‘This is more like it,’ said Shepherd. CCTV cameras covered the entrances to the villas and several bore signs in Thai and English, announcing that they were protected by private security firms.
‘The security is first class,’ said Windsor. ‘The guys at the main entrance screen all visitors, and if there’s someone you don’t want to see, they’ll turn them away. If you want, you can arrange your own security for the villa. A guard at the gate will cost you about five hundred baht a day for a twelve-hour shift. The one I’m showing you has full electronic security. Flip the glove-box, will you, and press the bleeper thing to open the gates?’
Shepherd found the remote control and clicked it. A large metal gate rolled back to reveal a well-tended garden with dozens of mature palms. The driveway curved in front of a large single-storey villa with a Thai-style pitched roof trimmed with teak and a garage with three doors. Windsor pulled up in front of it. Behind them, the metal gate rattled shut.
Shepherd climbed out of the car. The villa was quite secluded, the walls were high and, from where he was standing, he couldn’t see any of the others on the estate. ‘Who looks after the place?’ he asked.
‘There’s a gardener who comes in every day. He does the pool, too. His wife works as a full-time maid when the owner’s here, but when he isn’t she comes in every few days to air the place. If you wanted her services, a couple of hundred baht a day would do it. She cooks, too.’
‘I’m happier on my own,’ said Shepherd.
The estate agent took a set of keys from his pocket. ‘Let me show you around. This is something special, I can assure you.’ He opened the door and a burglar alarm beeped. There was a console halfway down the hallway and he walked over to it, then tapped out four digits. The beeping stopped. They were standing in a hallway with high ceilings and a marble floor. There was an ornate mirror opposite the alarm console and under it a waist-high marble table. ‘The owner likes Italian things and he imported a lot,’ said Windsor. ‘It’s not to everyone’s taste, but it’s all amazingly expensive.’
The hallway ran left to right and there were ornate teaks doors at either end that looked as if they were more than a hundred years old. Windsor opened one. ‘The design is quite clever,’ he said. ‘This way leads to the bedrooms. The master is huge but the other three are almost as big. And there’s a smaller one, if you ever want a live-in member of staff. Each has its own bathroom, and french windows leading to the pool area.’ He pointed to the other door. ‘That takes you to the sitting room, the study and the games room.’
Windsor ushered Shepherd down the corridor to the last bedroom. It was three times the size of his hotel suite, with a massive bed and glass doors looking on to a magnificent pool. On the far side he could see into the main sitting room. Next to it was a room with a pool table and a big plasma screen. The villa was effectively a huge horseshoe shape built around the swimming-pool. For the next fifteen minutes Windsor took Shepherd around the villa, showing off all its features as if it were his own home.
The owner clearly had more money than taste. The furniture was all modern Italian with sleek lines and stainless-steel legs but not at all comfortable. There was a dining-table big enough for sixteen but the chairs were straight-backed and so narrow that sitting on them for more than a few minutes would be painful in the extreme. The lighting system was computer-controlled, with automatic settings depending on the owner’s mood, which apparently varied from daytime reading to watching television to what Windsor referred to coyly as ‘a romantic evening with the ladies’. The villa appeared to have been designed for a photo spread in a lifestyle magazine rather than for living in, but Shepherd knew it was perfect for a villain like Ricky Knight, a man with little taste but money to burn.
‘I’ll take it,’ he said.
‘I knew you’d like it,’ said Windsor. ‘It’s got your name written all over it.’
‘I’ll rent it for now, but I want you to find me something as good to buy. Or we can talk about getting one built.’
‘I’ll need two months’ deposit and a month in advance, so that’s a million and a half baht.’
Shepherd pulled out his wallet. ‘It might take me a day or two to get it here,’ he said, and counted out twenty one-thousand-baht notes. ‘Have this on account.’
The estate agent pocketed it. ‘I’ll draw up the contract tonight, and as soon as you send me the money, you can move in.’
Shepherd smiled to himself as, at the far end of the pool, water trickled down a rock wall into which had been set small pots of orchids. There was a stone statue of a crouching tiger at the top, its head up in a snarl. Shepherd could imagine the same look on Charlotte Button’s face when he told her what his new accommodation was going to cost.
Bradshaw was the last to arrive. He had worked a clockwise circuit of the park, then stopped for a drink at the outdoor café by the children’s play area to satisfy himself that he wasn’t being followed. From his table he had seen al-Sayed arrive at the Rose Garden, five minutes after Bradshaw had said he should be there. Al-Sayed was a good Muslim and cool under pressure, but his timekeeping was a constant source of annoyance. Bradshaw had spoken to al-Sayed twice about it, and the other man had been apologetic, but nothing had changed. It was not a trivial issue: being five minutes late for a meeting mattered little, but for what Bradshaw was planning timing would be crucial and the difference between success and failure might be just seconds.
As he approached the bench, the four men looked up expectantly. ‘Did he say yes?’ asked al-Sayed. He moved to the side to make room for Bradshaw.
‘The money’s coming, but we’ve been given a task,’ he said.
‘What sort of task?’ asked al-Sayed, eagerly.
‘If you listen, I’ll tell you,’ said Bradshaw.
‘It is jihad?’ asked Talwar. He was shaking with anticipation and pushed his glasses higher up his nose with the middle finger of his right hand.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Bradshaw. ‘It’s jihad.’
‘Allahu akbar,’ said Talwar.
‘Allahu akbar,’ echoed the others.
‘God is great,’ said Bradshaw. ‘God is great and we are His servants. Now, listen as I tell you what we have to do.’
As soon as he got back to the Sandy Spring, Shepherd phoned Button and told her about the villa. ‘That’s more than we budgeted for,’ she said archly.
‘It fits with the legend,’ said Shepherd.
‘How many bedrooms?’
‘Four or five.’
‘Why on earth would you need that many?’
‘It’s not about the number, it’s about style. It’s about showing that I’ve got money and that I’m prepared to throw it about. I could get a one-bedroom flat in a tower block but if I did that the brothers aren’t going to take me seriously.’
Button sighed. ‘You’re right, of course. So, how much will you need?’
‘It’s five hundred thousand baht a month and I’ve agreed to a six-month lease. One month’s rent in advance plus two months as a deposit so the agent wants one and a half million up front. That’s a shade under thirty thousand pounds in real money.’
‘This had better be worth it,’ said Button. ‘I think SOCA’s got more accountants than investigators and they’re all keen to justify their salaries.’
‘Can you transfer the money today?’
‘I’ll do it now,’ she said. ‘We’ve already FedExed the bank paperwork to you. You should get it tomorrow. All you have to do is go into the main Pattaya branch with your Westlake passport, give them your signature and you’re sorted. We’ve fixed up a cash-machine card and a Bangkok Bank credit card. Any other expenses I should know about?’
‘I’m going to fix up a gym membership. There’s a deal at the moment, lifetime membership for just under twenty thousand baht.’
‘Lifetime membership? If all goes to plan you’ll be back within the month.’
‘I’ve got to look like I’m serious about staying he
re.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I’ve rented a Jeep. I’ll probably rent a Harley, too.’
‘Just make sure you keep receipts for all this,’ said Button.
‘I’m not on holiday,’ said Shepherd. ‘Trust me, if I was, Pattaya would be the last place I’d choose.’
‘Is it grim?’
‘Let’s just say I’ve seen more beer guts, ponytails and tattoos in the last twenty-four hours than ever before.’ He ended the call and showered. It was only just getting dark outside but the jet-lag was kicking in and he felt exhausted. He switched on the television and lay on his bed. It was Stallone, again, grunting and killing. Shepherd couldn’t tell if it was the same Rambo movie he’d watched the previous night, but even if it wasn’t he was still asleep within minutes.
Mark Moore looked around the crowded discothèque. It was just after midnight and it was already almost full to capacity. He grinned at his brother. ‘No point in us all fighting our way to the bar,’ he said. ‘You guys stay here, I’ll get the beers in.’ Mickey patted him on the back and went to talk to Wilson and Yates, who had managed to find a space by the wall. They were in a glorified pickup joint on Walking Street. Half the women were bargirls who had already been with a customer or were on their day off, or freelancers hoping to strike it lucky with a tourist. Most of the men were Westerners looking to pick up a girl without having to pay for sex – but they all expected payment in one form or another
Mark eased his way through the crowd to the bar and ordered four Singha beers from the obviously gay barman. He had to shout to make himself heard above the thumping beat from the sound system. Two young girls were standing to his right and smiled at him.
‘How are you doing?’ asked Mark.
‘Fine,’ said the prettier of the two. ‘Where are you from?’
‘England.’
The girl spoke to her companion in Thai and they giggled. The barman returned with Mark’s beers and placed the bottles on the bar. As Mark reached into his pocket for his wallet, a large man in a tight T-shirt and baggy shorts pushed between him and the girls and began talking to them.
Mark paid the barman, and as he waited for his change, he leaned around the man and winked at the pretty girl. The man shifted to block her, banging into Mark’s shoulder as two others moved in behind the girls, circling them like wolves. The barman gave Mark his change and a smile. Mark picked up one of the beers, took a swig and leaned back to catch the girl’s eye again. The man sensed what he was doing and stepped back, knocking Mark’s hand. The bottle fizzed and beer dribbled over his fingers. Mark tapped on the man’s shoulder but he ignored him. Mark tapped again, harder, and the man turned. ‘What do you want?’ he snarled. He was Australian, square-faced, with a nose that had been broken and badly reset.
‘Just be careful, pal,’ said Mark. ‘You’ve banged into me twice already.’ He held up his bottle of Singha. ‘And you spilled my beer.’
The Australian was a good four inches taller than Mark and bent down to glare at him. ‘Listen, mate, just get on with whatever you’re doing and leave me alone,’ he snapped.
Mark smiled amiably. ‘Excuse me?’ he said.
‘Yeah, fucking excuse you,’ said the Australian. He prodded Mark in the chest. ‘Mate, I’m your worst fucking nightmare. You give me an excuse and I’ll kick the living shit out of you.’ He turned back to his two friends. They were just as tall and muscular. All three men were wearing tight Tshirts to show off their biceps and chests. They laughed and clinked their bottles together. They had the thick necks and overdeveloped muscles that came from long-term steroid use, not exercise. Mark had muscles but they were in proportion and the result of long, hard training sessions. He wasn’t in the least bit fazed by the size of the men. He knew that, when it came to a fight, technique and stamina counted, not bulk. Mark looked at his brother to check that he’d seen what was going on. Mickey winked and gave him a thumbs-up. Mark put his beer bottle on the bar and tapped on the Australian’s shoulder again.
‘I bloody well warned you—’
Mark drove his right elbow up in an arc, catching the Australian under the chin. As he staggered back, Mark grabbed his shoulders and slammed his knee into the man’s stomach. The Australian bent forward, gasping for breath, and Mark punched the side of his head, twisting his fist so that it ground into the skin. Then he stepped back, hands up, ready to move, but there was no fight left in the Australian. He dropped to his knees and looked up at Mark quizzically. Mark kicked him in the side of the head and he toppled over, unconscious.
One of the Australian’s friends stepped forward, grabbed the neck of his Singha bottle and swung. Mark blocked the blow with his left hand, then punched the man in the neck. The bottle tumbled from his hand and he staggered against the bar, clutching his throat.
The third man threw a punch at Mark’s head but he was slow and Mark had all the time in the world to tilt his body to the side and watch the fist go by. He punched him in the sternum three times, left, right, left, and put all his weight behind the last blow so the man moved a full two feet backwards before slumping to the floor at the feet of the pretty girl who had smiled at Mark earlier. Now she was staring at him with horror.
Three Thai men in black Tshirts with ‘SECURITY’ on the front and back raced across the dance-floor, pushing customers out of the way. They were all off-duty policemen so Mark raised his hands to show that he wasn’t a threat. ‘They started it,’ he said laconically.
The tallest man put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Khun Mark, you are always getting into trouble,’ he said. His name was Sombat and he was a traffic cop, usually based near the airport. He also trained at the kickboxing gym where Mark spent much of his spare time.
Mark lowered his hands. ‘Really, Sombat, I was just minding my own business.’
‘I’ve told you, Khun Mark, if you want to fight, take them outside. My boss hates it when there are fights inside. It’s bad for business.’
‘I’ll remember, Sombat.’
Mickey appeared at Mark’s shoulder and nodded at the security men. ‘How’s it going, guys?’ he said.
‘It would be good if you went now and didn’t come back for a day or two,’ said Sombat, smiling.
‘Understood,’ said Mickey. He shook hands with Sombat, and slipped him a thousand-baht note. The money disappeared into the back pocket of the Thai’s jeans.
Mark put his arm around his brother and they walked outside. ‘The thing I don’t get is why big guys get verbal,’ said Mark. ‘If I’m not intimidated by his size, why does he think lines from a bad movie are gonna make me shit my pants?’
‘Beats me,’ said Mickey.
‘Did you see the way I used the elbow?’
‘Classy.’
‘I think I broke his jaw.’ Mark licked his grazed knuckles. ‘He’ll be on liquids for months.’ He butted his head gently against his brother’s. ‘Come on, where to next?’
Mark pointed at a sign for the Angelwitch go-go bar. ‘I want to see some naked women.’
The brothers walked down a narrow alley, past food stalls and tables covered with cheap plastic cloths, threading their way though sweating waitresses hurrying around with trays of food. Wilson and Yates followed. They passed tanks filled with live fish, prawns and crabs, and woks flaring over flames. Several touts tried to persuade them to go inside their bars but the brothers brushed by and continued down the alley to Angelwitch.
A big Thai man pulled back a red curtain and they walked inside. The bar had a double-height ceiling with chrome poles stretching from an oval dance-floor to the roof. Heavy-metal music was pounding from large speakers, and on the stage more than a dozen young girls were gyrating, all in black outfits, draped with chrome chains, boots and fishnet stockings. Around the stage, tiers of red vinyl seats were filled with mainly middle-aged Westerners. The mama-san, a woman in her fifties with her hair tied back in a bun, showed the Moores to a row of empty seats, and two pretty young waitres
ses in black scurried over to take their order.
One of the dancers waved at Mark and blew him a kiss with a lace-gloved hand. He waved back. ‘What’s her name?’ he asked Wilson.
‘Nit or Noy, something like that.’
‘Great tits,’ said Mark. ‘I’ve been with her, right?’
Mickey slapped him on the back. ‘You’ve been with them all, mate.’
A customer in front of Mickey handed a waitress a five-hundred-baht note in exchange for a bucket of pingpong balls. The girls on the dance-floor screamed as he started throwing them – each ball they retrieved was worth twenty baht. One girl gathered up half a dozen and held them in the air triumphantly.
A man appeared at the end of their row, holding a bottle of Heineken. He raised it in salute. It was Dominic Windsor. ‘Hi, lads,’ he said. He saw Mark licking his knuckles. ‘Been winning friends and influencing people?’
‘Just one of those nights, Dom,’ said Mark. He shuffled along to make space next to him. ‘Come on, sit down and get an eyeful of the talent.’
The estate agent dropped onto the seat and sipped his beer.
‘How’s business?’ asked Mickey.
‘Swings and roundabouts,’ said Windsor. ‘The strong baht isn’t helping. And there’s so much new stuff coming on stream that the second-hand market’s dead.’
‘You should try London, mate,’ said Mickey. ‘Russian and Arab money’s pouring in. Most of it in bloody suitcases.’
‘Yeah, but he wouldn’t get laid in London, would he?’ laughed Mark. He put an arm around Windsor, pulled him close and kissed his cheek.
‘Had one guy with money to burn,’ said Windsor. ‘Have you come across him? John Westlake. Wants to spend a mill or so on a villa. I’m renting him that place I showed you when you first came out here, the one on the estate.’
‘What’s he paying?’ asked Mark.
‘I got half a million baht a month.’ He raised his bottle. ‘Who’s a clever boy, then?’
‘You were only asking four hundred thousand when you showed it to us,’ said Mickey.
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