As Lot 9 arrived on the stage, the auctioneer stepped back from his podium and dabbed at his brow with a yellow silk handkerchief. His face was red, his suit stretched to capacity. He was supposed to have retired, but the promise of a significant regular cash boost to his pension had lured him back into the game. Once a month, he put on his best clothes, shined his shoes and lied to his wife.
Nothing new there. He lied as easily as he breathed these days. He had to. They had him trapped between knowing too much and disappearing too easily. They also knew he was desperate for money, which helped them keep him in his place. Standing here under the lights, sweating, shuffling, hating and loving it all in equal measure. Eyes glazed, feasting, trying to hide the tremor in his voice as he described the lots being paraded in front of them.
If he was honest, he knew there was no need. The punters all knew what they were here to bid on, had made their choices from the wares on offer days before. Depending on the lot, they might even have been offered an opportunity – try before you buy. His talents, the lyrical descriptions and the way he knew how to ignite the bidding into a battle of will and wits – wasted. He was wasted here.
If he closed his mind to the facts, the old excitement still fizzed, though. Allow the audience to gawp at each lot, then haul their attention back to himself. It wasn’t easy, but he had a job to do, after all. He didn’t have all night. An envelope of used twenties and a grubbier soul each time he left the building. Payment, and payback.
He could live with it. He had no choice.
Stuffing the handkerchief back into his trouser pocket, he licked his lips, ran a hand over his moustache and smiled.
‘Shall we start the bidding at eight thousand pounds?’
In an office above the auction room, a man sat watching proceedings on a monitor. The room was in darkness, the glow of the screen the only source of light. He was invisible to those in the room below, and none of the people placing bids knew his name. The auction’s location was a closely guarded secret, vital information that would allow the bidders access only revealed at the last moment. It was better that way, for everyone. If you knew nothing, you couldn’t grass. It was a lesson he had learnt early, at his father’s side. His dad had gradually grown to trust him, a little more each year, but the old man had still kept some secrets close. He didn’t know for sure, but he had probably taken some to his grave.
There was a tap on the office door and he stood, strode over to open it. The man who stood there looked apprehensive.
The click of a lighter, the flare of a flame. He took the offered cigar with a nod of thanks as it was lit for him.
‘Auctioneer looks nervous,’ the other man said, waving a hand towards the stage.
He sat back down, squinting at the screen. ‘Looks the same as always to me.’
‘We can trust him, though.’
It wasn’t a question. ‘We know where he lives, where his daughter and grandkids live.’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘Same thing.’
A pause. He waited, putting the cigar between his teeth so that both hands were free. Just in case. He nodded towards a chair.
‘You’ve men here?’ the other man said as he sat down.
‘Men?’
A quick jerk of the head. ‘You know. In case something goes wrong. Someone gets… rough.’
He laughed. ‘Rough? They wouldn’t dare. Bid, pay, get out. They know how it works before they come in.’
‘And if they don’t?’
‘Don’t what?’
‘Pay.’
He took his time replying, blowing smoke into the air and leaning back in his chair to cross his legs. ‘Don’t know. It’s never happened.’
‘It hasn’t happened yet.’ Definite emphasis on the final word. Shifting in the chair, one knee bouncing. The other man was nervous – he knew the signs. He sat up straight, his hand moving swiftly to his pocket.
‘If you’re having second thoughts—’
‘I’m not,’ the other man said quickly. ‘It’s just… the Albanians.’
‘What about them?’
‘They’re…’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t like working with them. Cut-throat bastards.’ He glanced at the monitor, the auctioneer still speaking, pointing, nodding. Lot 9 displayed under a spotlight like a prize.
‘They’re businessmen, like us, buying and selling.’ He nodded at the scene in front of them. ‘You’d better watch your mouth; they’re on the front row. Like I said, if you’re having second thoughts…’
He set the cigar in the ashtray at his elbow and reached to turn on the desk lamp with his left hand, the right unlocking a drawer and removing a gun. It lay on his palm, squat and ugly. Threatening. He didn’t raise it, didn’t even look at it. Just held it. The other man gulped, swallowed, knowing he was looking at a weapon that had already killed. ‘I’m not, I swear,’ he said.
‘Then why mention it? Why ask?’
‘It’s just… I’ve a lot of money invested in this scheme.’
‘Scheme?’ He chuckled. ‘You make it sound as though we’re robbing schoolkids of their lunch money. Scheme. Fucking scheme. A scheme is a gamble – might come off, might explode in your face. This isn’t a scheme, it’s a business, and it works.’
‘You know what I mean. I’m risking everything.’
He thrust his chin forward, getting in the other man’s face. ‘Because you owe me. I didn’t have to work with you, you know.’
Raised hands, wide eyes. ‘I’ve never said—’
‘You’ve caused trouble.’
The other man swallowed. ‘Not intentionally.’
He turned the gun over in his hand, watching the light glint on the barrel and then skitter away. ‘You can back out if you want to,’ he said.
‘Back out?’ Eyes wider still. ‘No, I—’
‘But think of everything you’ll be throwing away. The money, the respect. The opportunities.’ He slipped the gun back into the drawer and locked it. ‘I’ll say it again – the money.’
‘Yeah, all right. I get it. I’ll shut up.’
‘Make sure you do. I need to concentrate.’
He clicked the lamp off again as Lot 9 sold for eighteen thousand pounds.
Smiling, he did a couple of calculations. He’d reckoned they’d made over a hundred and fifty grand already, and the night was still young.
His phone rang and he tutted as he glanced at the screen.
‘What?’ He listened, puffing on the cigar. ‘What are you talking about?’ Another pause. ‘All right, the more the merrier. Stay where you are. I’ll be down soon.’
‘What’s wrong?’ The other man was worried.
He turned to him, smiling. ‘Nothing. Just a few special guests.’
‘Guests? What are you talking about?’
‘You’ll see.’
If this were a film, she would hear footsteps behind her. They would grow closer; she would hurry, soon break into a run. Eventually she would stumble, turn her ankle, and he’d be on her. As it was, at first, there was no more than a vaguely unsettling awareness.
The lecture theatre had been too warm, the muggy atmosphere and droning tones of the guest speaker having a soporific effect. Lucy stumbled out into the street, tired and hungry, not relishing the forty-minute walk home in the freezing December darkness. She carried a tote bag of books, her laptop in a shoulder bag designed to look like it was carrying nothing more valuable than a shitload of lecture notes. Couldn’t be too careful, not in London. Not according to her mother, who had her own wild ideas of danger, mostly conjured up in her own mind.
She started walking. The people she passed looked as weary as she felt, hurrying along to the station, to the bus stop, desperate to get home, get warm. Eat, sleep, wake tomorrow and do it all over again.
She was passing Warren Street Underground station when she became aware of the first nudge of unease. She couldn’t have said what had alerted her, but she felt a tiny rush as her heartbeat quickened, her senses sharpened, her eyes beginning to search for danger. Her phone was in her jeans pocket and instinctively she felt for it. Still there. There were people around, a group in front of her waiting to cross the road. She increased her pace but the lights changed, and by the time she reached the crossing they were well ahead again. She waited, wanting to look behind her, to see if there was someone there. It was a ridiculous thought; of course there was. This was London – when were you ever alone? But this was different. She could feel eyes on her back.
Pretending to check the traffic, she glanced around. There were people behind her now, looking at their phones, their watches. They were all watching the lights, urging them to change so they could cross, resenting having to wait even for a couple of minutes.
That was when she saw him.
Standing by the entrance to the station, wearing dark trousers and a black coat with the hood up. Arms folded, feet apart, face invisible. Couldn’t have looked dodgier if he’d tried.
She turned back. Maybe she was paranoid, seeing and feeling threats when there were none, but it wasn’t the first time she’d felt as though she was being watched. Recently, it had happened several times.
She hurried across the road with everyone else, picking up her pace. Determined not to be rattled but feeling it nevertheless, she kept moving.
Another crossing. Again she had to wait. She turned again, looked back. He was there, head down, now no more than twenty metres away. The coat was baggy, all his clothes plain and unidentifiable. Lucy licked her lips, her mouth dry.
She’d already been warned.