I walk over to Footballer Dad and chuck the whole bucketful of freezing water straight at him. It soaks his head, his chest and a lot of the wall. Ideally, I’d get him full in the face, but that’ll have to wait until he’s a little more alert.
The effect is electrifying. He jerks his head up and performs a few high-pitched inhalations as the cold kicks in. I go back to the sink, fill up another bucket and throw that one over him as well. This time, I get his face and his full attention.
He screws up his eyes to clear the water and shakes his head from side to side like a wet dog. He’s shivering and panting, his bloodshot eyes staring straight at me and he’s probably wondering just what the fuck’s going on. One minute he’s strolling down old Piccadilly calling a pretty girl a stinking whore and the next he’s in Hell. He coughs up some water he’s inhaled and spits it onto the floor.
I have to try and see things from his point of view. This will be the first time he’s actually got a good look at me. He got a glimmer when I assaulted him in the street, but after that it would have been all agony, delirium and pressure points. He’s totally disorientated. He’s in pain. He has no idea who I am, where he is or why he’s here. This is good, and I’m going to keep him in the dark for a little while longer.
‘What is it?’ he says, his teeth chattering. ‘Who are you? What d’you want? Is this some bleedin’ queer thing?’
I don’t say anything. I just look at him. He doesn’t like this. His voice has an unpleasant rasping quality, which I realise is probably my doing. I’d almost forgotten that I’d whacked him hard in the throat back in Piccadilly. I heard the crunch of the cartilage. I know what that feels like and under other circumstances I might be a little sympathetic. His bafflement has now turned to aggression.
‘I don’t know who you are, mate, but you better let me out of here right this fuckin’ minute.’ He allows himself a quick, frenzied, futile struggle against the zip ties. ‘You are dead, my son, you are fuckin’ dead.’
He’s angry. He grinds his front teeth together so hard I’m afraid he might chip them. He expands his muscles in another useless attempt to damage the zip ties. I fill the kettle up with water and switch it on. There’s some instant coffee left in a tin of Douwe Egberts Continental Coffee Rich Roast and it seems to be OK, so I put a spoonful in one of the mugs and wait, staring at him and saying nothing. Understandably, he still wants to chat: he’s hoping to make sense of what’s going on here and is looking for feedback.
‘Who are you? Are you that slut’s boyfriend or something? You piece of shit. You chickenshit fucker. You’re fucking queer, aren’t you. Why’ve you taken your shirt off? You fucking let me out of here or I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll rip your fucking guts out. I’ll rip your guts out and shit in the hole. You are fucking going to wish you were dead when I’ve finished with you. You piece of fucking queer crap.’
He struggles once more. It’s a waste of time. The kettle boils and clicks itself off. As I make my coffee, I take a long look at my Footballer Dad. I haven’t decided precisely what I’m going to do with him yet. I know that he’ll pick up on this and it’ll make him even more uncertain about what’s happening and how he should react. I can hear the thump of a bass guitar coming from the nearby rehearsal studio and I’m suddenly aware of a strong smell of chips.
I take a sip of coffee, pick up the kettle of boiling water and walk towards him. His eyes widen and for a second he looks frightened, then he looks contemptuous and scowls a little, like he’s been threatened with boiling water a million times in the last fortnight and it’s nothing to him. I hold the kettle up, glance at it and then look at him.
‘You thought I was going to pour boiling water over you. It never occurred to me. That would be terrible. Can you imagine what that would feel like? A whole kettle of boiling water all over your face? Or actually poured down your throat? Or emptied all over your crotch? It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it.’
He’s looking at me like he wants to kill me, but his tone has changed.
‘Listen, mate. I don’t know what all this is about, but if you’re smart – and I think you are – you’ll let me out of here now. You have no idea what shit you’re in if you keep me here. I’ll just walk out the door of this place and you’ll never see me again.’
‘The problem with the boiling water is, of course, that you’d scream. This is quite a busy area. Somebody might hear. To be honest with you, I can’t imagine what it would feel like to have boiling water poured all over your face. You’d probably be blinded at the very least. There is one way out of it, though. The screaming, that is.’
I take the kettle back over to the table and put it down. I get one of the filthy hand towels, soak it under the cold tap and walk towards my Footballer Dad. He knows what I’m going to do, closes his mouth tightly and turns his head to the side. He’s struggling like crazy, but it’s no good. He’s helpless. I pinch his nose hard so he has to open his mouth to scream and then stuff a good wodge of the towel inside. He has to nose breathe now and it’s not easy for him. His eyes are bulging and his face is going red.
I walk back to the metal table, take another sip of coffee and turn the kettle on again. I stare at him with expressionless eyes and I can feel his fear. His breathing is uneven and once more he starts to strain against the zip ties, trying to rock the chair from side to side. It doesn’t work, not least because of the pain he’ll be feeling in his shoulders, arms and wrists every time he moves. I don’t know why he’s bothering. Maybe he’s hoping for a miracle. He’s in the wrong place for miracles.
The kettle takes about fifty seconds to boil, though for Footballer Dad it must seem forever. When it finally clicks off and I pick it up and flash him a brief, sympathetic smile, it’s too much for him. He makes a valiant but unsuccessful attempt to spit the towel out of his mouth then resignedly nods his head up and down, indicating that he’s ready to talk.
We both know I’d have done it.
I drag the other chair across the floor and sit directly in front of him.
‘OK. I’m going to ask you a few questions and I expect you to answer them quickly and accurately. If I sense for a second that you’re not telling me the whole truth, or are holding something back, or are being smart, you’ll be punished, and the punishment will be unpleasant and extreme.
‘You asked me earlier why I’d taken my shirt off. The answer to that is that I don’t want your blood spraying all over it. I’m sure you know how difficult it is to get blood stains out of cotton.’
I lean forward and pull the towel out of his mouth. He shakes his head from side to side and gasps. ‘You really don’t know what you’re up against, mate. You are so fucked it’s not true.’
He starts laughing, secure in the knowledge of his superior position in this encounter.
‘OK. First question. This is the second time, to my knowledge, that you’ve harassed that young lady in the street. What’s going on? What’s happening?’
He laughs. I can smell cheap fags on his breath. ‘I just don’t like the bitch. She fucks me off, the little whore. She was lucky I didn’t drag her off somewhere and…’
I flick my fist out in a punch that’s so fast he doesn’t even have time to blink before it crushes what’s left of the cartilage in his nose. Luckily, the blood doesn’t spray but just trickles. Footballer Dad looks somewhat displeased and grimaces in agony.
‘Oh, Jesus. You bastard,’ he says, not unreasonably.
‘I’ll ask you again. What’s going on?’
‘Look, mate. I’m seventy-one.’
‘I don’t give a toss how old you are. What’s all this harassment about? Prevaricate once more and I boil the kettle. Then you know what will happen. Look at me. Look into my eyes. You know I’m not kidding.’
He purses his lips together. He’s so furious he can barely speak. He hyperventilates to calm himself down and he’s as white as a sheet. ‘She’s just a fucking slut who needed to be brought down a peg or two.
He’ll fucking get you for this, whoever you are.’
‘Who will? The person who’s organised all of this? Who is it? Look – you’re just a foot soldier. I can tell. Whoever you’re working for is just using you. They’ve got you into the mess you’re in right now and you are in one fuck of a mess, believe you me. If they were worth looking up to they’d be doing this themselves, not getting some fuckin’ pensioner to do it for them. I’m losing patience now. This is your last chance. Don’t be their bitch. What’s going on?’
‘Go fuck yourself, you fuckin’ homo.’
‘Well, girlfriend – don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
I pinch what’s left of his nose until he opens his mouth again. I stuff the towel in his mouth. I walk over to the metal table and turn the kettle on again. I take another sip of my coffee, which is getting cold now. I chuck it down the sink and start to prepare another one.
Whoever this guy is, he’s frightened of and is in awe of his boss. At least that tells me that there is a boss; someone who’s organising all of this, which is what I’d suspected all along.
The fact that he told me that his boss will get me for this indicated that this is what usually happens when someone messes with one of his boss’s foot soldiers. His boss is someone who doesn’t fail. His boss is someone who wreaks vengeance.
You have no idea what shit you’re in if you keep me here.
You really don’t know what you’re up against, mate.
He’ll fuckin’ get you for this, whoever you are.
Threats, threats and more threats; all based on my sad ignorance of the awesome, bone-chilling terror I’m dealing with and have inadvertently crossed. So we’re certainly dealing with professional criminals, possibly even major players. This guy here has it written all over his face and his attitude confirms it.
Was he some sort of enforcer once? Is he still one, despite his age? What was his thing? Armed robbery? Breaking debtors’ legs? He’s in relatively good shape and still hits the gym regularly by the look of things, apart from his gut. Or conceivably he got that build pumping iron every day when he was inside; he’s got that written all over his face, too.
Most people who were assaulted on the street and who came round tied to a chair in a cold garage with me boiling kettles would be absolutely terrified. Not this guy. He’s too busy giving me all this macho bullshit, preserving what’s left of his pride before it’s all gone. Well, I’ll find his breaking point soon and he’ll be only too happy to tell me everything.
I’m actually pretty interested in all of this now, and I’m keen to discover why people like this would be interested enough in Sara Holt to take the sort of risks they’ve been taking. I can’t imagine what their motivation would be. Money? Blackmail? Would they eventually tell Sara they’d stop if she paid them half a million?
I’m also interested that my friend here thought Sara needed to be taken down a peg or two. Do today’s thugs look out for fashion designers who are getting too successful and exact retribution?
Aside from all of this, I get a mild feeling of satisfaction that I’m still only on Day One and have already caught one of the perpetrators and have him at my mercy. That’s pretty good work, even if I say so myself, not to mention getting into Sara’s place when no one thought it could be done.
I start thinking about Mrs Vasconselos. That was pretty good work, too. I wonder if she was walking around Piccadilly looking for a casual affair or was it just a chance meeting that went that way. The way she nudged the conversation was intelligent and direct, so perhaps she’s done it before. From what I could see of her figure, I’m quite looking forward to her fitting at Rigby & Peller if I can make it.
And of course there’s Klementina who likes Chinese food, though I can’t think exactly when I’m going to fit her in. If it was a toss-up between Klementina and Mrs Vasconselos, I think I’d go for the latter, unless there was some way I could combine the two.
As I’m pouring hot water into another spoonful of instant I can tell he’s dead. I’m not going to do a post mortem on him, but I would guess it’s heart failure or lactic acidosis. Or maybe he couldn’t breathe properly and simply suffocated; who knows. This is a real pain as I was just getting started, but as least I know I’m dealing with professionals, even if they’re just professional criminals.
I untie him and let him slump to the floor. I’ll stick him in the car and dump him somewhere the next chance I get. I put my shirt and jacket back on, switch off the battery charger, cover the car up and five minutes later I’m walking along Waterloo Road, looking for a cab. It’s not even midnight.
15
BLOND HAIR
When I wake up the next morning, I notice a few aches and pains. The muscle strain of burglarising Sara’s flat and dragging Footballer Dad around are taking their toll, and I mustn’t forget my exertions with Aziza and Isolda. I must get down the gym more often. Thinking about it, I probably haven’t been for about two months. In fact, I think I’ll go this morning.
I swallow a couple of painkillers, decide to have a bath instead of a shower and load up the Siemens with Bourbon Espresso beans while the bath is running. I look in the fridge to see if there’s anything to eat. I’m going to have to restock after Isolda’s raid last night. There’s a plum and coconut muffin I bought a few days ago and forgot about, so I take that out and put it on a plate. I fire the computer up and head towards the bathroom.
As I lie in the bath, I think about the events of last night. That harassment of Sara was a little more serious and aggressive than just being called a bitch, and I wonder if they’re escalating things for some reason.
Would he have pulled her dress off in the street if he’d had time? Even on its own, that whole incident would have been enough to rattle most young women and it was starting to get pretty nasty before I intervened.
I did wonder about Footballer Dad’s pejoratives while I was chatting with him: ‘bitch’, ‘whore’, and all the rest of it, and began to wonder if it was personal in some way, but I think that was just his class, intelligence and generation speaking. He was just a dick, plain and simple, and this was just a job for him; a job that in his case went as badly as jobs like that can go. Tough break.
He would have been a great lead, though, but it was not to be. I try to put myself in the position of whoever his Scary Boss might be. He sends his man out for another spot of obnoxious, sexist harassment and his man disappears off the face of the planet. Now what on earth is he going to make of that?
If I was Scary Boss, I might try to give him a call, but he had no mobile on him. Perhaps he’ll be calling him at home today. When are they going to realise he’s missing? It might not be for some time. The bitch incident was about two weeks ago, if I remember Sara’s comment correctly.
I think if I was doing the harassing and had maybe half a dozen people to help me, I’d rotate them to make the whole thing more confusing and difficult to describe. Footballer Dad may not have had another harassing gig for another two weeks.
The idea of there being a single individual pulling the strings behind all of this is still interesting. I’ve never come across anything quite like this and I still can’t work out what the motivation might be, unless it’s something completely random and crazy.
If, as I was led to believe, Scary Boss is such a Big Man, what is he doing wasting his time and energy on something like this? Answer: someone is paying him to do it, which brings me back to yesterday’s speculations about the who and why of the whole thing.
Who would stand to gain if Sara screwed up these shows? I can’t think my way out of the idea that is has to be a rival designer or someone similar. Perhaps it’s someone she criticised in a magazine and they didn’t take it too well.
Perhaps it’s the editor of a fashion magazine who was promised some sort of exclusive and, for whatever reason, didn’t get one. Perhaps it’s a disgruntled ex-employee like Thai Hunter. It could have been something that happened ages ago that Sara has tota
lly forgotten about.
Sara’s success may well continue unimpeded if she fails to pull off doing New York and Milan at the same time, but she’d be forever known as someone who tried to bite off more than they could chew.
Is that important in the fashion industry, I wonder? Would that wipe her out or tarnish her reputation? I’m no expert, but I hardly think so, particularly if what had been happening to her got on the grapevine.
Bitchiness aside, I’m sure most of the people who know her would be extremely sympathetic if they knew what she’d had to put up with and they’d be looking for someone to blame and/or ostracise.
I decide to give Sara a call, firstly to see how she’s doing as a professional courtesy, and secondly to make an appointment so I can run a couple of things past her.
‘How d’you feel?’
‘Hi. Fine. OK. Yes. I’m sorry – I’ve only just woken up.’
‘What time are you going into work today?’
‘Er, I want to be in by eleven.’
‘I’ll come and see you at eleven-thirty. I need to get you up to speed. I don’t really want to tell you everything over the phone.’
‘That’ll be fine.’
‘And listen – about what happened last night – put it out of your mind. At some point today it’s going to catch up with you, but you mustn’t dwell on it. Be tough. It’s in the past now. And whatever you do, don’t mention it to anybody.
‘If anyone asks you about last night, tell them you had a great time. All your friends had dissipated by the time that guy appeared. No one saw what happened. Make your story convincing. Add an anecdote if you can think of one. OK?’
She laughs at this. ‘An anecdote?’
‘Sure. You bumped into one of your old lecturers from Saint Martin’s who used to be a woman but who’s now a man and you went to a burlesque club for drinks to catch up on old times. Anything.’
Death is the New Black Page 14