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Simon was in the Cornmarket's beer garden.
Nicks sat down, sipped his Guinness then said, calmly, “What’s the big problem and it better be good?”
Si leant forward and quietly replied, “I’ve lost all contact with Don. I haven’t a clue where he is.”
Nicks lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out. “Probably gone on holiday. Could you not have thought of that?”
“Fuck off, Nicks. I have more contact with Don than you. He’s never done this before. He wouldn’t just bugger off on holiday. Where’s he going to go anyway? Beyond this, the man hasn’t got a life.”
Nicks smiled. “Is the pot calling the kettle?”
“Very funny, and you’re not so interesting yourself.” He pulled his chair closer to the table and lowered his voice. “This is serious. I’m not fucking about. I’ve had nothing for over a month. Yeah, I’ve had no contact before, a couple of weeks max but this long, never. I’ve tried calling him but he’s permanently unavailable. There’s something very wrong.”
He sipped his Guinness. “Well, phone someone else.”
“Who?” Si looked baffled.
“I don’t know, the only person I have contact with is you, and every blue moon Don. You must know someone, surely?”
Simon was exasperated. “Fuck me, you haven’t a clue. The only person I had actual contact with was Don.”
“What about Phil the taxi?”
“I’ve never met him. All my contact went through—”
“Don.” Nicks sighed. “I think I’m getting the gist of it.”
“Don’t you have a contact number for Phil?”
He shook his head. “No, didn’t see a need for it.” He was thoughtful for a few moments. Simon sipped his lager. Nicks took another drag of his cigarette, stubbed it out and said, “I do know his taxi plate number though. Makes him traceable.”
“How come you remembered that, of all things?”
“It was the last three of my collar number when I was in ‘the job’”
Si relaxed a little. “Do you think the taxi licensing would give us the information?”
“I doubt it. We’d just be two strangies asking questions and, with them being officialdom, they might start asking Phil awkward questions. Best to try the taxi ranks. Cook up a story, if needed, and ask anyone who knows him to pass on our contact details. He’ll recognise the number format straight away.” He sat back with another sigh. “You got access to any weaponry?”
Si shook his head.
“So, how did you supply me?”
“Don would get a bloke I only know as Baz to deliver to me, in a carrier bag. When I reported the job done, everything sorted, Baz would turn up again and take the stuff away.”
“Would you recognise him again?”
“Oh yeah, bit on the scruffy side but most people wouldn’t give him a second glance. I have got one or two bits and pieces of the technical stuff though. Only had to hand it back if it broke.” He finished his pint. “Another?”
He nodded and surrendered his glass. As Simon walked off, he dialled Don’s number ... unobtainable. Again, same result. He lit another cigarette.
Simon returned with the drinks. “Did you try him?”
Nicks took the phone from the table and slid it into his leg pocket. “Yeah. You were right. Never had that before.”
He downed several mouthfuls of beer and sat back, deep in thought, trying to recall some titbit of information he knew but hadn’t thought significant. Simon watched him in silence, occasionally sipping his lager.
Eventually, leaning forward, Nicks said, “I was trying to see if I had anything,” he tapped his temple, “up here, but all I’ve got is the last job we did. You were at the bar. He didn’t seem his usual self, can’t put my finger on it, but it was there. I asked him if he was ok and he dismissed it, said one day he might tell me about it. You came back and the moment got lost.”
“He’s never said anything to me.” Si checked his watch and lifted his pint. “Come on! Finish that and we’ll start on the taxis.”
Two hours later, they’d exhausted the city centre ranks. At the back end of a queue of hackneys, they were wondering what to do next when another cab pulled in. The driver got out and approached them. He didn’t look too friendly.
“Are you looking for Phil?”
“Yeah, do you know him?” Nicks was cautious.
“Are you bizzies?”
“Do we look like bizzies?”
“You could...” then he eyed Simon up and down. “Not him.”
Simon looked affronted.
“We’re not bizzies,” Nicks said, quietly.
It did nothing to mellow the cabby. “Why do you want him?” he replied, gruffly.
“We need his help. We really need his help. Can you get a message to him?”
“I might. Who’s asking?”
Nicks scribbled in his notebook, ripped the page away and handed it over. “Tell him Elvis has a problem. When will you be seeing him?”
The taxi driver folded the note into his pocket and looked him up and down, suspiciously. “That’s my business, Elvis.”
They left him as he clambered back into his cab. After crossing several junctions, Simon said, “I could have been a policeman. I was going to join the police cadets once but they disbanded them.”
Nicks pulled the door to the bar open and as Si passed him said, “Must have known you were coming.”