by Rob Aspinall
Doesn't take long for him to work out his predicament.
His first words: "How did you know where I lived?"
He’s asking because the address on his driving licence is a fake.
“Dry cleaning receipt in your pocket,” I say, finishing the drawing. "Nice gaff. No wife or kids?"
I already know the answer. I checked for photos when I first came in the house. I just want to get his brain working again. I need the bastard lucid.
A wry smile breaks on his face. "Who needs a wife when you've got Tinder? Know what I'm saying?"
"Not really. I still don't know what that Tinder thing is," I say, resting my pen on the pad, pulling my handgun from my shoulder holster.
I slide the chamber. It's clean. Check the clip. I've got enough.
"So what do you want, Charlie?"
"You know the drill," I say.
"What's that?"
"Dunno whether you've noticed, Chris, but time isn't on your side."
Randall gazes at the tips of his shoes.
"Give me a name," I say.
"Then what? You shoot me anyway?"
I return my gun to my holster. Hold out both hands. "You have my word." Randall doesn't make a peep. "Come on, Chris. Who's behind this?"
"Ain't no one behind it," Randall says. "It's all on me. All of it."
I look around me. Stand up off the crate. "No offence pal . . . Nice as this place is, you don't get many bosses living in a three-bed semi."
Randall shuffles from foot to foot. "What can I say? I'm settled."
I stretch and yawn. Shake my head. Pick up an axe I left resting blade-down against the wall. "What's this for?" I ask, weighing it in my hands. "Wood burning stove?"
"Chiminea," Randall says, grimacing in pain. Flexing his wrists inside the tape. "The birds love it."
"You sly bastard," I say with a smile. "Must be great to have a silver tongue like yours. Being able to talk your way in or out of anything." I wrap both hands around the axe handle. "Now would be a good time to start using it."
Randall huffs. "Whatever you think you can do to me, it's nothing compared to what they will."
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
I swing the axe and chop the left rear leg off the table.
The table rocks, but holds.
Randall panics, but keeps his feet.
The wire creaks as he steadies himself, the table down to three legs.
"You ever see a man hang by the neck?" I ask, air-swinging the axe. "Most people top 'emselves thinking it'll be quick . . . It's not."
Randall looks close to cracking. "Alright Charlie. How much?"
"How much of what?"
"Of whatever it is you want. Money? Drugs? A stake in the game?"
I laugh. "I don't want your money, mate. You haven't got enough anyway."
“I didn’t mean from me, dickhead. I can get it you from . . .“
"From who? Come on, you almost said it then."
Randall shakes his head. "You're a lot of things. But this ain't you, Charlie."
I sigh and swing the axe. Another leg goes. The front right. A clean strike.
The noose catches tighter around Randall's neck. He splutters. Straightens up. The guy's got good balance. I'll give him that.
"Three strikes and you're out pal," I say, parking my behind on the crate. I rest the axe on my lap and pick up my notepad and pen. “Come on, names and addresses.”
Randall breathes fast and shallow. Gets angry. Snot spitting out of a nostril. “Go to fuck.”
I put down the notepad and pen. Stand up and stretch. "Maybe I'm losing my touch," I say, cracking my neck side to side. I line the axe blade up with the nearest remaining table leg. I bring it back and let it swing.
"Prince!"
I stop the axe an inch short of the leg.
Randall eyes the blade. His voice wobbles. "Eddie Prince. That's the name you're after."
I withdraw the axe and relax my grip. "Eddie Prince?”
"Just said it, didn't I?"
"You're telling me that dickhead’s the brains behind a Europe-wide firm? Pull the other one."
"That's the only name I've got," Randall says. "I take my orders from him. That's as far up as I go. And I don't wanna go any further, either."
I rest the axe against the wall. "Where does he live?"
"I dunno."
"Don't bullshit me."
"The guy may be a prize arsehole, but he's not stupid. He rinses some of his cash through a laundrette. I meet him in there."
"The place you dropped your cronies off?"
"Supersuds, yeah. Ask for Dave. He'll know."
I pick up my notepad and pen. I rest them on the crate. "Didn't need these after all."
Randall breathes a sigh of relief. "I've given you the name. Now cut me down, yeah?"
I stand, arms folded. "Don't remember that being part of the deal."
"You said you weren't gonna kill me."
"I'm not," I say, walking around the back of Randall. He's got a nice red tool bench with see-through drawers underneath. I pull out a drawer and take out a set of wire cutters with orange rubber grips. "These should do the trick," I say walking around the front of him. I reach up and slip them in the left breast pocket of his blue denim shirt.
"What the—Charlie what are you doing?"
I reach inside his trouser pocket and grab his mobile. I transfer it to the right breast pocket of his shirt.
"Charlie, what the fuck—"
There's panic in his eyes. He cottons on quick.
I fix him with a smile. "Figure your way out of this one, Chris.”
I walk out of the door into the house.
Randall rocks on the table. It groans under his weight. "Charlie! Charlie! Charlie you fucking—"
I close the door behind me, muffling his cries. I walk through the house. The smell of new carpet in the air. I return to the kitchen and open a top drawer. I take a fork out of a cutlery tidy. Premium stainless steel. Nice. I slip it inside a jacket pocket. "There," I say to myself. "Now we're even."
39
Amira lingered under the shower, a jet of hot water massaging her aching shoulders.
After changing into a white robe and slippers, she stepped out into the bedroom. She expected to see her pile of dirty clothes on the carpet by the bed.
They were gone.
Someone had taken them while she was in the bathroom. In their place, they'd left a set of white linen pyjamas, folded on the bed.
The bed itself had been made during her shower.
Made from the night before, where she’d slept for twelve hours straight. She'd woken up to a continental breakfast, left on a bedside table. The tray with leftover fruit, meat, bread and cheese was gone too. The curtains thrown open, letting the sunlight in.
Pyjamas seemed a deliberate choice, bearing in mind it was afternoon. After all, where would Amira go without shoes or outdoor clothes?
She changed into them anyway: comfortable and airy against her skin.
Amira tied the thick, Egyptian cotton robe around her waist. She pushed her feet into her soft slippers and walked around the room. She looked out of each window and counted six floors to ground level. Her room looked out over a pristine courtyard: outdoor furniture and royal-blue gazebos. It was a nice day.
She crept towards the door. She held her breath and put an eye to the spy hole. She expected to see a guard on the other side of the door.
She didn't. So she tried the brass door handle.
Surely it would be locked.
It wasn't.
Amira eased the door open. The room was at the end of a plush corridor, lit with soft white ceiling lights. She slipped out through the door and eased it closed. She hurried along the corridor and found a pair of elevators a little further down.
She jabbed on a button. The elevator to her right was heading up. She looked both ways as the numbers on the digital display rolled over from three, four, five . . . The
doors opened with a bright ping. The elevator was empty. She jumped inside and selected the ground floor.
The doors seemed to take an age to close.
Amira tugged at a strand of hair, wet and straggled from the shower.
She wasn't even sure what the plan was when she reached the hotel lobby. Raise the alarm with the hotel staff? Head straight for the main entrance and make her escape?
She decided that getting clear of the hotel was best. No delays. She would figure the rest out in due course.
The elevator cruised down to the ground floor. The doors opened and she exited into the lobby.
The open backs of her slippers flapped against a polished marble floor. She saw the exit ahead. An automated, revolving glass door. Sunlight flooding in. She noticed a female receptionist behind the main desk, but felt she couldn't trust her. What if the hotel staff were in on it?
No, head for the exit. Get clear of the hotel. Stick to the plan.
Halfway across the lobby, a large man with a greased black pony tail stepped into her path, as if he'd been waiting for her.
He seized Amira by the arm.
Amira looked up at him. Across to the woman on reception. The woman noticed, but disappeared through a side door, as if instructed.
"I told Tony to give you a little space," a voice said from behind a newspaper. It came from a man to her immediate right, reclining in a coffee-coloured armchair. He lowered the newspaper and folded it in two. It was Pavel. "Didn't want you thinking you were here against your will."
"Then I'm free to leave?"
"I think it's best if you stay," Pavel said, throwing out his arms. "A good place to relax awhile, no?" He motioned for Tony to let go of Amira's arm.
Tony let go.
"Did you sleep well?" Pavel asked, rising out of his chair.
Amira pinched her robe tight to her neck. "Where are my clothes?"
"I hope you don't mind," Pavel said. "I had them thrown away."
"Then what am I supposed to wear?"
"I'll have something sent up to you." Pavel checked his phone. "I've got to go. In the meantime, relax and enjoy the room. Tony and the hotel staff will take care of you."
Pavel turned to leave.
"What am I doing here?" Amira yelled after him.
Pavel spoke over his shoulder. "I'll see you later, Amira."
They knew her name. How did they know? Her passport? It was the only way. Which meant Pavel was one of the gang that had abducted her and the others off the coach. From the cut of his suit and the five-star surroundings, Amira assumed he must have been some kind of boss. Someone with access to money. And lots of it.
Tony pointed to the elevators. Amira turned and walked towards them.
40
Supersuds is like any other laundrette. Wall-to-wall washing machines and tumble dryers. Big, old coin-operated things. Boxes of cheap washing powder and baskets of clothes left on top. There's an empty counter at the far end. A rack of dry-cleaned items hung up in white covers. And two rows of red plastic chairs, back to back.
It's dark outside by the time I enter. An obese black woman in a purple velour tracksuit sits alone inside. She has short, platinum blonde hair and a bored expression. She does the crossword on the back of a newspaper.
I peel off my bomber jacket and pull my t-shirt off over my head.
The woman pretends not to look. Raises an eyebrow. Huffs to herself.
I kick off my boots and socks. I unbuckle my jeans and step out of the legs.
Damn, I wore the Donald Duck boxers.
I bundle my dirty clothes together on a chair—the t-shirt sweaty from the foot race with Randall. My jeans with grass stains on the knees.
I take a note from my wallet and pad barefoot to the front counter. I push a buzzer on the top.
It buzzes.
A tiny shrivelled woman trudges out in blue overalls. Hair pulled back and skin like a used carrier bag.
"Is Dave around?" I ask.
She talks in a harsh cockney accent. "Who wants to know?"
"Just shout him, will you?"
"Daaaaaave!" she shouts at the top of her lungs. "Someone here asking for yer!"
"Who is it?" Dave yells back from round the corner.
"How the hell should I know?"
I hear the man sigh. He waddles out, pulling his grey joggers up off his arse. He has a chocolate bar in hand. A mouthful he's working on. Greasy black hair, a beard and crumbs all down the front of an AC/DC t-shirt. He looks me up and down. "What have you come as?"
"Are you Dave?"
"What's it to you?"
Yeah, it's Dave.
I lean over the counter and beckon him forward. "I've got something to tell you."
The thick bastard comes in close. I grab him by the neck and slam his forehead into the countertop. The tiny woman shits herself and disappears into the back.
"I wanna know where I can find Eddie Prince."
Dave bleeds from both nostrils. He leaves a chocolate print on the chipped white counter top. "Who?" he says in a daze.
I grab his head again, ready to slam him the second time.
"Okay, okay!" he says. "Jesus!"
He mops the blood from his nose with a tissue.
I look at the sheen on my hand, from the grease in his hair. I wipe it off on the counter.
"He lives in some big place in Weybridge,"
"Where's that?"
"Posh part of Surrey."
"Got an address?"
"Uh, we might have it from his dry cleaning." Dave turns and yells into the back room.
"Doreen!"
"What?"
"Look on the computer. Find Mr Prince's address!"
"What for?"
"Just do it!"
Doreen complains bitterly to herself in the back. Dave looks at me. I look at Dave.
"You got the address yet?" he yells over his shoulder.
"I can't find it!"
Dave rolls his eyes and stuffs more of the chocolate bar in his face, as if he's trying to eat the wrapper, too. He waddles off into the back. He reappears soon after with a scrap of paper and an address written in pencil. He pushes it across the counter. A shifty look in his eye.
I glance at the address. Halewood Castle, 10 Balmoral Way. Sounds pretentious. I tuck the slip of paper inside my wallet. I pull out a note. "Got change for a twenty?"
"You've gotta buy something," Dave says.
I look to my left. There's a big jar stuffed with fruit lollipops. A quid each. Daylight robbery. I snatch two from the jar and hand over the twenty.
Dave snorts and rings the till open. Hands me a ten and eight pound coins. I take the lollies and the change. I shove my clothes into the nearest washing machine and pour in the lumpy dregs of an open box of powder. I set it on the quickest programme.
I plonk myself down on the nearest chair, down the row from the woman in the purple tracksuit. She looks up at me. Pulls a face like a constipated duck.
"What?" I say.
"Just my luck," she says. "A guy strips off in the laundrette and it's you."
I suck in my belly and sneer at her. She goes back to her crossword. I tear the wrapper off the first lolly and stick it in my mouth.
Blackcurrant. My favourite.
It's warm in the laundrette. The churn of machines hypnotic.
We're sitting there for twenty minutes. I'm onto my second lolly: lemon and lime. They're bloody good.
The woman in the purple tracksuit asks me a question. "What's the capital of Peru?"
I turn and look at her. "Eh?"
"Fourteen across, four letters," she says, waiting for an answer.
"How should I know?"
"Ooh," she says shaking her head, "excuse me for breathing."
"You're excused," I say, turning my attention back to the drum of the machine in front of me.
"It's Lima," Cassie says. She sits on the chair to my left.
"What is?" I say.
"The capital of
Peru," says Cass, sucking on a lolly of her own.
"Who are you talking to?" the crossword woman asks me.
"None of your business," I say. "But the answer's Lima."
The woman counts the squares on her puzzle. "Huh, it fits," she says, writing it out on the paper.
Cassie shakes her head at my boxer shorts.
"Hey, you loved Donald Duck when you were little."
"So embarrassing," she says.
The woman with the crossword clears her throat. "Whatever imaginary elf you're talking to, ask 'em if they know what a three letter word for annoying is."
I turn to ask Cassie. She's vanished again. If I get clear of this latest mess, I really should call her. Make sure that Sam character’s not getting her into trouble.
"Well?" the woman asks me.
"Well what?"
"Three letter word for annoying."
"I dunno, but I'm guessing it starts with u."
The woman sneers and moves onto the next clue.
I turn to her and remove the lolly from my mouth. "What's the point in doing the damn thing if you don't know the answers?"
The woman mutters to herself. My washing machine cycle ends. I get up and open the door. I transfer my clothes to a nearby dryer. It swallows another quid. I shut the heavy steel door and it clanks into life.
I hear the front door open. Three men walk in.
Jimmy, Bogdan and Marlon from this afternoon. I shoot a look at Dave. He slides a steel door shut behind the counter.
Damn you, Dave, you double-crossing shit.
41
Clarke and Morales climbed out of the Audi into the yellow glow of suburban streetlight. They ducked under the police tape cordoning off the house and showed their badges to the CSO. His name was Waters, a stocky, mixed-race man Clarke had met in passing.
"You guys NCA?" Waters asked.
"Uh-huh," Morales said.
"We've got your man inside," Waters said, leading them in through the front of the house. He showed them to an open door: a private garage inside.
Forensics officers combed the scene. They dusted the house for prints, the chatter of a camera shutter in the background.