Pay Off (4 page)

At the end of the road was a narrow passage which led to a muddy track behind the backyards of the shops. Karparts was fourth from the end and set into the wall there was a weatherbeaten door painted the same dirty brown as the front entrance. The door had warped badly and by pressing against it I could get a pretty clear view of what was going on inside.

A man wearing dark blue overalls and a welding visor was cutting away at what appeared to be a brand new Mercedes, and as I watched he pulled away the rear wing in a clatter of metal. At the front of the car a young lad, sixteen or seventeen at the most, was using a winch to take out the engine. There were two or three other cars in the back yard in various stages of being stripped, and one of them looked like a Porsche, but as there was virtually just a chassis left it was difficult to tell. Lying around were piles of electric wiring, headlamps, cartes, bumpers, enough parts to build yourself several complete cars if only you could work out how to put them back together again.

Another youth came into view, small and dark and wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket, laughing with Bert who was wiping his nose yet again. They walked up to the man in the welding visor who had now moved over to the driver's side. He noticed the two of them, switched off his cylinders and pulled away his visor revealing a crop of purple hair and three gold earrings in one ear.

'Dinah,' said Bert. 'How's it going?'

'Triffic,' replied Dinah as he pulled at his virgin ear. 'Should have these done by tonight and then I'll start cutting up the chassis for scrap. I can't strip them fast enough, we've done two Mercs this week and I've got a backlog of orders for Jags, BMWs, the lot. I might even have to go legit.'

'I bet,' said Bert. 'The Porsche ready?'

'It's inside. Can I do you for anything else, body panels, lights, windows?'

'Nothanks, Dinah, justtheengine, that'sall Ineed forthis job. I'll tell you what, though. I'm going to be needing a rear axle for a Merc 500 SL some time in the next couple of weeks, maybe a gearbox too. I'll give you a bell.'

'Consider it done, there's always a market for Merc parts. Not the easiest cars to get hold of, though, but I'm working on it.'

'Yes, well, you know what they say, Dinah, practice makes perfect, and when it comes to getting hold of cars there's no one getting more practice than you.'

'Nice of you to say so, Bert, but I'm still not going to give you a discount. Harry, give Bert a hand with the Porsche engine and for God's sake count the money first.' He reached up and pulled the visor down and turned back to the Mercedes, laughing as the two men walked back towards the garage.

I crept back down the passage and waited at the entrance to the road until the two men came into view, pushing a mobile winch which they used to load what seemed to be a brand new engine onto Bert's pick-up. He pulled himself into the driver's cab, started it with a shudder and drove off, smoke still pouring from the rusty exhaust.

There was a pub opposite Karparts, a run-down drinking man's den, the varnish on the windows cracking with age and the rough-cast stained where rainwater had flooded down from a blocked gutter. I stripped off my waterproof gear and pushed it into the carrier on the back of the bike and walked inside the gloomy bar.

The ex-boxer of a barman asked, 'What can I get you, chief?' and I paid for a whisky and sat at a creaky circular table circa 1950 in the corner facing the door. Twenty minutes later Dinah came in, his overalls swapped for jeans and a grubby green sweater which clashed perfectly with his purple hair. With him were the two youngsters from Karparts, and Dinah brought out a wad of five-pound notes from his back pocket to pay for a round. At the back of the pub was a pool table and after a few minutes Dinah's com- panions walked over, pushed in two ten-pence pieces and started to play. I picked up my glass and went over to Dinah, sitting alone at the bar.

'How's it going, Dinah?' I asked.

He turned from his glass and looked me up and down. 'Do I know you?' he asked.

'Not yet, Dinah, but you will, you will. I need a car and I think you're just the chap to help me get it.'

He shook his head. 'Try a garage, mate - I deal in parts and spares.'

'Second-hand parts by the look of it, and most of them hot enough to cook sausages on.'

'What are you getting at? You the law?'

'Do I look like the police?'

'As a matter of fact you do. Sod off and leave me alone.'

'Look, Dinah, the fact that I'm here talking to you in the pub and not bursting into your yard with a search warrant should prove to you that I'm not a cop, but if you want I could give them a ring. I think they'd be fascinated to hear about the operation you're running over there. Pays well does it?'

'What operation? What do you think I am, a surgeon?'

'Of sorts, Dinah, of sorts. How did you get a name like Dinah in the first place? Parents expecting a girl, were they?'

The change of subject took him by surprise and his 33 mouth hung open in amazement. 'My name's Maurice, Maurice Dancer - '

'I don't believe it,' I said interrupting. 'Maurice Dancer? Somebody in your family must have had a sense of humour. Had a tough time at school did you?'

He shrugged. 'Yeah, I guess so. For a while, anyway, then Maurice was shortened to Mo and then I got the car bug and got stuck with the nickname Dyna-Mo and that got shortened to Dinah. What's it to you, anyway?'

'I just want a chat, Dinah, that's all. Let me get you another. What are you having?'

'Bitter, a pint.'

'OK.'

'And a double whisky.'

'Expensive tastes, Dinah, can you afford them?'

'If you're paying, I don't have to. Get us a meat pie as well, hey? I haven't eaten today.'

I bought Dinah his supper, and we went over to the corner table where I watched his two mates scuffing the pool table and spilling lager down the pockets as Dinah attacked his pie and drank his whisky in two swallows.

'What's your game?' he asked finally, brushing crumbs onto the floor and picking up his beer.

'As I said, Dinah, I need a car, and I think you're just the man to get it for me.'

'But I've already told you that selling cars isn't my game.'

'Dinah, I'm not stupid. I know exactly what your game is. And it's not Subbuteo.'

'What are you geting at?' he asked, and started tearing a soggy beermat into tiny pieces, flicking them into a dirty ashtray.

'Dinah, it's simple. You're a car thief, and I presume you're a good one. Your yard over the road is packed with parts you've taken from almost new cars, you steal them and strip anything of value. The chassis and any other 34 identifiable bits you probably sell for scrap. Am I right?'

He said nothing, his eyes fixed on the table, fingers busy destroying the wet cardboard.

He obviously wasn't going to reply, so I continued. Maurice Dancer, this is your life. 'It's virtually the perfect crime. The only risk is when you actually take the car away, and the way you look you'd probably be able to claim it was a first offence and that all you were doing was taking it for a joyride, officer, and you're very sorry but it won't happen again, your honour, because you're the product of a broken home and an uncaring Government and you'll get nothing worse than a few months' probation.

'But underneath that ludicrous purple hair I reckon there's a brain a bit too smart to be caught red-handed. Am I right?'

He looked up and smiled, showing crooked teeth. 'Maybe. Maybe you are. But I still don't know what you want from me.'

'You asked me what your operation is, Dinah. Well, I think you're making a nice living selling bits of cars that would cost an arm and a leg if you bought them honestly. Luxury cars, the Rollers, the Mercs, the Porsches, cars where you're talking three figures for a spare wheel and four for an engine.

'You supply a need, Dinah, like all good entrepreneurs. You sell parts, no questions asked, to cut-price mechanics. They get the spares they need, you get a roll of fivers in your back pocket. Everyone's happy, the only loser is the guy whose car you've knicked and he'll be able to claim on his insurance.

'The beauty of the scheme is that once you've taken the cars apart all the evidence is gone, it's virtually impossible to trace things like axles, body panels, windscreens and lights. And once you've changed the numbers, selling an engine is no problem. I like it, Dinah, I like it a lot. If a business like yours qualified for the Business Expansion 35 Scheme, you'd have investors queuing up halfway round the block.'

'I haven't stolen a car from you, have 1?' asked Dinah, realization breaking across his face like an early dawn.

'No, Dinah, you haven't.'

'Thank God for that. That's been a nightmare of mine for years, that one day somebody will tap me on the shoul- der and ask for their motor back before plastering me all over the wall. There's some very dodgy people driving Rollers, you know?'

'You don't have to tell me, Dinah. Now listen. I want you to steal a car for me. Two cars to be precise, a Merc and a Rolls.'

'No sooner done than said. Any particular colour?'

'Not just a particular colour, I want two particular cars. And I don't want to keep them.' His eyes brightened. 'And I don't want you to strip them, either, so you can forget any thoughts you had on that score. I want to borrow them and return them so that no one is any the wiser.'

'You planning a robbery or something? If you are you can count me out. I'll steal cars, sure, but that's as far as Igo.'

Villains are like that, each to their own. They specialize and are usually reluctant to operate in territory they're unfamiliar with. They might progress upwards through the criminal hierarchy, acquiring new skills, but at no point would a safeblower get involved with a fraudster, or vice versa. Dinah would no more consider taking part in a robbery, no matter how far removed he was, than a solicitor would think about extracting a tooth.

'No, Dinah, I'm not planning a robbery, but I'm not prepared to tell you why I need the motors. What I am prepared to do is to offer you a thousand a car, half in advance. Then, when I'm ready, I want you to break into the Rolls and wire it so that I can drive it. I'll use it for a couple of days and then I want it put back in perfect condi 36 lion. The Merc's a different matter. All I want you to do there is to open the boot and relock it. That's all you have to do, Dinah, and I'll pay you two grand.'

'Mine's a pint, and you're on.'

I got Dinah his pint from the bar and stood it in front of him along with the half-inch thick brown envelope I'd been carrying in my inside pocket.

'One other thing, Dinah. This buys your silence as well. Don't let your two pals in on the act, no subcontracting. I'm paying for you. And I want a telephone number where I can reach you. The job will be at short notice, very short notice. It could be any time within the next three or four weeks. Just be ready.'

He wrote a telephone number on a scrap of paper and raised his glass. 'To a long and profitable partnership,' he said.

'No, Dinah, to a short and profitable one. Make no mistake, this is a one-off job, there'll be no repeat fees. I'll be in touch.'

Back outside, I pulled on the waterproofs and crash helmet and drove back to Earl's Court where I dumped them with the bike behind a busy service station and walked to the flat. Three down, one to go.

I'd gone to a lot of trouble to find Dinah but it had been worth it, and now I had three in the bag and all I needed to complete the set was a woman. Not just any woman but one who would sleep with a man for money, and do a few other extra little tasks for me. Got it in one, I was after a prostitute, but the last thing I wanted was a woman who looked like a whore. That would have been a dead giveaway, like 37 using a plastic maggot to catch a wily old pike. No, what I needed was something luscious, a tasty morsel that the old predator would fall for hook, line and sinker.

Bleached hair, heavily rouged cheeks and thick eyeliner were out, she'd have to be young, intelligent and enthusiastic, but a professional. The sort of girl you'd be happy to see marry your brother, if you had a brother and if he was the marrying kind. My brother, David, isn't. And he never will be.

So, step one, find your whore. That didn't appear to be a major problem, they're not hard to find in a big city. Or in a small town come to that. In Glasgow you'll find them around Blythswood Square, huddling on street corners waiting for a lift to the nearest multi-storey carpark where lusts are satisfied, almost, for as little as ten pounds. Birmingham, Manchester, Bristol, they've all got their red light areas, and what the hell I was in London which has more whores per head of population than anywhere else in Britain. One of the growth industries, servicing the foreign tourists and visiting businessmen.

There was no way I was going to go kerb crawling around St. Pancras or walking through Soho on the off chance that I'd bump into the perfect pro to complete my gang of four. The only thing I'd pick up that way was an infectious disease. Doctor, doctor, I think I've got Hermes. Don't you mean Herpes? No, I think I'm a carrier. I'd been lucky getting Iwanek so I was pretty impressed with the power of advertising. At a local newsagent, not the one who'd got me Professional Soldier, I picked up a couple of guides to what's on in London and also managed to find a contact magazine, 'Middle-aged executive with own house and understanding wife seeks young blonde with big breasts for friendship with a view to unnatural sex', you know the sort of thing.

The contact magazine was worse than useless and went straight in the bin. One of the London guides had a series of adverts for massage parlours and private masseurs that 38 looked more promising, some of them offering a rub down in private apartments, discipline in your own home, a few were even in Arabic.

Five seemed hopeful, three in the West End, one in the City and another south of the Thames. I rang them all and the Kennington number was answered by a man so that was a definite non starter. The other four sounded like the same girl, a treacly deep voice, stroking the back of my neck and tickling me under the chin, all could fit me in, when did I want to come round, what was my name, they looked forward to seeing me.