‘Cash flow,’ shrugged Ken. ‘That’s what the business is about. Without cash flow, it’s just messing about with old cars.’
‘I know,’ said Steve. He glanced down at the books. But accounts weren’t his thing. Never had been. That was why he had joined the Army instead of going into the City like his brother - the Golden Boy Mum and Dad were always going on about.
After dropping Ollie in London, Steve had driven up to the cottage last night, kipped down, then come straight into the office of Hallam & West. He and the rest of the team had forty-eight hours before they were leaving for Batota. By then, they had to put all of their lives in order, and get hold of as much kit as they could source in London. With Ganju and David on board, they were short just one man. Steve had already called Dan Coleman, the Australian SASR man who’d been with them in Afghanistan, but so far they hadn’t had any reply. All they had was a mobile number and that kept going straight through to answerphone.
Surely Dan would be up for it, thought Steve. There wasn’t any kind of scrap the Aussie didn’t want to get into the thick of.
Steve spent the day in the garage, getting his head around the books and checking that the two cars that had found buyers were in good enough condition to be shipped out. But the place wasn’t making any money, that much was clear. It doesn’t matter how much you try to deny it, Steve told himself. I need that cash I’ll be making in Batota to keep this place afloat.
‘I could use a favour,’ he said to Ken, as they walked together back to the cottage.
It was an old farmer’s lodge, with a couple of bedrooms, a sitting room and a small kitchen. Steve hadn’t done much to the place since he’d bought it: he’d shipped in his clothes, got himself a satellite dish, a Sky Sports subscription, and a home cinema system, but that was about it. One of these days he reckoned he’d get around to painting the walls. Maybe when he got back from Batota, and had some serious cash in his pocket again.
‘Where are you going this time?’
Ken was in his sixties now. Steve’s father’s brother, he’d spent ten years in the Royal Engineers before setting up the garage. He’d never had any kids of his own - he’d been married once but his wife had run off with another bloke while he was in the Army - and he’d latched onto Steve as a surrogate son. They were men cast from the same rough gun metal, Steve would sometimes reflect. He certainly had a lot more in common with Ken than he did with his own family: he’d fallen out badly with his own dad over joining the Army, and he was fed up with hearing about how well his brother was doing at the bank.
‘Batota.’
‘Bloody hell, Steve, what for?’
‘It’s a job,’ said Steve tersely. ‘I need you to look after the garage for a couple of weeks.’
‘Who are you fighting?’
Steve pushed open the gate that led through to the small front garden. ‘It’s a set-up,’ he said. ‘We’re going in for the Government . . . but we’re being paid to turn on them.’
Ken shook his head. ‘Africa’s a graveyard for men in your trade,’ he said. ‘You make sure you look after yourself.’
‘Everywhere’s a graveyard for a PMC,’ said Steve. ‘Otherwise they wouldn’t be hiring us.’
‘But Africa . . .’ Ken paused. It was a grey, overcast evening, with heavy clouds looming in the distance, and it was already pitch black even though it wasn’t yet six o’clock. ‘There were plenty of guys I knew who went out to fight in Africa in the mercenary wars of the 1970s. You could make good money in those days in Angola, Mozambique, the Congo - even in Batota. But a lot more went out than ever came back.’
‘Like I said, we’ll look after ourselves.’
‘But there’s blood in that soil, Steve,’ said Ken. ‘And it’s thirsty for more.’
Steve had pushed open the door. A light was already on.
‘Steve . . .’
His mother. Lois West was sixty, but was still a fine-looking woman. She had shoulder-length black hair, and a trim, pert figure without an ounce of extra weight on it. She remained, in Steve’s view, flawless: the only mystery was how she’d put up with living in Bromley with his dad for so many years.
Steve glanced towards Ken. He must have told her Steve was back for a couple of days. How else would she know that she could find him here today? And who else would have given her a key to let herself in?
‘Steve, I just had to see you,’ said Lois, planting a kiss on his cheek. ‘Your sister’s arranged a Christening for the new baby for the week before Christmas and I wanted to make sure you were going to be there. And then you might as well stay down for Christmas. Your brother will be over on the day, and—’