Tight Lies

by Ted Denton

  ‘He’ll be here for quite some time I should think. We’ll determine the best course of treatment for his injuries. He will need surgery, but we need to check him for signs of internal bleeding. He seems to have been beaten pretty badly. I have my instructions to look after him. You’ve done your bit. He’s in safe hands now.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said holding his gaze before getting to my feet and stepping to where the Target lay stretched out, motionless. I placed my free hand on the back of Daniel Ratchet’s head and held it there tenderly for a moment. Nodded once at the doctor. About turned. Never looked back.

  Chapter 48

  ENGLAND. HAMPSHIRE. FARNBOROUGH AIRPORT.

  The Lear Jet sat idling on the runway strip at Farnborough Airport as the pilot completed his final checks. Inside the opulent cabin was a short martini bar, a very large flat screen and two white leather swivel chairs that faced each other across a faux marble table. Boris Golich sat impassively in one of the seats, speaking on the phone. The blonde head of a young stewardess bobbed up and down under the table, busying herself in his lap.

  ‘Boris Golich for Trade Minister Zhou,’ he barked into the handset. He waited a beat for the familiar voice of the Chinese politician to answer. ‘Zhou, it’s Boris. I’m willing to resume our discussions. The British have got cold feet on the gas deal. There is a considerable opportunity for The People’s Republic to secure this vast natural resource for yourselves and leverage the desperation of our naïve Argentinean friends. You know my terms. You have until close of business tonight.’

  He hung up the phone with a single jab of his stubby forefinger and slightly adjusted the angle of his seat. As the hum of the jet engines increased in pitch, Boris Golich lazily produced an oversized Cuban cigar from his jacket pocket and scorched it alight. The wheels left the runway and folded neatly into the undercarriage of the plane.

  A contented look settled across his perfectly lineless face.

  Chapter 49

  ENGLAND. SUSSEX. GATWICK AIRPORT.

  The airport bar was quiet and dimly lit. An elderly couple sat together wordlessly, content in the silence of each other’s company. An impossibly young-looking bartender stood, shuffling from foot to foot, looking bored. A man occupied the corner table with his back to the bar, a bottle of Scotch and two glasses set before him. I moved across the room and joined him silently. He filled the glasses.

  ‘To Mickey,’ he said as he raised his glass.

  ‘To Mickey,’ I repeated solemnly. Took a deep swallow of the golden liquid.

  Charles Hand refilled the glasses. ‘To fallen comrades,’ he said draining his whiskey.

  ‘Fallen comrades.’

  ‘It’s good to see you, Thomas. You did well out there, in a difficult situation. You recovered the Target. Alive. Daniel Ratchet is safe thanks to us. He’ll recover from his injuries given time. We can get the lad back to his parents.’

  ‘It was touch and go for a while, boss.’

  ‘I know. They don’t mess about, the Russian mob. They’re a nasty, uncompromising group of individuals.’ He paused. ‘I trust that you made them pay for killing Mickey, Thomas. I know it must have hurt you. Badly. Watching as it all happened so fast and being powerless to help him. I hope it didn’t stir up bad memories. Mickey was one of the best.’

  I nodded. A lump in my throat.

  The Hand of God pushed back his chair. Rose. Pushed a brown padded envelope across the table towards me. ‘Ten thousand pounds as usual. Plus ten for bringing him back alive. Take some time off, Thomas. I’ll be in touch when we need you again. And for crying out loud, take Ella out for dinner or something, will you? That poor girl keeps asking after you.’

  I was still grinning as he walked away.

  I sat in silence, alone, lost in thought for a while. The fine Scotch whiskey was slowly diminishing in the bottle before me as I greedily savoured the mellow, peaty flavour. I gathered myself and checked my phone for any messages. An unopened text from Ella sat neglected:

  So sorry about Mickey. We all loved him Tom. xoxo

  I blinked back a tear. Figured I might just take the Hand of God up on his suggestion after all.

  But no sooner had it entered my mind than that thought melted like rooftop snow on a hot chimney stack. Standing at the entrance to the bar was a curvaceous red-haired woman with white porcelain skin, hugging a man and pulling two tiny children close into her legs. They said their goodbyes and she stood as they walked away, still waving after them for some time. Finally, she turned and, pulling a smart red case behind her, she wiggled into the bar. I watched as she stood deliberating, just a couple of metres from me, and eventually ordered a drink. The skin-tight, three-quarter length creme trousers and red high heels she wore perfectly accentuated the plumpness of her rounded bottom. I felt the warm glow of the whiskey in my stomach. She turned, clutching a bottle of beer, her French Tip nails wrapped tightly around the neck. She was looking for a place to sit. I kicked the chair opposite me out from under the table and gestured to it. She smiled and looked awkwardly around.

  ‘It’s okay. I don’t bite you know,’ I said. And then, ‘Please. Join me. I could use the company.’

  She thought about it for a moment and then, seeming to shrug almost imperceptibly, she stepped across towards me smiling and eased herself into the chair. ‘That’s quite the line’ she threw back at me, manicured eyebrows raised challengingly. ‘What happened to your arm?’ She eased a perfectly painted fingernail down the sling.

  I leaned forward eagerly. ‘I could tell you, but I don’t think you would believe me.’

  ‘Try me. I might like it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Sure stud. Somehow I’m starting to think I might enjoy hearing about you getting badly injured.’

  ‘Ah well. You know, it was just the usual shit. Saving kittens from trees. Rescuing damsels in distress, that kind of thing.’

  She snorted. ‘You must be some kind of regular hero then,’ she teased.

  I flashed my best lopsided grin. ‘I do my best.’ Held her gaze for a second too long. ‘So, listen. I’m only going to say it once. So, you can pretend you didn’t hear me, finish your drink, and carry on with your life. But you look like the kind of girl who might be just crazy enough to be able to step outside of the predictable boring bubble of this existence every now and then. Might realise that we’re really only on this rock for a tiny amount of time. Might grab an adventure in life when one happens to come along. I like that. And I like you.’

  She looked down at her drink and smiled. A few seconds later she flashed back up at me, big eyes open wide. ‘Say it then,’ she whispered.

  ‘Your flight better not leave anytime soon. My hotel is close by.’

  She groaned quietly. Then the hint of a cruel smile flickered on the corners of her mouth. ‘I hope you have two rooms reserved stud. One for you and one for your ego! Go to hell big boy and if I were you, I would retire those useless chat up lines for good.’

  My jaw slackened.

  She pushed back her chair, took a swig of beer and walked casually away. I watched after her in disbelief, her hips rolling as she crossed the bar. She knew for damn sure I was looking. Finally, reaching the exit to the bar, she half-turned her head back towards me and delivered a deep sultry wink. Then she was gone.

  Golden.

  Chapter 50

  ENGLAND. SURREY. WENTWORTH. EUROPEAN TOUR HEADQUARTERS.

  Five weeks had passed by since Tom Hunter had rescued him from his Vory kidnappers. Daniel Ratchet had felt strong enough to fly back to the UK. He had healed well under the discreet supervision of Doctor Cavestendros in Barcelona. Charles Hand had facilitated Mr and Mrs Ratchet in visiting the Spanish hospital to see their son. The whole saga had been a blur. Draining. Daniel felt as if he had been caught up and spat out by a spiteful tornado. He wasn’t quite sure what was actual memory and what had twisted into cruel imagination.

  He walked slowly up the steps of the smart Europea
n Tour Headquarters in Wentworth, tucked away in an affluent and leafy part of the Surrey countryside. His stomach churned with apprehension. This was the chance to tell his side of the story. To seek some redress with the Tour and finally expose the tournament fixing in which the Rublex Corporation, principal sponsor of the European game, was so instrumental. He had managed to speak briefly to Silvio by phone and had agreed to meet him here as a representative of Crown Sports.

  He entered the building and was shown into an empty room, flooded with natural sunlight. It was airy and oval shaped. The walls were adorned with paintings of various sizes, mostly depicting early Scottish golfing scenes, consisting predominantly, it seemed, of men in cloth caps swinging primitive looking wooden clubs at leather balls. Ratchet waited nervously for both Francis Broome, Chief Executive of the European Tour, and Silvio to arrive.

  Fifteen minutes passed. Then thirty. Daniel paced around the room fretfully. Perhaps he had he got the wrong time. Or had they forgotten about him? Surely the matters he had come to discuss would be considered significant enough to warrant granting him an audience. He bristled.

  Finally the double doors to the room opened and Francis Broome entered carrying a large leather-bound portfolio wallet. They shook hands and each chose seats around the fine antique walnut table.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear of your recent trials and tribulations, Daniel,’ began Broome. ‘We all are, I speak on behalf of the entire Tour. I know you had just joined us as an agent representing some of our players not so long ago, but we’re a close-knit family in golf, and we were all so shocked. Especially coming at a time when we have had to contend with the terribly sad deaths of Rublex Corporation sponsorship director Sergei Krostanov, long-standing coach Bob Wallace and physiotherapist Michael Hausen. It’s been a torrid time.’

  ‘It’s all connected. I was kidnapped by Sergei Krostanov.’

  ‘I’ve seen the police report,’ Broome interrupted, cutting him short. Curt, direct.

  ‘They kidnapped me because I found out about corruption on the Tour. Tournament fixing and unfair undue influence upon many of your key players is rife. The caddies are running an illegal gambling and enforcement ring. It’s all bloody fixed. It’s a sorry disgrace.’ Daniel was enraged. He rose from his seat clenched fists on the table, glaring.

  ‘Daniel, please calm down. We appreciate that you’ve been through a lot but I really can’t sanction such overblown accusations. I won’t permit you to besmirch the good name and reputation of the European Golf Tour and our major sponsor. You must be careful that you don’t stray into the realms of slander with what you are saying. It’s highly contentious.’ Broome reprimanded him like he was a child. ‘The truth of the matter is that you have been through quite an ordeal. It is known that this can affect someone emotionally. Distort their perceptions so to speak. Sergei kidnapped and tortured you, yes. That has been corroborated. And a dreadful situation that was.’ He stepped towards the window and looked away from Daniel unable to hold his eye. ‘But whatever criminal actions he took he did so in his own name. They are saying that he snapped. He’s been overworked and under immense pressure to deliver the sponsorship programme for Rublex and it got too much for him. This “breakdown” he suffered manifested itself in the terrible criminal behaviour he inflicted upon you. It proves that he was in a disturbed state of mind in that he went on to take his own life shortly after in a motor accident. He must have been feeling enormous guilt for his actions and the suffering caused. It was appalling what you’ve endured, Daniel, but I maintain that this can only be viewed as the individual and isolated criminal behaviour of a man with personal psychological issues. It is simply not relevant to call into question the probity of the European Golf Tour as an organisation. All this talk of cheating is complete and utter nonsense, I’m afraid. We have conducted an internal root and branch review for our own reassurance and it has turned up nothing. We did find a little evidence of some high jinks from some of the nefarious caddies to which you refer and since then a portion of these disaffected freelancers have moved themselves along and off the Tour, in the wake of so much sorrow.’

  Daniel was exasperated now. ‘I have evidence. It’s all documented. I can prove it. Rublex is ruining the Tour. Why won’t you listen to me?’

  ‘Daniel, Daniel, come now, this is pure fantasy. Rublex is the European game’s greatest benefactor in our history. They’ve committed to invest over a hundred million pounds into our Tour through sponsorship and activation to drive the development of the sport in countries all over Europe. I believe that it is one of their principal business engagement activities. They just simply wouldn’t do anything to endanger that. Where is this evidence you speak of?’

  ‘It’s all saved on a stats programme on my tablet. I’ve even got a video recording of Sergei and Andy Sharples discussing the corruption at the highest level.’

  ‘Show me.’

  ‘I don’t have it. I left it for Matilda Axgren to hold for safe keeping in the physio-truck before I was taken.’

  ‘I see. Well perhaps we had better ask her ourselves then?’

  Daniel felt the blood drain from his face at the mention of her name. Matilda. Here. Right now. He hadn’t been able to contact her from the hospital. She hadn’t been traceable. How he wanted to hold her in his arms again.

  ‘Is Matilda here?’ he stammered.

  ‘Yes. And Silvio Flavini of Crown Sports, whom you also know.’

  ‘I was wondering what had happened to Silvio, we agreed to meet here. He’s fully aware of everything I’ve been saying. You must ask him yourself, he’ll verify it.’

  The older man stood up, ensuring the integrity of the crease in his trousers as he rose. He ambled across the room, opened the double doors, and disappeared for a brief moment. When he returned, he was accompanied by Matilda and Silvio. Daniel stood. She looked beautiful. Yet different to how he had remembered. More grown up, perhaps. Distant somehow. She wore a black business suit, tailored to show off her striking figure, skirt cut just above the knee. No jewellery. Daniel had never seen her looking so professional. But there was something he couldn’t place. Her long platinum blonde hair was worn in a tight bun tied behind her head. She carried a smart new Louis Vuitton satchel. She didn’t make eye contact with him as she entered the room. Silvio, in corduroy trousers and a casual open neck shirt, was heavily tanned, as always. But Daniel sensed that he was more uneasy than his typical gait, not projecting the usual smooth and relaxed demeanour. He greeted Daniel with a little wave and the hint of an awkward smile, choosing to keep the table between them.

  ‘Daniel,’ began Broome, ‘I would like to introduce you to the new team at the head of Rublex European Tour golf sponsorship.’

  Daniel felt his knees buckle. He gripped the table for support. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘Matilda has replaced Sergei following his breakdown and absence from the job due to overwork and stress. And of course the tragic road accident. Despite your personal situation, I’m sure you’ll concur that it’s also a difficult time for her having lost her fiancé. She is still grieving. Silvio will be supporting her in implementing the sponsorship across the Tour on secondment from Crown Sports.’

  Daniel had heard nothing after fiancé. Head spinning. Then it landed. Hard. No jewellery. It was the first time that he had seen her without her “mother’s” engagement ring, the ring that she claimed she wore to protect herself. That she claimed she wore to feel close to her lost family. All lies. The black suit seemed to show she was in-mourning for Krostanov.

  Daniel looked at Matilda with disgust. ‘Sergei? Your fiancé all along? How could you?’

  Matilda said nothing.

  He flipped. ‘Breakdown? Road accident? Is that what you are insisting on calling it?’ Daniel Ratchet was shouting down at Francis Broome, an unfathomable situation that would have been absurd to consider not more than three months ago. ‘That bastard kidnapped me, beat me, nearly bloody killed me, and you call it a
breakdown? At least I know his death was no accident. He got what he deserved, executed by the man who saved me. Someone with honour in his blood.’ He looked across at Matilda, daring to meet her gaze for the first time. Pale watery blue eyes stared back defiantly. ‘How the hell could you work for Rublex, Matilda? You know what’s been going on. Didn’t you find the tablet I hid for you? All the evidence is on it. The video recording of Sergei discussing the fixing of events so they could manipulate the odds in their illegal gambling ring and cheat the big money Asian gamblers. My programme outputs detailing the tournament fixing patterns, the statistics analysis coupled with electronic versions of sponsorship contracts for individual players incentivising them to throw places and drop shots.’

  ‘You mean this tablet, Daniel?’ Matilda said coldly, fishing in her satchel and producing the computer.

  ‘Yes! Thank you. All the evidence is on there. Finally you’ll see I was right all along.’

  ‘There’s nothing on here, Daniel. I don’t know what you mean. I found the computer you left for me on the desk in the truck. I’ve been through everything and there is no data that you speak of. I discussed matters at great length with Mr Golich, owner of Rublex, about the way forward and he was most obliging. And, of course, regarding my future on the Tour with the advice of the kind Mr. Broome,’ she smiled beatifically towards him. ’There is no evidence of this corruption. Somehow you are confused.’

  She found the tablet I left for her on the desk in the truck? I didn’t leave my tablet on the desk. It can’t be so. Is she lying to me again?

  ‘Matilda. I trusted you. I loved you. How could you betray me like this?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. What we had wasn’t special. I was merely playing my part in helping Sergei to secure the players for his sponsorship contracts. I need this job. I have to pay for the treatment and care for my brother. Sergei was firstly a mentor of mine. We met when I was studying in Russia and later he got me the physiotherapy job on the Tour. He knew my desperate family situation and we came to an understanding. Over time our relationship blossomed. There was always every aspiration for me to progress within Rublex given my background of studying business. My degrees. You won’t stop that from happening.’