He was led into a small office at the back of the garage. When he turned, he rec-
ognised the bouncer from Jabez. ‘Small world.’
‘Certainly is, pal.’ Martin smiled with half his head. ‘Coffee?’
The coffee arrived in a cafetiere with the silver fox, who handed out mugs, poured and departed.
‘Yeah, sorry about the shit we put you through, getting you here.’ Martin turned
over an ampoule in one hand. ‘Gotta be done – keep up appearances and that. But you can stop shaking – you’re not gonna be hurt. The lads are really just curious about where this shit came from.’
‘I got it from the MRI. I used to be a doctor, I have a swipecard.’
‘Yeah?’ There was curiosity in Martin’s voice. ‘That’s a good angle. Obviously
you can’t be selling it on the streets. We spent a long time building up this market, and bouncing don’t pay the rent in these troubled economic times. You’re obviously new in town –‘
‘I was born here. I’ve been away, though.’
Martin shrugged. ‘Whatever. You weren’t to know. But you can sell to us. What
kind of work you done?’
It took a beat for Anderson to understand. ‘Credit card fraud, y’know, ID stuff.
Nothing big really.’
‘Time?’
‘No.’
‘Okay then, Dr Brian Coverdale. That’s you, is it?’
‘Yep.’ It was, at least, the name on Anderson’s fake NHS pass, which he’d had a
besotted Hammersmith medical secretary run off on the hospital machine. Martin handed it to him, along with a card. It was professionally done, with raised lettering and a mild, pleasant resistance to the material. A sophisticated European font displayed Martin’s name and mobile phone number. 74
Welcome to South Manchester, where the criminals carry business cards. THE LAMPETER REVIEW - Issue 2 - January 2011