It was now almost three months since Carrie had moved into Soho and persuaded Snowman that he could use her flat as a safe house for his cash and his stash. He found her sexy and was attracted by her independence; he had no idea that he was being manipulated.
Harry sat transfixed. He watched and wished.
Using the remote control he tightened the zoom on the beehive camera. The image of all his fantasies was on the monitor with the DVD burner recording on the desk in front of him. He was aroused, observing a beautiful woman without her being aware that he was watching.
Snowman put a bottle of Delamain brandy on the coffee table. He noticed the remains of the coke on the mirror and looked at Carrie who was calculatedly ignoring him.
“I thought you were looking perky”, he said sarcastically.
Snowman only really had one problem in life and that was how to launder all the cash he made. He couldn’t put it in the bank because without a satisfactory explanation they were obliged to alert the authorities.
Soho Cars’ office in Old Compton Street used to be a tobacco kiosk.
The Black Brothers took it over in the eighties and still ran it from the pavement.
Harry White was the name on his licence and he had been given the nickname ‘Whitey’ by the Brothers as he was the only white man on the fleet. They knew Whitey didn’t like to go far from Soho but he would work the early-hour shift when demand was high, punters intoxicated, and cabs hard to find.
The odd-looking man waiting on the pavement by the kiosk was a regular. The man didn’t bother with the half-eaten sandwich and newspapers on the front seat; he got straight in the back.
Harry had been Snowman’s chosen driver for the last few months; three or four times a week he had run him a few hundred yards around Soho and Harry wondered who the man he called the mutant was trying to impress. He didn’t like him. In fact if he ever thought about it Harry didn’t really like anybody.
SNOWMAN : (EARLY HOURS, TUESDAY 3 NOVEMBER)
The Otis lift didn’t work. This wasn’t unusual. The old accordion gates often stuck in the floor groove which was filled with a lifetime’s grime.
Snowman had been on his feet for eight hours touring Soho’s clubs and bars checking his contacts and selling to his clients. It had been a good night; he had collected nearly three grand today.
Harry was a thickset man who although fat looked powerful and full of threat. He didn’t stand out in a crowd; that is unless you looked into his eyes. The few people who did would not hold his gaze for long.
Harry’s flat was on the corner of Dean Street and Bateman Street with windows that looked out over both.
Taking the syrup with him he clambered up the wooden steps and unlocked the roof-light.
The rain fell lightly through his thinning greasy hair. He shivered as he emerged onto the roof. From this dark vantage point he could, unseen, watch people without their knowledge.
When Carrie had moved into the flat opposite it hadn’t been easy for Harry to observe her from his window without being seen. So he had sacked the temple and built his own Trojan horse; the hive camera had solved the problem.