“Enh,” I said, scratching my chin. I hadn’t shaved that morning, and the stubble provided a satisfying bit of grit against the nail. “Probably not.”
“So, I need to get going…” she said, directing her eyes to my pocket again.
“Sorry, not so fast. Did you ever know Yannick to, I don’t know, get a bit carried away sometimes with, like, booze? Or other stuff?”
“No, never,” she said. “I don’t think I ever saw him have more than two glasses of wine whenever we were together.”
I tugged the envelope loose, but not quite all the way out. Her eyes widened, ever so slightly.
“Why’d you and Annie fall out?” I asked.
“Who said we did?”
“My keen detective instinct,” I replied. “As well as the fact that you sold your alleged friend out pretty cheaply.”
She gave her shoulders an imperceptible shrug. If she felt badly, she was very good and not showing it.
“Sometimes when you’re working with someone they can make you feel like you’re working for them. Know what I mean?”
“Sure,” I said, handing over the envelope. “That’s why I enjoy being self-employed.” She slipped it into her purse—two tickets to the opening night of Love’s Labour Lost, courtesy Ayesha and a very happy client of hers from a bodyguard gig a few weeks back.
“Good seats,” I said. “Enjoy.”
“I will,” she beamed. “Know what it’s about?”
“I’m not really a Shakespeare guy.”
“You might like it, considering your work. It’s a comedy.”
“I laugh plenty,” I said.
“Yes, but in my experience, men rarely laugh at themselves,” she said. “A major theme of it is how women threaten men’s sense of self, their masculinity.”
My phone buzzed—it was none other than Annie Duclos, seeking an update. I was thinking of how to best couch my response when I realized Yvette was still waiting on a response.
“Well, uh, we’re famously sensitive about that,” I said, a tad lamely.
She laughed. “Yes, no kidding. And rubbish at multitasking, as well. Nice to meet you, Mr. Grayle. Way to fight all the stereotypes.”
18
That night. Brock and I had arranged for me to pick up the money at his place. I was looking forward to seeing him, putting his mind to rest a bit, so home was a good fit. Besides, there was no way I wanted to walk around with that much cash in what I assumed would be small denomination, crumpled bills, stuffed in a brown paper bag and likely damp from sweat. Maybe tears.
Ayesha bobbed back on forth on her heels as I hit the buzzer.
“How do you know this guy again?”
“Old friends,” I said. No answer. I hit the buzzer again.
“AA?”
“I never went to AA much,” I said. “I kinda just sweated it out.”
“Literally and figuratively, I’m guessing.”
“We all find our own way. He was big into it. Still is. Likes the structure.” I fished my keys from my pocket. He had given me a set, long time ago. Back in our drinking days, I would crash here every once in a while.
“Letting yourself in?” she asked.
“Brock sometimes plays his music too loud. Or maybe he’s taking a bath. Whatever. Let’s go on up.”
I switched the briefcase with my six grand around in my hand. It was heavy. Some of it was from a long-struggling line of credit from when I first opened shop. I had also kept some cash hidden in my place for emergencies, and it had been surreal stacking the bills neatly on my table. Reminded me of Jenga with my daughter, not least of all since Amy’s tuition pay-out, this was pretty much the last liquid cash I had easy access to.
“Or maybe he’s in trouble,” she said.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” I said, calling him on my cell as we stepped towards the elevator. It rang a few times, then went to voicemail.
She shrugged. “You know him better than me,” she said. “But if a buddy of mine were bringing me a lifesaving amount of money, I’d probably wait until he left to let Calgon take me away. Or whatever.”
The door opened and we stepped inside. I switched hands again—my palms were a little damp.
Brock’s place was on the 12th floor. The lift hummed to life, drawing us up.
“Anything more on Copta?” I asked.
“Everything I’m hearing is he’s pretty hands off. Anything left to his dirty work is outsourced, naturally. And he’s pretty much out of the game now, I reckon. Diversified.”
“Why would drug trafficking be any different than anything else in this economy.”
“You meeting him tomorrow? Want me to come?”
I glanced over.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing. I had no idea you would worry, that’s all.”
“I’m not. You’re a big boy. For my daily rate, though, I’ll stand next to you and look menacing on a 40 million boat.”
“I think it’s closer to 50,” I muttered. The lift lurched to a halt, and the doors opened.
No music blasting. I knocked on Brock’s door. Still nothing. Ayesha nodded at my phone, still in my hand. I tried it. After a moment, we could hear something, low and thrumming, from inside.
“Let’s go,” she said. I quickly worked the key into place and popped the door. She stepped in front of me, hand instinctively going into her jacket.
The apartment was dark, empty—the kind of empty where people are nowhere to be seen and most everything was gone. Cleaned out. The furniture was still there, but anything personal that I had seen—photos of his kids, his framed law degree, a few souvenirs from last-minute cheap weekend getaways—were missing.
His phone trembled on his coffee table. I ended the call, stepping towards his bedroom.
“Hey,” Ayesha said, putting her arm out to slow me. I shook my head and walked past her. There was no danger here. I was sure of it.
His room was the same—bed and rumpled duvet still there, but the nightstand was clear. I checked his closet—lot of clothes still left, but enough bare hangars to further let me know what was up.
I had hoped I was wrong, but is often the case in these matters, one was often disappointed by their correct instincts.
Ayesha and I reconnected in the living room. I walked over to the coffee table, picking up his phone. A few missed calls. Texts that would go unanswered, at least for a long time.
There was a yellow sheet of paper, A4, folded neatly in half next to it. I picked it up and opened it.
SORRY, MATE
-M
I let it fall back onto the table, where it fluttered before landing on its edge, falling closed.
“Thad?”
I said nothing. That couch over there, in the corner—I could still see the cigarette burn from one night we were here, drunk and laughing our asses off at a Father Ted marathon. He never bothered to swap it out, just put a cushion over it. You had to know it to see it, but there it was.
That kitchen, in front of the fridge. I had once opened the door, pulled out a beer, and without warning—even to myself—broke down crying in front of him. It was a week after Rox left. I felt both embarrassed and relieved when he grabbed me by the shoulders and said it was all going to be OK.
There was an empty frame on the bookcase. I knew the picture that was missing. It was him and his son. The kid would be about 14 now. I had stuck a 50-pound note into a birthday card for him, few years back. He had aced his report card. A June baby. Those could be tough when you were younger. School was out and you couldn’t always get all the kids to come to your party. He was a good kid. I told him to get something stupid and fun.
“Thad? What’s it say?”
“Nothing,” I said, grabbing the phone and stuffing it into my jacket. Squeezing the case handle tight, I stepped towards the door, trying to fight the mounting wobble in my legs, the colour leaving my face. “Just that I’m fucked, is all.”
19
“You
ok?”
The next morning. Calloway had texted me late last night, keen to meet. Apparently he had some news regarding Dunsmore and her team. He was tucking heartily into a full English. We were in a caf on Green Lanes, one particularly well-regarded for its eggs-bacon-chips-beans combos. I had opted for a green tea and a booth seat that I could slouch in.
“Great,” I said. “What’s up?”
He pointed at my mug. “You going healthy or something?”
“All it takes is a few small changes for big results,” I said. “What’s up with the investigation?”
Calloway sprayed his plate with brown sauce. “How’d your chat with her go?
“Pretty good. I think she’s all right, actually. Plus she made it clear there wasn’t a lot going on in the case, so I’ve got some room.”
He dipped his toast in yolk. I felt my stomach lurch.
“For a guy who deals with people’s baser instincts and desires, your radar is a bit off,” he said, taking a bite.
“I’m not following.”
“Dunsmore and her team are all in on this. I told you, she’s a mover and shaker.”
Of course. I pressed my fingers into my eyelids. It wasn’t like they could get much more bloodshot.
“So she was holding back? Or intentionally stalling me?”
“I don’t know about the particulars,” he said. “But it might be more likely they found something that has refocused their efforts.”
“Like what?”
“Your man Duclos had some powerful friends. Guy by the name of Copta has been cooperating with the investigation.”
“Wait, what? Klodjan Copta?”
He nodded.
“I don’t understand.”
“What’s to understand? Apparently, Copta is a heavy hitter in Duclos’s world. Big-time client. He wants the guy found. Came in and offered up his books that Duclos had worked on.”
A chainsaw buzz was building in the back of my skull. I glared at my tea, resenting its lack of caffeine and satisfying bitterness.
“You sure you’re OK?” he asked again.
“Yes. No. It doesn’t matter. What else ya got?”
“You look pretty rough. You get any sleep last night?”
“Some. Calloway, c’mon. What are the cops saying about Duclos?”
He carefully doled out a heaping spoonful of sugar into his coffee.
“Might be something, might be nothing. But apparently he might’ve had some money socked away. Dunsmore has been in with the crew from fraud. But it’s just a hunch.”
The buzz grew.
“Oh God damn it,” I whispered.
“This isn’t helpful?” Calloway asked.
“In a manner of speaking, it is. In another, it is…disappointing.”
Calloway considered this for a moment.
“You knew about the money,” he said. I could see a touch of red blooming on his cheeks.
I effected my best sphinx face. I had it on good authority it was a solid one. Calloway, though, wasn’t buying it.
“Jesus, Thad. You were going to get paid with the missing money?”
“I’m not confirming that, nor do I have to,” I snapped. “And hey, maybe we should be a bit more upset that a major drug dealer is now your pal Dunsmore’s best friend in all this.”
“My superiors are framing it as assistance from an alleged and/or former dealer,” Calloway countered. “I’ve been told to not be quite so boring with my outrage.”
“Then let me get something here,” I said. “Give me something to work with.”
Calloway lowered his fork.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just, you know, I need some help here.”
“You’re holding out,” he said. “I know it.”
“Can you not treat me as a suspect, please?” I said. “Would it satisfy your keen investigative skills if I told you I was maybe in a bit of trouble and I really could use something like a lead so I can work this case?”
“What kind of trouble?”
I wasn’t interested in Calloway’s judgement or pity, and I was rapidly losing my patience. I got up to leave.
“Where you going?” Calloway asked.
“Work,” I snarled. “My deadline has jumped ahead considerably.”
Calloway forked some beans in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.
“You know I started out in Camden, right? Beat cop?”
I slowed the pushing of my arms through my overcoat’s sleeves.
“No,” I said.
He nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “Back in the 90s heroin was everywhere there. Little blue bags. Tiny little things, really. Ten quid a score.”
I sat back down. Calloway seemed disinterested in whether I was staying or going. Anyone looking on could be excused for thinking he might have been taking to himself.
“Blokes like Copta, they flooded the market,” he said. “Price plunged. Heroin was the everyman drug now, right? Homeless guys. Beggars. Girls turning five quid tricks just to get halfway there.”
I leaned in a bit closer. “Yeah?” was all I could think to say.
He nodded again, returning to his plate.
“Crazy, right?” he asked. “Just amazing. Anyhow, Copta seems a decent enough chap, or so I’ve been told. Lot of friends, they say. Heard he’s having a party tonight, even.”
“Ya don’t say.”
Calloway spread marmalade on some toast, plunging it into the yolk.
“Owns a yacht, too,” he said. “Big ol’ bash on it later on.”
I waved to the waitress, signalling for the cheque. He shook his head.
“My turn,” he said.
We sat in quiet for a moment, me waiting as Calloway fastidiously worked his way through the food.
“You know where that yacht is?” I finally asked.
He didn’t even look up.
“St. Katherine’s Docks, Tower Hamlets,” he said. The waitress gave him the bill. “I imagine you’d just look for the biggest one there. You know, if you fancied dropping in to say hi, of course.”
20
Unsurprisingly, Copta’s taste in watches and cars extended to how he spent time on the water. His boat—the Vivian, according to the teak nameplate hanging from the stern—was huge. Admittedly, my yacht experience was minimal, but whatever we were standing on had three decks, a gym, a steam room and a massive sun deck. The inside was spacious and minimalist, and currently being roamed by people who were, I assumed, all a combination of rich, sleekly-clad and unnaturally thin. Ayesha snagged a flute of champagne from a passing tray. I asked for a sparkling water.
“Don’t you own any cool clothes?” Ayesha asked. She was wearing a simple black cocktail number, cut a little longer in the skirt but still showing off enough leg to turn heads. Despite her somewhat rough-and-tumble professional experience, Ayesha could still roll in heels like a prom queen.
“What’s wrong with this?” I said, patting a lapel on my somewhat rumpled herringbone three-piece.
“You look like a banker,” she said.
“Great,” I replied. “I’ll fit right in, then.”
“If we were at a party in 1985, sure,” she finished, smiling sweetly behind her glass. “Seriously, how old is that thing?”
“Old enough. I’m not a big fan of change,” I murmured, scanning the room. Copta was nowhere to be seen. Ayesha might be busy busting my chops but I could tell she was checking everything out as well. The kid was a pro. She gave a quick nod, and I followed her gaze. Copta was by the bar, holding court with a few of his fellow Masters of the Universe.
“Shall we?” I asked, extending my arm. She looped hers into the crook and we headed over to say hi.
“Mr. Grayle,” our host said, genuinely surprised, but not offended. “How very good to see you again. And who might this be?”
“Ayesha Chantrill,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m with Barclay’s.”
; He took her fingers in his and gave a slight bow before kissing her knuckles.
“Absolutely charmed,” Copta said. He turned to me. “It is my turn to compliment your taste, my good man.”
“Oh, not at all,” Ayesha said quickly. “I came after him so fast his head would’ve spun—if I could just get it out of all those case files.”
Those gathered laughed politely, and I smiled, acquiescing in my role as the charming, if somewhat scattered, boyfriend.
“What can I say?” The waiter arrived, handing me my water, finally giving me something to do with my hands. “It’s nice to be chased.”
“Oh, I much prefer to be doing the chasing,” Copta said. “There’s something to be said for being on the prowl.”
“Are we still talking about relationships or does that extend to business as well?” I said, smiling magnanimously.
Copta made a sweep of his arm towards the party, now starting to pick up its pace. “I think it’s safe to say I’m not afraid to go for what I want, Mr. Grayle. I had my eye on a boat like this for some time, and finally pulled the trigger about a year ago. In my experience”—here his gaze lingered, just for a moment, on Ayesha — “patience and decisiveness go hand in hand.”
“And on that topic,” I said, making my move. “I was hoping I might have a word.”
“Of course, of course,” he said. “Happy to spare a moment or two. Please, this way.”
He headed towards the master suite. I gave Ayesha a glance and an almost imperceptible shrug. She smiled—she was more than happy to play her role with this lot for a few minutes, at least.
“I hope you don’t mind my saying it is a bit surprising to see you here,” Copta said, ushering me in.
“Well, I hope you don’t mind my saying it was a bit of a surprise to get here,” I said. “The invite Ayesha received was last minute. Someone had to cancel, but she figured friend-of-a-friend wouldn’t be too much of a stretch.”
“Well, this boat is a broad church,” he said, sitting at the edge of his bed. “Happy to welcome all. Now, then.” He leaned back, planting his palms firmly down as leverage. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s the case,” I said. “I have some follow-up questions.”
Ten Grand Page 8
