by Peter James
‘You play this?’
As his reply, Tooth selected a ball and placed his fingers and thumb in the slots. Then he squinted down the length of the lane and could see that all the pins, white and shiny, were in place.
‘Go ahead,’ the man said. ‘Enjoy!’
Tooth wasn’t wearing the right shoes, so he made the run-up carefully and sent the ball rolling. In the silence of the basement it rumbled, like distant thunder. It clouted the front pin exactly where he had aimed it, slightly off centre, and it had the desired effect. All ten pins went straight down.
‘Great shot! Gotta say, that’s not at all bad!’
The man drew again on his cigar, puffing out his cheeks, blowing out the heavy smoke. He hit the reset button and watched the mechanical grab scoop up the pins and start to replace them.
Tooth dug his hand into his pocket, pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes and lit one. After he had taken the first drag, the man suddenly snatched it out of his hand and crushed it out in an onyx ashtray on a ledge beside him.
‘I just lit that,’ Tooth said.
‘I don’t want that fucking cheap thing polluting my Havana. You want a cigar, ask me. OK?’
‘I don’t smoke cigars.’
‘No cigarettes in here!’ He glared challengingly at Tooth.
‘She was smoking a cigarette upstairs.’
‘You’re down here with me. You do business my way or you don’t do it. I’m not sure I like your attitude, Mr Tooth.’
Tooth considered, very carefully, killing this man. It would be easy, only a few seconds. But the money was attractive. Jobs hadn’t exactly been flooding in just recently. Even without seeing this house, he knew about the wealth of this family. This was a good gig. Better not to blow it.
He picked up another ball, rolled it and hit another strike, all ten pins down.
‘You’re good, aren’t you?’ the man said, a little grudgingly.
Tooth did not respond.
‘You’ve been to a place in England called Brighton? Like in Brighton Beach here in New York, right?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘You did a job for my cousin. You took out an Estonian ship captain in the local port who was doing side deals on cargoes of drugs.’
‘I don’t remember,’ he said, again being deliberately vague.
‘Six years ago. My cousin said you were good. They never found the body.’ Ricky nodded approvingly.
Tooth shrugged.
‘So, here’s the deal. In this envelope are the names and all we have on them. My sister’s prepared to pay one million dollars, half now, half on completion. She wants each of them to suffer, real bad. That’s your specialty, right?’
‘What kind of suffering?’
‘Rumour has it you copied the Iceman’s stunt with the rat. That right?’
‘I don’t copy anyone.’
The Iceman had been paid to make a victim he’d been hired to hit suffer. The client had wanted proof. So he wrapped the man, naked, in duct tape, with just his eyes, lips and genitals exposed. Then he left him in an underground cavern filled with a bunch of rats that had been starved for a week, and a video recorder. Afterwards his client had been able to watch the rats eating him, starting with the exposed areas.
‘Good. She’d appreciate you being creative. We have a deal?’
‘One hundred per cent cash upfront only,’ Tooth said. ‘I don’t negotiate.’
‘You know who you’re fucking dealing with?’
Tooth, who was a good six inches shorter, stared him hard in the eye. ‘Yes. Do you?’ He shook another cigarette out of the pack and stuck it in his mouth. ‘Do you have a light?’
Ricky Giordino stared at him. ‘You got balls, I tell you that.’ He hit the reset button again. ‘How can I be sure you’ll deliver? That you’ll get all three hits?’
Tooth selected another ball from the chute. He lined himself up, ran, then crouched and sent the ball rolling. Yet again all ten pins scattered. He dug his hand in his pocket and pulled out a plastic lighter. Then he held it up provocatively, willing the man to try to stop him.
But Ricky Giordino surprised him by pulling out a gold Dunhill, clicking it open and holding up the flame to his cigarette.
‘I think you and I – we’re pretty close to understanding each other.’
Tooth accepted the light but did not reply. He didn’t do understanding.
40
Self-confident, successful, tender and empathetic man, 46, likes rock & classical music, Belgian chocolate, bushcraft, integrity and loyalty. WLTM intelligent and warm female 40–50 to share so many things.
Bushcraft?
Carly was curled up on the sofa with a glass of red Rioja in one hand and Top Gear about to start on the television. The Sunday supplements were spread all around her. It was her first drink since the accident and she needed it, as she was feeling very depressed.
The page of the Sunday Times she most looked forward to each week, the Encounters dating column, was open in front of her. Searching, as ever, not for Mr Right, but for someone to at least go out with and have fun with.
Bushcraft? What the hell did that mean? She’d learned from long experience that much of the wording in these ads had a subtext. How did this bloke get his rocks off? By walking around naked outside? Going back to nature? Shooting animals with a bow and arrow? The rest of him sounded fine. But bushcraft? No thanks.
Maybe if he had written fossils instead or archaeology, subjects that would appeal to Tyler, she might have given him a whirl. But she had visions of a bearded weirdo clambering out of an elderly Land Rover in a Davy Crockett hat and grass underpants. Nothing would surprise her any more.
It had been a long time since she’d slept with anyone. Over a year now and that last one had been a disaster. And the one before that. All the dates had been bloody disasters, with Preston Dave just the latest in the long line of them.
He’d sent her three more texts this weekend, each of which she’d deleted.
God, five years on and at times she still missed Kes so much. Often clients told her they felt confident with her because she was so tough. But the truth was, she knew today more than ever, that she wasn’t tough at all. That was an act she put on for them. A mask. The Carly Chase at Work mask. If she had really been tough, she’d be able to leave her clients behind at the end of each day. But she couldn’t, not with a lot of them.
Kes used to tell her sometimes that she cared about her clients too much, to the point where it was getting her down. But she couldn’t help that. Good marriages, like theirs had been, gave you a wonderful inner strength and sense of fulfilment in life. Bad marriages, as she encountered every day, in the tears and trembling voices and shakily signed statements of her clients, were a prison.
The Argus had been running stories on the accident every day, except today, when, being a Sunday, fortunately it wasn’t printed. The front-page headline on Thursday had been the $100,000 reward put up by the dead boy’s family for information leading to the van driver’s identity. Her photograph had been on the second page: Brighton Solicitor Arrested At Death Crash.
She’d been in the paper again on Friday, yesterday too. It had made the national press also, with a big splash in the tabloids, as well as being in the Sunday Times today. It was big news that Tony Revere was the grandson of the New York Mafia capo Sal Giordino. She’d even had reporters phoning her at the office, but on the advice of Acott, her colleague and also her solicitor, she had not spoken with them. Although she had badly wanted to – to point out that she had not caused the accident, or even collided with the cyclist.
It seemed that everything that could possibly go wrong, in the house and in her life, was all going wrong at once. A dark gloom swirled inside her. That Monday morning feeling arriving an unwelcome twelve hours early, as it had done for as far back in her life as she could remember, way into early childhood.
Sunday evenings had been worse for her since Kes had died. It had
been around this time, five years ago, that two police officers had turned up at her front door. They’d been contacted, via Interpol, by an RCMP officer from Whistler in Canada, asked to inform her that her husband was missing, presumed dead, in an avalanche while heli-skiing. It had been a further four days of anxious waiting, hoping against hope for some miracle, before they had recovered his body.
She often thought of selling the house and moving to a different part of the city. But she wanted to give Tyler some continuity and stability, and several of her friends, and her mother, whom she adored, had advised her in the months immediately following Kes’s death not to make any hasty decisions. So she was still here, five years on.
The house wasn’t particularly attractive from the outside. It was 1960s red brick, with a double garage beneath it, a clumsy extension, plus ugly secondary double-glazing put in by the previous owners which Carly and Kes had been planning to change. But they had both particularly loved the huge living room, with its patio doors opening on to the large, pretty sloping garden. There were two small ponds, a rockery and a summer house at the top which Kes and Tyler had made into a male domain. Tyler liked to play his drums there, while Kes liked to sit and do his thinking and smoke his cigars.
Kes and Tyler had been close, not just father and son, but proper mates. They went to football together to support the Albion every home match during the season. In the summer they went fishing, or to the cricket, or more often than not to Tyler’s favourite place in Brighton, the Booth Museum of Natural History. They were so close that at times she’d found herself almost feeling jealous, thinking that she was being left out of some of their secrets.
After Kes’s death, Tyler had moved his drum kit indoors, up to his room, and she had never seen him go to the summer house again. He’d been withdrawn for a long time. She had made a big effort, even taking him to football and to cricket herself, and on a fishing trip on a boat out of Brighton Marina – and she had been violently seasick for her troubles. They’d developed a certain closeness, but there was still a distance between them, a gap she could never quite close. As if the ghost of his father would always be the elephant in the room.
She stared at a spreading brown stain on the wallpaper opposite her. Damp coming in. The house was falling apart around her. She was going to have to get to grips with it, either give it a massive makeover or finally move. But where? And besides, she still liked the place. She liked the feel of Kes’s presence. Particularly in this living room.
They’d made it cosy, with two big sofas in front of the television and a modern electric fire with dancing flames. On the mantelpiece above it were invitations to parties and weddings and other social events they’d been planning to go to in the months after Kes got back from his annual boys’ skiing trip. She still had not had the heart to remove them. It was like living in a time warp, she knew. One day she would move on. But not yet. She still wasn’t ready
And after the traumas of the past few days, she was less ready than ever.
She looked up at Kes’s photograph on the mantelpiece amid the invitations. Standing next to her on the grass outside All Saints’ Church, Patcham, on their wedding day, in a black morning coat, striped trousers, holding his top hat in his hand.
Tall and handsome, with slightly unruly jet-black hair, he had a certain air of arrogant insouciance about him. That was if you didn’t know him. Behind that façade, which he regularly used with devastating effect in courtroom appearances, was a kind and surprisingly insecure man.
She drank some more wine and batted away a particularly dense and smelly fart from Otis, who was asleep at her feet. Then she increased the volume on the remote. Normally Tyler would come running into the room and curl up on the sofa beside her. This was his favourite programme, and one of the few times they sat and watched anything together. On this particularly gloomy, rain-lashed night, she felt more in need of his company than ever.
‘Tyler!’ she shouted. ‘Top Gear ’s starting!’’
Her voice woke up Otis, who jumped to his feet, then suddenly pricked up his ears and ran out of the room, growling.
Jeremy Clarkson, in a louder jacket and even baggier jeans than usual, was talking about a new Ferrari. She grabbed the remote again and froze the image, so that Tyler wouldn’t miss anything.
He’d had been in a strange mood these past few days, since her accident. She was not sure why, but it was upsetting her. It was almost as if he was blaming her for what had happened. But as she replayed those moments again, for the thousandth time since Wednesday morning, she still came to the same conclusion: that she was not to blame. Even if she had not been distracted by her phone, and had braked half a second earlier, the cyclist would still have swerved out and then been hit by the van.
Wouldn’t he?
Suddenly she heard the clack of the dog flap in the kitchen door, then the sound of Otis barking furiously out in the garden. What at, she wondered? Occasionally they had urban foxes, and she often worried that he might attack one and find he had met his match. She jumped up, but as she entered the kitchen, the dog came running back in, panting.
‘Tyler!’ she called out again, but still there was no answer from him.
She went upstairs, hoping he wasn’t watching the programme on his own in his room. But to her surprise, he was sitting on his chair in front of his desk, going through the contents of his father’s memory box.
Tyler had an unusual ambition for a twelve-year-old. He wanted to be a museum curator. Or more specifically the curator of a natural history museum. His ambition showed in his little bedroom, which was itself like a museum, reflecting his changing tastes as he had grown older. Even the colour scheme, which he had chosen himself, of powder-blue walls and pastel-green wood panelling, and the gaily coloured pennants criss-crossing the ceiling, gave the room an ecological feel.
His bookshelves were covered in plastic vegetation and models of reptiles, and crammed with volumes of Tintin and Star Wars stories, natural history reference books, palaeontology books, and one, so typical of him, called Really Really Big Questions.
The walls were covered with carefully selected and mounted photographs, wild life and fossil prints and some cartoon sketches of his own, all divided into sections. One of her favourites of his drawings was headed: Tyler’s Dream. It depicted himself looking like a mad professor, with a crude skeleton of a prehistoric monster to his left, labelled Tylersaurus, and rows of squiggly little objects to his right, labelled Fossils. At the bottom of the cartoon he had written, I want to be a fossil expert at the Natural History Museum . . . Have the biggest fossil collection in the world . . . Discover a dinosaur.
There was also a Tintin section, on part of one wall, neatly plastered in cartoons. And his music section, where his drum kit was set up. A guitar hung from the wall, along with a solitary bongo, and his cornet lay on a shelf, with a book beside it entitled A New Tune a Day.
‘Tyler, Top Gear’s on!’ she said.
He didn’t stir. He was sitting in silence, in his grey cagoule with NEW YORK JETS on the back, with the old shoebox that he had filled with items that reminded him of his dad in the months following Kes’s death in front of him. She wasn’t sure where he had got the idea of the memory box from, some American TV series he had been watching, she thought, but she had liked it and still did.
He’d moved his computer keyboard and mouse pad aside, and was laying the contents out on the small amount of space not already occupied by his lava lamp, telescope, microscope and slide projector. She saw him take out his father’s spotted silk handkerchief, his blue glasses case, fishing permit, a Brighton & Hove Albion season ticket, a box of trout flies and a small cartoon he had drawn, depicting his dad as a winged angel, flying past a signpost directing him up to heaven.
She eased her way carefully around the drum kit and placed her hands on his shoulders.
‘What’s up?’ she said tenderly.
Ignoring her, he removed his father’s fishing knife. A
t that moment there was a dark snarl from Otis. A second later she heard the bang of the dog flap, then Otis was out in the garden again, barking furiously. Puzzled, she walked across to the window and peered down.
It wasn’t fully dark and there was some lighting from her windows and those of her neighbours. She looked up the steep lawn, past the ponds, towards the summer house, and saw Otis running around, barking furiously. At what? She could see nothing. But at the same time it unsettled her. This wasn’t his normal behaviour. Had there been an intruder? Otis stopped barking and rushed around the lawn again, nose to the ground, as if he had picked up a scent. A fox, she thought. Probably just a fox. She turned back to Tyler and saw to her surprise that he was crying.
She walked the few steps back over to him, knelt and hugged him.
‘What is it, darling? Tell me?’
He stared at her, eyes streaming behind his glasses. ‘I’m scared,’ he said.
‘What are you scared of?’
‘I’m scared after your crash. You might have another crash, mightn’t you?’ Then he looked at her solemnly. ‘I don’t want to have to make another memory box, Mummy. I don’t want to have to make one about you.’
Carly put her arms around him and gave him a hug. ‘Mummy’s not going anywhere, OK? You’re stuck with me.’ She kissed his cheek.
Out in the garden, Otis suddenly began barking even more ferociously.
Carly got up and moved to the window. She peered out again, feeling a deepening sense of unease.
41
The plane landed hard, hitting the runway like the pilot hadn’t realized it was there. All the stuff in the galley rattled and clanked, and one of the locker doors flew open, then slammed back shut. Flying didn’t bother Tooth. Since his military days, he considered it a bonus to be landing any place where people weren’t shooting at you. He sat impassively, braced against the deceleration, thinking hard.