The Stash (An Action Packed Adventure Thriller filled with Suspense)

by Dan Fletcher

  It wasn’t the money. Tunge had a small fortune buried in a Swiss bank account. He could easily have replaced it, avoiding the wrath of his father. The predicament was that if word got out that he had been robbed they would lose respect, and business, as a result. Worse, news might get back to the Chief indirectly. As he gulped it down and the whisky burned the back of his throat, Tunge realised that he needed to make two phone calls. One of them scared the life out of him. He decided to get the worst one out of the way first. Tunge slumped dejectedly into an armchair near the window. Taking his mobile phone from his inside blazer pocket he dialled the Chief’s number.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Chief was eating a huge breakfast of fish stew and cassava, on the terrace of his mansion in Ikoyi. He displayed none of Tunge’s refinements, and preferred a more traditional diet. Most Nigerians could only afford to eat once a day, so being fat was a sign of wealth. The Chief liked to keep up appearances, and ate copious amounts of food on a daily basis. It was part of his profile.

  This was his favourite time of day and he liked to spend it alone in peace, reading ‘The Punch’, a popular Nigerian newspaper. He was deeply immersed in yet another article on corruption within the NDLEA, when he was interrupted by the butler.

  ‘Excuse me sir. There is a telephone call for you.’

  The Chief was annoyed at the interruption. ‘Tell them to call later,’ he said, returning his attention back to the newspaper.

  ‘It is your son calling from the United Kingdom,’ said the steward, holding out the cordless phone hopefully.

  Irritated, the Chief put down the paper and snatched the device from his outstretched hand, ‘Why are you calling me so early? Don’t you know I’m eating breakfast now?’

  Tunge trembled on the other end of the line, ‘Sorry father it was too important to wait. I’m afraid I have a problem and I thought you better hear it from me.’

  ‘You haven’t got a problem, you are the problem,’ shouted the Chief, not great on parenting skills, ‘what is it?’

  Swallowing hard, Tunge replied, ‘I have been robbed. Somebody took a kilo from the apartment while I was away.’

  Now he had the Chief’s attention. If there was one thing he would not abide it was people stealing from him. ‘How could you let somebody steal from you? You imbecile! I should never have let you run things over there,’ shouted the Chief.

  ‘Why did you leave it in the apartment? You should have left it in Tilbury,’ he continued, at full volume, ‘you knew you were coming here for two weeks, and you left it there! What kind of idiot are you? Sometimes I think I should ask for a blood test,’ he bellowed spitefully.

  Tunge stayed silent, deliberately not reminding him about the missing Mercedes, waiting for his father’s outburst to subside.

  Finally the Chief calmed, ‘So you know who took it then?’

  Knowing that word would get back to his father anyway Tunge stuck to the facts. ‘There are only two possibilities. At the moment I’m not sure which of them it is, but I’ll know more later on today.’

  Not for the first time, the Chief regretted sending Tunge to school in England. At the time he thought it was the best thing to do for the boy, give him the best education possible. It had cost a fortune as well. Not just in tuition fees and boarding costs. The Chief was forced to make a substantial donation to Eton, just to get his son enrolled in the first place. Over the years he realised it was all a waste of time, and more importantly money.

  What they needed in their line of business to succeed wasn’t found playing polo. You needed raw hunger, and a desire to keep ahead of your competitors. Unfortunately, Tunge had never wanted, or had to fight, for anything and as a result harboured no ambition. Knowing that it was his own fault Tunge turned out so soft only made matters worse for the Chief.

  In his youth Babajide would have taken care of something like this on his own. What was wrong with the younger generation? Having made up his mind, the Chief said, ‘Happy and Patience will be on the plane tonight. Make sure they are back by Tuesday I need them for something else. That should give you plenty of time to clear up this mess you’ve created!’

  There was no way Tunge wanted Happy getting involved, or Patience. They showed a tendency to get over enthusiastic about their work. ‘No! There’s no need for that. We have plenty of people who can take care of it here,’ he said, hoping that his father would change his mind.

  ‘I can’t trust you to handle this. I need to know it is being taken care of properly,’ shouted the Chief.

  ‘But there really is no need. I’ve...’ the line was dead in Tunge’s ear.

  The Chief had already hung up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Tunge straightened up in his armchair feeling bemused. He now seriously regretted phoning his father. The last time Happy visited London turned out to be a nightmare, resulting in four corpses for Tunge to dispose of. Happy also made no attempt to disguise his resentment for Tunge. There was always an air of tension between the two of them. There was no point brooding over it, Tunge had no control over Happy’s arrival. The wheels would already have been set in motion the moment his father had hung up.

  Deciding to phone Sarah, he wondered how to approach it. What could he say to get the numbers he needed and not arouse her suspicion? Then it came to him. He dialled her number on the mobile phone, still in his hand. As usual it rang twice before Miss Fielding-Brown picked up.

  ‘Good morning Mr Akintola. I trust you had a pleasant trip?’

  Tunge didn’t have to try hard to put on an exasperated tone, ‘The trip was awful Miss Fielding-Brown, and things here aren’t much better.’

  Things had been fine when she left, what could possibly be wrong, ‘I’m sorry to hear about the trip but what is the problem there?’

  ‘Somebody has put a huge crack in the kitchen worktop. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how expensive it will be to replace, and as I said before I hold you responsible,’ Tunge said, still acting annoyed, ‘I will be deducting it from your salary.’

  Sarah wasn’t bothered about the money. She felt as though she was letting her employer down, it was unlike her to overlook anything. ‘I’m awfully sorry Mr Akintola, I really must apologise for missing something like that. I’ll get straight on to the decorators to see what happened.’

  Seizing the opportunity, Tunge said, ‘I think you’ve done enough Miss Fielding-Brown! I think I’ll take care of this myself. Give me the details for the painters, and while you’re at it the removals company just in case it was them.’

  ‘Certainly, but I’m sure the removals team would have reported the damage if they had caused it. As I said before, they are very reputable. The painters on the other hand seemed a lot rougher round the edges,’ Sarah was still adamant that it couldn’t be her fault, but, slightly flustered, she found the numbers he wanted.

  After Tunge searched the unit beside the fireplace and found a notepad and pen, he settled back in the armchair.

  ‘Yes, I’m ready,’ he said, holding the phone with his cheek. Sarah dutifully relayed the numbers.

  ‘That will be all for now. I’ll let you know if I intend to take any further action regarding the matter. Good day Miss Fielding-Brown,’ Tunge said, cutting her off.

  What she said about the painters did not go unnoticed by Tunge, and he immediately decided that they would be the first port of call. He keyed in the number for the yard in Tottenham.

  After a few rings the answer phone kicked in, Alan’s voice not matching the message, ‘Hello Decorum. Sorry there’s no-one here to take your call right now, but if you...’

  Tunge cut short the rest of the message. Flipping to use the browser on his phone Tunge Googled ‘Decorum decorators London’. In less than a second it generated almost 37’000 results. Only one of them had anything to do with painting and London.

  ‘God bless the internet,’ thought Tunge, as he made a note of the address. Sarah had given him the other one for the removal
s company, who were based in Chepstow.

  There was nothing else he could do now, except wait for his father’s enforcers to arrive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Partying hard, Alan and John visited numerous bars and clubs in the West End, before ending their night in a strip club in Soho. Waking up with a thumping hangover, John only recalled hazy memories of the last part of the evening, and how he got home. He was still fully dressed, with half a bottle of Smirnoff Ice clenched in his hand. Sitting up dazed, his mouth parched, John took a swig from the bottle. It was the wrong thing to do, and he immediately spat the warm, flat, contents out onto the floor next to his bed.

  Groaning, John managed to stand up and make his way to the small washbasin in the corner. Turning the tap on he drank thirstily, his body trying to rehydrate itself. Splashing water over his face, he ran his hand through his hair and looked, bleary eyed, into the small cracked mirror. Yep, he looked as bad as he felt. He grabbed his toothbrush, deciding to get rid of the furry taste in his mouth. He just started brushing when there was a gentle tap on the door.

  ‘Hello John,’ said Vanessa softly, in her sexy Spanish accent. ‘Are you there?’ John suddenly remembered that they were supposed to be going ice skating that afternoon.

  Spitting the toothpaste into the sink, he answered, his own voice causing him to wince, ‘Yes, give me a minute.’ Rinsing his mouth, and quickly towelling himself dry, John opened the door a couple of inches.

  ‘Hi! How are you doing?’ John said, through the gap, trying to sound more awake than he was.

  ‘Better than you, I think John,’ she teased, ‘do you want to call off our date?’ There was no disappointment or displeasure in her voice, she seemed to just accept things the way they were.

  ‘No give me a chance to sort myself out and I’ll be with you,’ said John. Although completely distracted the night before, he was genuinely looking forward to their day together.

  ‘Sort yourself out?’ she said, mocking him.

  ‘You know what I mean! Now leave me alone for ten minutes!’ He knew her English wasn’t anywhere near that bad.

  ‘Ok! Ok!’ she said, and turned back up the stairs to her room, laughing as she did.

  Almost half an hour later, feeling a little bit more human after his invigorating shower, John called on Vanessa and they left the house.

  They walked towards the bus stop, arms looped naturally around each other’s waists, chatting easily. Vanessa was keen to find out more about John’s exploits the night before. Not that she was in anyway jealous. Vanessa just found his anecdotes amusing. She smiled back at him mischievously, as he tried to keep his account as brief as possible, editing some of the juicier details along the way.

  ‘So you only had one drink in this stripping club and left?’ she said, as they took their seats on the bus, a twinkle in her eye.

  ‘Well maybe two,’ John replied, unable to control a huge grin. Vanessa moved closer to him, resting her head on his shoulders. It seemed that honesty was the best policy as far as Vanessa was concerned, making John completely at ease in her company. The sex was great, but they seemed to click out of the bedroom as well.

  The journey up Green Lanes seemed to be over almost before it began, so deep were they in conversation. Leaving the bus outside Wood Green Tube they cut through Station Road and walked over the bridge crossing the train lines. As they did, it started to rain, coming down in slow steady sheets. Pulling their jackets over their heads, to shield themselves, they ran up the hill together laughing towards Alexandra Palace.

  The bad weather dictated their choice of an indoor activity in the first place, so the downpour was no surprise. It took them ages to reach the front of the queue and hire their boots. By the time they got onto the rink, John realised that half of London must have enjoyed the same idea. It was packed with skaters, a few good, most of them kids, who were whizzing in and out of the slower and less experienced on the ice.

  John played ice hockey as a kid in Canada, and could still skate reasonably well. Vanessa, on the other hand, never having seen an ice rink before, struggled to keep her balance at first. This only added to John’s enjoyment of the afternoon as he helped her around, watching her grow in confidence. She had natural ability though, and was soon holding John’s hand loosely, as they followed the slow flow of skaters around the edge of the ice.

  Afterward they shared a couple of glasses of wine, in the Phoenix Bar next door. Watching the lights come on, in and around the city, through the window as they did. Deciding to extend their evening, they headed into town to find somewhere to eat. John was feeling extremely flush after all.

  They wandered around the backstreets of old Soho for ages, examining the menus outside a multitude of restaurants. Most of the ones they liked the look of were full, people waiting for tables at the bars. Finally they ended up in a place on Windmill Street, called ‘Pun Kum’. More because they liked the name, and there was a spare table, than anything else.

  The food seemed good to John, but to Vanessa, who had never experienced Thai cuisine, it was a veritable taste sensation. The earlier exercise making them hungry, they devoured the first courses of satay chicken and battered prawns with chilli, Vanessa making repeated cooing sounds of delight as she ate.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve never tasted Thai food before,’ John said, munching on another prawn.

  ‘It’s not the sort of thing you find in Maria,’ Vanessa replied.

  ‘What’s it like where your family comes from?’ said John, taking a sip of wine, his travels never having taken him to that part of Spain.

  Vanessa seemed to swell with pride as she told him about the mountain village she came from in Andalucía.

  ‘The sunsets and the sunrises are so beautiful, you’ve got to see them! The light cast’s shadows on the hills making them seem like...how do you say...“ondas en el mar”?’ she said, taking another mouthful.

  John was bi-lingual, having lived and worked in Marbella for many years, and gave the correct translation, ‘waves in the sea’.

  ‘Yes! Yes, that’s it. Oh, and the fiestas! We party for a whole month in August. My Aunts, my Uncles, my cousins, everybody comes. We have a barbeque and sit, getting drunk, telling stories about when we were kids.’

  She recounted stories about the family farm, and growing up in what sounded like an idyllic country setting. Vanessa ended up being bored with the rural life, and craved to be a biologist. Studying hard to achieve her goal, she achieved high grades at school, later obtaining a first class degree from Barcelona University.

  Now, under scholarship, she was doing her masters in the well respected Birkbeck faculty at London University. Nearly finished her thesis, Vanessa couldn’t wait to return to Spain when it was handed in and start full-time work, sick of the disgusting building they lived in. Unfortunately it was the best she could do on her measly grant.

  John watched the creases around her eyes ripple as she smiled at her memories. Thinking how wonderful they looked John realised that he was going to miss her a great deal when she moved away. What he didn’t realise then, was that he was falling head over heels for the girl.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  In the early hours of Sunday morning Tunge was waiting for Happy and Patience to arrive. He had been unable to sleep, tossing and turning most of the night. In the end, giving up, he got out of bed and remained awake from 3am. Pacing around the apartment Tunge was unable to control his nerves. Leaving early, he arrived at Heathrow a full twenty minutes before the flight.

  He was parked outside Arrivals, growing more and more impatient. Leaving the car, he paced up and down the pavement beside it for nearly an hour. Tunge rubbed his shoulders to warm himself against the cold, and wondered again where they could be. The plane landed over forty-five minutes ago, and he knew that they would be travelling light with only hand luggage.

  Finally the two goons came through one of the sliding doors to his right. Walking towards him Patience offe
red a grumbled apology, ‘Sorry sir, they always seem to pick on me.’

  Tunge couldn’t imagine why immigration might be suspicious. Huge and in an ill fitting suit, Patience looked like his face had been badly scratched by someone trying to defend themselves.

  The almost symmetrical scars were actually tribal markings of passage, etched deeply into his square cheeks. They were common in Nigeria, but very out of place in Heathrow. His jacket nowhere near fitted him and was short at the cuffs. His trousers matching the jacket, Patience somehow didn’t look like the suit wearing type.

  Happy was not into formalities, he silently threw their hand luggage into the boot of Tunge’s car and stood waiting. ‘Just get in,’ shouted Tunge, retaking his position behind the wheel and slamming the door shut. Happy took the passenger seat, leaving Patience to clamber awkwardly into the back. His huge frame made it a tight fit, and he experienced difficulty reaching over to close the door behind him.

  Happy didn’t like Tunge’s tone, or that he was instructed to travel from Lagos to sort out his problems by the Chief. Happy felt protected in his home city, and relished the fear and respect he encountered wherever he went. In London he was just another member of the public, and it left him feeling unappreciated and isolated, so far from familiar surroundings. Happy wanted to make sure that Tunge understood that he wouldn’t be spoken to like that, whatever the normal pecking order might be.

  Pressing the button to slide his seat back he made himself comfortable before speaking, ‘Please remember that I hold council with your father when talking to me. Now, where are we going?’ The Chief briefed them fully the previous afternoon, so Happy knew what was expected of them.