Live Fire

by Stephen Leather

  ‘My head’s still ringing but that could be the booze,’ said Shepherd. They were in the Angelwitch go-go bar. On stage more than a dozen lithe girls in black leather bondage gear and high-heeled black boots gyrated around the chrome poles. One of the girls, with dyed blonde hair and pneumatic breasts, kept trying to make eye contact with him, and every time his eyes met her she blew him a kiss.

  Mickey, Mark and Shepherd were standing close to the stage while Yates and Wilson were sitting at a table with two bargirls.

  ‘She wants you, mate.’ Mickey laughed.

  ‘She wants my money,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘If you’re hoping for a love job, you’re in the wrong place,’ said Mickey.

  ‘Where’s Davie?’ asked Shepherd. Black had left them as soon as they’d arrived at Walking Street.

  ‘He’s off to Boyztown,’ said Mark.

  ‘Boyztown?’

  ‘It’s the gay area,’ said Yates. ‘Gay go-go bars, gay short-time hotels, gay saunas. It’s a poofter’s paradise.’

  ‘You’d never know he was gay by looking at him, would you?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘He’s gay, not camp,’ said Mickey. ‘We’ve known him since he was a kid and it was obvious before he was a teenager that he wasn’t interested in girls. Doesn’t matter a toss. Davie’s Davie and that’s the end of it.’

  A tall girl with shampoo-commercial hair came up behind Mark and caressed his backside. She had on a black dress tight enough to show that she wasn’t wearing underwear. Mark twisted and kissed her. ‘What about you, John?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t want to get the clap,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘These girls are fine,’ said Mark, waving at the dancers. ‘They’re tested every month.’ He stroked the hair of the girl by his side. ‘They check you, right?’

  ‘Check?’

  Mark spoke to her slowly, as if he was addressing a retarded child. ‘Doctor check you for Aids and everything?’

  The girl nodded vigorously. ‘I fine,’ she said. ‘Doctor check every month.’

  ‘And how many guys do you think they go through in four weeks?’ said Shepherd. He indicated a small brown girl with a tattoo of a red and green dragon on her back. ‘She left with a guy an hour ago and is already back up there dancing and waiting for another customer. That’s not for me, mate.’

  An obese Westerner in a Chelsea shirt, his shaven head bathed in sweat, tried unsuccessfully to climb onto the podium and fell back into a waitress, almost crushing her against the wall. He grinned at her drunkenly and slumped to the floor.

  Two pretty girls appeared at Mickey’s shoulder. They were wearing tight jeans and low-cut black Tshirts and could have been twins. ‘Right, I’m taking Bee and Boo back to the villa for a seeing-to,’ he said.

  ‘Which one’s Bee and which one’s Boo?’ asked Shepherd.

  Mickey put his arms around them. ‘Who cares?’ he asked. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ll head home,’ said Shepherd.

  Yates and Wilson paid their bill, then joined Mickey. ‘We’re going to Lucifer’s, pick up a few freelancers,’ said Yates.

  The clammy night air washed over them as they walked through the curtain into the alley. Mickey lit a cigar and tossed the match into the gutter. The tables around the food vendors were busy, with bargirls and their customers perched on stools eating rice and noodles on plastic plates. Yates and Wilson waved goodbye and headed through the Walking Street crowds to Lucifer’s disco.

  Mickey and Shepherd had parked their vehicles not far from Sharpe’s hotel and they walked together towards the beach road. Young Thai girls dressed in skin-tight shorts and low-cut tops smiled hopefully at Shepherd, and touts tried to tempt them inside the establishments that paid their wages. They walked by the police volunteers’ van and past a series of outdoor bars where hundreds of Thai girls flashed teeth and thighs at any foreigner.

  ‘Handsome man!’

  ‘Where you go?’

  ‘I go with you!’

  The beach road was packed with baht buses and cars, all preparing to turn left at the pedestrianised Walking Street. Mickey and Mark guided their girls to the path that ran alongside the beach and Shepherd followed them. More girls stood at the side of the path or sat on concrete benches, handbags clutched in their laps. They were older than the girls Shepherd had seen in the bars, and most had bad skin, unkempt hair, cheap clothes and worn shoes. They were at the bottom of the city’s sex industry, women whose last hope was a tourist too drunk to see clearly. Shepherd doubted they had regular medical checks – they were clearly more concerned about where their next meal was coming from than their health. One stick-thin woman must have been in her fifties, her mouth a slash of scarlet lipstick across a wrinkled face, bloodshot eyes blank as she scratched a bleeding scab on her knee. Shepherd had an urge to give her some money, do something to improve her hellish life, but he could see from the telltale marks on her arms that any cash she had would go straight into her drug-dealer’s pockets.

  Some of the girls at the roadside were barely out of their teens. Shepherd couldn’t tell if they were working or not but at one o’clock in the morning it was a fair assumption that they were.

  ‘Hey, Mickey, that’s one of the paedos,’ hissed Mark.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Over there, talking to those two Thai kids.’

  Shepherd saw a middle-aged man in horn-rimmed glasses, wearing a sweat-stained vest and shorts, sitting on a concrete bench under a palm tree, with a Thai boy on either side of him, one aged about ten, the other closer to Liam’s age. The man had his hand on the younger boy’s knee.

  ‘You sure?’ said Mickey.

  ‘Yeah – his name’s Slater or something.’

  ‘How do you know he’s a paedophile?’ asked Shepherd. The older boy was talking to the man but he seemed more interested in the younger one. He pointed to a hotel on the other side of the beach road and said something. The younger boy nodded and smiled.

  ‘I saw his picture on the—’ began Mark.

  ‘Doesn’t matter how we know,’ Mickey interrupted, ‘but we know. He’s from Bristol, got caught fiddling with a young boy and did a runner.’

  ‘What do you wanna do, Mickey?’ asked Mark.

  Mickey blew a plume of smoke towards his feet. ‘Do you want to see what we do to nonces out here, John?’ he asked.

  ‘Same as we do in England, I hope,’ said Shepherd, playing his role but worrying about where this was headed. ‘Bastard.’

  ‘On the beach?’ asked Mark.

  ‘Short and sweet,’ said Mickey. ‘Come on.’ He patted the girls’ backsides. ‘Bee, walk on down there and wait for us,’ he said.

  ‘I’m Boo,’ said the girl, pouting.

  ‘Bee, Boo, whatever your name is, go down the road and wait for us.’ He held up his right hand, fingers splayed. ‘Five minutes.’ He handed her his cigar. ‘Keep that warm for me, darling.’

  The girls tottered down the road on their precariously high heels. Mark’s girl followed them, glaring reproachfully at Mickey.

  Mickey and Mark headed purposefully towards Slater, who looked up as they approached but had no time to react. ‘Come here, nonce,’ said Mark, grabbing him by the vest and pulling him to his feet.

  Slater opened his mouth to scream but Mark seized his throat and pushed him towards the beach.

  A Thai woman in her thirties who had been watching Slater hurried to the two boys and ushered them away. Shepherd wondered if she was their mother or their pimp. The younger boy said something to her and she clipped him around the ear.

  Mickey came up behind Slater, grabbed him in a bear-hug and carried him onto the sand. Mark had released his grip on the man’s throat and now seized his legs. Slater kicked out but Mark thumped him in the solar plexus and he went into spasm. Slater was struggling but Mickey and Mark held him tight.

  Shepherd followed them onto the sand. ‘What are you going to do to him?’ he asked Mark.

  ‘Kic
k the shit out of him,’ said Mark. ‘He’s a nonce. Pattaya’s full of them. Cops turn a blind eye so when we find one we make sure they know they’re not wanted.’

  The Moore brothers reached the water’s edge. Mark let go of the man’s legs, then hit him in the stomach twice, left and right, putting all his weight behind the blows. Slater sagged and Mickey let him fall to the sand. Mark kicked him in the ribs and Slater curled into a foetal ball, whimpering. Mickey kicked his back, swearing with each blow.

  Mark beckoned Shepherd. ‘Come on, John, give him some.’

  Shepherd glanced over his shoulder. Nobody was looking in their direction. He could hear the traffic driving down the beach road and, in the distance, the thud-thud-thud of a stereo system. He turned back to the brothers, who were still kicking Slater and stamping on his limbs. Slater was grunting with each blow but he’d stopped putting up any resistance. His knees were against his chest and his hands covered his face.

  Mark knelt down and punched him on the side of the head. ‘We don’t want your sort here, do you understand?’ he shouted. Slater didn’t respond so Mark punched him again. ‘You get the hell out of Thailand, or we’ll kill you.’ He pulled the man’s hands away from his face. ‘You hear me?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Slater. ‘I get it.’ He began to sob. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You make me sick,’ said Mark, and spat in his face.

  Mickey walked around the prostrate man and kicked him in the stomach. ‘Bloody paedo,’ he said. ‘Come on, John. Your turn.’

  Tears were running down Slater’s cheeks and there was blood on his lips. Mark stamped on his left foot and Shepherd heard something crack. ‘He’s had enough,’ he said quietly.

  ‘He’s a bloody nonce,’ said Mark. ‘You saw him with those kids.’ He kicked Slater savagely.

  ‘Go on, John,’ said Mickey. ‘Give him a kicking.’

  Shepherd had no love for paedophiles, but he didn’t believe in vigilante justice or in kicking a man when he was down. But Ricky Knight was a villain who’d been inside and, like all villains, he’d have a burning hatred for paedophiles and rapists. He had to stay in character and that meant getting violent. ‘Scumbag nonce,’ he said, and kicked Slater in the small of the back, grunting loudly to make the blow seem harder than it was. ‘Bastard!’ Shepherd shouted, and kicked Slater again, making sure he didn’t hit the man’s kidneys.

  Now Mickey was kicking Slater viciously, and Mark stamped on his legs. Slater was crying but, other than curling into a ball, he made no effort to protect himself. Shepherd could see that if they carried on, the man would be crippled for life. He looked towards the beach road. Two Thais were standing by a street-lamp.

  ‘Guys, I think they’re cops over there,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Where?’ said Mark.

  ‘Over there,’ said Shepherd, pointing at the two men. ‘One of them just used a radio. We should get the hell out of here.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Mickey. ‘Let’s go.’

  Mark knelt beside Slater and grabbed a handful of his hair. ‘Get on the next plane out of Thailand or you’re dead,’ he spat. Slater groaned. Mark pushed his face into the sand, then hurried after Shepherd. Mickey gave Slater a final kick in the stomach and jogged to catch up.

  ‘Does this sort of thing happen a lot?’ Shepherd asked Mickey.

  ‘When we find one, we sort him out.’

  They ran a couple of hundred yards along the beach, then cut across the sand back to the beach road. The three girls were waiting for them, smoking and talking animatedly. They jumped up and down when they saw the men coming.

  ‘I’ll get a baht bus from here,’ said Shepherd. He stuck out his hand. ‘Thanks for an interesting night,’ he said.

  Mickey grinned. ‘We’ll do it again, for sure,’ he said.

  Mickey wandered out onto the terrace, sipping his coffee. The espresso was slightly bitter and full-flavoured. He’d had the beans flown in from Colombia and the coffee machine from Italy. It had taken him two weeks to teach his chef to make espresso but now he did it perfectly, day after day. He smacked his lips. ‘Lovely,’ he said. He heard a bird singing in one of the trees on the other side of the wall and raised his cup to it. ‘And a good morning to you, my love,’ he said.

  Andy Yates was on a sunlounger by the pool. ‘You all right, Mickey?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better,’ said Mickey. ‘Is Chitpong here yet?’

  ‘At the main gate,’ said Yates.

  The two girls who had come home with Mickey were frolicking in the shallow end of the pool. They waved at him and he waved back. ‘Did you bring anyone back last night?’ he asked Yates.

  ‘Nah, we didn’t fancy them for all night so we went to a short-time hotel off Walking Street,’ said Yates. ‘Right flea-pit, it was.’

  Mickey gestured at the two girls. ‘Help yourself to Bee and Boo,’ he said. ‘Can’t for the life of me remember which is which, but they do a great threesome. Very enthusiastic.’

  ‘I might just do that, thanks,’ said Yates.

  Mickey went inside the main building and over to a large painting of the sun going down in Phuket. It was hinged and he swung it back to reveal a large safe with a numeric keyboard. He tapped in the combination and pulled open the door. Inside there were stacks of banknotes – dollars, pounds, euros and Thai baht. He took out a wad of thousand-baht notes, then closed the safe and replaced the painting. He picked up the phone on the desk by the window and tapped out the number of the main gate. He didn’t know the name of the man who answered but he told him to send Chitpong up to the main building. Chitpong was a police sergeant with two elder brothers who were high-ranking police officers in Bangkok. His brother-in-law was a general in the Thai Army. He had his fingers in pies all over Pattaya, from the Turkish baths on Second Street to a golf course and spa on the outskirts of the city. Mickey paid him a retainer of two hundred thousand baht a month to arrange security at the compound. Chitpong hired his own men to work on their days off at the compound and took a cut of the wages Mickey paid them.

  Chitpong ambled up the path to the main building. He was wearing his dark brown police uniform trousers, shining black leather boots and a black sweatshirt with the logo of the Royal Thai Police Force across the front. His police-issue Glock was in a nylon holster on his hip. ‘Good morning, Khun Mickey,’ said Chitpong. He was overweight and like most Thai police officers he favoured a close-fitting uniform so the trousers strained across his groin.

  ‘I need a favour from your friend at Immigration,’ said Mickey. ‘Landing-card details of a farang who arrived last week.’ He handed Chitpong a sheet of paper. ‘His name’s John Westlake. I’m not sure what flight he was on. He’s British but he could have flown in from anywhere.’ Chitpong took the paper. It was a faxed copy of John Westlake’s passport, courtesy of Dominic Windsor. Mickey gave him the wad of banknotes. ‘Soon as you can, yeah?’ he said.

  Chitpong forced the cash into his trouser pocket. ‘No problem, Khun Mickey,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a copy sent out before lunch.’

  Mickey slapped him on the back. ‘You’re a star,’ he said. He sipped his coffee as Chitpong walked back to the main gate. First he would get as much information as he could about John Westlake or Ricky Knight or whatever his name was. Then he’d decide what to do with him.

  Shepherd was getting to the end of a forty-five-minute run on a treadmill set to a five per cent incline when Yates and Black walked in. He raised a hand to them and switched off the treadmill, then joined them in the weights area.

  ‘Last night was a blast,’ said Yates. ‘I had the mother of all hangovers this morning.’

  ‘You and me both,’ said Shepherd. He rubbed his chin. ‘Plus I had a sore jaw and bruises all over my body.’

  ‘Yeah, Mark’s an animal,’ said Black.

  ‘You did all right, though,’ said Yates. ‘Right up to the moment he kicked you in the head it was fifty-fifty.’

  ‘Yeah, I didn’t see that one coming,
’ lied Shepherd.

  When he’d finished his workout, Shepherd picked up his towel and headed for the showers.

  ‘Fancy a swim instead?’ asked Yates.

  ‘What? In the sea, you mean?’

  ‘Bloody hell, no,’ said Yates. ‘You’d be mad to swim in the sea here. They pump raw sewage into it. Nah, back at the ranch. We’ve got a fair pool. Might get a poker game going later.’

  ‘That’s the plan, yeah? Play me for a mug?’

  Yates slapped Shepherd on the back. ‘We’re pussycats, pal. Come on, it’ll be a laugh.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’ve talked me into it.’

  They walked together out of the gym. ‘Where’s your Harley?’ asked Yates.

  Shepherd nodded at his Jeep. ‘I’m driving that today. The Harley’s misfiring and I’ve got to get a mechanic to check it over.’ In fact the bike was fine but he’d already had several near misses driving the Harley on the Pattaya roads and he felt a lot safer behind the wheel of the Jeep.

  Yates climbed onto his Harley and pointed down the road. ‘You follow us. We’re about ten miles outside town.’

  Shepherd got into his Jeep and threw his gym bag into the back. Yates and Black pulled out of the car park on their bikes. Shepherd switched on the engine and followed them. As he drove, he called Sharpe on his mobile and told him where he was going.

  ‘The lion’s den, huh?’ said Sharpe. ‘You want me to take a ride up there to be close by?’

  ‘They live in a compound behind a bloody big wall,’ said Shepherd. ‘I don’t think there’s anything you could do. A swim and poker, Moore said. I think I’ll be okay.’

  ‘A swim and poker? Won’t the cards get wet?’

  Shepherd cut the connection. The bikes had accelerated and Shepherd put his foot down. He overtook a family of four crammed onto a 125cc Honda motorcycle, a leathery-skinned father with Buddhist tattoos on his neck, a plump mother with her hair tied back in a bun, a small boy with a Power Rangers backpack clinging to her, and a toddler sitting on the father’s lap and holding the handlebars, her hair whipping in the wind. The mother smiled at Shepherd and the small boy waved.