by Bronwen John
But for the moment, he was going to enjoy his small slice of the profit as he prepared to enjoy his vape outside.
Henry Martin Holmes stood looking at the artwork that leaned against the wall, tears running down his cheeks. He’d been so cocky, handing over cash in hand to the art dealer; so happy that he thought he’d got a good deal. He’d bought them for his friends. They had taken them home, where their parents had sung their praises… he’d saved the best for Stacey Nicholls’ house. He’d always fancied her.
Plus, it might’ve won the approval of her art historian father, Daniel. But when he’d seen it, there had been no approval in his eyes. The man had laughed as he’d joyously pointed out the flaws and explained that Eyrie had sworn off art for at least eighteen months after a particularly bad arrest in Lyon. Apparently, he’d tried his hand at counterfeiting – and had been caught by the famous Interpol agent, Du Barry.
“No, no, darling,” Henry’s mother assured him. “You weren’t a fool.”
“But, Mum, Mr Nicholls – he… he laughed in my face!” He hitched a sob. “He said it really showed how uneducated I am if I can fall for a simple con! I want it sorted, Mum!”
“Don’t worry, my darling,” cooed his mother. He was an only child and had been particularly ill as a newborn, something she reminded herself of daily. An art aficionado herself, she knew her darling boy had only been seeking to emulate her. “Daddy will sort it. Just you wait. Now, why don’t you go have a shower and calm yourself right down?”
“Thanks, Mum.”
As soon as he’d wandered up the stairs, rubbing his eyes, his mother snapped her head to the large man who was standing to her left.
“Get my husband, tell him the situation and tell him to sort it. Now.”
Harry Holmes was not in his London office when the phone call was made. He was playing baccarat in Les Ambassadeurs in London, where he would probably stay until the early hours of the morning. There were no mobiles allowed at the table, to avoid distracting the professional and amateur gamblers.
Instead, the manager’s telephone buzzed discreetly and, rather than bothering Holmes at his table, they called over his assistant, Leonard Hughes. Hughes was a Welshman of around forty-six, with a jowl that closely resembled that of an Old English Bulldog. He frowned as he listened, and grunted several times throughout before making a reserved announcement to the person on the other end of the line.
“I’ll let you know.”
Hughes hung up the phone and walked over to where Holmes was regaling several people with a tale from the underworld. He was playing casually, but his eyes flickered to the table. The others weren’t paying attention as he had lulled them into a false sense of security with his tall tales of gangsters and his rough upbringing in London – he was waiting for his moment to pounce and surprise them all with his card-sharping prowess. It was the perfect way to urge them to join his celebrity cruise trip, for which he was giving a book reading and competing in the charity poker match.
“Harry, can I see you for a minute?”
Holmes looked around his rapt audience. Hangers-on, the lot of them… but they could work for him in other ways. Spread and heighten his social standing. His partner Ezra fitted in naturally with his smooth Southern charm, but he came from old money from the Southern city of Atlanta. Harry came from the worst of the worst, and even though he’d married a banker’s daughter he knew he was a novelty in these settings… and novelties soon died off.
“It’s important.”
Holmes sighed dramatically and stood up. “Henri, I’ll have to pass the shoe for a brief time.” He tipped his head to everyone involved, before walking away. “What’s the problem?”
“It’s your son.”
Holmes paused and turned back around. A tall man, he towered over his underling. He stood out among the black Armani suits in the club, his own grey suit matching his silver hair. People glanced at him. Women tittered; men glared, then shied away when he met their gaze.
“What’s the little sod done?” He almost felt like a disappointment to his only son. A proper little kid, when it came down to it. He’d overindulged him as a child, he thought.
“He went and bought a fake painting – several – to show off to his friends,” Hughes said quietly. “Showed one off to his crush… turns out her dad’s an art expert.”
“Beijing art gallery scam, read about it… so, my son’s the first British victim?” Holmes chuckled. “How—”
“£10,000.”
Holmes alternately froze, then felt his blood boil. His son had been made a fool of – that, in itself, was acceptable. If the kid wanted to show off and came off worst, it served him right. But to lose face and £10,000? A lot of honour was at stake, and if word got around that Harry Holmes’s progeny had been caught out by a simple short con masquerading as a long con, he’d never hear the end of it.
“Any idea who?”
“Been asking around; seems to think it’s a con man known by the name of Luke Gaines… helped train Esther Crook.”
That brought a feral smile to Holmes’s face.
“Sir?”
“She wouldn’t have anything to do with it, would she?”
“No. At least, we don’t think so. As far as we’re aware, Crook is still out of the country.”
Harry nodded.
“Your son described Luke Gaines, and his protégée Dee Lawrence. There was another young man being conned… and a Saturday girl.”
“Sort it, make it look plain and simple. No over-complications. Get rid of Gaines and the two girls…” Holmes paused. “Girls… could always use them; make a bit of profit out of it. But nothing comes back to me on them. Got it?”
“Even if the kid had nothing to do with it?” Hughes clarified, getting his mobile phone out of his pocket.
“Especially if she’s had nothing to do with it. Need to make examples of these people, regardless of whether they turn out to be innocent or not. It will send a message to Miss Crook that we’ve got another of her friends and it’s cost an innocent person their life.”
The Speakeasy was a small restaurant and bar in the basement of a bookshop called Ness – an additional feature to the original business. You had to give a password to enter the nether regions of the building, where there lay an old spiv palace from the ’40s. The downstairs had been converted and soundproofed so as not to disturb the book thieves upstairs.
The silence in the bookshop rivalled the racket downstairs. Snappy tunes played; a combination of acid jazz and old-fashioned blues ballads. Some people were dancing on the small dance floor towards the back; others were at the bar. Ash spotted Colorado and Luke towards the middle – one eyeing the front and the second the back. You always had to have a good exit stratagem.
“You got them back?!” teased Luke, as she approached.
Ash smirked and collected a latte from the bar, then walked over to where Luke was looking at her now casually over his shoulder.
“You all right?”
“Yeah, just getting what’s mine back… I thought Mr Redford might pass it on, if you get my meaning.”
“You stupid little sod,” snapped Luke. “Redford took—”
“I’m just joshing you. God, this gig is getting to you, isn’t it?” Ash teased. “It was a good con.”
“Thought up by you,” said Colorado, shooting a fond smile his friend’s way. “Luke was telling me about how you came up with it.”
“Didn’t. I’ll openly admit it.” Ash beamed. She was still proud of her success in helping the scheme and persuading Luke to attempt it. “I read about it, and thought, We can adapt that.”
“You did well,” Luke said, before sighing heavily. “I want you two away for a few weeks.”
“I’d like to know how you sold that to my mother,” joked Colorado, sipping his coffee. “She’s already freak
ing out about my GCSEs.”
“Sold it to her as an educational trip… and it will be, for you both,” Luke said as he leaned back in his seat. “I’m getting ready to retire… and I’ve taught you all I know. You know it’s time to quit when your kids are teaching you, an old dog, new tricks.”
“You can’t!” Ash protested. “Christ, I’ve learned it all from you.”
“Exactly – you’re going after the big sharks in my minnow pond,” Luke said quietly. “Both of you deserve better. I’ve booked you both on flights. Separate times, three days apart. Different destinations.” He pulled their passports out of his pocket and slid them over to them.
Ash stared at the table, dumbfounded.
“You’re going to Norway, Ash.”
“Norway? What the hell is in Norway that we haven’t got here?” snapped Ash. “And what the hell is education—”
“Esther T. Crook is out there. I’ve managed to persuade her to give you lessons.”
The two shared a look.
Esther Crook. The name was the stuff of tall tales around the London underworld. Not many people had seen her. It was rumoured that she was straight, but in equal measure had a criminal mind that rivalled that of any wrongdoer in fiction, and she had yet to even be picked up for a crime.
“You know her?” Colorado said incredulously. “They say Holmes put a price on her head.”
“That he did,” said Luke with a small, sad nod. “When she came back to London, she decided to brush up on all her short cons and asked me to help out.” He smirked. “She owed me a favour. So I offered you two as willing students. She’d only take one, though; seems she’s rather busy. She suggested Rodney Buchannan for you, Colorado; best short-con man other than Hellion. I’ve arranged travel.”
“What about Dee, though?! She was here before me,” Ash pleaded quietly.
“You’ll see me after the summer holidays,” Luke assured her. “To get those results and everything… and Dee was the one who said she had her limitations.”
“But, God… you do know what a big step this is?!” Ash said, looking surprised.
“Hey, I’m not going to stop being your foster dad, now, am I? Just means you’ve got to teach the old dog new tricks when you return, my darling, to persuade me out of retirement,” he said, winking as he reached into his jacket’s inside pocket and withdrew two crisp pieces of paper. “This is her address.”
Ash swallowed a lump in her throat. For some reason, a trickle of ice went down her back. It felt so final. She knew she’d be back, but there was something clenching at her gut.
“I… I—”
“Look, you go get your head around it.” He glanced at Colorado. “I’m going to go to the art class and drop off their slice. I’ll meet you at Tottenham Court. Me and Dee will show you a few pictures of Esther so you know who’s training you. Colorado, see you at the house.”
Three
Where the hell is she?
Dee Lawrence sighed as she looked out of the window at the busy street below. The poor kid was probably beating herself up, thinking that she was disappointed, when all she wanted really was for her to get home so she could congratulate her and watch some reruns of old TV series.
She smiled to herself and pulled her arms around her middle, thinking of what the reactions of her young friends would be when they met Esther. She’d been surprised by Esther’s exuberance at learning the short con; as if every little detail was a piece of art. Dee saw it as a day’s work and nothing more, but she respected her friend enough to know it was an art form in her opinion.
She was so caught up in the implications of the con world that she didn’t pay much mind as a car drew up outside. However, she did pay attention when she saw one of the men inside fiddling with what looked like a hypodermic needle. Nicholas ‘Crusher’ Joseph. She’d been in school with him. A doctor of some renown in criminal circles, but he was a lackey of Harry Holmes. God, the kid… the kid… Harry had the same smile. Christ!
“Hey, Dee!” she heard from the back door.
“Colorado!” Dee fled down the townhouse stairs, rushing to the cabinet and yanking free the envelope of plane tickets and flight times.
Colorado was in the back kitchen, making himself comfortable on a chair with a glass of milk. He offered a smile.
“Where’s Luke? Ash?” she demanded, looking towards the front door.
“Ash went for a walk to clear her head. Luke’s meeting her in Tottenham Court; he’s going to drop off the money at the art club. We’re meeting up here to get…” He sat up. “Dee, what’s going on?”
“Get out of here – run! We’ve been made by Harry Holmes’s mob. Harry’s son was the mark.” She pressed the passports into his hands. “Run. Don’t look back.”
“What about you?”
“They need someone. Get my little sister, and just run.”
He opened his mouth.
“Take care, Colorado. Get to Esther. She’ll protect you. Now go!”
Colorado piled out the back door just as the front door was opened. Dee took a deep breath and locked it behind him. She’d seen what happened to people who crossed Harry Holmes. She’d heard whispers of what had happened to the girls who’d gone to one of his clubs looking for work… they’d not come home. No missing persons report, either. They just vanished off the face of the earth, girls in clubs with eyes too wide or tied to beds. Girls who were taken and no one knew where.
Such a fate, she knew, awaited her.
Dee closed her eyes and allowed her feelings to sweep through her. At least they had Colorado to save Ash. She didn’t much like the Asian, mostly for his inability to stay on plan, but at least she knew he was loyal.
At least, she hoped so.
It was cold as Ash made her way to Tottenham Court Tube Station. The street lamps lit the street well, but their false light provided no comfort to Ash’s dark thoughts. She was still stunned at the suggestion she could work the big con. That in itself was an honour, let alone being trained by the notorious Esther Crook.
The young con artist – or old, depending on who was telling the story – had been at the centre of most of the rumours about long cons from London in the last eighteen months. Kelsey Jamieson selling the Loen Skylift to eight investors who had fiddled the London Stock Exchange and made fools of themselves on an international level. Playing the old-fashioned ‘Wire con on gangster Miklos Stavros, Mathias LeRoy had earned the applause of the London underworld. But nobody had seen Esther, and it was rumoured that she did not get actively involved, for reasons known only to her.
Ash turned up the collar of her jacket and hunched her shoulders against the chill.
He saved me from the streets or worse, and now he’s giving me the golden goose of opportunities and I’m moping, she thought to herself.
She’d never been much of a great con woman, she thought. She wasn’t much good at reading or writing, come to think of it. The only people who had faith in her were Luke Gaines and Colorado. She felt like she was betraying Dee, though. It had been all but implied that Luke felt that Dee wasn’t smart enough to deal with this Esther Crook.
“Ash!”
Ash paused in her thoughts and turned around to see Colorado running towards her at full speed. She chuckled for a moment, before she saw the fear on his face.
“Col… Max, what’s going on?!”
He coughed and spat out some phlegm as he stopped in front of her. “The… the guy we… we marked today, the one that bought the paintings…”
“Yeah, smart-ass hips?”
“Harry Holmes’s boy,” he gasped.
That froze her. “H-Harry Holmes?”
She’d seen Harry Holmes on the news not too long ago; in the USA, he’d beaten the rap for the murder of several Interpol agents and had declared outside court that it was a day for justice. His newest
partner in crime, a rumoured gunrunner in the US by the name of Ezra Innocent (an unfortunate name for his job if ever Ash heard one), was in the background with a set of heavies, although his face was blacked out.
“He’s got Dee… I’ve texted Luke to move,” Colorado gasped, holding his sides. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
“He’ll kill her!” she snapped. “We have to help!”
“We’re sixteen – what chance do we have, and what the hell do you think is going to happen?! We have to leave.”
“Not without Luke!”
Ash raced into the Tube station, fighting through the last of the commuters, not caring for their dirty looks or their shocked expressions. She’d lost one person in her life; she’d been in foster care. Luke had saved her from the streets. He’d fostered her, made sure in some parts of her life that she’d stayed on the straight and narrow. He’d also fostered her God-given talents, as he was fond of saying.
It was time for her to return the favour.
“Ashia!” Colorado called from behind her, and when she threw a quick glance back she could see he had been waylaid by the British Transport Police for his Oyster card. She raced blindly onto the platform and looked around.
The smell of stagnant heat and BO filled her nose. She scanned the crowd desperately. Perhaps he’d gotten to the flat – but that would be just as bad. The only reason she didn’t think he’d gone there was his superstitions.
She looked around again, praying he was within her sight.
She soon saw him; spotted his dusky blond hair if nothing else. She began to walk over just to warn him. He spotted her through the chaos of the tube platform and she saw him narrow his eyes, trying to ascertain what was wrong. Then she saw a large man appear from behind him.
Leonard Hughes. Holmes’s Welsh bulldog. He was just the man for this sort of job.
There was the familiar rattle of a train in the distance, and Ash looked to that, then the man behind who was also eyeing her now, as if recognising what was going on. All of a sudden, she saw Luke look down at his phone, the signal finally kicking in for a brief moment. His eyes widened and then flicked in her direction, and he jerked his head slightly towards the big man, who was beginning to approach her. She knew she wasn’t maintaining the poker face that he’d taught her. She was frightened. She was terrified, in fact.