A Minefield Full of Penguins Page 4

  “Yeah, especially given your perceived ethnicity.” James grinned at me, imagining the chaos that would unfold if I walked around London with the unsheathed sword.

  “I see you really paid attention on that racial sensitivity training seminar.” Alan remarked to James, taking the sword back, reverently wrapping it back up in the wax jacket and placing the package gently on the roof of a nearby Audi. “Well, give it a go” he gestured to the Bentley. “It’ll probably need loads of work for it to even turn over.”

  James connected the jump leads and threw me back the keys. “You do the honours.” I got back into the driver’s seat, checked the weird column mounted gearstick was in neutral and turned the key, lights came on. I turned it further and there was the sound of a starter motor churning. Spookily “Killer Queen” started playing. I looked at James.

  “Not me this time, I swear.” I shrugged and turned off the stereo.

  “Don’t expect miracles, the fuels probably bad,” I said, concentrating on the noises the engine was making and trying to pick out any sounds that could indicate imminent engine failure. To prove me wrong the churning took on a more urgent note. I pumped the accelerator and the car burst into life filling the garage with a refined V8 burble and large amounts carbon monoxide. The engine sounded a little rough but otherwise undamaged by its long stand.

  “Good show” said James, impressed. “Al, See if you can get the usual guy to have a look at it, Sky needs a new car after she fried the last one.” James grinned evilly, “Now, let’s have a look at this other mystery car.” James pulled the cover off what turned out to be, rather disappointingly, a battered 1990s London Taxi. “Hardly a priceless classic,” James sighed, and I nodded in agreement. “Where did this come from, Al?”

  “No idea, it’s been here at least ten years though. I’ll have our guy look at it too, I’m sure it’ll come in more useful than the Bentley.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” James turned to me. “I better get you back, you‘ve a job to quit and a girlfriend to upset.” He gestured to his Range Rover, I looked at my watch and was surprised to see how much time had passed.

  “Home James, and, this time spare the horses.” I said as I got in. It was a pleasant enough journey to my work as journeys through London go and we had a lot of catching up to do. James dropped me off outside the shop just before 13:30.

  “Good Luck. Give the lawyer a call once you get up there, let me know what the place is like, and don’t forget Debbie.”

  “How could I ever forget Debbie? May the traffic be forever in your favour.” I bid him farewell as I got out the cosy warmth of the Range Rover and stepped onto the cold pavement outside the pawnbrokers where I worked. It started to rain.

  CHAPTER 3

  When You’re Tired of London...

  The shop was busy, my staff serving desperate looking men in search of a bargain to buy their significant other for Valentines. “Where’s Ed?” I interrupted Nisha, probably the colleague I disliked working with the least. She was showing a suited man a selection of power tools.

  “In the gym. How was the funeral?” she asked.

  “A no-holds-barred adrenaline-fuelled thrill-ride.” I said, watching the man inexpertly examine a circular saw that had seen better days.

  “Well, which one would you prefer to get as a present?” The man asked Nisha “The impact driver or the circular saw?” I left them to it and made my way down to the gym behind the pawnbrokers, the keys jingling in my pocket. Ed was watching two men spar in the ring. I joined him, watching the fighters with my fists twitching. You didn’t interrupt Ed ‘The Sledgehammer’ Jackson, a former boxer and cage fighter and now almost completely legitimate businessman. He was an intimidating figure, even taller than me, a face like a battered walnut and, even the wrong side of forty could still give all but the best professional fighters a run for their money. He also had a mind like a steel trap, unaffected by god knows how many blows to the head.

  “Zak’s coming on,” he commented, acknowledging me.

  “Yeah, he’s keeping his guard up properly now.” We talked fighting until the round ended and after a “nice work lads,” he ushered me into his office.

  “Who was that who dropped you off? He looked like a spook.” I had to hand it to Ed, he missed nothing.

  “He used to be, actually. He’s an old school friend.”

  “What’s he doing now?”

  “Security, high end.”

  “The highest, by the looks of that car,” I nodded. There was an awkward silence as I decided the best way to diplomatically quit my job. Ed spoke first. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I’ve been made an offer I can’t refuse. Working in Wales of all places.”

  “Wales, eh? I thought it would only be a matter of time before something like this happened, you’re wasted in that shop. I wouldn’t want to be around when you tell Melissa though.”

  “I’m dealing with this, one awkward conversation at a time,” I said bitterly. Ed actually laughed.

  “Melissa and Wales. Sounds like a match made in hell. Good luck with that.”

  “Yeah, thanks. The problem is I need to be there by tomorrow.”

  “So you want to leave now?”

  “Yes.” I was glad Ed was on the same page as me and didn’t seem too upset. To my surprise, without even being prompted he turned around, opened his safe and brought out a wedge of £20 notes that looked to be far more than he owed me. It looked like my resignation hadn’t come as a surprise.

  “This is what I owe you until the end of today.” Ed peeled off a few notes and put them on his desk. “This is your holiday pay…” He peeled off a few more and put them next to the first pile, “…and this is your leaving bonus.” He put the rest of the money on the table. It looked to be around a month’s pay more than he owed me.

  “Why?” I asked.

  Ed looked embarrassed. “Call it a loyalty bonus, call it potential future favour bonus, whatever, it’s yours.”

  “Oh, thanks.” I said baffled but not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  “There is something I need to warn you about,” Ed looked awkward, as far as a two metre tall lump of granite can look awkward. “Melissa. She’s bad news.”

  “You want me to break up with Melissa?” I said, wondering what had brought this on. Ed wasn’t a person I wanted to get on the wrong side of.

  “Don’t worry, you haven’t offended The Family, you don’t have to watch your back, and not just because you could rip any of my guys to pieces.” Ed gave me an evil grin. This was probably true, one on one at least. I’d been invited to show off my skills once by one of Ed’s up-and-coming protégées, it hadn’t ended well for the protégé, word had got around and, disappointingly, I hadn’t been asked to spar again.

  “You deserve better than her, look past her pretty face, she’s a manipulative bitch, and she’s been treating you like shit. Take your stuff before she gets home, close your joint account and block her number while you have an opportunity to get away.” Ed’s betrayal of his niece surprised me, but I had to admit the idea had its appeal.

  “I may use that as Plan B,” I replied cautiously.

  “Go on, take your money and run. If the Wales thing doesn’t work out call me. I know people who can always use someone who can handle themselves.” Ed said with a mock salute. “Oh, there is just one more little favour.”

  “What?” I asked, fearing the worst.

  “Put that bloody mop and bucket in your office on your way out, I’m sick of tripping over it in the corridor.”

  “See you Ed. Thanks for everything.”

  “Get out of here.” He growled.

  I picked up the cash and my payslip, stuffed it into the jacket pocket that didn’t have the keys in and went downstairs to my office and looked around for personal effects, this amounted to a phone charger, a Swiss army knife, and a posh fountain pen Melissa had given me, but I’d never used. Then I pushed the piles of paperwork that had accumulated on my desk into the bin. No one paid me any attention as I left the shop without a word.

  On the street I drew in a deep breath of cold exhaust laden air that somehow tasted sweeter than it had this morning and turned towards home. It was half an hour’s walk to our flat off Walworth Road and on the way, I called the landlord who rented me my lockup letting them know I was vacating as of today and arranged to meet their agent there at three. I then dropped into our bank and, as a precaution got my name removed from our joint account and put around half the money Ed had given me into my personal current account that Melissa didn’t know about.

  I then walked the long walk home. The weather getting colder and wetter and, by the time I got to my front door my face and hands were numb having dressed for the funeral underestimating how bad the weather was. It was still better than taking the bus.

  The dingy hallway felt almost as cold as outside but got warmer as I made my way up the steep narrow stairs, past the two other flats in the four-story building to our compact top floor oasis of warmth and tranquillity. It was just a shame it was made for people of Melissa’s height and I could only stand up straight in about half of it. Otherwise, it was a nice enough place, although, when the wind was in the wrong direction the flat tended to smell of old kebabs.

  I dug out my old backpack and a large sports bag from the storage under the eaves and packed my stuff. There wasn’t much, and it all fitted into the bags easily. I thought of changing out of my suit into something more practical, but Melissa liked me in a suit and I guessed I’d need anything that would give me a slight advantage.

  Behind the flat was a courtyard with a row of decent sized lock-up garages, one of which I rented for what I thought was a ridiculous amount of money but was still
considered cheap for London. My original plan had been to set up in business as a mechanic, but Melissa had somehow persuaded Ed that I would make an excellent shop manager and then persuaded me to give it a go. My mechanical work was now limited to cash-in-hand jobs in my spare time. I opened the steel shutter and my dark grey Mercedes Vito minibus stared balefully out. It had started life as a luxury taxi ferrying the great and good to and from the London airports around a decade ago. I had found it in the back of a taxi firm’s yard when valuing some cars for Ed.

  It had been missing its wheels and rear seats, the engine had been seized but the bodywork had been clean, and all the expensive optional toys had worked. I’d replaced the engine, acquired some AMG alloy wheels that had cost some poor bugger a small fortune when new and fitted a Sat Nav I was certain was malevolently sentient, not that malevolent sentience is particularly unusual in sat navs.

  The original plan had been to use it as a camper van to go to the music festivals held over the UK and maybe even further afield. After Melissa visited the toilets at a small festival she’d vowed never to go anywhere near a festival or even out of London again until someone guaranteed proper sanitation. Since then the van had sat in the lockup, only coming out for errands that required going outside the London Underground’s reach, or going to the supermarket.

  I unlocked the van, piled my bags in the passenger footwell, retrieved a coat of Melissa’s from under the seats and then made my way to the rear of the lockup where I kept my tools and anything else of mine Melissa had deemed unworthy of being in the flat which consisted of pretty much everything I owned. I took stock of what needed to go in the van and concluded that if Melissa had an uncontrollable compulsion to buy shoes, clothes and makeup, I was just as bad with tools. Most of them were second hand, all had been genuine and never to be repeated bargains, provided I asked no questions about their origin. There were some small benefits to working in a pawnshop after all.

  The air compressor, jack, ramps and a mitre saw were the largest and most awkward things, they went in first and squeezed everything else in around them. The last things I put in was my wet weather gear, my comfortable old army boots, a chunky bolt cutter, a crowbar, sleeping bag and an inflatable mattress, all things I feared I might need on my arrival in Wales. I crammed everything in although the back of the van was full almost to window level and the back tyres were bulging.

  I’d moved the van out of the lockup and was giving the place a sweep when the landlords’ agent arrived, one of the extended Kurdish family who owned the flats, the Turkish kebab shop and the lockups. He took the two keys they had given me and refunded the excess rent and the deposit I’d paid in cash.

  When I expressed surprise, as I hadn’t given them any notice, he winked at me, looked around furtively, and then informed me, in Kurdish, that he was sure the money would be put to good use and not to bribe the border guards too much. He then handed me a piece of paper with what looked like names and addresses written on it in Arabic.

  The agent had been referring to a conversation I’d had with one of his relatives when Melissa had been in one of her moods. I’d commented fighting Daesh would be more fun than living with her. This had led to me talking about what I’d done in the army, then to exchanging emails with desperate sounding people fighting the evil of the so-called Islamic State. I’d advised them on various matters and they’d extended an open invitation for me to join them.

  Just as I was feeling a little guilty that I wouldn’t be going anywhere near where he thought I was going, not unless Wales had really changed in the last few years, the agent grinned and told me he’d already re-let the place for double what I’d been paying them. He shook my hand, locked up the lockup carefully and left.

  I watched him leave, waited a couple of minutes, then unlocked the shutter with my spare key and parked the van back in the lockup. There was no way I would leave all my worldly possessions parked on a street in London even for just one night, they’d have been on sale in Ed’s or someplace like it by tomorrow afternoon.

  I had a few hours before Melissa was due home from work, so I went back to the flat and looked up the address on Google. It looked to be around a four and a half hour drive away, the satellite image was unenlightening, showing the postcode halfway up what looked like a hillside, a long hike from any roads or even tracks. The nearest candidate was an isolated house a little way from a small village. I then tried to see what the internet brought up regarding my new employers. Unsurprising there wasn’t much, I found an uninspiring and vague website for the Agency’s front company, offering to energise my synergies, amongst other vague management speak. I then spent a good fifteen minutes looking for James’ offices, eventually finding them when I noticed several roads were missing from Street view. Without warning Notepad opened.

  ‘Very clever, you found us. Now stop being nosey. Kate xx.’

  Before I had a chance to save the message, it disappeared from my screen and I decided not to investigate any further, at least not on any device I owned. I hastily shut the laptop down and removed the battery, glad I’d used a cheap tablet from the shop to talk to my Kurdish friends.

  I considered making dinner for Melissa to gain valuable brownie points but decided against it. The culinary arts aren’t exactly my forte, and, knowing Melissa there was a chance I‘d end up wearing whatever I cooked. A takeaway looked like a much better bet. I spent the time instead, combing the flat for belongings I’d missed.

  Melissa arrived home earlier than usual, I was relaxing on the sofa watching a Top Gear repeat on our slightly too large TV. I quickly changed channel to something soapy and got up. “Hi honey, how was your day?” I called.

  “The bloody gym was shut, but I got the promotion,” she said, coming into the living room carrying her gym bag. She gave me a quick kiss and sniffed. “Whose perfume is that? Why are you home so early?”

  “I buried one of my oldest friends today, remember?”

  “You should be used to it; you buried enough of them in the army. You’re also the manager, how do you think that reflects on your staff, taking the whole day off for a funeral.”

  “Don’t lecture me on how to manage people, anyway, I’ve quit.” I said, fuming.

  “You’ve done what!” She rounded on me.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake calm down, I’ve got another job.” I growled back.

  “I am calm, you are the one who’s shouting. So, what is this so-called job then?” I took a deep breath to calm down and thought on my feet, James hadn’t mentioned a job title.

  “Estate Manager for Trafalgar Court Estates,” I improvised.

  “Oh... Is it well paid?”

  “I’ll be better off, the basic’s ok and I’ll get good commission, that’s not the best thing though. The job comes with a house.”

  “Really? an actual house?” Melissa actually sounded impressed.

  “Yep, all the bills paid too.”

  “How did you get this job? Have you been applying for jobs behind my back?”

  “No, an old school friend at the funeral was looking for someone with my skill set.”

  “I thought your skill set mostly consisted of knowing how to kill people. Is this the friend with the perfume... and long dark hair?” She pulled one of Debbie’s hairs from my suit. I sighed, it was going to be a long night and not in a good way.

  “No, they belong to the grieving widow.”

  “Really? So, do you have a contract and job description? Where is the house? When do you start?”

  “I’m meeting the lawyer tomorrow at the property in Powys to sort out the paperwork.”

  “Powys? Is that France? I didn’t know you spoke French.” What Melissa didn’t know about me could fill a decent sized trilogy of books.

  “No, Powys is in Wales, the house is out in the country.” I said, instantly regretted using the C word.

  “You expect me to move into the fucking Welsh countryside?”

  “Not really, no.” I sighed.

  “There is no fucking way we’re moving to Wales. I’m not giving up my promotion and I will not live somewhere where there are more sheep than people.”

  “You know I hate London, did you think I’d stay here forever?”