Shredder

by Niall Leonard

  “You’ve met him?” McGovern grabbed a few pistachios from a bowl on the table and sat down opposite me in a winged armchair. He looked relaxed and cheerful; not much like a gangster whose empire was under siege. His two companions remained standing, observing silently from a distance.

  “Yeah,” I said, easing myself back onto the sofa. “I’ve met him.”

  “Where are my manners? Steven, fetch Mr. Maguire here a drink.” Steve twitched; he didn’t look happy about playing the servant.

  “I’m fine,” I said. I wasn’t thirsty, or hungry, I realized: I just wanted to deliver the Turk’s message and get out of there. Only…how was I going to get out of there? I’d been so intent on finding the Guvnor I hadn’t considered what might come after. His people had gone to a lot of trouble to keep me in the dark about where I was—if I played nice, would they drop me back where they’d found me?

  “And?” said McGovern. I snapped back into the present.

  “When I first met him he called himself Bruno,” I said. I told him the same story I’d told Amobi: how the Turk had grabbed my lawyer because she was about to blow a huge scam he’d set up at a City bank, and how I’d managed to find her. She’d left the country and the Turk had come looking for me, but he’d left me alive so I could deliver his message. “Bruno’s not his real name,” I said. “Nobody knows his real name. Everyone just calls him the Turk.”

  “His real name’s Rebaz Pirbal,” said the Guvnor, “and he’s not a Turk.” He spat a pistachio shell onto the carpet. “He’s a Kurd. From Western Anatolia.”

  “Where’s that?” interjected Junior.

  McGovern didn’t look round. “Who gives a damn?” he replied.

  I said nothing, but sat there trying to take this in. I’d thought if Amobi and the NCA didn’t have any details on the Turk, no one would; but I should have guessed McGovern had sources the cops didn’t.

  “His dad ran heroin into Germany all through the nineties, sent golden boy to a posh boarding school in Switzerland,” McGovern went on. “Old man died last year, and the son took over. He’s trying to diversify, into girls and money laundering, and now he wants into the UK market, except he won’t go through the proper channels.” By which he meant that the Turk should pay the Guvnor a percentage of his turnover, I guessed. “Fancies himself as the CEO of a multinational,” said McGovern, “when in fact he’s a cocky little wog too stupid to know when he’s out of his depth.” He cracked another nut between his molars, picked it out of his mouth and pulled it apart, flicking shards of shell onto the floor. He must have seen the look on my face.

  “What?” he said. “Don’t like me calling him a ‘wog’? How about ‘darkie’? Didn’t take you for one of those PC dickheads.”

  “That’s not it,” I said, although it was, partly. McGovern’s casual bigotry was bad enough, but it struck me as stupid to judge the Turk by the shade of his skin. “The Turk—Pirbal, I mean—he’s clever. He takes his time and he does his homework.”

  “If he’d done his homework, he wouldn’t be picking a fight with me,” said the Guvnor.

  “What I mean is, when you think you’ve got him sussed, that you’re one step ahead of him, he’s already figured out all your options and which one you’re going to choose.”

  “Didn’t stop you screwing up his City deal, did it? Or blowing a big hole in his white slave business,” said McGovern, with a hint of amusement in his voice. He had a point: I had already proved the Turk wasn’t invincible. “So what’s this message?”

  “He wants a meeting,” I said. “With you.”

  “Cheeky bollocks,” said McGovern. “As if I’d go on a blind date with every bloody Arab who thinks he’s a player. Did he say where?”

  “No,” I said. “He gave me a number to call.”

  McGovern considered a moment, then raised a hand and clicked his fingers. One of the silent observers—the redheaded guy with the flat nose—stepped forward, reaching into his pocket, and produced a slim, basic, old-fashioned phone with no touchscreen. A burner, I realized: a handset with no registered owner or address, disposable and untraceable. McGovern’s team must have had crates of the bloody things.

  “What’s the number?”

  I recited it from memory. I never have any problem keeping information like that in my head—it’s getting it in there to start with that takes the effort. McGovern punched the numbers into the keypad with his thumb, put the phone to his ear, and we all waited.

  “Pirbal, you prick,” he said. “I hear you want to talk.” He rose from his chair, listening intently, and strolled out of the room.

  —

  I sat there for a while. Nobody spoke. Between the immobile, impassive Terry, and McGovern’s two deputies, standing there with their arms folded, it was like after-hours at Madame Tussauds. Junior, clearly desperate to know what was going down, drifted towards the doorway his dad had disappeared through, but soon realized he wasn’t going to overhear anything. He muttered a curse under his breath and looked at his watch as if wondering if he had time to go grab a sandwich. I reached for a handful of pistachios—with all the sweating I’d done I needed the salt—and the four men in the room all looked at me as if I was taking a dump on the rug.

  “Chill,” I said. “I’ll leave some for the boss.”

  The door I had entered by opened again, but no one appeared at first. “This is my dad’s meeting room,” said a small voice. “I’m not allowed in here when he has visitors.”

  “You are with me,” I heard a gruff reply.

  I’d recognized the boy before he even entered: Kelly, the Guvnor’s youngest son, the six-year-old I’d dragged out of the family swimming pool back in the spring. Now when he looked around his big brown eyes widened in alarm at the sight of all the grim-faced grown-ups—he knew this was one of the times he wasn’t supposed to be in here.

  But the man whose hand he was holding didn’t want to retreat. He was a burly, white-haired bloke of sixty-something, in a pink shirt with a lot of buttons undone, gray chest hair poking through the gap like stuffing from a burst sofa, and buried in the gray a flash of gold. His hands were studded with jeweled rings, and when the old man grinned around the room, I thought I saw a diamond embedded in one of his front teeth.

  Then little Kelly’s look latched onto me, and he beamed and tugged at the old man’s hand. “That’s Finn!” he said. Caution forgotten, he ran across the room, and to my amazement threw his arms round my neck. I hesitated for a second, then wondered why I was hesitating, and hugged him back.

  “Kelly, hey,” I said. “How are the swimming lessons going?”

  “Kelly, buzz off, we’re busy,” said Junior, before his little brother could reply. He threw an anxious glance at the old man, who I noticed now was staring hard at me. Aware of a sudden tension in the room, I peeled Kelly’s arms from round my neck as gently as I could.

  “Are you staying?” Kelly asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. I checked the faces circling me for clues, but found none. “I don’t think so. But we’ll talk soon, I promise.” At that moment McGovern reentered, the burner phone dead in his hand. Seeing the old man he grinned, but there was a hard cold edge to his smile. “Hey,” he said. “You need something?”

  The old man shrugged, held out his hands in apology. “Kelly, he want to explore. We go,” he said. He beckoned to the little boy, who threw me another big smile and scampered off to take the old man’s hand. The door clicked softly shut behind them, and Terry strode across to stand in front of it and prevent any more interruptions.

  Who the hell was that? I thought. His accent sounded East European—Russian, I guessed, though I hadn’t heard many Russian accents outside of movies. With all that bling…was he Russian mafia? Had it really been the kid’s idea to go exploring? Or had that old man been curious to know what was being discussed—and to get a look at the messenger? For a moment I felt I was the center of attention, like a rare medical specimen. Then I remembered what happe
ns to rare medical specimens: they get dissected.

  “He’s very persuasive, this friend of yours,” said McGovern to me. He tossed the handset back to Red, who immediately started dismantling it.

  “You’re going to meet him?” I said.

  “Yeah. Good old-fashioned face to face.”

  “Where?” asked Junior. “Somewhere neutral?”

  I don’t want to hear this, I thought. Screw Amobi and the NCA—I’d done my part, and now Zoe would be safe. Amobi might be pissed off that I didn’t know the venue, but if the Guvnor never told me it wouldn’t be my fault.

  “Trafalgar Square,” said the Guvnor. “Noon tomorrow.” He scooped up another few pistachios.

  The rest of the room fell silent for a beat, taking that in, while I thought, Oh shit…because now I could feel myself being sucked into that swamp.

  “You must be kidding,” said Junior. “Out in the open? All that public, all that CCTV?” The Guvnor’s two wingmen were still silent, but the look on their faces spoke volumes—they agreed with his son.

  “There is nowhere neutral, is there?” said McGovern. “There’s nowhere in this town we don’t control, he knows that.”

  “Send someone else, then,” Red piped up. His accent was South London, his voice calm and even, calculating. “Send Steve.”

  “Why send anyone?” said Steve. “Why are we even negotiating with this piece of shit?”

  “Who said anything about negotiating?” said the Guvnor. “He thinks, Trafalgar Square, all that public, all that CCTV, we’d never pull anything there. He thinks it’s safe.” He tossed the empty nutshells back into the bowl. “Scum will never know what hit him.”

  There was another moment of silence. They were going to murder the Turk in the middle of Trafalgar Square? If anyone else considered the idea insane, they didn’t say so. I suddenly remembered a story I’d come across when I first learned about the Guvnor: that he’d once gone to an underworld conference to bury the hatchet with a rival firm. All weapons had been checked in at the door, but as soon as he’d come face to face with other firm’s boss, the Guvnor had strangled him with his bare hands. After that there was peace. McGovern got away with the most outrageous shit: that was how he got to be the Guvnor.

  “Still no need for you to be there,” said Red.

  “He knows what I look like,” said McGovern. “If I don’t show, he’s not going to sit down.”

  “But we don’t know what this Turk looks like, do we?” said Junior.

  “One of us does,” said the Guvnor. And he grinned at me.

  three

  “You’re in here.” Gary opened a door and stood back. I stepped into a small, neat, white-painted room with a single bed, a washbasin in one corner, a built-in closet and a flimsy white dressing table. A small old-fashioned TV on an extending arm faced the bed, and the only window was a long narrow one at high level—too narrow to climb through—and all that showed beyond were thick thorny bushes. It had once been a staff bedroom, I assumed. Gary nodded up the corridor. “There’s a kitchen up that end. Make yourself something if you’re hungry, have whatever’s in the fridge. Anything you need?”

  A phone, I almost said, but I knew there’d be no point. “A toothbrush?”

  Gary frowned. He was one of the Guvnor’s sidekicks, the one with bulging eyes and the gardener’s tan. The other one, the ginger guy with the shaved head, was called Martin, and he was the senior of the two, which was presumably why Gary had been detailed to show me to the room where I’d be spending the night. He didn’t seem to mind, until I asked for the toothbrush—now he seemed to be figuring out if it was worth the effort, when he wanted to get back to the Guvnor; there were plans being laid.

  “I’ll find out,” he said, and he strode off down the corridor the way we’d come.

  I’d noticed as we entered that there was no lock on the door, but I’d seen half a dozen other heavies lurking in the hallways beyond—this wasn’t a house where I could creep about unseen, looking for a phone or an unlocked laptop; there was no way I’d get a message to Amobi tonight. I decided I might as well make myself something to eat, as Gary had suggested.

  The kitchen, like my bedroom, was neat and compact with high windows, but it wasn’t empty. At the small round laminate table in the center two kids were eating pasta, supervised by a girl not much older than me. She had thick, wild golden hair woven into an old-fashioned plait that sat on her shoulder, and she was laughing as I entered, the sound tinkling like a crystal bell; but when she saw me her laugh died away, as if she was frightened or embarrassed.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hello,” she said cautiously. That one word was enough to tell me where she was from—Glasgow, or thereabouts. Her voice too had a crystal ring, and her eyes were big and brown in her almond-shaped face. She was really quite beautiful, I realized; this brief confinement might be bearable after all.

  “Finn!” The Guvnor’s son Kelly clambered down from his seat opposite the girl, abandoning his bowl of pasta. Grabbing my hand, he dragged me over to the table. “This is Finn,” he announced loudly. His younger sister—I’d never learned her name—was sitting between Kelly and the older girl, who I presumed was their nanny; recognizing me, the little girl smiled but said nothing.

  “Hey,” I said. Then realized I’d said that already.

  The nanny looked up at me. “You want some pasta, Finn? There’s plenty to go round.”

  “I’d love some,” I said.

  “It’s got sausages in it,” said Kelly, clambering back into his chair.

  “My favorite,” I said.

  “I’m Victoria, by the way,” said the nanny as she brought out a bowl from a high cupboard and reached for the pan of pasta on the stove. “Bonnie, eat up now,” she told the little girl. “I don’t want you asking for biscuits later.”

  “I told them you were here—they didn’t believe me,” said Kelly, twirling a fork in his spaghetti with slow concentration.

  “Yes I did,” said Victoria, plonking the bowl in front of me. “It’s just, you weren’t supposed to go wandering round the house, you know that.”

  “But Dimitri was with me!” protested Kelly.

  Victoria’s smile concealed a wince. “And we’re not supposed to talk about your daddy’s friends, or his business,” she said.

  There was a moment’s awkward silence; I pretended not to have heard the old Russian bloke’s name, while Bonnie looked down into her bowl. I’d guessed that after Kelly had taken Dimitri on his guided tour someone had administered a bollocking to Victoria, and the kids hadn’t quite understood what had been going on. Kelly was frowning now, puzzled, as if he didn’t know what he was and wasn’t allowed to talk about.

  “This pasta’s lovely, thanks,” I said to Victoria. She smiled at me so warmly I suspected I’d done something stupid, and sure enough, I’d managed to flick a dab of sauce onto the end of my nose. Kelly squealed in delight.

  “Kelly, that’s not nice,” scolded Victoria, so sweetly I wished she’d been scolding me. It was incongruous, finding a girl this angelic in the Guvnor’s basement, while upstairs some horrendous violence was being plotted. I remembered the hug Kelly had given me when he found me upstairs, and wondered if it was this girl who’d taught him to be so warm and open with his affection. Hugs didn’t seem to fit in with the Guvnor or his circle—a handshake was as physical as they ever got, if you didn’t count the violence. Junior hadn’t come across as the touchy-feely type when he punched me in the face.

  “How come your brother doesn’t eat with you?” I asked the kids.

  Kelly looked baffled. “My brother?” he said.

  “Steve,” I said. I saw Victoria glance at me, suspecting my motives for asking, but I didn’t have a motive, apart from being nosy.

  “Steve’s not my brother!” snorted Kelly. “He’s only half a brother.”

  “We’ve got a different mum,” said Bonnie.

  “Have you got a brother?” Kelly asked
me.

  “Naw,” I said. “No brothers, no sisters, no folks, just me.”

  “Oh,” said Bonnie.

  “It’s fine,” I said. “Mostly.” I could tell that, like most kids, they found the thought of being all alone in the world quite scary. So did I, sometimes. I glanced at Victoria, but she didn’t ask any questions. Just as well: I didn’t really want to explain in front of Bonnie and Kelly how my parents had been murdered. “You a friend of the family?” I asked her.

  She hesitated. Maybe I should have asked her something harmless, rather than put her on the spot; but tomorrow the Guvnor was taking me to an execution, and I might end up being one of the bodies left behind. I didn’t feel like discussing the weather.

  “My dad…he knew Mr. McGovern back in…They were business associates.” She floundered to a halt, blushing. So her father was a gangster too? I thought. A dead one, by the sound of it. Amobi had warned me long before that the Guvnor was dangerous to know, and I’d ignored him. And now here I was.

  “Don’t suppose I could borrow your mobile a minute?” I asked.

  This time when Victoria looked at me there was a steely glint in her eye, as if now I really was going too far. “I don’t have one,” she lied.

  “Hey, you two! Have you been good?”

  We looked up from our food to find the Guvnor’s young trophy wife, Cherry, entering. She still looked like a supermodel, all dangerous curves and golden skin, but her glance slid off me as if she didn’t want to acknowledge my presence.

  Her kids leaped in delight from their chairs to greet her, and while Victoria explained what they’d been doing that day—playing and watching TV, mostly—I took in the minder who had entered with Cherry. He was a tall tanned bloke in his midtwenties, with curly dark hair and flashing brown eyes. Like most of the Guvnor’s retinue, he wore a suit, but he wore his better than any of the others wore theirs. He looked at me, reached inside his jacket, pulled out a toothbrush in a cellophane-sealed packet and tossed it to me. “Thanks,” I said. He grinned, cocky as a rock star.