The Stash Read online

  John took the elastic bands from around the money, meanwhile Alan slit through the multiple layers of packaging. Not surprisingly revealing a fine white powder. ‘Coke it is then, a kilo I guess,’ stated Alan, ‘how much have you got there?’ John was still counting the money. ‘Well?’

  ‘Five grand,’ replied John, rolling the notes back up and replacing the elastic bands around them. Alan pushed the packet along the floor towards John and began replacing the brass cover.

  ‘Wait! Put this lot back first,’ cried John, putting his hand on Alan’s forearm.

  ‘You know I can’t do that. Now take your bloody hand off!’ Alan had promised his wife, Caitlyn, when they got married that he would leave his life of crime behind him, which included a string of armed robberies. Alan started his own decorating business and appeared on the surface to have kept his word.

  This was not strictly true. Alan had interpreted his promise to Caitlyn as meaning that he would not go out and actively commit crime. If something fell into his lap that he could make a quick quid on, well that was another matter. Wasn’t it?

  ‘We can’t take this,’ John said, but for his own safety removed his hand, ‘we don’t know who we’re stealing from for a start. Isn’t that one of your golden bloody rules? What sorts of people have a kilo of coke in their sodding bedrooms?’

  ‘Normally that would be true, but this is too good to pass up, besides they won’t know who took it. They’re probably just stupidly rich so called ‘political refugees’, who snort so much bloody coke they forgot they put it there,’ replied Alan, who was now wrapping the cocaine in a builder’s waste bag.

  ‘Won’t know who took it? Take a good look around Alan. We’re the only ones here for Christ’s sake! Forgot they put it there? Have you gone completely bloody insane?’ shouted John, waving his arms around wildly and really starting to worry now.

  ‘We’re the only ones here, now,’ Alan replied, calmly, ‘but don’t forget they’ll have had the removals people in here twice and someone to clean the gaff up before what’s his face gets back. As well as the lovely Miss FB. Deniability, plus the fact that they’re not gonna want to go shouting around the whole of London fucking Town that they’ve lost a kilo of coke now are they?’

  Still scared and against his better judgement, which he rarely used, the lure of money and cocaine was swaying John towards his friend’s argument. Besides, he could tell that Alan had made up his mind and there would be no changing that. The only way he could stop his friend was through physical confrontation. Looking at Alan’s determined face, John realised that was not a good option.

  ‘I suppose I haven’t got much bloody choice have I,’ it was a statement really, not a question.

  ‘Now you’re catching on,’ Alan replied, giving John one of his trademark grins, normally reserved to disarm opponents, ‘now stuff that wad in your pocket and get back to work, we’ve still got a couple of hours till knock off.’

  ‘Now I know you’ve lost the bloody plot! Go back to work? I’m shaking like a bloody leaf. I need to get out of here and get a whisky down me,’ John said, heading towards the door and stuffing the money into his overalls as he did.

  ‘You will get back to work or you won’t get bloody paid,’ Alan said, smiling at his friend, ‘besides we have to make everything look kosher don’t we? What if Miss Congeniality comes round and finds us not here? We’ve got to finish the job and get paid on Friday as usual, so we don’t arouse any suspicion.’

  Taking a moment to digest this, John realised that Alan was right. If they were going to take the stuff, which it looked like they had, then they needed to make everything appear to be normal. Trembling and sweating profusely, he returned to the other bedroom and continued putting the first coat of paint on the walls, dripping paint everywhere in his preoccupied state. Luckily Miss Fielding-Brown didn’t pay them a visit that afternoon. John wasn’t sure he would have kept it together, knowing the bank roll was stuffed in his pocket, pressing against his thigh.

  Alan and John didn’t speak to each other for the rest of the afternoon. Even in the elevator on the journey down from the penthouse there was a claustrophobic silence. It was not until they had been in the van for fifteen minutes, and were stuck in traffic outside Kings Cross Station, that Alan finally spoke.

  ‘I want you to go over and see your mate Steve tonight and see what we can get for this shit. Offer it to him at a couple of grand less than he offers for a quick sale. No matter what he asks, don’t tell him, or anyone else for that matter, where this stuff came from!’

  Alan then paused for a second before continuing, ‘If you have to say anything just say it’s from a friend. And if he wants it at such a bargain price to stop the awkward fucking questions or you’ll take it somewhere else. Tell him he’s got a few days to raise the money and we’ll call on Friday to arrange where and when we’ll do the deal.’

  John remained silent. Alan had obviously been putting more thought into this than he had. John was still mulling the possible fatal consequences over in his mind that stealing a kilo of coke might bring. He hadn’t got round to planning on how to get rid of it.

  Steve was an unemployed thirty six year old skinhead, who lived in Walthamstow. He sold cocaine, speed, heroin, crack and pretty much any narcotic there was a market for, to make ends meet and feed his habits. He liked to bet on the dogs at the local track, and frequent the nightclub below, where he could mix with other members of East London’s underworld.

  It was after a particularly good day at the races that John bumped into Steve at the bar, about his height but broader, tattoos showing on every visible bit of skin, including his domed scalp and face. They shared a few drinks together before doing a line of coke in the toilets. John bought a gram from him for fifty quid, and kept his number for future reference.

  John rarely went to see Steve, due to his unreliability and poor quality product. Alan obviously thought Steve was their best option. He was the only dealer they knew outside their usual circle of friends and acquaintances.

  John lit a cigarette and rolled down his window letting the cold November air mixed with petrol fumes enter the van, blending with his tobacco smoke. ‘Ok,’ he said, ‘where are we going to meet him?’

  Alan, cursing as he was forced to brake sharply, looked at John, ‘I haven’t worked that out yet, that’s why we’ll call him on Friday. You can bloody handle this right?’

  John wasn’t really sure. This sort of thing rarely happened to him. ‘Yeah, no worries mate. I’ll let you know how I get on tomorrow.’ They turned north at the Angel and after a few hundred yards branched right onto Essex Road. Traffic seemed to ease off and five minutes later they were in Newington Green, pulling up in front of John’s apartment on Poet’s Road.

  John grabbed his bag off the seat between them and reached for the handle. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ said Alan. John knowing what he meant, and half expecting it, pulled the roll of fifties out of his pocket and handed it reluctantly to Alan.

  ‘Don’t want you spending it at Steve’s, getting stupid and drawing attention to yourself,’ grinning, Alan pushed the money into his duffle bag left on the seat. He handed a small packet to John. ‘Take this and give it to Steve as a sample. Don’t go bloody snorting it all yourself. I’ll stash this lot until Friday and we can get rid of it. In the meantime try to calm down and relax will you, everything’s going to be hunky dory. And remember not a word to anyone about where it came from! See you tomorrow.’

  John didn’t share his friend’s confidence but there was no going back now. Muttering goodbye he exited the van, even managing a brief wave when Alan blew the horn. Wearily he trudged up the steps and began to insert his key into the front door lock.

  Before he could, the door flew open and two Spanish students ran out laughing. They were a permanently stoned couple who lived on his floor. Cannabis could often be smelt wafting down the hallway. They almost knocked him over in their haste to get to the local grocer�
��s store and buy more munchies. They apologised profusely and continued on their way, arm in arm, down the street. Totally oblivious to John’s nervous state and the fact that they had very nearly caused him a bloody heart attack.

  ‘Calm down, get a grip,’ he thought. Stopping off in the kitchen to grab a beer from his locked compartment in the somewhat smelly fridge on the way, he went up the stairs to his room on the first floor.

  John’s ‘apartment’ was really a room in a house where he shared the kitchen and bathroom with eight other residents. The rooms changed hands on a regular basis and John had stopped being surprised by new faces in the hallways, or coming out of the bathroom. Most of them were grubby students with no apparent concern for hygiene or cleanliness. John had long ago given up the battle to keep the kitchen and bathroom clean. They came and went so often he didn’t even know who to have a go at anyway.

  The only other permanent fixture was a middle aged Rasta called George, who lived on the ground floor, and wore an actual tea cosy on his head to keep his dreadlocks out of the way. George, for some unknown religious reason, liked to cook his food and then leave it out on the side to grow bacteria for a few days before eating it. This only added to the confusion in the kitchen, John wasn’t sure whether he had thrown George’s dinner away on a number of occasions.

  Closing the door to his bedroom John slumped onto his bed and reflected on the day’s crazy turn of events. At least I can put a deposit on a decent place and get out of here. He looked at his shabby surroundings and began to feel a bit more positive Maybe Alan was right, everything was going to be ok.

  If John could have seen Tunge, a large shadow of doubt and fear would have spoiled everything. He might indeed have wet himself.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tunge was stood beside his father, in a rundown waterfront warehouse on Apapa Road. It was the only real road in and out of Tin Can Island, connecting Lagos’s main wharf, naval dockyard, and the Ashanti Army Barracks to the mainland.

  The area, once bustling with activity during the country’s oil boom, now largely lay empty. Few of the lights were left on in the city on Lagos Island across the deep, green and murky waters of the lagoon. They reflected in the water through the gap left by the huge, slightly open, loading bay doors. Almost directly in front of them Tunge could make out the British High Commission, behind it was Ikoyi, the most desirable residential area in Lagos. Home to his father’s impressive mansion and the Ikoyi Club and Golf Course, where he had discovered his liking for fair skinned women.

  Tunge took an expensive silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and placed it over his nose to stifle the stench of vomit, defecation and fear that threatened to suffocate him. He pretended to cough into it, just to make sure that his father didn’t notice his momentary weakness.

  ‘I don’t know why I bother employing people like you. You are useless. I should kill you now,’ screamed Babajide Akintola, or ‘the Chief’, as he was feared locally. He was a product of the vicious civil war in Nigeria and had been promoted to the dizzying heights of General after a particularly bloodthirsty campaign. Stood before his captive audience he was dealing with business matters in his usual savage manner.

  Holding the mutilated left ear of the man tied to a chair in front of him in one enormous chubby hand, and a machete dripping in blood in the other, he continued his fierce tirade ‘Now you will remember to listen to my instructions in the future won’t you Mujide? You will never again tell me that you forgot to hear me or do as I told you. Is that clear? Or next time I’ll cut off your testicles and watch you choke to death on them!’ Spit flew from the monster’s mouth as he fumed with rage towards the man, who struggled to say something from underneath the gaffa tape. Presumably it was that he was extremely sorry and that it would never happen again.

  Colonel Mujide Oyederan was about to pass out with the pain and shock. They dragged him from his home on the other side of Lagos in the middle of the night, bundling him into a pick-up truck with a hood over his head. They beat him severely with rifle butts as he begged them to leave his recovering wife alone. She had been roughly handled but thankfully not seriously hurt. After an hour’s journey in petrified darkness, and sweating under the hood, the car had finally stopped. He had been strapped to the chair and just noticed the odour of kerosene, when the blindfold had been removed.

  A Customs Official working the docks, he was responsible for making sure that the Chief’s shipments were handled quickly and without any embarrassing inspections. Unfortunately Mujide’s wife had been taken very ill and rushed to what was a hospital in name only. He was wrought with worry due to the high rate of mortalities and wouldn’t leave her side. In his grief he forgot to oversee the arrival of a container arriving from Southampton.

  As was common place, the container of car spares had gone missing, its contents quickly sold through a network of black market dealers to end up at various mechanics, in and around Lagos.

  Unknown to Mujide, the Chief had arranged for an S Class Mercedes to be mixed in with the load. Hoping to avoid the hefty importation tax, enforced on new cars legally brought into the country. The Chief had been awaiting delivery of his new toy for nearly six months. To say that he was not best pleased, was a remarkable understatement.

  Tunge had arranged the purchase and shipment of the car, so he was simply grateful that someone else had been found responsible for its disappearance. Although he doubted that his father would hurt him seriously, as heir to his vast fortunes, Tunge had suffered pain from his father’s hand on numerous occasions growing up. As a result he feared him almost as much as the other men in the room. None of them would ever dare to question the Chief. They had all seen the consequences in the past.

  The remaining two men in the room were his father’s most trusted enforcers, disarmingly named Happy and Patience. Although used to the uninspired simplicity of Nigerian names, including the days of the week, even Tunge found the irony amusing. Happy was the most sadistic and emotionless killer the Chief could find in Lagos, which was some accolade considering the stiff competition.

  After starting by selling cocaine for the Chief on the streets of Lagos at the age of thirteen, Happy had worked his way up the ranks by killing on numerous occasions for him, to become his most trusted right hand man. Happy both despised the fact that Tunge would inherit the Chief’s wealth and position, and envied the lifestyle he was allowed to lead. Happy did enjoy his work though, and was grinning insanely, eyes gleaming brightly, as he struck the bound and bleeding Mujide in the stomach yet again.

  Patience was a giant of a man, with an extremely quick temper, and no brain cells at all, as far as Tunge was aware. He was standing silently a few feet behind the seated figure. Another long term employee of his father, it seemed that Patience went everywhere the Chief did. He was constantly at his side, guarding him against the inherent dangers of being Lagos’s biggest crime boss. Patience had even served under him in the army. Where, using his position as General, the Chief had siphoned off vast amounts of government funds intended for the military.

  After President Babangida’s regime was finally overthrown, the General made a hasty retreat to London, under the guise of being a political refugee. There he set up the legitimate export of kerosene to Nigeria, the favoured cooking gas used by millions to fuel their makeshift stoves, in exchange for crude oil being shipped back to the UK. Resourceful as well as ruthless, the Chief had soon built his considerable wealth into a vast fortune, branching out into all sorts of trade between the two countries.

  Living in self inflicted exile for four years, he was able to return to Nigeria, after another coup and a more favourable government took power. Some of whom were the Chief’s old cronies. Half of them forming the new National Drug Law Enforcement Agency, called NDLEA for short. Under their protection, and using his legitimate Kerosene business as a front, the Chief became the main player in the shipment of cocaine to and from Nigeria.

  The Chief was then able to branch
out into other profitable activities, such as prostitution and heroin smuggling from the East. He had even set up a highly lucrative business selling and smuggling teenage Nigerian girls as prostitutes to clients in Spain. Some of the girls were as young as eleven and ritually smothered in the blood of a decapitated chicken, with its heart still beating, before being shipped to the Spanish mainland.

  During the ordeal the girls were told that their families would die slow and painful deaths if they tried to escape. The mixture of an ingrained pagan belief in witchcraft, and fear for their family’s safety, meant that in over twelve years the Chief had never had anyone run out on him. Unfortunately he had been forced to abandon that line of income because of an undercover television reporter. The journalist, posing as a Spanish client, had pretended to fall in love with one of the girls, and offered to buy her out for thirty thousand Euros.

  The Chief had smelt a rat on meeting the man, and sent him to visit the opposition’s brothels instead. The innocent girl and her pimp where disposed of in Barcelona, and the Chief had given the whole business up as a bad lot, for the time being that was anyway.

  Tunge looked at his father’s face twisted in a demonic grin, and shivered inwardly. He loathed having to make these trips at all, and couldn’t wait to board the British Airways flight on Friday back to London. Although Lagos was his birthplace, Eton and Oxford educated, Tunge had long ago become accustomed to the finer things in life.

  Things you simply couldn’t find in the shanty towns and decay of Lagos’s streets. Like decent nightclubs and high class white hookers, for which Tunge had a developed taste. Besides, the levels of violence employed by his father, and a general disregard for human life by the population of the city, left little to be desired. Tunge much preferred to be in London handling affairs there. Affairs which were generally dealt with in a more businesslike and civilised manner, and didn’t involve anyone getting parts of their body cut off.