2016 - Takedown

by Stephen Leather

  Fedkin nodded and pocketed the envelope.

  Lukin smiled. ‘I’ll pay double your normal fee, plus any expenses incurred. But I’ll double your fee again if you do something special for me.’

  Fedkin grinned. ‘What would that be?’

  Lukin leaned closer to Fedkin. ‘Before you kill him, I want you to shove a bottle up his arse, as far as it will go. And I want you to ask him how it feels to get a taste of his own medicine. Can you do that?’

  ‘It will be a pleasure,’ said Fedkin.

  CHAPTER 27

  Harper knew that the cops and the intelligence agencies closely monitored all flights between London and Marbella as a matter of course, to the extent of running facial recognition on every passenger. He thought about flying to Belfast and driving to Dublin to fly from there, but a few minutes on the internet showed him that the quickest way was to catch the Eurostar and travel via Paris. He ended up flying in on Vueling, a low-cost Spanish airline that delivered him on time but with an aching back and sore knees. He wasn’t a fan of Marbella – too much bling and Versace, too many wannabe gangsters and faded soap-opera stars, and so many undercover cops and grasses that any half-decent villain had to keep his mouth permanently shut. The tans might be real but most of the smiles were fake, as was the bonhomie. The vast majority of villains based on the Costa del Crime would have preferred to be in the UK. They pretended to like the sun, the sand and the sea but at the end of the day they were in exile, albeit self-imposed.

  Harper had lived there for a few years but a spate of gangland assassinations and high-profile arrests had had him on the move and he’d settled on Thailand as a bolt-hole. He’d never looked back. The Thais were easier to deal with than the Spanish, the cops far more amenable to a brown envelope full of cash, and while there was an extradition treaty it was mainly for deporting paedophiles and rarely used for ordinary decent criminals.

  Harper made one phone call from the airport, and Dave Brewer was already at the beachfront restaurant waiting for him, a bottle of Cristal champagne open and beading with sweat as it sat in the ice bucket.

  ‘Fuck me, as I live and breathe, I never thought I’d see you back here,’ said Brewer, standing up and giving Harper an enthusiastic bear hug.

  ‘Flying visit,’ said Harper. He sat down and looked at the multi-million-pound yachts and cruisers bobbing in the Mediterranean as Brewer poured the champagne. ‘I never did get the attraction of boats,’ he said. ‘Too much moving about, crewed by strangers, what’s the point?’

  Brewer handed him the glass, then raised his own in salute. ‘Good to see you, mate.’

  ‘Good to be seen,’ said Harper. The two men clinked glasses and drank.

  ‘I’ve ordered lobsters,’ said Brewer. ‘The ones you get here are the best in Marbella.’

  ‘They’re fucking good in Thailand, too,’ said Harper. ‘You should come over some time.’

  Brewer laughed. ‘That’s not going to happen,’ he said. ‘My missus has heard all the stories. There’s no way in hell she’d let me go.’

  ‘Bring her with you. Take her down to Phuket – great beaches and more golf courses than you can shake a club at.’

  Brewer shook his head. ‘Mate, if she came it’d be like taking a dog into a butcher’s and keeping it on a lead. Plus I’m too old to be led into temptation. Sixty this year.’

  ‘Fuck me. Where did the years go?’ Harper raised his glass in salute. ‘Congratulations. When do you get your free bus pass?’

  ‘Fuck off. I’ve still got the Roller.’ He sipped his champagne and stretched out his legs. ‘We did all right, didn’t we?’

  ‘So far, so good,’ agreed Harper.

  ‘You know what I mean. A lot of the guys we knocked around with fifteen years ago either ended up in jail or pissed it all away. You and me, we always had our heads screwed on. I’m pretty much legit now. Sally and I have got about fifty apartments along the coast now, with managers to handle the letting. All we do is count the cash.’

  ‘So you’re on the straight and narrow?’

  ‘Have been for the last ten years, Lex. Haven’t even dipped my toe in.’

  ‘The temptation must be there, though?’

  ‘I’ve too much to lose,’ Brewer said. ‘When you’re twenty or thirty, the idea of a five-stretch or even a ten is no big deal. You do it and you pick up where you left off. But if I got sent down for a ten-stretch now, that’d be the end. I couldn’t expect Sally to wait for me. The kids, well, I don’t know what they’d do but I doubt they’d fly over every week for a prison visit. I wouldn’t see the grandkids … Nah, Lex, it’d be game over. I’d top myself.’ He grinned. ‘But that ain’t gonna happen because I’m now a respectable businessman and a leading light of the British Chamber of Commerce here.’ He raised his glass and clinked it against Harper’s again. They both drank.

  Their lobsters arrived, each the size of a small puppy, along with industrial-sized claw crackers and various implements for removing all the meat. They tucked in, with relish.

  ‘So what can I do you for, Lex?’ said Brewer, as he dabbed at his chin with a napkin.

  ‘Can’t a guy just fly out to see a mate?’

  ‘Don’t try to kid a kidder,’ said Brewer. ‘We go back a long way, no question, but you calling me out of the blue and asking for lunch makes it more than a social call.’ He put down the crackers and picked up his glass. ‘Seriously, mate, I’m well happy to see you, and anything you need, just ask.’

  ‘You’re a star, mate. Thanks.’ He sipped some Cristal and put down his glass. ‘You know this robbery at the safe-deposit company in Manchester?’

  Brewer nodded. ‘Nice bit of work.’

  ‘What’s the gossip?’

  Brewer’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Harper laughed. ‘Don’t worry, mate. I’ve not turned grass. Friend of mine had a box. There was stuff in it that’s of no value to anyone else but means a lot to her.’

  ‘Footballer’s wife?’ asked Brewer. ‘I heard a lot of the City and Man U boys had boxes.’

  ‘She’s just a pal. I’d like to help her out.’

  Brewer nodded. ‘It was a professional job, no question. Similar to the Hatton Garden job.’

  ‘Very similar,’ said Harper.

  ‘You spotted that? Same drill, same way of accessing the vault, not opening all the boxes?’

  ‘But the Hatton Garden mob were pulled, right?’

  ‘Weren’t they just? While the cameras were there. Don’t you hate that, the way the cops now work hand in hand with the press to make sure they get good coverage? They started with celebrities but now they’re doing it with pretty much everyone. The filth have no shame.’

  ‘None at all,’ said Harper. ‘The Hatton Garden mob, were they faces?’

  ‘A couple of them were known, sure. We were bloody surprised to see them on the front page, I can tell you that much. I mean, none of them was in line for the Brain of Britain title.’

  ‘So they were hired hands?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘So if the Manchester job was a carbon copy, it could be the same brains behind it?’

  ‘That’s how I read it.’

  Harper grinned. ‘Any idea whose brains they might be?’

  Brewer chuckled and waved a lobster claw in the air. ‘Now that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?’

  ‘Thirty million pounds, if you believe the papers. Military?’

  ‘It had that feel, didn’t it? Both of them. Both went off without a hitch, both took a hell of a lot of planning coupled with inside knowledge. My money would be on a mastermind who then brought in contractors.’

  ‘And what about the latest job? Any gossip?’

  ‘I heard it might be a Polish crew.’

  ‘Where did you pick that up?’

  ‘Guy I met in a bar the day before yesterday. Said a couple of Poles had flown in from London and were living it large. Cristal all round, and then they took ha
lf a dozen girls from one of the brothels in Puerto Banús.’

  ‘They talked about the raid?’

  ‘Talked about Manchester. And pissed themselves laughing when the story was on TV.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you know where I can find these Poles?’

  Brewer shook his head. ‘I got it second-hand. But he mentioned the brothel, if that’s any help. The Pussycat.’

  Harper laughed. ‘Bloody hell, that’s a name from the past. Still going?’

  ‘On its last legs, I think. So is Porto Banús. Cheap drugs and cheap East European tourists, these days. All the decent gaffs shut down ages ago.’

  ‘Fancy a run out?’

  ‘To the Pussycat? You’re having a laugh. Can you imagine what Sally would do to me if she found out I’d been to a brothel with you?’

  ‘Fair point, mate. But back in the day you were a great wingman.’

  ‘Those days are long gone, Lex,’ laughed Brewer, refilling their glasses. ‘But you go and knock yourself out.’

  ‘Can you do me a favour?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Lend me a motor. Just for the day. Anything will do.’

  ‘Mate, you can borrow the Roller. Just be careful with it.’

  CHAPTER 28

  Harper figured that late afternoon probably wasn’t the best time to be visiting a brothel and his fears were confirmed when he walked into the Pussycat and found only four girls on duty. The woman who was in charge was probably in her fifties but had been under the plastic surgeon’s knife so often it was difficult to know for sure. Her forehead was glass-smooth, her arched eyebrows gave her a look of perpetual surprise and her mouth was a duck-like pout. Her waist was unnaturally thin and her breasts were the size and shape of watermelons. When she had opened the door, her plumped-up lips curled back in what was supposed to be a smile. ‘Come in, my love,’ she had said, in a heavy accent. Not Russian but close. ‘The early bird catches the worm.’

  She had taken him into the main sitting area where three large sofas faced a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked a large pool and barbecue area. The villa was on the outskirts of Puerto Banús, set behind a tall wall to keep the activities inside away from prying eyes. It had probably been seven or eight years since Harper had last visited but little had changed décor-wise. Terracotta tiled floors, white walls and low-backed sofas.

  ‘You been here before, my darling?’ purred the woman.

  ‘A few years ago,’ said Harper. ‘What happened to Tracey?’ She was the former top London escort who had set up the Pussycat in the late nineties, backed by a couple of East End gangsters. She had run a tight operation, everyone trusted her and she could smell a wrong ’un at fifty paces. The Pussycat had become the drinking den of choice for those gangsters who wanted to let their hair down away from their wives and kids. In its heyday, bowls of cocaine had been set out on the coffee-tables for anyone to use, compliments of the management, along with the best hashish ever to have come out of Morocco.

  ‘She sold up two years ago,’ said the woman. ‘Married a Texan oilman of all things. She’s as rich as God now, they say.’

  ‘Good for Tracey,’ he said, and extended his hand ‘Jeremy,’ he said. ‘From London.’ He decided to go the whole hog. ‘Jeremy Willoughby-Brown.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Jeremy,’ she said, shaking his with a jewel-encrusted hand. Its discolored patches of skin and raised veins betrayed her true age. ‘I’m Sylvia. It’s early yet but we do have these beautiful girls for you.’ She waved at the four sitting on the sofas. Two were bottle-blondes, one was a brunette and the fourth a dyed redhead. They all smiled hopefully up at Harper, though they looked tired and a little worn.

  ‘I can recommend Elsa,’ said Sylvia, nodding at an anorexic blonde with skin the colour of porcelain. ‘She’s new. Well, relatively new.’

  Elsa gave him a little wave. She was wearing a short black silk kimono and had painted her toenails to match the vibrant red of her fingernails. ‘Actually, I was looking for someone in particular,’ said Harper. ‘I met a couple of Polish guys who said they’d had a great time a couple of days ago.’

  ‘What were the names of the girls?’

  Harper feigned embarrassment. ‘To be honest, I don’t think they asked for their names, just said they’d been to the Pussycat and had the best sex of their lives.’

  ‘All our girls will give you the best sex of your life,’ said Sylvia. She gestured at Elsa. ‘There’s nothing Elsa won’t do. I’m told that being with her is like being in your own private porn movie. And if you take her with another girl, well, you’ll be doubling your pleasure. Elsa loves the company of other women, don’t you, Elsa?’

  ‘I love it,’ said Elsa, but the haunted look in her eyes suggested otherwise.

  Sylvia gestured at the redhead. ‘Natasha and Elsa work very well together. Wouldn’t you like to be the filling in that sandwich, Jeremy?’

  Natasha winked and licked her upper lip suggestively.

  ‘I promised the guys I’d try their girls,’ said Harper. ‘Be rude not to.’

  ‘Their names?’

  ‘Ah, they were drinking buddies rather than pals,’ said Harper. ‘But you’ll remember them. Polish. Quite loud. Big spenders.’

  Sylvia spoke to Elsa in their own language. Latvian, maybe. Or Estonian. Elsa replied. Sylvia smiled at Harper. ‘One of the girls is upstairs, sleeping. If you could wait, say, fifteen minutes?’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Harper, dropping down onto a sofa.

  ‘Her name is Katrin. I’ll tell her to get ready.’

  As Sylvia went upstairs, Elsa curled up on the sofa next to Harper. Natasha asked him what he wanted to drink. He’d had half a bottle of Cristal with Brewer but figured a teetotal customer would raise suspicion so he asked for a beer. As she went off to get it, the other two began to play on their smartphones. Elsa ran a finger up and down his thigh. Harper realised that the nails were fake, stuck on top of the real ones.

  ‘I can work with Katrin. It’ll be fun.’ She smiled at him but her eyes were flat. Harper had seen the look a thousand times in the bars of Pattaya. A lot of girls enjoyed working in the bars but a percentage had been forced into it, not at gunpoint but by family pressure. It was drummed into Thai children from birth that their primary duty was to support their parents, and if that duty involved selling their bodies, few had the courage to refuse.

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ said Harper. He unzipped his hip-pack and pulled out a couple of hundred-euro notes. He slipped them to her. ‘A tip,’ he said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Harper laughed. ‘I won it on the horses,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about it. Now tell me about Katrin.’

  Elsa tucked the money into the top of her stockings. ‘She’s from Lithuania.’

  ‘You too?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m from Estonia, but we’re friends. Her tits aren’t real, but mine are.’ She jiggled her impressive breasts to prove her point and Harper couldn’t help but laugh.

  The girl returned with Harper’s beer and he sipped it, then and chatted to her and Elsa until Sylvia came back with Katrin. Katrin’s breasts were as fake as Sylvia’s but she had a pretty face, long black hair and, though the dark patches under her eyes suggested she hadn’t had much sleep, she didn’t have the same haunted look as Elsa. She was wearing a white silk robe and, from the way it clung to her curves, nothing underneath it.

  ‘You like?’ asked Sylvia.

  Harper stood up. ‘I like a lot.’

  Katrin shook her long, curly black hair and held out her hand. Harper took it and allowed her to lead him upstairs, along a corridor to a bedroom. There was a king-sized bed with red satin sheets but no duvet, and a mirrored ceiling. The windows were open and a soft breeze ruffled the lace curtains. There was a fridge by the bathroom door and Katrin opened it. ‘Do you want a drink?’

  Harper held up his beer. ‘I’m good.’

  ‘Do you mind if I have something?’ she ask
ed, pulling out a bottle of champagne.

  Harper knew that if he said yes the cost would be added to his bill but he just smiled. ‘Sure, why not?’

  She popped the cork, filled the glass and sat on the bed. Her skin was tanned and, from what he could see, there were no tan lines. ‘Sylvia tells me I partied with your friends.’

  Harper nodded. ‘Polish guys, a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Tomasz?’ she said. ‘He was crazy. I got the feeling he hadn’t had sex for a long time.’ She threw back her head as she laughed, showing perfect white teeth.

  Harper figured she was in her mid-twenties at most. ‘That sounds about right. How long did he stay?’

  ‘He didn’t. He paid for us to go out. Me and Anna. And four other girls. Anna was for his friend. What was his name? Gabriel, like the angel?’

  ‘Gabriel, yes,’ said Harper. ‘Good old Gabriel. So they gave you a good time?’

  ‘They spent money like it was nothing and they were tipping like crazy. I told them our fee for the night and he gave me double that.’

  ‘Did he give you his phone number?’

  She shook her head. ‘I gave him mine and he said he’d call me but he hasn’t. He said he and Gabriel would come back last night and I waited but …’ She shrugged. ‘I suppose there are many places like the Pussycat.’

  ‘Where was his villa?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘You said he was your friend.’

  ‘He is, but he’s on holiday and I’m not staying with him.’

  She was still eyeing him suspiciously. ‘Do you want to have fun or just talk?’ She sipped her champagne.

  Harper unzipped his hip-pack and took out a handful of hundred-euro notes. ‘What’s your normal fee?’ he asked.

  ‘During the day, two hundred euros for an hour.’

  Harper placed two notes on the bed next to her. Then two more. Then another two. By the time he’d finished there was a thousand euros on the sheet. ‘I don’t do anal,’ she said.

  Harper grinned as he put the rest of his money back into his hip-pack. ‘That’s just for chatting to me,’ he said.