by Karl Holton
Tommy had wonderful memories and strong feelings about this restaurant; although it had changed ownership a few times since he had first eaten here in 1986. He’d proposed to his first two wives in this restaurant. He’d planned two big robberies here and he’d made major decisions about his drug-related crimes while sitting in this chair. He always ate here the night before a major job; it gave him the warm and tender feeling of good fortune and it was the reason, he told himself, that he’d never gone to jail.
Tomorrow, he was undertaking a job that he had wanted to do for years, which included something that had never been involved in any of his previous crimes: revenge. Fifteen years ago, his brother, Mick, and business partner, John Garrett, and another friend had been executed in a car in the Essex countryside. The Horne family had murdered them with pistols and shotguns on a cold winter morning. In the next twenty-four hours, he should have revenge against the Horne family.
“Is everything alright, Mr Gibbs?” said the waiter, noticing that his regular client had paused. Tommy remained in his revenge-driven daydream for a moment before looking up.
“All fine, thanks.”
“Is your guest going to be here soon?”
“Yes … I doubt he will be eating.”
Tommy’s guest had called him three hours ago and insisted on meeting. Tommy already had the reservation at the restaurant so he had told his furious wife he had some business to do and that she could not come to dinner with him. He didn’t want to bring this man here, but he had no choice. It would have been bad luck not to come here.
The restaurant door opened and the small framed man walked in and ignored the head waiter who tried to speak with him. The man immediately made his way to the table and sat down facing Tommy with an unnerving look of composure, his suit perfectly cut and his hair swept back, fixed in place.
“Mr Gibbs,” said the man, not allowing the eagle-like stare of his cold eyes to waver.
Tommy put down his cutlery. He knew that this conservation would be getting to the point quickly. “Lomax.”
“We heard some worrying news earlier today.”
Tommy had a sense what this was but his face gave nothing away. “Really? What was that?”
“Your associate, Johnnie Garrett, is in police custody. He got himself involved in an incident in Hampstead,” Lomax said. “What are you going to do about this?”
Tommy had taken Johnnie into his organisation when his father was killed with his brother. He was one of the longest-serving street sellers of cocaine in his gang.
Tommy’s left eye twitched. He’d heard the terrible news and was trying to ignore it as he was focused on what was happening tomorrow night. “How do you know this?”
Lomax smiled. “I wouldn’t want us to have any confusion about our relationship, Mr Gibbs. If I ask you a question, I expect you to answer it. I will never answer any questions I don’t wish to answer. Do we understand each other?”
“That’s not very friendly,” said Tommy, trying to make light of the threat and hide the fact he wanted to slice open Lomax’s face.
“You see, given my explanation, the first thing to come out of your mouth should have been your answer.”
Tommy sat back in his chair. “Well what do you expect me to say? Of course I know that it’s happened. But Johnnie is a big boy. He will get himself out of this. He always does.”
“I represent an organisation that is making a significant investment with you. Do you think this answer is acceptable to us?”
Tommy had no idea who Lomax represented; all he knew was that they had done some minor drug deals together before he and Lomax had discussed an idea. Lomax had brought up the subject of the Horne family. He told Tommy that he had discovered where they would be delivering a large amount of cocaine. Lomax suggested that Tommy steal it. Tommy had insisted on organising the robbery, but Lomax said some of his men would be involved.
“What’s this all about?” said Tommy. “You sound like you’re losing your bottle.”
Lomax brought the tips of his fingers together. “Once we agree to do a deal, Mr Gibbs, it’s never called off. We expect the same from our partners. We also expect our partners to sort out any problems. Mr Garrett has got himself into a situation where he could easily be compromised. We don’t want him involved in the drugs we’re acquiring together tomorrow night. In fact, we feel it might be better if Mr Garrett was now … removed from your organisation.”
Tommy licked his lips. “In what way could he be compromised?”
Lomax stared at Tommy for a moment. “He has been caught at the scene of a murder with a significant amount of drugs so he is now ripe to be used by the police. We realise you have a strong connection with him, but you must see that his freedom now will only happen at a price. We cannot have this risk within our new arrangement, so we expect you to deal with it.”
“Johnnie is like family —”
“We are not debating this. If Johnnie is not detained by the police permanently we think you should deal with him. Are we clear?”
Tommy leaned over the table keeping his voice low. “Don’t tell me what to do with my family.”
Lomax never flinched. “We’re partners. Our partners don’t let family get in the way of business. We want Johnnie out of this arrangement; permanently.”
“Let’s just forget the deal, because you can go and fuck yourself.”
“As I said, Mr Gibbs, I represent people who don’t go back on deals. We have committed resources to tomorrow night’s project and it will be going ahead. Just in case you think we are not aware, we appreciate that after tomorrow night you will have final revenge on the Horne family. This should also promote you to a major player. Once you are in this position we will invest further in your organisation. With our assistance you will become the prime distributor of narcotics in eastern England.”
Tommy sat up in the seat. “You think I want to do business with someone who threatens me the way you do? Why don’t you explain to me why I shouldn’t follow you out of this restaurant and chop your bollocks off?”
“That really is very simple, Mr Gibbs. You see you and I are in fact bound together far more tightly than you might realise,” said Lomax, with a calmness that took Tommy by surprise. “We’re in a sort of ‘danse macabre’; a dance of death.”
“What does that even mean?”
“If you decide to hurt me, instructions have been left to terminate every member of your extended family in a variety of rather unpleasant ways, while you will be left alive.”
Tommy felt his huge fingers curl into fists.
“I’ve only been given the details of how all four of your children from your first two marriages and your two sister’s three children will be treated. If you desire I can provide said details, but I suggest that these are not something to hear while you’re eating.”
Tommy’s teeth started grinding.
“Mr Gibbs, please understand, none of this will be undertaken by me. I’m not a violent man and could never even consider such an act. But the people I represent are not prepared to take risks. They always maintain what you might think of as a layer of management above me. This layer will only tell me what they believe I need to know to ensure our partners are very clear about any arrangements.”
Tommy let his gaze fall away from Lomax down towards his plate. The food now looked putrid. He could sense that Lomax knew about his position with the Horne family. He knew he’d never challenged them before now as he did not have the necessary level of muscle within his gang to do so. This was why Lomax insisted on bringing his own men into tomorrow’s job. It also meant he couldn’t stop the rearing cobra sat in front of him backed up by a cackle of rabid hyenas. “Why is it a dance of death?”
“Because my family is under exactly the same threat if I don’t put this to you just as they have told me to say it.” Lomax remained emotionless. “So you see … we are bound, you and I.” He let his eyes enjoy the impact of this lie on his victim. He real
ly was very good at this now.
Chapter 8
Day 7
Hampstead Police Station, London
9.23 p.m.
Johnnie could feel the sweat drip down his back. The interview room was hot and he knew that the police had done this deliberately to enhance his discomfort. But this was not the only reason for the perspiration sticking him to his shirt. He’d consumed cocaine and ecstasy secretly in the toilet in Curt’s house after the police arrived. It was still firing laser shot moments of excited elation through his system.
Beside him, the solicitor Tommy had sent to the police station was talking to him but Johnnie was oblivious. “It was like something you’d see in the movies,” he said, his eyelids flitting. “He just sorta exploded right there.”
Johnnie let his head flip backwards and the brilliant coruscation in his dilated pupils made him recoil and hold his eyes shut. Johnnie grinned uncontrollably as he watched and let his brain fantasise brief momentary light show imaginings. “Splat!”
The solicitor stopped talking and shook his head as he wrote in his notebook.
His mental wanderings were disturbed by the door opening. Johnnie heard two men entering the room and starting to speak to his solicitor but he ignored them, still enjoying the firework-like artistry on his eyelids.
“Oi, Johnnie, wake up ya fuckin’ turd,” shouted Jardine.
Knox had sat down at the interview room table and pressed the button on the recording machine. He completed the interview formalities as Jardine stepped away and turned and leaned against the wall.
“DI Jardine, please can we maintain some formality during this interview,” said Perkins, the solicitor sat opposite Knox. “My client has just lost somebody very close to him.”
Jardine returned to the table and sat down. “Mr Perkins, your client has been found with a significant amount of drugs at the scene of a murder. He needs to start talking to me very quickly because he is being interviewed under caution not only for the drugs.”
Perkins turned his gaze away from Jardine and looked at Johnnie, who was still facing upwards beside him.
“Johnnie!” shouted Jardine.
Johnnie flipped out of his hallucinations and stared at the inspector in front of him.
“Are you with us, Johnnie?”
“Yeah. What do you want?”
Jardine glared at him. “Do you remember what happened today?”
“Yeah, of course.”
Jardine watched as a tear grew in the corner of Johnnie’s eye. “Do you remember what happened to Curt?”
“Yes. I spoke to your man ‘ere about it,” Johnnie said, gesturing towards Knox.
“That was at the house … just before he let you go to the toilet where you took a whole bunch of drugs,” Jardine said. “You were explaining to DS Knox what you saw just before this. Can you tell me?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Just tell me what you saw?”
Johnnie held up his hands. “Pop!”
Jardine slammed his fist on the table. “What sort of scum are you? Your cousin was just murdered right in front of you … do you even care, you piece of shit?”
Johnnie’s face gurned and then became normal. “Curt’s head fuckin’ exploded.”
Jardine’s glare hardened. “I need more than this.”
“We were just having a laugh and joking; he tried to grab my arm and as I started to turn back the bullet hit ‘im and his head blew apart,” Johnnie said, taking a tear away from his eye. “Bits of ‘im went all over me; it smashed into me.”
Jardine looked at the cut above Johnnie’s right eye with a single butterfly stitch over it. The Forensic team had told him that they thought it had been caused by a piece of Curt’s skull found close to where he had been standing. “How close were you to Curt when the bullet hit.”
Johnnie looked up at the ceiling before turning back to him. “Very.”
“How close … exactly?”
Johnnie raised his hand to the cut above his eye. The memory of Curt’s head disintegrating raced through his mind. “I told you, he was holding my fuckin’ arm.”
Knox underlined some words on the piece of paper in front of him. “Do you know any reason why someone would want to kill Curt?”
“No.”
Jardine smiled. “Was Curt involved in your drug business?”
Johnnie sneered at the question turning away from both men.
Jardine allowed himself a long sigh. “We know you’re a dealer. But we don’t know how involved Curt was in it. Did he support you financially? Was he funding it?”
“You’re a fuckin’ moron,” Johnnie said, letting the words out slowly.
Jardine shrugged his shoulders. “Explain it to me. Why does he get shot and you don’t?”
Johnnie shook his head. “You think I’d know why someone would want to shoot Curt?”
Jardine laughed and leaned forward in his chair. “You’re a drug dealer, Johnnie. Your family is full of drug dealers. Your father was shot with two other men in Essex fifteen years ago because of drugs. Your family has form. We both know there’s plenty of people who would like to see you dead.”
“Fuck off,” snapped Johnnie.
Perkins placed his hand on Johnnie’s forearm.
Jardine smiled. “I think you might have been the target, Johnnie. Someone was aiming at you, and Curt’s head got in the way. I think you’ve just gotten your cousin killed.”
Johnnie sat still, his head facing downwards.
Jardine looked at Knox and the two men smiled.
A loud set of three knocks hit the meeting room door, before the door was opened and an unknown face looked into the room.
“DI Jardine, can we have a chat please before this interview goes any further?” said the man, with an authoritative voice.
Jardine nodded towards Knox, who verbally terminated the meeting, allowing them both to leave the room to the man waiting in the corridor.
The man held up his police identification to the two men. “I’m DCI Peter Rowe from Serious Organised Crime Command. I’m part of the drugs squad.”
Jardine felt himself involuntarily stand a little straighter. “How can we help?”
Rowe smiled at him. “We think it would be best if you could let Mr Garrett go home. He’s clearly not involved in the murder.”
“What?” Jardine said. “He was found with drugs on him at the scene of a murder.”
“Yes, and we will make sure the drugs matter is taken forward as part of the work we’re doing. But these two things are not connected, Inspector.”
“How can you say that?” Knox retorted, before thinking about what he was doing.
Rowe glared at Knox. “Johnnie is known to us and he is unlikely to be a target for a shooting like this. He’s small fry.”
Jardine sensed that Rowe was here this late in their police station for a reason that he would be unwilling to share. But before he knew it his mouth had asked the question. “Is he an informer for you?”
Rowe smiled at them both.
Chapter 9
Day 8
Varenna, Lombardy, Italy
6.47 a.m. GMT (7.47 a.m. Local)
The undulating snow-capped mountains piercing the pale blue sky in the distance always made Celso smile when he first looked up each morning across the dark sapphire lake.
During the warm summer mornings, the windows would be open and his first deep breath was infused with the intense scent of oleander trees.
This morning though, he was awoken by the ringing of his mobile phone. As he picked it up and looked at the screen, it told him the call was being forwarded from one of his secret phone numbers. This call was from the United Kingdom.
He let the phone ring three times and then answered the call, staying silent to hear who was calling. He activated the digital voice modulator so his real voice would be hidden on the caller end.
“Hello, this is Nightingale. May I sing?”
Celso smiled, the code I give my contacts, he thought.
The caller was a man named Davidson who worked for UK Customs & Excise. He checked and recorded all art and antiques entering the UK over a certain value. He was not the most senior person on the team, but he was high enough to see the records of all major imports. Celso had recruited him a few years ago with a modest upfront bribe and the promise of more. All Davidson needed to do was let him know if certain types of items were being brought to the UK.
“Please go ahead,” said Celso.
“In about forty-eight hours a delivery is coming to the UK. It matches the criteria you mentioned,” said Davidson. “Original paintings; they’re coming in with the agreement of the secret services.”
Celso sat up. “What does it say on the documents?”
“All the details have been redacted on the paperwork that we’ve seen.”
“So why are you calling me?” Celso asked, making sure the irritation came across in his modulated voice.
“The department asked a few more questions and I thought this might be … interesting,” said Davidson. “The answers we got. I thought—”
Celso walked out of his bedroom towards the stairs to the lower floors, stopping on the landing. “Tell me.”
“There’re three paintings. We were told that they were valued at £2 million.”
Celso sensed that Davidson had not finished.
“Each!” said Davidson. “My boss said he thought the values were being deliberately understated. We never get three paintings like this at the same value with secret service clearance.”
Celso smiled as he stopped on the last step of the stairs. As one of the premier art theft specialists in Europe this was the type of opportunity for which he lived. He felt his heart rate begin to beat faster as he wondered if this could possibly be a chance to get back at his adversary; the man from which neither his father, who was now dead, or he had ever managed to steal anything.
