Perfect Match

by D. B. Thorne

  ‘Well,’ said Solomon, as calmly as he could in the face of his brother’s fury, ‘it’s too late anyway. It’s done.’ The roller coaster’s already gone, he thought. And there’s nothing that can stop it.

  ‘Solly, do not do this. Do. Not. Do this.’

  ‘It’s too late,’ Solomon said again.

  Luke was silent for a moment, then said, ‘This is on me. I got you into this.’ Another pause, then, anger mixed with frustration, ‘But you couldn’t keep things fucking simple, could you?’

  ‘Listen, Luke, I have to go.’

  ‘Please, Solly. Don’t do this. I’ll come back, I’ll get it sorted. Call this off.’

  ‘I’ll call you later,’ said Solomon. ‘When it’s done.’

  Solomon had hung up on Luke’s anguished ‘Solly.’ He shouldn’t have told him, should have waited. What purpose had calling him served? Maybe just that Solomon felt scared and alone and wanted to hear his big brother’s voice, borrow some psychological strength. Well, that hadn’t worked.

  ‘Get any sleep?’ asked Fox, an attempt at concern, at human warmth.

  ‘A little,’ said Solomon. ‘Enough.’

  ‘Good. Shall we?’

  She set off for her office, walking fast, so fast that Solomon had to hustle to keep up with her. He had to admit that she had a presence, an aura of capability that he was grateful for. He’d never felt more out of his depth in his life, more uncertain. She hurried up the stairs to the first floor and was holding open her door by the time Solomon caught up. He sat down opposite her, Fox’s desk in between them.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘Are you ready for this?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Solomon.

  ‘Well, you’re not,’ said Fox. ‘No way. In fact, I’m very much in two minds about whether we’re going to go ahead with this.’

  Solomon took his Ray-Bans off and set them carefully on the desk, then looked up and met Fox’s gaze. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Why? Because I suspect that you are a fantasist, and so I have to question your state of mind and your ability to carry out a task such as the one you’re faced with today.’

  Solomon nodded. ‘And conversely, I suspect that you are a police officer driven by ambition rather than integrity, and I have to question your judgement and priorities.’ He paused. ‘But I’m here now, and I’ve got Thomas Arnold on a hook, and I seriously doubt that you’re about to give that up, given your ambition. So please, Inspector Fox, let’s just get on with this, shall we?’

  Solomon delivered all of this without once looking away from Fox. Her eyes widened as he accused her of putting ambition before integrity, and narrowed as he told her that he didn’t believe she would give up the chance of nailing Arnold. But after a brief pause she nodded, took a deep breath and said, ‘All right. In that case, let’s get you wired up.’

  Back in Fox’s office, she handed Solomon a piece of paper. ‘Think you can remember this?’

  Solomon took it, glanced at it and handed it back. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mind reading it properly?’

  ‘I have done.’

  ‘Solomon …’

  ‘It won’t work.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He’s not an idiot,’ said Solomon. ‘So what do you hope to gain by treating him like one?’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ said Fox.

  ‘You want me to launder this, the same way as last time?’ Solomon said, quoting from the script Fox had shown him. ‘You don’t think that’s a little … blunt? Obvious?’

  ‘We need him to admit to it. We need him to admit to money laundering. The money on its own, he could explain it away. Maybe, with the right lawyer. We need something on record.’

  ‘He won’t go for it,’ said Solomon, thinking of Arnold, his volatility, and underneath that, his shrewdness.

  ‘You don’t get the choice,’ said Fox. ‘You do this my way, or you don’t do it at all. I call it off.’

  ‘You won’t do that,’ said Solomon. ‘No. You want him too much now.’

  ‘I’ll call it off,’ said Fox, snapping her fingers, ‘like that.’

  Solomon shook his head. ‘You won’t. Anyway, I know how to play him. Remember, I’ve met him. I know how he works.’ He imagined Thomas Arnold, his clumsy metaphor of a castle barely containing a furious ogre. Did he really know him?

  ‘So what’s your plan?’ said Fox.

  ‘Annoy him,’ said Solomon. ‘Get him to lose his temper.’

  ‘And what will that achieve?’

  ‘He’ll lose his discretion,’ said Solomon. He thought back to Arnold’s attack on the man outside the railway arch, his loss of control. ‘Trust me, I’ve seen it.’

  Fox shook her head. ‘No. No, I can’t agree to that. I’m already taking enough of a risk without you going off piste like this. No way.’

  You’re taking a risk? Solomon thought. ‘Inspector …’

  Fox stood up. ‘Okay, we’re done. You think I won’t call time on this? Think again, Mr Mullan.’ Back to Mr Mullan, thought Solomon. ‘I’ll have that wire removed and I’ll have forgotten you by the end of the day. I’ve got other targets. Your brother, that’s one. He’s still on my list. Murder. Remember?’

  Solomon tried to summon up some leverage, think of some way to outmanoeuvre Fox, but came up short. She held the cards here. And anyway, once he was face to face with Arnold, there wasn’t a lot she could do. He nodded up at her and said, ‘Fine.’

  Fox sat back down. ‘In that case,’ she said, handing the script back to Solomon, ‘do you think you could read this properly?’

  Solomon’s taxi was an unmarked blue Saab with a sticker in the back window that said it was licensed for private hire. His driver wasn’t the man with the thick glasses who had fitted his wire, which he was glad of. His driver was a fit man wearing a bulletproof vest beneath his shirt and a gun on his belt. The car was in a secured car park behind the police station and another officer, also fit, was bending over a map spread out over its bonnet. The day was hot and both officers were wearing sunglasses, Oakleys, though Solomon suspected that they were the sort of men who liked to wear sunglasses whatever the weather. Anything to help up the badass factor. The second officer also had a gun. Fox was standing next to the second officer, looking at something he was pointing to.

  ‘Solomon?’ she said. ‘I need you here.’

  Solomon joined her. The map on the Saab’s bonnet showed the layout of the services, the buildings, the petrol station, the arrangement of the parking. The second officer had his finger on the north side and didn’t acknowledge Solomon’s presence.

  ‘The target’ll be here,’ he said. ‘Steve’ll park here.’ He pointed to another area, more parking but far away from Arnold’s position. ‘And we’ll be here.’ He pointed to an area outside the service-station’s border but close to Arnold’s position. ‘Backup’s here.’ He pointed this time at an area below Arnold, but close by. He took his finger away and stood up straight, acknowledging Solomon for the first time. ‘You’re Mullan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sergeant Hayes.’ He didn’t offer to shake hands, instead turned to Fox. ‘Do we know how many will be with the target?’

  ‘No.’

  Hayes nodded. ‘Understood.’ He turned to Solomon. ‘We’ll go when Fox gives the word. You won’t know when that is, but we’ll come fast and aggressive. There will be noise. There will be shouting. All I need you to do is step backwards. Understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Step backwards and create distance between yourself and the target. What we don’t need is a hostage situation. He won’t go for you immediately. There will be confusion. In that time, create some distance.’

  Solomon nodded. ‘I understand.’ He did, although he hadn’t considered a hostage situation before and it did nothing to reassure him.

  ‘Excellent. If there is shooting, I want you to lie on the ground, facing the gunfire. That will make you the smallest target possible.’
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  ‘Makes sense.’

  ‘And face our gunfire,’ Hayes said. ‘We know how to shoot, so we won’t hit you. The target, if he fires and misses, we don’t want him hitting your head.’

  Solomon nodded, unexpectedly impressed. ‘Got it.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Fox. ‘So we’re all set.’ She took a sheet of paper from underneath the map and placed it on top. ‘I just need you to sign this.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Basically,’ said Fox, ‘this covers us if you get killed or injured, or suffer irreparable psychological damage, or, I don’t know, twist an ankle. Whatever happens, you freely and without duress accept that doing this is your choice, that we do not accept any blame or responsibility, and no lawsuits are going to come our way.’

  She handed Solomon a pen and he signed, and Fox folded the paper and tucked it into her inside jacket pocket. She looked at her watch. ‘Time to go. Remember, go by the script and get what we need.’ She didn’t add ‘or else’, didn’t need to. If Solomon didn’t get Arnold to say what they needed, he’d end up with Arnold’s money. Money the police would take from him. Leaving him half a million pounds in debt to a gangster famed for his brutality. If he didn’t get Arnold to implicate himself, he was as good as dead. No, Fox didn’t need to add ‘or else’.

  As he got into the back seat of the blue Saab, Solomon knew also the enormity of what he was getting into. And he was way, way more scared than he had been all those years ago, getting winched up to the top of that roller coaster. This ride up the M25 was worse, exponentially worse.

  thirty-five

  SOLOMON WAS ALONE IN THE BACK ON THE DRIVE TO THURROCK services, Fox taking a separate car so that she could get into position. The driver, Steve, didn’t say much. He asked Solomon if he was sure that he’d memorized the script, was sure that he knew what Thomas Arnold needed to say. Solomon nodded and pulled his hood as far over his head as he could and closed his eyes behind his Ray-Bans. In any case, it was too late for talking. Everything was in motion and the only thing that mattered was what happened when he was face to face with Arnold. Get him to state, unambiguously, that he wanted the money to be laundered. Get that word. Laundered. Make him say it. Get him to say it without raising suspicion. Without Thomas Arnold beating him to a pulp, or worse.

  The unmarked Saab made it past the A13 exit before they hit traffic, illuminated signs overhead warning of a vehicle fire ahead. Steve looked at his watch and sighed. Half past two, just past. Plenty of time yet. The traffic slowed to walking speed and Solomon wondered what would happen if he just opened the door and stepped out and forgot it, forgot the whole plan. Just walked away. But that wasn’t a solution. Arnold would find him. He didn’t strike Solomon as the kind of man who readily accepted being stood up. Stop thinking, he told himself. It is what it is. It’s too late. Way too late, and if you don’t like the plan, then you shouldn’t have thought of it.

  His mobile rang and he took it out and looked at the number. Luke’s. He rejected the call and Steve turned around in his seat and said, ‘You’ll need to turn that off. Might interfere with the wire.’ Solomon nodded and powered it off just as they left the M25 and headed into the Thurrock services.

  ‘You ready?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Solomon. No, he thought.

  ‘We’ve got a few minutes. Anything you want to clarify?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Remember, don’t let him get hold of you. We don’t need that kind of complication.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Take a step back—’

  ‘I understand,’ said Solomon. ‘At this point, anything you say is unlikely to help me, unless of course you’ve forgotten to tell me something significant.’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Good,’ said Solomon.

  Steve took a short breath as if preparing to reply, but thought better of it, and they sat and gazed through the car’s windscreen for several minutes in silence. Then Steve said, ‘It’s time.’

  The walk from the south-east end of the car park to the north took less than two minutes, and would have been quicker except that Solomon was in no hurry. Was in the opposite of a hurry, whatever the term for that might be. A state of extreme reluctance, he supposed. Disinclined. Uneager. Was that even a word? God, he was scared, his thoughts nonsensical. His knees felt strange, as if they’d had all their strength removed, as weak as a tiny child’s.

  The corner of the north side of Thurrock services was almost empty and the silver VW Golf wasn’t hard to spot. Licence ending YHW. Yankee Hotel Whisky. Hadn’t he decided to stop doing that? It was parked nose forward, its rear against the bushes that formed the perimeter of the car park, rubbish – bottles and plastic bags and old cans – scattered underneath. Beneath the vast overcast Essex sky it was about as unromantic a spot as Solomon could imagine, as ugly and unloved as his own face.

  The passenger door opened and Thomas Arnold stepped out, wearing a dark green tracksuit, white stripes down the arms and legs. The driver’s door opened almost immediately afterwards and another man, almost as big as Arnold but younger, immaculately groomed black hair, black T-shirt, got out and watched Solomon over the car’s roof. Solomon stopped. Arnold turned and opened the back door of the car and pulled out a duffel bag. Eastpak. Solomon recognized the brand from where he was standing, ten metres away.

  ‘Well?’ said Arnold, holding the bag in one hand. ‘You going to come and get it?’

  Solomon forced himself forward, closer and closer to Arnold. This was it. This was the moment that mattered.

  ‘Here.’ Arnold held the bag out towards Solomon, but he ignored it. Arnold frowned. ‘Take it.’

  ‘Before I do,’ said Solomon, ‘I need to understand some things.’

  ‘What kind of things?’ said Arnold.

  Solomon took off his Ray-Bans and forced himself to look Arnold in the eye. One eye against another. ‘Like, where did this money come from?’

  ‘Oh shit,’ said Fox, a rare epithet. She had activated Solomon’s wire, or rather Sergeant Hayes had, and she was listening to the exchange through headphones from the other side of the hedge, in the back of a small van that told the world that it delivered car parts nationwide.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ said Hayes.

  ‘Stick to the script,’ said Fox, to herself, ignoring Hayes. ‘Just stick to the bloody script.’

  ‘Baker?’ muttered Hayes into his radio, picking up on Fox’s anxiety. ‘Are you ready to go?’

  ‘Ready,’ said a man’s voice.

  ‘Stand by,’ said Hayes. ‘Something’s happening.’

  ‘Roger,’ said the man, Baker.

  ‘The script, the script,’ said Fox, repeating the words as if it was a mantra, as if they held a mystical power, could steer the situation back in the right direction. ‘Stick to the bloody script.’

  ‘Fuck did you say?’ said Arnold, more surprised than angry, as if he’d just seen a frog talk.

  ‘Only, I was speaking to Luke,’ said Solomon, ‘and he told me that you make your money by trafficking women around the country, from overseas. And I have to be honest with you, I have an issue with that specific type of … industry.’

  ‘Industry.’

  ‘A moral issue,’ said Solomon. He was off, the roller coaster now at full speed, and all fear was gone, replaced by the unfamiliar thrill of control entirely relinquished.

  Arnold turned his head and gazed into the middle distance for a moment, before turning back to Solomon. Now he was angry. Very still and very controlled and very, very angry.

  ‘You see,’ said Solomon, ‘I just don’t think that kind of thing is right. So I don’t think I can take the money.’

  Arnold attempted to drag a smile through his fury and was about to say something, to reply, but Solomon interrupted him.

  ‘It all just feels a little sordid.’ That ought to do it, he thought, feeling an emotion verging on the delighted. I’m being brave, he thought. That’s what’s happen
ing. I’m being brave, like Luke.

  ‘You’ll take my fucking money,’ said Arnold, ‘and you’ll bring it back to me when it’s clean, when you’ve done whatever it is you fucking do to it so it can’t be traced. Because if you don’t, you silly little cunt, I will murder your sister, and I will murder your fucking brother, and I’ll make sure you’re there to watch it.’

  ‘I’m just not convinced I can do it,’ said Solomon. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Arnold took a step towards him. ‘No. No no no. You launder money, and you’ll fucking launder mine. Under-fucking-stood?’

  At the word launder, Solomon heard shouting from behind him, loud and aggressive and coming nearer. But Arnold was already approaching him, and although he remembered to step back, it was too late and Arnold took hold of Solomon’s hooded top and pulled Solomon towards him, turning him and putting a massive arm around his neck. Solomon could hardly believe how strong Arnold was. The man in the black T-shirt Arnold had come with reached into the car and came out with a black gun, which he fired, once, twice, three times in the direction of the police who were approaching, dressed in black, black baseball caps on their heads.

  Arnold now had a knife in his other hand and he held it against Solomon’s neck.

  ‘Back,’ he shouted. ‘Back back back.’

  One of the approaching policemen was on one knee holding an automatic rifle, and he fired it once and the man in the black T-shirt slipped down the side of the Golf, out of view. Solomon was struggling to breathe, Arnold was gripping his throat so tightly, and the sides of his vision were beginning to darken and cloud. He heard shouting but it seemed to be coming from much further away than it had before. And then he felt an impact in his back and Arnold let go of him, and Solomon fell to his knees, the day brightening around him as he sucked in oxygen. He turned, and Arnold was lying on the ground and Luke was standing over him holding a hammer in one hand, a spectacle that Solomon initially suspected was some kind of vision or hallucination, right up until Luke said, dropping the hammer onto the ground and joining Solomon on his knees, ‘Jesus, Solly, that was your plan?’