He looked from the couple, still chuckling, to Fred. The gaze returned to him was stonily impassive. No mortal thing would find himself, herself, proof against the big bucks when they were wheeled out.
Two cars pulled up fast at the kerb, brakes and tyres squealing. The men were out running, jeans, T-shirts and pistols. The heads jerked up inside the café-bar and the laughter died. Shock spread, as it always did. Mouths sagged, eyes bulged, hands froze together, and the ring, still bright and new, was hit by the sunshine. No ceremony. Both on the floor, down among the chair legs, the expert, unemotional search, then the handcuffs. They were brought out, frogmarched close to where Fred and Carlo sat. Were they recognised? Maybe.
Fred said, ‘What nailed him, gave him to us, was that he sent the money to the girl from the pizzeria where it all started. Tainted money. Money taken from the rinsed profits of cocaine trafficking. If I were to go and see her tomorrow, and tell her the origin of the money that would repair her face, she would reject it. Shall I tell her?’
Carlo said, ‘If you don’t, and she uses the money, you’ve compromised the truth. We’re not archangels. We do what is best for the moment and causes least hassle. We don’t stand in judgement . . . Is there time for a beer?’
The chairs were rearranged and the table was cleared.
It was at that moment, when the car’s rear door was open – Giulietta was inside the other vehicle – that Jago Browne had seemed to catch his eye, then looked away and allowed himself to be pushed into the seat. He might have remembered Fred, beside him, and wondered where the mistake had been conceived. He might have wondered, too, why he hadn’t stayed at the bank to live in the slow lane.
The cars left, and sirens yelled on the road. Fred and he would be driven to the airport. It was likely that, on the way, they’d talk expenses, kit, pensions or anything else that gave grief. Mutual congratulations would be verboten, forbidden. They had enjoyed a snapshot moment, handcuffs, arrests, the wave of disbelief that clouded young faces. That was enough. Would they meet again? Perhaps, perhaps not. Would they have time for a beer in the lounge before their separate flights? They’d make time.
‘Did we win, Carlo?’
‘I think so, Fred, but I’m not sure. In that corner of nowhere, it could be that they won because they can buy anybody, which is serious. Why doesn’t anyone try to buy us? Or at least make an offer?’
‘We’re not worth the investment. Find a mirror. Look at yourself and me.’
They hugged. They laughed. Their transport was waiting for them.
No Mortal Thing: A Thriller Page 45
