He was pulled past the prone form of Diana. “And what happens to her?” asked Larkin.
Ringo shrugged. “With a woman,” he began, as if about to impart some philosophical pearl, “with a woman you just fuck ’er and forget ’er. She wants to play the game, she has to learn the rules.” He almost smiled, so pleased was he with his Wildean wit.
“She needs help,” said Larkin. “Call an ambulance.”
“Fuck that,” Ringo replied.
“You want me to come, you call her an ambulance.”
“You’re comin’ anyway, ambulance or not.” He leaned his face in close to Larkin’s. It smelled like whatever he’d been eating hadn’t been quite dead when it reached his mouth. “I can make you.”
“No you can’t,” said Larkin with more confidence than he felt. “Because your Mr Big wants me unharmed. If he sees you didn’t do that, if I put up a struggle, it won’t look good for you, will it?”
Ringo thought about that one.
“Just do it!” snapped Lenny. He dug into his jacket pocket, pulled out a mobile, switched it on and dialled 999. He shoved it against Larkin’s ear.
“You talk to them,” said Lenny. “Then it’ll be your voice on the tape. And no funny business.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Larkin, looking between the two of them.
The call was answered, he asked for an ambulance, gave the address. Lenny broke the connection before he could say anything further.
“Come on,” said Lenny. “They’ll be here soon.”
Ringo dropped Larkin. He hit the floor with a painful thud.
“I’ll get the Jag,” said Ringo, moving towards the door. “I’m drivin’.”
“OK,” said Lenny, shaking his head. “Do it quickly, they’ll be here in a minute. But I choose the music.”
Ringo turned to him, face covered in threat. “I’m drivin’,” he said, his voice a tone of monotonous dread. “I want Monster Magnet.”
“Fuck!” Lenny danced away as if he’d been physically struck. “I don’t want any of that heavy metal shit! We’ll have Miles!”
“I want Monster Magnet.”
“No!”
Ringo’s voice deepened ominously. “I want Monster Magnet.”
Lenny sighed in exasperation. “OK! OK! Monster Magnet! Just hurry! Get the fuckin’ car!”
Ringo, a small smile of triumph on his lips, turned and left.
Lenny sighed, paced the room, shook his head. “Sometimes,” he said, as if Larkin was his best mate, “sometimes I feel as if I’m the last intelligent man left on the planet. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah,” said Larkin, from his position on the floor, “I know exactly what you mean.”
Fuck me, thought Larkin, what the hell have I got myself into this time?
Savage Gardens
Ringo pulled up in a big, old black Jag outside Diana’s flat and left it running, smack in the centre of the street. Cars were waiting on either side to get through, but one look at Ringo ensured that there wouldn’t be any argument.
Lenny pushed Larkin into the back and jumped into the passenger seat. He plugged his Walkman defiantly into his ears, and with a twitchy, murderous glance at Ringo, sat back. Tinny sax leaked out from his ear plugs, calming him. Ringo slapped some pounding heavy metal into the sound system, forcing the volume up until it stopped fractionally short of ear-and nosebleed level, and, with a grunted attempt at singing along, gunned the car up and away.
“Shoulda blindfolded ’im,” Lenny shouted after a while, above the din.
Ringo shrugged. “He’ll know where we’re goin’ soon enough.”
Lenny’s brow creased and his mouth jittered, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t make the connection between brain and lips. Eventually this passed and he slumped back in his seat, finger clicking along to an unheard melody, keeping whatever sociopathic pearl had been there to himself.
Larkin gazed out of the window. He kept catching glimpses of places he half-recognised, half-remembered from his previous time in London. He was trying to memorise his route, find something to use as a signpost if he had to retrace the journey. If he ever got the chance. Eventually he saw something he couldn’t mistake: Tower Bridge and the Tower of London, looming up dead ahead. Larkin immediately got his bearings. Ringo coaxed the Jag to the right and they entered the City.
The streets were dark and all but deserted; empty concrete, steel and glass monoliths overshadowing what few stragglers were left on the pavements. By six thirty the daily commuter exodus, by eight the pubs have closed, by nine the City is a ghost town. Only during the day does it come to life, as besuited drones file in from the suburbs to wrestle with VDU and calculator, keeping the cogs of capitalism turning, making the rich richer, the poor more marginalised. Worshipping at the temples of greed, money and cunning. A square mile of self-exaltation, a near-unstormable fortress dedicated to preserving the status quo.
Larkin knew the statistics. Over a quarter of the country’s wealth was concentrated within this one square mile. This was where the country’s real leaders, decision-makers, were based. It was also, Larkin knew from experience, where some of the most evil, corrupt bastards he’d ever encountered were to be found.
At the thought of that, Sickert flashed into his mind. Larkin sighed and shook his head. The image was losing its power. He was all cried out; his emotions and feelings spent. He was too tired, too soul-weary to respond with anything but weak indifference. His head was like a de-tuned radio – all he could pick up was static.
The Jag rounded the corner of Fenchurch Street, passing the overground station, turned down a sidestreet, under a railway arch, took a left. Larkin read the name of the street they’d turned into: Savage Gardens.
How apt, he thought.
The car came to a halt outside a large, anonymous building. Heavy, studded wooden doors were set in a white stone façade. Small, blacked-out windows covered with wrought-iron bars on either side of the doors gave no hint of what might have been going on inside. The seemingly impenetrable building looked to be a couple of hundred years old and there were no clues as to its present use.
Ringo switched off the engine, mercifully silencing the stereo, then he and Lenny, in one smooth, synchronised movement, opened the back doors and pulled Larkin out, pushing him up the steps to the front of the building. As soon as they approached, there was a deep, metallic buzz and one of the doors unlatched itself. Larkin was pushed swiftly inside, followed by Lenny and Ringo. Even allowing for them locking the car, the whole exercise hadn’t taken more than fifteen or twenty seconds before they were off the deserted street.
Inside all was darkness. Larkin was pushed forward, and once his eyes had acclimatised to the gloom he was able to make out a long hallway. It wasn’t as dark as he’d first supposed; muted, diffused lighting rather than none at all. On the walls and ceiling he could discern ornate decorations and carvings, Art Nouveau or William Morris. The floor was polished marble, the woodwork dark, heavy. The place spoke of wealth but only in terms of taste. Larkin could imagine visitors finding the place reassuring; like entering a welcoming cocoon of old money.
At the end of the hall a huge staircase, carrying on the dark wood and marble theme, coiled itself ostentatiously round an old, cage-type lift. Immaculately, elaborately maintained, the whole area wouldn’t have looked out of place in turn-of-the-century Paris. Larkin was prodded into the lift, Lenny pressed for the basement and down they smoothly went.
The lift touched down gently, as if landing on eggshells, and Lenny pulled the cage doors open. They were in a chamber, quite large, decorated in an only slightly more subdued version of the upstairs hallway. Ahead of them was a huge wooden desk on which was placed various state-of-the-art CCTV monitors and computer systems, and behind which was a woman; expensively tailored suit, blonde hair pulled back from her face, glasses. Severely beautiful. She stood up. Piped classical music gently surrounded them.
“Good evening,
” she said, in a voice as expensively tailored as her suit. “You must be Mr Larkin.”
“And you are?”
She ignored him. Her eyes landed on Lenny and Ringo.
“I was speaking to you,” said Larkin. “And you are?”
“None of your business,” she said, voice as warm as an Arctic winter. She locked her steely gaze on to Larkin, as if death rays would be fired from her eyes, then turned to Lenny and Ringo. “You’re late.”
Ringo and Lenny exchanged glances. Neither spoke, each willing the other to go first. Their fear of her was sudden and obvious.
“That’s because I was late,” said Larkin. “I didn’t realise there was a time on my party invite. You got a problem with that, darling?”
The woman stared at him, as if a lower lifeform had miraculously developed the power of speech. She looked like she wanted to crush him, but managed to keep the impulse under control. Just.
“I’ll tell Mr Rook you’re here,” she managed to force out, then walked away, her spike heels clicking angrily on the floor.
“Well,” said Larkin once the three of them were alone, “she’s got you two scared, hasn’t she?”
“Shut it, just shut it,” snarled Lenny, eyes darting fearfully around the room.
“So you only pick on people smaller than yourselves, do you?” asked Larkin. “Ones that won’t fight back? Like Diana?”
Lenny looked like he was about to explode. “Doesn’t matter what size you are when you use this,” he spat, pulling out an automatic from the back of his belt and aiming it square at Larkin’s face.
Larkin swallowed, inwardly shuddered. He had looked down the barrel of a loaded gun before and it wasn’t something that became easier. He didn’t know if this one was loaded or ready to fire, but he didn’t want to take chances. He stood stock-still and said nothing, staring at Lenny’s unstable, quivering fist.
Suddenly a voice broke through the tension.
“Come on, Lenny, that’s not how we entertain our guests, is it?”
Larkin turned. From back in the shadows stepped a man. Small, but carrying himself with a dapper air. He wore charcoal-grey trousers with a needle-sharp crease down the front, black, polished loafers, a light tweed sports jacket and a cream silk shirt, collar over the jacket collar. His salt and pepper hair was slightly receding but well disguised, cut into the sort of mullet that long-haired Seventies rockers tried as a compromise when the Eighties arrived. Around his fingers, wrists and neck and dangling from his left ear were enough gold and gems to provide several children with private educations. But it was the eyes that drew you in. At once open and innocent, yet also hinting at darker secrets, hidden things. The kind of eyes that belonged to iconic rock stars or cult leaders.
He spoke again, his voice East End or Essex with the rough edges deliberately filed off.
“Melissa said you’d arrived. Good evening, Mr Larkin. Charles Rook. Call me Charlie.” He smiled, crinkling his eyes at the corners.
It was the kind of book-learned bonhomie-type gesture that charismatic sociopaths employ. Larkin decided to tread carefully. He said nothing.
“Can I get you a drink?” asked Charlie Rook, as if they were old pals meeting in the pub.
“Why am I here?”
Again the smile. “All in good time. Come with me and we’ll talk.” Charlie Rook gestured down a dark-panelled, dimly lit corridor.
“You think I’m just going to walk down there with you? When I’ve just seen your two mates there torture someone to within an inch of their life? You’re off your fucking rocker, mate.”
A flash of anger twitched across Charlie Rook’s face. Just a flash: he had too much self-control to allow his emotions to overwhelm him. “If that’s the case I must apologise for my staffs over-zealousness,” he said, without a note of apology in his voice. “I assure you it won’t happen again. Now,” he said, all best mates again, “about that drink …”
Charlie Rook’s office wasn’t so much a culture clash, as a culture bare-knuckle fight. The elegant, old-money, wood-panelled space had been invaded by a nouveau riche World Of Leather decor. Larkin sat in a huge black sofa that resembled a giant gastropod, a glass of lager, decanted from a can, at his side, hands now untied. Behind an unnecessarily elaborate desk sat Charlie Rook, his cigar and a bottle of lager. On the wall behind him was a collection of framed prints, Charlie Rook and Robert Plant, Freddie Mercury, Elton John, Marc Bolan, David Bowie, Rod Stewart, plus plenty of others, some Larkin didn’t even recognise, all in their Seventies heydays.
Charlie Rook caught Larkin looking at them. “As you can see,” he said, “I used to work in the music biz.”
“But you don’t any more.”
Charlie Rook shook his head.
“So what do you do now? And why am I here?”
By way of reply Charlie Rook gave an elaborate exhalation of cigar smoke. “Well,” he said, settling back into his chair, making him appear even smaller. “This place here –” He gestured round the room. “– is what you might call the engine room for that place up there. The City. What we do here drives what goes on up there. Gives it fuel. Keeps it running smoothly.” He gave a smug smile, obviously pleased with his words.
Great, thought Larkin, not only a sociopath but a bore. “That’s fascinating,” he said, unfascinated. “But what does it mean in English?”
“Well, my work is … you might term it … event management,” he said. “Someone wants something of a special, and usually sensitive, nature organised. A fantasy made reality. I do what I can to facilitate that.”
A sense of unease and distaste at Charlie Rook’s words began to creep over Larkin. “Like a pimp, you mean,” he said.
Charlie Rook gave another studied, eye-crinkling, humourless smile. “No, Mr Larkin, not like a pimp. I have a client base. A very rich, influential client base. Lots of top people. And these top people, naturally, have a lot of … pressure. Stress. And they all have different needs, different ways of release, so –”
Larkin’s headache was returning. He cut him off. “All right, Charlie, drop the bullshit. I get it. You know a lot of rich weirdos who like to get their kicks in weird ways. And you sort something out for them, right? To keep them fuelled. To keep the upstairs running smoothly. Sounds like pimping to me.” Larkin didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm in his voice.
Charlie Rook’s face twitched, lips suddenly, momentarily bloodless. He pulled smoke down his cigar, making the tip glow angrily red, exhaled. “Yeah,” he said, equilibrium restored, “that’s it. If you wanna put it like that.” His accent was thickening up. “Screwed-up people who like doin’ screwed-up things for fun. An’ I help them. Yeah.”
“So why am I here? What’s all this got to do with me?”
Charlie Rook gave a smile. It contained less humour than a Bernard Manning joke. “Would you like me to give you a guided tour? Show you what goes on here?”
“No,” said Larkin emphatically. “I want to know why I’ve been brought here against my will, why an innocent woman is now hospitalised, and when I’m going to be allowed out of that door.”
“You’re free to go any time you like, Mr Larkin.” Charlie Rook leaned forward. “But if you do, you’ll never learn what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Larkin stood up, moved towards the door. “I can live with that,” he said. He reached the door, opened it. In the doorway stood Ringo’s massive bulk, so big he stopped any light escaping from the room. Larkin turned back to Charlie Rook.
“I thought you said I was free to go?” he snarled.
Charlie Rook smiled, spread his hands. “I’m not stopping you. Just walk out. If you can get out.”
Larkin turned, walked slowly back into the room and sank back into the gastropod. “What do you want from me?” he said in a tired voice.
“At last.” He smiled. “We’re both looking for someone, Mr Larkin.”
A tingle of apprehension made its way down Larkin’s spine. “And who migh
t that be?”
“Oh come on, Stephen, don’t mess me about,” snapped Charlie Rook, irritation showing. “You know as well as I do who it is. Karen Shapp. Or Karen Moir, as you call her.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Charlie,” replied Larkin. The use of Charlie Rook’s first name made the man flinch. “You’re behind the times. I was looking for her. I’m not any more.”
Charlie Rook sat rapidly forward. “You’ve found her?”
“No,” replied Larkin. “I’m just off the job. Her father’s taken over. You’ll have to talk to him.”
Charlie Rook’s voice dropped ominously. “I’m talking to you. Now she’s got something belonging to me. I want it back. And I want her. And I want you to find them both for me.”
Larkin’s head was throbbing, his body was aching. He had had enough. “I don’t care what you want. Fuck you, Charlie.”
Charlie Rook sat back with a start. Something dark and indistinct passed over his face, scuttling quickly like a malignant insect. He obviously didn’t like, and wasn’t used to, people talking back to him. He leaned forward, eyes taking on a hard, almost metallic sheen. He pointed his cigar at Larkin. The glow looked concentrated but fierce.
“Now listen to me, you little cunt. I’ve tried to be nice to you, polite, and you’ve just thrown it back in my face.” The pretence of civility was completely gone now. The man was stripped to his hard, ugly core. “Well, the gloves are off now. You do what I say, when I say and how I say it. Got that?”
“And if I don’t?”
“People who mess with me tend not to be around long. Like Jackie Fairley. Remember her?” He stopped talking, waiting for the reaction. Larkin didn’t disappoint him.
“You fucking bastard,” he said. “You fucking murdering bastard.”
Charlie Rook smiled. It wasn’t pleasant. “That’s right, you’re catching on quick. Fuck with me, get on my bad side, and you don’t walk out of this fucking room alive, my son. Am I making myself understood?”
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