Finders Keepers

by Kris Lillyman

  “What are you doing?”

  Charles Khan put his mouth an inch away from Crowe’s ear and with smokey breath whispered, “What I am doing is getting you to open the fucking door of this container before I blow your ugly fucking jaw through the top of your ugly bloody head, understand old son?”

  Crowe nodded meekly. “Sure, sure, no problem - just don’t shoot me, alright?”

  “Just do as I say and you get to keep your good looks. Now open the door!” Khan growled as he shoved Crowe towards the front of the container, transferring the barrel of the shiny chrome-plated gun from the man’s jaw to the small of his back. “Move!” he demanded.

  Crowe staggered forward, fumbling hurriedly in the greasy pocket of his oilskin jacket, eventually pulling out a large set of keys. As Crowe stood at the door of the container, Khan kept to the side of it, puffing on the cigar and aiming the gun at the docker’s belly as he selected a key and hastily opened the padlock. He lifted the catch on the container’s door and opened it ajar. “There, it’s open, now please, put the gun away.”

  Charles smiled broadly. “See, that wasn’t so difficult was it?” He pulled open his coat and pushed the big chrome gun back into its leather holster then reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a thick envelope which he thrust at Crowe. “There. Take your money and fuck off - and never let it be said I don’t pay my debts.”

  Crowe began to stammer something but Charles fixed him with a hard stare. “Go!” he said and Crowe turned and shuffled quickly away, stuffing the envelope into the pocket of his filthy oilskin as he went.

  Charles waited until Crowe was a good distance away, then finally opened the door to the container and stepped inside.

  The large interior smelled of seawater and rust but was clean and dry. The forty foot container held a variety of cargo; stacks of polystyrene packed washing machines, boxes of plasma TVs, two bright red Ducati motorcycles, an S-Class Mercedes and several large crates of South African Chardonnay.

  Charles, knowing exactly where to look, headed for one of the crates which had the initials P.B. scratched on it, then took a pen-knife from his pocket and prized it open.

  He removed two layers of packed straw and a layer of expensive vintage wine before, at last, finding what he, himself, had placed in the crate over a month before in Johannesburg; a large black, leather-bound briefcase. He smiled greedily and briefly clutched the case to his chest as he would have a lost child that had been found safe.

  Then he replaced the wine and the straw and, after re-locking the container, took the briefcase and stowed it behind the passenger seat of the Range Rover. Charles then took out his Blackberry and sent a text message to his brother.

  “Got it. Should be back by eight. You supply the champagne, I’ll supply the ice!” it said.

  He started the car, flicked on the wipers to clear away the layer of powdery snow and slid the heater control up to max. He also put on the heated seat for added warmth. No point in being chilly on this hellishly cold evening. Then, putting the Range Rover into gear, he began the long drive home, leaving two wet tyre tracks in his wake as the big 4x4 cut a trail through the snow covered terminal.

  Driving conditions were not too bad for the first forty miles of his Southbound journey, sporadic snow flurries and powdery roads but nothing too worrying. But then, suddenly, the light smattering quickly turned into a blizzard and the powdery roads turned into a thick carpet of hazardous snow and slush.

  It was slow going, what should have taken maybe half an hour to get to where he was had taken an hour and a half and he still had the major part of the journey to do. Furthermore, he was desperately tired, his activities of the previous night seriously beginning to catch up with him. Also, he was having to concentrate hard on the road ahead and that, too, was adding to his fatigue.

  Charles was warm now. So with the Range Rover veering dangerously about the road he shrugged out of his heavy coat, allowing a brief glimpse of the big chrome gun concealed beneath the jacket he was wearing under his top coat.

  With the coat removed Charles once again focused on the road ahead, staring into the relentless, mesmerising blizzard.

  A hundred miles later, driving at a snail’s pace along a clogged, slippery and extremely treacherous M1, Charles was beginning to fall asleep at the wheel. Abandoned vehicles lined the motorway, snow ploughs were out but fighting a losing battle and Charles’ journey was getting longer and longer. He was tired, desperate for sleep and wanted nothing more than to get home to bed. He had tried several times to phone his brother, Arthur, to let him know he would be arriving late but the conditions were messing with the signal. And now his phone was dead. It had been on since the crack of dawn and the battery had finally gone.

  On the outskirts of Northampton he hit a detour, due to an accident up ahead, which sent him off the motorway and onto the back roads. They were deserted and his was the only car on the road. It was late now, with the snow deep on the ground, but Charles, even though extremely drowsy was still keen to get home, and as the 4x4 was coping so easily in the icy conditions, he saw this as an opportunity to make up some time. He pressed down on the accelerator and the Range Rover immediately responded. Charles had over seventy miles still to go but with these back roads clear of stranded vehicles he could probably make it back in under two hours, if he pushed it.

  However, before long, Charles began to nod. He didn’t even realize he had been asleep until he opened his eyes and saw the corner approaching much too fast. He span the wheel and the car slid into the bend. For a moment he thought he was going to make it but then he saw the BMW parked awkwardly at the exit of the corner, half covered in a thick layer of snow and Charles had to quickly spin the wheel again to avoid smashing straight into it.

  The Range Rover, snaked wildly as he lost control of the back end and as the wheels on the passenger side lifted off the ground, as the whole car began to roll Charles Khan knew that he would not be getting back to London that night.

  Chapter 3

  Disappointment and despair had clouded Jake’s mind and eroded his rationality and he was teetering on the edge of sanity as he stared, almost euphoric, at the bridge. His life for the last few years had been awful and just for the briefest time, thanks to Bob Hart and the Plancom deal, he thought he had a way of making it so much better but now those hopes had been utterly dashed and he could not bear to face life as it was now bound to be.

  He had lost everything; his wife, his children, his house and now his business. His parents were long dead and whatever friends he may have had in the past had all moved on. He was completely alone. He knew his children would miss him, but what life could he offer them now. How would they feel, growing up, having a total failure for a father? No, they were better off with Angie and the whole world would get by just fine without him.

  Suicide was the obvious answer. It would not be sad, it would be a happy release and finally put an end to the relentless disappointment of living. How could death be any worse?

  Jake climbed out of the hire car and was struck immediately by the biting cold. The snow was deep and he had to tread carefully in his smooth soled brogues so as not to slip. Hugging his corduroy sports jacket tightly around him he made his way slowly but surely to the bridge. It was hard going and seemed to take forever in the extreme conditions. The snow was like a blizzard now, thick flakes whipping round in a wild frenzy but finally he reached the large metal structure.

  The bridge was the kind that stretched over a motorway but Jake neither knew or cared which one. Whichever it was there was no traffic noise and no lighting from below, just a dark void flecked haphazardly with the unrelenting snow.

  Slowly, perilously, Jake climbed over the railings, his brogues slipping like skates on the icy metal, his jacket and tie flapping like flags atop the mast of a ship navigating Cape Horn. The wind slapped at his raw face like a woman betrayed as it howled
around, livid, in the freezing night. His soaked shoes offering no grip as he clung perilously to the cold handrails of the bridge, trying not to think of the black void beneath him, or the hard tarmac that he knew lay in wait, unseen, thirty feet below. Snow danced around him, frenzied and angry, as it fell slanted from the swollen clouds above. The flaps of his jacket now desperate to take flight, his tie doing the same as it whipped wildly around his face and pulled like a noose at his neck.

  On the other side of the railings, Jake closed his eyes and said a silent apology to his children. He was not a religious man but now, at the last, he said a prayer, to ask God to keep Zack and Poppy safe.

  He was now ready. Standing there, freezing, he prepared himself to jump. His heart thumping in his chest as he relaxed his grip on the railings and braced himself to plummet into the black unknown.

  Then he heard the sound of the car and instinctively his fingers tightened once more onto the frozen railing.

  He turned, seeing the headlights first and then watched helplessly as the out of control vehicle burst into view.

  The Range Rover rounded the corner behind the parked BMW travelling far too fast. It slewed wildly to avoid collision with Jake’s hire car then skidded across the road where it bounced off a tree and somersaulted, airborne, towards the bridge.

  Jake could do nothing as the large, heavy car flew through the air heading straight for him. He ducked, but clung on vice-like as the big, weighty Range Rover struck the thick upright beam on the opposite side of the rail with an almighty clang sending vibrations up the whole length of Jake’s body. The vehicle then bounced violently off and rolled end-over-end several times into the middle of the road where it crashed down onto its roof and spun like a top for several seconds before finally creaking to a very slow, metallic halt.

  Momentarily Jake was stunned, not quite believing what he had just witnessed. Strangely the snow had now stopped and the wind had died. Everything was suddenly silent and white and calm. After a couple of seconds Jake’s brain popped into gear and he leaped over the railings and rushed, slipping and sliding, to the wreck to see if could help whoever was inside.

  As he wrenched open the dented driver’s door, he immediately saw the blood which began spreading like a nosebleed onto a giant white handkerchief of snow. A middle-aged man with greying hair and a big, burly frame was hanging upside down lifelessly behind the wheel, still strapped into the luxury leather of the vehicle by his seatbelt. His face was crushed. Completely smashed in. The airbag had deployed but it was not enough to save him and now it billowed like a collapsed parachute around a portion of the man’s brain which lay on the bloodied roof lining.

  Jake gagged but felt for a pulse, although it was obvious the man was dead.

  Then something caught Jake’s eye, in the back of the car, also on the roof lining, which now doubled as the floor, sitting among a carpet of glass fragments.

  It was a gun. A big chrome-plated pistol and the sight of it surprised him.

  Jake didn’t know anything about guns but this one looked expensive, all blinged and shiny like the sort of thing some gangsta rapper might own. He knew enough to know that it certainly wasn’t police issue. Whoever this man was, he was definitely no policeman.

  Jake was shocked. More by the dead body than the gun, although he’d never seen either before. He’d been too young to see his parents after they had died, and he tried to block an image of how their faces might look after their car accident. God he hoped they didn’t look anything like this poor soul.

  But then his mind came back to the gun. Who would own a gun like that?

  His next thought was to call the police and he pulled out his phone and punched in 999. Before it started to ring Jake hung up as another thought flashed into his mind.

  If he called the police it was going to interfere with his own plans. His suicide. He leant back on the Range Rover, considering what to do, his feet crunching on more fragments of glass. The glass mingling with the ice on ground, all glistening prettily in the silent night amongst the carnage and self-loathing.

  He didn’t think it fair for the police to find his body here too, either on the motorway below or, now that he had a gun at his disposal, with his brains shot out in the middle of the road. But if he waited around for the police his chance would be gone and he just couldn’t face another day of living, knowing what living had in store.

  Near freezing as he mulled this over, he gingerly made his way around to the passenger side of the car, to see if he could find a coat to put on. Crunching on more glass as he went, Jake noticed how well the Range Rover had stood up to the huge crash. It had very few dents, the passenger door and the tailgate had burst open on impact but neither looked overly battered. Obviously the vehicle as a whole had taken some damage but nothing that looked too major. Even the windows remained intact. Cracked yes, but none broken.

  Jake leaned into the open passenger door and found a large cashmere overcoat heaped over an upturned open briefcase. Both covered in small fragments of glass. Quickly he pulled the coat over him and immediately felt the warmth.

  Then something suddenly struck him. Why was there so much broken glass when all the windows of the Range Rover were intact?

  He bent down, turned over the briefcase and from a small open compartment, which was only one among many others, he scooped out a handful of what he had at first presumed to be glass. He studied it closely. Then he studied the other fragments on the floor.

  Just to be absolutely certain that he wasn’t seeing things, he rushed around to the other side of the Range Rover, nearly slipping onto his backside as he did so, to check the fragments there too.

  Then, after a few seconds of utter disbelief, he looked up to the snow filled clouds above and in a hushed, awestruck voice said, “Oh, my God. They’re diamonds!”

  Chapter 4

  Arthur Khan had spent most of the day at his club, The Connaught, in Chelsea. He had read the papers, had a marvellous lunch and then enjoyed a cigar and a whiskey by the fireside in the afternoon.

  Previously, he had not been in England long enough to enjoy the club’s simple pleasures but since his return home he had made full use of it. The club was specifically for ex-military and Arthur found that he fitted in rather well even though his own military career had not been spent solely in the service of Her Majesty and was rather more chequered than most of The Connaught’s other members.

  Today the club was a wonderful retreat as it was a cold, brisk day in London, the sky threatening snow and the forecast confirming that it was on the way. The Midlands had already got it, The North was getting it later and by tonight London would have it too. Arthur thought of his younger brother, driving back from Liverpool, pleased that it was him out there and not the other way around as it so easily could have been. It had been a coin toss and Charles had won but he had been keen to go anyway. Charles was not good at trusting others.

  Let him go, Arthur thought. Let him drive the four hundred mile round trip to collect the case. He was bringing it back to London anyway and Arthur would have his hands on it by tonight. He had absolutely nothing to lose by letting Charles collect it.

  Arthur stayed at The Connaught, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the comfortable leather upholstery of his favourite wing back chair, allowing his lunch to fully digest, until mid afternoon, before finally making his way home at four.

  By four fifteen he was back in the luxury of his mews house in Chelsea, just a short walk from his club. The text came in from Charles shortly afterwards and Arthur smiled as he read it.

  “Got it. Should be back by eight. You supply the champagne, I’ll supply the ice!”

  It did indeed call for some champagne. A quick celebration of his own might also be in order. He pressed the speed dial on his Blackberry and ordered a girl from the agency he used whenever he was in town. A lot of expense for just an hour or so but, hey, h
e could afford it - especially now, so why not push the boat out?

  Half an hour later the girl arrived who was just his type; mahogany coloured skin, dark eyes and a tightly cropped afro - as was his taste, which had been acquired over many years in Africa. She looked like a Zulu princess, only instead of being dressed in feathers and animal skins she was dressed in tight fitting silk and killer heels.

  Without a word passing between them, Arthur opened the door and ushered her in. She was tall and graceful with long, lean legs which looked almost polished in the lamplight. Arthur studied her, as if appraising cattle. She would do.

  Silently he led her to the bedroom, then said just one word. “Strip,” and she immediately did as instructed. She had been forewarned that this was his way. Arthur’s specific requirements were well known now to her agency and she had been well briefed as to what to expect. Do not speak, do not look at him directly, do not make any pretence at enjoyment. This was about his enjoyment only.

  By now, Arthur had changed out of his Prince of Wales cheque suit and was wearing a dark blue satin kimono with a fire breathing dragon motif emblazoned across the back. He slipped it off and stood before her naked, however, the girl’s head was bowed and her eyes downcast. “Get on the bed on all fours. Face the headboard,” he demanded and, without lifting her eyes, the girl silently obliged.

  Khan marched backward and forward behind her, studying the girl, as if contemplating the best way to mount her, his manhood swelling with each step. His powerful, muscular body was covered in a carpet of thick black hair.

  Taller than his brother at an inch over six feet, Arthur was more Egyptian in appearance with tanned skin, a hooked nose and strong masculine features. His curved moustache was dark grey and flecked liberally with white as was his neat crew cut. But it was Arthur’s deep set eyes that were his most notable feature. They were dark, cold and cruel as they focused on the polished ebony behind of the young black girl.