Crooks - A London Gangsters Tale | COMPLETED

Chapter Twelve

Wayne Carter was lazing by the pool when he spotted a figure approaching across the garden. For a brief moment, he was terrified, but then he made out the familiar shape of Rob Linley.

The weather was improving, and Wayne was finding himself spending more and more time outdoors. He was learning to enjoy his new lifestyle. He could even see himself as a man of leisure. He had his sports car, he had his millions of pounds and – most important of all – he still had his youth. He could do whatever he wanted.

Rob, however, looked to have aged a decade or two in the few days since Wayne last saw him. He came traipsing across the grass like a battle-scarred soldier returning from war. His tie hung limply around his neck like a noose, and there were sweat stains on the armpits of his crisp, white shirt. He hadn't shaved, and he appeared to have some sort of bandage around the little finger of his right hand.

Wayne sat up to greet him. "Rob! What brings you here?"

"Alright Wayne," said Rob, slumping into the seat beside his old school friend. "Sorry to bother you."

"Don't worry about it. You want a beer?" Wayne reached down and prised open the chiller cabinet at his feet, revealing a few green glass bottles protruding from a heap of ice cubes.

"I'd love one, but I'm driving, so better not."

Wayne knew what this meant: Rob had already been drinking. "Jesus," Wayne said, peering over the top of his sunglasses, "you look like shit, mate."

"Cheers. I feel like shit, too."

"What's up?"

"What do you mean, what's up? Haven't you heard?"

"I'm trying not to get too involved in stuff these days. I'm guessing it's something to do with Mile End?"

Rob shrugged. "Sort of. Wayne, I think I've fucked everything."

"Go on."

"It's Silvertown," Rob whispered. "I wish I'd never heard the fucking word. It's all gone tits up. The development has fallen through."

"Hmm," Wayne said. "I thought it was funny I hadn't heard from dad for a bit."

"It was the bug. The bloody Judas Fly. The Popovs got some environmentalist to issue a statement about the Judas Fly habitat, and now there's an injunction in place to stop construction."

Wayne gave a sardonic bark of laughter. "Ohhh shit. So what does that mean? Greasing a few more palms? It's going to cost him more than five billion quid?"

"That five billion's gone, Wayne," Rob said, shaking his head sadly. "The Popovs really did a number on him this time. But not just him – the investors, too. It's going to turn ugly, I think. Basically, he's spent five billion quid of other people's money on a worthless patch of wasteland."

"That's a real shitter alright," Wayne said, "but my dad's not the type of person to roll over when things get iffy."

"I don't know." Rob looked utterly dejected. "I think he may be up against it this time."

"So why have you come to me?"

"Because you're the only one I can talk to." For the first time, Wayne realised how desperate his old friend was. "You're the only one who knows what happened. About the Popovs. About that note, and the photos..."

"I'm guessing one of them is responsible for that?" Wayne nodded at Rob's broken finger.

"Yes. And I'm getting fucking paranoid over here, Wayne. I wasn't built to play these kinds of games. I'm a businessman, that's all. I'm not a gangster."