The Break
Page 22
The Saint tried the door handle. Locked. He reached for his crowbar, but thought better of it.
‘Nah,’ he mumbled to himself, ‘no time for that now.’
For what? Frankie hardly dared imagine, though a quick and deeply disturbing image did briefly enter his mind, of The Saint happily powdering his face in there, wearing nothing but a feather boa, as he played at dressing up.
They both stopped outside the second door. It didn’t look anything conspicuous. More like the entrance to a caretaker’s room. The only thing giving it away was the hefty-looking keyhole, indicating an even heftier lock behind.
‘Right, now, where’s that key?’ The Saint mumbled, digging round in his pocket.
‘Another gift from our cleaner friend?’ Frankie asked.
The Saint ignored him. He checked all his other pockets before blowing out a long sigh.
‘Fucking bollocks, I’ve only gone and lost it. And my bleedin’ phone. Must have left them both in the car.’
Frankie wished Rivet was here. They could do with his particular skill set around now. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a –’
‘Set of picks?’ asked The Saint. ‘Nah, never needed one.’ Without warning, he half picked Frankie up by the scruff of his neck and deposited him a foot to the left. He then stepped back to give himself room, before kicking the door just below the lock with the heel of his size twelve boot. Two more thunderous kicks and they were in, with the door hanging open and its state-of-the-art lock mangled like it had been battered with a sledgehammer.
‘Nice,’ said The Saint, peering inside but not stepping forward. ‘Very nice indeed. I always did think Tommy had good taste.’ He glanced slyly at Frankie. ‘Well, get on with it then.’
‘You not coming in?’
‘Nah. You see I knew Tommy at school, didn’t I, just like I did your dad.’
‘And . . .’
‘He was always one for the . . . what do you call it?’ The Saint stared at Frankie blankly.
Frankie stared blankly back.
‘You know,’ said The Saint. ‘Like James Bond . . . all that sneaking around and spying on people shit.’
‘Espionage?’ Frankie hazarded.
‘Yeah, that. And you know what?’
‘What?’
‘I wouldn’t put it past the sneaky fucker to have a camera in there. Hidden away, like. Separate to the system these mugs forgot to switch on downstairs. Something he could then show the cops.’
‘Ah, so what you’re saying is . . . it’s OK for me to go in there and maybe get filmed, but not you.’
‘Exactamundo.’ The Saint rewarded Frankie’s keen thinking with a brief sliver of teabag-coloured teeth. ‘So crack on then, scrote. And make sure to stick it somewhere obvious. You know what the fucking plod are like. Half of them couldn’t find their own pissin’ noses in a mirror.’ The Saint jerked a balaclava down over Frankie’s head and grinned at him through its lopsided peepholes. ‘Now don’t say your Uncle Sainty don’t ever look after you, eh?’
‘Right,’ Frankie said, his voice suddenly muffled, as he straightened up the balaclava so he could actually look out of both eyes. ‘Thanks.’
Walking into Tommy Riley’s office, he half expected to see him sitting here behind his desk, with a cigar clamped between his lips and an Al Capone-style machine gun in his boxer’s fists. But no. Nothing doing. Somewhere obvious . . . somewhere obvious . . . Frankie just wanted this done with. He crossed the room to stick it on Tommy’s desk.
‘Oh, and make sure to unwrap it,’ The Saint called in after him. ‘I know it’s not traditional, like, with presents. But we really want Tommy to get the joke. Or get that it’s on him, anyhow. Even if he don’t know who’s played it. Before they bang him up.’
Somewhere obvious . . . oh, and funny too . . . Frankie spotted it then. The perfect bloody place. Unwrapping the little dog, he put it in the corner of the room. There was a clear line of sight from there to the open office door, and outside he heard The Saint first chuckle, then laugh out loud, a deep, rich belly laugh that Frankie wouldn’t have believed the miserable old bastard capable of.
‘Perfect,’ said The Saint. ‘Nice one, scrote. Wait till I tell Dougie. He’s going to fucking shit.’
20
Turned out The Saint hadn’t been right about Dougie Hamilton’s reaction to hearing where Frankie had left the little dog. He didn’t actually shit himself. But Frankie reckoned he really might genuinely, actually have done a little wee in what were his no doubt posh designer Calvin Klein pants. He really did laugh that hard.
‘You left it in his dog’s basket?’
‘Whitney’s basket? Yeah,’ Frankie said.
‘Whitney? Tommy Riley’s dog’s called Whitney?’
Dougie snorted with laughter again. Something little boy-ish about the way he did it, though. So much so that, for a second, Frankie could almost picture him bouncing on his dead dad’s knee as a kid. Maybe this bellend wasn’t quite such the corporate wall of concrete he made himself out to be. Maybe he might even agree to returning that pistol after all? Might he even have it on him here now? If not, though, well . . . Frankie needed to get out of here as fast as he could. His heartbeat was already pounding at the thought. Because who knew how long Dougie’s good mood would last? Not long, he reckoned. Not long at all.
‘Er, listen . . . I hate to bring it up again, but that pistol?’ he said, stepping in between The Saint and Dougie, who was sitting on a black leather armchair.
But other than to flick Frankie a brief, annoyed glance, Dougie pointedly ignored him. He was still dressed in his immaculate tweed suit, leaving Frankie worrying that tonight’s business was far from over, as he’d feared.
‘He put it right there in the middle, boss,’ said The Saint, having to park his enormous frame on the sofa in Dougie’s Maida Vale mansion flat living room, he was still chuckling so hard. ‘With its little “R.I.P.” sign pointing up at the ceiling. You couldn’t bloody miss it, boss. The cops are bound to take a picture of it too, yeah? For evidence, like, and to show him. My God, I’d kill to see his face.’
‘Oh, that is too good.’ Dougie’s eyes were shining like he was high, the same way Jack always used to look whenever he’d done too much gear. ‘Oh, God, I can’t wait to tell Viollet about this when she gets back.’ His voice suddenly hardened. ‘Talking of which . . . where on earth is she?’
This last question was to Barry, the same beardy, Sasquatch-faced twat with the bat who’d clobbered Frankie in the Cobden Club the same afternoon this whole hideous episode in his life had kicked off. He’d brought the Louisville Slugger here too. Had it propped up in full view next to the white baby grand piano he was currently leaning back against.
‘Well, she said she was heading down the shops,’ Barry said.
‘The shops? At this time of night?’
‘She said she wanted cigarettes. Said she’d find a twenty-four-hour garage.’
‘Why didn’t you go for her?’
‘I offered, but –’
‘She doesn’t even smoke,’ said Dougie.
‘But . . .’ Frankie remembered her smoking all right, lying there in his bed.
‘Were you about to say something?’ Dougie said.
‘Er, no,’ Frankie said. ‘It’s just that, er, the only garage round here that’ll still be open is a good couple of miles’ walk away.’
‘Huh.’ Dougie checked his watch. ‘She’ll probably be back soon then. And talking about timing . . .’ His smile was gone and he was glaring at The Saint. ‘. . . what the bloody hell took you two so long to get back? How the hell did it take you nearly two hours? It’s less than three miles away.’
‘Some bastard slashed our tyres,’ said The Saint.
‘They did what?’
‘All four. Front and back.’
‘Who?’ His eyes narrowed suspiciously. Something about this he didn’t like at all.
‘If I knew that, I’d be wearing their bleedin’ skins as a coat,�
�� said The Saint. ‘They scratched the shit out of the paintwork too. Scrawled some gang tag on it. West End Massive, or some such shit.’
‘Hmmm.’ Oddly, the gang thing seemed to calm Dougie down a notch. ‘Yeah, well, next time make sure you call. That’s why you’ve got the phone.’
The Saint said nothing. His veiny cheeks pinked.
‘Christ, I can read you like a book. What, you broke it, did you?’ Dougie said.
The Saint scratched at his head. ‘Uh, more like lost it, really, boss.’
‘Bloody hell, sometimes I don’t know why I bother. I’m just trying to bring this whole game into the modern era, but here I am still lumped with dinosaurs like you.’ He sighed heavily. ‘But I suppose at least there’s still some things you’re good at . . .’
‘Yeah?’ The Saint’s yellow teeth flashed.
‘Yeah, fucking grab him,’ Dougie said.
Oh, shit. The Saint didn’t need telling who exactly it was Dougie meant. Dougie already had his pistol out – that same sodding pistol that Frankie had risked coming here to get, instead of getting the hell out of Dodge while he still could have – should have, fuck it, he was screwed.
Dougie levelled it at Frankie’s head. Not that he needed it. The Saint already had Frankie’s arm halfway up his back and was slamming him up against the wall, spreading his legs, all nice and professional, like. Frankie would have fought back, but . . . well, Dougie wasn’t the only one aiming a gun at him, was he? There was the little matter of the sawn-off shotgun Barry had just pulled out of his black gym bag too.
Lowering the gun, Dougie got to his feet, whipped a cheap-looking phone out of his jacket pocket and punched in a few digits. ‘Yeah, is that the police?’ he said. ‘I want to report a robbery.’ He walked out through the living-room doorway and into the hall. ‘Yeah, a great big bloody robbery,’ he went on, his voice fading, ‘and I want to tell you who did it . . . no, it doesn’t fucking matter who I am . . .’
By the time Dougie came back into the living room, Frankie was already trussed up like a turkey, gaffer-taped to a brown wheelchair that smelt vaguely of stale piss.
‘I take it you’re not planning on giving me that back then?’ he said, staring at the Browning Hi-Power pistol that was still in Dougie’s hand.
‘What, this?’ Dougie looked down at the pistol, as if surprised to see it there. ‘Oh, yeah, you’re going to get it, all right.’ He mimed popping Frankie in the head. ‘Just like I promised. But only after I’ve had you tortured first, to see what you really know about your brother’s involvement in Susan’s death.’
He put the phone he’d just made his anonymous tip-off with on the edge of the grand piano’s keyboard, then slammed the lid down. Again and again.
‘Oh, don’t worry about the noise,’ he said, turning to Frankie. ‘These old mansion blocks were built to the very highest standards. Walls three feet thick. Whoever the neighbours are, they won’t hear a peep. No matter how loud anyone screams.’
Anyone . . . it was obvious enough from the way he said it and the smile on The Saint’s face when he did who was going to be screaming and who was going to be making that person do it.
‘Yes,’ Dougie went on, ‘you see, that’s why Dad decided to snap this flat up when he was dying . . . so he could be nice and peaceful, right to the end.’ Standing behind Frankie, he took hold of the wheelchair’s handles and wheeled him slowly over to the window. ‘This was his chair. Or was meant to be,’ he said. ‘He didn’t really get to use it much, he was so sick by the end.’ He stopped just in front of the window which led out onto the balcony. Frankie could see his half-reflection staring back at him, with the city of London glittering out towards the horizon beyond. ‘But I’ll tell you something for nothing,’ Dougie said. ‘He didn’t half love this view.’
Frankie thought about it. About trying to convince Dougie again that he’d done nothing wrong. That Jack hadn’t either. But he’d tried that before, hadn’t he? Back in the Cobden Club. And all it had earned him was a smack from this twat over here with the bat. He thought about begging too. But he knew that would do him just as little good.
Christ, he’d really fucked this up, hadn’t he? Should have just run when he’d got the chance just now when The Saint had parked up downstairs. Shouldn’t have pushed his luck, coming up and hoping to get that gun and then get away. Because now his luck had run out.
He felt like crying, but no, fuck that. Not in front of this bastard. Not yet. But what then? Wind him up good and proper. Get him to let off some real steam. Yeah, why not? If he was going to be tortured, he’d rather be concussed when he was. Plus, the longer he dragged all this out, the more chance he’d maybe have of someone finding him here. Even though he couldn’t for the life of him think how.
‘I never believed you, anyway,’ he said.
‘About what?’
‘Anything, really. You giving me back that gun. Or doing anything other than deciding to fuck me up, once tonight’s job was done.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ Dougie asked, clearly not believing him. ‘And why’s that?’
‘Because you’re just like your father, aren’t you?’ Frankie gave him his very best smile. ‘A lying, toerag cunt.’
‘You –’ But Dougie couldn’t even get the words out. It was like he’d been punched in the guts. Hard to tell from a reflection, if someone was turning purple, but Frankie reckoned he probably was.
‘Oh, and thick as well,’ Frankie said. ‘I mean, I’d kind of guessed you might be, on account of you only being a solicitor and not a barrister, and you still thinking I know anything about Susan’s death’ – he stared him hard in the eyes, praying for the last time he might finally see this was true – ‘but I didn’t actually know for sure until you made your little call to the cops just now that you really are dumb enough to still think you’ve won.’
Dougie spun the chair round to face him. Oh yeah, proper purple, he was. Chenguang would have no doubt thoroughly approved.
‘Won? Won?’ Dougie shrieked. ‘What do you know about winning? You’re dead, you know that? Fucking dead! And not only that, but in these last few days of your pathetic little life, I’ve used you, used you like the fucking lowly, insignificant pawn you are to knock out the fucking king.’
A mobile phone started trilling. Dougie jerked it out of his suit jacket pocket.
‘Well, go on, then,’ Frankie said, ‘aren’t you going to answer it? Because then we’ll see who’s the pawn in all this. Then maybe you’ll realize I ain’t quite so stupid as you think and might actually still be useful to you alive after all.’
Because, oh yeah, Frankie knew what was coming. For once, he was one step ahead of this prick. Which was why he’d come up here, hoping to get that pistol sharpish, knowing it was the last chance he’d ever get.
‘Yes,’ Dougie said, clamping the phone to his ear, ‘this is him speaking . . .’
Frankie watched as Dougie went a deeper and deeper purple, enough to make even a rock band jealous. He would have enjoyed it too, other than the fact he was now almost puking at the thought that it might well prove to be the last thing he ever saw.
‘And you’re sure? A hundred per cent sure?’ Dougie stared, just stared at the phone for a second, then hurled it across the room and it exploded against the wall.
‘Something wrong, boss?’ asked The Saint.
‘Of course there’s something fucking wrong. Everything’s wrong. My source . . .’ He was growling, actually growling. ‘My source has just told me that the police raided Tommy Riley’s office on the back of my anonymous tip-off.’
‘And?’ The Saint was frowning. He clearly couldn’t understand how this was not a good thing.
‘Only that little fucking doggy wasn’t there.’
‘But we put it there, boss. He did . . .’ The Saint was pointing a fat, pudgy finger at Frankie. ‘I watched him do it. I watched him myself.’
‘Well, it isn’t there now.’ Dougie’s face had shifted up a gear,
from purple into puce.
‘But how?’ said The Saint. Then his eyes lit up. ‘Someone must have moved it, boss. Gone in there after we . . .’
‘Yes, yes!’ Dougie screamed. ‘Of course someone fucking moved it. And the same bastard then put that fucking dog, along with all the other stolen art pieces, back into the fucking Royal Academy!’
The Saint just gawped. His brain couldn’t process it.
‘All of which means,’ Dougie said, staring hard into Frankie’s eyes now, ‘that someone fucking betrayed me to Tommy Riley, didn’t they? Someone told him not only about the whole robbery, but how I was planning on framing him for it too.’
Frankie jammed that smile back on his face. ‘Meaning maybe instead of you killing me,’ he said, ‘we should just sit down and talk about this instead.’
*
Frankie’s head was pounding. His nose was broken, along with two of his fingers on his right hand, from when Dougie had finally lost it back there in the living room a few minutes ago. So much for hoping that Dougie might decide he was more useful to him alive now than dead. Seemed like he’d decided the opposite. As well as still wanting him tortured to see what he knew about Susan, all Dougie wanted now was revenge.
After Dougie had finished beating him, The Saint had wheeled Frankie through into here, a back bedroom of Dougie’s apartment, with a blood-stained bed and sound-proof foam padding nailed to the back of the door. Looked like he wasn’t the first lucky visitor who’d been there.
The Saint was currently standing over the dressing table whistling something that sounded horribly like ‘Send in the Clowns’, while slowly sharpening a vicious, curved Bowie knife on a whetstone, before he got stuck in.
Frankie flexed his arms, again and again, trying to loosen the tape he’d been tied to the wheelchair with. His heart was stuttering, his face wet with sweat. He’d pissed himself too. A whole fat bladder full of it. Dougie had already told him exactly what was going to happen . . . first the torture . . . then a nice slow death . . . then Dougie and his crew would be going after Jack and the Old Man . . . and Tommy Riley too, of course.