Her Dutch lover looked suddenly at a loss. Opening and closing his mouth, he looked like a guppy, gasping and on show in the tank that was the restaurant of the Double Tree Hilton in Cambridge.
‘I’m going to my room,’ he said, quietly.
‘No, you ain’t,’ she said, trying to cause him injury with her pointed glare. She gestured at the paperwork on the floor. ‘Because we’re grown-ups and professionals and we’ve got a killer to catch and fucking job to do. Right? So straighten you face, bwoy, and think before you fucking disrespect me again. And for the record …’ She arranged the cruet set in a straight line across the table, separating them ‘… I won’t be making no “foolish” advances on your wrinkly arse again, old man. You decide you were wrong and that you want me, you’ll have to come fucking chasing.’ A lot of waggling of her index finger, loaded with meaning. ‘And make sure your tail’s hanging between those skinny legs of yours, cos I expect you to be one contrite motherfucker after the merry dance you’ve been leading me on these past few months.’
‘You’re intolerable,’ Van den Bergen said.
‘Oh yeah?’ She cupped her ear. ‘I don’t hear no asthmatic wheezing and I don’t see no hives on your skin, so I suggest you suck it up because turns out you can tolerate me just fine.’ She stared him down.
‘So, you were blackmailed by a woman,’ he said, sighing.
No apology forthcoming, she noted. Fuck him. He’d come round without water.
‘A homeless woman. And I can tell you exactly who she is because she’s been tapping me up for cash for weeks.’
‘Go on.’ Van den Bergen leaned forwards, his disgruntlement replaced by hunger for the truth.
‘Gabi Deenen.’
‘But Gabi and Piet Deenen are dead. Their coats and shoes were found at the end of the pier in Scheveningen. They had suicide notes stuffed into their pockets. They were driven to it by Internet trolls.’
‘But did they ever find the bodies?’ George asked, smiling wryly. Something clicked into place in her subconscious, though she couldn’t yet put her finger on it.
‘How long have you known Gabi was still alive?’ A look of pure thunder on Van den Bergen’s face said he was incensed.
‘The Deenens were off my radar, Paul. I’ve been busy with my own life. I do have one, you know! And anyway, I had my reasons for keeping quiet.’ George pursed her lips and folded her napkin into a precise triangle. Then, the blood froze in her veins as something struck her. Wide-eyed. Tongue-tied.
Van den Bergen leaned forwards, and grabbed her hand. ‘You know who Jack Frost is, don’t you?’
Breath coming short. The truth surfacing in her deep pool of understanding. Fast enough to give her the bends. ‘Jesus! I do. Why the fuck didn’t I see it sooner? Dobkin. Dobkin gave me the piece of the jigsaw.’
‘Piet Deenen,’ Van den Bergen said.
Nodding. Rubbing her numb face. ‘It could only be.’ She looked up at her lover. ‘Shit, Paul. What have I done?’
CHAPTER 34
South East London, later
‘Alright, Dan the Man,’ the skinny young brother said. ‘I ain’t seen you round these parts for a bit.’
Danny eyed this shivering little skeez suspiciously. ‘I know you?’
The boy’s eyes were tarnished medals of dented pride and fear, but he started stepping up to him, striking a bit of a badass pose, like he was some fucking player, making himself look bigger in his shit Lonsdale Puffa. Twenty quid on clearance down Sports Direct on the Old Kent Road, no doubt. ‘Yeah. I’m your old next-door neighbour from when you lived round the way, innit?’ He tried to fist-bump him, though Danny kept his hands in his pockets. ‘You the man with a plan, right? I was wondering if I could get—’
‘Step off, little man,’ Danny said, only paying part-attention to this wannabe pretender. ‘I’m busy, yeah?’ He reached inside his Canada Goose, smirking as the boy flinched, expecting him to bring out some metal maybe. He pulled out a roll of cash that could choke the big black cat in Catford, and peeled off a couple of twenties.
‘You ain’t seen me. Understand?’
‘Nice one, bruv.’ The boy pocketed the money in his zip pocket, rubbing his chapped lips together, sleet landing as sparkling droplets on his nappy hair.
‘What’s your name?’ Danny asked, never taking his eye from the little kitchen window of the house.
‘Sean.’
Glanced down at Sean’s slush-sodden trainers. He peeled off another few notes and pushed them into the boy’s hand.
‘Listen, Sean. I need you to do me a big favour, right?’
‘Anything, man.’
‘Get some proper seasonal footwear and a decent coat and fuck off.’
Left alone now he waited a further ten minutes, watching the door of the house where he knew she lived half of the time, wondering when or even if he should make his move. He had seen her often enough from a distance. She was still a gift of a girl, but wrapped in the Kevlar of the pigs and the justice system. Untouchable, but still a loose end he had vowed to tie off.
His phone pinged, alerting him to a text. He checked the screen of his brand-new iPhone. The Duke had summoned him, wanting an update. He turned away reluctantly, disappointed that she hadn’t appeared at the front door. Nobody had. Though he knew the house wasn’t empty because he had eyes and ears all over the estate. Nothing passed Dan the Man by. Never had. Never would.
‘What do you mean it’s Danny fucking Spencer?’ Letitia said, trying to push Sharon out of the way. ‘I ain’t seen that little twat since me and Ella lived on the estate. I had to change my name by deed poll cos of him. Left me out of pocket. Bastard.’
But Sharon wouldn’t give an inch. She turned around to face her sister, uncharacteristically clenching her hand into a fist, though she’d grown up with the threat of hell and damnation if she didn’t dig deep enough for forgiveness and understanding.
‘This is my house, Letitia. Back the fuck off! You’re supposed to be friggin’ ill. Sit yourself back on the sofa or you can get your malingering arse on the next train back to Ashford.’
‘I’m gonna tell that Danny to do one.’ Letitia’s eyes narrowed, plotting revenge. ‘I am. I’m gonna go out there and give him what for.’ She was poised to thump on the window of Patrice’s small bedroom. ‘He ain’t nothing but a snot-nose lickle bomboclart. I ain’t scared of his sort.’
Sharon backed away into the shadows of the room, pulling her sister with her. ‘You’re such a silly cow, Letitia. Everyone knows he’s big league these days.’ She started to shake, though the heating was still cranked up to downtown Kingston, Jamaica. Adrenalin. ‘I bet he’s got a gun in that anorak. I ain’t trifling with no gun. Don’t you be bringing grief to my doorstep …’ She poked herself in the chest ‘… just because you fancy yourself as some hard case.’
Her elder sister surged back to the windowsill like an unturnable tide, rapped on the glass and shouted, ‘I’m going to take the belt to you, Danny Spencer!’
Fearful tears brimmed in Sharon’s eyes. ‘You stupid, selfish cow! Wat mek yu dweet fa?’ She thought of Patrice, at school, and Tinesha, at work. They would be back soon, and she wouldn’t be able to protect them. She raised her hand to slap Letitia – ever the more wilful of the two daughters, kicking against their mother’s strict upbringing.
But Letitia was fast. She grabbed Sharon’s hand in mid-air and guffawed with laughter.
‘He’s gone, you dopey cow. I’m winding you up, innit?’ Continuing mirth as she shuffled downstairs, back to her sickbed on the couch, still wheezing with amusement as she lit her eleventh cigarette of the morning.
Hanging back on the stairs, Sharon prayed for her pounding heart to slow. ‘Keep cool. Keep it together for the kids,’ she counselled herself. She took out her phone from her skirt pocket and dialled George.
On the other end of the line, her niece sounded irritated and sharp at first. Her voice softened as Sharon spoke, giving way to audible
trepidation.
‘You sure it was Danny Spencer?’ George asked.
‘Yes. Definite. I never forget a face. Even if I didn’t know him from yous, he was all over the papers for about a year. And now he’s here. And he knows you’re here.’ She scratched with a worn-down thumbnail at the bubbled pattern in her white-washed Anaglypta wallpaper, shaking.
‘Did he spot you?’
‘Nah.’ She sat on her hand to stop the jitters.
‘Good. Do us a favour, Aunty Shaz. Get Patrice to ask his mates if they know where Danny’s at.’
‘No fucking ways, darling. I ain’t getting my boy caught up in any gangsta bullshit.’
‘He can be discreet and get his mates to do the dirty work. But I need to keep a watchful eye on the bear’s den if he’s going to come after me, thinking I’m easy meat. Please! It’s not just my safety that’s at stake.’
CHAPTER 35
London, the West End, later
Strutting his way down to Savile Row, Danny thought about what it was to be rich: to know where the next meal was coming from; to buy himself threads that were correct; to have the world at his feet. He bashed some rich Arab woman in full burka out of the way as she pissed around outside a boutique, digging for some shit or other in her Chanel handbag. He got a kick from it. He was king of the road, off to meet the king of the city. He had come a long way. He wasn’t about to let that fucking cow take that away from him.
‘Gimme a coffee, yeah?’ he said to the suited salesman when he’d entered the store, flinging himself onto a leather sofa. ‘This well nice in here, innit?’ He looked around at the lofty, bespoke tailor’s: an upper crust white-man’s temple to style, complete with galleried second floor and vaulted glazed ceiling, like it was some Victorian museum, but with nice tailoring instead of stuffed tigers and that. All white panelling. Dummies wearing thousand quid suits. This is where the real money came, just to restock their wardrobes away from prying eyes.
But the salesman was still waiting, staring at Danny’s clothes and the tramlines in his close crop, as though he was from another fucking planet.
‘You got a Coke? I’ll have that, man.’
Still eyeballing him.
‘You know who I’m meeting here, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Danny leaned forwards in his seat, toothpick hanging out the corner of his mouth, legs astride, hands on knees, making himself look bigger with his coat unzipped and hanging open.
‘Yes, sir.’ The salesman touched his naff college-boy hair and disappeared, almost bowing. Fucking idiot.
In his head, Danny ran through what he was going to tell the Duke.
‘Step this way, sir,’ some old geez in a waistcoat said.
He beckoned him into a private room, which turned out to be some kind of fitting room on acid; the Duke was stood in the middle on a podium thing, wearing fuck-ugly tartan boxers and old man socks, getting measured with bits of white cloth pinned to his right side. Looked a proper numptee.
‘Young Daniel!’ he said, swivelling right round so he could see him with his good eye.
Smelled of money. First thing you noticed, when you walked into a room where this geezer was at, even if he was in his undies. And the way the tailor treated him – kneeling at his feet, with pins in his mouth; standing back, laying the praise on thick with a trowel – like the Duke had done something clever, just by standing there. Like it was his pleasure and honour to prance round after a bona fide toff, shovelling up any steaming shit that came out of his sunshiny white arse. Nice.
Danny approached to greet the big cheese. Fist-bumps, of course. No fucking way was he lowering himself to do that formal upper class handshake shit. He was a businessman, but there was no need to sacrifice a brother’s stylish way of being to get right with the Duke.
‘What do you think of my coat?’ the Duke said.
‘Sharp, man.’ Danny eyed the patchwork of white shitty fabric and pins. ‘Think you could do with a bit more coat in your coat, though. If you get my meaning.’
Laughter.
‘Bespoke,’ the Duke said. ‘You must treat yourself one day. They do a wonderful service here.’ He patted his belly. ‘Hides the vagaries of middle age rather well. Not that you have that problem.’
Danny laughed and ran a manicured hand over his head. He fingered the trim on his hood. ‘Nah, man. You wanna get yourself a quality parka. This got genuine fox and down fill for the Arctic, innit? While you be shivering your tits off, I be nice and toasty.’
More laughter all around, like he had said something incredible. The tailor actually clapped like a fucking seal.
‘Sir is very witty.’
‘Yes, sir is,’ Danny agreed, smiling, at ease with his destiny. The man who can. Serious, suddenly. ‘We gonna chat business, then?’
The Duke looked down at the tailor. ‘Will you give us a moment, Charles? There’s a good chap. Perhaps a couple of flat whites would go down a treat. Better still, a drop of brandy for my associate here and me.’
With the tailor gone, the Duke settled himself on the fitting room sofa. Danny, sitting lower on the podium, didn’t like the fact he was suddenly a few inches closer to the ground. But what was it his mum said? Life’s a shit sandwich. The more bread you got, the less shit you eat. He was working his way to all bread and no shit. The Duke could make that happen.
‘You got a space at the top now Lazami’s gone, innit?’ No point holding back.
Fucking loon started tapping his glass eye with the tailor’s pencil, giving a funny tight-lipped smile like he was apologetic or something. He gave off a patronising vibe, which Danny didn’t like.
‘Rufus possessed many qualities in addition to his Wild West spirit. He was my right-hand man in my legitimate enterprises, as well as my … er … more left-of-field interests. A man you can trust on the board of a plc as well as at the helm of an international trafficking venture is not one easily replaced, I’m afraid.’
He crossed his bony white legs and leaned back on the sofa as if he owned the whole of the West End, which maybe he did. Hard to tell with that old money. But either way, he didn’t seem to give a dog’s arsehole that his saggy old bollocks were hanging out of his shorts. Big bollocks, at that.
Danny chose his words carefully; he didn’t want to put his vexation on show.
‘So, you saying I’m no good in a fancy suit round a board table. I get that, yeah? I never been that sort of guy. But that ain’t taking into account my talent for the other stuff. The left-of-field shit. I got that covered, man.’ He sat up straight. He imagined he was on Dragon’s Den, pitching for the ultimate business backer. He wanted the Duke to see he was a dependable ally, a man with a plan. ‘Running the trafficking. I can do that. I speak Dutch. I speak German. Not brilliant, admittedly, but I lived in Holland for years, yeah? I’m over there, dealing with our pharmaceutical contacts all the time.’
He felt the weight of the piece in his coat pocket. He was sweating now, wishing he could put a bullet in the Duke’s scarred head. Hadn’t he been top of his own little pile? Hadn’t he had the Mohican working for him, taking over the operation Jez had been looking after? Running girls. Dealing ecstasy bought from the Rotterdam Silencer. Heroine from Helmand. Buying weight straight from Colombia. Lining up some tasty deals with a cartel in Mexico. Then, this upper crust wanker swans in and says it’s his turf. Suddenly South East London’s finest is playing second fiddle to some already billionaire bastard who’s in it just for kicks.
Come on, man. Pull yourself together. Bitching ain’t gonna pay your mum’s bills. Prove your loyalty.
‘Listen. You want proof I’m ready to fill Lazami’s boots on the non-legit side? Here’s proof. I reckon I know who this Jack Frost is … the bastard who took out Lazami, Vlinders and two pervs in Berlin.’
The Duke leaned forward, a glint in his good eye, the faint scarring around his glass eye crinkling up. ‘You do, do you?’
‘Pretty sure,�
�� he said. ‘He’s a homeless.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Putting two and two together. I been flogging him some ID and other gear. I could hear he was foreign, but his English is good. Barely any accent. So, it took me a while to place it. But then, I realised. Seen him out at the gypsy camp, snooping around. He’s on your tail, man. And he’s packing.’
A raised eyebrow said the unrufflable billionaire’s feathers had been ruffled. ‘I can’t say for sure what else Rufus was involved with, but I’m fairly certain his getting himself murdered had nothing to do with me. I’m untouchable.’ He touched the place on his front tooth where the diamond had been.
Danny’s chuckle was hollow, the way he wanted it to sound. He had to make himself indispensable to this arsehole. And to do that, he had to put the fear of god into him.
‘Only two people could have known Lazami, Vlinders and the two Germans were all linked. One is a professor type from University College London. Dobkin, his name is.’
‘Who’s he to me, and how the hell do you know about him?’
‘I got my sources, yeah? Brother of a mate just … er … got out of Wandsworth a few weeks back. Trevor. He’d been involved in your ventures, right? With Lazami. Getting little girls from Sheffield and bringing them to that hotel you got in Margate. Got picked up for possession, but he’s already on the sex offenders register. So, he’s interviewed by this Dobkin, who was doing a study into paedo rings. Dobkin lets slip that he was putting a database of names together. Was gonna blow the whistle on all the players in the papers. High-level names. Mentioned Son of the Eagle, apparently.’
‘Do you know where Dobkin can be found?’ the Duke asked.
Danny nodded.
‘Make him disappear. If you think you’re ready to step up, I need to see your aptitude. Understand?’
In his head, Danny ran through the list of names he could call on to buy the services of a fixer. Killing wasn’t his thing. He was a lover, not a fighter. But he had no problems with paying someone to do his dirty work for him. He made a pact with himself not to mention George; he would deal with her.
The Girl Who Walked in the Shadows Page 20
