All Kinds of Dead

by James Craig

  ‘Beef in red wine sauce sounds good.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Andy,’ Fortune hissed. ‘Focus on the matter in hand.’

  ‘But I’m starvin’. We’ve been standing around here like numpties for more than an hour.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be long now.’ Fortune felt the reassuring presence of the Glock in his jacket pocket. Fantasising about saving the last round for Carson, a smile played at the corner of his lips.

  ‘What’s the joke?’

  ‘Nothing.’ According to the board, it looked like four flights had arrived more or less at the same time. As waves of travellers started spewing out of the customs area, Fortune focused on making his breathing deep and regular. Now he had to be calm and decisive. Everything must flow as he ordained it. Letting his shoulders loosen, he recalled the mantra from the Focus & Decision-Making class that he’d taken on the recommendation of one Gerry Durkan Esq.:

  ‘Positive energy will flow from my being. I will destroy negative energy with empathy and compassion. I will promote social good through my professionalism and dedication.’

  ‘There’s loads of people coming out of here,’ Carson whined. ‘How the hell will we find our guy in the middle of all this?’

  Fortune sighed. ‘Don’t worry about that.’ With the slightest tilt of his head, he gestured towards the line of seven or eight taxi drivers standing by the stairs, waiting for their fares. Each man had the same bored expression on his face as he stared vacantly into the middle distance. In each set of hands was a board with a name scribbled on it in marker pen. ‘The guy on the far end in the Spurs shirt. The one with the ginger hair.’

  Taking a step forward, Carson squinted at the sign the taxi driver was holding under his chin. ‘Go-pal Ullal . . . math? What kind of a name is that?’

  ‘The name of a man who is just about to say goodbye to a fortune in diamonds.’

  Gopal Ullalmath wished he hadn’t had that last beer on the plane. A nervous flier at the best of times, he didn’t like taking to the skies in anything smaller than an Airbus A320. At least in one of those you could try and forget that you were actually 30,000 feet in the air with only the thinnest of sheets of metal between your ass and . . . nothing. By contrast, the Fokker that plied the Antwerp–City route only carried fifty passengers. Every time Gopal caught sight of the turbo-prop engines, he thought he was about to throw up. Worst of all, as the plane circled over London on its descent into City, he imagined them smacking into the top of one of the skyscrapers that lined the Thames. Not so long ago, a helicopter had done just that. Gopal considered it almost inevitable that, one day, a plane he was on would do the same.

  The most annoying thing about the whole experience was that it was so unnecessary. Gopal regularly begged his uncle, Bob Biswas, to be allowed to take the Eurostar. This plea was routinely rejected on grounds of cost and/or convenience. Biswas ran a tight ship; one that made full use of the delights of low-cost airlines wherever possible.

  Working for Uncle Bob was something of a mixed blessing. Biswas Trading Services offered relatively relaxed hours and good pay. Career prospects were hard to define, however, and if asked, Gopal would be hard pressed to offer up a job description for his role. His mother was still on at him to become an accountant. After a trip like this, Gopal wondered if she might not be right.

  Where Bob refused to help with Gopal’s travel problems, there was always Heineken. However, self-medicating with lager was never a good idea. Gopal had a limited capacity for alcohol and a smaller bladder capacity. At the end of the flight, he found himself slouching through customs with an aching groin and a restless stomach. The prospect of a car ride across London did nothing to improve his mood. The city’s traffic was a complete lottery: the journey could take forty minutes or it could take the best part of two hours. As he stepped through the sliding doors, to be confronted by a sea of faces and a blast of icy air, he turned to his travelling companion. ‘I need to use the toilet,’ he said. ‘Find the driver and I’ll catch up with you outside.’

  Ignoring the fact that this would already be Gopal’s second comfort break since getting off the plane, Giles Brix gave a curt nod. Lifting a meaty finger, he gestured towards a sign hanging from the ceiling off to his left. ‘The rest rooms are over there.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Keeping a tight hold on his case, Brix watched Gopal scuttle off towards the facilities. Why the guy couldn’t save his drinking until after the conclusion of business, Brix didn’t know. Stepping away from the doors, he scanned the line of waiting drivers until he spotted the one with the right name-board. Catching the eye of the driver, a scruffy-looking bloke in a football shirt, Brix gave him a thumbs-up. The guy clocked the attaché case, catching a glimpse of the handcuffs that attached it to Brix’s wrist. His mouth opened as if he was about to say something then he clamped it firmly shut.

  Brix gestured towards the exit. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Mr Ullal . . .’ the guy took a quick look at his board, ‘math?’

  Close enough. Brix nodded. ‘He’s just coming. He’ll meet us outside.’

  From across the concourse, Carson watched the big white bloke with the case approach the ginger-haired guy he had now come to think of as ‘his’ taxi driver. ‘Are you sure that’s him?’

  ‘Must be,’ Fortune shrugged.

  ‘Big bloke.’

  Not quite what I was expecting, Fortune thought, but said aloud: ‘Nothing we can’t handle. The gear will be in the case.’

  ‘Handcuffed to his wrist,’ Carson pointed out.

  ‘He can keep the case,’ Fortune observed, ‘as long as he opens it.’

  An unhappy thought suddenly occurred to Carson. ‘Supposing he can’t?’

  ‘Worst comes to the worst,’ Fortune grinned, ‘you chop his arm off.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Only joking. Adrian’s got some bolt-cutters in the back of the motor. Don’t worry though, it won’t come to that. These guys are told to give the stuff up, rather than have any trouble. That’s what insurance is for.’ Sticking a hand inside his pocket, Fortune let his fingers close round the grip of the Glock. ‘Now remember, we let them get outside into the car park, and then we take the stones, nice and easy. No muss, no fuss and no fucking drama. We’re not in some paddy field in Shitsville now. I can’t have any of your dogs of war shit goin’ on.’

  ‘It wasn’t a paddy field,’ Carson huffed. ‘And he would have done the same to me.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Or maybe he would have made a video of his mates chopping my head off and stuck it on the internet.’

  Sounds like an idea.

  ‘Imagine the family watching that!’

  ‘Horrible,’ Fortune agreed. But he was sure that Becky would be able to take her old man losing his head in her stride. The formidable Mrs Carson was a force of nature. Indeed, he was beginning to wish he’d brought her along and left her old man in the nick. ‘Have you spoken to them yet?’

  ‘Left a message.’ Carson caught Fortune’s sideways look. ‘Nothing silly.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Said I was in Dublin.’

  ‘That’ll throw them off the scent,’ Fortune said drily.

  ‘It’s thirty-two degrees in Sitia today.’ Carson’s voice was wistful.

  ‘I dunno what you’re bothering to check the weather forecast for,’ Fortune retorted. ‘You won’t be going there. I told you, Greece is off the agenda. Get used to it.’ He watched as the taxi driver stuck the name-board under his arm and led his fare through the milling crowd, heading towards the exit. On the far side of the concourse, a couple of coppers were slowly making their rounds. A man and a woman, both in their twenties, walking in step, stony-faced; both of them heavily enough armed that they could pass for extras in a Schwarzenegger movie.

  Carson followed his gaze. ‘What about the plods?’ he asked.

  ‘We knew they would be here.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘The guns’re just for s
how,’ Fortune scoffed. ‘I bet they couldn’t hit a coconut from ten yards.’

  Carson looked doubtful. ‘Whatever happened to the great unarmed British bobby?’

  ‘Ancient history. Even Inspector Morse would have a Heckler & Koch MP5 these days. Instead of a Jaguar, he’d be driving a bloody tank.’ He laughed briefly at his own joke.

  ‘Those two have got enough firepower to start a small war,’ Carson said moodily.

  ‘Only if they know how to use it.’

  ‘Either way, they could make a hell of a mess.’

  ‘Which is precisely why they’ll never take the safety off,’ Fortune reasoned. ‘Those cops wouldn’t want the risk of shooting somebody innocent by mistake. The danger of taking down a few bankers – or even a handful of ordinary taxpayers – far outweighs the need to stop a couple of minor-league crims like us.’ He watched the taxi driver disappear through the exit and into the darkness, closely followed by the man with the case. ‘Anyway, by the time they make it outside, we’ll be halfway to the Blackwall Tunnel.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘Christ!’ Fortune complained. ‘How did a few months in prison manage to turn you into such a total pussy? That’s one of the great things about doing a job at an airport – there are plenty of escape routes.’ He gave his comrade a nudge towards the exit. ‘C’mon, let’s go. Ten minutes and it will be job done and time to get the beers in.’

  They strode towards the exit like two men without a care in the world. Fortune was in no particular hurry; he knew where the diamonds were going. The airport only had the one car park – a couple of football fields’ worth of freshly laid tarmac by the side of the terminal building. It would be impossible to lose their target while he was still on the premises. Stepping into the phosphorus glow of the street lights, Ryan was hit by a wave of freezing air. For some reason, it always seemed colder in East London. Zipping up his jacket, he took a deep breath, conscious of Carson at his shoulder, bouncing around like the Duracell bunny.

  ‘Where are they?’ Carson asked.

  Fortune pointed in the direction of the car park as he picked up the pace. Swerving past a couple of returning holidaymakers, he tuned into a fragment of their conversation.

  ‘Lanzarote was a lot warmer,’ observed a fat, lobster-coloured woman as she tried to steer an overloaded trolley in something approximating a straight line.

  ‘Well,’ mused the tiny bloke following on behind her, ‘it’s gonna be, innit?’

  Leaving the pair behind, Fortune strode purposefully towards the car park. As he passed the first line of parked vehicles, he could see the driver and his fare about fifteen yards up ahead. The driver was waving a hand in the air as he talked. No doubt he would be apologizing for the walk, explaining that he couldn’t get any closer to the building ‘because of all the bloody security’, trying to build up a bit of a rapport in the hope of a decent tip at the other end. Behind them, illuminated against the inky black sky, Tate & Lyle sugar refinery offered a reminder that a few examples of the capital’s industrial past still survived.

  Just about.

  Reaching the second row of cars, Fortune slowed his pace, waiting to determine precisely where the taxi was parked. As he hovered by the side of a burgundy Lexus, Carson appeared at his shoulder, gun in his hand.

  ‘Put that fucking thing away!’ Fortune ordered.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Put it away! It’s only for show – if we need it.’

  Carson reluctantly did as he was told.

  The taxi driver was still leading the fare past another row of parked cars. Letting his eyes dart towards the exit, Fortune saw the stolen Range Rover sitting just outside the illumination cast by a streetlight. The headlights were on. Fortune could make out a pair of hands on the steering wheel but not the face of the driver. Adrian was ready to go.

  A high-pitched beep told him that the driver had found his cab. ‘Right,’ he said to himself. ‘Let’s get this thing done.’

  SIXTEEN

  Stumbling out of the airport terminal, Gopal buttoned up his jacket and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. Contemplating the sea of butts strewn across the pavement, he suddenly fancied a smoke. He let the fingers of his right hand close around a packet of Marlboro Lights, only to confirm what he already knew – that it was empty; he had smoked his last cigarette before getting on the plane in Antwerp. Should he go back inside and get a fresh packet? He cursed himself for not stocking up in Duty Free. The bloody English made them so expensive – all that tax – it was like bloody Communism or something! Whatever happened to freedom of choice?

  The other issue was time. Gopal glanced at his watch. They were already more than an hour behind schedule and Uncle Bob was a stickler for good timekeeping. ‘Never keep the client waiting,’ he would say. ‘Always show them that you value their time as much as they do themselves.’ He also liked to quote Shakespeare on the subject: ‘Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.’ Then again, the Merry Wives of Windsor had probably never had to use City airport.

  Gopal vowed not to give in to his nicotine craving. Veering left, he began marching towards the car park. Skipping over a small pothole, his mind turned to the question of how he might spend the rest of his evening, once the work part of proceedings had been dealt with. All of London and its multitudinous delights were stretched out in front of him, but Gopal had the nagging sense that he wasn’t making the most of the opportunities they presented. This was the sixth time he had come over from Antwerp in the last year or so. Each time, it was the same routine: make the delivery, then check into a Travelodge somewhere in the middle of the city before rising early to catch the 10.15 a.m. flight back to Belgium the next day.

  On his first ever visit, Gopal had headed for the red-light district of Soho in search of smut and debauchery, only to be sorely disappointed. It was clear to even the most casual visitor that whatever seediness the place was supposed to contain had been cleaned up long ago. Other than a drab-looking ‘sex shop’ and a couple of obvious clip joints that only the most stupid or desperate would venture into, the place was just a familiar jumble of cafés and offices that could be found almost anywhere. Soho made the Schipperskwartier, Antwerp’s own red-light district, look like the very heart of Sodom and Gomorrah. After wandering up and down Berwick Street for an hour, a disappointed Gopal had ended up in the Trocadero, a down-at-heel shopping centre on the south side of Shaftesbury Avenue, eating desiccated pizza and playing vintage arcade games. That had pretty much become the template for his subsequent trips. Tonight, he promised himself, he would do something different.

  But what to choose?

  ‘Christ Almighty, Gary. He’s got a gun.’

  Gopal looked up. A few feet ahead of him, an improbably fat woman, rather underdressed for the night’s chill, was tugging at her trolley, trying to pull it back towards the terminal. Her companion, a small man in a red Adidas T-shirt, was gawping at something in the middle distance. Stepping behind an Audi, Gopal too looked – and saw two men standing in front of Giles and the taxi driver. Even at this distance, Gopal could see that they were engaged in what appeared to be a heated, if rather one-sided debate. One of them, the smaller of the two, was pointing a gun at Giles.

  Shit. Grabbing his mobile, Gopal hit Bob’s ‘hotline’ number that he was under strict instructions to use only in the direst of emergencies. Like this. After several moments, it started to ring.

  ‘He’s got a gun,’ the woman repeated.

  ‘Police!’ the little man shouted. In truth, it was more like a question. Cowering behind the woman’s not inconsiderable bulk, he said to her, ‘C’mon, Tina. Let’s get back inside. Leave the trolley and let’s make a run for it.’

  ‘The gear,’ the woman pleaded, still gripping the trolley tightly. ‘We can’t leave our gear.’

  ‘It’s just stuff.’

  ‘It’s my stuff,’ the woman argued. For a moment, the couple stood frozen by indecision. ‘Go and get the
cops,’ she said finally. ‘They’re inside.’

  The man didn’t move.

  The phone kept ringing. So much for an emergency hotline, Gopal thought crossly.

  The woman called Tina gave her companion a hard poke in the ribs.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Stop being such a wanker, Gary. Go an’ get the Old Bill.’

  Gary stopped being a wanker and finally did what she asked.

  ‘I told you we should have stayed for a second week,’ the woman bawled after him. ‘It was only an extra hundred and fifty bleedin’ quid.’

  Trying to ignore their squabble, Gopal listened to Bob’s voicemail kick in. Exasperated, he ended the call without leaving a message. He glanced back at Gary, who wasn’t breaking any world records as he headed for the terminal.

  Still gripping the phone tightly in his hand, Gopal stepped off the pavement and started walking towards the man with the gun.

  He was less than ten metres away from the confrontation before his presence was noticed.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Gopal addressed the gunman, ignoring his larger colleague.

  ‘Piss off, kid,’ the gunman snapped, keeping his weapon trained on Giles as his eyes darted between the briefcase and the new arrival. His voice tried to exude authority but it had a brittleness to it that only added to the tension.

  Gopal glanced at Brix, who was standing stock still, apparently unconcerned by developments. Behind him, the taxi driver fidgeted nervously with his car keys, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he tried to calculate the chances of finding some cover behind the boot of the BMW parked in the space next to his cab.

  ‘You piss off,’ Gopal shouted, surprised by his own audacity. Off to his right, there was a mighty roar as a plane took off from a nearby runway. Clearly, news of an armed man on the site had yet to make it to the control tower. For a moment, all further debate was put on hold.