The men you attacked are going to be pretty upset and I understand that Mr Sneddon is a very powerful man.”

It’s a good question, and one I haven’t really given a lot of thought to. “We’ll have to see,” I say enigmatically.

By this time, we’ve pulled up outside Aunt Lena’s house. I know that whatever happens, I’ve got to keep her out of the way of The Crim, who’s going to be looking to settle scores in any way he can.

But there’s something odd here. In Aunt Lena’s one-car carport sits another 7-Series, brand new like mine. I park up behind it and, taking the spare keys from Vanya, just in case she decides to do another runner, tell her to wait for me.

As I reach the front door, it opens and who should I see standing there but the fugitive himself, cousin Kevin? He immediately opens fire with a barrage of excuses for his absence, as well as heartfelt apologies and gestures of thanks. The whole tirade’s a pile of bullshit, of course, but you have to give him ten out of ten for effort.

“Where’s your mum?” I ask him, and then remember that I actually told her to stay round her friend Marjorie’s house on the next street until all this boiled over.

“Have you got The Crim’s money?” I demand. “He reckons it’s thirty-four grand.”

“Thirty-four thousand?” he pipes up. “That’s ruinous. Tell you the truth,” he adds, which is usually the prelude to a lie, “I’ve been down in Monaco. Made some money on the tables. Had everything ready for The Crim, but then I saw this motor in the showroom near the casino…” He motions towards the car, “and I just had to have it. It’s beautiful, Billy,” he says. “Supreme engineering.”

“I know,” I answer, “I’ve got one. So, I’m taking it you haven’t got the money.”

He gives me a rueful expression. “Supreme engineering doesn’t come cheap.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I say, pondering the evening I’ve had, then clap him on the shoulder. “Look, stay here tonight, Kevin, and we’ll straighten out The Crim in the morning. I’m just popping off back home.”

We say our goodbyes and I get back in the car, and put a call into The Crim on my mobile as we drive away. Not surprisingly, he’s none too pleased to hear from me and is full of curses and bluster until I tell him that Kevin’s waiting for him at Aunt Lena’s house with a present that I guarantee will make him happy, and which will simultaneously clear the debt.

I also add that it would be a lot better for everyone if my family stayed in one piece and no one got to hear about The Crim’s crooked relationship with Mr Hairpiece himself, Stephen Humphrey MP.

Before he can say anything else, I end the call, settle back and turn to Vanya.

“So,” I ask, as we reach the bottom of the road. “Which way to Slovakia?”