‘It was only a fracture. And a small one at that.’
Sharpe gestured at the fridge. ‘Get me another beer and let me think about it.’
The girl had said she was twenty-three but she looked as if she was barely out of her teens. She’d told Shepherd she had been working in the bar for three weeks and before that she had been assembling televisions in a Japanese factory in Udon Thani, in the north-east of the country. Her name was Nong, she had never been married and she didn’t like Thai men because they were lazy and beat their wives. Shepherd had the feeling that it was a story she’d told a hundred times and that she had been a bargirl for a lot longer than three weeks. She’d asked him if he’d buy her a drink and he’d said yes. When she’d tottered to the bar on her high heels he’d seen that her stomach was pitted with stretch marks.
When she came back with her drink she’d told him how she had to send money to her mother every month because her family was so poor, but Shepherd could see that her heart wasn’t in it. Lying to people was a skill, a craft that had to be honed, and reciting a list of untruths didn’t make you a good liar. You had to believe in the story you were selling. Shepherd knew all about lying. It was what he did for a living. He decided that most of the guys Nong spoke to were so drunk or stupid they never questioned what she told them so she’d given up making an effort.
It was a little after eleven o’clock and he was in a go-go bar in an alley off Walking Street. The Moore brothers were at a table close to a dancing podium at the far end with Yates and Wilson. Shepherd had visited a dozen such bars before he’d found the brothers, then phoned Jimmy Sharpe to let him know where they were. He had sat with his back to the brothers and watched the dancers until Nong had come up behind him, put her hands over his eyes and whispered, ‘Surprise!’ It was her opening gambit, pretending she’d mistaken him for somebody else. Then she’d slid on to the stool next to him, rubbed his thigh and told him her tale of woe.
The curtain at the entrance to the bar drew back and Jimmy Sharpe came in. He was wearing baggy shorts, a sweat-stained T-shirt advertising Singha, and flip-flops, the uniform of the sex tourist on the prowl. He went to the bar, ordered a beer to match the logo on his shirt and leered at the dancing bargirls. Then he pretended to see Shepherd for the first time and walked unsteadily to his table. He banged down his bottle and grinned at Nong. ‘Hello, darling,’ he said. ‘What’s your name, then?’
Her face tightened and she moved closer to Shepherd.
Sharpe reached out and ran his fingers down her arm. ‘Lovely little thing, aren’t you? Come here and give me a kiss.’
‘She’s with me, mate,’ said Shepherd.
‘She’s with whoever pays her bill, pal,’ he said, ‘and my money’s as good as yours.’ He shouted the last sentence and heads turned to see what the commotion was about. Sharpe took out his wallet and waved a thousand-baht note in front of her. ‘Come on, darling, let’s get out of here.’
Shepherd slid off his stool. ‘I already told you, pal. She’s with me.’
Sharpe pushed Shepherd in the chest, hard enough to move him back. ‘Get out of my face!’ he yelled, his Glaswegian accent heavier than usual. He grabbed his beer bottle and smacked it against the side of the table. It shattered, leaving him holding the neck and a wickedly sharp shard, which he thrust at Shepherd’s face. Shepherd swayed back, grasped Sharpe’s wrist with his right hand, and twisted savagely. Sharpe yelped in genuine pain and the remains of the bottle fell to the floor.
Shepherd stepped forward, increased the pressure on Sharpe’s twisted arm, then swung him to the side and threw him against the wall. Sharpe hit it hard, but immediately came back at Shepherd, swinging his fists and cursing. He managed to clip Shepherd on the side of the chin, jolting his jaw, but then Shepherd grabbed his T-shirt and pulled it halfway over his head. Shepherd kept the momentum going, pulling Sharpe towards him, then stepped to the side, like a matador avoiding an angry bull, and pushed him head-first into the wall. This time Sharpe went down on his hands and knees, swearing loudly.
Two Thai waiters were heading purposefully for Shepherd. The curtain at the entrance to the bar was pulled aside and another two looked in. Shepherd knew that he had only seconds to end the fight before they piled in. He grabbed the back of Sharpe’s shirt, dragged him to his feet and frogmarched him to the door. Blood was dripping from his nose and Shepherd hoped he hadn’t broken it. The Thai doormen moved aside to let Shepherd through. ‘Get the hell out, and stay out!’ Shepherd roared, kicking Sharpe’s backside. He followed him into the alley. ‘And if I see you in here again I’ll kill you!’ he yelled, and kicked him again.
Sharpe ran off down the alley, heading away from Walking Street. There were cheers as Shepherd walked back into the bar and a round of spontaneous applause from three skinheads standing at the main dancing podium. Shepherd gave them a mock-bow, then went back to his table. Nong threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. ‘You very brave man,’ she said.
‘Not really,’ said Shepherd. Mark Moore and Andy Yates were looking in his direction. Mickey was standing with his back to him, holding a banknote up to a bare-breasted dancer. Yates was saying something to Mark, who was nodding. Shepherd was sure they’d seen the fight so he’d achieved his objective. He finished his drink and called for his bill.
‘I come with you?’ asked Nong hopefully.
‘Sorry, love, I promised myself an early night,’ said Shepherd. He paid, waved goodbye to his skinhead fan club and left the bar. He walked slowly down the alley to make sure no one was following him, then increased the pace as he headed for the Penthouse Hotel.
Jimmy Sharpe opened the door to his room, clutching an icepack to his forehead. He grunted at Shepherd, then lay down on his bed. ‘You’re a bastard,’ he muttered.
‘I didn’t think you’d hit the wall as hard as you did,’ said Shepherd. He dropped onto the chair by the window and swung his feet onto the end of the bed.
‘You pulled my shirt over my bloody head so I couldn’t see where the hell I was. That wasn’t what we’d planned. Bottle, grab my arm, against the wall, I throw a punch, you grab me and throw me out. That was what you said, right?’
‘I improvised and I’m sorry,’ said Shepherd. ‘But it looked bloody good, I can tell you. I’m pretty sure they bought it.’
‘I think it’s broken,’ muttered Sharpe.
‘I’m sure it’s not. How can I make it up to you?’
Sharpe lifted the icepack and squinted across at him. ‘You can talk to Charlie and get me into a decent hotel,’ he said slyly.
It had been a long day and Simon Montgomery was looking forward to a beer and a curry in front of the television. Thursday was his wife’s bridge night, the one night of the week when she allowed him a curry in the house. Eileen hated the smell of Indian food, let alone the taste, and the first curry she had eaten with him had been her last. They had gone to one of Montgomery’s favourite restaurants in the East End of London. They were both in their early twenties, he was an up-and-coming barrister, she a copywriter with a top London advertising agency. Despite his suggestion that she should keep clear of seafood, she had had king prawn dhansak, and three hours later she had been throwing up like there was no tomorrow. That had been thirty-four years, three children and five grandchildren ago, but Eileen had refused ever again to be even in the same room as a curry.
Simon pressed the remote control to open his garage gates and drove the Jaguar in slowly. The house was almost two hundred years old and the two-car garage was a relatively recent addition. There had been just enough space to fit it in between the house and the garden wall and there was only just enough room for the Jaguar and his wife’s Mini Cooper. Montgomery knew that a fair amount of sherry was consumed at the weekly bridge session and that his wife’s parking abilities were dubious even when she was completely sober so he parked as close as he could to the wall. He closed the garage and unlocked the internal door that led into the kitchen, tapping t
he code into the burglar alarm before hanging his coat over the back of a chair and taking his briefcase to his study. He kept his takeaway menus in his desk because his wife tended to throw away the ones he left on the refrigerator door. He sat at his desk and took them out of the top drawer. There were three Indian restaurants within a mile of Montgomery’s house, but his favourite by far was Tandoori Nights. He knew the menu by heart but he still made the effort to look through it. Then he picked up the phone and ordered exactly what he’d decided on during the drive home – chicken jalfrezi, lamb rogan josh on the bone, sag paneer, a garlic naan and boiled rice.
He went upstairs to shower, then changed into a polo shirt and chinos. He had just taken a bottle of Kingfisher beer from the fridge when the doorbell rang. A console in the hallway allowed him to view the images from the CCTV cameras that covered the front and rear of the property. The delivery boy was at the gates, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes and, behind him, the 50cc moped with a red back carrier that had the name of the restaurant on it. Montgomery buzzed him in and went to open the front door.
He was a teenage Bangladeshi, the nephew of the owner. He was a nice enough lad but Montgomery knew from experience that he was careless so he checked the order carefully, then gave him thirty pounds and told him to keep the change. The boy hurried back to the gate and Montgomery closed the door. He pressed the button on the console to open the gate again, then went through to the kitchen, humming quietly to himself. He switched on the extractor fan above the oven and laid out the foil cartons on the kitchen table. ‘Lovely,’ he whispered, and sipped his Kingfisher. His wife hated the beer almost as much as she hated the food. Generally he followed her lead and drank either wine or sherry, but beer was the only possible accompaniment to Indian food, and ideally it had to be Kingfisher or Cobra. He poured it into a pint glass. His mouth was watering and he thought, for the thousandth time, that a good Indian meal was, more often than not, more satisfying than sex – certainly the sort of sex he’d been getting in recent years. The doorbell rang again and he frowned. He went to the console in the hallway. The delivery boy was back. He opened the front door. The boy was standing on the doorstep, the baseball cap low on his face. ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Montgomery. ‘Didn’t I give you enough?’
The boy looked up and Montgomery frowned. It wasn’t the Bangladeshi. This boy was dark-skinned but he was older than the delivery boy and his eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. Montgomery wondered why he was wearing them at night, then looked over the boy’s shoulder and saw that the motorcycle had gone. He opened his mouth to speak but the boy punched him in the sternum, knocking the wind from his lungs. He staggered back, gasping for breath, his chest on fire. The glass of beer dropped to the floor and shattered into a dozen shards, beer splashing over his legs. Two more men appeared, in hooded sweatshirts and dark glasses. They grabbed Montgomery by each arm and pulled him down the hallway. His bare feet scrabbled for balance.
The man in the baseball cap slammed the door and pulled a carving knife from the pocket of his jacket. He pointed it at Montgomery’s face. ‘Just chill and you’ll be fine,’ he said. He had a north of England accent, Montgomery realised.
‘My wallet’s in my pocket,’ said Montgomery. ‘My watch is on the bedside table. It’s a Rolex. The only money in the house is in the desk in my study. There’s about two hundred pounds. Just take it and go.’
‘We are not thieves,’ said the man with the knife. ‘We have not come here to steal from you.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want you to shut the fuck up and do as you’re told,’ said the man. He used his left hand to pull a bundle of material from his anorak pocket. He shook it out – a cloth bag – then pulled it down over Montgomery’s head.
‘I can’t breathe,’ said Montgomery.
‘Hit him,’ said someone. The voice was muffled through the hood.
‘What?’ said Montgomery. ‘What did you say?’
‘Hit him!’ repeated the voice, louder this time.
Montgomery opened his mouth to speak but something slammed against the side of his head and everything went black.
Sweat dripped down Shepherd’s back and he wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt. He’d parked down a side road where he had a decent view of the entrance to the car park of the gym frequented by the Moore brothers and their crew. On his back he had a small rucksack containing his gym gear and a towel. He had been waiting at the side of the road on his rented Harley Davidson Sportster motorcycle for the past half an hour. The Moores and their crew were regulars at the gym and Andy Yates and Davie Black usually turned up on motorbikes. Shepherd had rented his from a shop close to Jimmy Sharpe’s hotel, paying cash for three months. He wasn’t a fan of motorcycles and generally preferred four wheels to two, but the bike would give him a reason to talk to Yates or Black.
Shepherd had spent the morning moving into the villa and stocking up with provisions from a local supermarket. Now it was just after three o’clock. He planned to give it another fifteen minutes and if the crew hadn’t turned up he’d go into the gym on his own. He hadn’t exercised since he’d arrived in Thailand and he could feel his body tightening up. He’d considered swimming in the villa’s pool but the sun was too fierce during the day for him to be in the water for an hour or two. As he wiped his forehead again, he heard the sound of two powerful motorcycles in the distance. He started his engine.
As he put the bike in gear he saw Yates and Black pull into the car park. Yates was on a customised Harley Fat Boy chopper with handlebars that curved high into the air and a low-slung seat, while Black had a 1500cc V-twin Suzuki Intruder. Neither men was wearing a helmet. Shepherd headed after them and parked next to Black’s Suzuki. He took off his helmet. ‘Nice bikes,’ said Shepherd. He pointed at the customised Harley. ‘Haven’t seen many of those in Pattaya.’
‘Had it hand-built in California and shipped over,’ said Yates. ‘Davie here bought his in from Japan.’ He nodded at Shepherd’s bike. ‘Rental?’
‘Yeah, I left mine in England. Not sure whether to bring it over or buy here.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘John Westlake.’
‘Davie,’ said Black, shaking his hand. ‘Davie Black.’
‘Andy,’ said Yates, also shaking his hand. ‘Most guys here call me Chopper.’
‘Because of your bike or because of your …’ Shepherd gestured at the man’s groin.
Yates laughed. ‘Bit of both,’ he said. He looked at Shepherd. ‘Didn’t I see you kicking the hell out of some guy last night?’
‘Might have done,’ said Shepherd. ‘Some Scottish geezer was getting lippy with the bird I was with. Next thing I know he’s trying to bottle me.’
‘You sorted him out, though, gave him a right good hiding.’
‘Nothing he didn’t deserve,’ said Shepherd.
Yates nodded at the gym. ‘Are you going inside?’
‘Yeah, I used to run to keep fit but it’s too bloody hot here so I thought I’d give the gym a try.’ The three men walked in together. Yates and Black went to the changing rooms while Shepherd filled in an application form. By the time Shepherd had changed, yates and Black were in the weights area. Black was lying on his back lifting and Yates was watching him. Shepherd nodded at them and went over to a row of treadmills. He set one to a five per cent incline, jogged for five minutes as a warm-up, then ran at full pelt for half an hour. He preferred to run outside, ideally with a rucksack full of bricks on his back to build stamina. Treadmills always reminded him of hamsters on exercise wheels, a lot of effort to go nowhere.
Two young girls in skin-tight leotards and Lycra shorts were jogging on adjacent machines, watching a Thai soap opera on an overhead TV screen. They smiled at him as he walked by and he smiled back. The Thailand Tourist Authority liked to describe the country as ‘The Land of Smiles’ and it was an accurate description. The Thais did smile a lot, but he had no way of telling if they meant it or not.
Yates and Black w
ere still in the weights area, sitting on benches and working on their biceps. Shepherd went to them and draped his towel over a bench. ‘All right, lads?’ he said.
They nodded and carried on with their reps. Shepherd rarely trained with free weights. He had no interest in building muscle mass and found weight training boring, but it was the sort of activity that men like Ricky Knight thrived on, especially when they had spent time inside. He went over to a rack and picked up a five-kilo bar, sat down on a bench opposite them and began working on his right arm. ‘How easy was it to bring your bikes over?’ he asked Yates.
‘Cost you a couple of grand to ship it over, and there’s an import tax, plus you’ll probably have to grease a few palms at the port but it’s no big deal,’ said Yates. ‘Are you gonna be here for a while, then?’
‘Foreseeable future,’ said Shepherd. ‘What about you guys? How long have you been in Pattaya?’
‘Couple of years,’ said Black. He switched his weights from the right arm to the left.
‘Did you buy a place?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Yeah,’ said Yates. ‘What about you?’
‘Just rented a villa but I think I’ll probably buy. It’s my first time here so I’m still feeling my way.’
‘You’ve got to be careful because farangs can’t own land, but there’s ways around it,’ Black told him.
‘Farangs?’
‘That’s what they call foreigners. We’re all farangs. Apartments are okay, but not land.’
‘Yeah, I was talking to the estate agent that got me my place. Dominic Windsor. He said as much.’
‘You know Dom, do you?’ said Yates. He stood up, clenched and unclenched his hands, then flexed his shoulders.
‘Just given him one and a half million baht in rent,’ said Shepherd. ‘Three months. Nice place, owned by some guy in Singapore.’
Yates laughed. ‘Oh, you’re the newbie he was talking about.’
‘What?’
‘You were robbed,’ said Black.
Live Fire Page 14
