Shaun’s white van team had just returned from Belgium. “What’ve you got?” he asked Jerry, the driver.
“Lots of that strong Belgian lager you asked for,” Jerry said. “Bought it cheap – special offers.”
Shaun nodded. They’d run out of lager at AKD by Sunday morning; he’d had to send Vince to the cash and carry to fetch more. “Spirits?” he asked. “I wanted more premium brands this time. Snow Mountain vodka, malt whisky.”
Jerry scowled. “No Snow Mountain vodka. The warehouses don’t sell it. I bought Smirnoff as usual.”
Shaun sighed. “All right. Let’s take a look at your haul.”
Scott, Jerry’s mate, was unloading from the van into the storage unit they used about half a mile from AKD. He grinned. “It’s all here, boss. Vodka, rum, whisky, gin.”
They were the mass market brands that always sold well in the car parks of pubs and clubs. Not quite what Shaun had in mind for AKD, but he could always send the Transit boys on more frequent trips across the Channel. Jerry and Scott would do anything if the money was right, and it was a pleasant lifestyle for them; a couple of nights boozing in Bruges before they picked up the bootlegged liquor. They both had paunches to prove it. Shaun recalled the days he’d played truant with them. As teenagers, Jerry and Scott had been thin as rakes; now they were all showing their age.
He filled his car boot with crates of beer and boxes of spirits for the speakeasy. “Have a rest today and start flogging the stuff around Walthamstow tomorrow,” he told them.
It was three o’clock, just time to catch Kat before she left AKD. He had no need of her services there again, which was a pity. On a whim, he stopped at an off licence and asked for Snow Mountain. They didn’t have it – distribution was restricted to high end outlets, they said unashamedly – but they gave him the importer’s name: Bridges.
He called them. The phone was answered with the single word, “Bridges.”
“Can I speak to the boss?”
“It’s Marty Bridges speaking.” He was somewhere up north; his vowels flatter and consonants more pronounced than in Shaun’s everyday world.
“I want to order Snow Mountain vodka for my club,” Shaun said.
“Sorry, I’ve got a full order book.”
Shaun was dumbfounded. Just for once, he was offering to buy alcohol legitimately, and the seller wasn’t interested. “You don’t know who you’re talking to,” he said. “I’ve a mind to come round to see you.”
Bridges’ tone remained offhand. “You’re welcome to visit, but you won’t change my mind,” he said. “I can’t buy enough of that product to satisfy demand. I supply it to longstanding customers only.” He gave Shaun an address in Birmingham, repeating that he was happy to meet and asking if Shaun might like a different vodka.
Shaun admitted defeat. He had little interest in anywhere beyond the M25. Like Jeb, all he knew of Birmingham was that it was north of London and south of Scotland. He couldn’t be bothered to travel there, or indeed send Jeb, to rough up the arrogant businessman. Returning to AKD, he looked eagerly for Kat among the gaming tables.
“Where is she?” he asked Vince.
“Kat? She left early,” Vince said.
“Shame,” Shaun said. He would have to return to Diamonds to see her, he supposed.