Charlie was one of the big criminal capos now, pushing the boundaries in every direction. He had forged a close connection not only with families up and down the country but also with the Matias crew who fronted a cartel in Colombia, so that Charlie’s gang could take care of things at the London end. For the last few years he’d been doing a brisk, steady trade in hashish through Morocco and Turkey, but he always wanted to push further.
‘I’m like a shark,’ he said. ‘Stand still and I die.’
He’d started importing Thai cannabis through Gatwick airport, paying baggage handlers to remove cases of drugs.
Now he used that same system – and others – to import his cocaine through his cartel associates in Bogota. Eighty kilos was worth about twenty mill on the streets, which was a big deal to the English gangs but chickenshit to the mega-wealthy Colombians.
When even bigger loads were being imported, Charlie turned his attention to the docks in Southampton where he already had people set up on the take and knew he could get containers coming through unchecked.
‘The Matias bunch keep flapping over security, but it’s sewn up tight,’ Charlie told Terry. ‘I own the ports. I own the police. I’m in charge. There’s no problem.’
Everything was working out nicely. These days, Charlie could only wonder at the modest beginnings of his life of crime. Now here he was – king of the entire fucking world, just like he’d always planned. Living a grand life in a grand mansion out in the sticks, but – he had to admit this was true – his heart was still back there on the old East End manor he’d been born into, wrapped up in the lifestyle he’d once known.
He didn’t mix much with the locals out here, and Nula didn’t either. Their old mates from the manor came out sometimes, but they never stayed long.
Their cash was welcome here, though. There was always somebody banging at the door asking for handouts. For the church spire. For the community centre’s new bogs. For the replacement of the village hall’s decaying porch. Charlie stumped up plenty at first, thinking that this was a route in and that it might please Nula to be part of it all.
But gradually the penny dropped. They were seen as dodgy newcomers, unwanted outsiders, and were asked repeatedly what line of business they were in. Charlie gave his stock answer to this one – he was importing wood for sofa frames, textiles for armchair covers, padding, springs from China, all that shit, and manufacturing and assembling furniture in his English factories. But the people around here never seemed convinced. The community withdrew from the Stones, and frankly Charlie was relieved.
In fact, after having been in love with the idea of a grand country manor, of literally ‘lording’ it among the yokels, he now felt that the whole ‘moving out’ business had been a big mistake. Yes, he’d fallen for the idea of living it large in the country, but the reality was, he didn’t care for it. He caught himself longing for the dirty streets of the city with that exciting air of seedy danger. He missed the rough sleepers, the even rougher old spit-and-sawdust pubs, the place that he truly, in his heart, still called home.
Now he was living a different life. He regularly attended charity events, kept up the pretence of being a legitimate businessman. In evening dress, him and Nula went everywhere in high society, to the royal enclosure at Ascot, the masked ball at Versailles, where once the Sun King Louis had reigned. Now Charlie Stone held court there, drinking Cristal champagne and eating beluga caviar. He attended the carnival in Venice, his costume – and Nula’s – extravagant in the extreme, their masks trimmed with gold thread.
They took luxurious breaks in Cap d’Antibes at the summer home of their Colombian associate, Javier. He had an exclusive and breathtakingly beautiful seafront villa there and treated them as his honoured guests to lavish lunches and trips over to Monte Carlo, where his superyacht was moored up in the bay.
‘This is a bit of me, all this,’ Charlie said when he was laid out on the sun deck of Javier’s yacht. But inside, he was starting to wonder if it really was.
Charlie was over the moon that Nula was pregnant again. Lady Luck was smiling down on him. He could have his longed-for son. Oh, he had Harlan, but Harlan was adopted. This boy would be his own flesh and blood, and a carefree life in the country was what every kid should have, he really believed that.
So for now? He was staying put.