by Peter Cocks
“Mike Hunt,” Donnie said when Jason finally picked up. “Mike Hunt’s outside.”
Jason sleepily acknowledged Donnie’s usual joke and told him he’d be a couple of minutes.
Donnie read his paper while the lazy sod got out of bed as it began to get dark. He waited half an hour while he shit, shaved and showered and put on his best bib and tucker. Gucci suit and shoes. Gold Rolex. Hair gel.
The car filled with Jason’s aftershave as he got in and slammed the door.
“All right, Jase?”
Jason nodded. “Bit caned,” he said. “Heavy night last night. Completely mullered.” He closed his eyes and sunk back into the seat.
Donnie tutted to himself. When he’d been nineteen, he’d have been training, road running at four in the morning, rain or shine, even when he’d had a skinful and blown his wages the night before.
“You’ll be all right once you’ve had a drink,” Donnie said. He passed the hip flask to his passenger and headed for the M25.
THIRTY-SIX
“Are you all right?” Sophie asked me. I’d gone outside to get some air and try and work out what to do next. My heart was going like a train and my legs felt weak. “You look like shit, babe,” she said. Even in the half-light outside the tent she could see that I looked terrible.
“I think I’ve had a bit too much to drink,” I said. “I’m not used to it.”
“Lightweight.” She smiled and put her arm around me, which made me feel even more trapped and I instinctively pulled away. I caught the look in her eye.
“Sorry, Soph,” I said. “I think I need to go to the toilet. Back in a minute.”
I turned away towards the main house, but Sophie caught my hand. “Eddie,” she said. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
She fixed me with those blue eyes, normally warm and smiling. Now they were cold and hard, searching. I tried not to look away.
“Honestly, babe,” I insisted, “I just feel a bit sick.” I hoped I didn’t look as guilty as I felt. “I’ll be better in a minute.”
She let me go and I walked towards the main house, feeling her eyes on my back, watching me go.
To say that I felt sick was no lie. It was an understatement. I wasn’t really drunk, but I felt sick to the bottom of my stomach. The fear that was chewing away in my guts made me want to throw up; when I found the toilet, I did.
I looked at my pale face in the mirror, wondering what to do, calling myself every name under the sun for my own stupidity. I’d been warned not to come, but I’d dug my heels in. And now Tommy Kelly had my phone with all my calls and contacts on it. Access to everything I knew, and to everyone who was on his case. My mistake could cost them all their lives. And mine.
And in a few hours I was supposed to be travelling home with him, his wife and his lovely daughter.
I rinsed out my mouth and splashed my face with cold water. Then I punched my own cheek for good measure, hating myself, ducked out of the toilet and into the corridor. I looked around and made my way towards the kitchen, where all the catering staff were coming and going in their white jackets.
The kitchen was still clattering with activity. Champagne on ice was still being sent out, along with trays of coffee, beer and more food. I looked for the waiter I recognized. He wasn’t there. I panicked again, terrified that he had gone off duty. I pushed through the fire door that led out behind the house and found a group of waiters taking a break.
On the edge of the group was my man Oliver with the moustache. He was alert and had seen the fire door open. When he recognized me, he cocked his head, broke away and walked off into the darkness of the garden.
I followed and caught up with him by a pond. He threw his cigarette stub in and it hissed. “Well?” he asked.
“I’ve lost my phone,” I confessed, feeling like a child.
“Which one?” He looked instantly concerned.
“The hotline,” I said.
“You—” He called me a few four-letter names and then slid his own phone out from the back of his trousers and started to punch in a number.
“Get yourself back in there before they miss you,” he snapped. “I’m going to have to try to get head office to override the PIN before anyone looks at it. But whatever you do, don’t make any further contact with me. Got it?”
“Thanks,” I said, pathetically grateful that he was taking charge. “But how will I know if you’ve managed to block it in time?”
“Because if I have, you’ll still be alive tomorrow. Now sling your hook.”
I was about to apologize, but his call connected, so I turned and ran across the wet grass towards the lights of the house, every bone in my body telling me to run in the opposite direction. And never stop.
The gravel crunched under the Merc’s wheels as it purred up the drive. The house was completely lit up and music was throbbing from the huge marquee that spread out across the lawn. Disco lights and lasers lit up the night sky.
Donnie saw that his passenger had woken up and was swigging from one of the cold bottles of water that he always kept in the mini fridge in the back of the car. Jason sniffed loudly and Donnie took it as his cue to speak.
“I’ll drop you off by the tent, Jase. Then I’ll park up by the house. I’ve got a meeting. Someone I need to find.”
“Nice one,” Jason said. The car stopped a few metres from the marquee and he got out, ready to party. “Catch you later.”
Donnie drove off and parked in front of the main house. A security man came out to meet him, to tell him that parking was forbidden there, then quickly changed his mind. Donnie shook his hand, asked a couple of questions and walked down towards the marquee.
Donnie stepped over the guy ropes and worked his way around to the back of the tent, looking for someone. It wouldn’t take him long to find them. It never did. He had an instinct for it.
Behind the marquee was a smaller tent, a kind of gazebo, where the security boys hung out, keeping a low profile. Donnie pushed the tent flap aside and walked in. Three heavies were standing around, drinking cans of beer and talking tough. They looked at Donnie as he stepped in, checked out his light-grey suit and took him for a chauffeur.
“Got a pick-up at midnight,” he said, confirming their assumption.
One of the heavies looked at his watch. “Bit early, aren’t you?”
“A bit,” Donnie said. “Thought I’d get here sharpish, check out the crumpet and the famous faces, see if there’s any deals to be done.” Donnie winked at them and patted his pocket. “Been a good night, has it?”
The security men seemed to warm to him a little: he was one of them. Up to a bit of this and that on the side.
“Yeah, cracking,” one of them said. He sounded Welsh to Donnie. “It’s up to the tits with celebs in there.” He nodded towards the tent. “Like the bloody Royal Variety Performance.”
Donnie turned to the other two.
“What about villains?” he asked. “I heard there are a few in attendance.”
“One or two big fish,” the larger of the men said. “Can’t tell you who for security reasons.” He puffed himself up with pride: in the know, mixing with the big boys, keeping things to himself.
Donnie let out a slow whistle, apparently impressed.
The heavy warmed to his theme, keen to show his own uncompromising stance. “Yeah, had a bit of a run-in with one,” he said. “The biggest. Soon sorted it out, though. He’s a real gent once you know him.”
Donnie looked impressed as the heavy lifted out a red bank-note from his breast pocket. “Even gave me a nice drink to show there were no hard feelings.” He tucked the fifty back into his pocket and Donnie Mulvaney knew he had his man.
“Got some very nice gear you might like to spend that on,” Donnie told him. “Interested?”
He stepped outside the tent and the heavy followed him.
Donnie was looking up at the stars. “Lovely night,” he said.
“What’ve you got th
en?” the heavy asked.
“Steady on, son,” Donnie said. “What’s your name?”
The heavy paused a second. He looked at Donnie with the permanent scowl he wore. His face had fixed into a hard-man grimace for so long that any other expression was almost impossible.
“Wayne,” he answered, suspicious.
“Well, Wayne,” Donnie continued, “I like to deal on a friendly basis, first-name terms and that. I like to observe the little niceties. Manners don’t cost nothing – a little tip of the hat and a smile here and there, to show respect. That’s what I was taught.”
Wayne began to look confused and his scowl hardened. “What about this gear?” he asked.
“I’m getting to that,” said Donnie. “But if you don’t deal with people on a nice, friendly basis, they’ll think you’re just a thug…” Donnie pulled a monkey face and scratched his hands under his armpits like a gorilla.
Wayne didn’t like it. “Are you taking the piss?” he said, his fists clenching automatically.
“Easy, tiger. Just having a chat.” Donnie patted Wayne on the shoulder and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Fag?” he said.
Wayne took one and put it in his mouth while Donnie found a light. He sparked up the lighter and held it out with his left hand at chest level so that the heavy was forced to lean down to catch the flame, his mouth slack around the cigarette. Then, as the tip caught the flame, Donnie let go with his right hand: a punch so hard and fast that it broke the fat man’s jaw in one fluid sweep.
A sucker punch.
Wayne flew backwards, two teeth flying from his mouth as he fell and, before he knew where he was, Donnie was on him, his knee on his chest, squeezing the air out of him.
“Like I said,” Donnie whispered, right up close, “a smile don’t cost nothing.”
The cut-throat razor was already open in his hand and he put it into Wayne’s mouth, slicing left and then right, opening the cheeks almost to the ear, the blood spurting down his throat and across his chest.
Donnie stood up, wiped the razor on Wayne’s jacket and put it away. He checked his own suit for blood, then kicked the security man in the bollocks, forcing his newly widened mouth to open in a red scream. Donnie leant down and took the fifty from Wayne’s breast pocket, screwed it up and shoved it into his bloody mouth.
“Buy yourself some stitches, son,” he said.
Donnie stood back and tugged at the front of his suit, readying himself to walk round to the front of the marquee for a much-needed drink. He swung a parting kick at Wayne’s bloody head, rocking it like a punchball.
“And remember…” Donnie said. “Smile.”
IV
Jason
THIRTY-SEVEN
“You’d better get up here straight away.” Tony’s voice was cold, sharp. I’d never heard him angry like this.
Monday morning.
I’d spent most of Sunday in bed, hiding under the duvet; glad of the sanctuary of my safe house, where no one, except Tony, Ian and Anna, knew where I was.
Saturday night I’d stayed at the Kelly house, not sleeping, shitting hot conkers, convinced I was about to be taken out and shot. The atmosphere in the car on the way back had been all right – for everyone else. It was just me.
I’d really messed up.
Tommy and Cheryl had clearly had a good night, though there had been some kind of ruck with a couple of the bouncers. We saw the aftermath on the way out. One of them had been in a fight and had got cut up. An ambulance had been called and as we left, Tommy had steered his wife and daughter away from the ugly scene.
Sophie was a bit off with me, probably because I’d behaved like a knob all evening. I blamed it on the drink, but that didn’t make it any better in her eyes. She felt I’d let her down. Cheryl had given her sympathetic glances in the car on the way back, suggesting that I’d just got over-excited. Tommy had stared out of the Bentley’s window. He didn’t mention my phone.
When we got back, I’d been shown to a guest room with crisp, white sheets and deep pillows, where I’d tossed and turned until daylight.
Cheryl dished me up a full English, which I could hardly eat, then Sophie dropped me off at the station at around ten. I don’t know if I was being paranoid, but everyone seemed a bit quiet. I was hoping it was down to hangovers. I still didn’t have my phone, and it hadn’t been mentioned when we got back either. I apologized to Sophie again, saying I hoped to see her in the week, and got back to the flat as quick as I could.
I remembered Oliver’s parting words: that I would still be alive if they hadn’t hacked into my phone. But it felt like I had a death sentence hanging over me.
I met Tony outside the pub off Trafalgar Square. Ten o’clock sharp. He looked like thunder. We ducked through the pub and out along the alleyway into the ministry building. The smell of overcooked cabbage made me feel more nauseous than I already was.
They were waiting for me. Both Sandy Napier and Ian Baylis were sitting behind a table in a sparse room, lit by a fluorescent strip. Hamish Campbell, the technical spod, was there too. Tony guided me to a chair and I sat down in front of them.
Sandy Napier cleared his throat. He looked as if he was about to bite someone. Me, probably.
“Well,” he said. “Bit of a cock-up on Saturday night, we hear.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “It was an accident.”
“An accident that could have cost some of us our lives,” Ian Baylis spat. It was as if he had been waiting for this moment since he’d first met me. “Were you pissed?”
“I’d had a glass of wine, but I wouldn’t say I was drunk,” I replied.
“Oliver said you were drinking,” Baylis said.
“I’m afraid this incident gives me serious doubts about your suitability, Savage,” said Napier. “What’s your view, Hamish?”
“As far as we can see,” said Hamish, flicking through several pages of printout, “no calls were made from the phone that evening. We managed to disable the SIM by 11.30 p.m.”
“Good,” Napier said.
“What we can’t tell from this is whether the SIM has been copied or cloned.” Hamish looked up at me from his sheets of paper.
“With respect,” I said, “Tommy Kelly doesn’t know the first thing about computers and technology.”
“As far as you know,” Baylis added sharply.
“No, he really doesn’t. I’m sure of it. It’s not how he works.”
“I should keep your trap shut while we decide what to do about this,” Napier said. I had been told. “He may not have done anything about it that evening, but he’ll have people who can. As far as we know, he still has the phone and could be having it taken apart as we speak.”
I had no argument. I had let the hotline phone slip into enemy hands.
“Well…” said Baylis after a moment, looking at Tony. “I think this justifies my objection to putting a child on the job.”
Tony and I bristled. Tony went red.
“I think that’s a bit rich, Ian,” he said cautiously. “OK, he’s made a serious slip, but he’s done a hell of a lot of good work in a short time. He’s got us closer than ever before to the heart of this organization.”
“And blown it.”
“Not necessarily,” Tony continued. They were talking about me as if I wasn’t there, but I was glad Tony was defending me, especially as I knew he was majorly pissed off.
“I think these arguments are irrelevant,” Napier said, holding up his hand to silence both of them. “The immediate problem is what to do with Savage. If we take him off the case, we have to disappear him.”
My stomach lurched. I didn’t like the idea of being “disappeared”, whatever that meant.
“It would mean sending him up to another safe house,” Napier continued. “The Aberdeen one, perhaps – nice and remote. Another change of ID and so on.”
I started to feel frightened.
“Or,” suggested Tony, “we could put him back in the f
lat for a few days, lie low, see if anything occurs and then make a decision?”
They considered for a moment.
“OK, agreed – until the end of the week,” Napier said. “By that time we’ll know if there’s any fallout. Everyone on Code Red.”
Code Red was department speak for full alert.
They were probably all cursing me, but I breathed a sigh of relief. Hamish Campbell pushed another small phone across the desk towards me.
“Your new hotline,” he said. “Don’t lose it.”
I was driven back by Tony in a silver car with darkened windows. They really weren’t taking any risks. Tony said very little in the car. All I could feel was an overwhelming sense of his disappointment in me; that I had made such an elementary slip. He dropped me off at the flat in Deptford.
“Keep your nut down,” he said. “Don’t go out or make contact with anyone except me or Ian. You still have the iPhone, don’t you?” I was about to joke that I’d lost that too, but it wasn’t the moment. “Incoming calls only, got it?”
I nodded. “Sorry, Tony. I’ll try and make it up to you.”
He shrugged and got back into the car. “Await further instructions,” he said.
I didn’t have to wait long. I spent the afternoon watching a war film on DVD: Saving Private Ryan. Or “Shaving Ryan’s Privates”, as Steve had called it. It’s a good film: tough, brave and full of brotherly love and loyalty. Just what I was missing. I wondered what Steve would have made of my complete balls-up. Then, around five, my iPhone rang. It was Sophie.
There were further instructions, but not from Baylis or Tony.
“Dad wants to see you,” she announced. “Tomorrow morning.”
I was white and shaking like a leaf, glad she couldn’t see me. “OK,” I said weakly.
“Dave will pick you up at nine.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
“I know,” Tony said down the phone. “Right now, even when you fart, I know about it.”
“So what do I do?” I asked. To be honest, I was terrified.