Den of Snakes

by Damian Vargas

  Eddie released Crampton and followed after Charlie. ‘Simon Le Bon’ gawped at Eddie as he sprinted past.

  Charlie pushed in front of the queue for the parking attendant. ‘Gimme my keys,’ Charlie demanded.

  ‘Oi, there’s a fucking queue,’ the man at the front of the line shouted. He was tall and well built, but he still fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes when Charlie slugged him in the gut.

  Eddie stepped towards the shocked attendant. ‘My brother would really like his car keys now’. He held up the numbered token.

  The man reached into the wooden box where the guest’s keys were kept and found the Porsche’s fob. ‘Here you go, sir,’ he said, his lip quivering. ‘It’s…it’s over there’. The man pointed to the Porsche parked under a palm tree.

  ‘Much obliged,’ Eddie replied and handed Charlie the keys.

  ‘If there’s so much as a speck of bird shit on my car, I’m coming back for you,’ Charlie said to the attendant as he strode away towards his car.

  As they got into the car, Eddie asked, ‘So? What’s going on?’

  Charlie twisted the key in the ignition, and the engine burst into life. He slammed the gear stick into first, and the Porsche pulled away with a squeal from the tyres. ‘Well?’ Eddie tried again.

  ‘They had to leave England in a hurry. Police was on to ‘em. They think someone ratted them out’.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Eddie. ‘But why are they here?’ Charlie ignored a set of red lights at a junction, drove straight out onto the main road across the traffic, threw the car into a tight left turn then floored the throttle. A police car sped past on the opposite carriageway a few seconds later.

  ‘He said he’d tell us tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘When we meet them at their place’.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Fucking Cockneys

  ‘I don’t understand why we’re doing this alone,’ said Eddie.

  It was the morning after the events at the Marbella Beach Club, and he was standing next to the silver Porsche in a secluded lay-by off the road to Istan.

  Charlie stood nearby, urinating under a pine tree. They were about three hundred metres up, and overlooking the Embalse de la Concepción, the vast freshwater reservoir that supplies Marbella and much of the Costa.

  Charlie zipped up his fly, wiped his hands on his jeans and walked back to the car. ‘Pickering wanted it this way. Just me and you. They are sure that someone grassed on them. They think it was one of our crew’.

  ‘That’s bullshit,’ said Eddie. ‘We ain’t got nothing to gain in them getting made’.

  ‘I know, Ed. But someone ratted them out. They had to do a bunk overnight. Left everything behind. Pickering is fucking pissed, and he wants answers. More than that. He wants half the haul’.

  ‘Didn’t you tell him the diamonds were fake?’

  ‘Course I did, but they read the papers. They think we made off with ten million quid’s worth’.

  Eddie sized up a large pine cone and aimed it at a spot between two saplings while picturing Keegan’s goal against Argentina in 1980. His football skills let him down, however, and he sliced it against the Porsche’s front wing. Charlie groaned. ‘Sorry, bruv’. He rubbed the new blemish off the silver paint with his sleeve. So what now?’

  ‘We wait. They’ll be here soon. We follow them to wherever they’re hiding away and, well, tell ’em how it is’. Charlie lit up a cigarette.

  ‘And that’s it?’ said Eddie. ‘What if they don’t buy it?’

  ‘Then we talk it out. We make things square, somehow. Nobody wants a war’.

  ‘I’m not so sure. I’ve been around a lot of nutters in my time, and I’m tellin’ you, Pickering’s not right in the head’.

  The sound of a car approaching interrupted the conversation. They watched as a grey Citroen emerged from behind a bank of shrubs from the main road. ‘That’s them,’ said Charlie.

  The Citroen pulled up alongside the Porsche, the engine still running. Eddie could see there were two men inside as Charlie approached the vehicle. Gerry Lannigan, Pickering’s junior lieutenant, wound down the driver’s window.

  ‘How we doin’ this then?’ said Charlie. Lannigan stared at him without answering, a stony expression on his face. Eddie readied himself, expecting the young Londoner to produce a gun. ‘Well?’ Charlie tried again.

  ‘Follow us. Don’t get too close,’ Lannigan replied, before starting to pull away.

  ‘Right,’ said Charlie. ‘I guess we follow them’.

  The Lawson brothers got back into the Porsche and followed the French saloon. After what Eddie guessed was about twenty minutes, they pulled off the tarmac road and onto a long dirt and gravel track that led into a dense pine forest. The trail ascended around small hillocks for about a mile. The Porsche was struggling with the undulations, and the Lawsons were being flung around inside the German coupe.

  ‘Fuck,’ shouted Charlie as the car hit yet another rock. ‘This is killing my suspension’.

  ‘That might be the least of your worries in a minute. Look,’ said Eddie, pointing at a single-story stone building that had just emerged into view. Bobby Pickering stood outside, flanked by four other men. ‘We’re outnumbered seven to two if this goes south. I hope you know what you’re doing, bruv’.

  ‘It’s gonna be fine. Trust me’.

  They pulled up near the cottage and Charlie killed the engine. Pickering walked towards them. ‘Enjoy the ride?’ he said, grinning. ‘C’mon, kettle’s on’. He turned and walked back to the building’s open front door.

  Eddie looked at Charlie. ‘All this for a cup of tea?’ he whispered. Charlie shrugged and climbed out of the Porsche. Eddie followed his brother.

  Three of the East End crew stood outside as sentries. One was carrying a pump-action shotgun, the other two had pistols stuffed into their waists. They scrutinised Eddie and Charlie as they entered the cottage.

  Pickering was sitting at a wooden table upon which were three mugs of tea. He gestured towards two empty chairs. ‘Ain’t no sugar, sorry,’ he said.

  Eddie moved to a chair that offered the best view of the door. Charlie sat opposite Pickering. ‘Okay, we came. So let’s talk,’ he said.

  Pickering pulled a packet of cigarettes and a metal lighter from out of his shirt pocket. He extracted one cigarette, lit it and sat back, saying nothing.

  ‘Bobby, what do you want?’ said Eddie. Charlie shot him a look - let me do the talking!

  Pickering took a long look at Eddie, then chuckled. ‘Some of my boys out there think we should blow your brains out. They think you stitched us up. But I like you. Both of you’.

  ‘I told you, Bobby,’ said Charlie. ‘We got scammed. Someone switched the diamonds on us. All we had was useless rocks -’.

  ‘Quartz,’ said Pickering. ‘Yeah, you said that last night. Thing is, that’s a bit hard for the boys to swallow. You get that, right?’ He peered at Eddie again.

  ‘You got paid for the job, didn’t you?’ said Eddie. ‘We got fuck all, except now we’ve got TV reporters climbing up our arses, watching every move we make. I reckon you came out of it cushty’.

  Charlie kicked him under the table. ‘What my brother means, is that we did what we agreed. We paid you the seventy five grand after the job. It’s us what’s out of pocket’.

  ‘Yet here you are, living peaceful lives in paradise, all safe and sound. You, your crew, your little brother here. Wives, girlfriends, enormous villas, posh apartments, gold Rolexes and fancy sports cars’.

  ‘We had all that before, Bobby. We got nothing from this job,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I believe you. I reckon the entire job was a stitch-up from the start. My guess is your inside man was trying to take us all for a ride. Maybe the depot manager was in on it? Or your man Gary even? Who the fuck knows? But we got shafted. That I know’.

  ‘If you believe that then why are we sitting here drinking shit tea halfway up a mountain?’ said Eddie.

  ‘Coz, me and
my crew were almost nabbed. And you lot weren’t,’ Pickering snarled. ‘I lost everything. My house, cars, all the dosh I had stashed away - what took me ten fucking years to build up. What I took a lot of fucking risks for. It all went when the filth raided my gaff. My boys here are in the same boat’.

  ‘That’s not on us,’ said Eddie.

  ‘Ain’t it?’ said Pickering.

  Eddie began to reply, but Charlie put his hand across his chest. ‘Bobby,’ he said. ‘Why would we burn you? We ain’t got no reason to do that. There’s nothing to gain’.

  ‘That’s what I kept tellin’ myself. It didn’t make no sense to me, neither. But then it hit me. What if, and it was just me speculating at first, but what if the reason you boys all got it so good out here, is because you did a deal?’

  ‘Deal? What deal?’ said Charlie.

  ‘I’ve heard the rumours - “Charlie Lawson has this ex-KGB spook spying on everybody. Politicians, businessmen, fellow Brits. Gathering shit on them. Blackmailing them to get his way, to get deals done”’.

  Charlie sighed. ‘It’s not like that, Bobby. I don’t do deals with the old bill,’ he said.

  ‘So you say, Charlie. So you say’. Picking fiddled with his cigarette for a moment, then looked at Eddie. ‘But soldier boy here does,’ he said.

  ‘You what?’ said Eddie.

  ‘What the bleedin’ hell are you talking about?’ said Charlie. ‘My brother ain’t no snitch’.

  ‘You sure about that?’ Pickering looked over his shoulder and nodded towards Lannigan. ‘Bring him in’. He twisted back around, picked up his mug and took a drink of the tea. ‘Ugh. You weren’t wrong. This tea really is shit’. He tossed the cup into the empty stone fireplace where it smashed.

  Lannigan returned, accompanied by two more of the East End crew who were lugging a fourth man in through the door. His feet had been bound, and he had a bloodied sack over his head, but Eddie recognised the bright yellow shirt and sunburned, freckled arms. One of the crew kicked the back of the hooded man’s knees and forced him to kneel in front of Charlie. Lannigan handed Pickering an expensive-looking Nikon SLR. Pickering examined the camera.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Charlie. Pickering reached towards the trembling man and pulled the hood off to reveal Philip Metcalf, bloodied, bruised and with duct tape around his mouth. He was shuddering.

  ‘DCI Philip Metcalf. But I gather you know him already. We caught him sniffing around the back of your bar, Charlie. Then we took a brief visit to his hotel room in Marbella. You can imagine our surprise when we found photos and recordings of you, your crew and Eddie here. Did you know your brother had a pleasant lunch with him at…what’s the place called?’

  ‘Marlon’s,’ said Lannigan, while handing Pickering a notepad.

  ‘Marlon’s, yeah. That’s it’. Pickering held up the pad to show Metcalf’s scribbled notes. ‘Eddie and him had a really nice chat it seems’.

  ‘It weren’t like that,’ said Eddie.

  ‘It fucking looks that way to me’.

  ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree,’ said Charlie. ‘Metcalf’s been on our case for months. Years, even. He tried to get us for a job we did in the seventies. He’s not even a copper no more. They suspended him for going off-piste. He’s just a sad, lonely old fuck with nothing else to do’.

  ‘I don’t see it that way,’ said Pickering. ‘What I see is you lot cavorting around in the sun without a care in the world with all your fancy things, living the life of Riley. Even when they nab one of you, you get off with it. Mikey getting released here in Spain, for instance. Bill getting off the hook back in Blighty. Yet they came for me and my boys. How’s that happen, hey Charlie?’

  ‘You got it all wrong, Bobby,’ Charlie replied.

  ‘Prove it to me’.

  ‘How do we do that, Bobby? What do you want?’ said Charlie. Pickering grinned. He stood up and pulled a revolver from his pocket.

  Fuck, is this it? Thought Eddie.

  ‘First, I want some cash. I like it down here. We might stick around. I figure two hundred grand will get us set up’. Pickering extracted four cartridges from the gun.

  ‘And?’ said Charlie.

  ‘And I want Eddie here to end this mother fucking rozzer’. Pickering held out the revolver. ‘You got two rounds. One in the heart, one in the head. We’ve already had him dig his own hole outside. You drove right past it. Gerry here will escort you both there and see it gets done’. Lannigan lifted up the pump-action shotgun and gestured at Eddie to get up. Pickering stepped in front of Eddie as he got up from the chair.

  ‘If you try anything, your brother will find a nine-millimetre gap between his eyes. Are we clear?’ Eddie glared at Pickering, hands curled ready to spring at the East Ender. Lannigan pointed the shotgun at Eddie. ‘I said, are we fucking clear?’

  ‘Pick up your fuckin’ pig buddy,’ said Lannigan.

  Metcalf looked up at Eddie. He had an open gash above his left eye, and his nose was bloated and encrusted in dried blood. His eyes were full of desperation. Eddie looked to Charlie for support, but he averted his gaze.

  ‘This is wrong,’ he said.

  Pickering tapped on his watch. ‘The clock’s ticking, Edward.

  Lannigan cut the tape around Metcalf’s feet. ‘Run piggy, run,’ he laughed.

  Eddie put an arm around Metcalf’s torso and gently lifted him from his crouching position. The former policeman tried to say something. He was, no doubt, pleading for his life, but the sound was muted by the duct tape.

  The impromptu grave was by the side of the track, close to the parked cars. It had been well chosen, being hidden from view by the dense forest beyond. It was only a hundred yards from the cottage, but Metcalf had taken a severe beating from the East End gang and was limping.

  ‘Get it done,’ said Lannigan, pointing the shotgun at Eddie.

  ‘You know there’s a farmhouse just the other side of this hill, said Eddie. ‘They’ll hear the gunshots, for sure’.

  The young East Ender shook his head. ‘They’ll just think it’s hunters shooting pigs or something. Get on with it’.

  ‘Boars,’ said Eddie.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Wild boars. That’s what they hunt in these parts. Not ‘pigs’. It’s an important part of their culture’.

  The East Ender raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t fuckin’ care what the fucking dagos shoot. What I want is for you to kill this poxy cop.’

  ‘But that’s the thing,’ Eddie replied. ‘It ain’t hunting season. Not for a few months. If anyone hears gunshots now, they’ll be straight onto the Spanish cops, won’t they?’ The East Ender appeared confused. Loyal he was. Bright, he was not. ‘But it’s alright, Gerry. I got an idea. Keep your gun on the copper’. He started towards the Porsche.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Lannigan demanded. He lifted the shotgun to his arm and trained it at Eddie’s torso.

  ‘Getting the tire iron. We’ll do it the old fashioned way. Much quieter…and a lot more fun’.

  ‘Tire iron? Are you fuckin’ mad?’

  Eddie ignored the younger man. ‘Here you are,’ he said, holding up the glossy black lever. He swung it through the air like a mini baseball bat. ‘That’ll do the job. Don’t you reckon?’ Eddie looked at the shaking Metcalf and chuckled. ‘C’mon, Gerry. You hold him’.

  ‘You think he’ll do it?’ said Pickering. He sat observing Charlie, his pistol on the table next to him. ‘Didn’t look to me like he had the stomach for it’.

  Charlie grimaced back at him. ‘He’s a soldier. It’s what they do’. The sound of two muted pistol shots echoed out. Charlie breathed a sigh of relief, but his respite was short-lived. The sound of a shotgun blast followed. Then another.

  Pickering rose to his feet. ‘Something’s wrong’. He pulled out his pistol and shoved it into Charlie’s side.

  ‘Get up,’ he ordered. ‘Outside’.

  Pickering, Charlie and the other five East Enders stepped out of the
stone building then fanned out, holding a variety of weaponry. The forest was deadly silent.

  ‘Gerry?’ one man called out.

  A faint cry came from behind the cars. It sounded like Eddie. ‘Over here,’ he called. The group cautiously approached the front of the cars, then moved around the side towards the site of the makeshift grave. Lannigan lay face down in the dirt. The back of his head was missing, a patch of blood and brain matter next to the body. Eddie lay behind the Porsche, groaning and holding his side.

  ‘What the fuck happened?’ Pickering screamed. He pointed his pistol at Eddie. ‘You killed Gerry’.

  ‘No, no,’ said Eddie, panting’. He lifted his hands to reveal a small hole in his now bloodied shirt. ‘It was Metcalf. Your boy, Gerry, slipped over in the mud and dropped the shotgun. Metcalf tried to grab the revolver from me, twisted it towards my gut and shot me. Then he shot your boy in the head’.

  ‘You’re fucking lying,’ screamed the East Ender.

  ‘Had Gerry killed anyone before?’ said Eddie. Pickering didn’t answer. ‘I thought not. He fucking froze’. Eddie moaned. ‘Shit, I think the bastard got me in the spleen. I need a doctor’.

  ‘Where’s the fucking cop?’ Pickering shouted, waving the Browning around like he was trying to swat mosquitos with it.

  Eddie pointed to the back of the Porsche. ‘I got him in the back as he tried to run’.

  ‘Why’s he in my fucking car?’ said Charlie appearing to be more concerned about the state of his upholstery than the recent demise of two human beings.

  ‘Coz, we need to dispose of the body. Properly. The geezer was a fucking cop. You don’t want some nosy dog walker coming across the corpse in a few weeks time. We need to weigh the body down and sink it in the lake down there. Make fish food of it’. Eddie moaned again and looked at his wound. ‘I think the bullet’s still in there’. Pickering walked over to the back of the Porsche. Metcalf’s crumpled body lay across the rear bucket seats. The back of his yellow shirt was peppered with buckshot, and crimson with blood. Pickering cocked his pistol and lifted the rear hatch.