All Or Nothing

by Ollie Ollerton

  ‘See, that’s funny, that is,’ said Doyle, ‘because earlier tonight, maybe even the exact time that you were out for your walk, somebody paid a visit to The Freemasons Arms and shot my man Sweaty in the face.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Abbott, trying to calibrate his response into something approaching surprised but not too surprised. Not overacting surprise. ‘Who are you fingering for it? Dissatisfied customer?’

  ‘Well, no,’ said Doyle, ‘because no customer of Sweaty’s would dare.’

  ‘Vengeful father, maybe?’

  Doyle’s eyes hardened. ‘Same applies. We don’t have many of them in the picture, to be honest, mate. But I’m thinking that being as you’re new to the crew, and that you can’t quite explain your whereabouts, then the person I’m looking for might be stood right here in front of me.’

  ‘No, mate,’ said Abbott carefully.

  ‘I ain’t your mate. I’m Mr Doyle to you.’ His men shifted. Cynthia Doyle’s jaw moved, and Abbott realised she was chewing gum.

  ‘I’m working here as a favour,’ Abbott told Doyle.

  ‘You ain’t doing no one a favour being here, believe you me. And it don’t matter why you’re working here, you still call me Mr Doyle.’

  His men bristled. Their eyes darted. Abbott tried to cool the situation. ‘I apologise, Mr Doyle.’

  ‘That’s better.’ Doyle seemed to soften a little. ‘Thing is, Mr Flyte, one thing I hate is being taken for a mug. You wouldn’t be taking me for a mug, would you?’

  Abbott sighed. ‘Mr Doyle, you know what I do. You know I’m the best at what I do. If, for whatever reason, I wanted to kill Sweaty – and while we’re on the subject, why would I do that? – then I wouldn’t leave it so everything pointed to me.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t, would you?’ agreed Doyle. ‘Not if you really were Owen Flyte. But if you were Alex Abbott, then that might be a different story, don’t you think?’

  Abbott shrugged. ‘I fought the man. You didn’t. He was a pro.’

  ‘A pro who came here wanting to settle a score. Scutter’s dead. But maybe he decided to go on and do a bit more tidying up at the same time, eh? Maybe he found out that Sweaty was involved in trying to take his brother and decided to get a little payback?’

  ‘Look, Doyle, you’re barking up the wrong tree, that’s all I can say. McGregor will vouch for me. All my work has been in the interests of the business. Your business. You should be thanking me, not suspecting me.’

  There was a knock at the office door and Morris appeared, carrying Abbott’s gun. He gave it to McGregor, whispering something to him at the same time, impossible to hear.

  McGregor nodded. Morris left.

  ‘Gun’s fully loaded,’ said McGregor to Doyle.

  Doyle nodded slowly. ‘Well, that’s something, then, isn’t it? Give it back to him. I’m sure he’s feeling only half-dressed without it.’

  Abbott took his gun, testing the weight of it in his palm before tucking it into the back of his trousers.

  ‘Johnboy,’ said Doyle, speaking to one of the armed men who stood in the room, ‘bring Marky in, would you, mate?’

  Moments later, two more guards manhandled Marky roughly into the room. ‘I haven’t done anything, boss, I swear,’ Marky was saying. ‘Nothing.’

  Mrs Doyle spoke now, for the first time since Abbott had arrived. Her voice was high-pitched. ‘Only you’ve always been a bit squeamish about certain aspects of the business, haven’t you, Marky?’

  ‘I swear, Mrs Doyle.’

  ‘And you can’t seem to account for yourself.’

  ‘I was in bed.’ His voice rose. It had a panicked tone. ‘Please. You’ve got to believe me. I’ve got no reason to put a bullet in Sweaty.’

  ‘Wasn’t no secret that Sweaty treated the kids rough,’ said Mrs Doyle. Abbott looked into her eyes and saw no pity there. No pity at all.

  ‘I’ll be more strict with them from now on if that’s what you want,’ said Marky.

  ‘More professional,’ Cynthia Doyle corrected him.

  Marky nodded furiously. ‘Yes, yes. That’s just it. I ain’t been strict enough with them. But that’ll change, I promise.’

  Cynthia Doyle looked across at her husband, who looked at her. She shook her head. Doyle nodded in acknowledgement, as though making up his mind. ‘Mr Flyte, do us a favour and put a bullet in Marky here.’

  Marky began to wail, struggling against the two guards who stood with their hands on each shoulder preventing him from rising. ‘In here?’ said Abbott.

  ‘Why not? Here and now,’ said Doyle.

  ‘Look, I’m sure you’ve made your point,’ said Abbott. ‘Can you really imagine Marky killing Sweaty?’

  ‘Well, at the moment he’s the most likely culprit, isn’t he?’

  ‘Come on, it only happened a couple of hours ago. It’s far too early to say. Have you found out whether there was anybody round at The Freemasons kicking off? Somebody with a grudge?’

  But Doyle was no longer listening. His attention went to McGregor. ‘A couple of hours ago? Did you tell our friend Mr Flyte here that it happened a couple of hours ago?’

  McGregor shook his head slowly. ‘No, boss, I can’t say that I did.’

  Doyle turned back to Abbott. ‘How would you know that, Mr Flyte?’

  ‘Well, that’s when I was out walking. And if we’re back to saying that I’m the trigger man then I refer you to my previous answer.’

  ‘Because you’re a loyal and trustworthy employee, aren’t you?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Then do what you’re being paid to do as my enforcer and enforce. Put a bullet in this man.’

  Abbott drew his sidearm.

  ‘Good man,’ said Doyle.

  Abbott put it back to the back of Marky’s head.

  ‘Wait,’ said Doyle, ‘have you got a silencer for that thing?’

  ‘They call it a suppressor, boss,’ said McGregor, ‘and yes, he has. I saw it at Scutter’s pad.’

  ‘Because it’s another funny thing that nobody heard the gunshot. Sweaty was killed in the cellar. I reckon if you fired a gun in that cellar then the whole pub would hear. Unless, of course, it was fitted with a silencer. Or a suppressor.’

  ‘What’s the point of all this?’ snarled Abbott. ‘You seem convinced it’s me.’

  ‘I will be if you don’t put a bullet in Marky.’

  The odds were bad, he knew. He could maybe take out two guys before the rest drew their guns, and if that happened, then he was a dead man. Mission failure.

  ‘I’m not gonna do it here,’ he said, trying to buy himself some time.

  ‘Why’s that, then?’

  ‘Well, there’s the mess for one thing.’

  Doyle raised his chin. ‘Yes, there was apparently quite a mess when somebody put one in Sweaty. Perhaps that’s what you’re thinking of.’

  OK, thought Abbott, his sidearm still at the back of Marky’s head. What have we got? Four goons in total, all of them armed, guns within reaching distance for Doyle and even Mrs Doyle if she wanted one. Impossible odds, but what other choice did he have?

  Right. He had to do it. The mission would be a failure. At least he’d take some of them with him.

  ‘There was one other thing, boss,’ said McGregor suddenly.

  ‘Yeah? What was that, then?’

  ‘His gun. Morris said it was fully loaded, but you know what Morris is like with guns. He also said that it had recently been fired.’

  ‘Did he now?’ smiled Doyle, looking at Abbott, who swore he’d never seen a man look so shark-like.

  It was time.

  Abruptly, Abbott shifted the muzzle of the Glock away from the back of Marky’s head, dropping slightly in a two-handed combat stance and squeezing off his first.

  Nothing happened.

  CHAPTER 28

  Idiot.

  Amateur.

  They’d unloaded his weapon. Of course they had. Taken out the live rounds and replaced them. Or
maybe just the top two live rounds.

  Either way.

  Dead man’s click.

  Equivalent of standing there with your dick in your hand.

  Turkey.

  The gun was grabbed from him. Cynthia Doyle pulled a face, shaking her head as though disgusted while Doyle lit the latest cigarette, looking more amused than anything. ‘Didn’t I tell you, Mr Abbott, that if there’s one thing I hate it’s being taken for a mug?’ His lighter flared. ‘Darren, go and start the meat grinder, would you?’

  Marky was standing, brushing himself down. His demeanour immediately changing as he dropped the performance. He drew his gun, grinning at Abbott. All guns in the room were drawn now. Even Cynthia Doyle had picked one up. Darren did as he was told and left the room, and a second later, they heard the metallic crunch of the meat grinder starting up, its rusted, bloodstained blades beginning to move.

  ‘How did you know?’ asked Abbott.

  ‘Do you know what? It didn’t even occur to me that you’d bother to take the dead geezer’s identity,’ said Doyle cheerfully. ‘I mean, it’s all a bit spy film, ain’t it? It was McGregor who put the idea in my head, like maybe just killing Scutter might not be enough for Abbott, and a way of hitting us harder was to get inside our operation, know what I mean? Soon as the thought occurred to me it was like everything fell into place. I called up London, spoke to Kilgore, who emailed me a picture of Abbott.’

  Mrs Doyle flicked over a piece of paper that was on the desk in front of her, poked a pudgy finger at it. ‘There’s a picture of Alex Abbott,’ she squeaked. ‘And that’s you, ain’t it? Unless you’re going to tell us that Owen Flyte was your identical twin.’

  Hands gripped Abbott. They dragged him out to the machine, the whole posse shipping out at the same time, all of them gathered around the huge, stainless-steel funnel. Looking down it, Abbott swore he could see the bits of the last unfortunates, little scraggy scraps of flesh and blood and bone. Was the real Owen Flyte down there? Was Jason Scutter in there somewhere?

  ‘They’ve normally shit themselves about now,’ gloated Doyle.

  His wife stood to one side, her red-lipsticked mouth set, her arms folded across the front of her jogging suit. ‘Juicy Couture’ it said on the front.

  Still held, Abbott was manoeuvred towards the mouth of the machine. Sure enough, he saw the machinery churning. There was no purchase down there. No living person would be able to prevent themselves being inexorably dragged into the rotating blades. It would be a slow death. A slow, painful death.

  And although he was prepared to die, and probably had been since the day that his brother Chris was taken and his life fell apart, Abbott knew that he didn’t want to die this way. Better to die fighting.

  He went limp, causing his captors to take the strain, altering their equilibrium in such a way that what he did next took them by surprise. He twisted and rotated his arms, bringing his knees up at the same time so that they were forced to bear his entire weight, making himself the slipperiest of eels.

  During the months of drinking, his strength had diminished but not completely, and he was able to wrench one arm free of the first man while at the same time dragging the second man forward and rushing him in the direction of the meatgrinding funnel.

  Doyle saw what was happening – saw his man about to be deposited into the machine – and came forward with the gun, waving it with no discipline, like a referee trying to deliver a red card. At the same time, Abbott saw his chance to grab himself a weapon, lost interest in feeding the goon to the meat grinder, dropped him and changed the direction of attack, going instead for Doyle, who was caught by surprise and had no time to react as Abbott grabbed his wrist and twisted, easily disarming him and then putting the gun on him.

  Abbott was about to pull the trigger.

  He was maybe a third of a second from pulling the trigger.

  When the lights went out.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 29

  Abbott woke up feeling groggy, head throbbing from where he’d been hit.

  But alive. Arms and legs intact. No bit of him purloined for an edible meat product. Let’s be thankful for that, at least.

  He was on the move, lying across the back seat of a large vehicle, probably a Range Rover, travelling at speed. For some moments, he lay still, not wanting to reveal to whoever was up front that he’d re-entered the land of the living. Opening one eye, he was able to get a visual on his surroundings. Surreptitiously, he moved his arm to check, and sure enough, his gun was gone, ditto his Gerber.

  As for his company, he could make out a driver in the front seat, and from the back of his head knew that it was McGregor. The passenger seat was empty, which came as a surprise. As far as he could tell, it was just him and McGregor in the car. He considered overpowering McGregor but on the other hand maybe not. Instead, he made a play of groaning, as though he were just waking up. ‘Abbott,’ said McGregor from the front seat, and Abbott, having become so accustomed to being called Flyte in recent days, experienced a moment of disconnection.

  ‘McGregor,’ he replied, deliberately overplaying his grogginess. ‘What the fuck is going on?’

  ‘Well, for a start, pal, you’re not dead and this is neither heaven nor hell even though I’m here. Mr Doyle sends his regards, by the way.’

  ‘Right. Great. So how come I’m not dead?’

  ‘Doyle just wanted to give you a scare, that’s all. Fact is, you’re a protected species. We’ve been given orders from on high that you’re not to be harmed. Not only that, but somebody wants to meet you.’

  ‘Who? Kilgore? Juliet?’

  McGregor’s eyes flicked in the rear-view. ‘Oh aye. You’ve heard about her, have you?’

  ‘Name’s come up.’

  ‘Doyle, eh? Blabbermouth.’

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  ‘Figures. Fuckin’ pisshead. Tell you what, you’ll find out everything you need to know in due course. In the meantime . . .’ McGregor tossed a phone handset over his shoulder that Abbott caught. It was his own phone. ‘Doyle was hoping you might give him a call. There’s a matter he’d like to discuss.’

  Abbott pulled himself to a sitting position, did as he was asked and dialled Doyle.

  ‘Abbott,’ said Doyle.

  ‘You wanted to speak to me.’

  ‘Too right.’ Doyle’s voice was loud and at a pitch that upset Abbott’s poor, throbbing head even more. ‘I’ll accept your apologies for what you done, shall I?’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Abbott, feeling behind his ear and wincing. What had hit him? A cosh, probably.

  ‘Good,’ said Doyle. ‘We’ll put any unpleasantness in the past, eh? Fact of the matter is, we’re on the same side at the end of the day.’

  ‘I’d really love to know why I’ve gone from being ingredients for the meat grinder to VIP status,’ said Abbott. ‘There’s definitely a self-help book in this.’

  ‘We all have to answer to someone, mate, even me. And that’s the reason you’re alive and sitting in the back of my Range Rover, rather than being fed to the dog. What I need to know is this. You came to Derby looking for revenge. Do you now feel satisfied?

  ‘What does it matter either way?’

  Doyle sniffed. His voice dropped an octave or so. ‘Look, I don’t know why you’ve been called to London. I don’t know what happens next. Whether you stay there or come back to Derby or go wherever the hell you want, I just want to be sure that coming after me isn’t next on your agenda. If it is, say the word and it’s game on. If it’s not then I’ll be honest with you, I’ll sleep a little better at night.’

  ‘I’ve done in Derby what I came to do,’ he told Doyle, although his thoughts went back to what Sweaty had said. How Doyle liked abusing kids. ‘Sure, yeah, you can sleep easy at night.’

  ‘That’s all I needed to know,’ said Doyle.

  He rang off, leaving Abbott to wonder what might have happened had his answer been different. What was
the back-up plan?

  ‘Are we all pals, then?’ grinned McGregor from the front seat.

  ‘I think so,’ said Abbott, sitting back. ‘We’ll see, shall we?’

  CHAPTER 30

  ‘Juliet, then,’ said McGregor. They had reached Richmond. They were close now, Abbott could tell. ‘Let’s talk about her, shall we?’

  Abbott still in the back seat, feeling better now. ‘I’m on tenterhooks here.’

  ‘Not many call her Juliet.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Most people know her as Lady Norton. Name ring a bell?’

  Abbott thought. ‘Call it a tinkle.’

  ‘You’ve heard of Sir Charles Norton, right?’

  The penny dropped. ‘Not the recently deceased Sir Charles Norton?’

  ‘The one and only.’

  ‘And these guys are involved with Doyle?’ His mind was already working over what he’d learned. Thinking back to what Sweaty had told him about Chris. ‘Or maybe he would have gone to London.’

  ‘All is about to become clear,’ said McGregor.

  Lady Norton’s house – her mansion, to be exact – was hardly visible from the street. You might even walk past it without knowing, hardly noticing the high wall to one side of you. If you stood on the other side of the street, you could see trees and the top level of what looked like a grand home. But that was it. Nothing to advertise what was going on behind that wall.

  And what was going on was gasp-inducing.

  They drove in through sober, grey-painted gates that opened and closed electronically in their wake. Abbott saw two wall-mounted CCTV cameras, one of which remained trained on the gate, the other tracking the progress of their vehicle as they passed through the portal. Once inside it was as if they were in a different country, a different world altogether. Richmond, a posh and leafy suburb at the best of times, suddenly seemed almost drab, down-at-heel, and terribly urban compared to the immaculate lawns that lay on either side of a gravel drive leading to the house, sorry, mansion, which was itself modelled on the old American colonial style, complete with balustrades and a long balcony overlooking the front. To his left Abbott saw what at first glance he took to be a gardener. Indeed, the guy was holding a rake. But then, as he turned slightly, Abbott saw the butt of a pistol protruding from his waistband. Two things: Her Ladyship liked her security but she liked her security unobtrusive.