It was not until the day after meeting the haughty lady in her Mayfair house that Stone’s antagonism towards Lady Ruth Jackson and her son softened. He walked across to the beachside, just to stand and stare at Marine House. It was big, imposing, and he had less than twelve weeks of his lease left. Nobody was going to tell him how to buy and sell property, however big. It is what he did. He knew the human nature of bargaining, greed even, but he had always found the money. Dealing with the Jackson family, he would have to wait and watch, play a long game. But he was not going to let this slip away – whatever happened, he was going to buy Marine House. That was all there was to it.
He crossed the road to the front door, and, standing on the top step, he practised a growing ritual. Before he let himself into the large, empty house, Stone looked along the street, and he hesitated. He was on his own – he thought he could see a hazy figure staring back at him, but it was getting dark; his paranoia was growing.
Stone went to his study, a dark room with windows looking over the back garden of the house. The growing ache in his back suddenly stretched to his right hip and he caught his breath. Just like a stab, it jerked at his nerve ends. He poured a large whisky; he took painkillers, but they would take time to subdue this insidious pain.
Loud banging on the rear door of Marine House, at just before 6.00 that evening, was unusual. He had closed his eyes for half an hour in a deep armchair; there was a bell which was always used by tradesmen, but this insistent noise roused Stone. At first, with eyes still firmly closed, he tried to ignore it. But a minute later it started again. Stone swore as he pulled himself from the chair and walked quickly along the hallway to the kitchen. He unbolted and opened the door. His mood was belligerent as he confronted a big, wide face with very white teeth and watery eyes. There was a bristly white beard on his face which stared hard at Stone. After a few seconds, he spoke with a snappy voice.
‘It’s Harry Stone, ain’t it, mate?’
Stone started to close the door; his heart rate quickened; he thought he knew that voice. But the visitor held the door open and easily pushed Stone inside. A hand was placed on his sleeve which he tried to brush off, but this thickset man standing next to him was not going away.
‘What do you want?’ Stone shouted.
‘A quarter of a million. That’s what my boss Mr Xavier says you owe him. Money he lent to you to launder clean for him.’
‘That thug Xavier’s in prison. Sent down for five years. He’s behind thick iron bars where he belongs. So, don’t bring me idle threats demanding money. And get out of my way.’
‘Mr Xavier might be sleeping in a room that’s not as big as he’s used to, but he still knows what’s going on. He’s all ready for the day he comes out. And anyway, being inside is just a little holiday for him. You should try it one day, Harry.’
‘Go back to that extortioner and tell him for the last time I’m not joining in his games anymore.’
‘They’re harsh words, Harry, from someone who’s in debt big time. That money’s been outstanding too long, and he sent me to tell you that you’ve got just two weeks now before the big man gets really angry. And I can tell you, if you ignore him you won’t like what’ll happen to you.’
‘I’m going to call the cops,’ Stone barked again.
‘I wouldn’t advise that, mate. Me and Mr Xavier don’t like the cops.’
This man with malodorous breath laughed and again placed his hand on Stone’s arm. He barged Stone further into the kitchen with a wide, mocking grin. Stone tried to push him away, but it had little effect on the bulky, muscular body in front of him. He was on his own in this large house, and he felt vulnerable to whatever this intruder wanted to do.
‘Okay, Harry. Here’s a deal. I’m coming to see you each week so you can tell me how you’re getting the cash together to repay Mr Xavier’s big quarter of a million. And what say I leave the physical stuff off if you slip me a hundred quid each time I pop in to see you? Like today, we don’t want to make a fuss in this nice kitchen, do we?’
‘I told you, get out of here, you scum,’ Stone bawled.
Stone moved to pick up his mobile from the kitchen table, but his arm was grabbed and squeezed tightly as the black man’s face came close to his.
‘Leave that. Give me a hundred quid now or I smash your face in. What do you want, man?’
Stone pulled a draw open from the kitchen table and fumbled with some spare notes. Without counting them, he pulled out £20 notes and threw them on the floor.
‘Now clear out. Rats like you should be locked up inside the same place as Xavier is. Got it?’
The intruder picked the notes from the floor and there was a strange odour as he lent into Stone. In one movement, which Stone did not see coming, he landed a fist hard on Stone’s right temple. It sent him sprawling across the empty kitchen and the wide thug loomed over him as Stone righted himself. He put his hand to his cheek and rubbed it as if he needed to feel where the punch had landed. He pulled himself up, dazed, and adjusted his shirt over his shoulders.
The thug wagged his finger in Stone’s face.
‘Don’t play with me like that. This ain’t going away until you pay up.’
‘Last time. You’re getting nothing from me.’
‘No, it don’t work like that. There was the whole quarter million slipped through your greasy hands. Mr Xavier trusted you to wash it white, clean, for him, money he could then splash around again. And he just don’t believe the fairy tale you made up. Who would?’
There was the unnerving, sour smell of cannabis, and Stone stood back, but the thug caught his left arm.
‘Instead of washing it through his shops, your mate lost it all gambling. And on the blackjack table at Monte Carlo and then the Cheltenham races. Now come on, Harry, there’s a whole quarter million left dangling, so don’t make me laugh.’
In the dark of the early evening, Stone watched the intruder leave and he closed and bolted the back door. In the elegant sitting room, Stone poured another large whisky. With a growing mood of defiance, he opened the balcony doors. He breathed in fresh air, and he stood, as he had often done in the past few months, and stared across to the sea. But today he was soon feeling cold; he closed the doors and slumped onto the chaise longue.
The darkening clouds of violence, lingering from an unpaid debt, left Stone feeling edgy. Not for the first time in the past two years, he was wary of these ruthless gangsters who were well practised in slashing knives, disfiguring faces. How could he forget the quarter of a million pounds that had been right inside this elegant room? He stood for a moment and looked at the cushioned seat he had been sitting on. It was there, just for a short while, that the illicit money had been in a briefcase hidden under the elegant red rosewood Regency settee. The bundled notes were to be washed white from the indelible stain of drugs and racketeering they carried.
Stone had always kept his distance from squalid puddles of dirty water. But this criminal shark had squeezed and taunted him, and too often threatened random violence, until he washed white dirty, tainted paper money. All flowing from drugs, extortion rackets. And maybe worse.
What stung him today, as sharp as a barbed bee stinger in his skin, was, just a few hours ago, the taunt from Lady Ruth about a heavy-booted police raid on Marine House. He would never forget how close that had been – the police had missed the case of money by just a few days.
Stone paced the sitting room and suddenly he felt the pain in his back. He tried to ease the discomfort by straightening his shoulders. He was unsure, nervous even. What was going on to cause this insidious pain? His febrile temper was bubbling. He went to the bathroom and saw the large, black bruise on his right temple. Dabbing at it tentatively, it felt sore, a reminder that there was a bunch of crooks out there who would call again. He ran his hand through his hair.
Later that evening, after more glasses of whisky, Stone eased himself into bed. But as ever at this time of day, Marine House was very quiet, with not even the noise of a mouse scampering or a seagull circling outside. And it was not even broken by a call from Lady Ruth Jackson.
It was an ominous silence.