Page 26

Clint Davies fiddled nervously with his phone, keeping a wary eye on the door.

He was running to a tight schedule today, with little time in which to make his various transactions before he was due on shift.

If he was five minutes late to work, ten even, it probably wouldn’t matter, but a significant delay would prompt questions, and the last thing he needed was his supervisor sniffing around.

Given his history, his record, there was bound to be suspicion, something he could ill afford.

The door banged open, but to his disappointment, it was just the cleaner, lugging her mop and bucket into the pub.

Honestly, he didn’t know why she bothered, the floor in this dive was so marinated in beer that it was surely impossible to return it to its original state, the punters who flocked here on Friday and Saturday nights resigned to their boots sticking doggedly to the floorboards.

This morning, however, the pub was deserted, save for the manager who stood behind the bar, scrolling listlessly on his phone.

This was how Clint wanted it – the fewer witnesses to this transaction, the better.

‘You buying?’ a heavily Dutch-accented voice breathed. ‘If so, I’ll have a Famous Grouse.’

Startled, Clint looked up to see Visser standing over him, smiling genially.

‘I do so love your English whiskies …’ his companion purred.

‘Actually, they’re Scottish and help yourself. Mick’ll sort you out …’

Clint nodded to the bar. Shrugging, Visser crossed the floor, leaning over the wooden counter and as he muttered his order, waiting patiently as the manager obliged him with a generous measure of Famous Grouse.

His demeanour was casual, his body language relaxed, but Clint couldn’t help but notice how the burly trafficker carried himself.

Body hunched, head down, cap pulled tight to conceal his thick curly hair, as if constantly shielding his face, his identity, from view.

Only when his companion sat down directly opposite him, could Clint see his features clearly.

‘Everything go OK, yesterday?’ Clint enquired genially.

‘It was a pleasant journey,’ Visser replied carefully, shooting a quick look around the bar to double-check that they were alone.

‘When are you heading back?’

‘Soon enough. You have any problems?’ the Dutchman responded.

Clint shook his head.

‘You’re sure you’re not being watched? Followed?’

‘Nothing like that,’ Clint responded confidently, shaking his head.

‘Any issues at work?’

‘Not if I get there on time, so …’

His Dutch paymaster broke into a smile, a flash of gold winking at his companion.

‘Direct as ever, Clint,’ he chuckled.

‘Time is money,’ Clint replied. ‘And it doesn’t pay to take unnecessary risks.’

‘My thoughts exactly.’

Visser opened his jacket, delving into the inside pocket.

As he did so, Clint caught sight of a vicious-looking knife clamped to the Dutchman’s belt, a reminder that this guy was no amateur.

Silently, Clint watched on as Visser retrieved an envelope, sliding it under the table and pressing it into his hands.

Accepting the package, the docker rolled his neck extravagantly, then darted a quick glance at the contents.

He wouldn’t count it here, not with other people in the building, but running his finger over the tightly packed notes, he felt assured that the Dutchman had paid in full. He’d never let him down yet.

‘Is our business concluded?’ Visser asked genially, draining his glass.

‘For now. You’ll be in touch though, when you need me again?’

His companion chuckled at the urgency, the greed, in his voice.

‘I’ll get a message to you. Just make sure you’re standing by.’

Breaking into a grin, Clint rose to his feet, saluting his comrade.

‘You can be sure of it. See you later, mate.’

With a cursory fist bump, Clint was on his way, his rubber soles protesting as he scurried them across the sticky floor.

Pushing through the heavy oak doors, he moved fast away from the pub.

Now that this business with Visser was over, it was time to move on to the next phase of his operation and he hurried away down the street.

The sooner this cash was out of his hands, his wealth laundered to conceal its origin, the better.

Tugging his phone from his pocket, he dialled the number quickly. Moments later, the call was answered.

‘Yeah?’

‘It’s me,’ Clint responded breathlessly. ‘We’re on.’