Video: The Specials (including a very shiny Tezza Hall) perform Gangsters
Extract from Steve Finbow’s new novel, balzac of the badlands
‘Cheers, Max,’ I say as he slides a plate of bacon, eggs, sausages, black pudding, and two slices of buttered toast onto the Formica table. The Mermaid would have a fit. Not the fry-up – that’s fine. It’s the bread. Now, I’ve got to get this lot down my neck before she comes back with the info. Poor Mrs. Beckford. What a few days. I’ll give H a bell in a minute. Ozan reckons he doesn’t know anything about the Kurds in the Saab. I reckon he does. He wouldn’t grass ‘em up. Need to have another word in his conch-like. Now, let’s think on this while I dig into this nice juicy – and none too pink – rasher of bacon.
The café is full of locals. Shift workers. Railwaymen. The unemployed. The steam from the coffee machine hangs in the air above our heads like the London sky outside. I can smell leatherette, dried ketchup, mustard and the sweet whiff of marijuana. I take out my notebook as I slip a tricky piece of egg yolk and the butt of a sausage into my mouth, my head turned sideways so I can eat and read at the same time. Tuesday 7th May, SB goes missing. Last seen lunchtime 2pm, Palmers Green, getting into black Saab with three guys, look like Kurds. Friends, relatives, boyfriend – nothing. Thursday 9th May, Mr. Beckford goes missing. Last seen morning, 6 a.m., home Muswell Hill. Wife, employees, friends – nothing. A piece of black pudding crumbles as I fork it, a large fatty piece falls into my second egg yolk turning it a purpley orange. Now it looks like an embryo. Toss! I cut round it, excising as much of the yolk as possible, spear a slither of bacon and a thumb end of sausage, so on my fork I have what looks like a small kebab of English breakfast stuff. I then sink that into a triangle of toast, lift it to my mouth. I reckon it’s all connected. Not the food, I mean, the disappearances and the stomach pumps. So, H can take his Sherlock quip and stuff it up his bleeding bulbocavernosus, or whatever he’d call it.
I’m still not sure how they connect but they do. I can feel it. Right, last bit of bacon, scrape it through the egg snot, saved the butteriest piece of toast until last, and job done. JD. Max is on it like a crow on a drop-dead wood pigeon.
What’s H up to? My mobile rings.
‘Just about to call you.’
‘----------’
‘Really? I thought as much.’
‘----------’
‘Look. Mrs. Beckford’s been sent a note.’
‘----------’
‘Not sure. The Mermaid’s gone to pick it up. There’s a photo. She should be back any minute.’
‘----------’
‘No. You stay there. Keep an eye out. I’ve got a feeling we may have to take a look inside.’
‘----------’
‘Yeah, I will. Soon as. And, H?’
‘----------’
‘Not a drop. Not until later.’
‘----------’
‘And you.’
As I put the phone down, The Mermaid comes in, wrinkles her nose at the smell and the customers, and hands me an A4 envelope. I peer inside.
‘Want a coffee?’
‘No. The poor woman is in a terrible state. Her sister let me in. Mrs. Beckford was curled up on the sofa with her dog. Could hardly speak.’
‘Wh…’
‘Ah! Not the dog. You know who I mean. This is the original. The envelope’s in there as well.’
I pull out the envelope. Me being melodramatic, I expect the address to be made out of letters cut from magazines and newspapers. But it isn’t. In fact, it isn’t addressed at all. It just says, Mrs. Beckford. Bit familiar for your average kidnapper. The envelope – run-of-the-mill, usual stationery fodder, colour of wet sand, self-adhesive, A4. ‘Mrs. Beckford’ written in black ink. Looks like felt pen – medium tip. The B has a little tail slanting downward and dislocated from the bottom, and the middle bar doesn’t quite reach the spine. Fancy. The M and r are pretty standard but the s also has that little tail-like flourish at the bottom. Female? I take out the letter. Again A4 paper. Ruled with a margin. Four holes. Lined. Red line at top. Gum at the side. Obviously from one of those refill pads. Ryman’s probably. Not folded. Writing on one side. It reads: Mrs. Beckford. We have your husband. Do not go to the police. Where is your daughter? We will call. I hold the paper up to the light to see if I can see any evidence of an imprint. Nothing.
‘Anything?’ asks The Mermaid.
‘Nah. Not a sausage,’ I say, and immediately feel guilty.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing. I had a sugar low earlier. Still feel a bit rough.’
‘What about the photo?’
‘You ready?’ I say, holding the edge of the photo just above the flap of the envelope like it’s the fucking Oscars or something.
‘Yes. I’m not promising anything. It doesn’t always work. If it did, my life would be a nightmare.’
‘You said it was the other day.’
‘No, I said YOU were a nightmare. Come on. Get on with it.’
I pull out the photo and look at it before placing it in front of The Mermaid. And when I see it, I’m really not sure I want to show it to her. No wonder Mrs. Beckford’s in a state. It’s a photograph of Mr. Beckford. He’s naked except for his underpants, M&S by the looks of it.
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