Shredder (5 page)

After ten minutes or so the car was stopping and starting less, making fewer turns, and it had picked up speed. That suggested we were on a main road heading out of the city—from the regular thump of the tires one of those concrete roads with seams every hundred meters; soon that noise transitioned into a quiet smooth roar, and we picked up more speed. We were on a motorway, and it occurred to me that if I counted one beat a second I could maybe work out the distance between junctions…but then it might be twenty minutes to the next junction, and I didn't know if I could count that high. I decided to take a nap instead.

I was woken by a jolt, a speed bump or something. I'd been out for an hour or so, but I couldn't be sure. Since my last place had burned down with most of my belongings in it, I'd been using my phone for a watch, and that was gone now. But beyond the stale blanket and the smell of the leather seats I could now smell something else—freshly mown grass, and the faint whiff of cow dung. We were in the countryside, on a narrow twisting road that must have had a problem with speeding traffic, judging by the frequent speed bumps. The commuter belt around London?

Abruptly the car slowed again, swerved to the left and pulled up, the engine running. I heard a faint electronic tinkle and a distorted voice—an entry-phone. Then an electric whine and the metallic rattle of automated gates opening. The car moved forward, gravel crackling under the tires for thirty seconds, then a gentle turn to the right, and suddenly the sound of the engine was folding back on us, echoing off hard walls up close—we were in a garage. Two doors opened, the car eased up on its springs, and the lid of the trunk popped open. I looked up, only to be dazzled by a strip light on the ceiling high above, and two bulky silhouettes appeared, one from each side. On the right was McGovern Junior;
on the left, so massive he made Junior look like a flyweight, was Terry, the Guvnor's driver and minder. Last time we'd met had been at that bloodbath in Pimlico.

“Terry!” I flashed him a grin, absurdly relieved to see a familiar face. “Long time no see.”

I should have known better than to expect a response. Terry just stared down at me, huge and impassive as an Easter Island statue. Come to think of it, had I ever heard him talk? Maybe the Guvnor had had his tongue cut out.

Junior jerked his chin at the thin plastic bag lying crumpled behind me. “Put that back on.”

I obliged, then felt Terry's massive paw grasping my arm, and I scrambled to get out of the car on my own two feet in case Terry dropped me face-first onto the concrete floor. He kept one massive paw under my armpit as he hopped me, not especially gently, through a doorway along a hall with cream carpet underfoot—I could just see it under the rim of the bag. I hoped my shoes were clean. This was going to be a delicate enough interview without me trampling dogshit into the Guvnor's rug.

Through another door, and now I could smell a slightly acrid, old-fashioned tang—mothballs? Suddenly
Terry was walking me backwards, and I felt the backs of my legs hit a low couch. I sat, my hands by my sides, and felt the smooth shiny leather of a deep-buttoned cushion. A fist closed on my scalp—I grunted in pain—and the plastic bag was yanked off my head, taking some of my hair with it. I looked around, blinking.

“Christ, what a mess,” said Junior.

I rubbed my cheek and realized the trickle of blood from my temple had dried in a streak down the length of my face. Between that and the fading bruises it must have looked as if I'd been dragged behind the car rather than carried in the boot.

Junior clicked his fingers at Terry and held out his hand. Terry turned to him—was that a flash of irritation on his scarred face?—and looked blank. “Fetch him a hanky, or some tissues or something,” snapped Junior. Terry turned to a low wooden coffee table behind him, picked up a box of tissues and handed it to me. I pulled one out, spat on it and started to dab the dried blood off my face while I checked out the room.

I remembered the Guvnor's house up in North London. Modern, sleek, if a bit busy. This place looked like it had been furnished by his auntie—lots
of thick, expensive fabrics, heavy curtains and ornate old-fashioned chairs with curved, knobbly legs, all in fussy patterns that didn't quite match. Unlike the Guvnor's lounge, this room didn't center on a huge TV, but on a massive marble fireplace that looked old but wasn't, with an empty hearth concealed by a tapestry screen in a curly wrought-iron frame. The whiff of mothballs was getting right up my nose, but underneath that smell the air was stale anyway, as if the windows hadn't been opened for years. It was a hideout, I realized; a mansion owned by someone with too much money that had been sitting empty until the Guvnor had rented it under a fake name. Out here in the commuter belt, sandwiched between golf courses, big cars with tinted windows came and went all the time, high fences and electric gates were commonplace and no nosy neighbor would ever pop round to borrow a lawn mower or suggest a carshare for the school run.

“Finn Maguire, back again. You're worse than herpes, you are.”

The Guvnor had emerged from a door behind me, and his greeting sounded almost affectionate. He was casually dressed in chinos and a sweater, the only hint of gangster bling a chunky gold watch
on his wrist. Two men had followed him in, both in their thirties, muscular and grim; one had thinning red hair shaved close to his skull and a nose squashed flat against his broad pale face; the other was taller, tanned and windburned like a gardener, with greasy black hair and bulging eyes. McGovern didn't introduce either of them.

The Guvnor had lost a little weight; maybe Russian food didn't agree with him. He was slimmer than his son, but his blue-gray eyes were as piercing as ever, and he had lost none of the menace he radiated even when he smiled. Especially when he smiled. He was smiling now, extending his hand to shake. I stood and shook, and his grip was familiar—muscular and cool. But when he saw my face close-up his face darkened and he turned to Junior. It was the first time I'd seen Steve McGovern blink. He stood his ground, but I thought I saw the flicker of a sulky teenager expecting to get slapped, and when he spoke he sounded like one.

“He was like that when he turned up.”

“It's true,” I said. I glanced at the blood and spit mingled on the tissue in my hand. “This was the Turk. His minders, anyway.”

“You've met him?” McGovern grabbed a few
pistachios from a bowl on the table and sat down opposite me in a winged armchair. He looked relaxed and cheerful; not much like a gangster whose empire was under siege. His two companions remained standing, observing silently from a distance.

“Yeah,” I said, easing myself back onto the sofa. “I've met him.”

“Where are my manners? Steven, fetch Mr. Maguire here a drink.” Steve twitched; he didn't look happy about playing the servant.

“I'm fine,” I said. I wasn't thirsty, or hungry, I realized: I just wanted to deliver the Turk's message and get out of there. Only…how was I going to get out of there? I'd been so intent on finding the Guvnor I hadn't considered what might come after. His people had gone to a lot of trouble to keep me in the dark about where I was—if I played nice, would they drop me back where they'd found me?

“And?” said McGovern. I snapped back into the present.

“When I first met him he called himself Bruno,” I said. I told him the same story I'd told Amobi: how the Turk had grabbed my lawyer because she was about to blow a huge scam he'd set up at a City bank, and how I'd managed to find her. She'd left
the country and the Turk had come looking for me, but he'd left me alive so I could deliver his message. “Bruno's not his real name,” I said. “Nobody knows his real name. Everyone just calls him the Turk.”

“His real name's Rebaz Pirbal,” said the Guvnor, “and he's not a Turk.” He spat a pistachio shell onto the carpet. “He's a Kurd. From Western Anatolia.”

“Where's that?” interjected Junior.

McGovern didn't look round. “Who gives a damn?” he replied.

I said nothing, but sat there trying to take this in. I'd thought if Amobi and the NCA didn't have any details on the Turk, no one would; but I should have guessed McGovern had sources the cops didn't.

“His dad ran heroin into Germany all through the nineties, sent golden boy to a posh boarding school in Switzerland,” McGovern went on. “Old man died last year, and the son took over. He's trying to diversify, into girls and money laundering, and now he wants into the UK market, except he won't go through the proper channels.” By which he meant that the Turk should pay the Guvnor a percentage of his turnover, I guessed. “Fancies himself as the CEO of a multinational,” said McGovern, “when in fact he's a cocky little wog too stupid to know when he's
out of his depth.” He cracked another nut between his molars, picked it out of his mouth and pulled it apart, flicking shards of shell onto the floor. He must have seen the look on my face.

“What?” he said. “Don't like me calling him a ‘wog'? How about ‘darkie'? Didn't take you for one of those PC dickheads.”

“That's not it,” I said, although it was, partly. McGovern's casual bigotry was bad enough, but it struck me as stupid to judge the Turk by the shade of his skin. “The Turk—Pirbal, I mean—he's clever. He takes his time and he does his homework.”

“If he'd done his homework, he wouldn't be picking a fight with me,” said the Guvnor.

“What I mean is, when you think you've got him sussed, that you're one step ahead of him, he's already figured out all your options and which one you're going to choose.”

“Didn't stop you screwing up his City deal, did it? Or blowing a big hole in his white slave business,” said McGovern, with a hint of amusement in his voice. He had a point: I had already proved the Turk wasn't invincible. “So what's this message?”

“He wants a meeting,” I said. “With you.”

“Cheeky bollocks,” said McGovern. “As if I'd go
on a blind date with every bloody Arab who thinks he's a player. Did he say where?”

“No,” I said. “He gave me a number to call.”

McGovern considered a moment, then raised a hand and clicked his fingers. One of the silent observers—the redheaded guy with the flat nose—stepped forward, reaching into his pocket, and produced a slim, basic, old-fashioned phone with no touchscreen. A burner, I realized: a handset with no registered owner or address, disposable and untraceable. McGovern's team must have had crates of the bloody things.

“What's the number?”

I recited it from memory. I never have any problem keeping information like that in my head—it's getting it in there to start with that takes the effort. McGovern punched the numbers into the keypad with his thumb, put the phone to his ear, and we all waited.

“Pirbal, you prick,” he said. “I hear you want to talk.” He rose from his chair, listening intently, and strolled out of the room.

I sat there for a while. Nobody spoke. Between the immobile, impassive Terry, and McGovern's two
deputies, standing there with their arms folded, it was like after-hours at Madame Tussauds. Junior, clearly desperate to know what was going down, drifted towards the doorway his dad had disappeared through, but soon realized he wasn't going to overhear anything. He muttered a curse under his breath and looked at his watch as if wondering if he had time to go grab a sandwich. I reached for a handful of pistachios—with all the sweating I'd done I needed the salt—and the four men in the room all looked at me as if I was taking a dump on the rug.

“Chill,” I said. “I'll leave some for the boss.”

The door I had entered by opened again, but no one appeared at first. “This is my dad's meeting room,” said a small voice. “I'm not allowed in here when he has visitors.”

“You are with me,” I heard a gruff reply.

I'd recognized the boy before he even entered: Kelly, the Guvnor's youngest son, the six-year-old I'd dragged out of the family swimming pool back in the spring. Now when he looked around his big brown eyes widened in alarm at the sight of all the grim-faced grown-ups—he knew this was one of the times he wasn't supposed to be in here.

But the man whose hand he was holding didn't
want to retreat. He was a burly, white-haired bloke of sixty-something, in a pink shirt with a lot of buttons undone, gray chest hair poking through the gap like stuffing from a burst sofa, and buried in the gray a flash of gold. His hands were studded with jeweled rings, and when the old man grinned around the room, I thought I saw a diamond embedded in one of his front teeth.

Then little Kelly's look latched onto me, and he beamed and tugged at the old man's hand. “That's Finn!” he said. Caution forgotten, he ran across the room, and to my amazement threw his arms round my neck. I hesitated for a second, then wondered why I was hesitating, and hugged him back.

“Kelly, hey,” I said. “How are the swimming lessons going?”

“Kelly, buzz off, we're busy,” said Junior, before his little brother could reply. He threw an anxious glance at the old man, who I noticed now was staring hard at me. Aware of a sudden tension in the room, I peeled Kelly's arms from round my neck as gently as I could.

“Are you staying?” Kelly asked.

“I don't know,” I said. I checked the faces circling me for clues, but found none. “I don't think so. But
we'll talk soon, I promise.” At that moment McGovern reentered, the burner phone dead in his hand. Seeing the old man he grinned, but there was a hard cold edge to his smile. “Hey,” he said. “You need something?”

The old man shrugged, held out his hands in apology. “Kelly, he want to explore. We go,” he said. He beckoned to the little boy, who threw me another big smile and scampered off to take the old man's hand. The door clicked softly shut behind them, and Terry strode across to stand in front of it and prevent any more interruptions.