‘And, of course, you’re not going to tell me who she might be.’
‘A very good friend, an old friend – sorry, correction, a long-standing friend. You’ll find, Evan – if you stick with us – that there are occasions when those on the inside track go outside their perimeter fence for the little matters that would be awkward for them.’
There was a little chuckle. ‘And you’re not going to tell me who’s going to fire it, and at whom?’
‘See nothing, hear nothing and know nothing. I don’t know. It’ll be used at the edge of whatever remit she’s on. Enough.’
They came down the motorway, and would turn off for Oxford, then skirt the northern side of the city, divert west and finally arrive at a rear gate of RAF Brize Norton. They would be met there and the package taken from them by an officer who had no idea of its contents but who had the destination and flight it would travel on.
He said, ‘Maybe when I’m old and dribbling I’ll be told – that’s if it worked. The way these things happen you get to know double quick if it doesn’t work so the less you know the happier you should be.’
‘I think I should explain it to him, do it myself,’ Tommy King said.
‘You do, do you?’
‘I mean, it was bad luck. Could have been a good earner, but wasn’t. I would have thought he’s the sort of man who’d understand that,’
‘Would you?’
He was Rafael. He came from a farm west along the coast, close to Sotto Grande. His parents had bred pigs for the best ham, and their third son was the first from the extended family to receive a university education. Sacrifices had been made to achieve it; he had paid them back, with interest, and could afford to. He had law degrees from Madrid and Milan. Because his clients represented an élite, his wealth was considerable. With his wife and two small children he holidayed in the Caribbean, the Maldives and the best Brazilian resorts. He was envied by the legal community in Marbella for his affluence, contacts and the quality of his investment portfolio. He did not see himself as a felon but as a man who was sharp, who saw the main chance and had the nerve to follow his nose. But . . . In recent months several of the lesser lights in the legal profession, a number of town-hall officials, some police officers from the UDyCO and a few accountants had been carted off in handcuffs after dawn raids. He thought himself clean. Now he wondered if he had made a mistake. Across his desk sat Tommy King.
He thought himself clean but could not escape the worrying possibility that he had made a mistake. He had met Mikey Fanning. He had dealt with the old British rascal in his early days. He had helped him to purchase his home, when he had had money, and had set up a licence for the first club, then one of the bars. That had been a long time ago. Fanning was now – he had heard – almost destitute, but he had come back to Rafael, had asked a favour and had hosted a lunch at the Marbella Club, which would have cleaned him out. Rafael had heard of the nephew and had made an introduction. He could not have said why his prime client, Pavel Ivanov, who was rinsed of illegal activities, had made the loan. The money put into the venture was lost, and the vessel, the Santa Maria, was under escort and heading for Cádiz. It had been a loan, not an investment between partners. It was a mistake to have entertained Tommy King for anything more than the time it took to gulp a coffee.
‘He is a very busy man.’
‘What I’m saying is, I can’t repay him. No way I have that sort of money, and he should be told so to his face. It looked good – no, better than that – but it went down. I want him to know I haven’t anything more than the clothes I stand up in, and a car without insurance. I can’t work my patch because there’s bloody Irish out looking for me. Don’t want him to think I’m walking out on him. With me?’
He had believed the young man, as his client had. He glanced at Tommy King, lounging in the chair, and sensed risk. Risk always followed a mistake.
He buzzed his secretary to come into the office. When she did, he went out and called the Villa del Aguila. He said what he thought and waited.
He went back into his office. He managed a warm smile. He told Tommy King when he should return.
The flight was due to go non-stop to the RAF base at Akrotiri, on Cyprus – it had been, Dottie said, the home of Aphrodite, the goddess of love – but would, on Winnie Monks’s instruction, be diverted to Gibraltar, which was best known, Kenny said, for bare-arsed Barbary apes. When she had the arrival time, she called, on the scrambler, the number Dawson had given her and told him, as if she was speaking to a hired hand, when he should reach the colony.
It was near the end of the day and the Latvian policeman escorted the visitor, a Greek academic in the field of forensic sciences, to the last appointment before the Europol building emptied.
‘I had hoped you would have the opportunity to meet a Belgian colleague from the organised-crime teams but he’s away on leave. He would have talked to you about the violence of the Mafia clans. He has produced an excellent paper on it, emphasising the extremes of aggression used by Russians and the foot-soldiers from the Balkan states. His work revolves around the thesis that, without the certainty of violence, the major player is weakened. Vile cruelty and torture are used to maintain sole franchise rights on territory and to punish those suspected of deceit when a deal has been agreed. It is employed in any incident where ‘‘disrespect’’ is identified. The crime boss cannot exist without violence, much of it gratuitous, which sends a message that will make rivals apprehensive. He employs killers. In the case of Russia those men capable of ruthless murder may be tasked by the state to remove a troublesome political rival, investigative reporter or an enemy from the Caucasus, or they may be involved solely in propping up the activities of organised crime. The hard men required, who show no mercy, originate from the special forces troops who were once deployed in Afghanistan and from a younger generation that served in Chechnya or Dagestan, where their atrocities were not punished, more likely encouraged. And there are the former paramilitaries from the internecine wars of the Balkans. Men from both those theatres were dehumanised and Europe is awash with them. They cannot exchange their uniforms for factory overalls or the cheap suits of salesmen and return to civilian life. They are contaminated with violence. My colleague says – and he knows this because he shoots deer and boar in the Ardennes forests – that the first killing is the hardest, and the second is easier. By the tenth or twelfth the detail of a killing twelve months before is forgotten. He says it takes a hundred times more effort to kill a fly than to shoot a man. The problem for the killer – and for us in law enforcement – is that it is easier to stay inside the weapons culture long after the conflict is finished than return to civilian life. They are damaged people. Anyway, we’re here, and I’ll collect you in half an hour.’
He knocked on the door of an officer who specialised in tracking chemicals for the e-tablets that came into Europe from Kaliningrad, admitted the visitor, made introductions and left. On his way back to his own desk he passed the Blue Bottle. A few Scandinavians were there – quiet, almost morose, celebrating nothing. That week there had been little excitement that involved Europol.
Jonno sat on the grass at the end of the garden, almost at the steps that led to the rockface. His back was against the wall of a wooden shed and the damp of evening was closing in. He didn’t know where Posie was, and doubted she cared where he was. Sparky came towards him through the undergrowth at the side of the garden, away from the common boundary with the grounds of the Villa del Aguila.
‘Were you sent to mind me?’
‘No.’
‘Did they think I might go over the wall, bang on the door and cough it all up?’
‘They didn’t – he didn’t. Snapper says what happens, and what’s to be done. He didn’t.’
Sparky’s face was crossed with shadow from the tree branches. It was getting cold now and Jonno’s T-shirt was poor protection, but Sparky’s legs and arms were shaking. Jonno had seen how carefully Sparky had left the hou
se, then made fast cover in the shrubs, which were leggy and bent with the foliage’s weight. Most of the flowers had been shed and his mother would have set to with a pair of secateurs. Sparky was light and moved like a cat. Now he was crouched against the hut and would not be seen from the upstairs bedroom or from the Villa del Aguila.
‘They don’t think I’ll blow them out?’
‘Snapper’s exact words were, “He’ll make a bit of noise, and down a few beers, sulk and whine, then be good as gold and do what he’s told.” ’
‘He’s a bastard.’
‘He’s a policeman.’
‘What are you?’
‘Most of the time I’m a gardener.’
‘And the rest?’
‘Not a lot, a bit of driving.’
‘Before you were a gardener, Sparky, what were you?’
‘Military.’
‘What sort of military?’
‘Get yourself a job as a quiz master. Parachute Regiment.’
‘Seen some fighting?’
‘Catterick, when a Scots battalion moved in, and Aldershot, when the Coldstreams came over looking for us. There was a bloody one when we did a joint exercise with marines on the Plain and we flattened their tents. That what you meant?’
Jonno couldn’t help chuckling. ‘What’s your link with them?’
‘The Boss. The one with the balls. Follow her anywhere, and there’s no one else calling for me right now. She shouted and I came running.’
‘Why would she want you here, a freelancer?’
‘Don’t know exactly. To watch their backs. I suppose I’ll be told.’
‘If I’d gone next door, what would you have done?’
‘Before you went I’d have broken your leg.’
Jonno didn’t doubt it. He reached out, took Sparky’s hand and held it, but couldn’t still the trembling.
11
He had slept alone after having had his meal alone. It was a bright morning on the Costa – the sun came through the curtains he hadn’t bothered to close and bathed him. He rubbed his eyes, heard their light movements above him, and it wasn’t a dream.
They had eaten upstairs. The old microwave had done their meal but they’d have skimped on the portions because there were four plates, four glasses, four sets of knives and forks and four apples. She had joined them. He hadn’t banged on the door and bawled for her to come down – if he had, Sparky would have blocked him. She was in the spare room and he heard her cough.
Jonno went to the bathroom. He couldn’t have said that they had been down while he’d slept, but he’d have heard the shower. They brought their razors, towels and soap with them, and the paper, then took it back up. He washed and did his teeth.
Last evening, late, she had come down and Loy had followed her. He’d come almost to the foot of the stairs, then sat on a step, as if he was challenging Jonno. Posie had said she was moving out of their bedroom into the spare. Loy had listened and watched.
She had made certain that nothing of hers remained in the room, had gone down on her hands and knees to check under the bed. Jonno had watched her. He had leaned against the wall beside the chest and his head was between a wedding photo of the Walshes coming out of the church under an arch of drawn swords, and another picture of the Lake District. He’d wondered if Loy had come to state a change of ownership, that Posie was with him now, or if he was there to protect her in case Jonno flared up and smacked her. The idea wouldn’t have crossed his mind. She’d gone across the hallway with her bag and dumped it in the spare room, gone into the bathroom, then returned to the spare. Jonno had heard the door lock from the inside. He thought Loy was in his late twenties. He had on expensive casuals, and his hair was well cut. He also thought Loy regarded him with contempt.
He came out of the bathroom.
She had found a dressing-gown. He couldn’t read her – except that there was defiance. Her eyes were not red and her mouth was steady.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine – why shouldn’t I be?’
‘I was just asking.’
‘And I was just telling.’
He blurted, ‘Great. Should be a wonderful day. I hope you enjoy it.’
‘You’re wrong. Wrong. You know that.’
‘I don’t think so.’
The door at the top of the stairs opened. Sparky was there, his arms folded loosely across his chest. He was not a big man but the strength seemed to Jonno to drip off him. He had held the man’s hand but couldn’t stop the tremor. He knew there was torment, but not why. Loy had appeared beside him.
‘You’re wrong because you’re obstinate and obstructive.’
He looked up the stairs, hissed at them, ‘Don’t you have work to do? Or does it get to be a habit, getting into people’s lives, putting in the log book who’s blown their nose, who’s screwing someone else’s girl?’
‘Easy, kid,’ Loy said.
Sparky didn’t speak, and maybe the trembling had died.
To Posie: ‘Is that what they’re telling you? They would, wouldn’t they? What a liberty I’m taking, questioning what they do? I reckon I’m the one sane person in this house.’
‘Wrong. You’re unhinged.’
‘Where’s your loyalty?’
‘They’re doing a job and they wouldn’t be here if people didn’t think it was worth doing. People who know more than you, who are cleverer than you. People who have more responsibility than you. I’m not happy saying it, Jonno, but you’re wrong.’
She went into the bathroom, and the bolt was pushed home inside.
Jonno had not had a relationship end messily before. The three or four girls he’d been out with for more than a couple of months had sort of drifted away. There had been less frequent emails and fewer texts, more ‘really sorry, just can’t do that one’ responses to invitations. He’d never been involved enough to be hurt, and the girls wouldn’t have been sobbing into their pillows. Things had just petered out.
Loy had gone back into the attic but Sparky was still at the head of the stairs. Their eyes locked. Sparky looked through him. It had never happened to him in public before, witnessed.
He went to make his breakfast.
While his toast browned, Loy came in and put on the kettle, then washed up their used plastic bowls and ignored him. Later, Jonno would call Málaga International and rant at anyone who picked up the call about switching dates on pre-paid tickets.
‘No one will give me a straight answer. Why are we going to Gibraltar? Why am I outside a loop?’
His navigator said wryly, ‘Here to Gibraltar is eleven hundred land miles. Gibraltar to Akrotiri is another two thousand one hundred and sixty-six. Here to Cyprus is two thousand and thirty-nine land miles. We’re going to be flying an additional one thousand two hundred and twenty-seven miles, which, of course, means refuelling at Gibraltar. Ours not to reason why, skip.’
The captain of the C-130 transporter, a work-horse Hercules, checked the webbing holding down the cargo crates in the hold. He was offended that – although he was only a flight lieutenant – he had received no explanation for the diversion. The cargo master, responsible for the twenty tons of supplies to be ferried to the eastern Mediterranean, had an answer of sorts.
‘I think it’s here, skip.’
‘What is it?’
‘Just a package.’
‘Flowers for the big man’s missus at Government House, likely.’
‘Says “machine parts”, skip.’
It was shown to him. He reached into the secure cage, as yet unlocked, and felt the package, four feet long, two feet wide and a foot deep. He saw a name, Winnie Monks, and an address at the base below the Rock. He shook his head. ‘What sort of package needs a diversion of a thousand miles and a refuel?’
His navigator laughed. ‘Maybe it’s not flowers, skip. Maybe they’re short of gin.’
They were airborne at first light, and this piece of cargo nestled inside the cage on the forward bulkhead.<
br />
Mikey had a promise.
In the scale of things, he would have ranked a promise from his nephew, Tommy King, far down on the reliability list. There were promises, he thought, he could depend on and there were those he wouldn’t wipe his arse with. The promise was that the kid would ‘bloody well behave’ himself, and not show impertinence or disrespect. Mikey wouldn’t have dressed as the kid had. The promise was that Tommy would ‘go in on bended knee’ or, better, on his belly.
He sat with his old friend, Izzy Jacobs.
He was poor company. Izzy would have liked to talk about the past, their history, the big deals, the best heists and the greatest fuck-ups – mostly on Mikey Fanning’s side. Izzy’s favourite was the time the detectives had swooped on the pawn shop through which he fenced. One had stayed on an extra half-minute after they’d found nothing to incriminate him and had bought an eighteen-century figurine from France, cash, that had only come in the night before from the local star house-breaker. Top of Mikey’s favourites was when they’d done the wages van on Ladywell Road in Lewisham, gone in mob-handed, not listened to what the guards shouted. It had been empty: they’d done the day’s last delivery, and the premises it should have been going to had gone into receivership the previous Friday.
The coffee was eked out, but the mood was black. Mikey Fanning told Izzy Jacobs that he had too much on his mind. Another day, another time. He excused himself. Izzy asked if he could help. Mikey thanked him and declined to share. About the only thing Mikey did not share with Izzy was the matter of his nephew, Tommy King. He headed home slowly, because of the arthritis, to tell Myrtle about the promise. He knew she’d snort in disbelief, but he’d tell her, and they’d wait for the call.
Rafael had told Tommy King where he should park his convertible, where he should walk to and where he would be picked up.
Tommy King had not the wit, or the necessary antennae, to realise that his car was parked in another quarter of the town to the office of the lawyer, that where he would be picked up was not covered by the CCTV cameras that watched over much of the urban area, and that the vehicle in which he now travelled had privacy windows so that the occupants were hidden from the lenses, passing motorists and pedestrians when the Mercedes stopped at traffic-lights. He thought that the routine enhanced his importance, and wallowed in it. The lawyer despised his passenger, wished the contact had never been made and had urged his client to purge the mistake. They went up the hill and past the street that led to the police station – where they owned officers – under the highway and past the bus station. Better for this boy if he had taken the fast bus out, down the A7, and disappeared. The mistake he had made in effecting the introduction was, to Rafael, a burden. He drove effortlessly, one hand casually resting on the wheel, and made nonsense conversation about the weather, and how long the summer had lasted. They skirted an urbanisation that he had set up fifteen years earlier: he had been one of the first. Real-estate building permits were available at a price, bank guarantees were issued, little envelopes passed and money was loaned. Local government officials were permitted to sign off major development contracts, and the slogan Espagna es diferente rang along the coastline. The scaffolding had soared, the foundations had been dug and fortunes were made. He had come from a subsistence pig farm and was now an illustrious figure in Marbella. The police were still preoccupied with anti-terrorism, so the Basques of ETA were their enemy, not the foreigners who leaned on Rafael for help, paid him and welcomed him as a partner. They were nothing without him – unless he had made a mistake.
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