First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Quercus

Quercus

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7th Floor, South Block

London

W1U 8EW

Copyright © 2012 by Alex Connor

The moral right of Alex Connor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Ebook ISBN 978 1 78206 626 2

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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One

Mama Gala’s, London

She hit him with the flat of her hand as he walked in the side door. The blow was strong enough to send him backwards into the counter, her massive head jutting towards him. Shaken, he stared at her, at the pale eyes in the dark face, the force of her malice unexpected and terrifying.

‘Don’t,’ she said warningly.

He was trying not to wet himself, trying to remember that he was eighteen years old. Not a child any more. And yet a child now. Oh yes, back to a child now. He had pushed his luck and knew it. Shouldn’t have mocked her son. Shouldn’t have taunted Emile Dwappa. No one did that. No one with any sense.

‘Don’t,’ she repeated.

A mammoth in a print dress. Nigerian by birth, Londoner by choice. Proprietor of Mama Gala’s Health Shop. Babysitter for the local children, crooning to them as she nursed them in the barley-sugar-coloured rocking chair.

But now he remembered all the rumours he’d heard about Mama Gala and her son. Wondered if, perhaps, they weren’t rumours after all. And the chair in the corner by the window seems suddenly skeletal, malignant, a corpse on rockers.

It’ll do you no good to say sorry, Hiller thought. She’s not having it.

One of Mama Gala’s hands was resting on the counter beside him, her bulk blocking any escape. And now he could see the rumour coming alive, a vision of evil taking shape in front of him. Her face was waxy, like bruised fruit a day before rotting, her skin giving off an odour of sweat and dead meat.

Hadn’t his uncle warned him? Said, ‘Don’t go to work at Mama Gala’s. She’s not what you think. She’s Emile Dwappa’s mother. If he’s afraid, so should you be.’

But he’d been cocky, sucked in by the promise of easy money and an association– however remote – with the most notorious man in London. Even if he were justan errand boy, humping sacks of meal around and sweeping up the remnants of the herbsMama Gala sliced on her great chopping board. A board notched with a thousand knifecuts, indented with the numerous blows she had delivered over the years. A boardscourged like the back of a flagellant.

She was staring at him now, and his body was pressing against the counter. He didn’t think, just said it. No, he’d been saying brainless things for weeks. Ignoring her warning looks, trying to laugh off the remarks he’d made. And then Hiller, because he was stupid and young, pushed it. Mentioned something said by his uncle – Was it his uncle? Jesus, he couldn’t remember anything while she was staring at him like that – something about Emile Dwappa being gay.

And he had repeated it. Like it was a joke. But as the words touched the air, Mama Gala had moved. She left the rocking chair, crossed the wooden floor and, all in an instant, had hit him. The blow, with all her weight behind it, had cracked against his head, his ear deafened.

But it wasn’t the attack that had him wet with fear now. It was Mama Galaherself, huge and threatening, shape-shifting into the rumours he should have listenedto but had ignored. When she struck him again he fell down, limp-legged, and, lying onthe wooden floor, saw one of her gnarled feet – dusty in sandals – aiming straight athis face.

And then he remembered what Mama Gala had done just before she attacked him. Before the first strike, she had gone to the door and turned the sign from OPEN to CLOSED.

Two

It was raining, the kind of rain that bores through clothes in an instant, as Jimmy Shaw took a left turn and drove into the supermarket forecourt. He was thinking about his stomach. Thinking that what he needed were some Snickers and a bag of Kettle Chips. He should, he thought, always make sure there was food in the car. In the glove compartment, because what the fuck else was it for? Not gloves. Who wore gloves any more?

Choosing a space close to the entrance, Shaw parked. Heaving himself out of the car, he fastened his jacket and noticed that he had grease marks on his trousers. He knew that to onlookers he personified the worst kind of travelling rep. Some deadbeat selling life insurance. But for all his sloppy appearance and Peckham vowels, Shaw was one of the smartest handlers in London.

His speciality was objets d’art, which covered a huge remit. Paintings, sculpture, furniture, antiques of any kind, books, medical equipment – and that Holy of Holies – relics. And the word ‘handler’ meant that Shaw literally handled pieces for collectors, crooked dealers, private connoisseurs and the criminal fraternity. For handler read thief.

Not that Shaw did his own thieving. He had others for that. Spent lags down on their luck, eking out a living as runners and dossing down in the Salvation Army hostels at night. Ex-convicts he would greet – bottle in hand – as the doors of Wormwood Scrubs or Strangeways unlocked, beating relatives, lovers, certainly the clergy, to the post. Scuppering any chance of the ex-prisoner going straight, Shaw was a walking advert for recidivism, catching the vulnerable at the point between prison and the outside world. The latter usually looked infinitely more threatening than the offer Shaw was making.

Men who had become nervous about re-entering normal life found themselves lured in. Once in, they became part of Shaw’s team. A numbering dozens team that stretched across London. And each was a specialist in their field. Shaw was an equal opportunities employer too. A woman could often prove more useful than a man, seducing secrets out of people who usually betrayed nothing, even to themselves.

But by keeping himself remote from the actual handling – and by using an intermediary to negotiate for him – Jimmy Shaw was never caught. The runners were caught and served time for him, their sentences made bearable by a healthy retainer or the promise of future work. People might have heard of Jimmy Shaw, but they didn’t deal directly with him.

Except that now there was something in the offing which was too valuable, too precious, to entrust to any of his employees. Something too tempting for any crook to resist. Something Shaw would have to handle himself. A sticky secret, a whisper from Spain. And with it, the promise of enough wealth to satisfy even his greed.

Tripping over the step as he entered the supermarket, Shaw moved to the sweet counter and grabbed a handful of chocolate bars before snatching up a family-sized bag of crisps and taking his place behind the long queue at the checkout.