To Kill For (8 page)

Bowker came into my thoughts. If Paget had sent Glazer and this Derek bloke to Ponders End, did that mean Bowker had grassed me up after all? I doubted it. It didn't much matter now anyway. It probably only meant that Paget was being extra careful. I cursed my stupidity for the hundredth time.

I considered going back to Bowker and squeezing him again, but that seemed pointless. If he had half a brain, he'd make himself scarce, at least until there was a last man standing. Then he'd come out and try to make peace with whichever one of us was left.

There was a buzzing noise and it took me a second to realize it was a mobile phone, switched to vibrate. It wasn't my phone. I looked around me. The only other people in the cafe were the waitress, who was leaning over the counter wiping up grease, and a heavy Turkish man sitting in the corner reading a paper, who, I supposed, was the owner. Neither of them seemed to have heard the phone.

Then I remembered. When Derek had tried to make a run for it with that hole in his back, I'd taken his phone away from him. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled it out. It vibrated in my hand. I flipped it open and saw the number of the person calling. I made a note of the number. Finally, the buzzing stopped and the screen told me that someone had left a message. I tried to access the message, but the phone was protected by a PIN. All I had, then, was the phone number of someone trying to reach Derek. It was a landline, and a London code. It might have been Paget, or Glazer. It wasn't the same number as Bowker had used to contact Paget, but that meant nothing.

I was running short of ideas. I needed something from King, but had to wait for that. Frustration was building inside me. I found myself clenching and opening my fists, an old habit from my fight days. I drank the coffee and ordered another. I wanted to put some caffeine into my system, get it moving a bit.

With my own phone, I dialled the number. After one ring, a woman's voice said, ‘Hello?'

‘Is Derek there?'

‘No.' There was a pause. ‘Who's calling?' she said, trying to keep her voice level.

‘I work with Derek.'

‘Has something happened?'

‘Why would you think that?'

‘He was supposed to be home last night.'

There it was. Home.

‘He had a job,' I said.

‘I know he did. He told me he'd be an hour. Where is he? Why don't you people know where he is?'

You people.

‘There was some confusion,' I said. ‘Did he tell you what the job was?'

‘What do you mean? Is this about Elena?'

The way she was talking, the answers she gave me – it was off somehow. Who was Elena? And why was this woman bringing her into it?

‘I'm worried about him,' I said.

‘Oh, no.'

‘Can I come round and speak to you?'

‘Come round?'

‘It's important.'

‘He's hurt, isn't he?'

‘I don't know. Let me come round and talk to you.'

‘I don't understand. Why?'

‘Something Derek was mixed up in. Something to do with Glazer.'

‘Who?'

She didn't know Glazer. Tina had told me Derek and Glazer were friends. I said, ‘I'm pressed for time. I think Derek's fine, but I need to find him. You can help me. Can I come round?'

‘Alright. Fine.'

‘What's your address?'

There was a long pause now, and I knew I'd lost her. She said, ‘Surely you know my address.'

As I was trying to think of a reply, the line went dead.

They were waiting for me, spread around like chess pieces, one in the kitchen, in case I came in through the back door, two in the hallway. They watched me as I went past. There was no tension in them, no hands in pockets, so I knew they weren't here for a grab.

Browne was in the living room, sitting in his chair, staring at the floor. He looked moody. Eddie was opposite him, drinking tea from a mug, as if we were all in Eddie's house and he was tolerating us.

He put down his mug of tea and smiled.

‘Vic would like a word,' he said.

‘Is this an order?'

‘Relax, Joe, will you. It's a request. Vic's not your enemy.'

‘He's not my friend.'

‘Who is?'

So, off we went, off to see King Vic.

I'd never met him, but I'd heard of him. Who hadn't? I didn't like organized crime, didn't want to be part of any pack, always waiting for some other pack to come along and try to take over. Dunham had held onto power better than most, and a lot of that was down to Eddie.

Dunham owned a club and casino in the West End. The place wasn't quite in Soho, the women weren't quite naked. It was a huge place, and dark, all deep red and black, with mirrors and chrome. The casino was upstairs. The punters were toffs, footballers, Far-Eastern businessmen, Middle-Eastern embassy types, that sort of thing. They'd come in and watch the birds for a while and get pissed on free booze and then wander upstairs to the casino where they'd blow their dosh on long shots. The women were there to make sure the men knew how to get to the tables. They'd gasp and giggle and rub themselves against the men's bodies, and the men, pissed and lording it up, would blow even more dosh even more stupidly. It made a lot of money, that place.

There was a back street entrance, but we went in through the front, through the shining black granite foyer and into the club. I was getting five star treatment. They were after something.

It was too early for the main action. Or too late. One or two of the girls were sitting at tables, flicking through magazines and eating breakfast. As we went past one table, a slim blonde looked up and caught Eddie's eye and smiled at him. She looked at me and the smile soured. She looked back at her magazine. Eddie laughed and looked over his shoulder.

‘You got a way with the birds, Joe.'

One of the men behind me laughed.

When we got to the office door, Eddie opened it without knocking. I followed him and kicked the door closed behind me.

Dunham was behind a large mahogany desk. He was a small man, considering his reputation. He had bulk, though, for his size, a kind of bulldog body, with a thick neck and thick strong torso. He was Irish by birth, but that was way back and he'd lost his accent and spoke now like an East Ender. He was trying to become English landed gentry if his office was anything to go by. Lots of oak and bronze racing horses and hunting prints, that sort of thing. Maybe in a few years he'd talk plummy and forget Ireland ever existed.

There were a few family photos around. There was one of a young woman, thin and pale and attractive in a posh English way. She wasn't smiling, though, and that made her look cold and somehow different, apart, as if she wasn't the same as the rest of us.

There was a picture of a young girl, ten or so, who must've been Dunham's daughter. There was another picture of Eddie in a large country garden, swinging the girl around, both of them laughing. It was odd that there were no pictures of Dunham with his daughter, or his wife, for that matter. It was like Dunham had given Eddie the role of father to his child. I looked at that picture. Eddie looked at me looking, and looked away.

Eddie walked over to a leather sofa that ran along one side of the room. He sat and watched me. Dunham watched me. I felt like I was being sized up, like I was a prize stallion Dunham was thinking of buying. I was getting tired of it, but they were up to something and I wanted to know what it was. After a while, Dunham smiled. It wasn't what they call a genuine smile. I didn't think he was capable of a genuine smile. He was trying, I suppose, and that tipped me off more than anything.

‘You want a drink or something?' he said.

‘No.'

He helped himself to a large glass of eighteen-year-old Jameson.

‘I've heard a lot about you,' he said. ‘You were a fighter once, right? Eddie here tells me you were good. That Marriot business was quite something. You were a one-man army. Tore up half of London. Well, Marriot was out to get you, can't blame you for treading on the cunt. Took us a bit of sorting out to do with the filth, though.'

‘I didn't ask you to do that.'

‘You were part of a fucking armed robbery, boy. You killed Marriot. In front of a dozen witnesses, for fuck's sake. You should be thanking me.'

I waited for him to say something worthwhile. Eddie was looking at the floor. I had the feeling I was here against his wishes.

‘What do you think of all this shit?' Dunham said.

‘What shit are you talking about?'

‘With the Albanians. Them running round tryna take over our fucking turf. What do you think of all that?'

‘I don't think of it.'

‘You should. You're in this mess much as anyone. They might come for you.'

‘I'll sort myself out.'

‘You sure? From what I hear they almost wiped you and Cole out.'

I shrugged, but he was right. They'd been after Cole for the money he owed them and they'd caught us with our backs against the wall. We smoked a few and they scarpered. For a while, though, it had been a close thing.

Dunham took a sip of his Jameson's. He stood up, walked around his desk and sat on the edge of it, one leg planted, one dangling. It was an act. He glanced at Eddie.

‘Cole seems to have decided to keep the million quid he owes the Albanians,' Eddie said.

I don't know what they expected me to do about that. I wasn't going to go out with a begging bowl.

‘He's going all out for Paget and fucking us up,' Dunham said.

‘How?'

‘We had an agreement, me and Cole. We sort the Albanians first, together. Now Cole's getting distracted by this Paget shit. He's making it personal.'

‘From what I hear on the news, the Albanians aren't a problem.'

‘Don't you believe it. We've got word they're regrouping. We've got to sort them out before that happens.'

I nodded. It was all bollocks. I said, ‘I don't tell Cole what to do.'

‘No. But you could try and persuade him.'

‘He wouldn't listen to me.'

Dunham glanced at Eddie. There was something there, in that look, that told me I wasn't playing the part I was supposed to. It was an irritated look, but hidden, as much as a man like Dunham can hide irritation.

He stood, returned to his seat, rested his arms on his desk, swirled his drink and looked up at me. He'd decided to give it one more try, like a salesman with a difficult customer. That's what this was, a sales pitch.

‘Cole's stupid,' Dunham said. ‘He's descended from Germans, you know. Immigrants. Changed the spelling of their name. You know what Cole means in German? Cabbage. He's a fucking vegetable. He won't give up what he's got now in favour of a long-term advantage. He owes the Albanians that money for the junk. If he paid them off, they'd shut up for a bit, but Cole's got this bee up his arse. He's a Neanderthal.'

‘What are you?'

He leaned forward.

‘I'm God, as far as you're concerned.'

Eddie piped up.

‘What we're saying, Joe, is that Cole won't give the Albanians their money until he's got his heroin back. We have to get the Albanians to calm down. If they got their money back, they'd shut up for a while and then we can hit them when they're not ready.'

It was a reason, just not a good one. I hadn't heard anything about Albanians running round London gunning people. At least, not since they came after Cole that time when I got in the way. But that was old news.

I said, ‘You want me to help find Paget and get the heroin back to Cole.'

‘We'll sort Paget out,' Dunham said.

‘I want Paget for myself.'

Dunham shook his head a little.

‘I heard you were a smart man,' he said. ‘Lot of people think you're just a mug, brains bashed to shit, but Eddie told me you had something up there. He told me you were a pro, not some cunt who acts from his emotions. You get hold of Paget, you'll wipe him out. Tell us where he is, leave the rest to us.'

Eddie said, ‘You could help us out, Joe. Any ideas where Paget is?'

‘No.'

Dunham nodded slowly, and kept his eyes on me and let me know he didn't believe me. He wanted to know what I knew. I didn't want him to know that, but I also didn't want him to know that I didn't want him to know. In the end, I shrugged and said, ‘I'm working on a couple of things. Give me time.'

Dunham leaned back in his seat and studied me.

‘Time we don't have. Tell us what you got.'

They were trying too hard to sound casual about wanting to know if I knew where Paget was. They had contacts all over the place and I was pretty sure they had a man in Cole's firm. Dunham might have been tipped off that me and Cole had traced Paget to Loughton.

All that didn't matter so much, though. What mattered to me was why they were so anxious to get to Paget, and why they wanted me and Cole out of the way, chasing fucking Albanians.

‘We thought we were onto something,' I said. ‘We found that Paget was staying at his ex-girlfriend's place in Essex. But he's gone from there. I've asked around, but so far nothing.'

‘This ex-girlfriend doesn't know anything?'

‘No.'

Dunham took another sip of his Irish and nodded slowly. He glanced at Eddie. Eddie said, ‘Well, if you get anything, tell us first, alright?'

‘Yeah.'

King lived in a thirties semi a few blocks from Oakwood tube. It was the kind of house a bank manager might have. Maybe that was why he liked it. He wanted to be a regular bloke – decent car, nice street, plump wife, kids, the works. All nice and cosy and a long way from robbing jewellery stores and security vans.

The curtains were drawn. I knocked. One of the curtains twitched. Right then I knew something was wrong. I'd left my Makarov in the car, and I'd left the car a block up. I backed up a pace. The door swung open and King stood there in jeans and vest. He gripped a .38 revolver. When he saw me he relaxed and I saw the muscles around his neck ease. He kept a tight hold of the gun, though. He said, ‘It's you.'