What happened when a hawker "left a fruit basket...under Mr. Wm. Vincent's stall."

Protection rackets find their way everywhere. Billy knew very well if he didn't leave a good pocketful of money - cash - in the basket when he packed up after a week's work... well, he knew what would happen. He had tried putting in pineapples once - the tastiest item he dealt in - but had had an accident on the way home. In the dark. In the drizzle. In the gutter. He was lucky it wasn't at the dock edge where he collected the flowers from Holland, or on the railway platform where the trains from Liverpool brought in hot-land fruit from the West Indies. Some hawker, him. Some hero, for that matter.

He had tried building work. There was the Civic Centre, newly rising, which was supposed to look like a Swedish town-hall, a right box of a building, more like an old-style parish hall to his eye. He was only a labourer, mind. But after a bit, they telled him he was fitter for demolition work. Lots of that round Eldon Square, he thought, but then the property market bottomed, and lots of prime brick had to be left standing. He filled skips for a couple of days and decided he was better suited to selling pineapples.

At least he still had his van. "Naa what?" he thought, driving along, as a mighty thump buckled the roof. He braked and checked the mirrors. Mebbe summick had fallen from the top of the multi-story carpark. Vandals with rocks, laughing their heads off (he supposed). "Weel, Aa'm not bidin' heor to finnd oot," he declared and made for the market sharpish.

He pulled up at the loading bay and realised he'd been wrong about the asteroid theory when a plump signet-ring arm flopped over the windscreen. From his van roof? He lowped out and there it was. Not a light body at that, the suit posh enough, but hardly worth sending to the cleaners now, he figured. To his surprise, he found himself looking rationally at the situation. Police or dump it? He looked round. Early yet; no one to witness owt. So he hauled it off the roof and dragged it over to a building skip opposite and levered it in. Easy if you've been lifting hods and scaffold poles for a living. From a tap in the corner of the yard he filled a bucket and dashed the water over his van, and then the bit roadway. "You may be a big man, but A'm fit," he said in satisfaction as he turned to unload like normal.

Gerry was at the stall waiting for him. "Is summick up?" she asked. He kept a hold on himself. "Na," he said. "Why like?" "Them lads ower there, seem a bit nervy to me." He looked, recognised the ones he reckoned were behind the protection racket that wrecked his market ambitions last time. Well, he'd have to face them sooner or later. So he walked over. Two of the bunch ran away. The others looked distinctly nervy. "Well lads?" he said, "Are ye up to yor tricks again?" They backed away a pace. "Na, Vincent." "Mr Vincent," his pal corrected him. "Nowt amiss. Glad ti see ye back." "Aye, that's it." "Well, now Aa am, things are gan ti change roond heor. Reet?" They nodded. "Billy Vincent's cowpin' nae creels fer the likes o' ye, gorrit?" "Aareet, boss (Mr Vincent). Canny stall ye've got there. Lots of profit in them things, when ye knaa how. We'll see ye divvent loss oot."

If Billy was a bit puzzled, he didn't show it. He went back and reassured Gerry. Then he started thinking, mebbe they saw me and the van outside...but they're too scared to talk. May even do me some good. He kept an eye on them after that, and made sure they saw him keeping an eye on them. When one them went to the market phone mid-morning, he followed and stared at the number the kid was dialling. "Ye divvent want ti myek a mistake now," he commented. "Nae bother," said the nervy kid, "Aa wis jis wonderin what to dee, now... like..." and hung up. Aye, checking what your gaffor makes of it all, Aa knaa (thought Billy) and waited to see.

Nowt happened. Gerry did well on the stall that day. Billy had to fetch a second delivery of fruit by midday, and that was unusual. Maybe his luck was in at last. But he couldn't help feeling a bit edgy when it came time to shut up. At least no one had prodded a collection box under the stall like before. He kissed Gerry goodbye and sent her off on her moped. "Ye'll be aaright, petal?" she queried. "Aye. Aa've fettled it Aa reckon. Aa'll see thee later." And when she was clear, he picked up a hefty crowbar from his demolition days, and turned to face the skulking racketeer posse.

"Nae need for that Mr Vincent," said one. "Here's the money fer ye." "Ye've a reet tiv it, noo," explained another. "Thor'll be mair the morrow," they assured him, and walked out, leaving it might be about a hundred pounds on the stall. He counted it. A hundred and ten! He couldn't have been more surprised if he'd rubbed an apple and a genii stot out. Had he overplayed his hand? He must have impressed them OK. Somehow. What was he supposed to do with the money? Hand it on to some boss for them? Or was he the boss now? A canny notion that. So he pocketed it.

Outside was another surprise waiting for him. The skip had gone - but the body was there, in the gutter. Some sod of an operator had prised the body out then lorried the rest away. The man's natty brief-case was still clutched in the stiffened hand, just like when Billy left it. He thought quickly. The skip cannot have been long since away, or folk would have noticed. Even so, leaving it lying about could be a bad move. Alright, he'd getten away with it so far. But them lads in the market weren't likely to stick up for him once the police became involved. He'd have to do summick and quick. He backed the van over, hauled the body into the back, covered it with a sack or two, all neat like. Not a nice task, but a lot was at stake. And he didn't want to mess things up for Gerry this time.

He set out for Blackington on the coast. A fair drive, but it was getting dark already, and no one took any notice of him in the thick traffic trailing out of the city at that hour. Why should they? Blackington was a colliery town, with a beach so rancid you could loss a football division there, let alone one surplus dead bod. He knew the track out to the cliff top. He'd used it when dumping waste from the demolition site. All sorts used it, so he didn't think anyone would question him. There was no one around. By the time he'd pulled up, the body had bloated a bit, relaxed, and the hand had let go of the briefcase. Should he hoy that too? He'd see in a minute. The body was clumsier to handle, but somehow he took the weight on his shoulders and dragged it to the drop, ready for the tide to do the rest.

Then he had a thought. He was only a few yards from the famous aerial flight. This was a belt of skip-size containers endlessly tipping and dumping into the sea, day and night, working as long as the colliery worked. The great buckets went out, inverted into the sea, and returned empty. He should have thought of that before. It was perfect. The bit cliff he was on was like a jut-out that overlooked the belt as it passed out to sea. Waiting a bit to get the rhythm of the machinery, he toppled the body over just right to land atop one of the loaded buckets. And out to sea they went - washery spoil and evidence.

He didn't want to hang about, but he needed to check the case before dumping it. He prized it open in the end, and almost the biggest surprise hit him. It was packed with cash. He slammed the van-doors shut and drove clear of Blackington, thinking it over. Whose cash? What deal had he getten the good end of? Some planning scam? The takings from the multi-storey carpark? Or... But that would be the chance of all chances.

He was late home, much much later than usual, and Gerry was fretting. "It's aareet," he said, as she ran up. "In fact, it's bonny!" And he opened the case of money before her. He didn't see the need to tell her all the details, but said he found it in a skip - he was checking for palettes and bits that could be useful on the stall. "Are we to keep it?" she gasped. "Weel..." He spied a bit paper tucked under the loot. It was - a list of names, and names (some) he recognised quite easily. "What's that?" "Aw, nowt," he said and tucked it in his jeans pockets. But it had been a list of market names and others. His benefactor had been the boss of the protection racket (and a lot more perhaps), he must have been: and Billy was his heir. By right, he telled himself, of conquest. More or less. "Aye, Aa think we'll keep the money, pet. There might be a lot mair comin' oor way. Wad ye object vary much?" "Na," she sez, perching on his knee; and then, "Billy, we could buy a shop!" And then, with a luxurious sigh... "It's like a wonder-movie."

Give it a year, he said to himself. And Aa've a fancy to buy a pineapple farm...