He followed up with a punch to the head. Frankie clocked it was Duke a split second before he broke the bastard’s nose but didn’t quite manage to knock him out. Duke spat something half garbled at him. A threat? Not much point in that. Jesús was already on him, pinning his other arm, as Frankie cocked and locked the one caught under his foot. Jeremy was on Duke next, dropping down beside Frankie and twisting the pistol from Duke’s grip. They had him just in time for Grew’s arrival.
‘Gotcha, you slippery prick,’ he grinned.
‘No one else in there?’ Frankie could still hear that bleedin’ radio playing inside.
‘No.’ Grew stared down at Duke, who had the barrel of Jesús’s pistol wedged in between his teeth. ‘No?’ he asked.
Duke made a little whimpering nose and jerked his head left and right, about the nearest he could probably get to a shake.
‘Good,’ said Grew.
‘Please,’ said Duke, as Jesús pulled the pistol out of his mouth.
‘Please what?’
‘Please . . .’ Duke’s eyes darted around, as though looking for help, for inspiration, for anything that might change this situation. ‘. . . sir?’ he finally said.
Grew just stared at him, slack-jawed, for a second. Then he started to laugh – before absolutely creasing up and slapping his thigh until tears ran down his cheeks.
‘Sir?’ he said. ‘Sir? Oh no, Duke, it’s gonna take a lot more than a bit of simple ingratiation to get you out of this.’ He shook his head. ‘Sir? Oh, my word. I do wish Tommy had been here to hear that.’
Frankie remembered Duke, then, in charge in the club. He’d been so sure of himself, a king in the making. But now he watched tears start running from his eyes. He was fucked and he knew it.
‘Tie him up,’ Grew said.
Jesús and Jeremy span Duke round onto his front, rubbing his face right down in the ashes of that pit. He started to struggle, flip-flapping around like a fish that had just been pulled out onto the shore, because under those coals the ashes were still hot. Duke started grunting and squawking, but all it earned him was a crack on the back of the head with the butt of Jesús’s pistol. The smell of scorched hair rose up from the embers.
‘Christ, is that necessary?’ Frankie said, getting up and stepping back.
‘Jesús,’ Jesús said, looking annoyed.
‘No, not like that . . . I mean, as in . . .’
What was the point? There was nothing he could do for Duke, even if he’d wanted. Frankly, that bastard had wanted him dead, and he’d even ditched his own girlfriend, so why the hell would he want to help him anyway?
He turned his back on them and stared back out to sea. The rifle scope winked in the bright sunlight. In the distance, he saw a sail. Then, closer, on the right side of the bay, another powerboat roared into view.
‘Looks like we’ve got company,’ he called out.
‘Long, sleek and white with a British flag?’ Grew called back. He was hunched over the gym bag by the tree.
‘Yeah.’ The boat matched that description, all right.
‘That’ll be ours then. Here comes Balearic Bob on his shiny charger, coming in to save the day.’ Grew grinned at Frankie, getting up. ‘Or didn’t you know we were the good guys?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, yes, and, truly, it appears that we have indeed won the day.’ Delving inside the gym bag, Grew pulled out a fistful of cash. ‘Dollars, too. My very favourite kind of criminal currency, they’re always so easy to shift. Maybe old Dukey boy here’s not such a dumb piece of shit after all.’
Bob’s boat slewed to a halt beside the Savage Monkey. Even though there was more than one person on it, Bob was there at the wheel clear as day, his face glowing as orange as a jaffa even from here.
‘And what are you looking at?’ Grew snapped.
Turning back, Frankie saw he meant Duke, who was up on his feet now and not a pretty sight. He had his arms roped behind his back and there was blood trickling down from where Frankie had broken his nose. His hair – what was left of it – was white with ash and there were blister marks all over his face.
‘Hoping it was somebody else, were you? Whatever pal it was of yours who hid you here? Hoping they might pop back and rescue you and take you off wherever you were planning on scarpering next? Well, forget it. They show up and they’re dead. The only ride you’re getting out of here, sunshine, is gonna have a hammer and sickle flying on its deck.’
Duke’s eyes widened through the ashes.
‘Oh, yes, me laddio,’ Grew said. ‘Or hadn’t you heard? Your little Russian buddies left us a note, suggesting we do a deal. You and this here wedge – which is theirs. In return for Little T and all that gear – which is ours.’
Duke spat out ashes. ‘But she’s got –’ he rasped.
‘Nothing to do with this? They beg to differ. Oh come on, son. What? Did you really expect they were going to just let her go? Don’t bullshit me, we know you abandoned her, just like the little coward you are.’ He smiled flatly at him. ‘But, seriously, don’t worry, Duke, we’re not handing you over to them.’
‘Oh, my God.’ Duke’s knees sagged. ‘Thank God.’
The bastard. Just look at the relief on his face. Grew was right, he didn’t give a shit about saving Little T at all – just saving his own skin. But judging from his complexion right now, that hadn’t exactly worked out either.
‘No, not with you being one of ours,’ Grew said.
‘Jesus, thanks, Grew, and I swear, whatever it takes. I’ll make it up to you. And Tommy. I swear I wi—’
Grew slapped him hard then, right across his face with the back of his hand, and fresh blood trickled fast down his chin.
‘No, we’re not going to hand you over to them yet, because first we want a little time with you on our own.’
Duke started to cry out in protest but it was no good. Grew already had the roll of duct tape in his hands. He wrapped it fast round Duke’s head, with a shriek.
‘Yeah, that’s right, you’re fucked,’ said Grew.
Duke stared back at him for a second, moaning ineffectively through the gag, but then his head lolled.
‘Take him inside,’ Grew said. ‘I don’t want any passing windsurfer seeing us paying him Tommy’s regards.’
Jeremy and Jesús dragged Duke back into the restaurant.
‘You want in?’ Grew asked Frankie. ‘After all, he has jerked you around plenty an’ all.’
‘No.’
‘Fair enough. Not really your gig, that sort of thing, is it? I understand. Then wait here for Bob and when he gets here, tell him to radio those Russians and arrange a nice safe spot for the exchange.’ He took a camera out of his pocket and waggled it at him with a grin. ‘For Tommy. He wants to see for himself how truly sorry Duke is.’
38
Frankie was given the job of escorting Little T home, a dubious honour. He felt he’d played such a small part in prising her away from Duke and the only thing she said to him – from the second he got into the Merc beside her and her bodyguards outside the Mandalay, to the moment the bodyguards nodded them unsmilingly on their way through the airport departure gates – was: ‘I hope you die in pain and alone.’
The comment was too thought through to have been off the cuff, that’s what Frankie was thinking during the flight back to Gatwick, as he kept glancing across at her staring resolutely out the window into the darkening sky. After all, as far as she was concerned, he’d betrayed her and her boyfriend rotten. Oh yeah, Frankie reckoned he’d made himself an enemy here for life.
He still didn’t know where or exactly when the trade had taken place that had been specified in the note, but the deal of Duke and the cash, in return for Little T and the gear, had been successful. Everyone had got what they’d wanted.
Apart from Duke, of course. He’d been handed over to the Russians, who’d been none too gruntled by his double-dealing, or so Grew had explained. Duke had cost them time, effort and pride –
they’d already curtailed their little operation back there on Ibiza in the face of the united opposition they’d come up against.
Christ only knew what they’d done to him, but Frankie could only hope it had been quick. Remembering the look on that bastard Sergei’s face as he’d rolled up his sleeves, preparing to kick Frankie in that night in Kooks, he somehow doubted that would have been the case.
What Frankie did know was that Little T here didn’t believe a word of what she’d been told about that skuzzer Duke. She didn’t even believe he’d tried ripping Tommy off, quite the reverse. She’d fully bought into what Duke had told her. He’d said Tommy had ripped him off and that’s why they’d had to go on the run. As for him then doing a runner on her? Forget it, she didn’t believe that either. Little T thought it was just part of some wider, smarter plan of his – one that would have somehow miraculously ended up with the two of them living wild and free together, like some more fortunate incarnation of Bonnie and Clyde.
Grew thought she was a mug, but Frankie felt differently, a part of him even liked her for it, for not being so thoroughly fucking jaded as the rest of them, and for still believing in romance and a world that wasn’t just full of snakes and wolves.
More heavies were waiting for them the other side of customs. Not exactly hard to spot either. Of course, she tried pulling away from them and they let her go. But not out of sight. Oh no, Little T’s independence was clearly being substantially curtailed from here on in. Possibly for good, depending on how Tommy and Gaz had decided to play it next.
Frankie thought that was job done. He’d already said his goodbyes to Grew and Jesús in Ibiza. The two of them had decided to stay put until the end of the season, but as he walked off towards the rail station for the Gatwick Express that would take him back into London, a short bloke in a neat black business suit stepped into his way and told him: ‘Gaz says thank you for bringing her home and here’s my card, I work for him. If there’s ever anything we can do.’
Frankie didn’t even answer – a part of him couldn’t bear the thought of getting embroiled with yet another crook. He just slipped the card into his pocket next to the little matchbook with the name of the chiringuito on it. The ying and the bloody yang of betrayal? Yeah, he guessed that’s what it came down to. Duke’s loss was his gain and who was he to say no? Because who knew when he might need a favour from someone as connected as Gaz Landy?
*
It was another favour from a more familiar source that was waiting for Frankie when he got back home. A message from Grew on the answerphone.
‘All right, kiddo,’ he said. ‘Me, Jesús and Bob here are missing you. Being just the Three Musketeers without our d’Artagnan just don’t seem the same. Anyhow, I’ve got some news for you – though you didn’t hear it from me. Those two pigs’ names you wanted checking, well, I put out some feelers – never you mind who – and they’ve come up with some juice.’
Frankie’s heart was racing. He wanted this so bad. But already alarm bells were ringing too . . . didn’t hear it from me. Meaning he wanted nothing more to do with this? Meaning it was information that could get him into trouble if it ever got traced back to him? And never you mind who . . . Meaning he wasn’t giving Frankie access to whoever had done his digging for him. Meaning whatever this was, there was nothing more Frankie could find out through him.
‘The first little piggy, Craig Fenwick. Snaresby was telling you the truth about him, he did move to Oz – and I’ve got an address for him which I’ll send round when I get back home – but your other little piggy, James Nicholls . . . well, you’re in luck there, because he’s not bloody dead at all, he’s still right there in London, working as a frigging vicar, would you believe it, a copper with a conscience. I’m guessing he must have done something very naughty indeed.’
Bloody hell. As Grew read out the address, Frankie lunged for a pen and scribbled it down. But there was no phone number, Grew said, as Nicholls was ex-directory. It didn’t matter. Nicholls was going to need a lot more than that to keep him from Frankie now.
*
Frankie was up early the next morning. It felt good to be back on his own turf, playing by his own rules. Xandra and Slim seemed pleased to see him too when they variously got up and arrived to find him mopping the floors downstairs at the club.
The three of them sat down over coffee and went through the till receipts. Frankie promised them a night out together, on top of the bonus they’d agreed. They’d clearly had their work cut out without him and he was suitably grateful, not that they were done quite yet. Tomorrow was the biggest game of the year – no, sod that, the decade. England versus Germany in the semis, on Wednesday, 26 June, at 7.30 p.m. The Ambassador would be rammed.
Frankie had a few other things to do first, mind. For one thing, that copper. James Nicholls. No rush on that, maybe. He sounded like he’d settled for the quiet life and probably wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon, and a part of Frankie wanted to make his approach nice and slow. Maybe he would tip up there at his church this Sunday and grab a pew and size the bastard up? But another part of him couldn’t wait to flat out confront the prick. Scare him even. And see what fell out the woodwork.
Then there was Jack and the Old Man. Frankie needed to see them both to tell them about Mallorca. Because he had to, right? It was their business too, even if it made no difference to them. And it might still not. Because even though he’d tracked his mum down to Palma, he’d then lost her again, with everything sort of cancelling itself out. And maybe that’s how they’d see it too, as nothing having changed and her still being missing. End of.
But that wasn’t how it was for him, because so what if he hadn’t found her? He’d proved that her trail hadn’t gone dead the day she’d vanished from their lives. There was still hope that one day he might track her down again. Because the one thing he’d learned from his little Balearic escapade was that he was good at this shit – at finding people. Perhaps because he was good at never giving up.
Back up in the flat, he showered and changed into his running gear. It was a beautiful sunny day. He did a loop round Hyde Park then back into Soho. He fleetingly thought about heading up to West End Central Police Station, wondering what it would be like to accidentally-on-purpose bump into Sharon Granger, if she happened to be there standing outside. It was something he’d thought about loads this last year, but today the idea seemed to have lost its appeal. And, come to think of it, he’d hardly thought about her at all these last few days. And maybe not just because of all the other mental bollocks he’d been dealing with, but because of Isabella too? Because that kiss had stayed with him, hadn’t it? What if England did win tomorrow night? He’d be one step nearer that Ladbrokes payout. And maybe one step nearer a trip back to Palma like he’d promised her too.
He’d given Jack a bell at his new flat before he’d left, but there’d been no answer. Nothing on his mobile either. Frankie cut up onto Oxford Street and along as far as Soho Square, before hanging a left. Then, bloody hell, he nearly stopped in his tracks.
The James Boys Gym. There it was in fancy red lettering on a big black sign above the doors. Tommy Riley clearly wasn’t messing around. Frankie felt a big surge of pride, he’d have to come back here with a camera and get a snap of it. The Old Man, he would bloody love it. But it wasn’t just pride, he felt something like hope, that this really could be a new start for Jack. Maybe this would keep him safe and he’d be able to make something of his life at last.
He found Jack inside and could hardly believe his eyes again, because it wasn’t just the sign that had changed – Jack had too. He was all dressed up in a tracksuit and running shoes. Frankie nearly spat his teeth. But instead he just watched him listening to GoGo JoJo, who was stood there beside him. Bugger me, Jack was even taking notes.
‘He doing all right then, is he?’ he asked JoJo, walking up behind them.
JoJo smiled. ‘If he keeps on listening, he might one day turn out to be the smartest
boss I’ve ever had.’
‘All right, bruv?’ Jack said, grinning at Frankie. He gave him a hug. ‘How was your holibobs?’ He pulled back a bit. ‘And what the hell has happened to your face?’
‘Oh, yeah, that.’ He meant the bruises on his face. ‘Some young lads took exception to my dancing skills,’ he said, making up the first thing that sprung to mind.
‘Tossers. I bet they look worse, though, yeah?’
‘Yeah. You’re healing up nicely, mind.’ Frankie pushed back Jack’s fringe and checked the stitches. ‘Yeah, no more casting calls for you for Frankenstein, I’m afraid.’
‘Hey, Frankie.’
Frankie turned at the female voice. Did a double take when he saw who it was. Tiffany. The waitress from Brasserie du Marché, decked out in sleek black running gear, looking like she was about to run a marathon. He smiled, broad and wide, he couldn’t help himself, but then he remembered: it was him she was interested in. Not any more, even if she ever had been. Now it was just Jack. And just to prove it, she gave him a kiss on the cheek.
‘Not interrupting anything, am I?’ she asked, clocking the bruises on his face, but not saying anything.
‘Nah, just checking up on him,’ Frankie said. ‘I mean in. Just checking in.’
‘Good,’ she said, ‘because we’re on a schedule.’
Jack groaned, but she just grinned.
‘No whinging. We made a deal,’ she warned.
‘What deal?’ Frankie asked.
She counted it off on her fingers. ‘No fags, no drugs, and four runs a week.’
Oh, yeah. Now Frankie remembered. She was a part-time personal trainer, wasn’t she, too. ‘Runs?’
‘Yeah, as in running,’ Jack said, cutting off the obvious joke.
‘And what do you get out of this deal?’ Frankie asked him.
‘My company,’ Tiffany answered for him with a grin.
Jack blushed long and hard. Well, here was a turn-up for the books. He was smitten, or so it seemed.
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