Gatecrasher

by Robert Young

  At first it was bribes. Simple enough to look the other way. So often had he been frustrated when the hard work had come to nothing, when the guilty had gone unpunished, that it made little difference to his conscience to play dumb occasionally. But it had made a difference to the bank balance.

  Soon enough it was more than his silence that was for sale though. He had information with a value, influence with certain people in certain places.

  And then this latest job had come along. Not from nowhere exactly. He'd had dealings with his paymaster on other occasions but on a much smaller scale. Nothing of this magnitude and certainly nothing so lucrative.

  He had been excited at the prospect of what he was set to make from it, not least because of how simple a job it seemed to be and more so at how little he really needed to do by himself. Those things had simply made Drennan more suspicious of the whole thing but as much as he looked at it and analysed the risks and possible outcomes, he could never, and would never, ignore the cash that was there for the taking. Cash it would take years to put in the bank normally.

  So he had accepted it, found the men to do the dirty work for a slice of the money, and with the relevant information supplied to them about the job he had felt like little more than a middle-man much of the time. But he'd enjoyed it too. Handing out orders to these men, using the threat and intimidation of the power that he had over them. He could pay them well or put them away and though he barely said as much explicitly, he made sure that they all knew it.

  But this too was falling apart now. How something so simple had unravelled so quickly and so alarmingly made Drennan's chest tighten and his pulse pick up. His paymaster, who at first had seemed no more to him than a corrupt, white collar criminal had begun to assume a far more sinister aspect. Drennan had not felt threatened by the man at first and blamed that now as much on his own arrogant assumptions and inflated ego as on the way the man had played his part. He'd wanted Drennan to think of him that way, and he had been more than happy to.

  Stupid. But now the wolf was shedding its sheepskin and Drennan was wondering what he had become embroiled in. He knew a little of it of course, the boss had to tell him something of what he was doing. But Drennan had never once presumed that he'd been told everything and the longer things went on the more keenly he felt the creeping sense of threat.

  More than that, he was starting to worry that if he didn't take some more decisive action, that the job would stop being a job anymore, that the money would disappear. He wouldn't get paid for failure. Particularly not when it was supposed to have been so simple in the first place.

  His paymaster had hinted at that already with the phone call the day before.

  'What about our loose end? What do you want to do about that?'

  'That's no longer a concern of yours Matthew.'

  No longer a concern. Drennan didn't like the sound of that. Not because of the implications for the young man from Fulham but because the less involvement he had in the job, the less chance there would be of being paid the full amount. Let alone picking up other lucrative work. The man may have more uses for him if he did it right, may have friends with similar interests or requirements.

  Failure would be costly. These risks he had taken would not be for nothing. Matthew Drennan knew that all was not lost yet and when the opportunity presented itself to set things right, to stake his claim, he could not afford to let it slip.

  33

  Thursday. 7.30am.

  Campbell had nothing but the clothes he had been snatched and beaten up in, the wallet, phone and keys that were in his pockets and a few extra cuts and bruises.

  He was heading home now. A hundred different thoughts had gone through his head since he had left Slater behind him and he knew without question that they would be back to look for him at his home. But with Slater's car left abandoned in the road right outside Spitalfields Market, Slater would have to go back for it. Maybe it had even been stolen, left there in the middle of the street. That would slow Slater up some more. Whatever the case, he would know that there was no hope of finding Campbell back at Liverpool Street now so he would head first for the car and then make for Fulham. Given the traffic across the centre of the city at this time of day Campbell knew that he would beat Slater there on the tube but also knew that he couldn't stay around for long.

  He would, he decided, have to pack a bag and get out. He would have to take the memory stick with him too. Given that he had made his escape from Slater after all that had happened would make it clear enough to them that he knew something - which of course he did - and that he represented a significant threat - which of course, he did.

  Sitting on the train as it rattled along toward his station he could not stop his mind from wandering. How did this rough and unsophisticated bunch of thugs fit into this? It made no sense. Though he knew little of them, it was evident that they were pretty straightforward villains. Their violent methods and unsubtle approach made that obvious enough. Theirs was a world where fear and intimidation were blunt and often used tools. They would steal and extort, threaten and occasionally enforce those threats. This was not a gang who were involved in skilful and complicated white-collar crime.

  The train stopped and Campbell got off and headed for the bus that would take him the short trip to the end of his road. Would they be there waiting? How long had it been since he last saw Slater?

  Pushing the question of who they were and where they fitted in to one side, Campbell turned again to the immediate problem. What to do next? Where to go?

  He would call in sick to work for a start. They may not believe him - probably not at all in fact considering how erratically he had been behaving throughout the week. Then again, that might work in his favour.

  Then what? Collect a bag of clothes and a toothbrush from the flat and then get out quickly. But to go where? Who would he tell?

  He chewed it over on the bus ride back but he could not decide. Every road led back to Gresham because with the address book he had stolen, Gresham knew everyone he knew. Which meant that wherever he went, Gresham and Slater would never be too far behind.

  Campbell approached his street full of apprehension. But though he was alert and checking every single car he could see, a weariness had settled on him. He was exhausted, cold and in pain. He did not know where to turn, unable to bear the thought of dragging any of the people he loved into this mess with him and knowing that if he did that he would be found anyway. As he neared his front door he felt almost ready to collapse and concede everything. What could he really do now? What cards did he still hold?

  Stepping into the silence of his home he listened and heard nothing at all and he knew exactly which card he still held.

  Collecting the memory stick from its hiding place, the same place that the gatecrasher had left it, pushed far underneath the oven, he made for his bedroom and filled a bag with clean clothes from his wardrobe. After some short deliberation he gambled another precious few minutes on a hot shower which felt well worth it afterward, leaving him looking and feeling a little more human.

  Less than twenty minutes after stepping through the door, Campbell had left and was walking briskly back up the road, no Slater or Gresham in sight.

  He had also decided what he was going to do next. There was nobody in his address book that he could call without putting them in danger so he would have to call somebody that was not in it.

  'Griffin Holdings.'

  It was a male voice and the noise of a passing bus disturbed him too.

  'Hello? Sorry, is Sarah there?' he said.

  'Which Sarah?'

  Suddenly her surname was gone. He was blank. He hadn't even thought that there might be more than one Sarah in the office.

  'I thought that this was her direct line.'

  'No, sorry.'

  What was it? He couldn't remember at all no matter how hard he thought.

  'Knowles or Evans sir?'

  'Knowles! Knowles! Sarah Knowles. That's i
t. Sorry. Total blank,' he said trying to temper his initial excitement with a more composed tone of voice.

  'She's not in yet? oh hang on a sec-,' the line went muffled for a moment and then the man was back on. 'She's not in at all until Monday I'm afraid. Annual leave. Is there anything I can help with?

  'No. Thank you,' he said flatly as his spirits sagged. Gone until Monday. What would he do until then?

  Suddenly he remembered, with a sense of relief that almost made him swoon, that he had swapped mobile phone numbers with her the night before. But he was still apprehensive. How would she react to him calling her on her holiday? As far as she was concerned she was an employee of Griffin Holdings and he a local journalist. That was where his interest began and ended. Would she take the call what. She saw his number? Would she even be in the country any more?

  Campbell shrugged. No time to waste.

  'Hello?' Yes!

  'Sarah?' he said trying to hard to sound normal.

  'Who's this?'

  'Its Daniel.' Shit.

  'Who?'

  'Hello?' Campbell tried to play it as if the line were bad and that she'd misheard him but it was a flimsy ploy. He had made a silly mistake in his excitement and relief to hear her voice.

  'Who is this?'

  'Sarah, it's Owen Michaels.'

  Silence.

  'Sarah?'

  'Mr Michaels. What can I do for you?' Very frosty. Campbell felt a film of sweat on his brow.

  'I need to talk to you.'

  'Well I made an effort to come to see you last night Mr Michaels.'

  'Yes, something came up.'

  'So I saw.'

  Campbell frowned. 'I'm sorry?'

  'I turned up on time and there you were getting into a car with two other people. Not even a phone call. Evidently whatever it is, is not that urgent after all.'

  Shit.

  'But it really is.'

  'No Mr Michaels-,' she began, her tone reproachful.

  'My name is Daniel Campbell,' he blurted.

  'What?'

  He couldn't stop it.

  'My name is not Owen Michaels. I'm not a local journalist. I think you probably knew that anyway. My name is Daniel, I work for a firm of investment analysts in the City. But I do know about the break-in at your offices, I know what was stolen but it wasn't me that stole it. It is highly sensitive information which I think is also potentially both very damaging and also very valuable.'

  There was a long silence whilst she took this all in. Campbell was surprised to hear all those words come tumbling out of his own mouth so he could only imagine what she was thinking.

  'How do you know?' she said finally.

  'Because I have it in my pocket.'

  34

  Thursday. 9am.

  The booming, roaring shout was followed by the smash and pop of a breaking glass as Gresham launched his drink against the far wall.

  'FUCK!' he shouted and Slater continued to stare at the floor. 'I might expect this from Jules, Keith, but not you. What the hell is going on?!'

  With that Gresham stalked back across the room toward Slater and landed a heavy right hand across the big man's jaw. Slater, other than to raise a hand to the blood that began to run from the side of his mouth, did not react, as if he were accepting what he deserved.

  Gresham turned and sank into the armchair in the corner and hung his head into his hands. Slater knew better than to speak now. Just to listen.

  Eventually Gresham spoke but the anger was gone. 'Sorry Keith. Its not your fault. I should have never got us mixed up in this in the first place. I thought it stank from the start.'

  'Seemed a bit too easy. Sod's law that it's all gone to hell,' replied Slater hesitantly.

  'I still haven't told Drennan what's happened to the memory stick. I mean he knows about Campbell and all. Seems more worried about what he might have heard off Cooper that night than the idea that he has the bloody thing as well.'

  'You spoke to him recently?'

  'Hour ago. Sounds like he's got someone else involved. Says that they'll take care of it. Whoever they are.'

  'Oh Christ. Take care of it? As in?'

  Gresham nodded. 'Yep, as in forever. Which means if we don't find him first, there is no stick to hand over and no cash to collect.'

  Slater remained silent while Gresham looked deep in thought.

  'I'm sick of this mess Keith. I wish I could just walk away.'

  'Well why don't we just cut our losses? Tell Drennan we don't know what's happened to the stick, very sorry and all that but let's just call it quits and go our separate ways.'

  'Because I need that money. We need that money.'

  'I realise it's a good payday George but is it worth all this?'

  'Remember that deal we did with Frankie Walker in the summer?'

  Slater remembered it well. They had unexpectedly come into possession of a large amount of class A drugs. Not their normal line of business but they bought it very cheap from an old associate who claimed to have stolen it from a Customs storage facility shortly after if had been confiscated from a trafficker.

  Recognising a bargain and eager to move it on as quickly as possible they had sold it at a reasonable profit to a local gangster with whom they had always enjoyed an uneasy relationship but one largely without trouble. Frankie Walker was a more influential and powerful figure than Gresham and had many more men on his payroll and fingers in many more pies. He had the wherewithal to shift the cocaine that Gresham had offered him and they had done the deal quickly and without too much fuss. It had seemed good business at the time.

  'Well it seems that a lot of what he took off us has turned out to be crap. I mean they checked some of what we showed them and that seemed ok at the time but Frankie called me up the other week. He told me that they thought a lot of it had been cut by the time they got it which either means we cut it - which we both know we didn't - or we got stiffed at our end, which seems likely. Either way Frankie isn't happy.'

  'Oh Christ,' was all Slater could say.

  'Oh Christ is right. He made it clear I had two months to pay and he wanted 50 per cent on top. You know and I know that Frankie Walker does not muck about. That memory stick was going to pay him off in one go and give us some change.'

  'So when does he want it?'

  'Two days.'

  Slater closed his eyes and inhaled. 'How much George?'

  'He needs thirty grand.'

  'Thirty grand in two days? Surely he shifted some of it though? I mean even if it was cut they could still sell it on?'

  'Frankie says that's the reason we're still alive. You know what he's like. If he says it's thirty, then it's thirty. Needs to make sure he looks like he's in charge. Anybody tries to screw him over, he comes back hard.'

  Slater nodded. He had heard plenty of stories about Frank Walker. His reach extended across much of East and South East London and a little beyond and he was said to have people in his employ from hookers right up to policemen and judges. He bought, sold, stole, laundered, dealt and extorted and was not above involving himself personally in the dirty end of his business. Word had it that when one of the companies that Walker ran to help launder money got frozen out at the last minute on a construction contract to a Saudi owned company who had legitimately outbid Walker's firm, he took it upon himself to cut off the hands of the man who handled the negotiations.

  There was no way that Walker would let them get away with this without making an example of them all. Slater wondered, not for the first time, how something so simple could mean so much, to so many people. Drennan would pay a lot for this memory stick, and so would Gresham and the rest of them if they failed to get hold of it and deliver Walker's money.

  35

  Thursday. 1pm.

  The numbers on the digital display scrolled higher, through the 80's and into the 90's before they stopped and found a station.

  '- the latest in a spate of recent sightings of so-called big cats in the area. Two e
yewitnesses claim to have seen the animal walking across fields near their village and into woodland beyond. Local police were called in and are said to be treating the sightings as serious.' Static hissed across the news bulletin and he hit the tune button and the numbers climbed again.

  Through the window fields swept past, a deep green shade in the early evening light. Tree lined hills formed a dark backdrop as the sun rolled down out of the sky and he could make out the lonely shapes of small farms and cottages dotted throughout the landscape. His own reflection was becoming more clear now in the glass of the window as the light outside faded and could no longer compete with the fluorescent strip lights inside.

  She had agreed to meet him after he had done some fast-talking to convince her that what he said was genuine. However, she told him, she was, at the time they spoke, driving to Cornwall to visit her parents who lived in a small village on the south coast of the county. He could come and meet her there if it was so important and she would hear him out at least but that was it. If she didn't believe him she would call the police and her boss and that would be that.

  He had readily agreed and made straight for Paddington station and jumped on the next train in that direction; nervous and edgy all the while, checking over his shoulder regularly, scanning the faces of passers-by, particularly those who looked at him.

  When he'd arrived at Paddington and come up from the underground Campbell had received a phone call that had disturbed him greatly. An ex-girlfriend had told him that a gruff-sounding man with a thick London accent had called her saying he knew Daniel and that he was in some trouble and had then asked for a number to contact Campbell. She had, she said, declined to give the man Campbell's number, unsettled as she was by the tone of the man's voice. Instead, she had offered to contact him herself and perhaps pass on a message.

  The man had then given her a telephone number to call and informed her that she too might be in some danger if Daniel did not make contact. Campbell had assured her it was nothing more than a prank, though she had seemed less than convinced, but he had taken the number and promised to call the prankster and tell them to stop playing jokes, that it wasn't funny. Though a year had passed since they had last been in touch and the girl had sounded eager to catch up and interested in his wellbeing, Campbell had ended the call rather abruptly, his mind very much elsewhere. He had known it might happen - expected it really - but he was surprised by his own reaction. He was afraid of course, worried and guilty that innocent people might be drawn into this and come to harm. But more than that he had found himself filled with anger at what Gresham had done.