Bournemouth, suspecting–rightly–that the old house and its memories
were a potent symbol of her authority. Once, there had been queenly
arrogance in her high-bridged nose and pointed chin; now, she was regal
but resigned, like an abdicated monarch; knowing she was wise to release
the reins of power, but regretting it all the same. Tony realized that
this was why she needed him: he was king now, and having him to live
with her kept her close to the throne. He loved her for needing him. No
one else needed him.
She stood up. “Well, are you going?” “Yes.” He realized he had been lost
in thought.
He put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed briefly. He never kissed
her. “Ta-ta, Mum.” He picked up his coat, patted the dog, and went out.
The interior of the Rolls was hot. He pressed the button that lowered
the window before settling himself in the leather seat and pulling away.
He took pleasure in the car as he threaded it through the narrow East
End streets. Its shameless luxury, in contrast with the mean streets and
undignified old houses, told the story of Tony Cox’s life. people looked
at the car–housewives, paper boys working men, villains–and said to
each other: “There’s Tony Cox. He did well.”
He flicked cigar ash through the open window.
He had done well. He had bought his first car for six pounds when he was
sixteen years old. The blank Ministry of Transport certificate had cost
him the shillings on the black market. He filled in the blanks and
resold the car for eighty pounds.
Before long he had a used car lot which he gradually turned into a
legitimate business. Then he sold it, with the stock, for five thousand
pounds, and went into the long firm racket.
He used the five thousand to open a bank account, giving as a ponce the
name of the man who had bought the car lot. He told the bank manager his
real name, but gave a false address-the same false address he had given
the purchaser of the car business.
He took a lease on a warehouse, paying three months’ rent in advance.
He bought small quantities of radio, television, and hi-fi equipment
from manufacturers–and resold it to shops in London.
He paid suppliers on the dot, and his bank account was busy. Within a
couple of months he was making a small loss, and had a reputation for
credit-worthiness.
At that point he made a series of very large orders. Small manufacturers
to whom he had promptly paid a couple of bills of five hundred pounds
each were glad to supply him with three or four thousand pounds’ worth
of goods on the same credit terms: he looked like becoming a good
customer.
With a warehouse full of expensive electronic gadgetry for which he had
paid nothing, he held a sale. Record players, color television sets,
digital clocks, tape decks, amplifiers, and radios went for knockdown
prices, sometimes as little as half their retail value. In two days the
warehouse was empty and Tony Cox had three thousand pounds in cash in
two suitcases. He locked the warehouse and went home.
He shivered in the front seat of the warm car as he remembered. He would
never take risks like those again. Suppose one of the suppliers had got
wind of the sale? Suppose the bank manager had seen Tony in a pub a few
days later?
He still did the occasional long firm, but these days he used front men,
who took long holidays in Spain as soon as the ax fell. And nobody saw
Tony’s face.
However, his business interests had diversified.
He owned property in Central London which he let to young ladies at
extremely high rents; he ran nightclubs; he even managed a couple of pop
groups. Some of his projects were legitimate, some criminal; some were a
mixture, and others were on the nebulous borderline between the two,
where the law is unsure of itself but respectable businessmen with
reputations to worry about fear to tread.
The Old Bill knew about him, of course. There were so many grasses about
nowadays that nobody could become a respected villain without his name