Dan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited close to the address on Carl Ogden’s charge sheet, hoping that he hadn’t moved since.
He had to be in court soon, with a client who’d been a daily caller ever since he’d been charged, accused of harassing his ex-partner but regaling Dan every day with whatever messages or slights had come his way. He was the client Dan wanted to please, because he was a complaint waiting to happen, and more complaints meant more cases, but Dan needed to deal with Oggy before he went there.
His attention was focused on his wing mirror, his view back along a long curving street, cars parked on the pavement rather than on the driveways. An England flag hung in one of the windows. In others, the curtains were just loose rags spread across the glass.
The estate was a source of work for Dan, patrolled by the police and with frequent raids. Drugs, stolen goods, violence, it was somewhere he’d avoid after dark. For his clients, most didn’t have a choice, but it wasn’t those Dan felt for. Many of the houses were occupied by low-paid workers who wanted nothing more than to be able to do their job and enjoy their time off, hoping that their children moved on to a better life than they’d had. The estate often had different ideas though, with gangs and poor opportunities distracting teenagers. Dan lived off their wrecked lives.
A door opened and someone shouted. As Dan watched, Oggy appeared through a wooden gate. He was wearing the same trousers as the day before, his name emblazoned down the leg, and a long sports jacket that seemed too heavy for the pleasant spring day ahead. His face was obscured by a baseball cap sat on top of a bandana. It was LA hip on a grim northern estate.
Oggy pulled a cigarette packet from his pocket, pausing only to light it. By the time he looked up again, Dan was on the pavement in front of him.
Oggy stepped back. ‘Whoa, man, what’s going on?’ Then his eyes narrowed as recognition kicked in.
‘You’re still stupid enough to wear the same trousers, I see.’
Oggy went as if to walk past. ‘I don’t need this shit.’
Dan put out an arm. ‘The same for me yesterday, but it didn’t stop you.’
Oggy squared up to Dan, but Dan was much taller and his shoulders broader. Dan relied on the notion that Oggy was a coward and would only get involved in a fight he was certain he would win. And this time, Oggy wasn’t holding a knife.
Oggy backed away. ‘Bullshit, man. You can’t prove anything.’
‘Are you so sure? I’ve traced you. How do you know the police won’t be far behind?’
‘Yeah, a defence lawyer as a grass. That’ll make it sweet for you round here?’
Dan almost rolled his eyes. Oggy was a gangsta cliché. The setting didn’t match though. ‘And it hasn’t crossed your mind that I might have connections round here, clients with bigger reputations than yours?’
Oggy’s eyes widened for a moment.
Dan smiled and stepped closer. ‘It hasn’t, I can tell. Do yourself the next favour then. Tell me who sent you.’
Oggy stepped back. ‘I don’t reveal my sources. I ain’t no grass.’
‘Drop the act and the patois, Ogden. If you were a big man round here, you wouldn’t be doing someone else’s bidding. Yesterday made you a gopher, a runner. Tell me who you were running for.’
‘No way, man.’ He was backing up further.
‘I won’t say you told me.’
Oggy shook his head, his eyes wider, before he turned and ran, his hand keeping his baseball cap on his head.
Dan watching, bemused.
Oggy was scared. And Dan was starting to wonder whether he should be too.