by Owen Mullen
‘And you know that, how?’
‘There were no gunshots, which means they were already dead when they got here. Which also means machetes weren’t some random pick. They had guns and didn’t use them. What does that say?’
‘You’re doing fine on your own.’
‘Okay. Two things jump out: the attackers intended to do damage. The guy who killed the woman did it to prove he could – not the MO of ordinary villains – and I believe the safe was secondary. That makes the van the key. I don’t know your routine, but I’m guessing armed security guards sitting at the back door in a vehicle isn’t part of it. So why the van?’
Mark Douglas was sharp. I wouldn’t be telling him about the briefcase full of Jonas Small’s money.
I opened the van doors; he hadn’t exaggerated. I’d seen worse but couldn’t recall when. Death hadn’t distinguished between the good and the bad: arms and legs, heads and bodies, piled on one another like shop-window mannequins the day after the place closed down. On a couple of them, the skin was already beginning to pale as gravity drew blood away from the surface into the tissues; mottling would be next, though by then they’d be in the ground. Paul Fallon was near the bottom, his fancy title – Head of Security – no defence against the blade that had almost decapitated him. The woman from the office lay close by.
Ritchie was beside me. He said, ‘I’ve called Felix. We’ll take care of this.’ His eyes settled on the female, his mouth turned down and I guessed what was in his mind. Females were off limits in George world.
‘The woman was a civilian. Did she have family?’
From nowhere, it came to me. ‘Rose. Her name was Rose.’
He repeated his question. ‘Did she have anybody?’
‘No idea. If she had, square them up.’
Mark Douglas pointed. ‘That’s him. That’s the guy.’
The assassin was a stranger. Ritchie closed the van – we’d seen all there was to see.
‘What about Nina?’
George reassured me. ‘On it. Somebody will know where she is.’
Mark Douglas overheard. ‘We were talking a couple of minutes before it kicked off. I’m pretty sure Nina wasn’t involved.’
‘Talking, where?’
‘In the bar.’
‘You said there was a car waiting. Is it possible they took her?’
Douglas thought about his reply. ‘With the press at the front door it would be difficult.’
Ritchie had the keys of the van in his hand, anxious to get moving. He edged away from Mark Douglas: there was more. ‘Didn’t call you earlier because there was nothing to say.’
‘Nothing to say about what?’
‘This isn’t the first attack. We were hit earlier tonight. Twice.’
‘Twice! Christ’s sake, George. What the fuck’s going on?’
His hand was on my shoulder, his voice almost a whisper. ‘Nothing like this. Completely different. For a start, nobody was hurt.’
‘Where?’
‘Lambeth and Lewisham. River Cars and Eamon Durham.’
‘Any other surprises, or is that it?’
‘It’s under control.’
I checked my watch. ‘The club’s closing in an hour.’
‘Until then?’
‘Until then it’s business as usual.’
‘Business as usual’? Who was I kidding?
Kelly’s notion of uninterrupted time together was in the bin. Agreeing to it had been a mistake I wouldn’t be making again. LBC was the single most significant investment I’d ever made or probably ever would make; more money than I wanted to think about, and if it was as successful as I imagined, we’d be clearing most of the bent earners in London: a great game when you were winning. At the moment, we were being hammered. And failure wasn’t an option.
We’d been open six months and the cash was flooding in. Already there was a waiting list for membership and maybe I’d taken it for granted. Not any more. The van with its gruesome cargo was on its way to a quarry somewhere in Surrey or Kent. I wouldn’t ask, George Ritchie wouldn’t tell me. We’d been lucky a guy hired to stop some drunk-as-a-skunk pop star falling on her well-known face in front of a gaggle of photographers had been here.
Mark Douglas was crouched on one knee, his shoulders sagging like his head was too heavy for his body, the adrenaline rush that had synchronised his mind and body ebbing. Soon, he’d be so exhausted he’d happily lie down on the pavement and sleep.
I owed him. More than I could repay. Half a dozen shirts from Turnbull & Asser would be a start. He was low-key – possibly not appreciating exactly what he’d done. But I did. The club could’ve been on the front page of every newspaper in the country, police crawling all over the place, and me fielding calls from irate villains with money on the line – the kind of villains it was better not to upset.
That was for tomorrow.
Right now, Nina was missing. We’d been on the receiving end three times in one night, and couldn’t be sure there wasn’t more on the way. Then there was the little matter of two hundred thousand pounds belonging to Jonas Small, a man not known for his forgiving nature. If he found out – make that when he found out – he’d go mental. He already had a head start, for Christ’s sake.
I walked Douglas to the end of the lane and waited until his taxi arrived. He was a man of few words. After his performance tonight, I didn’t intend to lose him. In a mediocre world, he was top-drawer. I gave him my card and asked him to call me tomorrow, or was that today?
Ritchie had assured me the attacks in Lambeth and Lewisham didn’t match the carnage at the club. I wanted to believe him and arranged to meet at the King Pot to get a handle on what the hell was happening. Before that, there was another call to make.
Stanford took his time answering. When he finally did, I heard sleep in his voice and a female complaining in the background about being woken up – his wife, the fragrant Elise, a natural-born lily of the field, who neither toiled nor spun, yet lived a life far in excess of her husband’s salary and never thought to ask him how he managed it.
Stanford was a rising star in the Met, tipped to go all the way. Nobody deserved it less. He was a smug bastard, permanently amused at some secret joke, and as bent as they made them. Bad guys came in all shapes and sizes: Oliver Stanford was copper-sized, and the only side the policeman was on was his own. If you understood that, he’d never surprise or disappoint you. In a very real sense we were partners, though neither of us would appreciate that description. We each held the other’s future in our hands – not the most comforting thought I’d ever had. Ollie had been quiet of late, not earning his corn: time he did.
He growled into the phone. ‘What the hell do you want at this hour?’
‘LBC was attacked tonight. My sister’s missing.’
I left the two hundred grand out of the picture. I’d deal with that myself, one way or the other, and settled for imagining him in his blue-and-white-striped pyjamas, smug as ever.
‘Attacked? Who?’
‘Unknown. Except, they used machetes so they planned on making a mess.’
‘Nasty. Could be personal. Who have you been noising-up?’
I ignored him. ‘Personal or somebody going after the club’s rep. Bad news, either way.’
‘And you’re looking for me to do… what?’
The wrong response.
I put it aside for the moment and carried on. ‘If the club is the target some public-spirited individual who happened to be passing at half-two in the morning, as you do, might tell the police about seeing something suspicious. That wouldn’t be helpful. Squash any attempt to follow up on it.’
‘Okay. What else?’
‘Trace my sister’s phone and give me the location. And, I’m sending you a picture of one of the attackers. Get me a name.’
His tone was dry, as if what I was asking was a chore. He sighed. ‘Text me her number.’
Stanford couldn’t have cared less about Nina. But LBC
was important to him. He understood that if it went down, we’d all go down with it and he could say ta-ta to the lifestyle him and his Mrs liked so much. He’d been to the club half a dozen times, playing the big shot with faces who might be useful in his climb up the greasy pole; ordering champagne and fifteen-year-old Armagnac and running up a tab he’d never intended to pay.
Losing a perk was the tip of the iceberg and that concerned him.
‘Going back to the club, what might this person have to report?’
‘For a start, seven dead bodies, Oliver.’
6
Nina had known he’d call. Late, but not too late – the surprise was how long it had taken Algernon Drake to get his bottle up. Strong females made some men uncomfortable. Smart women didn’t advertise their superiority – there was nothing to be gained by making the darlings more insecure than they were already. Mustn’t do that. Yet, even the best of them didn’t realise how vulnerable, how easy to control, they were.
Females matured faster, lived longer and had more orgasms.
Who’d be a man?
She turned her mobile off. Screw Luke. If he could do a no-show, she could have an early night.
She paid the taxi and walked between the warehouses on Shad Thames that had stored tea, coffee and spices in another age. Nina had been here during the day, when Algernon Drake viewed the flat. Late at night was a different experience, like wandering into a Charles Dickens novel: the original brickwork, the winches and faded signs on the walls all still there, and, above her head, the walkways used to roll barrels between the stores criss-crossed the street.
The City of London was a mile north-west on the other side of the river, which meant many of the wealthy residents walked to work. Thieves with an office, Danny would’ve called them.
Paid-up members of the Lucky Bastards Club.
Algernon Drake would fit right in.
He was older than her by thirty years – a detail the barrister didn’t intend to let stand in his way. Grey and balding, tanned and brimming with confidence nurtured by a string of high-profile legal victories throughout his career, his phone numbers were on the contact lists of celebrities who considered the front pages of the tabloids their second home and politicians who’d prefer they weren’t. Seeing justice served had made Drake famous in the circles he moved in.
At their second meeting, his hand had brushed hers and he’d said, ‘I’m aware who your brother is.’
‘My brother?’
A smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. ‘Thus far, he hasn’t needed my talents, but you never know.’
It amused her to let him think he was clever. He knew who her brother was; he didn’t know her. Algernon Drake was only the latest entitled chauvinist to cross Nina’s path – tossers who believed any woman they wanted was theirs for the taking. A little bit of effort and the result was guaranteed. With some females, flattery and flowers were enough. Others placed a higher value on their dubious virtue. Of course, if the man was young and attractive it was easy to let nature take its course, though there were other things to consider here: Drake was neither young nor attractive and didn’t fit the bill. But he was ready to spend – her commission would run to six figures – for that kind of money, she was prepared to overlook his shortcomings and thinking about the Scot who had made her horny.
Drake had teased her. ‘Somebody recommended you.’
‘Really? Who?’
‘I’d rather not say.’
‘Who recommended me?’
‘Bill Sutherland. You sold him a house, remember?’
The boys had been talking.
Sutherland was an investment manager with Deutsche Bank in Great Winchester Street. Nina had had a short-lived affair with him – exactly ten torrid weeks – ending when she’d caught him in bed with two hookers. But not before he’d shelled-out six million for an eight-bedroom detached house on the edge of Kingston Hill, a minute from Richmond Park.
She’d made a mistake with Sutherland and let her guard down. If he hadn’t blown it, they might even have had something. Drake was different: an unsubtle predator, hot for her or anything in a skirt – all she had to do was reel him in.
They’d viewed one property after another. From the beginning it had been clear he was as interested in her as in anything they were seeing. Eventually, he’d settled on a fourth-floor flat in Butlers Wharf: 2,500 sq ft, with the most spectacular uninterrupted view of Tower Bridge, the River Thames and the City of London skyline – a snip at three and a half mil. In five years, it would be worth double. At the end, they’d shaken hands, him holding hers longer than he needed.
And Nina knew she had him where she wanted him.
He was holding two glasses of champagne, casually dressed in a fawn cashmere sweater, younger-looking without the pin-striped suit. She took a glass, thanked him and stepped inside, surprised to find the flat unfurnished apart from a sheepskin jacket draped over a wooden chair.
Sheepskin in this weather?
Drake closed the door behind her; she felt his warm breath on her neck. He whispered, ‘Thank you for coming,’ believing he was in charge, certain he was on a sure thing.
Making him wait was part of the pleasure, hearing him beg – and he would beg – part of the fun. She said, ‘When is your furniture arriving?’
The question caught him off guard. ‘Any day now.’
Out on the balcony, Nina was reminded why a simple warehouse conversion four miles from the West End was priced in the millions – the view was jaw-droppingly spectacular, a floodlit Tower Bridge a cascade of twinkling light across the water.
Algernon Drake drew her to him and kissed her hard on the mouth, smelling the strawberry and vanilla bass notes of her perfume, tasting champagne on her lips.
‘I’ve wanted you from the first time I saw you.’
Nina answered, her voice husky. ‘Are you used to getting what you want?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then, you’re a lucky boy, aren’t you?’
Their mouths locked again in a long kiss. Drake led her inside, deftly unbuttoning her skirt and the cuffs of her blouse before starting on the front. Her clothes fell away and he gasped: she wasn’t wearing underwear.
‘Christ. Bill said he couldn’t get enough of you.’
‘Bill was a fool. He blew it.’
‘The poor bastard still thinks about you – he admitted it.’
‘He was in love with me only he didn’t realise until it was too late.’
Drake threw the sheepskin on the floor, lifted Nina and lowered her onto it.
‘Were you in love with him?’
In the light her skin had the luminescent glow of ivory.
‘None of your business, Mr Drake.’
‘Algie.’
‘Algie.’
‘Can I take that as a no?’
‘Take it any way you like… Algie.’
Friday had been warm and sunny. The forecast for Saturday was more of the same, but as I got out of the car it started to rain. Not heavy, a freak shower, lasting just long enough to clean the air. I raised my head to the starless sky and closed my eyes. The drops were cool, an angel’s touch, washing layers of tension I hadn’t been aware of from me. Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped and I was alone on the street wondering if I’d imagined it.
There was a light in the window above the King of Mesopotamia. I let myself in and locked the door behind me. Sitting in the corner of the bar, hidden in the dark, two men I didn’t recognise watched me without curiosity, as if somebody creeping into a darkened pub in the middle of the night was the most natural thing in the world. Not long ago, I would’ve known everybody who worked for us. Not any more. When George Ritchie had taken over, he’d brought his own people, guys who were loyal to him, into the fold.
His call.
He heard my footsteps on the stairs and had the bottle and glasses ready. George was the most insular individual I’d ever met. He didn’t smoke, rarely drank
in company, and only spoke when there was something real to say. He could be friendly, funny, too, sometimes, although there was no escaping the suspicion he didn’t need you. How he lived – even where he lived – was a secret. I didn’t doubt it would be modest. The whisky gave a lie to all that: fifty-year-old Glenfiddich. I’d read whisky stopped maturing when it was bottled. On the desk was a fragment of time from half a century into the past.
He was pouring before I sat down and pushed mine across to me.
‘We need clear heads but a couple won’t do any harm.’
I thanked him and emptied it in one go. Ritchie didn’t comment – good decision.
‘Any word on Nina?’
His jaw worked and I knew he was trawling for positives and not finding any. He settled for the truth, or a version of it. ‘Nina’s—’
‘Headstrong? That what you were going to say? Reckless?’
‘A free spirit. She goes where she goes. Somebody remembered seeing her on her mobile on her way out the door. On her own. The barman confirmed it.’
‘On her own? So, she called somebody or somebody called her. The attackers might’ve lifted her – they could’ve, it’s possible – except, that’s an assumption. There’s no proof. She isn’t answering her phone. Got Stanford doing a trace.’
I checked the screen for a message from the policeman. Nothing. Which reminded me I hadn’t heard from him about the other two hits, either. Oliver Stanford was getting sloppy.
Ritchie said, ‘He’ll be wasting his time. I’ve tried her number a dozen times.’
‘Which means—’
‘It’s turned off. Can’t reach her until she turns it back on. That’s as much as we know, Luke.’
He was giving a masterclass on staying in the moment. Unfortunately, I wasn’t in a place where I could hear it. Anger and resentment burned in me. If Nina was fucking us about, I’d kill her myself.
He gave me a refill and turned the bottle round so I could read the label. ‘Fifty years old. Do it justice. Sip the bloody stuff.’
