All Or Nothing

by Ollie Ollerton

  Indispensable? thought Abbott. But it wasn’t that, was it? It was something else. Thinking once again of the safe.

  ‘You’re going to make sure of it.’

  ‘Aye, I am.’

  ‘She must be paying you a lot.’

  ‘Aye, she does. But it’s worth it to her to have someone looking out for her interests, keeping an eye on things, you know what I mean? To her, Doyle’s like a dog that needs constant supervision.’

  ‘And now she wants to put him down.’

  ‘You gonna lose sleep over that, are you?’

  ‘Just her, is it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What about the rest of the family she’s talking about? Who are they anyway?’

  ‘Try Google. There aren’t that many of them but for a small bunch they’re hardly what you’d call close-knit. There are no alliances there, I can tell you. Well, none that I know about anyway. Naw, I work for Lady Norton and that’s it.’

  ‘That really is it? You’re up for hire to the highest bidder?’

  ‘That go against your principles, does it?’

  ‘I can’t say that it does,’ lied Abbott. He felt dirty. As though he wanted to wash. Worse than any shame-filled hangover. He found himself yearning for the pragmatic voice of Cuckoo, the caring concern of Tess.

  But then, no.

  Pull yourself together.

  He had a job to do.

  ‘Look, pal,’ sighed McGregor. ‘I’ve got no loyalty to Doyle. The man’s a scumbag. Yes, it could be that I’m a scumbag, too, but on a scumbag scale of one to ten, you’ve got Doyle at ten and then, much lower down, you got me. I know I’m not exactly contributing to the overall sum of human happiness, but I do what I have to do. I don’t want you to hate me, Abbott.’

  Too late, thought Abbott, but said, ‘Why do you suppose she’s so keen that Doyle dies?’

  ‘I suppose because she wants to make sure that he can’t come back after her. There’s no love lost between those two, I can tell you. As far as I can tell, they used to tolerate each other because of Sir Charles, but now he’s no longer in the picture . . .’

  ‘That right, is it?’ said Abbott thoughtfully. And it could be right, he mused, staring out of the window. But then there were all sorts of reasons that you might want somebody out of the picture permanently. Maybe because you want to shut them up.

  ‘After all,’ continued McGregor, ‘we’re about to smash them, aren’t we? Doyle?’

  ‘I am. You’re going to stay well out of the way.’

  ‘Then you need to tell me when you plan to do it.’

  ‘I’ll tell you when the time comes.’

  ‘Are you going to hit his house?’

  ‘Ray Doyle’s got a wife and a kid. I’m not taking the fight to his house. There’ll be no families involved.’

  From the corner of his eye, he saw McGregor pull a face but couldn’t be bothered to take issue with it. Besides which, he thought, the main thing was to make sure that all the trafficked children were safe. He thought back to his time in Thailand, realising that he knew exactly who he needed on this job. ‘I’m going to be hitting them where they really live. We’ll be taking the fight to the Kemptown factory.’

  CHAPTER 33

  At Chicksands, Abbott and Cuckoo relaxed on the same bench. A little colder than they had been on the last occasion they met but otherwise unchanged. Almost unchanged.

  ‘Looks as though you’re still losing weight,’ said Abbott, jerking a thumb towards where Cuckoo’s belly was – or had been.

  ‘You know Fi. When she gets the bit between her teeth.’

  ‘Or the salad in this case.’

  ‘Yeah. There’s a lot of salad.’

  ‘Diets tend to involve salad.’

  ‘Apart from yours, that tend to involve a lot of beer, wine and spirits, although, I’ve got to say, that was a cheap crack because correct me if I’m wrong, you’ve either drastically cut down or cut it out altogether.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ preened Abbott, ‘and what makes you say that, then?’

  ‘Three things. One, you don’t clink when you walk. Two, you don’t smell like a brewery. Three, and most important, you actually look well for a change. Almost healthy.’

  ‘Well, you’re right, I haven’t touched a drop since . . .’ He cringed internally to think of the night at Tess’s house. ‘Well, for a while.’

  ‘How does it feel?’

  ‘It feels OK, no, better than OK. It feels like being out from under its grip, and every day I tell myself that I should reward myself with a drink; every day I tell myself that I don’t really have a problem, because if I did then I wouldn’t be able to give it up so easily.’

  ‘Has it been easy?’

  ‘Well, no, not actually easy, as such. But it hasn’t been that hard either. I was lucky. I didn’t have withdrawal. Or not the sort where you end up in A&E; not the sort where you hallucinate spiders wandering across your ceiling. I had headaches and sleeplessness and I still have cravings, and I have that weird sneaky voice that goes, “Hey, you haven’t drunk for a while, why not reward yourself with a drink?” Or “Hey, you’ve hit reset. You’re a normal drinker now, why not just try one or two drinks? Because now you can moderate!” But if you can recognise the cravings and ignore the voice, if you can play the tape forward then you can get through it. What’s the alternative? You either keep killing yourself or you don’t. And I don’t think it’s what Nathan would have wanted, do you? Do you think he would have wanted his dad to drink himself to death in a B&B in Finchley? I don’t.’

  ‘Well, I’m pleased for you, mate.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  A little throat-clearing followed. A pause before continuing. ‘So, I have news for you,’ said Cuckoo.

  ‘Ditto.’

  ‘Well, OK, you go first.’

  So Abbott told Cuckoo everything he’d learned so far. All about the set-up in Derby. About Doyle’s links with Sir Charles Norton. He told him what Sweaty had said – how Chris might have ended up ‘in London’. He told him that Doyle apparently had some dirt on the Nortons hidden in his safe. What he didn’t say, what he held back, was that he had been hired by Lady Norton. Not yet.

  Cuckoo was nodding. ‘None of that came as much of a surprise to you,’ said Abbott.

  ‘No. Partly my news was that I’d put the names you gave me – Juliet and Kilgore – with the Nortons and put them together with Doyle. Doyle, he barely blips on the radar. But the Nortons – the Nortons are different. Since his death the grapevine’s been buzzing and there are fairly credible rumours of connections within the government and security forces.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Contracts. Favours for favours. You scratch my back and I’ll let you build your super-casino. That kind of thing. But it is just rumour, Abbott. Nothing on any file. Little more than water cooler gossip. What was most interesting from my point of view was that there were flags attached to any file involving the Nortons.’

  ‘Flags? What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that if anybody is nosing around then it triggers an alert. These flags tend to occur only on cases that apply to ultra-sensitive material. So that departments within departments will be informed if somebody is making enquiries.’

  ‘Does that mean they know you’ve been poking around?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. Because I know how to circumvent the flags.

  I also know how to tell if they’ve been triggered at any time in the recent past, and in this case, they have.’

  ‘Can you find out who triggered it?’

  ‘It means going a layer beyond my security clearance, but I can call in a favour, yes.’

  ‘Do it . . . please.’

  ‘You think that . . . what? The Nortons were into the child abuse?’

  ‘I’m keeping an open mind. But Charles and Ray Doyle came up together. Maybe they shared certain proclivities. And if they’re being protected at the level you suggest then maybe
it goes up as well as down.’

  ‘People have been trying to put the finger on some kind of high-ranking establishment abuse network since as long as I can remember, Abbott. What are the chances that you’re just going to stumble on it like this?’

  ‘Why must there be one? Why not several?’

  ‘OK, but this all started with your brother’s death. Scutter’s dead. Sweaty’s dead. Is it not time to pull out?’

  ‘And leave it to the authorities? How much good do you think that will do, based on what you know so far?’

  ‘No, just leave it.’

  Abbott threw Cuckoo a look. A shame on you look. ‘No, can’t do that, mate,’ he said. ‘I’m taking down the Doyles. And then I’m taking down whoever else is involved.’

  ‘Oh, you are, are you? “Taking down Doyle”? And how do you plan to do that, Rambo?’

  Abbott grinned.

  And then he told Cuckoo about the Lady Norton deal.

  Both of them.

  ‘You have got to be fucking kidding me,’ said Cuckoo.

  ‘My words exactly. But there you have it. I literally have a mandate to take down Doyle. I even have the money to pay for the men I need to do it. Not just one Rambo. Four of the fuckers. And on that note . . .’

  He handed over a scrap of paper. ‘Three SF operators I used to work with. Ward runs a garden centre somewhere down south, in Kent, I think. Miller’s a personal trainer. Tom Brace is still in the game. A mercenary, as far as I know. Think you can do that? I don’t suppose any of them have gone off-grid. Well, maybe Tom Brace.’

  ‘I can find them for you,’ said Cuckoo. ‘And then?’

  ‘If I’m right, and if the Nortons are as dirty as I think, then them next.’

  ‘You’ve said yourself that they’re untouchable.’

  ‘I’m thinking of something a bit better, a lot more permanent.’

  ‘You’re planning on hunting them down?’

  ‘Could do that. Or maybe I could get at them when they’re all in one place.’

  ‘Wait. You’re not going to take part in their game?’

  ‘Where else can I get all the Nortons together somewhere I’ll be armed? Where there will already be bullets flying? You’ve said yourself that they’re very rarely even in the same country together, let alone the same place.’

  ‘You’re walking into the lion’s den.’

  ‘I’m already in the lion’s den. And anyway, I’m one of the lions, mate.’

  ‘Are you telling me that? Or are you trying to tell yourself?’

  CHAPTER 34

  ‘French Foreign Legion, sir,’ said Kennedy.

  Kennedy was dressed in his regulation polo shirt and pressed jeans. His boss, Ross Norton, wore baggy surf shorts and a similarly outsized T-shirt. He trailed behind Kennedy like a naughty school kid reluctantly taken on holiday by his parents. He was hungover, having partied into the early hours, and was very keen on banishing that hangover by working on another one. The last place he wanted to be was anywhere that featured loud bangs, which meant that the last place he wanted to be was at this shooting range in Zurich. However, Kennedy had insisted, and Kennedy, of course, could be very insistent indeed.

  The bangs were getting louder, making Norton wince. At the same time, he was wondering about the significance of the words ‘French Foreign Legion’. Presumably, since it involved loud bangs and shooting, this was something to do with his late father’s contest, which, while admittedly was diverting fun and the essence of an excellent future anecdote, wasn’t, if he was being totally honest with himself, something that he was taking especially seriously.

  Ross wanted to win, of course he did. But at the same time there was something in him, something not in his nature, but rather in his nurture, that was programmed to accept loss. A legacy, no doubt, of the family games that he had grown up playing. Games that were always, but always, characterised by his grandfather’s relentless competitiveness. The Nortons were not a family that might go easy on the little ones or let them win in order to build their self-esteem. A generation removed, Ross and Simon grew accustomed to being on the losing side. Theirs was a childhood characterised by loss. An upbringing in which they were constantly reminded of the shame of losing, where coming second was second best while at the same time almost constantly placed in that position. One-on-one, Ross would beat his little brother at whatever games they played, whether it had been football or tennis in the garden, or KerPlunk in the playroom, so at least Ross had that.

  Simon? Simon never stood a chance.

  No wonder he had turned out the way he had.

  In short, Ross had resigned himself to being a makeweight. Just on board to boost the numbers. The winner would most likely be his grandmother or his mother, definitely not him or his brother. And anyway, he had his proxy, his avatar, his champion. Trent Saunders, who Kennedy had informed him was a most capable competitor. Even if Ross didn’t win, then he would surely compete with flair.

  All of which still begged the question, what was he doing having his headache so mercilessly pummelled in this Zurich shooting range?

  They reached an area where ear defenders hung on pegs and Kennedy wordlessly handed a pair to Norton, who snatched at them gratefully, only to find they made hardly any difference.

  ‘This way, sir,’ said Kennedy.

  ‘What do you mean, the French Foreign Legion?’ Norton demanded to know.

  ‘I mean, the man we are about to see was trained by the French Foreign Legion.’ Kennedy looked at him. ‘That makes him among the best in the world, sir,’ he said impatiently.

  Ross Norton shrugged. By now they had reached an observation gallery where Ross was grateful to take a seat, barely listening as Kennedy talked him through the accuracy of the marksmanship below.

  ‘His name is Scolar,’ Kennedy explained.

  ‘I’m very pleased to hear it, Kennedy, but I thought we had already chosen our man. Trent Saunders. Him. He’s one of the best, you told me.’

  Ross reared back a little when Kennedy turned to him, Kennedy’s previous air of irritation having given way to something approaching outright anger. His teeth were bared. His baldness shone. ‘As usual, I am trying to help you, and as usual, you are being a snivelling little shit in return.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ replied Ross, shrinking away.

  ‘Your grandfather loved gaming. But, more than anything, he loved to stack the odds in his favour. A fan of sports he may have been. Sportsmanlike, however, he very much was not.’

  ‘Are you saying my grandfather was a cheat?’

  ‘Of course he was a fucking cheat, you idiot. Your grandfather never did a straight or honest thing in his life.’

  ‘Christ, you do store things up, don’t you?’

  ‘I’ve often thought that you could have done with storing a few more things up yourself,’ said Kennedy. ‘Sir.’

  ‘And so I take it this trip is aimed at trying to restore my competitive edge? You’re hoping that comparing one with the other will give me a thirst for winning, is that it? I’m supposed to choose between Trent and this Scolar?’

  ‘You haven’t been listening to what I’ve been saying, have you, sir?’ said Kennedy.

  Ross Norton rubbed his head. ‘Give me a break, will you?’

  From below the firing had stopped at last. ‘Come on,’ said Kennedy, ‘let’s go and talk to Scolar.’

  At that moment Kennedy’s phone rang and he stood, excusing himself from the observation gallery to take the call. Moments later, he returned.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, sir, but I have some bad news.’

  Ross, who had been dreaming of a drink, looked up at him. ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s your brother, Simon, sir. He’s been found dead of a heroin overdose.’

  CHAPTER 35

  So this is what a garden centre in Whitstable looks like, thought Abbott, as he stepped into a greenhouse. He had gone into the shop first, where the air was cooler. ‘I’m looking for th
e owner, Mr Ward,’ he had said, gazing around at displays of plant pots, artisan chocolate and craft beer and finding it difficult to reconcile the image he had of Freddie Ward, SF operator and one of the best explosives men he had ever worked with, even being in here, let alone owning the place.

  ‘You’re not Alex Abbott, are you?’ said the lad behind the till. And the penny dropped. Abbott looked hard at him.

  ‘You’re his son, are you?’ said Abbott.

  The kid had stood and offered his hand to shake, but even so, his eyes were wary. ‘The name’s Graham,’ he said. ‘And Dad’s expecting you but . . . before I show you the way, do you mind telling me what you want with him?’

  So polite. So unassuming. Freddie Ward’s kid all right.

  ‘It’s a bit of business,’ said Abbott.

  ‘But something tells me it’s not in the garden centre line.’

  ‘No, you’d be right about that.’

  ‘If my mother was here, she would probably tell you to sling your hook, you know.’ The kid smiled like he wanted to offset being rude but wanting to honour his mum at the same time. Abbott’s heart went out to him to such an extent that he considered turning on his heel and leaving there and then – leaving Freddie Ward to a new life that he fully deserved to live to the full.

  Instead, he said, ‘So your mum? She’s . . .’ He had never met Ward’s wife and was only vaguely aware he even had one. It wasn’t like he had never been interested. Just that they didn’t talk about that kind of thing. You talked about the job. You talked about who was doing what, where and with whom. You talked about music and football and weaponry. But what you didn’t really talk about was home. Talking about home jinxed it. Talking about home brought chinks into your armour.

  ‘She passed on a couple of years ago. It’s been hard for us since then.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Graham. ‘Thank you. The thing is, I don’t know for sure, but I think out of the two of us, Dad’s taken it worse somehow. I think that, well, look, what I’m trying to say is that if you’re here for any other reason than buying garden equipment, then I can’t pretend that I’m pleased to see you. But on the other hand, maybe a taste of the old life is what he needs.’