‘One,’ she said, crossing her arms across her breasts.
‘Oh, of course — Kate. And I don’t know why I ask about the kids really as I was assuming I’d be using the tradesman’s entrance. Has that had much use? Aside from the usual function, of course.’
She hugged herself.
‘No? Can’t say the same for your husband’s. I must say, he’s egalitarian when it comes to sex with his boys. Sometimes he’s up them, sometimes they’re up him. Very equal opportunities.’
‘How do you know my husband?’ she whispered.
‘Ah, now that’s a long and not particularly edifying story. Suffice it to say that I do. Your daughter too. Well, kind of. Heard she had a lucky escape the other day.’
Laker stood and she shrank back on the sofa, a moan escaping her lips.
‘Trust me, darling — you’ll have the time of your tight-arsed life. Although you might be — how shall I say this? — changed when I’m done with you. If I’m done with you. Who knows? I might put you to work to pay off Willy’s debt. You’re getting on, it’s true, but some men get a kick out of doing snooty cows like you. At a stretch I could get a year out of you before you need diapers.’
She moaned again.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Simple: when is your husband going to deliver the fucking goods?’
‘I’ve no idea what he owes you.’
‘That’s a shame.’
He held out his hand.
‘Let’s be civilized and do it upstairs, shall we?’
William Simpson tilted his head.
‘What do you want?’ he said to Bob Watts. ‘I’m a man without power now. The pretend coalition government has done for me. I don’t have Peter’s clout. I can’t sit in a wingback chair wearing a smoking jacket and a cravat and pitch my memoirs.’
‘Scum like you always come up smelling of roses. I’m sure you’re consulting somewhere.’
‘I still have value, it’s true. This government wants to cut. I know how to cut. I’ve probably missed the free school gravy train but another will come along in due course.’
‘What about this thing going on in Brighton?’
‘This thing?’
Watts leaned forward.
‘For God’s sake, William, your daughter has just been beaten almost to death. Don’t you have any feelings about that?’
Simpson grimaced.
‘My feelings are my own and not to be shared with others — especially with you.’
Watts wanted so badly to hit him. To drag him to the floor and give him a good kicking. This man was his brother? He scowled at Simpson, though actually he was scowling at his father for doing this to him. He scowled at his father for many things.
‘What are you caught up in, William? I thought it might be Cuthbert or John Hathaway putting the screws on you but they are both out of the picture. Is it Charlie Laker, sending you a warning.’
‘Charlie Laker?’
‘Don’t play innocent, for God’s sake.’
Watts examined Simpson’s face. Nothing. Just that cold sheen of complacency.
‘You don’t have your government support now, William. You can’t call on the intelligence services to help you out. You’re on your own. In fact, you’re fucked.’
‘Well, there’s fucked and there’s fucked, Bob. I’d say you’re fucked big time and I’m. . inconvenienced.’
‘William, I admire your resilience. But I loathe your lack of feeling for your daughter.’
Simpson flushed.
‘Bob, in a world of change it’s good to see that some things don’t. You’re still a sanctimonious prick. You have no idea what I feel about my daughter and what’s happened to her. No idea. But I’ll tell you one thing. Those who did it will suffer. Have no doubt about that.’
‘You’re sounding confident. Who are they? Maybe I can help.’
Simpson laughed and waved the waitress over.
‘I’ll take another gin martini and get my comedian friend whatever he wants.’
‘The same,’ Watts said. ‘With olives, not lemon.’
‘You sound like your father,’ Simpson said. ‘How is he?’
Simpson was putting on a good front — his lifetime’s work — but Watts could see the strain behind his eyes.
‘He’s in hospital. He’s had a stroke.’
‘Sorry to hear that. Always liked him — he was a bit of a buccaneer. I never knew my father, of course. The cancer. .’
‘William, I’m not here in any official capacity. I will get you for the Milldean Massacre but that’s not for today. A lot of shit has gone down in Brighton. Tell me about you and Charlie Laker.’
The waitress brought their drinks. Simpson watched her walk away.
‘There’s nothing quite like an arse, is there?’
‘You’d know better than me, William.’
Watts was deflated. He’d been dreaming for months of bringing William Simpson down but due to the blood ties he now found himself in some sort of Shakespearean drama.
‘You and Charlie Laker?’
‘I’ve met him a few times over the years.’
‘What does he want from you?’
Simpson watched him over his martini glass.
‘How’s your pal, Tingley?’ he said.
Watts shrugged.
‘Doing your job somewhere in Europe.’
Simpson took a sip of his drink.
‘You’re not with him?’
‘Clearly not. I have family matters to sort out.’
Simpson put his drink down carefully on the table. He smiled without warmth.
‘Life, eh?’
‘Morning, Willy. How’s it hanging? Is it hanging? Probably only hanging, the stress you’re under.’
Laker was standing in the entrance hall of the Notting Hill house, hands on hips. William Simpson put his briefcase down and looked up the stairs. He tugged on his goatee.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Willy, you’ve got a big debt to settle. I did you a massive favour getting that blackmailing scuzz, Little Stevie, off your back. But you seem reluctant to keep your part of the bargain.’
‘I paid you for that,’ Simpson said indignantly.
‘Willy, the dosh was only part of it — you know that.’
‘I never agreed to the other — and stop calling me Willy. My name is William if you must call me anything.’
Laker reached out and almost lazily smacked Simpson open-handed across the face. Simpson staggered, his hand to his cheek.
‘Watch your mouth, Willy. You promised to put a cabinet minister in my pocket.’
‘We’re not in power any more,’ Simpson said. ‘Or haven’t you noticed?’
Laker made to move forward and Simpson stepped back, colliding with a spindly-legged table. The vase of flowers on it toppled over and smashed on the tiled floor. Water and broken glass exploded across Simpson’s shoes and trouser legs. Laker hopped back.
‘Steady on, Willy. Those flowers look like they cost a quid or two.’
‘Where’s my wife?’ Simpson said. He called up the stairs: ‘Lizzy?’
‘Never mind about her. Focus on me. I want you to get me one of the new lot — we know for sure that one half of them can be bought.’
Simpson looked down at his sodden trouser bottoms.
‘I’m not in power any more,’ he muttered. ‘My sway was over the other side.’
‘I’ve heard you’re still doing stuff for the new lot.’
‘That’s small beer.’
Laker shrugged.
‘Well, you’re going to have to come up with something, old son. Do you want me to go after your daughter again?’
Simpson glanced upstairs again.
‘What have you done to my wife?’
‘She’s upstairs. I’m afraid she’s a bit of a mess. She’ll be right as rain in a few days — just not as toffee-nosed. I was thinking of bringing her into my stable bu
t I don’t think she has the stamina.’
Laker could almost see Simpson’s brain working angles.
‘I’m going to give you a week to arrange a meeting with someone in the cabinet.’
‘Why is it so important to you anyway?’ Simpson said. ‘I thought most of your business interests were in the US?’
‘Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that.’
Laker pushed past Simpson and opened the front door.
‘One week or your daughter’s mine.’
PART THREE
Jimmy Tingley
NINETEEN
Jimmy Tingley drove south in a thunderstorm. Lightning leaped between wooded hills, thunder rumbled along the valleys, rain fell in sheaves across wheat fields and olive groves. He drove slowly for the road was treacherous. Twice his car slithered on steep bends.
He dawdled through the soft Tuscan countryside, then observed it become harsher south-east of Siena. The road through San Quirico passed between crumbling chalky cliffs and on either side of him the rocky ridges that separated the river valleys were without the familiar blanket of trees.
He ate a melancholy lunch in the sullen perfection of Pienza’s renaissance square. In the late afternoon he stopped at the village of Montepulcello, high on a promontory. He stood in the rain at the medieval gateway, gazing blankly at the seashells embedded in the yellow stone.
Around six, he came to Orvieto, a beached galleon stranded on a rocky plateau, wreathed in mist. He entered through the west gate and the bleak buildings that lined each narrow street swallowed up the sprawling hills beyond.
Lost in the one-way system, he parked carelessly in a large, deserted square, then sat for a moment, squinting through the fast beat of the windscreen wipers. Old palaces with stained walls and blank windows on every side. The rain drubbing the car roof.
Jimmy Tingley, ex-SAS tough guy, marooned in the rain. So overcome with exhaustion he did not even want to leave the car. Jimmy Tingley, killer, trying to hold himself together.
He knew he was fragmenting. He’d known it was inevitable for years. Years of not allowing himself to show that he cared. Years of the serpent in his belly.
A quote from Thomas Wolfe, the Yank writer, constantly ran through his head. Read years ago in an essay entitled God’s Lonely Man and memorized.
He whispered it: ‘The whole conviction of my life now rests upon the belief that loneliness, far from being a rare and curious phenomenon, peculiar to myself and to a few other solitary men, is the central and inevitable fact of human existence.’
Tingley was a Barnardo’s boy. An orphan. No, not correct, he reminded himself. Abandoned. When he was in the intelligence community, he’d easily tracked down his mother. Well, if you can’t take advantage of the resources at your disposal for you own purposes, what was the point?
She was dead and she’d been a prostitute, and, understandably, couldn’t deal with a little kid. Understandable, but it meant that all he’d ever known was the orphanage and foster homes.
He didn’t think about his childhood. Daren’t.
The army saved him. He had a sense for righting wrongs. He didn’t go so far as to think himself a good man but he had a belief in wrong and right. He watched out for the underdog. In the army it was given a context.
Except that he didn’t really like being part of a gang. He’d long been a man who loved solitude, drawn to remote places. Not that he was one of those desert-loving Englishmen like Thesiger or T. E. Lawrence.
He had done his share of desert work but he’d thought it would be the sea for him. However, many oceans crossed had left a lack in him. In his best moments, he thought himself a romantic loner. In his worst, he thought himself something else.
He was thinking about the last time he had seen the Albanian assassin, Drago Kadire. Not so long ago the long-range sniper had been tied to a chair in John Hathaway’s Brighton house, bloodied and beaten. Kadire had given Tingley the information he’d needed. Tingley had gone on to kill several of Kadire’s associates but he had spared the sniper. He’d handed him over to the police, knowing he wouldn’t be in custody long.
There came a night on the Brighton seafront. Hathaway was dead and Tingley was standing beside the gangster’s one-time mistress, Barbara, discussing taking revenge on the last king of Brighton’s killer.
Tingley liked Barbara. He was sorry for the life of prostitution that had been thrust upon her by others. His mother had been in the same line of work. He mourned her still.
He remembered the distant crack a moment after Barbara’s head exploded. Tingley ducking, turning, scanning the near and the distant horizons. A glint of light reflected somewhere high, then gone.
A sniper. It had to be Kadire.
There was no reason for him to kill Barbara. But then Tingley didn’t think he intended to. With a damaged eye from the beating he’d sustained, Kadire would not have been at his best. Tingley had been the target. He’d given the man a break and Kadire had repaid the gesture by trying to kill him.
There was only one way to respond to that.
Tingley roused himself, took a small case from the back seat and walked towards an illuminated hotel sign outside one of the larger palaces. The glass door shuddered as it caught in the wind and slammed behind him. He stood in the high, arched entrance hall for a moment. He thought he heard a baby cry; it might have been a cat.
He walked to the foot of a broad, marble staircase. It was unlit. He hesitated, drawn by the shabby grandeur, made cautious by the gloom. A soft voice, so close Tingley could feel the warm breath on his ear.
‘There is someone to meet you on the first floor.’
A tall young man, in a black suit and a white shirt, was standing beside him. He could have stepped from the sixties, a period now fashionable again in Italy. His hair was long over his ears and a large black moustache emphasized the paleness of his cheeks. Rather than a member of the Italian Mafia, he looked every inch the romantic hero.
Tingley stifled his surprise. He nodded his thanks and, conscious of his tired legs, started slowly up the steps into the shadows. He entered a spacious reception room and raised an eyebrow when he saw the same young man awaiting him there.
The young man glanced carelessly at the passport and car keys Tingley thrust into his hand.
‘Federico di Bocci. You have met my twin brother, Guiseppe, downstairs. My sister Maria will show you to your room.’
A young woman detached herself from the gloom and stepped across to the doorway.
‘Please,’ she said, in a voice even softer than her brother’s. She smiled and inclined her head slightly to indicate that he should follow.
She led him to a tiny lift. She walked gracefully, lightly. There was scarcely room for the two of them in the lift. He was conscious of her physical presence as they made their shaky progress up to the next floor. She was a shapely woman and her black woollen dress emphasized her breasts and hips. Her heavy perfume filled the chamber.
She had her brother’s melancholy eyes and thick black hair but her lips were fuller, her face less pale. Tingley found it hard to assess her age. Somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five perhaps.
When the lift jolted to a halt, she squeezed past him into the blackness. She reached for a switch on the wall and a dim overhead light illuminated about ten yards of a corridor. He followed her as she walked ahead and pressed another switch. As the light ahead came on, the one behind went out. And so they progressed, from darkness into light.
She stopped before a broad, carved door and he heard the rasp of a key in its lock. The room was long, with an ornate four-poster bed at its far end. On the left-hand wall were two long double windows. He went to one of them. It looked down into an interior courtyard strewn with broken marble and fragments of stone. Across the yard, identical windows, shuttered.
‘The Di Bocci family lives here long?’ Tingley attempted in his feeble Italian. He only knew the present tense, as she only seemed to know
the present in English.
‘For three centuries. We are the last.’ She gazed at him until he turned his face away. ‘My father will be here in the morning,’ she added.
‘Good,’ he said.
He slept on top of his bed through the rest of the afternoon then went back into the rain. He found a trattoria and ate and drank hungrily, thinking about the task he had set himself. Thinking about the futility of revenge. Determined to have it anyway.
TWENTY
Tingley had gone first to Varengeville-sur-mer with his friend, Bob Watts. Old friends, old companions in arms. Survivors of many a conflict. They had returned to John Hathaway’s grand house in the picturesque village a few miles outside Dieppe a few days after Barbara’s murder.
At first sight the two of them together looked like some old comedy double act. Of an age, but Tingley compact and tidy, hair plastered down; Watts towering over him, rougher round the edges, hair wild.
They’d picked up a car in Dieppe and driven through the rain to find a posse of French toughs gathered around the gate of Hathaway’s house.
Tingley and Hathaway exchanged glances. Tingley and Watts had got embroiled in a gun-battle here some weeks earlier, fighting alongside Hathaway against the Balkan gangsters. Now they were back, but for different reasons. Tingley was thinking revenge but knew Watts was thinking justice.
‘I don’t know what I feel about killing people outside the law,’ Watts said. ‘I was a policeman.’
‘And a soldier,’ Tingley said. ‘You’ve seen a lot of deaths.’
Tingley sought revenge not just for recent events in Brighton but also for atrocities committed by the same people in the Balkans in the nineties when he was there covertly and Watts was part of the UN peacekeeping force.
The murderers, then as more recently, were led by the sadistic killer, Miladin Radislav, known during the Balkan conflict as Vlad the Impaler. Tingley had intended to track him back to the Balkans and serve justice on him. Battlefield justice. When Barbara was killed, he had added to his list the sniper, Drago Kadire.
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