‘Good morning, sir,’ the officer said. ‘I take it you do have the relevant documents for this vehicle?’
Smiley regretted ever opening his door to Biscuit and Coffin Head, wishing he had taken up the offer to stay at Dawn’s yard for the night. He would be nice and cosy in bed still, probably having a breakfast of fried plantain, eggs and ardough bread. ‘Yeah, I’m legal,’ he finally replied, staring ahead through the windscreen, refusing to meet the eyes of the policeman.
‘Do you have your licence on you, sir?’
‘I don’t carry it ’round wid me, it’s at my yard.’
‘Let’s hope it is. But all the same, I will give you a producer. If you have your documents, then you will have nothing to worry about.’
‘Can’t you take my word? I don’t lie y’know, I’m a Christian.’
‘Now, sir, if I did that all the time, eighty per cent of people around here would drive safely in the knowledge that they were not legal.’
‘Look,’ Smiley said, shaking his head in exasperation. ‘Your people ’ave stopped me before, man. I’m safe. Ain’t you got nutten better to do? Shouldn’t you be finding out who fling a petrol bomb in dat party at Deptford de uder day.’
Coffin Head had wound down his window in an attempt to eavesdrop on the exchange. He couldn’t hear much, but saw Smiley apparently being asked to step out of the van.
‘And what do you have in the back,’ the officer demanded in a superior tone.
‘I’m jus’ helping my brethrens move, innit. Jus’ doing a favour.’
‘Open it up!’
Biscuit and Coffin Head heard the demand. They looked at each other and decided to emerge from the car, their minds furiously whirring as to what to do. On seeing Biscuit and Coffin Head approach his colleague, the second policeman, who had remained in the patrol car, busied himself with his radio before stepping out, imagining the worst of scenarios.
‘Do you understand English!? Open it up!’ the ginger-crowned officer repeated.
Smiley’s delay gave Biscuit time to think. ‘He’s jus’ helping me move, innit. Nutten going on funny, officer.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that. Open it.’
Smiley lifted the shutters, thinking he was going back to his home of four months ago: Wormwood Scrubs. The two officers peered inside. ‘I hope you’ve got receipts for this lot?’
‘You know how it is, officer,’ Biscuit answered. ‘When you’re moving house, t’ings get lost an’ t’ing.’
‘Do you have the receipts or not?’
‘It’ll take a while to look for dem. Let it pass an’ I’ll come up to de station tomorrow an’ show you nuff receipts.’
‘Let it pass! Do you take me for a fucking idiot? This van stays with us until we complete our checks.’
‘What d’you mean de van stays wid you?’ Smiley bemoaned. ‘I was jus’ helping a brethren move. My van’s got nutten to do wid it.’
‘We don’t even know if the van belongs to you, do we?’ the officer snapped.
‘You lot ’ave stopped me untold times already an’ gi’ me producers,’ Smiley argued again. ‘I’ve ’ad more producers dan Hollywood.’
‘Wanna entertain my colleagues with your remarks down the station, do you?’
The policeman doing all the talking turned to his colleague and together they ambled out of Smiley’s earshot. ‘Have you got the form, Denis? Make out one for that Dolomite over there as well. Look at the state of it. I bet that thing never passed an MOT – it looks like it’s been in a stock car rally.’
Coffin Head wasn’t amused. The policeman scribbled down the registration numbers of the van and the Dolomite, then handed it to his colleague who returned to the Allegro and picked up the car’s radio.
‘Right, you lot, names and addresses, and don’t give me no bullshit because it ain’t worth it.’
Smiley responded first. ‘My first an’ middle name is Smiley Stopped-By-Beast. My surname is Suspect.’
The policeman paced towards Smiley with menace. Biscuit shook his head while Coffin Head whispered, ‘We’re fucked, totally fucked.’
‘Now, you might think you’re funny,’ the policeman said soberly. ‘Perhaps you want to be charged with obstructing police inquiries?’
‘Stop friggin’ about, Smiley,’ rebuked Biscuit. ‘Tell him what he wants, we ain’t done nutten.’
‘Jus’ winding you up, officer,’ Smiley laughed.
‘Name and address!’
‘Charlton Forbes,’ Smiley answered. He gave the officer his address and Coffin Head and Biscuit did likewise.
After a five-minute wait, during which the officer wrote in his notebook, the other policeman emerged from his car and spoke quietly to his colleague. The three black youths crooked their ears in an attempt to listen. Coffin Head knew he was legal, but he wasn’t sure about Smiley.
‘Seems like you lot are who you say you are,’ one of the officers stated. ‘But both vehicle owners will be required to produce their documents to a police station of their choice. The form tells you exactly what to do.’
‘I’m an expert,’ Smiley grinned.
‘Within seven days,’ the policeman added.
Biscuit thought of Nunchaks’ ultimatum: seven days to get the stolen goods back to him. He produced a wry smile as he realised he was halfway out of the hole he had got himself into.
After a check on Coffin Head’s car lights, indicators and tyres, the policemen returned to their car and were on their way. The black youths watched them drive northbound, towards Kennington.
Biscuit sighed. ‘Dat was fucking close. It’s a good t’ing de goods weren’t reported, otherwise we’d be yamming oats for breakfast.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Smiley.
The trio continued their journey into Cowley estate, turning into a side road where blue-painted garages with flat-topped roofs stretched out for a hundred yards or so. None of the pull-up garage doors had escaped the signature of a graffiti artist called Howling Lion. Biscuit was especially careful as he off-loaded their cache from the back of the lorry into the garage, telling Smiley and Coffin Head to cover the stereo with black bin liners and look out for any passers-by who might have an interest. Soon Smiley was on his way, telling his spars that some girl was expecting him. Coffin Head and Biscuit remained in the lock-up, surrounded by car parts, odd bits of furniture, all sorts of hi-fi equipment, a top of the range camera, a brand-new food mixer and other miscellaneous items, all overlooked by a huge poster of Bob Marley, the Gong.
‘So what’s your plans for de rest of de day?’ Coffin Head asked.
‘I’m going up de Line, try an’ sell some herb, den after dat I will check Carol. Ain’t seen her all week.’
‘You going up de Line?’ Coffin Head said in alarm. ‘Why don’t we jus’ sell the herb to people we know?’
‘Cos I wanna mek up de corn we lost on dat burglary.’
‘Bit drastic, innit? You don’t know who you’re going to meet up der so.’
‘I’ll be safe, man.’
‘Char. Sometimes you’re so headstrong. I’ll catch you tomorrow.’