Bang: Memoirs of a Relationship Assassin (13 page)

Still, I had to be extra careful. What would happen if Larry found out I was getting his staff to do unpaid work for me? He’d give Barry a new arsehole. And Barry would give me five new arseholes. Even I’m not that full of shit.

Twenty minutes later, Q called me back. “I’ve got an approximate location for you. That mobile was last switched on at eighteen twenty-one hours in West London. The number’s logged at a mobile phone mast in WC1.”

West London! Sajjan wasn’t anywhere near Birmingham after all. He hadn’t even left town! I felt my pulse race. I was onto something. Telling Becky lies, are we? What the hell are you up to, behind her back?

“That’s incredible!” I told Q. “I can’t believe you managed to find that out so quickly. But I suppose it will take the full two days to track down his exact location?”

“Well, it depends how many phone masts are in his area. Every time you switch on a mobile phone, it pings all the local masts to determine which one’s the closest and which cell of the network the user is in. The masts all log the signal, so it’s just a matter of tracking down those logs and the signal timecode. Then I can triangulate a geographical position. The more masts there are, the more accurate the triangulation. There should be plenty of them in West London so we might be in luck.”

“Incredible,” I repeated, reeling him clean out of the water.

Bit later, Q called again. “I’ve narrowed the location down to an area about fifteen metres square. That’s as accurate a fix as I can get. I can email you a grid reference if you like.”

“That’s great!” I sounded over the moon. No acting required. Q had surpassed my expectations. But it wasn’t over yet. If I just said cheers mate and hung up, I knew that Q’s geeky-nerd superbrain would start ticking over, wondering if he’d just been duped. He might report it to Larry and turn me into Arsehole Boy. I had to derail that train of thought before it even left the station.

So I gave him some flannel about how I wanted to set up a technical support group between agencies, with Global Investigations taking the lead. Sharing best practice, raising standards for the whole industry, teaching geeks to be more geeky. Q agreed it sounded like a good idea, something he’d raise with his boss. I knew he’d say it was his idea though, and that suited me fine.

And that’s how I left Q, pleased as punch at having broken the law to help a guy he hardly knew.

Now for Sajjan. The cheating little bastard.

The email from Q included an image taken from a streetmap website. Slap in the middle was an orange circle, overlapping the West End, not far from Chinatown. The orange circle was my target sight, and I peered at the map as if looking down the scope of a rifle. Somewhere in that area was Sajjan, lurking in London when he should have been in Birmingham…

Somewhere, but where? Okay, so he’d switched on his mobile in that neck of the woods within the last hour, but where was he now?

I knew that part of town well. In fact I’d been there only the evening before, with Becky. So many options, especially on a Saturday night. He could be knocking back the pints in any of the dozen bars in that area. He could be doing a bit of late-night shopping in Oxford Street. He could be taking in a movie at Leicester Square. He could be stocking up his porn collection from the basement shops on Brewer Street. He could be wolfing down the noodles in a Chinatown restaurant. He could –

And it was then I realised that the Glasshouse restaurant was in the middle of my target sight.

The same place as last night. Where a strange man had taken a great interest in the Hargreaves case. Where Jake’s bike had been swiped from under my nose. The very same place that the fiancé of my target could now be found, despite claiming to be elsewhere. The exact same place, twenty-four hours later.

Coincidence? My arse.

I had my jacket on and was out the door before I’d even thought about it. Jumped on a tube and roared into the West End, pacing round and round the carriage. I wasn’t thinking really. Just feeling like I had to get there. Had to get back to the scene of the crime.

I ran all the way from Charing Cross tube, knocking aside tourists and theatre-goers and backpackers. There was the Glasshouse, people queuing to get in. I ducked into the alley that ran alongside, slowing to catch my breath.

Dark and grimy, bins and broken crates piled up against the walls, the metal door of the Glasshouse’s fire exit… just being in that place again made me want to punch something. In my head, I could still see my motorbike – Jake’s motorbike – chained up to the broken street-lamp right there. Right there. Right in front of me. That empty space right there.

Time to –

My mobile bleeped. A text message.

Hey easy rider!! Hope

you’re getting done

what u have 2. Get

your ass back here

soon as u can! Xxx

Funny. Every text message I’d ever had from Becky, even the very first one, ended with Xxx. Like a signature. Like a ritual. I’ve noticed how much women love rituals. Oh, just a silly little thing that the two of us do, we’ve always done it! They also love coming up with pet names for their blokes as quickly as possible. Becky had tried out half a dozen for me but hadn’t decided which one to stick with yet.

Hey pervert! Ok ill

try. U b good, if u

can! I no its hard!

Xxx

Right. On with the show.

My fist hammered on the metal door. “Open up!”
I bellowed.
Bam bam bam!
The noise echoed off the alley walls. “Police! Open the door!”

The door squealed open and there were two white-shirted chefs staring at me, with the entire kitchen behind them gaping. I didn’t give anyone time to think. My wallet was out, flipped back and forth between their faces. “CID! Detective Sergeant Jack Carter! Following up on last night’s incident, let me through please!”

They stepped aside and in I went.

As I strode through the kitchens, I passed some familiar faces from last night who clearly recognised me as well. It was that recognition that allowed me to pull this off. Remember what I was saying about becoming a familiar face rather than being ‘the other’? Only last night they’d seen me chasing a man through their kitchens, establishing my credentials by coming back in and shouting about being with the CID. Now I was back. That’s all it took. A cheap trick really, but it usually worked, especially if you did it quickly and didn’t give people time to think. Sleight of mind.

This was a fast mask, not a detailed one, no time for anything fancy. Just had to hope nobody remembered Jack Carter from The Sweeney… Denis Waterman was dead by now, wasn’t he? But I still had to play the role. I put on a professional scowl as I walked through the kitchens and into the restaurant. Police detective at work. Stand aside. Nothing to see here.

Everything seemed just as it did last night. Tables full of people eating and drinking. Waiters gliding back and forth. Music and chatter. The scent of food reminded me I hadn’t eaten a thing all day. Should have scoffed a few of Becky’s Jaffa Cakes while I had the chance. I slowed but kept walking, like I was just making my way back to my table. My eyes flickered in every direction. Target sights. Looking to focus on a familiar blonde man. That bastard had to be in here somewhere…

My phone went off again. I snatched it out of my jacket pocket, irritated.

Being good sucks! &

so do I! ; -) So get ur

platforms movin disco

boy & get back soon

Xxx

‘Disco boy’. She knew my tastes already.

I flung the phone back in my pocket, annoyed. For Christ’s sake, Becky, leave me alone! I’m trying to find out what your fiancé is up to! I’m doing this for you!

…Aren’t I?

People circled round me as I stood there, wondering: Am I really doing this for Becky? No, it’s got nothing to do with her. With the Hargreaves case, that is. Nothing to do with anything except getting Jake’s bike back and stopping that bottle from messing up my face. That’s what I’m here for, I reminded myself. Who cares what Becky’s fiancé’s up to? Nothing to do with me!

I didn’t really know quite what was going on, to be honest. Hadn’t stopped to think. It just seemed that all roads led to the Glasshouse. I had to find some answers there.

Just as I was starting to feel like a bit of a nob for being there, I caught sight of a familiar face, half-hidden behind a large hardback novel.

That’s my detective!

I edged closer. It was definitely him, the same black guy in his forties who had tailed me last night. The Londonwide Associates operative. And I suddenly remembered – the Glasshouse restaurant had been suggested to me by Londonwide Associates in the first place, as a location to snap pictures of me and Becky. This place was their choice.

History was repeating. Their detective was sat at the same table, reading the same book. He didn’t notice me. It wasn’t me in front of his lens this evening.

So who
was?

My eyes darted left and right and suddenly landed on another familiar face. Sajjan. There he was, forking chocolate cheesecake into his mouth. He looked just the same as the photo on Becky’s dresser table: oval glasses, thinning hair, smooth face, wide friendly smile aimed at the woman sitting opposite. A slim, blonde woman with her back to me. As I watched, she held out a spoonful of ice cream and slid it delicately into Sajjan’s smiling, smiling mouth. Laughing as he swallowed and smiled smiled smiled.

So my detective was filming Sajjan! But… Sajjan and Becky couldn’t
both
be the target in this case, could they? And who was this woman he was having dinner with?

Her deep laughter drifted across the restaurant.

Suddenly my knees went weak. Seriously, I felt my legs go watery, like I’d just had a heart murmur or something. I staggered, holding out a hand to support myself. It plunged straight into some poor bloke’s spaghetti bolognese. I backed off, taking a dripping handful of meat and pasta with me. Can’t remember if the bloke said anything or not. He might even have just tutted and kept on eating. All I could hear was that throaty, confident laugh.

I walked to Sajjan’s table, staring down at the girl as if she’d just flung her clothes off and had next week’s winning lottery numbers tattooed across her tits.

It was her.

It was only
her
.

Sajjan was chatting away (something about a lecturer at Imperial College doing something funny, haha) and only noticed me when she looked up over his shoulder. She met my eyes with her own. Gorgeous, dark eyes.

“Hello,” said Barry’s niece.

“What the hell are you doing!” Nearby tables looked up in shock at my voice.

She dabbed her lips with her napkin. Perfect, red lips. Without taking my eyes off her I pointed a finger at Sajjan, spattering him with bolognese sauce. “What the hell are you doing with
him?!”

“Everything all right, sir?” enquired a waitress, edging up to me.

“Fuck off!” I shouted, making her edge away again.

“Um, now look…” started Sajjan, but his date was quicker. She got up from the table, smiling reassuringly at both him and the waitress.

“It’s all right, don’t worry,” she said loudly. “It’s just a patient I used to know.”

I gaped. “What!”

“It’s good to see you again,” she said to me, still smiling, “but I’ve told you before about bothering people in public, haven’t I? Come on, let’s go for a walk.”

I snatched my arm away from her, giving the waitress a bolognese makeover. “Like hell! What are you up to with – ”

But suddenly she pinched my left wrist and did something that sent a sharp bolt of pain through me. No time to even yelp before she twisted my whole arm up my back. It was absolute agony, making me suddenly breathless, as she pushed me towards the door to the toilets. “Won’t be long!” she called back to Sajjan.

It took me so much by surprise that we were out of the main restaurant and in the quiet back corridor before I tried struggling. But I couldn’t. She had my arm completely pinned up my back, and as hard as I tried to yank it out of her grip or spin round, I just couldn’t budge, only stagger forwards. I couldn’t move!

“Not to worry, everyone!” she said sweetly, as we crashed through the double doors to the kitchens. “Just taking an old patient of mine outside for a bit of fresh air! Sorry about this!”

I saw all the chefs and waiters stare at me yet again. Her prisoner. This was suddenly all going so wrong. I struggled again. “Get this woman off me! I’m Detective Sergeant Carter with the CID!”

“Oh, is that who you are this week?” she said. “A policeman! How lovely for you.”

And straight away, I was the madman.

The kitchen staff gaped at me like I’d just gobbed in a wok. Their amazed looks spoke volumes. How could they ever have believed me! Detective Sergeant, bollocks! I’d tricked them into letting me into the restaurant. And now here I was being escorted off the premises by a confident young woman who was obviously in complete control.

Oh, how I love an audience.

I couldn’t believe the strength with which she propelled me through the kitchen. It felt like a twenty-stone bouncer had me in his grip, not some girl a full head shorter than me. One of the chefs kindly held open the fire escape door. She shoved me out into the alleyway and started marching me towards the main road.

“Get off me!” I wailed.

“Okay,” she said. And suddenly I was free.

I almost fell over, span round, rubbed my aching wrist. She just stood there with her hands on her hips. And then she smiled. White teeth in the shadows.

“Nice to see you again, Scott.”

She knew me!

“Now listen.” She sounded calm and reasonable. “I’m going to go back inside now and finish dinner. So I’d appreciate it if you’d just go home, and – ”

“For Christ’s sake!” I exploded. “What’s going on here! What the hell is this, what are you doing messing with my case!”