by J. D. Weston
Cole jerked his head at Dom in surprise. "You don't think-"
"I don't know for sure. It's just a theory. But it's just a bit odd, that's all. Don't you think?"
"I think you're paranoid, Dom."
"Maybe, Cole. Get word out to the boys, will you? Bobby is dead. I'm taking over."
Cole smiled. "You've got some balls, Dom, I'll give you that."
"Tell them we're meeting in the Rose and Crown tonight."
"You going to give a speech, Dom?"
"No speeches, Cole. Tell them to come tooled up. We're going to pay John Cartwright and his boys a little visit. We'll start with that crappy little club of his, what's it called?"
"The Basement Club."
"Yeah, that's it," said Dom. "I want every bit of firepower we've got."
"I'm going to wipe John Cartwright off the face off the earth."
"Call your pet dog off," said the voice on the other end of the phone. Frank was silent. "Did you hear me?"
"I heard you, but the play is rolling. If I call him off, there'll be questions."
"So use your imagination."
"It's too far gone."
"You stand to lose a lot more than I do, Carver. You know that?"
"And if I don't?" said Frank.
"An anonymous phone call to your superiors maybe?"
"You don't have anything on me."
"Phone calls, Frank. Records of our conversations," said the voice. "Plus a certain murder of my friend Mr Parrish."
"He was a wanted murderer. That little incident got me a reward."
"I'm not talking about legal action, Carver."
"Stone?"
"What do you think he'll do if he finds out it was you that killed Julios all along."
Frank gave the question time to settle.
"What makes you so sure he works for me? What makes you think I have any control over him?"
"Oh, Frank, you don't control Harvey Stone. Nobody does. But if you're any good, you can steer him."
"How do you know he works for me?"
John laughed. "Frank, I don't like to blow my own trumpet, but I didn't get where I am without being a bit smart. He's a cop. Harvey very likely didn't go to police training after being almost invisible for most of his life. If he turned, then he was coerced. And if he was coerced then, my friend, there's only one dirty cop I can think of who would try a stunt like that. As soon as I found out it was you who shot Edgar and Harvey had gone to the dark side, so to speak, well, two and two, Frank. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. That's what you've been doing all this time, isn't it?"
"What do you think he'll do if gets his hands on you? You did, after all, have his parents killed. I doubt he'll even give you time to talk."
"What makes you think I killed his parents?"
"You're not the only one who can count two and two. Harvey told me how you used to tell him the same old story. How you found him and Hannah-"
"In my bar, on a seat." John finished. "I'm his father, Frank. I'm sure I can appeal to his good nature. That puts me in a pretty strong position. With one phone call, I can have you arrested. You'll lose your pension and probably go away for a spell at Her Majesty's pleasure. I'm sure you'll be welcomed inside, Frank. Lots of old friends who'll want to say hi. Or I can set Harvey on the right path. You know, tell him a few truths about his dirty cop boss. I'm sure he'll go easy on you. Maybe he'll even make it quick. But I doubt it."
There was a silence as both men played the possibilities out in their heads.
"So this is goodbye, Frank. May the best man win."
John Cartwright disconnected the call.
Frank walked slowly towards the doors to headquarters.
"Mills, keep me informed," said Frank.
Melody was loading the Audi with her peli-cases. One contained her MP5, another had her Diemaco sniper rifle, and the last had a mixture of surveillance equipment. Boon was following her around the workspace and sniffing at the boxes.
"Will do, sir. You heading home?"
"It's been a long day, Mills. This old dog needs some rest. And that old dog needs a walk." Frank gestured at Boon.
"He'll get one soon enough."
Frank hesitated, looked her in the eye, and smiled weakly. He glanced around the headquarters then turned and walked to his car.
Melody watched him leave then called Jackson again. "We're moving."
"Harvey is outside The Basement club in Barking. At least his bike is. Obviously, I can't tell if he's actually gone in for a dance or not."
"We'll know soon enough, Reg," said Melody. "Listen, did Frank seem off to you?"
"You mean did he seem grumpy and miserable? Isn't that normal?"
"No, I mean..." Melody stumbled for words. "I don't know. He said some weird things."
"Like what?"
"I can't say. But can you keep an eye on him?"
"Yeah, sure. Want me to listen to his calls?"
"No, Reg, just, I don't know what I'm saying, sorry. I'm tired, and nothing seems normal anymore."
"Normal?" Reg laughed. "This is normal, Melody."
"Let's go," called Jackson.
Melody climbed into the passenger seat of the saloon and leaned out to pull the door closed. "Reg?"
Reg spun in his seat to face Melody. He smiled as if reading her thoughts.
"Thanks, Reg," she said.
Harvey hated the loud, obnoxious beat of dance music. It dulled his senses. Mixed with the dark shadows of the basement club, his ability to control risk, make a plan and execute it was narrowed. But Harvey had no plan other than to find John Cartwright and take him down.
One of John's men had seen Harvey in the car park. He'd sat watching Harvey. Harvey had seen the faint glow of a mobile phone against the man's face and was sure he was sending an update on Harvey, maybe to John himself. It didn't matter. In fact, it helped Harvey. John now knew where to find him. Two things could happen. John would somehow know that Harvey had turned, and was undercover; he'd be torn to pieces. Or John would find him and they'd talk, then Harvey would kill John. He couldn't see any other option. Nobody in John's world could know about Harvey's involvement with what was essentially the police. Official or unofficial, it would make no difference to hardened criminals.
Harvey found a small booth in the corner of the club. It was on the ground floor with the main entrance in full view and a staff door to Harvey's left. He felt the stares from the men that prowled the room. He'd definitely been recognised.
Opposite and to the side of Harvey were three larger booths. It was the type of seating shown in the gangster movies that Harvey's foster brother, Donny, had been thrilled by as a child. Glamorous looking women would be sat either side a coke-sniffing, over-confident hoodlum who would be drinking champagne and slipping folded wads of cash to staff, valets and girls every five minutes. The scene in front of Harvey was very different. Each booth sat five or six men, all holding bottles of beer, smoking cigarettes and trying to look as tough as possible. They were joined by the guy Harvey had seen sitting in his car on the phone. In a series of silent gestures, nods and headshakes, the men in the room decided not to make a move on Harvey.
It amused Harvey to watch the scene play out. He could see what they were doing, he understood what they said, and he realised the reasons why. They might as well have just spoken out loud. John Cartwright was clearly on his way.
Harvey played out the plan in his head. He would take John away from the club somewhere quiet, somewhere they could talk. Harvey had questions; John would give the answers. Then Harvey would let him die. It would be quick. John deserved that for the way he'd raised Harvey and Hannah. He'd provided as well as he could for them. But for the lies, the deceit and for killing his parents, John must die.
John Cartwright strode through the main doors at the front of the club and grinned at the girls who flashed their smiles and flicked their over-sized eyelashes his way. He was in his element, thought Harvey. He'd always b
een one for the women. When Harvey's foster mother had left John, a series of blonde bombshells enjoyed his company. They typically spent more time in the washroom racking up lines than they did with the old man. But the next day, he always had a spring in his step.
There was no eye contact between John and Harvey as John made his way through the room, stopping at any table he passed to introduce himself or greet acquaintances. That's all they were, acquaintances. Men like John Cartwright didn't have friends. They just knew people, the right people.
"Mind if I sit?" asked John, finally reaching Harvey's booth.
"It's your seat."
John slipped into the small booth and nodded at the group of men sat opposite. Harvey remained silent. He followed John's eyes to the men, and then back to John. A few seconds later, a brandy with three ice cubes arrived at the table. It was served on a new cardboard coaster with a serviette folded in a neat triangle next to it. A small dish containing three olives finished the demonstration of power and control.
"So," began John, "Gerry, is it?"
"What's a name?"
"Where for art thou, Gerry?"
"Seemed like a safer name to use than Harvey Stone."
"What happened to France? You were always dead keen on France. Thought you'd stay out there."
"Something called me back."
"I'm guessing it wasn't Bobby Carnell that called you back, Harvey."
"It's complex."
"Try me."
"You wouldn't understand."
John Cartwright sat for a moment in silence. He studied Harvey as only a father can. "I'm proud of you, Harvey."
"What is it you're proud of?"
"Just you, mate," replied John. "Your strength, your will. It's infectious."
Harvey didn't reply.
"So, to business then, shall we?"
"Business?"
"I presume that is why you've come to see me? To have a go at me on behalf of Bobby Carnell?"
"Bobby can go to hell, John."
"Thought you two were pals?"
"Not really. He's a means to an end."
"That's lucky, Harvey."
"Lucky for who?"
"You, Harvey."
"Why's it lucky for me?"
"Because I shot him earlier."
Harvey didn't reply.
John sipped at his drink like he'd just told Harvey that school was cancelled the next day.
"So it's just you then? You won."
"Did I? Win, that is?"
"Carnell is dead and the Albanians won't be giving anyone more trouble for the foreseeable. You cleaned up, John. Congratulations."
"Yeah well, I'm not exactly singing and dancing about it just yet."
"What's the problem?"
An explosion rocked the room. The sharp crack of the detonator was followed by a deafening boom that rocked Harvey's eardrums. The two swinging front doors were torn off their hinges, and the tables surrounding the grand entrance to the club were blown across the room. Lights blew out and, just for a moment, the scene played out in slow motion for Harvey.
Bright headlights focused on the entrance, blinding anyone who tried to run out of the club, which had begun to smoke and smoulder. Flames were building in several small fires, and smoke was already beginning to fill the room.
Silhouetted against the bright entrance were the legs and torsos of men who stormed the club. John's men in the booths opposite Harvey sprung from their seats and reached for weapons, bottles, knives, chairs, anything they could find. But the attackers were prepared. Shots rang out in a riot of recoil and frantic untrained firing. Many of the men had apparently seen too many films and emptied a full clip into the smoke and confusion. Girls fell to the floor, cut down in the crossfire. Wrong place, wrong time.
Within moments, the attackers were moving towards the rear of the club. Harvey instinctively ducked John's head down. When the gunfire had passed, he wrenched him from the booth to his feet.
Covering John, Harvey turned and kicked in the staff door. There was a cloakroom on Harvey's left and kitchens to his right. He knew that every kitchen had to have a fire exit, so barged inside to the shock of two staff. He held John's head low, and kicked his way through the fire doors. Immediately, the flash of a muzzle and the sound of automatic gunfire traced a line of bullets towards Harvey. They'd been waiting for people to burst through the fire doors. They'd been waiting for John.
Harvey pulled John back inside and ducked beside the door. He grabbed a large, sharp flat knife from where it hung on the wall. Using the blade as a mirror, he confirmed that he was outnumbered and trapped.
Then he heard the familiar sound of Melody's barking dog. The MP5 had such a unique growl as it spat 5.56mm rounds from its muzzle in bursts of three. Harvey took another glance in the blade. He could just make out the man who'd been firing the AR from his hip now shooting back towards the car park. Harvey pushed John against the wall for him to stay there then made his way outside. He raised his Sig, and took down the man with the AR, then bent to pick up the weapon. Other men had fallen back, and were concentrating fire on Melody. Harvey finished the magazine in short bursts to keep the attackers’ heads down. He whistled to John and gestured for them to go. "Where's your car?"
John fumbled for his keys then hit the button on the fob. The lights on a silver Bentley Continental flashed once, and the interior light gracefully grew brighter.
"Let's go," said Harvey.
Melody was fifty feet to Harvey's left, half in and half out of the VW van. Harvey figured she would have her peli-case open beside her with magazines being reloaded and lined up for her by Jackson.
Harvey didn't acknowledge the team. Instead, he opened the passenger door of the Bentley and helped John duck inside. He then climbed into the driver's seat.
Harvey slammed the car into drive, span the wheel and accelerated. The rear end span out almost immediately and the vehicle began to move sideways out the car park. Harvey corrected the over-steer with short, sharp twitches of the wheel. Men stood like rabbits in the headlights as the Bentley lurched towards them. Rifles clanged into the side of the car, metal on metal, and heads bounced off the tempered glass windows, bone on glass.
Sliding the car towards the exit, Harvey quickly span the wheel onto the opposite lock, allowing the rear to skid out noisily onto the tarmac road. Harvey found second gear and held it. The rear wheels span and filled the road with smoke. Gunfire dotted the car's bodywork as the tyres found traction and the massive torque sent the car up to seventy miles per hour in less than four seconds, a long time when men are stood on the road behind firing automatic weapons.
"Where’re we going, Harv?" said John, rising up from his ducked position in the car.
"For a drive. Keep your head down."
"They're my guys, Harvey. I can't leave them."
Harvey didn't reply.
"Harv, they're my blokes."
"Not anymore they're not, John," said Harvey coldly. "They weren't prepared. Most of them will be dead by now."
"So much fucking death, Harvey," said John. "I thought the eighties were bad."
Harvey dropped the speed down to fifty to avoid attention from the police then settled into cruise control.
"It's a shame," said John. Harvey glanced across at him. "I liked that club."
"I would've thought you'd prefer something a little more classical?"
"Well, something a little more classy, for sure. But the birds there were always good and willing."
Harvey didn't reply.
"Plus, it used to be Thomson's, which somehow sweetened it for me. Know what I mean, Harv?" John paused. "Where we going anyway?"
"For a walk."
"A walk?" replied John. "It's the middle of the night, and it's November."
"So we'll walk fast."
"The house?"
Harvey didn't reply.
"You've been back, haven't you?"
"A few times."
"I knew you'd br
ing me here."
"It's nostalgic, John."
"So many happy memories, eh?"
"Just memories, John."
"You know I still own it?"
"I heard you couldn't sell it."
"Yeah, lawyers manage the estate now. Keeps me under the radar. But they do checks on all the assets every six months."
Harvey didn't reply.
"It's funny," began John, "they keep finding bodies there in the basement, where, you know?"
"Sergio, John."
"Yeah, the basement. Must be something that draws people there to off someone."
"Is that right?"
"Cross my heart, Harv. Apparently, last time they found some rag-head down there. No wonder no-one wants to buy it."
Harvey didn't reply. He turned the Bentley's steering wheel and manoeuvred the car through the gates of the old house. The tyres crunched on the gravel, and the headlights cut a bleak path through the gloomy fog that rose from the unkempt, overgrown lawns. The large house stood like a forgotten friend and emerged from the mist as they neared. Two front windows halfway up the two curved staircases inside stared like black eyes in the night. The large wooden double doors hung open like a gaping mouth. Horror, frozen in time.
"Look at the state of the bloody place," said John. "Hard to imagine all the good times we had here, eh?"
Harvey didn't reply.
John climbed out the car and pulled his coat around him. Harvey turned the engine off and followed suit. He stood with his leather biker’s jacket flapping in the wind and his white t-shirt glowing in the faint light.
"Shall we have a look around?" asked John, and he began to walk off.
Harvey walked with him to one side, but close enough that they only had to talk quietly. It was like the fog enclosed them in a tiny space, where only they could hear or see each other.
"You were always quiet," said John. "As a kid, you were great fun, but you were always reserved. It was nice. You weren't noisy, not like Donny when he was that age. But I always thought you'd grow out of it."
Harvey glanced across.
John returned the glance and held Harvey's stare. "You never did." He smiled the smile of an old man who'd seen it all and knew that life held few surprises for him anymore.