Frankie popped into The Pillars of Hercules for a pint. Looking out across Soho, he pictured Tommy Riley’s face the last time he’d seen him in St James. He’d be well chuffed with Wilson getting busted. The heat on him and his boys would get called off. And put on Hamilton’s set-up instead.
But Frankie could still feel it, the pressure of that handshake. That favour that Riley would one day call in.
He wondered if Sharon would make the arrest herself. Perhaps she already had? Would she call him herself to let him know that Jack would soon be set free? He headed back to the club. Probably best be there. In case she called. He fancied playing a few frames too. Just to chill himself out.
The place was deserted, though. Nearly noon and no one had even opened the doors. The table covers were on. No sign of Slim or Xandra. For God’s sake. He hated losing business. What the fuck were they on?
‘Xandra,’ he shouted.
Nothing. Shit. She must have overslept. He walked out back to knock on her door. Found a neatly written note taped to it. Slim’s handwriting.
It read:
DON’T BOTHER LOOKING. SHE’S GONE. SO’S THE KEY FOR THE TILL AND ALL THE MONEY THAT WAS IN IT. OVER £400. I HATE TO SAY I TOLD YOU SO, BUT WELL . . . LIFE’S A BITCH
Frankie sighed. He opened the door and switched on the light. But no, no Xandra. Her bed was neatly made. But her bag was gone. Her trainers too. Missing from the window ledge where she kept them. Just like she’d never been fucking here.
Knackeredness. Bone deep. It ran him right over then. He locked up the club again and headed up to his flat. Then stopped. Halfway up the stairs. Because what the fuck? The door was wide open. There was no way he’d left it like that.
He turned and checked out the hallway door leading back out onto the street. Shit. It was ajar. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Burglars? Xandra? Had she done his flat over too?
He ran up the last remaining steps. And saw he hadn’t just been burgled. His flat had been torn apart. He grabbed one of the old man’s golf clubs – a sand wedge – from the bag by the door. Gripped its handle in both hands, remembering the weight of the crowbar last night as he’d screamed at Baotic again and again.
Any bastard still in here, they’d better fucking watch out.
The kitchen was empty. The living room, bathroom and spare room as well. Or not empty. More like full. Of smashed lamps, crockery, electronics. The same with the bedroom, his pillows and mattress had been slashed . . . Oh, fuck. He got down on his knees. But crap. The pistol. It was gone. The tin with the ammo in it too.
Dickhead. He should have chucked it. Or kept it where the old man had, behind those bloody bricks. Or never taken it out. It hadn’t even been loaded and he probably hadn’t even needed it to deal with Baotic at all.
Baotic . . .
Oh, no. No. No, no, no. Frankie’s heart drummed. Him getting broken into now. Today of all days. No way. Uh-uh. This was too much of a coincidence.
He ran for the living room, his pulse hammering. He grabbed the phone and stabbed in the digits for Sharon’s number. He already knew them by heart.
‘Hello?’ she answered.
‘It’s me, Frankie.’
‘What is it? What’s the matter? You sound—’
‘Just answer me . . .’ He was in a flap. Bollocks. Didn’t know how to tell her, not without landing himself in it up to the neck. ‘. . . your witness . . . the courier . . .’
‘I’ve already told you – wait,’ she said. ‘How the hell do you know that he’s a cour—’
‘Just tell me,’ Frankie said. ‘Has he changed his story? Has he told you Jack didn’t do it? Has he—’
Nothing. She said nothing. Shit. Baotic. That motherfucker. He’d called Frankie’s bluff. He hadn’t bloody handed himself in. He’d done one. A runner. He’d got the fuck out. But gone where?
Frankie slammed down the phone. Look at the fucking state of this place. Whoever had come here hadn’t just been looking for him. They’d been searching for something. Not the pistol. It couldn’t just be that. That was just something they’d found. No. Only one thing it could be. The tape. The tape with Baotic’s confession on it.
But how? How could Baotic have known to come here? How could he have known it was Frankie who’d abducted him last night? He’d not shown his face. There was nothing he’d said that could have given him away.
Not unless . . . Fuck . . . Not unless Baotic had gone to someone else instead, someone who’d connected the dots, someone who’d already known that Frankie was out to clear Jack’s name, someone who’d be screwed as much as Baotic was by what Baotic told them was on that tape.
A creak. Oh, shit. Frankie already knew. Without even fucking turning. It was Shank Wilson. He was here.
46
‘Wakey-wakey, rise and shine.’
What . . .? Hissing. Frankie heard hissing. There. Then gone. Where was he? In bed? Dreaming? Drunk. Cold. So cold. Move. Can’t. Help. Call out. Shout. Can’t. Movedammitjustdoit. No. Nothing. Someone. Help. Me. Please. Pleeeease.
‘That’s right. And it’s back up to the surface you come. Being underwater. That’s what people say it feels like when they’ve been chloroformed and coshed. Some people don’t come back at all, of course, hah-hah. But it looks like we’ve got lucky with you . . .’
Coshed and chloroformed? A memory. Frankie’s living room. Someone had grabbed him. Someone had—
Wilson . . .
Frankie tried forcing his eyes open. No. Everything stayed black. He blinked. Couldn’t. Something there. Had he been blindfolded? Taped. A sickly sweet smell. In his nostrils. In his mouth.
You’re alive. Alive. Don’t panic. He hasn’t killed you yet. Try moving. Again. No. He felt his arms, clamped to his sides. His knees and ankles were locked together too. He tried shouting again. Twisted his jaw. Couldn’t. No good. Gagged too tightly. Could barely manage a moan.
‘Don’t bother struggling,’ the voice said.
Wilson’s. Definitely Wilson’s.
‘You’ll only piss me off even more than you already have.’
A rush of blood to Frankie’s stomach. Like he was going to puke. Or shit himself. Or just fucking explode. But no. Not that. He’d just been lifted. Quickly. Up. By how many people? Two. Yes. Two pairs of hands. Was it Baotic? Was that who was here helping Shank Wilson now?
Back down. Oh, Christ . . . onto, into what? Something cold and hard. Behind his back and his head. Wood? Was he in some kind of a box? A thud. Above. A lid? Had it just been closed? Oh, Jesus wept. Was it a coffin? Was he being buried fucking alive?
Break out. Got to. Now. Do it. He tried smashing his head against whatever he was inside. Too tightly trussed up. Couldn’t even squirm. He tried to shout again. Tried to scream. Could only growl through his gritted teeth.
‘Shut it,’ Wilson’s muffled voice said.
That cunt . . . that fucker . . . he was still here then? Frankie hadn’t been left here. Abandoned. In this . . . In whatever this was.
A lurch. Moving. He was being lifted again. Inside whatever the fuck this container was. Being carried. A crunch of footsteps. Ten . . . twenty. Then they stopped.
A pause. A creak. One he recognised. Yes. The back door of the Ambassador. Shit. They were carrying him out into the service alley. Then where? Please. Christ. Let someone see. Please. Do it now. Someone look. Over here.
More footsteps. Ten . . . thirty . . . then another lurch . . . a change of direction? Must have reached the end of the alley. A car horn blared. Somewhere close. Were they out on the street? Where were they taking him? What the fuck were they going to do with him when they got him there?
Another hundred steps, two hundred. Then traffic. Then quieter. Just footsteps. Then they slowed. Another noise he recognised: the scraping of a warehouse door. A warehouse? Fuck. Not good. Not good. Grunted, muffled orders. Whose? Wilson’s? More doors opening. Closing. He tilted, slid inside the container. Christ, where were they taking him? Down.
Into what? A basement? Double, triple, fucking shit. This was not going to end well.
The lid. Cold air. Hands grabbed him. Dug under him. Hauled him up. He tried struggling. Smack. Pain. Laughter. Someone had just punched him in the face. He felt himself being twisted into a sitting position. Onto something. A chair? Then shrieking. More duct tape. Being wrapped tight around him.
No way could he fight his way physically out of here. If he didn’t manage to talk his way out, he was dead.
47
Bright light. Frankie’s blindfold was torn from his eyes. He winced, tried to twist away. But something – someone – grabbed him by the throat. He couldn’t breathe. He stared into the light. He tried to scream. Nothing.
‘Shouting’s not gonna do you any good, is it, sunshine? Because guess what? There’s no one near to fucking hear. You should have paid more attention to that little note I left you in the club. You should have backed off when you still had the chance.’
Wilson? Was it Wilson? Frankie couldn’t tell. Not for sure. Too much echo. That chloroform . . . had it fucked his hearing? Was that it? Or something else . . . where they were . . . underground. He thought of all the buildings near the club. Hundreds had basements. Could be any one. Somewhere no one could hear him scream.
Crack. More pain. Another punch. Fucking hell. His jaw. Whoever had hold of his throat, they let go. He tried to throw himself sideways. No dice. This chair he was taped to . . . it was fixed to the floor.
The light shining into his eyes, it suddenly raced backwards. He blinked. Tried to see. And there – yes, there, right in front of him – a man. The light was a torch. Whoever was there, they were holding it. It swung right, then rapidly in. Smashed him hard in the face. Jesus. White pain. Worse than before.
Whoever was there, they started to laugh. ‘That’s better. Saves me throwing a bucket of iced water at you, doesn’t it? Not that I don’t want to, you understand. It’s just the fucking faff of having to go all the way upstairs to fill a bucket and bring it back down.’
Upstairs. Frankie’s eyes were starting to focus. He slowly looked around. Yeah, he was downstairs, all right. Way down. Somewhere bloody horrible too. Somewhere ancient. Industrial. A spaghetti of pipes on the ceiling. A single bare bulb. A puddle of light beneath. Steep stairs leading up to the right. And to his left? Oh, sweet Jesus . . .
The courier. Baotic. Or what was left of him. His face was one big bruise, his eyes nothing more than purple slits.
‘That’s right. Take a good fucking look,’ the voice said. ‘People say that time travel’s impossible. But it’s not and I can prove it. Because that’s your future, right there.’
Bile leapt up in Frankie’s throat. Had Wilson beaten Baotic to death? It looked that way. But if Baotic was here, then who the hell had helped Wilson carry him?
‘It’s good to finally see you again face to face, Frankie,’ Wilson said, lowering the torch so that Frankie could look at him properly. ‘I didn’t think it would come to this, me having to deal with you personally, like. But you know what? Now that it has, I’ve got to admit it: I’m really fucking glad.’
You. Fucking. Psycho. Bastard. Piece. Of. Shit. Wilson was dressed in a blue boiler suit with a flash of red at its collar. A silk cravat. Fuck. Just what the bookseller had said.
He shot Frankie a toothy grin. Then crossed over to a trestle table set against the wall and took off his cravat and folded it neatly there – before stripping off his boiler suit and boots and laying them out folded beside it. He scratched lazily at his underpants. Then began humming what sounded horribly like an old Kylie Minogue hit. He pulled on a blood-spattered white tracksuit, black rubber wellies and a pair of latex surgical gloves.
Shit. He’s going to fucking kill you. He’s going to tear you apart. Stall him. Get him talking. But how? He couldn’t even move his fucking lips. Don’t give up. Think. Yes. Two sets of hands. Someone else knows you’re here. Someone who might not be as bat-shit crazy as him. Or someone might have seen him carting you out of the club. Xandra. Maybe she changed her mind? Came back guiltily with the cash? Please, fuck, yes. She might have followed you. Called the cops. Yes. Don’t give up. You’re going to be OK.
Oh Jesus, Christ – what the fuck was that?
A scraping. A hiss. A croak. To his left. Frankie tried throwing himself right. Got nowhere. He turned. He looked. The courier. Christ. He was looking right back at him through his hideously swollen eyelids. Bloody hell. The fucker was still alive.
‘That him?’ Wilson asked Baotic. ‘That the little twat who kidnapped you last night?’
Baotic nodded once, so heavy it looked like his head might fall off.
Frankie growled at him through his gag. You fucking liar. You never saw me. You lying piece of fucking shit.
‘Thought so.’ Wilson winked at Frankie and tapped his temple. ‘Brains, you see. I’ve got a whole fucking head full of them.’ He nodded at Baotic. ‘A right fucking mess, ain’t he?’ Wilson’s look turned to one of pure hatred as he stared into Frankie’s eyes. ‘But not as big a fucking mess as you’ve made of everything, my lad.’
Frankie saw the punch coming this time. Braced himself. Pointless. Did him no good. He heard the crack of his nose breaking. Blood filled his mouth. He started choking. Wilson leant in and ripped the duct tape from his mouth. He smiled as Frankie sputtered, gasping for air.
‘Now, now, we don’t want you drowning in your own claret, do we?’ he said. ‘Or at least not yet.’
‘Fuck you,’ Frankie said. He spat as hard as he could at Wilson. Hit him too. A nice fat gob of spit and blood. Right on the motherfucker’s chest.
Good. Decision fucking made. Only one he had. No point in trying to wriggle out of this. Wilson had him at his mercy. And he had no fucking mercy. Unless Frankie played this perfectly – unless he convinced this total fucking nutter that he wasn’t afraid of him, and that he still had some cards up his sleeve – he was going to die down here. And soon.
‘Good,’ said Wilson. ‘You’ve still got a bit of spirit left in you. It’ll make this all the more fun.’
Fun?
Wilson hit him again. Frankie’s head snapped back.
Frankie sucked in air. Breathe bloody through it. This is just sparring. Just down the gym. You hold your strength. You pray. You wait. You pray and you wait for your chance.
‘You see, you deserve everything you’re gonna get,’ Wilson told him. ‘For interfering, right from the start. Right from the moment you decided to start snooping round your brother’s flat . . .’
The cigarette in the parked car outside Jack’s building . . . Not a cop. Wilson. Him watching. Even back then.
‘But most of all,’ Wilson said, ‘for messing with my witness. For putting stupid ideas in his head about handing himself over to the cops. I mean, it’s just as fucking well he’s more scared of me than he is of you. Or he really might have done what you fucking told him.’
Wilson stepped in even closer. He cocked his head to one side and stared into Frankie’s eyes.
‘So where is it?’ he said.
‘What?’
‘The recording of my boy here confessing that I paid him to say he’d seen your stupid cunt of a brother killing young Miss Tilley.’ His dark eyes glinted. ‘Because then, my little Bosnian friend here, he can go back to being my witness again. Because look at him. He’s learned his lesson proper this time. From here on in, he’s going to do exactly what he’s told.’
The recording . . . This was it. The only card Frankie had left to play.
‘It’s somewhere safe,’ he said.
‘Yeah, but where? You see, I’ve already looked through your poxy little flat and I couldn’t find it there. Where is it? Somewhere hidden in the club?’
‘No. Somewhere you won’t ever find it. And if anything happens to me, I’ve left instructions for who it’s to go to . . .’
Wilson held up his blood-drenched hand. ‘Yeah, and blah, blah, blah, they’ll then take it to the p
igs, am I right?’ He grinned. ‘You’ve been watching too many fucking movies, son. You see, you are going to tell me where it is, because I’m gonna fucking well torture you rotten until you do.’
‘If I give you that recording, you’ll kill me,’ Frankie said. ‘You’ll have no reason to keep me around.’
Wilson’s eyes narrowed.
‘Meaning I fucking well won’t,’ Frankie said. ‘I’ll go to my grave not telling you, and then the person I’ve given it to will give it to the cops. And then we’ll see who gets the last laugh, because then you’ll be fucked.’
Frankie braced himself. Waited for the punch.
‘Stop,’ a voice called out.
48
Wilson lowered his fist. His face reddened with anger, but he did as he’d been told: he stepped aside.
Someone else walked into the room. Jesus. Shit. Him? Yes. Terence fucking Hamilton. Wearing a blue boiler suit, the same as Wilson had been. Like he was some kind of manual worker. Bloody hell. Was it Hamilton who’d helped carry him here? Was it him who was working with Wilson? No. No bloody way. It didn’t make any sense.
‘You?’
‘Funny, ain’t it?’ Hamilton said, staring into Frankie’s eyes. ‘The person behind it all is the person the cops are least likely to suspect.’
‘But—’
‘Yeah, exactly. But why the fuck would Terence Hamilton have done that? Why the fuck would he ruin his own son’s life by having someone murder his future wife? I bet if you told any number of coppers that, they’d laugh in your face. Because it doesn’t make any sense, right?’
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