Den of Snakes

by Damian Vargas

  ‘We’ll work everything out at the end,’ said Charlie. He glanced at Guillem as if to say ‘now tell them the rest’.

  The lawyer obliged. ‘The bail is high because Mr McNaughton is considered a flight risk.

  Carol snorted with laughter. ‘How can any of these lads be a flight risk? You just said they can’t go nowhere else,’ she said.

  ‘I am simply telling you what the magistrate told me, Mrs Taylor’. The lawyer seemed resentful, thought Eddie. Guillem turned towards Kenny. ‘Now, even if you do post bail and Mr McNaughton is released, the light is still on you. All of you’. He studied at the men one by one. ‘Therefore, you must all behave like angels now. You cannot afford any more incidents. You are walking on eggshells. You understand?’

  Roger nodded, Kenny too.

  ‘And there’s something more,’ said Guillem. ‘I had a call this morning, just before I left my office to come here. Actually, it was more of a warning’.

  ‘A warning? From who?’ said Charlie.

  ‘He was English. He did not give a name, but he made it clear he was representing one of the other groups’.

  ‘Ronnie and Charlie’s crew?’ said Roger.

  ‘Or them Brink Mat geezers?’ said Kenny. ‘We don’t want to get on the wrong side of them fuckers’.

  Guillem shook his head. ‘I do not know’.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Roger.

  The lawyer took a deep breath, his eyes glancing at Charlie for the slightest of moments. ‘He said that they were not pleased that there are many journalists in Spain. And he said the British newspapers and television knew where his clients lived and they knew things. Private things. He said that was…surprising’.

  Eddie glared at his brother, who seemed distinctly unfazed by this revelation. ‘Sounds like they think somebody slipped some information to the press?’ he said.

  Charlie shrugged, avoiding his brother’s gaze. ‘Better for us if we’re not the centre of attention. Don’t worry about that. Just keep your heads down’. He picked his car keys off the table. ‘C’mon bruv. We’re going to Mijas,’ he said as he strode towards the door.

  ‘What’s in Mijas?’ said Eddie.

  ‘Not what, bruv. Who!’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Twist Some Thumbs

  Sophia de Rodríguez Velázquez sat sipping from a porcelain espresso cup in La Cacharrería, an upmarket cafe in which she had a commercial interest, on the outskirts of Mijas's old town. Ernesto, her bodyguard and occasional lover, stood in the old building’s entrance porch observing the street outside. A sign on the door informed passers-by that the establishment was closed for the day for “staff training”.

  Known by the local press as ‘Doña Sophia’, she was an influential figure in the regional Andalusian junta where she held the role of Minister of Finance, Industry and Energy. One day, most journalists were sure, she would become the region’s president. To the outside world, she had been a devoted servant of the Socialist party since entering into politics in the late seventies after concluding a prominent, twenty-year career as a government prosecutor.

  Her decision to join the socialists had been a surprise for many a political commentator, given her well-known uncle’s long and fruitful role at the heart of Franco’s rather more right-leaning regime. For the opportunistic Doña Sophia, however, politics was less about traditional policy positions, a deep-held aspiration to give back to society or, well, public service. She had very much adopted her uncle’s sage advice to her to “make sure you always back the winner”. Pinning her badge in 1977 to the revitalised, and quickly dominant, Socialist party’s flag had presented no significant pangs of the soul for the ambitious Velázquez. Her calculated choice had paid off in abundance.

  The country’s rushed transition to democracy, post-Franco, had created a uniquely oblique period in Spain’s recent history during which the nation was striving to rebuild the socio-political structures and institutions of federal, regional and local government. This period of flux generated many opportunities for those with what one might term ‘a fluid moral compass’. Doña Sophia was such a person, and she had embraced the uncertainty that such a dynamic time offered to gain significant influence, power and wealth in a short space of time.

  Ernesto waved to gain her attention. The Inglés were approaching. She reached for her packet of Sobranie Black Russians, extracted one of the gold and black cigarettes, placed it between her lips and lit it with a small silver lighter, then sat up straight and straightened her blouse and jacket. Her bodyguard had advised against meeting the Englishman. Ernesto was not, however, well appraised of certain prior business dealings that she had had with Charles Lawson.

  The Lawson brothers approached La Cacharrería where Doña Sophia had insisted they meet after Charlie had called her secretary less than two hours earlier.

  ‘Keep your eyes open,’ said Charlie.

  ‘For what?’ said Eddie. ‘You still haven’t told me what we’re doing here’. He grabbed his brother’s forearm. ‘Who are we meeting?’

  ‘A woman called Doña Sophia. She works for the regional government. She’s a minister’.

  ‘A government minister?’ ‘How is that keeping a low profile?’

  Charlie waved away the question. ‘She’s bent, bruv. And she owes me, big time’.

  Charlie tried the front door but found it locked. He rapped on the solid oak and attempted to peer in through the small, tinted window. A few seconds later they heard a bolt being slid across. The door creaked open, and Charlie found himself confronted by a burly Spaniard in a sharp suit.

  ‘Ernesto. How are you, mate?’

  The man did not respond, merely stepping back to pull the inner door open for Charlie while gesturing towards Sophia Velázquez who sat facing them at a table towards the rear of the darkened space.

  Eddie closed the front door behind him then followed, but the big Spaniard moved to obstruct his path further. ‘Not you,’ said Ernesto, eye to eye with Eddie.

  Charlie turned back. ‘He’s with me. He’s me brother’.

  Sophia Velázquez spoke from the back of the room. ‘Your brother will wait for you there’.

  Charlie glanced back at Eddie, who stood facing the bodyguard. To any observers, they would have resembled two boxers at a weigh-in. ‘You alright there, Ed?’

  ‘I’m fine. Go do your thing’.

  ‘You sit there,’ said the Spaniard nodding towards a small bench seat behind Eddie. Eddie sat down and crossed his arms. The Spaniard did likewise, lowering himself onto a metal stool behind him.

  Charlie strode towards the small table at the back of the restaurant where Sophia Velázquez sat facing him.

  ‘Sophia, my darling. How the devil are you?’

  She exhaled her cigarette smoke, her face stern and cold. Charlie pulled out a chair and sat down. The odour of her cigarette was intense, almost caramel sweet. He pointed at the packet of Sobranies. ‘Blimey, they’re a bit pungent. What are they?’

  ‘What do you want, Charlie?’

  He grinned. Sophia Velázquez had always been direct. Charlie had first met her four years earlier when she had sought his help to take down an internal party rival, Albert Betancourt - a rising star in the party and who had been a shoo-in for the role as the Socialist party’s Minister for Agriculture, a position that Velázquez had also coveted. Betancourt would almost certainly have secured the position had certain information about his apparent use of recreational Class-A drugs not come to light. The revelation had come a few days before the regional president was expected to announce his cabinet choices. Instead, Betancourt, who denied the accusations most vociferously, found himself forced to stand down, and history took a different course; Doña Sophia dutifully stepping up to serve her party, and to take her first senior role.

  ‘I need your help,’ said Charlie.

  ‘What help?’ said Velázquez, her eyes trained upon Charlie’s.

  ‘A friend of ours is currently in
police custody’.

  ‘Michael McNaughton?’ said Velázquez, before inhaling on the Sobranie again. ‘This is not a matter I can help you with’.

  Charlie reached over to the black cigarette packet, opened it and examined one of the cigarettes. ‘How much do these flippin’ things cost? Bleedin’ expensive, I reckon’. He pushed the gold and black tube back into the packet and slid it back towards the woman.

  Velázquez was shaking her head.‘I am the minister of finance, industry and energy,’ she said in a slow, assertive tone. ‘The police, the criminal courts…these things I have no influence over’. She blew out a thin plume of smoke from the side of her mouth. ‘Like I said. I cannot help you. You are wasting your time’.

  ‘Actually, I was thinking you could have a word with Mr Velázquez,’ said Charlie. ‘He’s still the regional state prosecutor, ain’t he?’ He sat back, hands on his lap.

  ‘My husband cannot help you,’ she said.

  ‘Can’t or won’t?

  ‘Cannot and would not,’ said Velázquez.

  Charlie chuckled and glanced back towards Eddie and the bodyguard. ‘Does Mr Velázquez know you’re shagging Ernesto over there?’

  Sophia Velázquez laughed. ‘Is that really the best you can do?’

  ‘What?’ said Charlie sarcastically. ‘You’d rather break your devoted hubby’s heart than to persuade him to help me out with one little problem?’

  Sophia Velázquez leaned towards Charlie, an assured expression on her face. ‘I can’t believe I let you into my bed,’ she said, shaking her head again.

  ‘You didn’t complain at the time,’ he replied.

  Velázquez sat back in her chair, straightening her blouse again. ‘I am sorry to disappoint you, Charlie, but my husband and I have an open relationship. You will not get what you want with that squalid tidbit’. She reached for her cigarette packet and lighter, placed it into her red leather handbag and started to stand up. ‘I suggest that you let the legal process take its course. Who knows? Perhaps Mr McNaughton will be released?’ She laughed, clearly aware that this was unlikely. ‘So, as I said. You are wasting your time. And also mine’.

  Charlie remained still, unfazed. He reached into his jacket and pulled a brown envelope from the inside pocket. He placed it down on the table.

  ‘How’s young Alfredo getting on at university? Studying in Paris, ain’t he?’ He scrutinised her face.

  For the first time, Sophia Velázquez seemed less assured. She shot Charlie a hostile glance. Her bodyguard, detecting that his charge was in some way uncomfortable, started to rise from where he sat opposite Eddie in the porch. Sophia Velázquez signalled at him to remain where he was and sat back down herself.

  ‘What…is that?’ she demanded, with obvious trepidation in her voice. Charlie slowly pushed the envelope towards her, but kept his forefinger firmly on it.

  ‘Did you and Mr Velázquez know that little Alfy was…well, how should I put it?’ he whispered. ‘Oh, yeah. A dirty little scag-head queer?’

  ‘You dare bring my son into this?’ she said, her eyes rapidly reddening.

  ‘I do what I have to, Sophia’. He lifted the hand from the envelope. Velázquez remained glaring at it. ‘Open the fucking envelope,’ he snarled.

  She reached for the envelope, her hand trembling, and pulled out the contents, several black and white photos.

  ‘That was in his boyfriend’s flat,’ said Charlie. ‘They were at it for an hour or so, and after that, they shot up. My man thought they’d OD’d for a while. Not a pretty sight. Imagine if the papers got hold of these?’ He shook his head with feigned sympathy.

  Velázquez wiped a tear from her left eye and placed the photographs back in the envelope. ‘I wonder, Charlie. I wonder if your brother over there knows what a monster you really are?’

  Charlie smiled ruefully, glanced over towards Eddie, then fixed his gaze back on Doña Sophia. ‘If Mikey ain’t released within twenty-four hours,’ he stabbed at the envelope, ‘…these will be on the desk of every newspaper editor across Spain before the end of the week’.

  Velázquez, her eyes watering and her bottom lip quivering, fumbled around in her handbag for her silver lighter. ‘You really are a piece of shit, Lawson. Your time will come. Mark my words’. She reached for her cigarettes, but Charlie snatched them away.

  ‘You toffs. You all make the same mistake,’ he said, peering into the packet. ‘Do you know what that is?’

  Velázquez looked up at him, pure venom in her eyes. ‘Illuminate me,’ she hissed.

  ‘You underestimate me. When you look at me, and all you see is some low-life street hustler’. He pulled one of her cigarettes from the packet. ‘But, you’re going to look at me differently soon’. He snapped the cigarette into two pieces, crushed them between his fingers, and dropped the remnants onto the table. ‘Good seeing you again, Sophia’. He pushed his chair back, stood up and walked towards the door.

  Eddie and the Spanish bodyguard stood up in unison as Charlie approached.

  ‘What was that about? Said Eddie.

  Charlie winked at Ernesto and pulled the front door open and beckoned to his brother to leave.

  ‘That,’ said Charlie, ‘…was how you get things done on the Costa del Sol’.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Walking On Egg Shells

  Guillem Montcada, Charlie’s lawyer, arrived at the villa that evening to deliver the news that the state prosecutor had decided, unusually, to drop the charges against Mike.

  The lawyer accepted a glass of white wine from Charlie and sat down on one of the big cream couches. ‘I do not know what you did, Charlie, nor who you spoke to and I have no wish to, but whatever it was, it seems to have been effective’.

  Charlie lifted his wine glass towards Eddie, who sat perched on a barstool, and winked at him. ‘So,’ he said, ‘What time should I get him?’

  Guillem shook his head. ‘You cannot. There will be paparazzi at the police station. And your stalker, that former English policeman, might be there with his camera. I will collect Mr McNaughton and take him home. Remember what I said. You are all walking on eggshells, yes?’

  ‘Furry muff,’ said Charlie. He lit a cigar and sat down opposite the lawyer. ‘That’s one problem sorted, what else do you have for me?’

  Guillem cleared his throat. ‘I made some enquiries with a contact at Scotland Yard,’ he said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I am told that Mr Pickering and his associates have…gone to ground’.

  Eddie, who had been paying scant attention up to that point, now took a sudden interest. ‘You think it was Pickering?’ he asked, replaying the day of the robbery in his head. ‘You think they were somehow involved?’ He glanced at Charlie.

  ‘Who knows? They could have been working with Angus all along? Or with De Boars? Maybe there weren’t no diamonds from the start?’ Charlie stood up, wineglass in one hand, cigar in the other. ‘It would explain why Pickering shot the poor sod, don’t you think?’

  ‘But it was Mikey what suggested bringing Pickering’s crew in on the job,’ said Eddie.

  Charlie pondered on Eddie’s assertion for a moment. ‘Maybe he was in on it as well?’

  ‘Who?’ said Eddie, confused. Charlie looked at him, one eyebrow raised. ‘Wait, you can’t be serious?’

  ‘What are you saying, Charlie?’ said Guillem.

  ‘I’m just sayin’ that it was Mikey what pushed that job on us, said Charlie, waving his cigar in the air. ‘And Bill voted for it after promising he’d support me. You was there at the meeting when it happened, Ed. And Gaz…well, to be truthful, I ain’t never trusted that bloke’.

  ‘Charlie, you’ve run with these boys for years, now you’re suggesting that they’ve all stitched you up,’ said Eddie.

  ‘What about Roger?’ said Eddie.

  Charlie pondered for a moment before responding. ‘Nah, Rog doesn’t have the brains for something like that’.

  ‘Well, it all still sounds
more than a little paranoid, don’t you think?’ said Eddie. Charlie exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke, eyes darting left and right, his mind considering the possibilities.

  ‘I have to say that I agree with Eddie,’ said Guillem.

  ‘Perhaps you are right,’ said Charlie after several seconds, in an unconvincing tone. ‘But someone fucked us over, and that has caused me serious problems’. He took a gulp of his wine before continuing. ‘Which is why I had to borrow five hundred grand from Juan Fernandez’.

  ‘You did what?’ said Guillem, aghast.

  Charlie sat back down. ‘I had to this place and the bar up as collateral. And my share in Roger’s car dealership’.

  The lawyer lifted one of his thin hands to his forehead as if Charlie’s revelation had triggered an instant migraine.

  ‘Who’s Juan Fernandez?’ asked Eddie, trying to keep up with each new revelation.

  ‘Señor Fernandez is a prominent local businessman. Someone with much influence,’ Guillem told him, before swivelling back to face Charlie. ‘He has leverage over you now, Charlie. Why did you not tell me before?’

  ‘I’m telling you now,’ said Charlie. ‘But I had no choice. Without that money, I would have lost the project’.

  Eddie rose to his feet, the potential consequences of this development forming in his head. ‘So, where do we go from here?’

  Charlie peered at his lawyer for an answer.

  ‘I have some better news,’ said Montcada. ‘You need Mr Taylor released in the UK, so you can establish if he remains loyal to you and your crew, yes?’ He was holding his wineglass in front of him, twisting it back and forth between thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Go on,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I spoke to the solicitor in England about the case and he told me the British police are on thin ice, and they know it. It would not take much to force their hand and ensure his release’.

  ‘How are we supposed to do that?’ said Charlie