Too Many Crooks

Book summary

In "Too Many Crooks," Leslie Hawkins, a sophisticated fence, is enticed by a tempting offer involving a World War Two relic. As he dives headfirst into the dangerous pursuit, a clash with a biker gang sets off a chain reaction of chaos and peril. Across the frozen landscape of Poland, Dr. Anna Nowak encounters an enigmatic amnesiac Englishman, sparking her involvement in a web of unexpected secrets and danger.

Excerpt from Too Many Crooks

Ted Singh had really had enough of Bobby Jake’s incessant whining, and he was more than somewhat relieved when Ziggy eventually shot the annoying twat in the back of the head, spraying blood and gunk down the front of Bobby’s previously pristine white Fred Perry T-shirt.

Ted’s guts churned. Although he certainly had no qualms about the moral aspects of murdering Bobby, he didn’t really have the stomach for the gory stuff. He never had; truth be told. Ted liked to consider himself as ‘sensitive’ and ‘with an artist’s soul.’ He even wrote poetry, not that he’d tell the rest of the lads that.

‘Hold onto this for me,’ said Ziggy, handing the Glock to Ted whose hands shook as he took the gun.

Zygmunt ‘Ziggy’ Kowalski checked his reflection in the mirror to see that there were no splashes of blood on his red Versace suit. He ran a gloved hand through his spikey, dyed, red hair. Ted checked his own clothes but thankfully his powder blue drapes were as pristine as ever.

‘Make sure you wipe your fingerprints off the gun before you get rid of it, eh?’ said Ziggy, grinning. ‘We don’t want to get nabbed because of your slovenliness.’

Ziggy’s Polish accent rarely broke through his mock Cockney drawl but sometimes Ted could detect a trace of it, especially when Ziggy had been snorting happy talc. The man’s cocaine consumption was phenomenal.

Ted avoided looking at Bobby Jake’s corpse and looked around the cluttered kitchen. Slivers of morning sunlight sliced through the broken blinds. Like the rest of Bobby’s South London flat, it was a dump, reminding Ted of the old country and western song about getting a wino to redecorate your home. A dust-coated plasma TV was fastened to the wall, silently showing an interview with the winner of the recent American presidential elections.

Ted shook his head.

‘Who would have thought that daft twat would ever become president of the USA?’ said Ted. ‘It’s like making Jimmy Saville Prime Minister.’

Ziggy licked his lips.

‘Ah, but you see, that there orange clown may be an idiot, but he has discovered the true secret of sales success,’ said Ziggy, tapping his forehead.

‘And what’s that, then?’

‘Well, it’s a very simple equation, really; the higher the level of a person’s emotions, the lower their level of intelligence. If you get their adrenaline pumping, people just don’t think straight. And people may not remember what you did or what you said but they’ll always remember how you made them feel. So, the Mad Jaffa Cake Eater makes people feel good. Especially crap people with crap lives. He makes them feel good about being crap, even though, deep down, they know that their lives will probably never change, and they’ll always be crap. And their kids will also be crap, and their kids’ kids too.’

‘Well, it’s certainly done the trick. He’s a star-spangled winner.’

‘Unlike old Bobby Jake here, eh?’

Bobby Jake had been a small-time gangster all of his adult life and a good part of adolescence although his career trajectory had certainly plummeted of late. So much so that Ted and Ziggy had been able to rip off his drug stash and money with ease. They untied Bobby Jake’s corpse from the kitchen chair he’d been strapped to.

‘Right, are we going to have a nosey through the rest of the flat now? I’ve still got my mum’s Christmas present to get and I might pick something up here,’ said Ted.

Ziggy picked up a red North Face holdall. Ted did the same.

‘Let’s get on with it then,’ he said.

Ted went into the living room to see what was worth taking. When he went back to the kitchen, Ziggy was sat drinking a bottle of Zico coconut water.

‘You know, I’m getting quite a taste for this,’ said Ziggy. ‘But then I’ve always been a man of sophisticated tastes. What did you get?’

‘A few bits and bobs on the gadget front. A couple of tasty watches. Was there anything in the bedroom?’

‘A load of overpriced artisan crap made by old lags. I even recognise one of the artists’ names. Nobby Stine. He was in Wandsworth nick last time my brother was there. He dropped a shedload of acid and croaked his whole family. He’d turned to Jesus, last I heard.’

‘Art is good for the soul, eh?’

‘In the words of Van Gogh ‘so, I hear,’’ said Ziggy.

Ted looked at Bobby Jake’s corpse. He grimaced.

‘Now, what do we do about him?’ he said. ‘We can’t leave him. How are we going to get him out of the flat without being spotted?’

‘Hold on,’ said Ziggy.

He finished what must have been his fifth line of cocaine that morning and went out of the kitchen, into the living room. He returned with a fluffy white rug.

‘We’ll use this,’ he said.

They picked up Bobby Jake and rolled him up in the rug. Ted groaned.

‘He’s a heavy bastard for such a little man, eh?’ said Ziggy.

‘Big things come in small packages, apparently.’

‘Is that what you tell your wife?’

Ziggy burst out laughing.

He took a roll of insulating tape and wrapped it around the corpse.

‘There you go,’ said Ziggy. ‘That should do the trick. I’ll phone the Greenwood twins to dump it.’

‘Why aren’t they here anyway? What’s the use of having goons or henchmen and the like if they don’t do the heavy lifting?’

‘I see you’ve forgotten that it’s the semi-final of Strictly Come Dancing tonight. You know the twins couldn’t miss that.’

Ziggy giggled as he took a stainless-steel briefcase from an otherwise empty fridge. He opened it and took out a handful of cash. He flicked through it and grinned.

‘Not a bad haul this. What are you going to do with your share of the dosh?’ said Ziggy, as he rifled through the briefcase.

‘I’m going to start my own business,’ said Ted.

‘Good idea that. I’m all for free enterprise. What kind of business?’ said Ziggy.

He took a small ring box from the briefcase.

‘A record company,’ said Ted.

‘Really? These days? Can you still make money out of that? I thought everyone downloaded music for nothing now. Spotify and the like.’

‘Yeah, you can do OK if you know what you’re doing. Specialist stuff stills sells. Vinyl only. Niche market and that. I’m going to put out stuff from cult artists. Lost rockabilly classics and the like.’

‘Best not get caught here then or you’ll have a criminal record!’ said Ziggy, guffawing.

He grinned as he clicked open the ring box.

‘See anything interesting?’ said Ted, trying to take a peek inside the box.

‘Yes. Very,’ said Ziggy. ‘Something very nice indeed.’

He clicked the box shut before Ted could see its contents.

‘Best get moving,’ said Ziggy. He stood, laughing. ‘We don’t want to be caught by the police.’

‘Yeah,’ said Ted. ‘I can’t bloody stand Sting.’

***

The players walked off the football pitch talking about which pub they were going to for their usual Sunday afternoon drinking session.

‘How the hell did you manage to score the last one?’ said Ginger Ron.

‘Divine intervention, mate,’ said Peter Rhatigan, waving a hand. ‘Touched by the hand of God.’

‘Jammy twat, more like it,’ said Ginger Ron, grinning.

They went into the changing room and Peter showered and changed. He tied his long hair into a ponytail and checked his iPhone. He saw that he’d had a text message and a missed call from Ziggy Kowalski. He put on his black leather biker jacket and headed out of the changing rooms.

Peter could see the stream of traffic heading in and out of the new Ikea car park. Ignoring the Sunday shopping zombies, he strolled down to the river. He stopped outside The City Barge, checked his watch, and went into the crowded pub. He’d already slurped half of his pint of London Pride when Ziggy called him back.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘What’s the story, old glory?’

He listened for a few minutes and a smile crept across his face.

‘Sounds well worth checking out. I’ll be there in about an hour,’ said Peter.

He hung up, grinned, and reminded himself that although he didn’t believe in fate or karma, a window of opportunity had just opened wide.

***

‘Those that can, do, those that can’t teach’ and those that can’t teach, buy. And some of those who buy like to collect,’ said Sidney Hawkins.

He reclined on a black-leather chaise lounge in his Holland Park home’s oak and leather library. He was wearing a paisley silk dressing gown. After dining with Karl Lagerfeld, a large pair of black-framed sunglasses had become a permanent fashion fixture for Sidney. He wore them inside as well as outside, whether it was sunny or not. He had never been a handsome man. He’d once been told that his pruney face was so lived-in, squatters wouldn’t stay there, but at least he was always stylish.

‘It’s a form of reflected glory, really,’ he said. ‘The underachiever’s paradise.’

The sound of George Gershwin’s ‘An American in Paris’ filled the dimly lit library. Sidney smoked a massive Cuban cigar, its smoke rings trailing toward a creaking ceiling fan like wraiths.

‘I know. I know,’ said his wife Leslie, irritably. ‘I’ve heard it all before. It’s your bloody mantra. But those underachievers keep us in business.’

Leslie Hawkins sat in a wicker armchair, nursing a glass of Rosso Esperanto. She wore a long black evening gown and a Yin and Yang amulet hung loosely around her neck. Her lips and fingernails were painted blood red.

‘You are being uncharacteristically anxious today, sweetheart,’ said Sidney, stifling a yawn.

‘Sidney, you know as well as I do that it’s not normal for Lee to be gone so long. Not without contacting one of us anyway,’ she said.

‘He can take care of himself,’ said Sidney. ‘If Lee Case fell into the river, he’d come out with a pocket full of fish. Your brother’s like you, a born survivor.’

Leslie rubbed the amulet.

‘I know he’s a survivor but still… Oh, you’re right. I’m fretting for no reason.’

She took a sip of her drink. Her phone vibrated in her handbag. She took it out and read the message.

‘Interesting,’ she said.

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a text message from Peter Rhatigan. He says he has something very tasty for us. He wants to meet tomorrow. Do you fancy it?’

‘No, I can’t, I’m afraid. I have a meeting with that American lawyer. The one with the comic book collection to get rid of.’

‘Have you found a buyer already?’

‘Well, touch wood and I’ll be able to offload them back to the original owner,’ said Sidney. ‘Where are you meeting Peter, anyway?’

‘Oh, some pub or other. Knowing him it’s sure to be some trendy gastropub with ideas way above its station.’

‘Oh, you’ll fit well-in there, then,’ said Sidney with a cackle and a wink.