Vankin insisted on meeting at the Shoreditch that night, his “place of power.” This was not good. Too many variables, things that could go wrong. We couldn’t control the space. Even on a slow night, this place was chockablock with Essex Girls, soap stars and, well, people like Vankin. That and the noise factor would make trying to talk to anyone a complete nightmare. We also didn’t want Vankin to vanish too quickly, and there were too many nooks and crannies for him to slip away to if he decided to hop it. Knowing the layout of the place didn’t help, since the crowds would be an added hindrance.
Ken, Clive, and I parked across the road and watched the queues form. At ten p.m., Vankin strolled up, cheap suit and hair gel, bypassed the queue of hopeful clubbers, shook the bouncer’s hand, twenty quid folded in his palm, and was let in.
“Cunt’s just the type to do a runner,” Ken said. “Guilty conscience. You can smell if off him.”
We were to meet him at ten thirty p.m. I looked at the crowd outside the club and decided I wasn’t having any of that. We got a text from Benjamin: he and Olivia had gained entry into Vankin’s flat and found his computer.
I waited till 10:35 p.m. and picked up our burner phone.
“Speak!” shouted Vankin over the din of crappy electrodance.
“I believe we have an appointment this evening.”
“Where’s the American bird I talked to? She sounded well fit.”
“She’s the facilitator. You’re dealing with us.”
“So where are you?”
“Outside,” I said. “Where we can negotiate with some peace and quiet.”
“Aw, no way, brah! We agreed to meet in here!”
“Mr. Vankin, we are taking you seriously enough to engage with you. We are, however, not willing to have to shout to be heard.”
“Too fucking bad, brah! You come in or no deal!”
“Mr. Vankin, I have with me twenty thousand pounds in cash as a down payment for you in good faith. If you do not meet me outside in five minutes, I will be gone. You will never see me again, and I will make sure no outlet will hear your pitch, let alone make you another offer. Five minutes.”
I hung up.
“Ooo-er!” Ken said.
“Please, sir, don’t give me detention,” Clive said.
“Don’t spank me, sir,” chuckled Ken. “I ain’t done nothing wrong.”
I rolled my eyes and stepped out of the car.
I had my speech all prepared. I was going to introduce myself as part of an international media conglomerate with political ties. Ken and Clive were here as muscle, of course. Of course we didn’t have twenty grand on us. We just wanted Vankin to think we were either stupid or callously rich enough to throw that much money around for a dodgy set of naughty photos. The point was to keep Vankin talking long enough to suss out whether he was for real and for Benjamin and Olivia to go through his computer.
Vankin came out of the club, looked around, saw me, and started across the street. I put on an air of bored professionalism to set him at ease. Ken stepped out of the car.
I’d never felt the air change this much before I even said a word.
Vankin’s eyes went wide with terror and he turned and scarpered like a hamster on fire.
“OY!”
I found out later that it was perfectly normal to see a guy getting chased down and beaten up in Hoxton late on a Thursday night. As it was, I only wanted to catch Vankin. Couldn’t speak for Ken, though. One thing he and Clive taught me is that cops absolutely hate before forced to chase down a punter. It makes them really want to take it out on him later. That meant I had to get him before Ken did.
Vankin dashed down Shoreditch High Street and turned into Bateman’s Row, then into Anning Street. Must have been all that cocaine in him that was making him run this fast. Ken was trailing behind me, cursing up a storm.
Vankin was nearly a hundred yards ahead of us when he turned around, confident that we wouldn’t catch up by now.
“Come and have a go if you’re hard enough, then!” he shouted, offering two middle fingers our way.
He totally missed Clive barrowing up behind him in the BMW and bouncing his scrawny stick figure off the bonnet.
Time slowed. Vankin in a graceful arc over the top of the car. Unpleasant crunch sound as he impacted on the tarmac.
“Jesus Christ! Was that really necessary?!”
“Stopped the fucker, didn’t I?” Clive said.