Stone Cold

by J. D. Weston

  “Where’s Donny?” John interrupted.

  Sergio paused, “I haven't seen him since we landed from our trip.”

  “I want him to be here for the weekly reports, Serg. He needs to know what’s going on, does he even know you’re here?” Even as he spoke, John was reaching for the desk phone. “Get me, Donny, please. Call back is fine.”

  “You would like me to wait, John?” asked Sergio.

  The door opened, and John’s assistant walked in with a tray that boasted two espressos in small cups sat atop two large saucers, each with an expensive looking Italian biscuit on the side. A touch previously added by Sergio, and a sign of his impeccable taste.

  “Thank you, May,” John said. As the door closed, he added, “No, Sergio, give me the BVI report, then wait for Donny to give the report on the rest.”

  “Okay, so July saw a ten percent-”

  The desk phone rang, John answered and was connected to Donny by May, “Where are you, Son?”

  “I’m in Wembley, Dad, just doing an audit of the stock here, Sergio gave me a heads-up that an FSA inspection is likely.”

  John was used to the Food Standards Agency showing up unannounced.

  “Did Sergio also give you a heads-up that today was report day? And is that why you decided to saunter off to the other side of London? Sergio is here now, why don’t you come join us, you are after all the operations manager.”

  “What about the audit?”

  “You earned five hundred grand last year, did you earn that by counting bottles and frozen burgers or by making sure the fire extinguishers work? No, you earned it by making sure the business is profitable. I’ll see you in less than an hour.”

  John replaced the handset. Sergio continued.

  “Okay, we transferred everything we could off-shore, but we still have the clean-”

  The phone rang again. John answered.

  “There's a gentleman on the line who would like to talk with you.”

  “Who is it, May?”

  “I'm afraid he wouldn’t give a name, but he said you’d be keen to hear from him.”

  “Alright, put him through.” John motioned for Sergio to hold on and pushed the loudspeaker button. Sergio sank back in his chair, crossed his legs, and unlocked his phone. He tapped on the screen while John spoke, but he listened carefully. He always listened carefully.

  “Cartwright,” said John cautiously.

  “The one and only John Cartwright?” the gravelly voice said on the other end of the line; the words hinted at humour or sarcasm, but the tone was far from it.

  “That must be the one and only Terry Thomson. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Well you know how it is, John, we’re in the same game, thought I’d give you a call and see how business is going.”

  “No, Terry, not really. We seem to of managed to get this far without standing on each other's toes, why change all that now?”

  “Are you planning something, John? Be straight with me.”

  “The only thing I’m planning on doing, Terry, is putting the phone down and getting on with my busy day. Take care, Mr Thomson.”

  “Hang on, hang on,” Terry’s voice was urgent on the phone, a momentary lapse of dignity and composure, “you there, John?”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “He’s gone, John. Bradley. Did you hear?”

  John waited a few seconds as if in shock, he sat back in his chair, put his feet on the edge of his desk and closed his eyes, imagining the scene, “No, Terry, I didn’t hear.”

  “John,” Terry’s voice was clear and strong, but wounded, “I’ve got to ask. Was it your lot? Cause if it weren’t then it could only be one other firm, and this isn't their style.”

  “I’m going to be polite given the circumstance, Terry. I’ll ask the boys to keep their ears to the ground, if I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know.” He disconnected the call.

  “He fell for it?” asked Sergio.

  “He did, Sergio. For your sake, I hope he did.”

  Terry Thomson disconnected the call and sat staring at the phone.

  “Lying bastard,” he said to the empty room.

  Terry opened the top drawer of his desk and lifted the false bottom panel up to reveal his Sig Sauer P226. He slid the handgun from where it had sat untouched for over a year, released the magazine to check it wasn’t loaded and slotted it back into place with a click. Terry slid the action back to see inside the empty chamber and fingered the trigger. After laying the handgun on his desk, he placed his hands palm down in front of him, closed his eyes and breathed slow and deep.

  His meditation was disturbed by a gentle knock at the door. He wasn’t in the mood for company, conversation or consolation. He wanted silence so he could think about possible suspects and possible reasons for them to do this to him. It was after all an attack on him, even though he was not the one who was killed, Bradley had been his eldest son and the only son in the business with him. His other son, Spencer had chosen to live an average life removed from the money, the adrenaline and the risk. A normal life where paying off the police, and putting hits on other families weren’t discussed over breakfast.

  Terry would need to call him and tell him the bad news about his brother. He hadn't spoken to Spencer in a few years, the last time he saw him, the father and son chat had ended in another heated exchange of spiteful words, car doors slamming and unanswered calls. Terry had given up calling after several weeks of persistent attempts. Gradually they’d drifted apart. He didn’t even know where his son was now, but Lenny might, they had been fairly close when the boys were younger. He’d ask Lenny.

  Terry’s mind returned to the matter at hand.

  “Why would somebody kill Bradley? Why now?” he said softly to himself.

  Terry wondered if either Cartwright or Stimson had gotten wind of Terry’s plan’s to do the northern job. Stimson would know that without Bradley resources would be too stretched to plan such a big job. But why would Adam Stimson kill Bradley? That wasn’t a move designed to distract Terry from doing the northern job. Killing a man’s son was something someone did to initiate a war, and Stimson was not a killer.

  Unless, that was the point. Stimson would know that all eyes would be on Cartwright. Meanwhile, Stimson would be free to go and do the northern job. So if Stimson was trying to start a war between Terry and the Cartwrights, Stimson was counting on Terry coming to that conclusion.

  “Smart bastard,” said Terry, “if he wants a war, he’ll get a war. I’ll kill the fucking pair of them.”

  The theory made perfect sense. Cartwright was supposed to be buying twelve Heckler and Koch MP5s from Terry later that week, there’s no way John Cartwright would kill Bradley before they did a deal.

  It wasn’t often that the two families did deals of any kind, they mostly kept out of each other’s way since the heavy wars of the eighties. But Terry had come by twenty-four of the MP5 assault rifles, and only needed twelve of them for himself. He’d offered them to Cartwright via a mutual friend, knowing that if he had agreed to the high price, then reading between the lines, John would also be be planning to do the northern job.

  Terry would still sell Cartwright the guns, he couldn't hang on to them. But he’d take the bastards down somehow in case John was lying. Someone had to pay for it. It was like the eighties all over again, thought Terry, you took a hit and really couldn’t be arsed to retaliate, but you knew that if you didn’t go in heavy, it’d be seen as a weakness. That kind of thing had to be stopped fast.

  The one person he’d never managed to hit was Stimson, nobody had. Stimson was known to be smart. His men were all smart too. They were known for going in, getting what they wanted, usually diamonds or art, then getting out again without being seen. The most harm Terry had known the Stimsons do on a job, was knock a security guard down with the butt of a rifle.

  Maybe Terry would offer Frank a carrot. If Frank could get Stimson locked up after the gun deal with Cartwrig
ht, Terry could get to him on the inside easily enough, plus he could keep Frank in tow, another favour. He liked having Frank in his pocket; it was useful.

  Terry thought a little more. Stimson would get suspicious if Terry didn’t retaliate. Terry needed to somehow demonstrate to Stimson that he believed it was John Cartwright that killed Bradley. Stimson would have his finger on the pulse.

  The answer hit him like a slap in the face that left him smiling. Donny Cartwright. An eye for an eye. A son for a son.

  Terry placed the handgun back on the desk and picked up his phone. He dialled a number from memory, a number he hadn’t dialled for a long time.

  “Adeo, my old friend. How have you been?”

  Frank had long finished his lunch and had just stepped out of a debrief with his team at the department offices on the South Bank. He’d given them the details of the man that had been strung up in Beckton. They’d shared information that had been received about the motorbike tracks and studied details of similar recent investigations. They could use the information to pinpoint crossovers in each of the victims’ personal and professional lives.

  A total of four men had been garrotted in the past year, three of them were known villains and one unknown. One of the men was linked to another criminal organisation that Frank had helped put away, while the other three had no known ties to any of the known families or gangs. They were just wannabes; small-time thugs that found themselves out of their depths and had learned the hard way that crime definitely does not pay.

  It was the manner in which the body was left that Frank was thinking about; why hang him up if he was already dead? What was the point?

  His phone rang, so he excused himself and stepped away from his colleagues and into the fire escape. The phone's screen displayed Number Unknown.

  “Carver,” he answered, clearly but discreetly.

  “Frank, it’s Terry.”

  “I wondered when you’d call.”

  “Yeah well, I had something to sort out,” replied Terry. His thick East London accent suited his gruff tone, but somehow he still managed to sound clear and articulate. “I’ll have someone send you through a pin to the gun drop. It’s not for a week yet, so in the meantime, I suggest you get yourself some sleep, you need to be on your toes, Frank, remember, it’s a favour to me personally.”

  “Sure, I know how it works,” said Frank. Frank knew how personal favours to Terry Thomson usually went.

  “You haven’t heard what I want yet,” said Terry.

  That wasn’t what Frank wanted to hear. He wanted to hear Terry tell him to turn up, make sure no-one does the other one over and keep the local police away, then get out of there like nothing happened. Instead, he heard Terry say something else.

  “All I want you to do is watch the deal go down. If it comes on top, you step in and let my boys get away. If the old bill…sorry, Frank, if the police turn up unexpectedly, show your badge and tell them they’re cocking up an ongoing investigation.”

  The thought of someone sending a pin to Frank scared him a little, he could barely answer the phone and had to use childlike instructions on how to enter his food into a diet app.

  “Who’s the buyer?” asked Frank.

  “That’s a bit direct, Frank.”

  “Should I fluff it up a little for you? You want me to stroke your ego, Terry?”

  “Why do you want to know who the buyer is?”

  “Self-preservation, Terry.”

  “Self-preservation, Frank?”

  “Self-preservation. If you tell me the buyers are three little old ladies, I’ll know where I stand, but if you tell me you’re selling twelve Heckler and Koch MP5s to the Essex arm of ISIS, then I might need to adjust my approach, Terry.”

  “It’s neither.”

  “I was hoping for old ladies.”

  “You like old ladies, Frank?”

  “They make good tea, Terry.”

  “It’s not old ladies, Frank.”

  “So no tea then.”

  “No tea.”

  “Are you going to tell me? You’ve built it up now.”

  “Did I build it up or did you? I recall it was you that asked the question, Frank.”

  “And it’s you who’s been avoiding the answer.”

  “Cartwright.”

  “John Cartwright?”

  “The one and only. Feel better?”

  “I know where I stand, that’s all I wanted.” Frank paused, “Terry?”

  “Yes, Frank.”

  “These favours will stop soon. I’ve repaid the debt.”

  “Are you severing our relationship, Frank?”

  “No, not severing, but I won’t be in your pocket after this one.”

  “One of my men took the rap for you if you remember, Carver, you don’t get to make demands.”

  “It’s been long enough,” said Frank, “I’m retiring soon, I’d like to actually live that long.”

  Terry was quiet for a moment.

  “Alright, Frank, I understand.”

  “You do?” said Frank.

  “Yeah, course, I’d like to put my feet up one day myself.”

  His feet had never been down in the first place, thought Frank.

  “Course, there’s a price to pay for that kind of freedom, Frank,” said Terry.

  “A price?”

  “For freedom, Frank.”

  “Is that right?” Here it comes, thought Frank.

  “That's the rules,” said Terry, “how badly do you want to retire?”

  “Don’t play games, Terry, spit it out.”

  “I suppose you know already, don’t you?”

  “Depends what it is you suppose I already know, Terry.”

  “Bradley, my boy.”

  “What about him?”

  “He was hit, Frank. Did you know?” Terry left a pause, to listen to Frank’s reaction.

  “No,” Frank lied.

  “Adam Stimson’s boy got him.”

  “You sure about that, Terry?” asked Frank, “That doesn’t sound like Stimson’s style.”

  “You came to that conclusion quickly, Frank. Sounds like you already gave it some thought.”

  “It’s my job to see through the crap, Terry. I’m sorry to hear about it anyway.”

  “Yeah, well. It doesn’t end here.”

  “And this is where I come in, is it?” asked Frank.

  “I want you to off the Cartwrights.”

  “You want me to….” Frank stopped himself from shouting it aloud and whispered into the phone, “You want me to kill John Cartwright? Are you insane?”

  “Careful, Frank. We’re friends, but let's not throw insults around.”

  “We’re not friends, Terry, we’re two people on two very different paths if that’s what you think I’m going to do.”

  “I don’t need you to off John himself, I’ve taken care of the family. But I do need his men sorted out, just whoever he has turn up at the gun deal. My man gives them the missing guns, their man gives my man the money, my guy drives off, you take the Cartwrights down, and as a sweetener, you get to keep the guns.”

  “You make it sound so easy,” said Frank, “but I thought you said it was Adam Stimson’s boys?”

  “Well it’s not rocket science is it?” said Terry. “Stimson’s trying to start a war, isn’t he? Cartwright’s buying my guns because he wants to play with the big boys.”

  “So you take out the Cartwrights, and Stimson thinks you fell for it.”

  “You’re learning.”

  “Meanwhile, Cartwright doesn’t interfere in the job you’re planning, and Stimson walks right into your hands.”

  “Everyone’s a winner, Frank,” said Terry. “Well, everyone that counts.”

  “Right.”

  “You know what to do, Frank?”

  “I do now, then we’re done.”

  “Oh, Frank, I nearly forgot,” Terry added a final comment to make him think, “don’t try anything stupid.”

 
“Of course not,” said Frank, but Terry had hung up already.

  Frank hated his voice. Even over the phone he could hear the threatening tones and could picture his smug face sitting in some plush chair somewhere, ordering people about. People that did his dirty work for him. Frank wanted out. He’d never be able to retire knowing Thomson had things on him. Things that would send them both down for a long time.

  Frank suddenly had the horrible gut feeling that he was missing something he shouldn't be. A job. Why was he selling to Cartwright? Why was Cartwright buying? It could only be for one job.

  Adam Stimson wasn’t a cold-blooded killer like Thomson or Cartwright. He was a thief. But he was a smart thief, who played Thomson like a fool. Frank knew that there was no way Cartwright would have killed Bradley, especially not when they were doing a gun deal a few days later. It’d be suicide. By the time the diamonds reached British soil, there’d be no-one left except Stimson to rob them.

  6

  Found You

  Harvey Stone was many things. He wasn’t particularly proud or ashamed of any of them. He was just Harvey Stone. He’d been bred to be a ruthless killer. That was the path that was laid out for him, through Hannah, through Julios’ training and through the work that John gave Julios and him to do. He was efficient, clean and stone cold.

  Working for John wasn’t like driving a delivery van. He didn’t rock up to an office each morning and collect his jobs for the day. The work was infrequent, but when it came, it needed to be done with no fuss.

  Harvey had been just twelve years old when he’d killed his first man. Julios had planned it for him and oversaw it, but let Harvey do what he needed to do. He hadn’t killed again until he had been training with Julios for a few years. A local lad in Epping had been caught touching up little girls, and had done a runner. Harvey recognised the boy's name and remembered him from school. He’d been a spineless bully then and had apparently not progressed. The news of the assaults had awoken something inside Harvey; a need, a hunger. He felt a responsibility to Hannah, to the girls. He had carried out his research and found the boy before the police.

  At sixteen years old, Harvey had found the boy’s hiding place and taken him by surprise. Harvey had dragged him into Epping Forest, as far as he could go where it was dark, still and silent. Harvey had discovered a strange feeling of ease and righteousness from tying the boy to a tree, forcing a confession and making him suffer. The boy hadn’t died quickly. The pain had been long and drawn out. To Harvey, it had felt like he was doing it for Hannah, and all the other little girls, whose lives had been ruined by the boy’s sick fantasies; above all else, it had felt good.