‘Not a bad tipple, this cheap plonk,’ he teased.
Ibrahim shot him a glance, but didn’t rise to the bait.
‘Can’t believe we pulled it off,’ Charlie marvelled.
‘I know. It’s crazy how after tomorrow you can start a new life. No going mad buying things that will draw attention to you. Flash cars and big houses are off-limits. How about you, Professor? I take it the Collector’s sorted you out?’
‘I have a standard fee for this kind of work, which is more than generous, although any extra donations would be received with gratitude.’
Ibrahim wished he hadn’t asked, knowing full well the evening’s debauchery would leave little change from two grand. The meal combined with VIP tickets to the lap dancing club had already cost three hundred and fifty quid, and he hadn’t even paid for the Professor’s ticket yet. Sod it, I’ve got shit loads, he thought.
‘How about a tasty bird in hot pants sitting on your lap, rubbing her tits in your face?’ he teased the Professor.
‘Bang on. That’ll do for dessert. Most grateful if you could extend to a shag.’
‘You dirty old bugger!’ Charlie said.
‘Well, us old guys rarely get a sniff. I have needs same as the next man,’ he declared like a sex-starved slave.
After the meal they downed brandies and headed over the cobbles to the Smugglers Cove pub, passing the huge Wheel of Liverpool on the way. It turned slowly, LED lights flickering and casting a shimmer of blue across the inlet waters as the light faded across the cloudless sky above the Mersey Estuary.
The dockland warehouse Smugglers Cove occupied retained original stone slabs on the floor, and vaulted ceilings, from which an anchor rope spanned the length of the bar, with crystal brandy decanters, converted into lanterns hanging from it. The bar front displayed a row of eight down-lit glass cabinets, each containing a plethora of nautical memorabilia; glass floats, fishing reels and small barrels of rum..
‘Ahoy, shipmates,’ Charlie jested with a warm brandy glow. ‘I’ll get these,’ he insisted, eager to spend some of his newly acquired wealth. He’d almost forgot what it felt like to buy a round of drinks without worrying about being skint until the next benefit payment.
They polished off another couple of pints, by which time Charlie and the professor were merry as a couple of cabaret drag queens.
A taxi ferried them to Eros Divine. Ibrahim casually paid another seventy quid for the extra VIP ticket. At that moment he felt like a VIP, having just taken receipt of 5 million quid.
They entered the main room past two huge doormen clad in black. The scarlet studied interior, disco balls and low-level lighting didn’t surprise Ibrahim. Whilst Charlie and Prof Newbridge looked as if they were about to self-combust as they gawped at the troop of beauties strutting about the boudoir, virtually naked wearing outrageous platforms. The disco balls sparkling reflections cast tiny diamonds across their pert breasts, which seemed to point seductively at the punters. A group of Japanese businessman were involved in a heady drinking game, whilst two skinny dancers took turns gyrating sleazily around a pole in the centre of their purpose-built booth.
A brunette in a tight basque, which showed her curvaceous figure, asked Ibrahim for his invitation before ushering them to their own booth. Five minutes later the champagne arrived accompanied by three hot dancers: a blonde in a tiny leather micro bikini, who the Prof said looked like Bardot; a mixed-race dancer with massive bangers in a fishnet body stocking; and Ibrahim’s personal favourite, the brunette in the basque.
Charlie sipped champagne, mesmerised as the blonde performed, tantalisingly, inches away from his groin.
Within minutes the professor was warned about his roving hands and sat sitting on them, staring at the mixed-race dancer’s cleavage like a starving dog gawping at meat in a butcher’s window.
Ibrahim on the other hand wasn’t feeling it; even though he found the brunette provocative, his thoughts focused on Katrina. Over the years he’d screwed plenty of lap dancers, but another emotionless conquest just didn’t interest him any more. Not wanting to spoil the old guys’ fun, he discreetly asked the brunette about extending their pleasure. She told him propositioning the dancers could get them unceremoniously thrown out, but for the right price the club’s private suite upstairs was available.
She led Ibrahim to the reception where he negotiated a private session for the old boys with the manager.
After parting with another grand he returned to the booth, and whispered in Charlie’s ear, ‘I’ve treated you and Newbridge to a private showing upstairs. I’m heading back to the hotel now. Get your rocks off and I’ll see you in the morning. Just don’t stay all night? We’ve got business tomorrow.’
The dancers took Charlie and Newbridge along a corridor. The blonde tapped a code into the fire door at the end and led them upstairs like a couple of dogs on leashes. At the top of the landing there was a series of doors each one with its own lock. Within minutes the professor was lying prostrate stripped to his Bell & Smithson Y-fronts and argyle socks on a single bed.
Like a pole propping up a tent, his knob pointed to the ceiling. The beautiful mixed-race dancer tried her best to appear seductive, but was repulsed by the 64-year-old’s perverted company. She grimaced while sliding his pants down, but was shocked at the size of his huge bald member as it cranked back into position.
Drunk and determined to get his money’s worth, the saucy old bugger said, ‘I’m as hard as a diamond cutter. Jump aboard for a ride on my ancient staff!’
She slid a condom on him and climbed on top facing towards the door so she didn’t have to look at his depraved facial contortions while screwing him. The copious amounts of alcohol he’d consumed helped him hold back for at least ten minutes, at which point he let out a groan that sounded like a kicked nanny goat, before erupting like an inactive volcano. The poor woman would be haunted by visions of her encounter with the musty old bastard.
Charlie heard Newbridge’s groans two doors along the corridor, whilst the blonde wantonly flogged his ass with a leather whip.
CHAPTER 95
Despite Blake’s considerable efforts to prove otherwise, the lack of forensic evidence meant he couldn’t charge Carl Bentley with Barry Gibson’s murder. The burnt shoe and ash recovered from a fire basket at his property was so damaged, its evidential value was zero. And even though two of the witnesses eventually confessed they accompanied him for a drink in the White Horse pub on the night of the murder, and his missus proved his alibi was a complete fabrication, they still had nothing concrete, so the whole case against him would never stand up to trial. What they did have was overwhelming evidence he was a drug dealer.
DS Murphy returned from the cells ushering a reluctant Carl Bentley before the custody officer to be formally charged. He looked like shit. The dark moons under his swollen red eyes showed a distinct lack of sleep in the last twenty-four hours.
Blake addressed him. ‘After performing a forensics sweep of your property in Milton our SOCO team discovered over two hundred ecstasy tablets, fifty grams of high-grade heroin and nine ounces of cannabis resin stashed in various locations. Pretty damning evidence, wouldn’t you say? Carl Bentley, I’m charging you on two counts of possession of class A drugs with intent to supply, and one count of possession of a class B drug with intent to supply. Do you have anything to say in response?’
Bentley didn’t reply, but judging by the devastated look on his face he didn’t need to.
CHAPTER 96
Charlie and Newbridge reassembled over breakfast. It was 8.30 a.m. and the old guys looked like death warmed up after a depraved evening at Eros Devine club. The professor gave them a wry smile before announcing he’d banged like a barn door in the wind, until the early hours. They took this with a much larger pinch of salt than Charlie was sprinkling over his monster full English of two eggs, three sausages, three rashers of bacon, beans and hash browns.
‘Just a small breakfast this morning, Charlie?
’ Ibrahim smirked, looking at the lone croissant and two slices of ham and cheese on his plate, which paled in comparison; judging by Charlie’s ghostly complexion the horny old goat needed to refuel depleted energy stores.
They checked out of the Hilton by twelve-thirty. The professor headed south on the 2 p.m. train to Bristol, whilst Charlie dozed off in the passenger seat as Ibrahim cruised down the M6 with two million packed into the boot of his Audi.
When they arrived back in Stoke, Ibrahim made two calls, one to the Collector informing him the crazy prof was on his way to Bristol with the Hoard, and the other to Malcolm Preston for an urgent meeting. He’d not spoke to his accountant for a few days and the fact he wasn’t answering his phone, worried him. Where the bloody hell was he? Maybe he’d taken that break to Kefalonia he’d told Ibrahim he was planning?
Thankfully the bespectacled number cruncher had already set up a private offshore investment company to launder the bank transfer. He’d also distributed the credit cards to each of the board members. He’d structured it to be simultaneously a British public company, tax-resident in Amsterdam, but whose businesses were Swiss-owned. This also included complex tax avoidance schemes for each of the gang. Essentially, each member of the team would be given four hundred thousand in used notes and the rest placed into the company’s Cayman Island bank account, which was partitioned. Each of them had a credit card that could be loaded with a maximum of eight grand a month. As Preston pointed out, this would act as a brake to stop suspicion falling on any large individual purchases.
CHAPTER 97
Boskava was a small fishing village in the shadow of the mountains in the Trabzon province of the Black Sea coast in north-eastern Turkey. Relatively untouched by progress, it was hard to believe many of Europe’s key Turkish Mafia bosses grew up in this idyllic region. But, behind the facade of the beautiful pastel-coloured houses and apartments of the village, lay poverty. Whilst the Black Sea yielded endless shoals of bass, over-fishing and the devastating effects of a large cannery, built three miles along the coast in the seventies, meant local fishermen were left picking up the scraps, or working long hours for low pay at the cannery. Neither option was conducive towards a prosperous life.
Since the mid-seventies a steady stream of young men from the village had been inspired by the success and wealth of the Calkan brothers, who started out with nothing, at the tender age of nineteen, but now owned Casinos, tobacco shops, restaurants and bars in Trabzon and the UK generating millions in tax-free revenue. The unscrupulous pair employed half the village’s young men in one form or another, from tobacco smugglers, to drug mules.
Their rise to wealth had been both swift and defiant. Ibrahim and Yusuf were unwittingly drawn into their web with the lure of easy money running illegal cigarettes to the cannery, whilst skipping school. Watching his father struggle in the field of his smallholding each day galvanised Ibrahim into emulating the Calkan brothers. The rest, as they say, is history.
He’d spoken to his mother and father over the phone, but not seen them for five years. He drove the hire car from the airport through winding roads of lush vegetation and bountiful crops growing on the lower elevations and valleys, below dense pine forests stepping up the hills of the Eastern Black Sea Coast.
Ibrahim sighed, inhaling the hot midday air, immersing all his senses in the nostalgia of home.
The stone cottage where he’d grown up hadn’t changed in years. Its decaying window frames, tired blue door, and red tiled roof sat on the hillside in the blistering sun, like an unkempt relic. He creaked the gate open, and strolled down the gravel path.
Turning the corner he instinctively knew his father would be out back working his crops. His spinach, beans and corn were regarded amongst the best in the region, though life was hard as profit margins were barely enough to see them through the barren winters. His mother sat on a stool, peeling potatoes into a large enamel bowl set on the ground. She dropped the knife and flung her arms around him.
‘Baba! Benim oğlum eve döner. Father! My boy’s returned home!’ she exclaimed, joyously wiping tears from her eyes with a tea towel from the pocket of her faded black dress.
‘Ibrahim! Welcome home, son.’ His father rose from the ground dusting himself off.
His mother fetched two chairs from the kitchen and made tea. The three of them sat on the crazy paving reminiscing whilst sipping tea from small gold-rimmed glasses, loaded with beet sugar. He’d almost forgotten how good Rize Province Tea tasted, the bitter flavour complemented by the kesme şeker sugar.
His father removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. His denim smock and boots bore all the marks of hard labour. He looked tired.
Ibrahim reached into his camouflage shorts pocket and passed over a wad of Lira to him.
The proud man shook his head. ‘Thank you, son, but we cannot accept. We have food,’ he said, guessing the money would have probably come by illegal means. A strict religious upbringing ingrained stubborn values in the old man.
Not wanting to insult him, Ibrahim said, ‘It’s a gift to help, you must take it.’
Knowing her husband’s conviction all too well, his mother quickly changed the subject. ‘How’s your brother, we’ve not heard from him for a while?’
‘He’s in India working on a business project,’ Ibrahim said.
‘India, why there?’ she asked.
‘We have suppliers there.’
Judging by their sons’ colourful past, they knew it would be pointless digging any deeper so dropped the subject.
‘Is he OK?’
‘Yes, he’s fine, don’t worry.’
‘It’s about time you boys married and made me a grandma. There’s plenty of nice Turkish girls in Boskava.’
‘I live in England, Mama.’
‘You could come home?’ she said longingly.
‘And do what? All my business is in England.’
She made sad eyes at him. ‘You could sell up?’
His father shot her a stern look. ‘Azra, the boy has a life in England. We don’t see him often, stop pestering?’
‘It’s OK, Baba.’
That evening Ibrahim ate a traditional meal of fresh water trout, vegetables and laz bread for the first time in five years with his parents.
His mother was clearly elated by the presence of her beloved son.
After the meal they took more tea outside, and Ibrahim suggested taking his father into Boskava for plum brandies.
Apart from the cannery along the coast, the beautiful village remained true to its fishing roots. Whitewashed houses cascaded down the winding mountain road, leading the way to an idyllic beach and harbour. The cobbled streets were lined with traditional properties with wooden shutters, and small balconies of flower baskets in full bloom of pink bougainvillea.
Bar Yomra was an old stone winery squeezed between pastel-coloured waterfront houses and shops on the small harbour.
Proudly introducing his son in Turkish, his dad shook hands with several locals sat playing dominoes at tables perched on the cobbles, in front of the bar. Some of the old guys Ibrahim recognised from childhood.
Taking a seat overlooking the coloured fishing boats, lilting on the ocean, his father waved at the owner and ordered his favourite plum brandy and a pint of lager for his son.
Only minutes after the drinks arrived, Ibrahim had almost drained his glass in one gulp. His dad shot him a look. ‘Slow down, son, you drink too much.’
‘It’s hot, I’ve been travelling most the day.’
‘Your mother worries about you and your brother. We both want to see you more.’
‘We’re doing OK, Papa. It’s great to be back home, but apart from you and Mama there’s nothing here for us any more. You should come to England sometime.’
‘Son, you know your mama won’t go on a plane. I don’t like flying myself. My trip to Istanbul in seventy-one to see uncle Memet was enough for me.’
‘Aeroplanes are much
more modern than that rust bucket you flew on, Papa.’
‘Still, I don’t like them and, besides, your mother gets exhausted these days. She’ll be sixty-eight soon you know?’
‘OK Pa, forget planes for now, let’s enjoy our drink.’
After another round they took a stroll along the harbour. The breeze coming off the ocean felt wonderfully refreshing. A courting teenage couple sat holding hands on an old stone seat, which Ibrahim remembered having his first ever kiss on. How things had changed since then, he thought.
They returned to the stone cottage around ten by which time Ibrahim was shattered. He said goodnight to his parents, kissing his mama before retiring to his childhood bedroom. It felt surreal to be back where he grew up. He’d contemplated booking into a hotel, but knew it would offend his proud parents. Unbelievably, the old hardwood wardrobe he and Yusuf shared stood like a monument to the past in the corner. Glancing in the mirrored door he recalled arguing like fishwives for space on the rail, and in the drawers below. Thankfully they’d replaced the mattress on his old bed frame, which matched the wardrobe. Closing his eyes he drifted off with a warm glow of nostalgia inside.
After washing down a hearty breakfast of Trabzon Pidesi; home-baked bread topped with egg with two glasses of sugar-beet-sweetened tea. Ibrahim set out for a stroll down memory lane of the local area. Apart from a lick of paint and a few new roof tiles, the scattering of traditional houses, which made up the old village, hadn’t altered much since his childhood.
Stopping on the ancient sandstone bridge, which spanned the river, he glanced down at the crystal clear water flowing endlessly over rocks. His eyes followed its winding journey through the lush meadow up towards the snow-capped mountain tops, before spotting the familiar bell dome and Byzantine architecture of the village’s four hundred-year-old church in the distance.
The Killer Shadow Thieves (DI Tom Blake, #1) Page 31