Chapter One
Silly Joe
A winter sun pushed its yellow rays through glass and warmed the vast interior of the airport terminal. Joe stood a while, the black briefcase on the floor between his feet, his eyes tightened and his muscles tensed, still feeling the bitter air of outside. He was a lithe, slim figure of average height. His blond hair was short and tidy, his features neat and clean, his blue eyes quick and alive. He wore blue jeans and a cream bomber jacket. There was a bold,fresh faced cheek in his good looks, the mark and charm of a young cockney villain.
His knuckles were pressed hard into the thin cotton lining of his jacket pockets. He took out his hands and uncurled his fingers in the warmth, then he folded down his collar and eased his neck from side to side, he deepened his breathing and felt his body relax from his face to his toes. His relaxation went to far, he stood heavy and immobile, his mind dazed. His bright blue eyes gazed at his surroundings, but registered nothing of the bustle. People everywhere, standing, walking, hurrying, pushing trolleys. The showing of tickets and passports, the sticking on of labels. Eyes intent on departure boards and ears intent on announcements. There were long intense seconds while Joe's deadened brain fought to recapture his bearings and remember the task that lay in hand. He picked up the case and moved slowly through the crowds and the hurried, nervous chatter.
Joe took the lift up to Left Luggage. He regretted it and wished he had climbed the stairs instead, as the movement pushed upwards beneath his feet while his stomach was pulled down. He handed the briefcase over a counter to a tall, gaunt grey haired man in black trousers and white uniform shirt with epaulets and breast pockets. Joe was given a ticket with a number on it. The grey haired man walked away between two rows of stacked cases, trunks and brightly coloured rucksacks. Joe watched as the black briefcase was stowed deep inside the stacked luggage. Satisfied it was hidden and safe he left by the stairs. He reached the bottom, walked a few paces and climbed another set of stairs to the bar.
Joe adjusted his eyes to the subtle lighting that fell from the edges of the ceiling to be absorbed in the dark red and mauve carpet. A few customers sat on plastic chairs at formica topped tables. The bar had three sides, it came out from the wall in a square. Only one customer sat up at the bar and Joe recognised him from a photograph he had been shown. It was the courier. He was a big man, he wore a dark suit, his elbows were spread wide on the bar top and his backside over lapped the stool. His head rested on his arms, his face was turned to one side and an elaborate handle bar moustache showed beneath a black trilby hat that covered his eyes. His legs dangled loosely above the floor and an inch or two of hairy shins were revealed between his trouser bottoms and grey socks.
Joe parked himself a few stools further down the bar, one buttock on the stool and one foot on the metal foot rail. He rooted in his pockets for loose change, cigarettes and matches. The bartender was at the back of the bar polishing glasses. Joe attracted his attention and the old white jacketed, dickey bowed barman hobbled over . His bald head and wrinkled skin fitted in with the tacky decor.
"Scotch." said Joe. He lit a cigarette and put the change on the bar. The old man served him the drink, took the money then hobbled back to his glass polishing. Joe looked over at the sleeping courier. He wondered if the jet lag was real or just a pretense he was supposed to act along with. A cup of black coffee was by one elbow, it had been joggled and the white china cup was stained on the outside where the coffee had slopped over into the saucer and onto the bar. The courier's Left Luggage ticket was right in the pool of cold coffee. Joe's eyes scanned the bar, nobody was looking his way, the barman was busy with his polishing and there was a fruit machine against the wall just beyond the sleeping, overweight, moustachioed body. Joe decided on his move. He knocked back the scotch and squashed his half smoked cigarette hard into the ashtray and walked over to the fruit machine. He fed in some coins and pressed buttons, lights flashed in the corner of his eye, but he was watching the barman, checking that his curved spine was still bent in the opposite direction. The old man made sucking noises with his dentures as he polished and set each glass back on its shelf with a little tinkle. A clatter of coins fell and made Joe jump. He scooped them into his pocket and with his eyes on the barman all the time he moved behind the courier and took the sodden ticket from the pool of coffee. Before putting his own ticket on the bar he gave the courier a gentle nudge with his shoulder. The body hit the floor heavily and the barstool clattered down with it. The trilby rolled away and the couriers dead, bulbous eyes stared at the ceiling. Joe's heart fell through his guts and pressed on his bladder. He still had both tickets so he turned from the bar. He knew the barman was watching him as he walked away as though he had seen or heard nothing of the dead body's fall. Joe stiffened his legs against the urge to run. But once out of sight of the bar he ran. He stumbled up the stairs to Left Luggage. As he reached the top he saw the tail end of the black briefcase, a grey trousered leg, tan shoe and green gabardine disappear through the lift's closing doors. Joe felt the cold sweat between his body and his clothes. He lurched at the counter and gave his ticket to the supervisor. It was the same uniform but a different man. This one was short, fat and bald. He looked at the numbers and tut tutted at the state of the sodden one. He walked away and came back smiling with the black briefcase and a duty free carrier bag. Joe smiled too. Now he was annoyed at his paranoia. He paid and looked up to see the short fat man's eyes were gleaming and his smile was cynical and slightly sour. Joe turned quickly to forget and ignore it. He tried to soothe his rasping lungs and put his nervous thoughts in order. It was time for a calm, unhurried walk back to the car
Outside Joe's unhurried stroll was quickened by the cold. He gripped the briefcase and carrier bag too tightly and looked down at his own footsteps covering the distance to the red brick layers of the multi-storey car park. He found the beige Ford Escort easily. He got in quickly and put the bag and case on the floor in front of the passenger seat. The ignition was good. He backed out of the space and headed for the motorway where he turned west when he should have turned east.
Joe stayed in the slow lane and tried to think clearly. The traffic flow moved around him or whizzed past. He turned on the radio but it addled his already confused brain, so he turned it off again. He took the next exit and came off the roundabout without knowing where he was heading. He checked the mirror for pursuers. There were none. He listed the facts and the possibilities but each conclusion felt wrong.
So the courier was dead and Joe had come away with the gear and he had also repossessed the money in the briefcase. Could he stash the money? Would they think it was he who had turned the courier into a body ? The bartender would certainly think so. To a boy like Joe life's ultimate goal was to find himself with the keys to the car and a windfall. He had both these things but nothing felt right. The oddity filled him with an awful sense of foreboding as though fear had already dragged him to depths unknown. Joe fought with himself to feel lucky, normal even. One look at the money, just one look at the money, that would straighten his head. A layby came up suddenly, he swerved into it. He left the engine running while he lifted the briefcase onto the passenger seat and grappled clumsily with the code numbered lock and the metal clips. It took him a while. Finally, there in front of him he saw the full and tightly packed contents of garish wads of monopoly money. Joe stared at the gaudy oranges, reds, pinks, greens, yellows and blues. He neither blinked nor breathed. Mind, body and soul blanked for some moments until time re-entered and jogged Joe's consciousness. Clockhands and the world still turned so Joe clipped the case shut. He had slightly bent one latch and it would not catch properly but he twirled the code rings anyway, having no idea where they had been previously set. He put the case back on the floor, swung the car round and headed back towards London.
Back on the motorway Joe kept his foot down and flew along the fast lane. He had to cut out the time he had wasted. He had to deliver the goods and finish the errand as though he was none the wiser. The outcome would be the same if he had not looked inside the case. He had the gear inside the plastic bag and he had done well to recoup the money for them when the courier had been in no fit state to accept it. Joe pushed the vision of the grey trousered leg, tan shoe and green gabardine from his mind and replaced it with his new scenario which his head rotated for the next few miles until he felt innocent of any knowledge of the funny coloured dough. But the bent latch on the case nagged at him. He convinced himself it was ridiculous to worry over such a detail, it could have happened anytime. But if the nagging escaped his thoughts it gnawed at his stomach. And so it was all the way to Soho's Chinatown.
He parked the car outside "The Golden Wok" restaurant. The sweet and sour cooking smells wafted over the pavement from the kitchen where the busy crashing of utensils, sizzling of fat and hissing of steam could be heard through an open door, calling to the hungry lunch time trade. Joe left the keys inside the car as he had been instructed to and walked away.
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