The Walking Dead

He'd heard it said in the staff common room, with the inevitable accompanying snigger, that men usually chose a mistress who was the spitting image of the wife back home. Barbara, the wife, had short-cut fair hair and so did Hannah, the mistress. Both had good hips, and both were endowed with breasts that could be snuggled in the palms of his hands…so similar. But — big but — one slept with her back to him and the other — God was kind — didn't expect to sleep at all in a long night. He had not been able to get to Hannah last weekend: Kathy's school concert, back row of the recorders, had denied him the well-worn excuse utilized to get him eight hours in Hannah's bed.

'Thank you. Now we're going to move on. Right, Mr Curtis, do you know what a "bag man" is?'

'I believe I've heard that expression.'

'What does a "bag man" do? What's his speciality? I doubt the members of the jury know.'

'Well, he's a money guy, isn't he? He takes care of the money.'

Sheets pulled back, the light left on as Hannah liked it. Hannah crouched beside him and the carpet covered with her scattered blouse and skirt, bra, tights and knickers. Hannah stroking him so gently. God, she was bloody marvellous…Babs didn't do sex except on his damn birthday or if he'd managed to lower half a bottle down her, and that was rare. He squeezed his eyes shut.

'Most members of the jury, I assume, use a bank to take care of their money, so where does a bag man enter the equation?'

'Criminal money. A bag man looks after thieved money, money from drugs deals, that sort of money.'

'Mr Curtis, among your circle, is there a bag man? A man who handles and launders the monies gained from criminal enterprises?'

'Not that I know of, sir. As a reputable businessman, I wouldn't associate with such persons, sir.'

He felt spent, exhausted, as he did when Hannah slid off him.

'It's a big ask, Nat. You could say that it's a very big ask.'

'Yes, Benny, but it has the potential of being rather a well-paid big ask.'

Nathaniel Wilson saw a quick smirk cross Benny Edwards's lips. They were in a café's annexe; the main area was nearly empty so they had the overspill to themselves. A colleague of the Nobbler's lounged in the doorway, blocking entry. Friday had gone by, and the weekend, and this week's Monday, but the Nobbler had been at his pad in a village outside Fuengirola and he had a tan that shouted he went there often.

'And the trial's near run its time?'

'The jury will be out within two weeks, and I don't reckon they'll be taking long.'

'Open and shut?'

'More shut than open. They're going down. There's no time to be wasted.'

'Not an easy one'

'They're looking at big stretches, but not looking forward to them. I can't see there's a cat in hell's chance of getting an acquittal, but with the jury down to ten I reckon that nine to one against means a retrial. Only bit of luck we've had is two jurors dropping down the tube. A retrial could be a year away, or a year and a half, and all that time I'd be yapping for bail and might just get it. What's more important is the chief prosecution witness, just a bit of a girl, up for it now but might not be in eighteen months. She's had a witness liaison officer assigned and been moved to a safe-house — she's had a witness protection scheme team. For another eighteen months, with the cost of that, I reckon they'd cut her adrift because the cost'll hurt them. She might just go off the boil if she didn't have liaison and protection in tow, might find her enthusiasm dwindling — and, not my business of course, she might show up where she's spotted or her family might be induced to lean on her…That's all in the future. What's for now is to ensure the jury's hung this time round, can't reach a guilty verdict. What do you think, Benny? Are you up for it or not?'

They were a mile from the Snaresbrook complex. Nathaniel Wilson had walked over and, after his lengthy association with players in serious and organized crime and a lifetime of sitting in court listening to police evidence, he had good perceptions of the arts of close surveillance. At one moment he had been sitting on the bench behind the barrister, the next he had been gone — as if needing a comfort call — and he'd been walking hard to be clear of the place. Only if he'd given a telegraphed warning, and looked furtive, would there have been the possibility of a tail. He'd done the routines including two dog-legs in side-streets and was happy enough that his security was intact. The business needed total secrecy if the Nobbler was to have a chance.

'I don't come cheap, Nat.'

'But your reputation says you're the best, Benny, and no one's expecting you to do it for charity rates.'

'Those blaggers, are they dumb? I thought blagging, going into jewellery shops waving guns, went out with the Ark. Why don't they do coke, smack, like everyone else?'