Stone Cold

by J. D. Weston

  He looked back at the girl who had stayed. She slept naked, her mouth was opened just a fraction, and her perfect young teeth showed their tips beneath soft and full lips. The smooth sheets lay across her, and one arm rested on top revealing a soft and firm breast. Her nipple stood proud and hard, exposed to the cool air that circulated the apartment. Sergio checked his email and messages on his phone, then took a sly video of the sleeping girl. He hardened at the thought of watching it later that evening when she had left. He would add it to his collection.

  He showered in the tiled black en-suite and dressed in a black tailored shirt and suit, Saville Row’s finest. His shirt was ring spun; smooth to the touch like silk, but it retained a masculine look with its matte finish, unlike Italian, cheap looking, shiny silk.

  He ate yoghurt with banana and drank fresh coffee made with Ethiopian beans direct from the source.

  He placed his dish, cup and spoon in the dishwasher; the maid would turn it on and empty it when she arrived. When he opened the dishwasher, he saw the upturned martini glass from the night before; it was tainted with the lipstick of the sleeping girl, and he remembered her lips fondly.

  His mornings were clockwork. Disruption to his patterns caused disruptions to his thinking, which led to mistakes, and John would not tolerate mistakes. Sergio walked into the bedroom and woke the girl by cupping the breast that was offered in the cool air. She breathed in deeply and murmured in a sleepy, cute voice. He squeezed a little harder.

  “Does Daddy want to play some more already?” The girl smiled and opened her eyes. Seeing him fully dressed, she said, “Oh, so early, you have to leave?”

  “It’s you that has to leave I’m afraid,” he replied coldly.

  She ran her hand up his leg and found what she was looking for growing as she returned the squeeze. “Are you sure you can’t stay a little longer?” She found the zipper and began to pull slowly.

  He considered the thought of being ten minutes late. He was technically an hour early each day anyway, so ten minutes delay would not actually be late. She reached inside and gripped firmly. Her gaze followed his body up to his eyes as she moved her mouth closer to him and she ran her hands across the smooth material of his shirt.

  He let her; he enjoyed toying with them. He liked the power. The power to say no, for them to stop when he commanded; to be the boss. He enjoyed it a moment longer before pulling away.

  “Now get up, you’re leaving.”

  She sat back on the bed and looked at him incredulously, “Is that how you treat such a nice gesture?”

  “Are you dressing?” he asked, “In one minute you are leaving this apartment, dressed or not.”

  He left the room and heard the pillow bounce softly across the room behind him, “Pig!”

  He stood in the kitchen looking out over the forest, watching the trees move gently in the breeze. Birds flew from one branch to another in a restless state of fear and food, just like workers in the city, he thought.

  Sergio heard the front door slam as the girl left and he smiled to himself. She had been expensive, but worth every penny.

  His Mercedes waited for him in the small basement car park of the apartment building and seemed to wake like a happy puppy with a push of the key fob. The headlights and indicators flashed on then dimmed; the locks popped open, and the soft interior light gently brightened the plush leather interior.

  The stereo picked up from where apartment stereo had left off, and continued with Strauss. The large saloon pulled out of the brand new private apartment’s car park and onto the back streets of Theydon Bois. Sergio turned the volume up, drove past the hooker, and headed for the office.

  Sergio’s day had started well.

  Harvey finished his walk and reached the door of his little house, but instead of using the front door, he opened the garage and looked at his own motorcycle, remembering what Julios had told him about his Royal Enfield. Harvey smiled as he ran his hands across the seat; he knew the strength of feelings a man has for his motorcycle. Harvey pulled his helmet from the hook and removed it from the black cotton bag. Within two minutes he was cruising along the narrow country lanes that led into Chigwell. His plain white shirt flapped in the wind and the cold air stung the skin on his arms like a burn. He was alive.

  Harvey rode to his foster father’s office, which was above a bar John owned near Chigwell, in Essex. John Cartwright wasn’t originally from either Chigwell or Theydon Bois, but that part of Essex was, in his foster father’s words, “An affluent area where people aren’t afraid to splash the cash.” It was an ideal location for a man whose primary business required a legitimate way of cleaning up money.

  John had several bars in various parts of London and even owned a little country pub on the South Coast that he visited every few months. John enjoyed the lord-like welcome he received when he arrived with his flavour of the month, which usually came in the form of a blond half his age with a coke habit.

  “Alright, Son? Take a seat,” John said when Harvey opened the door without knocking and walked into the office unannounced. Only three people were able to do that. Sergio, who acted as an adviser to the family, kept the books and was often the face of the firm in their more legitimate business dealings, occupied the office next door, and typically used the no-knock rule because he was in and out of John’s office all day long; it was practical. Donny, Harvey's foster brother, also didn’t knock, but not because his office was close by, Donny was based in the bars, keeping the businesses running. He used the no-knock rule just because he could; it was a display of power, it fed his ego.

  Harvey didn’t knock because he didn’t see the point in knocking, it was a waste of time. He refused to feed people’s egos, no matter who they were.

  Sergio heard Harvey arrive and stepped out of his office into John’s, settling in before the fireworks went off.

  Sergio took a seat at the side of the room with his laptop. Sergio was a lean man, bordering skinny, whose taste for immaculately crafted tailor-made suits and fine Italian shoes gave him a presence that his small frame lacked. He also had a knack of knowing everything; by placing himself in the middle of any conversation, he guided the firm whereas John told it where to go. Sergio was the only one who had the power to coerce John into his way of thinking. John trusted him, as did the other more silent partners. He was a safe pair of hands with a massively intelligent head on his shoulders; he was a strategist.

  Out of the whole firm, including the bar staff, the managers, the heavies and the runners, it was only Harvey who openly detested Sergio. There were many who just didn't like him or distrusted him, but Harvey had grown to hate the man. Ever since Harvey had been a kid, Sergio had been around, always there in the background, sneaking about, whispering. Sergio had always kept a watchful eye on Harvey. Harvey couldn’t explain his feeling, Sergio was just one of those people that Harvey resisted, it was more of a gut feeling than a tangible reasoning. Sergio shrank when Harvey was around. He averted his eyes as if Harvey could see what he was thinking. That was what bothered Harvey most, he was always hiding something.

  “Did it go alright? Any problems?” Sergio asked Harvey, with a little cock of his head.

  “No problems, it was easy, in and out,” replied Harvey without looking at him.

  “Good, what about the truck?” asked Sergio.

  “It was loaded up and driven off, no questions, two blokes drove off in it. I didn’t see their faces,” said Harvey.

  “Perfect. And did you-”

  “Make a statement, Sergio?” finished Harvey. “We did what we could with the resources available to us.” Harvey continued to stare at John but could feel Sergio’s eyes boring into him.

  “There may be some backlash coming from this,” warned Sergio. “It’ll get noisy before it gets quiet; it won’t happen until after the funeral, but we need to be ready.”

  “It’ll get noisy before it gets quiet? You just started a war, Sergio,” said Harvey, unable to look at the scr
awny little parasite. Instead, Harvey looked up at the ceiling, “What do you think the Thomsons are going to do now? They are not going to sit on their backsides feeling sorry for themselves, they’ll be planning a genocide.”

  “Sergio, what exactly did you ask Harvey and Julios to do?” asked John, leaning forward. John sat in a large, leather, reclining office chair; he commanded the room.

  “You mean you don’t know?” asked Harvey.

  “Exactly what I told you, John,” said Sergio, “we took out one of Thomson’s men, we need them busy, we need them distracted while we-”

  “You don't know do you?” said Harvey to John.

  “Someone is going tell me in the next three seconds,” John replied, his eyes widening. John kept his cool, a trait he was notorious for. But he looked between the two men with a rage growing behind his calm exterior.

  “My contacts assure me that Terry Thomson will be far too distraught to continue pursuing any other job, while he is in mourn-”

  “The man is a cold-blooded killer and a businessman, Sergio.” The weak justification from Sergio for killing a powerful man like Bradley Thomson was too much for Harvey. “You could set Terry Thomson’s mother on fire, and he’d still make time to shove your head up your backside and see that your family were all strung up by their balls before he even threw a bucket of water over her. You don’t understand these people, Sergio. Why don’t you go back to your office and do a spreadsheet or whatever it is you do.”

  “Let me finish,” said Sergio, his voice rose in pitch. “My contacts assure me that the family will be too busy running their legitimate businesses to even consider organising a job as big as the northern job.”

  “What northern job?” asked Harvey.

  John slammed his hand down on his desk. The room fell silent, but his voice remained low and calm, “I want to know who it was we killed last night.”

  Harvey turned away.

  Sergio looked defeated. “It was Bradley,” he said quietly.

  “Bradley Thomson?” John said calmly. He lifted the papers from his desk and straightened them before neatly placing them back down on the corner of the table. He turned in his chair and looked down out the window at the cars that drove past. Average people driving average cars, heading to average jobs.

  “Sergio, leave the room please, we’ll discuss this later.” John remained turned away while Sergio stood and opened the door. “Sergio?”

  Sergio turned to face John but kept his head lowered like a scolded child.

  “Get Donny to up the security on the bars, I imagine Thomson will be looking for blood, but he might decide to hurt my pocket before the bloodbath starts.”

  When the door was pulled closed, John turned back to Harvey.

  “I thought you’d know,” said Harvey, “Sergio said it was all part of a plan.”

  “Not your fault, Son, but you’re right, Thomson is going be spitting fire right now, and we need to be crystal on what we’re going to do about it.”

  “We?” asked Harvey, “I’d say that was a job for Sergio, he spilt the milk.”

  “Listen, Harvey, there’s something we need to take care of later this week,” said John. “It’s an important job but will be dangerous after this. I don’t want to talk about it here, but you and Julios are going to have to handle it after Sergio’s cock up.”

  John Cartwright always spoke about problems using the words ‘we’ and ‘us,’ but Harvey didn’t pay any attention to it. It was just his foster father’s way of trying to make Harvey feel included in the bigger picture, so that Harvey would try harder and not make a mistake that could have a knock-on effect. This was despite Harvey’s attempts to remove himself from any picture, big or small.

  “Why don’t you come over, have dinner with your old man? We can talk about it at home.” That was a signal for Harvey to leave, he was interrupting John’s day, and the argument with Sergio had clearly annoyed the old man. “Eight o’clock?” John asked cheerfully as Harvey stood to leave.

  There was no point in nodding or agreeing, it wasn’t an optional invitation, it was a decision made by his foster father with an informal agreement. Disobeying the instruction would have severe consequences. Harvey didn’t care much for consequences but played along with John’s games for an easy life.

  Harvey respected the old man and admired his control. Deep down Harvey loved him in his own kind of way. But their relationship was soured by a deep mistrust that was rooted in the past. It was clear to Harvey that John knew more than he let on, but whenever Harvey raised the topic of his real parents to John, the same old story was recited, verbatim. John made no attempt to embellish it to make it believable and expected Harvey to carry on as usual. Harvey could never be sure if the truth was hidden for his own protection or for reasons John would rather forget. But John had raised Harvey and Hannah as his own, and Harvey wasn’t blind to the affection in John’s eyes.

  Harvey would infrequently raise the subject of his parents and asked about their deaths, or where they were buried, but John wasn’t going to be fooled into spilling anything other than the story he’d told Harvey a thousand times already.

  It was the affection in John’s eyes that had fuelled the rift between Harvey and Donny, Harvey’s foster brother. Harvey had been twelve years old when his sister, Hannah, had been raped. Her suicide followed soon after, which left Harvey alone, and a target of John’s attention. John was a busy man, he only had so many hours in the day to dote on his kids, and Harvey started to get the lion’s share of the two boys. Donny had taken the doting on Harvey as favouritism and, despite being four years older than Harvey, soon began an onslaught of sly attacks on him. Spitting in his dinner, pushing him down the stairs and locking him in the dark attic were common. The incidents were small, but over time they built up to a hatred between them; until Harvey grew wiser, bigger and stronger and had put Donny in his place several times. Harvey made it clear that Donny was no longer a threat to him. Since then it was rare that Harvey and Donny were in the same room. Donny, like Sergio, carried a look of fear in his weak eyes and had a knack for keeping away from Harvey.

  Harvey left the first-floor office via the metal steps that led out the back of the building. He walked around the side street where his bike was parked and strode through the alleyway staying close to the fence. It was another of Julios’ rules to never create a pattern, never leave a trail, and never let anybody get one step ahead of you.

  5

  The Monster is Broken

  Terry Thomson spoke quietly and slowly but never raised his eyes from the photo on his desk.

  “Why wasn’t I told sooner?”

  “We only just found out, boss,” said Lenny. “Apparently, the police took his….” He stopped and adjusted his sentence, “Took him away for examining. They didn’t release the news until they had to formally.”

  “How?” asked Terry.

  Lenny paused before speaking, rapid thoughts made the decision for him, he’d just tell him how it was, man to man, “Strangled, boss,” he began. Lenny spoke with no fear, no hesitation, he gave it to Terry straight, “Steel wire around his neck, it would have been quick.”

  “Was it a professional, Lenny?”

  “It looks like it. No prints, no sign of anyone.”

  “Who found him? Who else knows?”

  “The woman who opens up the yard saw him when she walked in. He was hanging from the hoist by a chain. All the girls at the yard know, they’ve been told not to shout about it. Police closed the scene off pretty quick, so no-one else got a look in.”

  “Any ideas about who it might be?”

  “None, boss,” replied Lenny, “want me to put the feelers out?”

  “If you find him, Lenny, I want him alive,” said Terry, “make sure the boys know that this one is mine.” He paused. “Thanks, Lenny, can you give me a bit? I need some time.”

  John Cartwright sat at his desk thinking about Terry Thomson’s possible reactions. There was a
light knock at the door, Sergio’s knock. He only knocked when John was angry.

  “Enter,” he said, sitting up in his chair and straightening the papers on his desk, “Sergio, what’s the news?” John’s mood had quietened enough for the monotonous weekly financial report from Sergio, but Sergio knew that it would only take a little spark to ignite the fire inside John when he was already riled up.

  “Hello, John. I have the weekly reports, do you have time for me right now?” Sergio was hesitant. He had known the target was Bradley and had known the consequences, but if he’d verbalised it to John, the plan would have been cancelled. Sergio knew John would be fearful of a war with the Thomsons, but without the war the northern job would be chaotic, and they’d lose out on the diamonds for sure. The diamonds were Sergio’s key to success. It would, after all, be him approaching the black market buyers. The sum of money the diamonds would fetch would be an impressive figure, even after Sergio had shaved off a million and tucked it into his Isle of Man account.

  “Is it that time already, Sergio?” replied John, as he reached for the desk phone and asked his assistant to bring two coffees through. John eyed the tall, lean man in front of him. His long, bony fingers held the printed reports of all the firms, the legitimate and the not-so-legitimate. His gaunt face was clean shaved with pale skin that stretched across high cheekbones, and his large Romany nose held thick-rimmed glasses that magnified his permanently bloodshot eyes.

  “Okay, so let's start with the BVI report,” began Sergio. His faint eastern European accent added a little romance to the otherwise dull conversation that was about to ensue. The British Virgin Islands report was a holistic view of the legitimate businesses that were grouped under a BVI holding company, which, being tax exempt, saved John thousands each year. “We transferred clean assets-”