It was just before eleven when Makeev drew up before Michael Aroun’s apartment in the Avenue Victor Hugo. His chauffeur drew in beside the kerb and as he switched off the engine, the door opened and Dillon climbed into the rear seat.
‘You’d better not be wearing designer shoes,’ he said. ‘Slush everywhere.’
He smiled and Makeev reached over to close the partition. ‘You seem in good form considering the situation.’
‘And why shouldn’t I be? I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t told Aroun about the Audin woman.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Good.’ Dillon smiled. ‘I wouldn’t like anything to spoil things. Now let’s go and see him.’
Rashid opened the door to them. A maid took their coats. Aroun was waiting in the magnificent drawing room.
‘Valenton, Mr Dillon. A considerable disappointment.’
Dillon said, ‘Nothing’s ever perfect in this life, you should know that. I promised you an alternative target and I intend to go for it.’
‘The British Prime Minister?’ Rashid asked.
‘That’s right.’ Dillon nodded. ‘I’m leaving for London later today. I thought we’d have a chat before I go.’
Rashid glanced at Aroun who said, ‘Of course, Mr Dillon. Now how can we help you?’
‘First, I’m going to need operating money again. Thirty thousand dollars. I want you to arrange that from someone in London. Cash, naturally. Colonel Makeev can finalise details.’
‘No problem,’ Aroun said.
‘Secondly, there’s the question of how I get the hell out of England after the successful conclusion of the venture.’
‘You sound full of confidence, Mr Dillon,’ Rashid told him.
‘Well, you have to travel hopefully, son,’ Dillon said. ‘The thing with any major hit, as I’ve discovered during the years, is not so much achieving it as moving on with a whole skin afterwards. I mean, if I get the British Prime Minister for you, the major problem for me is getting out of England and that’s where you come in, Mr Aroun.’
The maid entered with coffee on a tray. Aroun waited while she laid the cups out on a table and poured. As she withdrew he said, ‘Please explain.’
‘One of my minor talents is flying. I share that with you, I understand. According to an old Paris Match article I was reading, you bought an estate in Normandy called Château St Denis about twenty miles south of Cherbourg on the coast?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘The article mentioned how much you loved the place, how remote and unspoiled it was. A time capsule from the eighteenth century.’
‘Exactly what are we getting at here, Mr Dillon?’ Rashid demanded.
‘It also said it had its own landing strip and that it wasn’t unknown for Mr Aroun to fly down there from Paris when he feels like it, piloting his own plane.’
‘Quite true,’ Aroun said.
‘Good. This is how it will go then. When I’m close to, how shall we put it, the final end of things, I’ll let you know. You’ll fly down to this St Denis place. I’ll fly out from England and join you there after the job is done. You can arrange my onwards transportation.’
‘But how?’ Rashid demanded. ‘Where will you find a plane?’
‘Plenty of flying clubs, old son, and planes to hire. I’ll simply fly off the map. Disappear, put it any way you like. As a pilot yourself you must know that one of the biggest headaches the authorities have is the vast amount of uncontrolled air space. Once I land at St Denis, you can torch the bloody thing up.’ He looked from Rashid to Aroun. ‘Are we agreed?’
It was Aroun who said, ‘Absolutely, and if there is anything else we can do.’
‘Makeev will let you know. I’ll be going now.’ Dillon turned to the door.
Outside, he stood on the pavement beside Makeev’s car, the snow falling lightly. ‘That’s it then. We shan’t be seeing each other, not for a while anyway.’
Makeev passed him an envelope. ‘Tania’s home address and telephone number.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I couldn’t get her earlier this morning. I left a message to say I wanted to speak to her at noon.’
‘Fine,’ Dillon said. ‘I’ll speak to you from St Malo before I get the hydrofoil for Jersey, just to make sure everything is all right.’
‘I’ll drop you off,’ Makeev told him.
‘No thanks. I feel like the exercise.’ Dillon held out his hand. ‘To our next merry meeting.’
‘Good luck, Sean.’
Dillon smiled. ‘Oh, you always need that as well,’ and he turned and walked away.
Makeev spoke to Tania on the scrambler at noon. ‘I have a friend calling to see you,’ he said. ‘Possibly late this evening. The one we’ve spoken of.’
‘I’ll take care of him, Colonel.’
‘You’ve never handled a more important business transaction,’ he said, ‘believe me. He’ll need alternative accommodation, by the way. Make it convenient to your own place.’
‘Of course.’
‘And I want you to put a trace out on this man.’
He gave her Danny Fahy’s details. When he was finished, she said, ‘There should be no problem. Anything else?’
‘Yes, he likes Walthers. Take care, my dear, I’ll be in touch.’
When Mary Tanner went into the suite at the Ritz, Ferguson was having afternoon tea by the window.
‘Ah, there you are,’ he said. ‘Wondered what was keeping you. We’ve got to get moving.’
‘To where?’ she demanded.
‘Back to London.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Not me, Brigadier, I’m staying.’
‘Staying?’ he said.
‘For the funeral at Château Vercors at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. After all, he’s going to do what you want him to. Don’t we owe him some support?’
Ferguson put up a hand defensively. ‘All right, you’ve made your point. However, I need to go back to London now. You can stay if you want and follow tomorrow afternoon. I’ll arrange for the Lear jet to pick you up, both of you. Will that suffice?’
‘I don’t see why not.’ She smiled brightly and reached for the teapot. ‘Another cup, Brigadier?’
Sean Dillon caught the express to Rennes and changed trains for St Malo at three o’clock. There wasn’t much tourist traffic, the wrong time of the year for that and the atrocious weather all over Europe had killed whatever there was. There couldn’t have been more than twenty passengers on the hydrofoil to Jersey. He disembarked in St Helier just before six o’clock on the Albert Quay and caught a cab to the airport.
He knew he was in trouble before he arrived, for the closer they got, the thicker the fog was. It was an old story in Jersey, but not the end of the world. He confirmed that both evening flights to London were cancelled, went out of the airport building, caught another taxi and told the driver to take him to a convenient hotel.
It was thirty minutes later that he phoned Makeev in Paris. ‘Sorry I didn’t have a chance to phone from St Malo. The train was late. I might have missed the hydrofoil. Did you contact Novikova?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Makeev told him. ‘Everything is in order. Looking forward to meeting you. Where are you?’
‘A place called Hotel L’Horizon in Jersey. There was fog at the airport. I’m hoping to get out in the morning.’
‘I’m sure you will. Stay in touch.’
‘I’ll do that.’
Dillon put down the phone, then he put on his jacket and went downstairs to the bar. He’d heard somewhere that the hotel’s grill was a quite exceptional restaurant. After a while he was approached by a handsome, energetic Italian who introduced himself as the head waiter, Augusto. Dillon took a menu from him gratefully, ordered a bottle of Krug and relaxed.
It was at roughly the same time that the doorbell sounded at Brosnan’s apartment on the Quai de Montebello. When he opened the door, a large glass of Scotch in one hand, Mary Tanner stood there.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘This is unexpected.’
She took the glass of Scotch and emptied it into the potted plant that stood by the door. ‘That won’t do you any good at all.’
‘If you say so. What do you want?’
‘I thought you’d be alone. I didn’t think that was a good idea. Ferguson spoke to you before he left?’
‘Yes, he said you were staying over. Suggested we followed him tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Yes, well that doesn’t take care of tonight. I expect you haven’t eaten a thing all day so I suggest we go out for a meal and don’t start saying no.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Captain.’ He saluted.
‘Don’t fool around. There must be somewhere close by that you like.’
‘There is indeed. Let me get a coat and I’ll be right with you.’
It was a typical little side-street bistro, simple and unpretentious, booths to give privacy and cooking smells from the kitchen that were out of this world. Brosnan ordered champagne.
‘Krug?’ she said when the bottle came.
‘They know me here.’
‘Always champagne with you?’
‘I was shot in the stomach years ago. It gave me problems. The doctors said no spirits under any circumstances, no red wine. Champagne was okay. Did you notice the name of this place?’
‘La Belle Aurore.’
‘Same as the café in Casablanca. Humphrey Bogart? Ingrid Bergman?’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s looking at you, kid.’
They sat there in companionable silence for a while and then she said, ‘Can we talk business?’
‘Why not? What do you have in mind?’
‘What happens next? I mean, Dillon just fades into the woodwork, you said that yourself. How on earth do you hope to find him?’
‘One weakness,’ Brosnan said. ‘He won’t go near any IRA contacts for fear of betrayal. That leaves him with only one choice. The usual one he makes. The underworld. Anything he needs, weaponry, explosives, even physical help, he’ll go to the obvious place and you know where that is?’
‘The East End of London?’
‘Yes, just about as romantic as Little Italy in New York or the Bronx. The Kray brothers, the nearest thing England ever had to cinema gangsters, the Richardson gang. Do you know much about the East End?’
‘I thought all that was history.’
‘Not at all. A lot of the big men, the governors as they call them, have gone legitimate to a certain degree, but all the old-fashioned crimes, hold-ups, banks, security vans, are committed by roughly the same group. All family men, who just look upon it as business, but they’ll shoot you if you get in the way.’
‘How nice.’
‘Everyone knows who they are, including the police. It’s in that fraternity Dillon will look for help.’
‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘But that must be rather a close-knit community.’
‘You’re absolutely right, but as it happens, I’ve got what you might call the entrée.’
‘And how on earth do you have that?’
He poured her another glass of champagne. ‘Back in Viet Nam in nineteen sixty-eight, during my wild and foolish youth, I was a paratrooper, Airborne Rangers. I formed part of a Special Forces detachment to operate in Cambodia, entirely illegally, I might add. It was recruited from all branches of the services. People with specialist qualifications. We even had a few Marines and that’s how I met Harry Flood.’
‘Harry Flood?’ she said and frowned. ‘For some reason, that name’s familiar.’
‘Could be. I’ll explain. Harry’s the same age as me. Born in Brooklyn. His mother died when he was born. He grew up with his father who died when Harry was eighteen. He joined the Marines for something to do, went to Nam which is where I met him.’ He laughed. ‘I’ll never forget the first time. Up to our necks in a stinking swamp in the Mekong Delta.’
‘He sounds quite interesting.’
‘Oh, that and more. Silver Star, Navy Cross. In sixty-nine when I was getting out, Harry still had a year of his enlistment to do. They posted him to London. Embassy Guard duty. He was a sergeant then and that’s when it happened.’
‘What did?’
‘He met a girl at the old Lyceum Ballroom one night, a girl called Jean Dark. Just a nice, pretty twenty-year-old in a cotton frock only there was one difference. The Dark family were gangsters, what they call in the East End real villains. Her old man had his own little empire down by the river, was in his own way as famous as the Kray brothers. He died later that year.’
‘What happened?’ She was totally fascinated.
‘Jean’s mother tried to take over. Ma Dark everyone called her. There were differences. Rival gangs. That sort of thing. Harry and Jean got married, he took his papers in London, stayed on and just got sucked in. Sorted the rivals out and so on.’
‘You mean he became a gangster?’
‘Not to put too fine a point on it, yes, but more than that, much more. He became one of the biggest governors in the East End of London.’
‘My God, now I remember. He has all those casinos. He’s the man doing all that riverside development on the Thames.’
‘That’s right. Jean died of cancer about five or six years ago. Her mother died ages before that. He just carried on.’
‘Is he British now?’
‘No, never gave up his American nationality. The authorities could never toss him out because he has no criminal record. Never served a single day in gaol.’
‘And he’s still a gangster?’
‘That depends on your definition of the term. There’s plenty he got away with, or his people did, in the old days. What you might call old-fashioned crime.’
‘Oh, you mean nothing nasty like drugs or prostitution? Just armed robbery, protection, that sort of thing?’
‘Don’t be bitter. He has the casinos, business interests in electronics and property development. He owns half of Wapping. Nearly all the river frontage. He’s extremely legitimate.’
‘And still a gangster?’
‘Let’s say, he’s still the governor to a lot of East Enders. The Yank, that’s what they call him. You’ll like him.’
‘Will I?’ She looked surprised. ‘And when are we going to meet?’
‘As soon as I can arrange it. Anything that moves in the East End and Harry or his people know about it. If anyone can help me catch Sean Dillon, he can.’ The waiter appeared and placed bowls of French onion soup before them. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now let’s eat, I’m starving.’
Harry Flood crouched in one corner of the pit, arms folded to conserve his body heat. He was naked to the waist, barefooted, clad only in a pair of camouflage pants. The pit was only a few feet square and rain poured down relentlessly through the bamboo grid high above his head. Sometimes the Viet Cong would peer down at him, visitors being shown the Yankee dog who squatted in his own foulness although he’d long since grown used to the stench.
It seemed as if he’d been there for ever and time no longer had any meaning. He had never felt such total despair. It was raining faster now, pouring over the edge of the pit in a kind of waterfall, the water rising rapidly. He was on his feet and yet suddenly it was up to his chest and he was struggling. It poured over his head relentlessly and he no longer had a footing and struggled and kicked to keep afloat, fighting for breath, clawing at the side of the pit. Suddenly a hand grabbed his, a strong hand, and it pulled him up through the water and he started to breathe again.
He came awake with a start and sat upright. He’d had that dream for years on and off, ever since Viet Nam and that was a hell of a long time ago. It usually ended with him drowning. The hand pulling him out was something new.
He reached for his watch. It was almost ten. He always had a nap early evening before visiting one of the clubs later, but this time he’d overslept. He put his watch on, hurried into the bathroom, and had a quick shower. There was grey in his black hair now, he noticed that as he shaved.
‘Comes to us all, Harry,’ he said softly and smiled.
In fact he smiled most of the time, although anyone who observed closely would have noticed a certain world-weariness to it. The smile of a man who had found life on the whole, disappointing. He was handsome enough in a rather hard way, muscular with good shoulders. In fact not bad for forty-six which he usually told himself at least once a day if only for encouragement. He dressed in a black silk shirt buttoned at the neck without a tie and a loose-fitting Armani suit in dark brown raw silk. He checked his appearance in the mirror.
‘Here we go again, baby,’ he said and went out.
His apartment was enormous, part of a warehouse development on Cable Wharf. The brick walls of the sitting room were painted white, the wooden floor lacquered, Indian rugs scattered everywhere. Comfortable sofas, a bar, bottles of every conceivable kind ranged behind. Only for guests. He never drank alcohol. There was a large desk in front of the rear wall and the wall itself was lined with books.
He opened French windows and went onto the balcony overlooking the river. It was very cold. Tower Bridge was to his right, the Tower of London just beyond it, floodlit. A ship passed down from the Pool of London in front of him, its lights clear in the darkness so that he could see crew members working on deck. It always gave him a lift and he took a great lungful of that cold air.
The door opened at the far end of the sitting room and Mordecai Fletcher came in. He was six feet tall with iron-grey hair and a clipped moustache and wore a well-cut, double-breasted blazer and a Guards tie. The edge was rather taken off his conventional appearance by the scar tissue round the eyes and the flattened nose that had been broken more than once.
‘You’re up,’ he said flatly.
‘Isn’t that what it looks like?’ Flood asked.
Mordecai had been his strong right arm for the best part of fifteen years, a useful heavy-weight boxer who’d had the sense to get out of the ring before his brains were scrambled. He went behind the bar, poured a Perrier water, added ice and lemon and brought it over.
Flood took it without thanking him. ‘God, how I love this old river. Anything come up?’
‘Your accountant called. Some papers to sign on that market development. I told him to leave them till the morning.’
‘Was that all?’
‘Maurice was on the phone from the Embassy. He says Jack Harvey was in for a bite to eat with that bitch of a niece of his.’
‘Myra?’ Flood nodded. ‘Anything happen?’
‘Maurice said Harvey asked if you’d be in later. Said he’d come back and have a go at the tables.’ He hesitated. ‘You know what the bastard’s after, Harry, and you’ve been avoiding him.’
‘We aren’t selling, Mordecai, and we certainly aren’t going into partnership. Jack Harvey’s the worst hood in the East End. He makes the Kray brothers look like kindergarten stuff.’
‘I thought that was you, Harry.’
‘I never did drugs, Mordecai, didn’t run girls, you know that. Okay, I was a right villain for a few years, we both were.’ He walked into the sitting room to the desk and picked up the photo in its silver frame that always stood there. ‘When Jean was dying, for all those lousy months.’ He shook his head. ‘Nothing seemed important and you know the promise she made me give her towards the end. To get out.’
Mordecai closed the window. ‘I know, Harry. She was a woman and a half, Jean.’
‘That’s why I made us legitimate, and wasn’t I right? You know what the firm’s net worth is? Nearly fifty million. Fifty million.’ He grinned. ‘So let Jack Harvey and others like him keep dirtying their hands if they want.’
‘Yes, but to most people in the East End you’re still the governor, Harry, you’re still the Yank.’
‘I’m not complaining.’ Flood opened a cupboard and took out a dark overcoat. ‘There’s times when it helps a deal along, I know that. Now let’s get moving. Who’s driving tonight?’
‘Charlie Salter.’
‘Good.’
Mordecai hesitated. ‘Shall I carry a shooter, Harry?’
‘For God’s sake, Mordecai, we’re legit now, I keep telling you.’
‘But Jack Harvey isn’t, that’s the trouble.’
‘Leave Jack Harvey to me.’
They went down in the old original freight elevator to the warehouse where the black Mercedes saloon waited, Charlie Salter leaning against it reading a paper, a small, wiry man in a grey chauffeur’s uniform. He folded the paper quickly and got the rear door open.
‘Where to, Harry?’
‘The Embassy and drive carefully. A lot of frost around tonight and I’ll have the paper.’
Salter got behind the wheel and Mordecai got in beside him and reached for the electronic door control. The warehouse doors opened and they turned on to the wharf. Flood opened the paper, leaned back and started catching up on how the Gulf War was progressing.
The Embassy club was only half a mile away, just off Wapping High Street. It had only been open six months, another of Harry Flood’s developments of old warehouse property. The car park was up a side street at the rear and was already quite full. There was an old negro in charge who sat in a small hut.
‘Kept your place free, Mr Flood,’ he said, coming out.
Flood got out of the car with Mordecai and took out his wallet as Salter went off to park. He extracted a five-pound note and gave it to the old man. ‘Don’t go crazy, Freddy.’
‘With this?’ The old man smiled. ‘Wouldn’t even buy me a woman at the back of the pub these days. Inflation’s a terrible thing, Mr Flood.’
Flood and Mordecai were laughing as they went up the side street and Salter caught up with them as they turned the corner and reached the entrance. Inside it was warm and luxurious, black and white tiles on the floor, oak panelling, oil paintings. As the cloakroom girl took their coats, a small man in evening dress hurried to meet them. His accent was unmistakably French.
‘Ah, Mr Flood, a great pleasure. Will you be dining?’
‘I should think so, Maurice. We’ll just have a look round first. Any sign of Harvey?’
‘Not yet.’
They went down the steps into the main dining room. The club atmosphere continued, panelled walls, paintings, table booths with leather seats. The place was almost full, waiters working busily. A trio played on a small dais in one corner and there was a dance floor, though not large.
Maurice threaded his way through the tables by the floor and opened a door in quilted leather that led to the casino part of the premises. It was just as crowded in there people jostling each other at the roulette wheel, the chairs occupied at most of the tables.
‘We losing much?’ Flood asked Maurice.
‘Swings and roundabouts, Mr Flood. It all balances out as usual.’
‘Plenty of punters, anyway.’
‘And not an Arab in sight,’ Mordecai said.
‘They’re keeping their heads down,’ Maurice told him, ‘what with the Gulf business.’
‘Wouldn’t you?’ Flood grinned. ‘Come on, let’s go and eat.’
He had his own booth in a corner to one side of the band overlooking the floor. He ordered smoked salmon and scrambled eggs and more Perrier water. He took a Camel cigarette from an old silver case. English cigarettes were something he’d never been able to come to terms with. Mordecai gave him a light and leant against the wall. Flood sat there, brooding, surveying the scene, experiencing one of those dark moments when you wondered what life was all about, and Charlie Salter came down the steps from the entrance and hurried through the tables.
‘Jack Harvey and Myra – just in,’ he said.
Harvey was fifty years of age, of medium height and overweight, a fact that the navy-blue barathea suit failed to hide in spite of having been cut in Savile Row. He was balding, hardly any hair there at all, and he had the fleshy decadent face of the wrong sort of Roman emperor.
His niece, Myra, was thirty and looked younger, her jet-black hair caught up in a bun and held in place by a diamond comb. There was little make-up on her face except for the lips and they were blood red. She wore a sequinned jacket and black mini-skirt by Gianni Versace and very high-heeled black shoes for she was only a little over five feet tall. She looked immensely attractive, men turning to stare at her. She was also her uncle’s right hand, had a degree in business studies from London University and was just as ruthless and unscrupulous as he was.
Flood didn’t get up, just sat there waiting. ‘Harry, my old son,’ Harvey said and sat down. ‘Don’t mind if we join you, do you?’
Myra leaned down and kissed Flood on the cheek. ‘Like my new perfume, Harry? Cost a fortune, but Jack says it’s like an aphrodisiac, the smell’s so good.’
‘That’s a big word for you, isn’t it?’ Flood said.
She sat on his other side and Harvey took out a cigar. He clipped it and looked up at Mordecai. ‘Come on, where’s your bleeding lighter then?’
Mordecai took out his lighter and flicked it without a change of expression and Myra said, ‘Any chance of a drink? We know you don’t, Harry, but think about the rest of us poor sods.’
Her voice had a slight cockney accent, not too much and it had its own attraction. She put a hand on his knee and Flood said, ‘Champagne cocktail, isn’t that what you like?’
‘It’ll do to be going on with.’
‘Not me, can’t drink that kind of piss,’ Harvey said. ‘Scotch and water. A big one.’
Maurice, who had been hovering, spoke to a waiter, then whispered in Flood’s ear, ‘Your scrambled eggs, Mr Flood.’
‘I’ll have them now,’ Flood told him.
Maurice turned away and a moment later, a waiter appeared with a silver salver. He removed the dome and put the plate in front of Flood who got to work straight away.
Harvey said, ‘I’ve never seen you eat a decent meal yet, Harry. What’s wrong with you?’
‘Nothing really,’ Flood told him. ‘Food doesn’t mean much to me, Jack. When I was a kid in Viet Nam, the Viet Cong had me prisoner for a while. I learnt you could get by on very little. Later on I was shot in the gut. Lost eighteen inches of my intestines.’
‘You’ll have to show me your scar sometime,’ Myra said.
‘There’s always a silver lining. If I hadn’t been shot, the Marine Corps wouldn’t have posted me to that nice soft job as a guard at the London Embassy.’
‘And you wouldn’t have met Jean,’ Harvey said. ‘I remember the year you married her, Harry, the year her old Dad died. Sam Dark.’ He shook his head. ‘He was like an uncrowned king in the East End after the Krays got put inside. And Jean.’ He shook his head again. ‘What a goer. The boys were queuing for her. There was even a Guards officer, a lord.’ He turned to Myra. ‘Straight up.’
‘And instead she married me,’ Flood said.
‘Could have done worse, Harry. I mean, you helped her keep things going a treat, especially after her Mum died, we all know that.’
Flood pushed his plate away and wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘Compliments night is it, Jack? Now what have you really come for?’
‘You know what I want, Harry, I want in. The casinos, four of them now and how many clubs, Myra?’
‘Six,’ she said.
‘And all this development on the river,’ Harvey went on. ‘You’ve got to share the cake.’
‘There’s only one trouble with that, Jack,’ Flood told him. ‘I’m a legitimate businessman, have been for a long time, whereas you …’ He shook his head. ‘Once a crook, always a crook.’
‘You Yank bastard,’ Harvey said. ‘You can’t talk to me like that.’
‘I just did, Jack.’
‘We’re in, Harry, whether you like it or not.’
‘Try me,’ Flood said.
Salter had drifted across the room and leaned against the wall beside Mordecai. The big man whispered to him and Salter moved away.
Myra said, ‘He means it, Harry, so be reasonable. All we’re asking for is a piece of the action.’
‘You come in with me you’re into computers, building development, clubs and gambling,’ Flood told her. ‘Which means I’m in with you into pimps, whores, drugs and protection. I shower three times a day, sweetness, and it still wouldn’t make me feel clean.’
‘You Yank bastard!’ She raised her hand and he grabbed her wrist.
Harvey stood up. ‘Let it go, Myra, let it go. Come on. I’ll be seeing you, Harry.’
‘I hope not,’ Flood told him.
They went out and Mordecai leaned down. ‘He’s a disgusting piece of slime. Always turned my stomach, him and his boyfriends.’
‘Takes all sorts,’ Flood said. ‘Don’t let your prejudices show, Mordecai, and get me a cup of coffee.’
‘The swine,’ Jack Harvey said as he and Myra walked along the pavement towards the car park. ‘I’ll see him in hell, talking to me that way.’
‘I told you we were wasting our time,’ she said.
‘Right.’ He eased his gloves over his big hands. ‘Have to show him we mean business then, won’t we?’
A dark van was parked at the end of the street. As they approached, the sidelights were turned on. The young man who leaned out from behind the wheel was about twenty-five, hard and dangerous-looking in a black leather bomber jacket and flat cap.
‘Mr Harvey,’ he said.
‘Good boy, Billy, right on time.’ Harvey turned to his niece. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Billy Watson, Myra.’
‘No, I don’t think I have,’ she said, looking him over.
‘How many have you got in the back?’ Harvey demanded.
‘Four, Mr Harvey. I heard this Mordecai Fletcher was a bit of an animal.’ He picked up a baseball bat. ‘This should cool him.’
‘No shooters, like I told you?’
‘Yes, Mr Harvey.’
‘Flesh on flesh, that’s all it needs and maybe a couple of broken legs. Get on with it. He’ll have to come out sooner or later.’
Harvey and Myra continued along the pavement. ‘Five?’ she said. ‘You think that’s enough?’
‘Enough?’ he laughed harshly. ‘Who does he think he is, Sam Dark? Now he was a man, but this bloody Yank … They’ll cripple him. Put him on sticks for six months. They’re hard boys, Myra.’
‘Really?’ she said.
‘Now come on and let’s get out of this bleeding cold,’ and he turned into the car park.
It was an hour later that Harry Flood got ready to leave. As the cloakroom girl helped him on with his coat, he said to Mordecai, ‘Where’s Charlie?’
‘Oh, I gave him the nod a couple of minutes ago. He went ahead to get the car warmed up. I mean it’s spawn of the north time out there, Harry, we’ll have the bleeding Thames freezing over next.’
Flood laughed and they went down the steps and started along the pavement. When it happened, it was very quick, the rear doors of the van parked on the other side of the road swinging open, the men inside rushing out and crossing the road on the run. They all carried baseball bats. The first to reach them swung hard, Mordecai ducked inside, blocked the blow and pitched him over his hip down the steps of the basement area behind.
The other four paused and circled, bats ready. ‘That won’t do you any good,’ Billy Watson said. ‘It’s leg-breaking time.’
There was a shot behind them, loud in the frosty air and then another. As they turned Charlie Salter moved out of the darkness reloading a sawn-off shotgun. ‘Now drop ’em,’ he said. ‘Unless you want to be jam all over the pavement.’
They did as they were told and stood there waiting for what was to come. Mordecai moved close and looked them over then he grabbed the nearest one by the hair. ‘Who are you working for, sonny?’
‘I don’t know, mister.’
Mordecai turned him and ran him up against the railings, holding his face just above the spikes. ‘I said who are you working for?’
The youth cracked instantly, ‘Jack Harvey. It was just a wages job. It was Billy who pulled us in.’
Billy said, ‘You bastard. I’ll get you for that.’
Mordecai glanced at Flood who nodded. The big man said to Billy, ‘You stay. The rest of you, piss off.’
They turned and ran for it. Billy Watson stood looking at them, his face wild. Salter said, ‘He needs a good slapping this one.’
Billy suddenly picked up one of the baseball bats and raised it defensively. ‘All right, let’s be having you. Harry Flood – big man. No bloody good on your own are you, mate?’
Mordecai took a step forward and Flood said, ‘No,’ and moved in himself. ‘All right, son.’
Billy swung, Flood swayed to one side, found the right wrist, twisting. Billy cried out and dropped the baseball bat and in the same moment, the American half-turned, striking him hard across the face with his elbow, sending him down on one knee.
Mordecai picked up the baseball bat. ‘No, he’s got the point, let’s get going,’ Flood said.
He lit a cigarette as they went along the street. Mordecai said, ‘What about Harvey? You going to stitch him up?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Flood said and they moved across to the car park.
Billy Watson got himself together, held on to the railings for a while. It was snowing a little as he turned and limped across the road to the van. As he went round to the driver’s side, Myra Harvey stepped out of the entrance of a narrow alley, holding the collar of her fur coat up around her neck.
‘Well that didn’t go too well, did it?’
‘Miss Harvey,’ he croaked. ‘I thought you’d gone.’
‘After my uncle dropped me off, I got a taxi back. I wanted to see the fun.’
‘Here,’ he said, ‘are you telling me you expected it to go like it did?’
‘I’m afraid so, sunshine. My uncle gets it wrong sometimes. Lets his emotions get the better of him. You really think five young punks like you could walk all over Harry Flood?’ She opened the driver’s door and pushed him in. ‘Go on, get over. I’ll drive.’
She climbed behind the wheel, the fur coat opened and the mini-skirt went about as high as it could.
Billy said, ‘But where are we going?’
‘Back to my place. What you need is a nice hot bath, sunshine.’ Her left hand squeezed his thigh hard and she switched on and drove away.