Cold Killers (3 page)

‘Señor Francisco, thank you so much for coming.’

‘Not at all, Mr Butcher. It is my pleasure,’ the Spaniard answered Tony while staring at Tony’s bare feet and his scratched legs.

‘Marco?’ Tony said, by way of greeting the tall, ashen-haired man whose body proportions were all wrong, massive shovel-like hands, and a neck that was too spindly-looking to support
such a big head. He had been working for Tony for the last six months. He was fast becoming indispensable: a feeder for Tony’s ambitions. No job was too dirty or too outrageous. No limits or
boundaries that they couldn’t cross over together.

‘Drink, Señor Francisco?’ Tony asked.

‘We’ll go into my study,’ Tony said to Marco, who nodded his understanding.

‘Just some water, please.’

They walked towards the trophy room but turned left and entered an office, which was made to be as close to the Don’s office from the
Godfather
films as possible. Some of the props
had been obtained straight from the set. Besides Tony’s oversized desk, set at an angle in the corner opposite the door, there was another, smaller desk, a drinks trolley, cabinets and
bookcases, a leather sofa and two armchairs. The second door in the Don’s office, behind Tony’s desk, led down to the basement of the villa.

Tony closed the door behind them and poured some water from a decanter and passed it to Francisco. Beads of sweat had begun to appear on Francisco’s top lip and forehead.

‘How can I help, Mr Butcher?’ Francisco asked, sipping on the water and looking uneasy. ‘This is about your brother’s estate, I believe.’

Tony went behind his desk and sat down.

‘I have to be honest with you, Señor Francisco.’ Tony pointed to a seat and Francisco reluctantly accepted. Marco stayed where he was, standing between Francisco and the door.
‘I have asked you here for two reasons. One is my brother’s will and the other is a more delicate matter.’ Tony rested his forearms on the desk and breathed deeply as he smiled at
Francisco.

‘You work for the Mendez cartel, don’t you?’

Francisco shook his head. Shocked, flustered, he turned to look for help Marco’s way. Marco smirked.

‘I don’t know that name, I’m sorry. I am a lawyer.’

‘You are also a bookkeeper for the Mendez cartel, here in Spain.’

‘There must be some mistake.’ He grinned nervously, looking for assistance again, but getting none.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Tony. ‘We pay into accounts at the banks here. Accounts ending in 563, 908 and 300. We pay in, you launder for the Mendez cartel, is that
right?’

‘Absolutely not. I am a legitimate member of the legal profession. I have all sorts of clients. I cannot be sure what you’re asking me.’

‘I’m asking you where my money has gone for the latest shipment. We paid it in. Isn’t that so, Marco?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Now, it has disappeared and we are in deep trouble, through no fault of our own.’ Tony sat back and watched Francisco’s panic level rise.

‘Señor Butcher, I cannot help you with this.’ Francisco’s eyes were looking for a way out of the room that didn’t involve getting past Marco. ‘I would like
to go now.’

Tony lifted his hands from the desk, palms open.

‘No, no. Please sit back down.’ Marco laid a hand on Francisco’s shoulder. ‘I apologise, unreservedly. My mistake.’ Tony smiled. ‘No hard feelings.
Lo
siento, señor,
I was only joking,
hombre
.’ He laughed and Marco chuckled. Francisco tried to join them but nothing came out of his mouth. He took a sip of water and sat
nervously.

‘I didn’t bring you here for that. Your firm has been dealing with my brother Eddie’s will?’

‘Yes, he left me with that honour, and please accept my sincere condolences for your loss. Your brother was a great man.’

‘He was an idiot.’

Marco giggled.

‘Sorry. Pardon, Mr Butcher.’

‘He was not right in the head when he made his will. I want you to look into my brother’s estate again; I have drawn up a new will. I will make sure everything’s fair and
you’ll get a million euros for your trouble. I want you to sign over every asset he has to me.’

‘A new will?’

‘Correct. He made a new will, who knew?’ Tony picked up a bunch of papers from the top of his desk and fluttered them in the air. ‘I just need you to sign it off.’

‘With all due respect, Señor Butcher, that is not something I can do. There are procedures to follow. The will we made for Eddie is a legal document.’

‘And we are going to make another legal document right here.’

‘I cannot do that.’

‘Okay, all right, I understand your reluctance.’ Tony stood, smiled. ‘Marco, we will show Señor Francisco out and, at the same time, show him what we found to help him
understand how important this is to me. It is just a small thing I think we should bring to his attention.’

‘This way,’ Marco said as he waited for Francisco to get to his feet and then he ushered him forwards, towards the door behind Tony’s desk. Tony led the way down a narrow
passageway and to a flight of stairs and down into the garage beneath the house. As they walked through the forecourt, Francisco tried to make conversation: ‘You have many cars, Señor
Butcher?’

Tony didn’t reply as he speeded up, weaving through the covered luxury cars, until he stopped at the back of the garage, at the control room.

He nodded to Marco who unlocked the door and stood back to show Francisco what was inside. A small girl was sitting on the floor, tied by her neck to a gas cylinder.

Francisco lunged forward with a scream of anguish.

‘No, not my daughter!’

‘Eddie was found dumped in a car park in Old Street,’ Robbo said, ‘at five in the morning on November the 6th. He’d been dead for between two and three
hours. He was last seen by his brother Harold at ten the morning before. In his statement he says they had breakfast together in the Baramba Café on Shoreditch High Street. After that, at
ten minutes past ten, they separated. We know he didn’t drive anywhere because his hire car was still in the car park.’

Robbo stood in front of the timeline.

‘How did Harold seem when you interviewed him?’ Robbo asked Willis.

‘Tired, hard-faced, a man used to flicking a switch. He said Eddie left him to go and see a client.’

‘Even if you’re late building someone’s extension, you don’t expect to get tortured and executed,’ said Robbo.

‘I suppose we have to remember what kind of clientele he builds them for,’ Carter said. He took a sip of his coffee. ‘He builds villas for Mafia bosses, drug barons, wealthy
villains.’

‘And, for huge money,’ added Pam, ‘although, according to his tax returns in the last two years, he’s not earning the money he was.’ She continued scrolling through
data on her screen.

‘What, millions instead of billions?’ Robbo asked as he took his bag of Haribo sweets away from Willis, whose hand was wedged inside it. Willis and Robbo shared an addiction to
sugar.

‘Eight years ago his property company was worth three million, but it registered a loss last year. I’ve got a list of all the projects he’s been working on,’ said Pam.
‘Not one of these villas is worth less than five million quid. And that’s a cheapy. The outlay on them must be massive and, from the look of his books, he doesn’t get a
deposit,’ added Pam. ‘This is all done on trust. It’s easy to go wrong.’

‘It’s also easy to hide a lot of expenses,’ said Robbo. ‘These are going to be people who turn up to buy a house with cash in suitcases.’

‘We took a statement from his general manager, Billy Manson, two weeks ago,’ said Willis. ‘He said that business was as good as it had ever been, just that getting money from
rich people was tricky sometimes and that they had always to pay for materials up front. Sometimes there was a lean period.’

‘That’s a lesson on how to become rich,’ said Robbo. ‘Hang on to every penny.’ He slid his chair along the length of his desk to reach his cup of coffee. ‘Or,
alternatively, steal diamonds and then buy a business building villas for other people who steal diamonds, sell drugs, traffic people, et cetera, et cetera.’

‘Presumably,’ said Pam, ‘Eddie’s supplying legitimate products to fit out these villas, and they come from legit companies with bookkeepers and accountants to answer to.
And, when you’re putting in such high specs I guess it’s possible to lose a lot of money very quickly. I mean a few solid platinum baths go missing and you’re down a few hundred
thousand.’

‘Does Manson check out?’ asked Carter, addressing Willis while keeping one eye on his screen.

‘There is nothing on him,’ answered Willis. ‘He’s worked for Paradise Villas for the last fifteen years, since it started. He seems to have got on well with Eddie.
There’s nothing written down to the contrary. He seemed really upset about Eddie’s death. It was hard to get him to compose himself.’

‘Eddie had made more visits to the UK in the last two months than he’d made in the previous two years. Did Manson have an answer for that?’

Willis shook her head. ‘He said it could have been something to do with the family; it wasn’t to do with work. Work was going well.’

A figure passed by the window overlooking the corridor outside Robbo’s office and Chief Inspector Bowie walked in. He was not usually immaculate, but today his suit had been carefully
chosen. Today he knew he would be under scrutiny. Carter was the SIO but he had the look on his face of a man beginning to feel the pressure. He would be the one to face the press. He had allowed
the funeral of a notorious gangster to go ahead. The press were after some answers and he agreed to be interviewed on the evening news and explain what happened at the funeral.

‘You better prepare me a statement to give to the hyenas,’ he said. ‘Did we get what we wanted?’ he asked as Willis offered him a seat. He declined it. He was looking at
Carter for an answer.

‘It’s too early to have a full list of people of interest yet, sir,’ answered Carter. ‘But I am confident it will all have been worth it, despite the scuffles at the
end.’

‘What was the reason for all that?’

‘We think it was a revenge attack. The gang situation in this area is worrying. Eddie’s death has spurred a whole lot of activity that we didn’t expect.’

‘Did the UCs come up with anything? I haven’t seen such a gathering of old-time crooks since Reggie Kray’s funeral.’

‘Exactly!’ Carter smiled ruefully. ‘We’ve got plenty of undercover officers out working the pubs and clubs in the East End tonight, sir. I have a useful informant
who’s right in the middle of the local scene in Bethnal Green. I’m going to catch up with him in the next twenty-four hours and I’m pretty sure he’ll have something for
us.’

Bowie nodded thoughtfully and cleared his throat. It was a nervous habit that worsened when he was under pressure, as if something were slowly choking him. His long thin neck didn’t fill
out his collars or his shoulders his jackets. It seemed like only fabric kept him standing. He’d lost a lot of weight in the last year. Carter and Bowie had known one another since they had
joined the force. Bowie wasn’t liked by most of the officers who served under him. He had a reputation for setting others up to take the blame for his own mistakes. Carter was the only one
who ever agreed to have a social drink with Bowie.

‘Tonight should be a good night for picking up information in the pubs around the East End. We’re confident, sir.’

‘Good,’ Bowie said, looking across at the timeline on the board behind Robbo’s desk. ‘We can’t afford a blood bath on the UK streets. We don’t want a drugs
war played out over here. Whatever it is that Eddie got himself mixed up in we need to know fast. Are we watching who goes to the wake this evening?’

‘Yes, it’s covered,’ answered Carter.

‘I thought you were supposed to be on holiday this week.’ Bowie frowned at Carter.

‘Yeah, I was.’

Tony and Marco watched as Tony’s wife, Debbie, cleaned and tidied the trophy room around them. The house was full of tension. The maids were whispering. There had been
tears. A local girl, who normally worked in the kitchen, and had been called in to lend a hand in the bedrooms, had been assaulted by Marco. Now, Debbie was trying to keep a lid on things and
contain the damage. None of the servants wanted to come near either of the men.

Marco was sitting, stripped to the waist, on the sofa. His skin glistened across his toned chest and ripped abdominals. He had black chest hair in two tufts over his pink nipples. One of his
nipples was pierced with a ring. He was as nervous as a fly, he smelled of stale sweat. His over-large features were ill-matched and his eyes as close as a gorilla’s, his brows fair and
Neanderthal-heavy. His teeth were large and even but yellowed at the gum. His skin had the look of cottage cheese. His back bore the scars of a flogging. The deep, open wounds had never been
stitched together and remained as grooves in his pockmarked skin. The scars were old but they still caused him pain – he felt them tug and pull. As a thirteen-year-old he’d been caught
with his pants down, and in the middle of raping one of the servant girls, Marco had been whipped by his father so badly that he’d lost consciousness and been woken by his father urinating on
him. He had crawled away to lie on his bed and fester. He often reflected that it had made a man of him, but what kind of man?

Debbie was watching them from the far side of the room as she picked fluff from the antelope hide over the back of one of the sofas. Tony followed Marco’s gaze, and saw that he was
watching her. The room was growing dark now, the evening descending fast. Marco grinned at her. She turned and walked out, muttering as she went.

‘Your woman doesn’t like me.’ Marco laughed.

Tony was chewing the inside of his cheek as he shook his head, distracted. He tapped away at the cocaine, hunched over the table.

‘She’ll get used to you. She’ll have to, won’t she? She thinks we’re a bad influence on one another; she doesn’t see the genius like I do. She also thinks you
had something to do with Eddie’s death,’ he said, as he glanced across at Marco.