by Owen Mullen
Nina couldn’t remember when she’d last spent a Saturday at home but felt better for it; she’d been running on empty. Luke didn’t appreciate how difficult managing Glass Houses during the day and being at LBC at night was. He soon would, because she was done with it. The club was his dream, not hers. She’d tried to get him to settle for what they had. He wouldn’t. He’d wanted distance from Danny and all he’d stood for; she didn’t blame him for that. At the end of the day that was what she was doing with Glass Houses. The difference was, she was happy with what she had now. Luke wanted more. Much more.
Tomorrow, Peter Conrad, an American working for a New York bank, was viewing two properties. After a succession of cordial emails between them, she’d narrowed the search to a six-bedroom house off Belgrave Square and an apartment at Cambridge Gate, opposite Regent’s Park.
Conrad had no interest in living in London; this was an investment, pure and simple. He’d booked a junior suite at Claridge’s and would probably be there now.
Thinking about the money she was about to make mellowed Nina. She got onto the circular bed, propped herself against the satin pillows and opened her computer.
The email had been sent some time during the night. It was unsigned and offered no explanation, and read as if it had been written in haste by a stranger.
My plans have changed. I have to cancel.
Nina had just lost commission on a ten-million-pound sale.
Mark Douglas had thirty-odd hours to get through before the tour flew to Europe and he could wash his hands of Vicky Messina; he wouldn’t be sorry. Some stars were spoiled brats, indulged by managers and record companies making a ton of money off them. Most were just people constantly being judged and scrutinised. Occasionally, it got too much and they snapped. That didn’t apply to Vicky Messina – she’d been a bitch from day one and she was still a bitch. Tonight was her last show in London. Tomorrow, his counterpart in Berlin could carry the weight.
He was stepping into the shower when his mobile rang. Caller ID told him who was on the line and he steadied himself before answering.
Luke Glass didn’t bother with pleasantries. He said, ‘We need to talk.’
‘Okay.’
‘I mean, we need to talk now.’
‘I’m available tomorrow from around lunchtime. We could—’
Glass cut across him. ‘Too late, it has to be sooner.’
‘If you’re in a hurry I can give you my opinion of where your security’s weak over the phone.’
‘Not what I want.’
‘Then, what?’
‘Meet me at the club in sixty minutes.’
Nina stared at the screen, unable to take it in. Sometimes clients bought, sometimes they didn’t – and sometimes they’d never intended to. Conrad had been a serious prospect – she’d met enough of the other kind to know the difference – very specific about what he was looking for and why. She’d Googled him: the banker was married with three kids and lived in Manhattan when he wasn’t at their home in Sag Harbor on Long Island. On his wife’s Twitter page he was craggy and tanned, playing with his children on the lawn with the sea in the background at the foot of their property; carving the turkey at Thanksgiving; or dressed to the nines at a Republican fundraiser in the Algonquin Hotel near Times Square, his arm round her, both of them smiling perfect white-teeth smiles that had cost more than most folk spent on a car.
The images told a story: the Conrads were people with a place in the world. Calling off so abruptly seemed out of character. And the tone of the email was different from the dozen that had passed between them.
Nina dialled the number. A well-modulated voice said, ‘Claridge’s, good morning. How can I help you?’
She took a deep breath and kept her anxiety under control. ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Conrad, please.’
The receptionist had the information to hand. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Conrad decided to return to New York. He checked out an hour ago.’
Mark Douglas towelled his wet hair and studied his face in the mirror. Last night had been another late one – Tramp was almost closing when they left. Vicky had been a ball of touchy-feely energy, friendly, almost likeable, and he’d known she was on E. She’d insisted they drive around looking for somewhere that was open, throwing a strop when, eventually, he’d ordered them back to The Dorchester and handed responsibility over to her own men. Douglas heard she’d called Room Service for buttermilk pancakes with chocolate fudge sauce, a pint of freshly squeezed orange juice and four bottles of Tuborg Booster Strong, and realised he’d been wrong – she was on more than just ecstasy. As a vanilla dawn had broken over Hyde Park, he’d pulled his car into a deserted Park Lane and headed for home. Four hours later, Luke Glass caught up with him.
He was a man in a hurry and it was easy to understand why. Friday night had been a disaster for him and he needed somebody to pull his nuts out of the fire. The attack was brutal and would’ve been worse if Douglas hadn’t come across it when he had: professionals did what they were paid to do and no more. The dead woman wasn’t in anybody’s plan. Slitting her throat was the hallmark of someone who enjoyed his work.
Mark Douglas was aware of the Glass family before he arrived in the capital. The brothers were well-known underworld figures, the kings of south London. Luke had taken over after Danny dropped out of sight; reports of him in Marbella had never been verified by the Spanish police – and if that was where he’d gone, he was still keeping his head down.
Tonight was the final night with Messina, the last time he’d have to put up with the arrogance, the mood swings, and the sulking when she didn’t get her own way. He pulled on a fresh white shirt and buttoned it. The Sig Sauer .22 pistol – illegal as hell; owning one put you in line for a lengthy prison sentence – stayed in the drawer beside the bed. He’d need it. But not today. The meeting at LBC would be more than just a meeting. Glass would have questions. Douglas was sure he had the answers.
Vincent Finnegan was in pain. Sitting too long in one position stiffened his joints – he wasn’t cut out for surveillance. In his darker moments, he wondered what the hell he was cut out for.
Three years earlier, when he’d bumped into Luke Glass in the Admiral Collingwood pub, Finnegan had been less than pleased to see Danny’s younger brother. The Irishman, once a dandified enforcer known as much for his good looks as his ruthlessness, was eking out his disability allowance, barely taking care of himself. Luke had given him a job, more for old times’ sake than anything else, and for the first time in a very long while he had a place in the world and money in his pocket. What a difference that made. He shaved every day and put on a clean shirt. There wasn’t a woman in the picture. Probably never would be. Though if he got lucky, would he remember what to do with her?
For him to be even considering a relationship was a miracle. He’d been in the wilderness. Luke had led him back into the fold. Luke Glass was a gentleman.
The guy in the driver’s seat hadn’t had much to say for himself; they’d run out of conversation when the sky was still dark. All right with Vincent. Quiet was what he was used to, what he preferred to the mindless chatter everywhere.
Across the road, nothing stirred. Nina had spent the night at home – alone, as far as he knew. Around one o’clock, the light had gone out behind the heavy curtain. Finnegan checked his watch: 8.40 a.m. She’d be in bed asleep. Unusual for Nina, the original wild child and a gawky teenager when he’d worked for Danny. Well, she wasn’t a gawky anything now. Just the opposite, in fact.
If he’d been twenty years younger… Better make that thirty.
The notion brought a rueful smile. Sometimes he forgot how broken Danny had left him, imagining himself the way he’d been, crippled and riddled with arthritis, rather than how he was now. George Ritchie had called three times during the night. The man must have vampire blood in his veins; he never seemed to sleep. Luke obviously trusted him but Finnegan hadn’t made his mind up. Ritchie was a man of few words on a good d
ay. Their conversation had been notable for its brevity.
Ritchie: ‘Anything?’
Him: ‘No.’
It was going off all over the place. In another life he would’ve been in the thick of it but Luke wanted an eye kept on his sister, and that was good enough for Vinnie.
13
On the far side of LBC, a woman in a blue overall pushed a floor polisher across the black and white Italian marble tiles that had cost a small fortune, while two more busied themselves with the studded leather upholstery and mirrors. I didn’t know their names and assumed they didn’t know me. Though, how was that possible? In the last six months, I’d spent more time here than at my flat. The idea of running a club had come to me in the middle of a sleepless night and I’d launched into it without realising how much I was taking on. George Ritchie had tried to convince me we didn’t need the hassle. I hadn’t listened because the upsides seemed too great to turn down. Now I was discovering what he’d meant and why I was waiting on Mark Douglas to arrive.
Douglas wasn’t how I remembered him: he was about my height, younger by a few years, and self-contained in a way I hadn’t noticed in the wee hours of Saturday morning, when he’d broken up the assassins’ party, killed one and sent the others back to the rock they’d crawled out from under.
Douglas was wearing a dark-blue suit, a white shirt open at the neck, and a pair of Tokyo Black Square sunglasses. Wisely, when he saw me, he pushed them up into his hair. Talking to people when I couldn’t see their eyes was a thing with me – the windows of the soul and all that – I couldn’t read them and that made me uncomfortable. Douglas was a good-looking guy, intelligent and alert even before he spoke. His Glaswegian accent had been finessed, the harsh rolling Rs softened, the consonants intentionally clipped, I guessed, to make himself understood. If something went down with one of his ‘A’ list clients, the last thing he needed was a failure in communication.
We shook hands and sat down. His grip was firm and dry; he didn’t crush my fingers to prove he was tough: a good start. My offer of coffee was politely turned down as he sat, ready to hear what I had to say.
‘First off, for what you did on Friday night, thanks.’
His reply was modest. ‘You’re welcome. They were up for it, all right. No knowing how far they’d have gone. It was lucky I came on them when I did.’
I’d had the same thought. It was impossible to tell what atrocity had been avoided and Douglas deserved more than a pat on the back. I said, ‘Let’s not waste each other’s time. I’m asking myself why a smart guy throws paraffin on a promising career and puts a match to it.’
The question was intended to catch him off guard – the force of his reply surprised me.
‘None of your fucking business, Mr Glass.’
‘If you don’t want to talk about yourself, then why are you here?’
His jawline stiffened; he raised his chin and his eyes locked on mine. ‘I’m not prepared to discuss my life with you or anybody else. Your security’s a mess. I assumed you’d want advice on how to sort it.’
‘You think that’s what I need?’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘I told you that on the phone.’
He was a polished performer who handled himself well – now and two nights ago in the lane. My interest was in what lay under the surface. We stared at each other while he processed my silence and I could almost see the wheels turning in his brain.
After forty seconds, he said, ‘You’re… offering me a job?’
‘That depends on your answer to the first question.’
His shoulders relaxed. He flashed a glance round the empty club and across at the cleaners, making certain he wouldn’t be overheard before he responded.
‘You’ve done your homework?’
‘Would you expect anything less?’
‘No. Okay. I’ll tell you what I’m going to tell you. Whether it’s enough is your decision, but it’s all you’re getting.’
‘Fair play, let’s hear it.’
‘My parents were killed in a car crash when I was young. I was brought up by my father’s elder brother, who’d been a policeman in Glasgow. No big star, just a copper on the beat. Joining the force was to repay him for what they’d done for me. They were my family. I owed them. Maybe you can’t understand that?’
He thought he was telling his story. In fact, he was telling mine.
‘My uncle said the day I put on the uniform was the proudest of his life.’
‘Touching. What went wrong?’
Douglas made a face. ‘Nothing went wrong. Police Scotland snapped me up. Because I had a degree, I was a candidate for the fast-track programme. People imagine it’s a cushy number. It isn’t. You have to be twice as good as everybody else and still aren’t accepted by the other guys.’ He played with his fingers and allowed himself a half-smile. ‘Unfortunately for my critics I was good at the job.’
‘Tommy Walsh.’
Mark Douglas looked at me with new respect. ‘You have done your homework.’
‘I always do.’
‘Not long after that somebody presented me with an opportunity.’
‘What about your uncle? If you got caught it would break his heart.’
‘He’d died. So had my aunt.’
‘Clearing the way for you to go over to the dark side.’
It was a joke; he didn’t laugh, and I regretted saying it.
‘I wasn’t blind. I saw what was going on around me. If it wasn’t me, it would’ve been somebody else.’
‘And then you got found out.’
He sighed, though not with regret. ‘And then I got found out, yes.’
My next question was obvious. ‘They didn’t prosecute. Why not?’
‘And take the chance I’d blow the lid off the whole thing? No, we parted company on equal terms. I kept my mouth shut and my record stayed clean.’
The bitterness in his laugh might not be deserved; nevertheless, it was there.
‘After that, what did you do?’
‘Became a cliché: got drunk for a while, sobered up and came south. It’s what people from that part of the world do. We’re famous for it.’
It was time to give Mark Douglas a history lesson. ‘When my brother was running things, we found out we had a mole, a sergeant in the Met. Danny lured him to Fulton Street – know where that is?’
‘No.’
‘Believe me, you don’t want to find out. He tied the guy to a pillar and made holes in him with an electric drill. Lots of holes. It was like a slaughterhouse, blood everywhere. Except, that isn’t how it finished. Turned out it was the wrong guy.’
‘Am I supposed to be scared?’
He was good, I’d give him that. I said, ‘You’re plausible. Maybe too plausible, haven’t made up my mind yet. Somebody who works for me believes even talking to you is a mistake. To his way of thinking, Friday night was too much of a coincidence and he’s wary. I’m still not sure he’s wrong. But here’s the thing: if you’re an undercover cop on a mission to infiltrate my organisation, then this is your moment of truth. You can walk out of here, go back to your masters and tell them you failed. No hard feelings. It takes a brave man or a very stupid one to try something like that. But step beyond this point and you won’t be as lucky as you were in Glasgow. The river police will fish your body out of the Thames, minus the hands and the head. A friend of mine up in Walthamstow has a scrapyard; he’ll toss them in the boot of an old Ford Taurus that’s had a run-in with a brick wall and say no more about it. Next time I bump into him, I’ll buy him a pint.’
I studied his face for a flicker of fear and found none.
‘Does that mean I’ve passed the audition?’
‘You’re in until you’re out is what it means.’
‘And what exactly will I be doing?’
‘George Ritchie handles everything on the streets south of the river. You’ll be responsible for the top end – Glass Houses, Nina’s real-estate company; t
he construction company – still small, but growing; and the club.’
‘Sounds like a tall order.’
It certainly was and why we’d got our security wrong.
I chose my words carefully. ‘You’re not foolish enough to believe Friday was about lifting a night’s takings. The businesses I mentioned are clearing houses for cash that can’t be easily explained. Ours and our associates’.’
‘Nice.’
‘But the people I’m referring to are demanding. And dangerous.’
Douglas was getting the picture and realising he was in a position of strength. I expected him to haggle. Instead, he said, ‘I trust your homework involved calculating what it would take to get me on board?’
That didn’t deserve an answer. Of course, it had.
He laid down a condition. ‘I’d want to bring in my own people.’
His handsome features tightened. I understood why Glasgow had brushed him under the carpet and made a mental note never to play poker with him. He said, ‘Don’t tell me horror stories about electric drills and expect me to work with what I’ve seen so far. I’ll be bringing in my own men.’
George Ritchie had made the same point.
‘How many?’
Douglas thought about it. ‘Two. Three at the most. I’ll vouch for them.’
Before I could speak, he cut me off.
‘It’s a deal breaker, Mr Glass. The stakes are too high – for you and for me.’
‘Are they police?’
‘Not any more.’
‘When can they get here?’
‘A couple of days. We’ll do a security audit and I guarantee you’re not going to like it.’
‘I’ll like it if it works.’
