The Blue Ring (A Creasy novel Book 3)

by A. J. Quinnell

  She turned her head to see the two men being ushered through the door. One was blond and fair-skinned and slightly plump. She guessed his age at approaching forty. The other was much younger, with jet-black hair and dark skin. He had sharp features and she decided he was very handsome. They sat at the bar almost in front of her and for a moment her view was obscured as the barmaid took their orders. She reached behind her and flicked one of a row of switches. Immediately she heard their voices. They spoke in English. The blond one ordered a whisky soda, and specified Chivas Regal. The young one ordered a Campari and fresh orange juice. As she mixed the drinks the barmaid chatted to them as she had been trained, first asking where they were from. The blond said he was from Stockholm and the handsome one said he was from Cyprus. The barmaid told them that the floor-show would start at midnight and to let her know if they wanted a table. The young man answered that they would stay at the bar.

  The barmaid then moved away to serve another customer, and the beauty behind the mirror studied them again before reaching for the telephone. She dialled a number which was answered immediately.

  She said, ‘Yves, they are here . . . Yes, they fit the description exactly.’ She listened for a moment and glanced at her watch and said, ‘OK, about halfway into the floor-show.’ She hung up, pushed herself away from the desk and moved towards the door.

  Michael and Jens’ heads moved in unison to the left as she appeared from the recessed door. She came towards them smiling, knowing the effect she had on them, the effect she had on all men who were not senile or gay.

  She held out her hand to the blond, saying, ‘Welcome to The Pink Panther. I’m Denise, the manageress.’ She squeezed his hand and he squeezed hers in return, looking slightly flustered. She withdrew her hand, reached across him and shook the young man’s hand and also squeezed it. He did not squeeze hers and he did not look flustered, nor did he look at her high breasts. He just gazed at her face. Not disinterested but not overwhelmed. He was, she decided, extremely handsome. She chatted with them for several minutes, asking the usual questions and then explaining that if they wanted company it was readily available, and intimating that such company could become very intimate indeed in other, more private parts of the club upstairs.

  ‘We have a very good floor-show here at midnight,’ she said. ‘But at one o’clock we have a more . . . how shall I say it? A more erotic show. In fact, a very erotic show upstairs. Usually that’s reserved for only those customers who have hired a hostess, but since this is your first visit you’ll be my personal guests.’

  Jens started to say something, but Michael cut in. ‘That’s very kind of you. We’d be honoured.’

  She smiled and gave him a look that sent him a definite promise. She said, ‘I’ll come to collect you just before one o’clock.’

  She turned and walked back to the recessed door. Both men watched her swaying bottom and then Jens murmured, ‘Do you want to see a sex show? I did three years in the Vice Squad in Copenhagen and I can tell you they’re not very erotic.’

  Equally quietly, Michael replied, ‘It’s necessary. I need to see as much of this building as possible, so I can draw up a plan for the “snatch”.’

  The Dane nodded, and then said, ‘I’m not surprised you want to take her rather than one of the kids.’

  Chapter 16

  In some respects Serge Corelli did not have the same natural instincts as Jens Jensen. He did not realise he was being followed. He left the office late, just after seven o’clock, driving out of the basement garage in his red Renault 19. He never brought his Mercedes 600 to the office.

  He did not notice the rented Citroen across the road which moved out into the traffic behind him. He drove to the O’Berry Bar on Rue de l’Eveche and parked outside a No Parking zone. He did not bother locking it; every petty thief in Marseille knew whose it was. A minute later he was drinking the first of his regular vodka tonics and chatting to the heavy-breasted barmaid with whom he’d had a brief fling some years before. He drank until nine o’clock, then belatedly rang his wife and told her he had to stay out to dinner on business. He drove four blocks to the Rue de Lorette and parked in the alley beside the Chez Etienne restaurant, again leaving the car unlocked. He ate a leisurely dinner of vegetable soup, fillet steak with truffles and pomme soufflé, followed by crêpes suzettes flambées, all washed down with a bottle of Chateau Margaux. He then had coffee and a vintage Cognac. It was an expensive restaurant but when he rose from the table just before midnight he received no bill. The owner merely shook him deferentially by the hand.

  It was dark in the alley and, even though he could hold his liquor well, Inspector Serge Corelli was a little unsteady. He opened the door to the Renault and slumped into his seat. He pulled the door shut and reached for the ignition key. Then he felt something cold on the back of his neck and heard a quiet voice speaking in fluent, accentless French.

  ‘This is a Colt 1911 with a soft-nosed forty-five shell. You do exactly what you’re told or that shell goes through your brain.’

  Corelli stiffened, feeling the adrenaline surging through his blood, trying not to panic. ‘Who are you?’ he blurted out. ‘Do you know who I am, you fool?’

  From behind him the cold voice said, ‘You’re Inspector Serge Corelli and you’ll keep silent or you’ll lose most of your head. Now start the car and drive towards the old fish market district. Drive carefully at a normal speed. I seriously don’t care if you live or die, so if you try and pull a stunt, it’ll be the last thing you ever try to do.’

  Corelli drove carefully, his mind racing, trying to think who the man behind him could be. He had a pistol in the glove compartment but that was locked and the key was on the same ring as the ignition key. His only chance would be when they arrived at the destination. When he turned off the ignition to pull out the key the man would have to get out of the car, and he might get a second or two to open the glove compartment.

  They approached the old fish market area, and the man gave brief directions. Finally they arrived in a dimly-lit street behind a row of garment factories. It was lined with dilapidated garages, some of which had For Rent signs on them. It was about half past midnight and the street was deserted. The voice told him to pull over and stop. Then it told him to put the car into neutral and apply the handbrake. As the handbrake ratcheted tight he felt the pressure on the nape of his neck withdraw. He tensed himself to make his move, but a split second later his brain flashed white and then black, as the butt of the pistol smashed into it.

  The policeman came around, lying in a heap in the corner, his arms pulled behind him, his hands locked into handcuffs. Painfully, he pushed himself into a sitting position against the wall and focused his eyes. The garage was lit by a single, shadeless lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. He saw an old wooden table with a chair on each side and a big man dressed in black looking at him. The man reached forward and picked up the heavy black pistol. It was fitted with a silencer. Without seeming to aim, the man pulled the trigger. The bullet entered the wall six inches above Corelli’s head, showering him with plaster. With a moan he scrambled away on his knees. Another bullet smashed into the wall just in front of him. Corelli froze in terror. The man’s voice was quiet. He pointed to a chair.

  ‘Stand up, and sit there.’

  Corelli did not move for several seconds. He crouched, looking at the oil-stained, concrete floor.

  ‘Do it now and do not ask questions. Do not open your mouth until I tell you.’

  Corelli pushed himself to his feet. The pain in his head was intense. Carefully he moved across the room and sat on the edge of the chair. His eyes focused again on the man across the table. He noticed the cropped grey hair and the scars on the face and the cold, slate-grey eyes. He looked down at the table. There were several objects on it which he did not recognise: two round, recessed metal discs with bevelled edges, a lump of what looked like Plasticine, a small metal tube with two wires attached, and a small metal box with two buttons on i
t.

  ‘Do you know what those are?’ the man asked.

  ‘No,’ Corelli murmured.

  ‘They’re the components for a small, but very powerful bomb.’ The man leaned forward and pointed at the larger metal disc. It had a diameter of about six inches. ‘That’s the back casing.’ The man pointed to a smaller disc, which had a diameter of about four inches. ‘That’s the front casing.’ He pointed to the small grey lump. ‘That’s plastic explosive.’ The finger moved again to the small black metal box. ‘That’s the remote control.’ The voice took on a conversational tone. ‘Now that bomb is not big enough to blow up a house, but when it’s assembled and strapped at the base of your spine, and when it explodes, it will definitely blow you in half.’

  Corelli’s eyes were fixed on the objects, mesmerised.

  The man went on, ‘You and I are going to spend some hours together. You are going to answer some questions and, based on your answers, we’ll be making a little trip. You’ll have the bomb at the base of your spine. I will have the detonator in my pocket and a finger on the button. Just pray that I don’t bump into something, or that something or someone doesn’t bump into me.’

  The Frenchman lifted his head and looked again into the man’s cold eyes. His question came out as a croak: ‘Who are you?’

  ‘For you I’m life or death. It will be your choice.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  The man leaned forward and started to assemble the bomb. The policeman watched in dreadful fascination and heard the words: ‘You had a visit from a Danish policeman called Jens Jensen, probably this morning. He would have asked you questions about certain criminals in the city and maybe asked to see your files.’

  He looked up from his work and again Corelli asked, ‘Who are you?’

  The man put the components on the table, stood up, walked around, grabbed the Frenchman by the hair, pulled him upright and in a blur of speed hit him three times to the body with a stiff-fingered hand, each blow to a different nerve, each nerve sending an agonised signal to Corelli’s already agonised brain. He was dumped back in the chair and Creasy moved back around the table, sat down and continued working on the bomb.

  He said quietly, ‘If you don’t answer my questions, I’m going to do that again . . . and again . . . and again. Only harder. If you don’t answer then I’ll shoot your fingers off one by one. Then your toes.’

  Corelli was slumped over the table, his whole body wracked with pain. Slowly he lifted his head and looked into the man’s eyes and knew for certain that he meant it. In an almost inaudible voice he said, ‘Yes, this morning with another man . . . a young man. He said he was his assistant but I didn’t believe it. Too young and he wasn’t Danish.’

  Creasy had finished packing the plastic explosive into the recess of the larger disc. He unscrewed the small metal tube and checked the cadmium cell battery, then connected the two wires and carefully pushed the detonator into the plastic explosive.

  ‘Did you show them any files?’ he asked without looking up.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What files in particular?’

  ‘Vice and drugs.’

  ‘What gang in particular?’

  Corelli was feeling waves of nausea sweeping over him. He swallowed deeply several times and then shook his head. ‘I don’t know, I wasn’t there. I don’t know. I gave them an office.’

  Creasy was screwing the front casing onto the bomb. He looked up and said, ‘Who is the leading gangster in vice and drugs?’

  There was a silence and then Corelli answered, ‘A half-Arab called Jahmed . . . Raoul Jahmed.’

  Carefully Creasy put the bomb on the table, stood up and walked around, grabbed the Frenchman by the hair again and hammered blows into his body. Two minutes passed before Corelli could sit upright again. His face was a picture of pain and he began to beg. ‘Why? . . . Why did you hit me? . . . I’m answering your questions.’

  ‘You lied,’ Creasy answered curtly, ‘You’re trying to protect your friend Yves Boutin. He’s the biggest in the city by far. He pays you big money. If you lie again you’ll regret it. Keep it in your head that I know most of the answers to the questions, and I know when you lie. When was the last time you spoke to Yves Boutin?’

  Corelli was looking down at the table again, not knowing who his tormentor was or how much he knew. But he did know the pain and that he had reached his limit.

  ‘This afternoon,’ he said, ‘about three o’clock, on the telephone.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  Another silence and then Corelli raised his head and said, ‘I told him that a Danish policeman from the Missing Persons Bureau was asking questions about him. Asking where his children went to school.’

  ‘Where do they go to school?’

  ‘Privately. In a Swiss boarding school.’

  ‘Are they there now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is Boutin close to his wife?’

  Corelli began to offer information. ‘No, he’s closer to his mistress. Denise Defors. He keeps her in an apartment in the city. She fronts up his top club, The Pink Panther.’

  Silence while Creasy thought. While he put himself into Michael’s mind. It was not difficult. He had partly created that mind. Michael’s strategy would have been to ‘snatch’ someone close to Boutin. If the children were away in boarding school then the obvious person would be his mistress. Michael would have gone to the club on a recce. He glanced at his watch. It was just after one a.m. He asked, ‘Presumably you gave Boutin a description of Jensen and the young man?’

  ‘Yes, a detailed one.’

  Again Creasy was silent while he thought. Then he pointed and said, ‘Kneel down there.’

  The fear showed vividly in Corelli’s face. ‘Why?’

  Creasy stood up, leaned across the table and said, ‘Do it now or I’ll hit you again.’

  Slowly Corelli got up, moved to the spot in the centre of the garage and went down on his knees. Creasy picked up the bomb and the roll of masking tape. He straddled the Frenchman from behind, pulled up the back of his jacket and with his elbow forced the Frenchman’s head forward until it almost touched the floor. He tore off a four-foot strip of masking tape and laid it, sticky side up, beside the Frenchman. Then he placed the saucer-shaped bomb into the centre of the masking tape, the front casing facing up. Very carefully he positioned the bomb at the base of Corelli’s spine and then reached round with the masking tape to secure it. Corelli was moaning deep in his throat. Creasy ignored it. He picked up the roll of masking tape and wound it round the policeman’s body many times, securing the bomb tightly. Then he grabbed Corelli by the back of his collar, pulled him upright and adjusted his jacket. He walked around the Frenchman and said, ‘No one would notice you’re a walking bomb. Sit down again very carefully on the edge of the chair.’

  Corelli did as he was told, moving as though he was walking on thin ice and sitting down very, very slowly. Creasy walked to a leather bag in the corner, unzipped it and pulled out a mobile telephone. He placed it on the table in front of Corelli, then he carried the other chair around next to Corelli. He sat down, reached across the table and pulled the detonator across in front of him. He put his index finger very close to the red button and said, ‘That’s what I push if I decide that you’re showing the slightest lack of co-operation.’

  Corelli’s eyes flickered to the button with the finger hovering over it. He noticed the burn marks on the back of the thick hand and guessed how they had been caused. At one time his tormentor had been the tortured himself.

  ‘I’ll co-operate,’ he said harshly. ‘Just be fucking careful with that thing.’

  He looked up into Creasy’s face and heard the words: ‘I only get careless with these things when I get angry. I’m quite safe sitting here. It’s not a fragmentation bomb. If I press that button the outer casing will hit the back wall.’ He pointed at the wall in front of Corelli. ‘And the inner casing will hit that wall, together with yo
ur blood and guts. It will probably take you quite a few very painful minutes to die,’ He picked up the phone and said, ‘Now you’re going to call your good friend, Yves Boutin, and ask him what happened to Jens Jensen and his friend. If he’s holding them you want to know where, because you want to question them yourself before he disposes of them. I’ll be listening to the conversation and if I think you’re not being sincere or convincing enough, I hit the button.’

  The mobile phone was a handless, speaker-phone type. Creasy positioned it between them and asked, ‘What’s the number?’

  ‘6854311 . . . That’s his personal mobile, which he carries with him . . . Even to bed.’

  Creasy pressed in the numbers and pushed the ‘send’ button. Then he sat hunched over, one finger poised over the ‘end’ button and one finger of the other hand over the red button on the detonator. Corelli drew a deep breath.

  A few seconds later Boutin’s cold, harsh voice came out of the speaker. ‘Boutin.’

  Corelli’s eyes flickered to the speaker. ‘Serge,’ he said in a voice which didn’t betray his tension. ‘Did those two show up?’

  A laugh came out of the speaker. ‘Sure, they’re in The Pink Panther right now. They’ve seen the cold show and Denise has persuaded them to go upstairs to see the hot one. We’ll take them out in a few minutes.’

  ‘To where?’ Corelli asked sharply,

  ‘The usual place,’

  ‘Don’t do anything until I get there,’ Corelli said. ‘I want to question them myself first.’

  Boutin’s voice showed a trace of surprise. ‘Are you sure? liven if they’re blindfolded they may recognise your voice.’

  ‘It won’t matter,’ Corelli replied. ‘When it’s over they can go to the fish.’

  Immediately after the word ‘fish’, Creasy’s finger hit the ‘end’ button on the phone. ‘What’s the “usual place”?’ he asked.