4.

I was taken to Brixton nick. I didn’t see what they did with the van; I imagine they impounded it and confiscated the DVDs - along with whatever else Cleon had stashed inside it. I was kept waiting for hours in a dingy interview room. I made all the right noises, having seen it many times. You can’t keep me here forever. I know my rights. Milk, no sugar. All that kind of thing.

At long last a detective came to question me. He introduced himself as Whiting and the D S to his left as Sprat. It all sounded fishy to me.

“Bit of a mystery man, ain’t you, Mister Tonkinson?” Whiting’s sharp features seemed incapable of expressing emotion. Sprat, on the other hand, looked perpetually on the verge of tears. Allergies, I assumed.

“I’m just me,” I sneered.

“Took quite a bit of searching to get anything on you,” Whiting opened the slim folder on the table.

“You ain’t got nothing on me,” I snapped. “I ain’t never done nothing.”

Perhaps I was overdoing it on the vernacular. I decided to tone it down.

“You’ve been a good boy,” Whiting nodded, “I’ll grant you that. Up until now.”

“I ain’t done nothing!”

“Being found at the wheel of an illegally parked motor that turns out to be crammed with knock-off films ain’t exactly not nothing, is it?”

A brief silence followed as we worked our way through all those tortuous double negatives.

“Not your motor, is it, sunshine?”

I kept shtum.

“Can’t even drive, can you, sunshine?”

I may have pouted a little.

“Not legally, in any case. There’s no record of you ever having a driving license. And yet, there you are, at the wheel of a bloody great van.”

“Van wasn’t exactly moving though, was it? Atishoo.”

“Yes, yes; thank you, Sprat. When I want your contribution, I’ll give it to you.”

“So you can’t actually do him for driving, can you?”

“Thank you, Sprat!”

I sent the D S an amused but grateful smile, but he was too busy blowing his nose to see it.

“The vehicle is registered to one Cleon Brookes. Do you know this gentleman, Mister Tonkinson?”

I said nothing.

“You was sitting in his van...”

“Mister Brookes reported his van stolen, you see.”

Now that did surprise me. I thought he’d just gone for a piss.

“Mister Brookes reported his van stolen at fifteen oh five this afternoon. Said he’d gone out to fetch his dear old mum from the day centre and there it was: gone.”

My surprise must have registered on my face. I took more control of my features. Keep it neutral, I told myself. Don’t give anything away.

It was a set-up! Cleon had reported his own van stolen and then stitched me up good and proper. The swine!

My blood was boiling but I fought to keep a neutral exterior.

Why would he do such a thing?

I thought he liked me!

The interview was interrupted by a knock at the door. A uniform came in without waiting to be invited. He bent forwards and whispered in Whiting’s ear.

Whiting nodded to Sprat and the three of them went out.

Another couple of hours passed. I was bursting for a piss by this point. I kept my mind distracted from my bladder by trying to work out why Cleon had dropped me in the shit. What had I done? And why would he surrender a vanload of merchandise, worth thousands of pounds, to get rid of me? What if I spilled the beans? What if I blew the lid off the entire operation?

Ah, but what beans were there to spill? I only knew about the unit on the industrial estate and my guess was that would have been shut down hours ago. And, of course, nobody likes a grass. I would be putting myself into mortal danger if I uttered a word...

I just couldn’t understand why Cleon had done this.

It made no sense.

And then Whiting and Sprat returned. They apologised for detaining me for so long and for wasting my time. I was free to go. Would I like a lift - in an unmarked car of course?

A little stunned, I declined the offer but I did ask for the Gents. Whiting and Sprat couldn’t have been more apologetic for the discomfort I must have suffered. Sprat escorted me to the toilet but thankfully didn’t go in with me.

As I pissed - is there a better feeling than a long-awaited piss? - I tried to guess what was behind this latest turn of events. A set-up and now an unconditional release.

Someone on high must have intervened. Someone must have said I was not to be detained.

This could only mean my cover was compromised; the more people that knew about it, the more danger I was in and the less likely I was able to do my job.

While I was glad to be let go, I didn’t like the way it had come about. I didn’t like it one bit.

Sprat was in the corridor, waiting for me to emerge. He showed me to the main exit and apologised again. It had been an honest mistake, he said. I just wanted to get away. It would not do to be seen at the police station.

I zipped up my jacket and head down, scurried away. Me and that Cleon would have to have words. Sooner rather than later.

***

Of course, of bloody course, the unit on the industrial estate was empty. It had been cleaned out. There was no sign of recent human presence. Cleon had done a thorough job.

What did this mean? I was out of the game? All progress I had made, from Cleon’s best customer to invaluable DVD-pirate, had all been swept away. I was back to square one. Worse than square one because now I was known to ‘them’, whoever the fuck they were.

I wondered aimlessly around the area, gradually working my way back to Brixton. I had a drink in the Lion, nursing it for over an hour, as I watched the door. Cleon didn’t show up. I bought another drink and downed it. Of course he wouldn’t show up.

I went home.

I forced myself to use the communal bathroom, shutting my mind off to its horrors. I went to bed but didn’t sleep.

Perhaps I should try to see my Ealing contact. If my cover was compromised, perhaps I had better come in, mission abandoned.

I decided to give it a couple of days. I would stick to my routine and I would only cross the river when I was expected to. That way at least I’d be sure that my contact would be receptive or at least be anticipating word from me.

But he would know, wouldn’t he? He would know I had been picked up. Wouldn’t he? He would have been the one to pull the plug.

Wouldn’t he?

It is difficult to put a jigsaw puzzle together when you don’t have all the pieces or even the picture on the lid.

***

The days passed. My signing-on time rolled up and off I went to do my fortnightly duty. When I stepped out of the dole hole, feeling skittish as usual, my path was blocked by a familiar figure. His arms were spread wide as if to greet a long lost brother.

Cleon!

I tried to dodge past him, even though I was burning to talk to him, but, you know: appearances.

“Hey, don’t be like that, guy!” Cleon swung around to grab my arm. “It’s good to see you, man. Out and about.”

I gave him a look of withering disdain. He didn’t wither. He carried on grinning and didn’t let me go.

“I got my van back,” he announced proudly. He steered me towards where it was parked - legally, this time.

“Get off me,” I roared. His grip tightened.

“Chill, man. Just chill. I’m very pleased with you. We’re all very pleased with you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Get in the van.”

“I will not.”

“Get in the van. Let me take you for a ride.”

“I think you’ve already done that,” I sneered. I added “Guy” for good measure.

Cleon shook his head and laughed.

“Sorry about that, man.” He opened the passenger door. “I’m here to make it up to you. Let me make it up to you. Come on; what else you got to do today?”

Well, I didn’t say out loud, I was hoping to get across to Ealing and consult my contact. I’m up to my neck in an undercover operation, you see and -

I got in the van.

***

Cleon took me to an old East End pub. It stood incongruous among terraces of shuttered shops, a wedding cake surrounded by metal boxes. Close up, you could see the paintwork was chipped and faded, the whole edifice coated in dirt and grime. If it was a wedding cake, it was Miss Havisham’s.

Inside, the bar was bustling, in a dreary kind of way. Broken men in sportswear and fleeces made from Asian child labour hunkered over their pint glasses like crystal balls. The murmur of conversation was all around although at a glance, no one appeared to be speaking.

“Come through,” said Cleon. His South London accent rendered this as “Cam frew”. He pushed a door of smoked glass and we crossed a corridor to another door of solid wood. The gilt letters, Smoke Room, were still discernible, ghosts of an earlier age.

The atmosphere in this room was different. A flat screen TV, anchored high on the wall, dominated the scene. Men were sitting under it in a loose semi-circle, calling out encouragement to the footballers and casting aspersions on the referee’s parentage.

Cleon leaned on the counter. His eyes flicked around the room yet he still gave voice to his opinions on the latest onscreen mishap, adding his commentary to the general hubbub.

A pint of lager appeared on the counter beside his elbow. The barman looked at me with eyebrow raised.

“Um, the same,” I squeaked. I cleared my throat. I thanked the barman for my pint but he slipped away before I could pay for it.

A whistle blew. The crowd at the match stopped roaring. The picture cut away to the studio where pundits, uncomfortable in suits and a space-age set, began to regale the viewers with their opinions.

The men in the room shifted. Some headed off to a door labelled Toilets. Others ambled to the bar. Cleon moved me aside. He took me to a corner where a grand, winged armchair was occupied by a corpulent smartly dressed man, with oil in his hair and sovereign rings on every finger.

“Excuse me, Ronnie,” Cleon came over all deferential. “Got a minute?”

This man, Ronnie, raised a ringed hand from the arm of his chair, like a pope granting a favour.

“This is him, Ronnie. This is the guy. This is Tonk.”

He presented me like the top prize on a game show. I felt Ronnie’s tiny eyes, hidden by the folds on his face, take me in. The oily head nodded slowly.

“Pull up a seat,” he nodded. “Got a drink.”

I held up my lager. Cleon fetched us a couple of stools. Ronnie looked at him fleetingly. Cleon remained standing.

After a moment or two, Ronnie spoke. He had heard a lot about me. All of it from our mutual acquaintance and all of it good. He was impressed with my, whatsit, work ethic. He valued a good work ethic. Above all else, he valued trustworthiness. And I had displayed trustworthiness by the bucketful. Or should that be ‘vanload’, heh heh heh.

I was confused. I sipped the lager - too gassy, too tasteless - and let him speak. I gathered it wasn’t the etiquette to speak unless he invited you to.

Cleon was laughing like the good little sycophant he was.

“Carry on the way you have been carrying on,” Ronnie tilted his head, “and you will go far in this game, Tonk. Tonk? Farkin’ ‘ell! What kind of a name is farkin’ Tonk?”

He chuckled. So did Cleon. I nodded in a ‘what can you do?’ kind of way and took another sip.

“Come and see me tomorrow. Cleon will bring you. We’ll talk.”

He lifted his gaze to the television: I was dismissed.

I stood up. It felt as though some kind of nod or bow was necessary. I did neither; Ronnie wasn’t looking anyway.

As Cleon and I went back to the counter, the barman lifted the flap and came through. He approached Ronnie, eyes downcast.

“Someone to see you, Ronnie,” he muttered.

“Well, farkin’ bring ‘em frew then!”

The barman scurried back through the flap in the counter and disappeared into the other bar. He returned seconds later with two men in tow. They strode right up to Ronnie and sat in the stools Cleon had left there.

When I saw who they were, I nudged Cleon sharply but he scowled in annoyance, intent on the second half of the match.

I edged along the counter, trying to hear what these new arrivals were saying.

It was clear they hadn’t come to make an arrest. The barman took them shots of whisky and pints of lager on a tray.

What the fuck was going on?

Why were Whiting and Sprat drinking with a crime boss?