“Really, Bernard? You couldn’t have chosen somewhere near the City? You don’t think we’re busy enough today.”
Sadiq spoke as he arrived, without a hello, and flopped between them onto the bench. Nate was behind him, said nothing, just went and stood a couple of paces ahead, staring at the view, London spread out before them.
Sebastien studied the man, his body language. He had his hands thrust into his suit jacket pockets, his shoulders hunched, folded in. He had received the text like all of them had, once Mr Phipps reported in. His fellow Jew was dead. It annoyed Sebastien, his attitude. “You know it had to be done, Nathan. No choice.”
“There was plenty of choice.” Nate didn’t turn around to speak, kept staring ahead. “I spoke to the man on Saturday. He knew nothing. He was no threat. He was happy to give the books back. I was collecting them this lunchtime.” He shook his head, still facing away. “It was two day’s after his daughter’s bat mitzvah, for fuckssake. You had no right - ”
“I did. We did. We’d already voted - ”
“Fuck that. I told you I wanted to be consulted again before - ”
“Well, there wasn’t time.” It was Bernard who spoke. “Sebastien found out some disturbing things about your supposed lily white friend. Confirmed what Sadiq learned.”
“It’s true, Nathan.” Sadiq nodded towards the city, the Shard dominating the jagged skyline. “The reason we had him do old school books in the first place was that we didn’t want an electronic trail. His buying of the shares we invested in was a mist… ”
“Yeah, yeah.” Finally, Nate turned. His face was ashen. “Can we just get on with this please?”
“Very well. I’m in the chair today. Or rather, on the bench.” Bernard smiled, then put his hand on Sebastien, who winced. “Our friend here’s not feeling so well.”
Sadiq looked down, noticed the black eye, the bandages around both wrists for the first time. “What happened to you?”
“Nothing. Fell over. Get on with it, Bernard.”
“Certainly. And just to let you know, I have Perry’s vote in absentia, should we need to decide anything. He had to speed back to Ankara. To solve a crisis.”
“Getting the fuck away, more like.” Nate stepped closer. “Come on. Spit it out.”
Bernard cleared his throat. “As you know the, uh, necessary operation was successfully carried out this morning. Through some contacts at the Met, I’ve managed to contain the news getting out – perhaps until tomorrow morning, certainly till tonight. Which leaves us this day to sort ourselves out.” He glanced at Sebastien, continued. “We both feel that we’ve had our fun, made some money, but now we need to cut our, uh, gains and wrap up the Shadows.”
“I agree. I’m out anyway, whatever you decide.” Nate turned away, back to the view. A jogger ran past him, three feet away. “If I never see you lot again it will be too soon.”
Sebastien leaned sharply forward, the pain of it adding to his sudden anger. “You’re not going to be a problem for us, are you?” he snarled. “A problem we have to deal with?”
Nate whipped back around. “Like you dealt with Severin?”
“Wouldn’t rule it out.”
“You’re threatening me, you prick? Do you know who I know? I could…”
“Oi!” It was Sadiq who spoke, loudly. “Keep it down. Were in a public place.” He gestured behind him to the crest ten foot behind the bench, where two female tourists had stopped to take photos of each other against the backdrop, chittering in Italian. He lowered his voice. “And you both know that we are all far too connected to be a… a problem for each other. One goes down, we all go down. So the pair of you - just shut up and listen to Bernard.”
“Thank you.” Bernard leaned forward, spoke softly, drawing them in. “As Sadiq told us the other night, we can wrap everything up quite quickly, if we want. Burn any trail behind us. The one outstanding issue is that lucrative heroin shipment coming through Turkey.” He turned to Nate. “That’s why Perry’s not here. Not getting away. Seeing if he can salvage something on the ground. But whether he does, or doesn’t, is a separate issue. Our closing bonus, if you like. For the rest of it we just need to finally decide: do we shut up shop or not?”
“Sugar?” Sadiq said.
“Fuck that!” said Nate. “Fuck all this schoolboy shit. I’ve had enough. Just vote, will you?” He stuck up his hand. “I motion we dissolve everything today. As soon as possible.”
“Well, since time presses…” Bernard raised a hand. “Seconded. Those in favour – as indeed Perry is.” He raised his other hand and looked around. “Carried unanimously.”
“It’s fairly straightforward. I’ve always had an exit strategy ready.” Sadiq frowned. “But I really need those books, to wrap it all up.”
“That’s in hand. You’ll have them tonight.” They all looked at Sebastien. He continued, “His mistress has them. In Portobello. I’ll send someone for them.”
“Who?”
He looked at Nate, then tapped his nose. “Never you mind.”
Instead of replying, Nate just stared for a moment before turning and heading back down Parliament Hill. “Wait up!” Sadiq said, and rose to follow.
Sebastien caught his arm, though it pained him to do so. “Will he be alright? You’ve known him longer than us.”
“He’ll be fine. He has as much to lose as any of us. Till later. Oh, and my advice? Once the money is in your off shore accounts, move it.”
With that he disengaged his arm and set off after his friend. Bernard and Sebastien watched them go for a while, then Bernard stood. “I’ll be off then, controlling the fall out.” He took a step, turned back. “You sending Venom?”
Sebastien turned away. “See you, Bernadette.”
“Hope you feel better soon.” He walked off, not back to the street but straight down the hill, towards the distant city. Then he stopped five paces away, turned. The look on his face was now unalloyed pleasure. “You know, since prep school, I’ve always tried to find a nickname for you that would stick. None have, you always wriggled out of them. But now I think I may have one…” the smile widened, “… Seb Strap On. Like it, old boy?”
He laughed, turned, headed off. When he disappeared down the path between the trees ahead, Sebastien pulled out his phone, tapped a text.
Coach and Horses. Soho, 630. Work tonight.
He hit ‘send’, then held the phone in his hand while he considered the view. He focused on the sharp spire of the Shard and thought, one last job for Mr Phipps.
He felt the pain in his wrists as he levered himself off the bench. No, he thought. Two.
Monday, July 30th 2018. 6:30PM.
Mr Phipps didn’t like pubs. Hadn’t before, when he was a drinker. Didn’t now he was five years sober.
Clean, he thought, sipping his soda and lime. That was the term. Five years clean. It was what they called it at the AA meeting he’d gone to, when he’d made the decision to quit. The only AA meeting. He’d thought it was bollocks, truly, and the people sad. He actually went because he’d heard that it was a good place to pick up women, them seeking some buzz to fill the cravings. But the women there were sad too and he never went back. It was a matter of willpower, and that was something he’d never lacked.
What is it with the English and their pubs? he thought. No matter what class you were, what you did, where you lived, there was a pub for you. Around Caterham, where he’d trained, the pubs were functional booze palaces for squaddies to get arse-holed. Beer mugs not sleeves, ‘cos mugs were harder to smash and drive shards into some annoying bastard’s face. Bruises, broken bones, no blood, corporals and landlords agreed. A juke box, cheap beer, strippers. A boozer made in heaven for most. But he’d grown up in pubs like that, watching his dad, and never liked them. It was worse in Belfast, ‘cos then they weren’t allowed to drink off base, for fear of death. And the bars on base were horrible, clinical, controlled. It was when he’d started to read, rather than waste his money.
This one, behind Cambridge Circus? As his research had told him, Soho media types - commercials directors, editors, sound engineers. The odd Boho artist. With a better dressed crowd arriving, getting a few in before going to the theatres nearby. There was a photograph of Peter O’Toole on one wall, he’d played a part in some play set in this pub, apparently. There were framed cartoons, in which some oafish man yelled, “You’re barred!” The worst though was that the place claimed to be London’s only Vegan public house. Vegan! Something called Tofush and chips, for fuckssake.
He’d preferred the bars in Cyprus, when he’d been stationed there. Mediterraneans knew how to drink. Not the British mad rush to oblivion. A gentle slide to sleep. Good food too, not beans and chips – or tofush. Kalamari. Taramasolata. Salads with feta, tomatoes, peppers and olives. After he’d left the regiment, on the proceeds of his first gig, he’d gone back and put down a deposit on a piece of scrub. Not much, but a view and a path down to the sea. Next year, if the work kept coming, he’d break ground. Didn’t need much, something simple. He could build that himself. His dad, when he’d worked, had been a builder.
Mr Phipps checked his phone. 640. Sebastien was late. Perhaps deliberately so, giving his contact time to check for irregularities. For observers. Understandable, given that he’d killed their accountant that morning, and the books were still missing. There would be unease in the Shadows. Their rogue op had probably been rumbled. It didn’t bother him too much. He was just a freelance employee, not a manager. If his current employers went down, another set would pop up and take their place who would also need his skills. It would be a pity though. This association had been lucrative. No guarantee that the next one who took over would be as generous. Then the shovel into Cypriot soil would have to wait.
He went back to doing what he did, what his tardy employer was expecting: observation. He knew why Sebastien had chosen this pub – anonymity. In the City, there’d be too many of his mates from Eton, or Harrow, or Balliol, or wherever the fuck. Anything close to Vauxhall and there’d be a chance of running into the boys and girls from Six. And they’d notice Mr Phipps, it was what they were trained to do, after all. Notice his suit, decent off the peg, not Saville Row like theirs. Notice the way he filled it, perhaps a little too much, muscles from a life in proper gyms, not spin classes and Pilates. Notice his stillness, and the way he was looking around the pub, noticing them. They might take him for muscle, a bodyguard, which he had been from time to time. But if they recognized Sebastien, they’d probably guess Phipps’ profession and both of them could do without that. Either others would want his services – and the more who knew what he did the less safe he was – or some bean counter would want to regularize him. Salary. NIC. Fucking pension scheme. Kiss the big money goodbye.
It wasn’t what either of them needed. The department that Sebastien worked for was hidden. A secret within a secret - within another secret perhaps. Hence their stupid name and the meeting in this Soho pub.
549. Do what you do, Phipps. Locate potential threats. He’d snagged a table in the corner, near the loos for the purpose. Good view of comings and goings.
He’d narrowed it down to three – two men and a woman.
The one man was on a stool at the bar. Phipps had spotted him straight away, ordered his drink next to him, noticed that he was halfway through the Telegraph crossword puzzle. Seven across: ‘Catching sight at an Austen rave’. He hadn’t filled it in yet, but it was pretty obvious: ‘espying’. Life was funny sometimes. He’d have smiled if the man hadn’t looked up at him.
He’d found the seat. One minute later a woman joined the man, fraternal style kiss and hug. They could be a team not siblings but they looked alike and he’d never heard of brother and sister operatives.
He scanned on. Another man at the bar, but across the divide that separated the pub into two halves. He was on his phone and out of place in overalls, a plasterer by the detritus. A little too obviously ‘hide in plain sight’ for Phipps, with his fags on the bar and a betting slip from Joe Coral’s. He ruled him out.
Which left the woman at a table. Black, Caribbean he reckoned. Non-descript, which wasn’t an insult but an advantage if she was in the game, not on it. Neither pretty nor plain. Regular features, shoulder length hair, curly, well styled. Hard to pick out in a line up. The occasional glance over at him; occasional enough so it wasn’t suspicious… which made him suspicious. She was also on her phone – and he noticed there was a bit of swiping. All to the right. Tinder as cover? Why not? She had a raincoat, there’d been a couple of showers early afternoon, a short break in the heat.
In one pocket, a paperback bulged. He wondered if it was one he’d read. He read a bit of so-called women’s fiction, along with the Tom Clancy’s and Lee Child’s. It gave him clues, chat up lines. It was how he’d picked up Paula, because she was reading Jodi Picoult on a park bench near Highgate ponds.
Paula. He still hadn’t called her back. After that ridiculous fracas with Malcolm – he lifted his right arm from the table, still fucking painful – and a rushed visit with a whiny Meaghan – “Daddy’s working, sweetheart!” – he’d had to change, arrange some things before this meet. To be honest, he thought he and Paula might be done. A lovely body, pretty good shag and all but, oh, the grief!
He looked at the woman again - who’d stopped swiping, and was now looking at him, and holding the look this time. He felt a tightening in his scrotum. She was up for it. He wasn’t usually that into black women but this one interested him. He might go over afterwards and chat about the latest Amor Towes.
She looked away, to the opening door - which admitted his current employer, who paused in the entrance, flicking his head around, scanning, through dark glasses. Phipps raised a hand, Sebastien saw him, cocked his own hand with an imaginary glass, Phipps shook his head and Sebastien went to the bar and ordered, sliding in beside crossword man, who shifted on his stool without looking up, still in conversation with his sister. The plasterer drained his pint and left, as Sebastien picked up two glasses, a pint and a long drink and crossed to the booth.
“I said I didn’t want - ”
“Not for you,” said Sebastien, putting the glasses down, sitting. “Spritzer for the wife.”
“Your wife is joining us?”
The younger man laughed. “Fear not, Mr Phipps. She’ll text before she arrives. She knows the score,” he said, taking a long swig.
Does she? he thought. “And does she also know my name? Since you’re so casually mouthing it off.”
“Oh, sorry!” came the reply, not sorry at all. “But surely we’re safe here, aren’t we?”
Phipps glanced at the woman at the table. She was swiping again. “We’re not safe anywhere,” he said.
“Ah, ever cautious, Mr…” He smiled. “One of the things we like about you.” He drank off some more beer. “It was just convenient. Meeting here. Genevieve and I are going to see the new play at the Shaftesbury, and we needed to grab a bite first. The steak and kidney pie here is quite acceptable.”
He enjoyed telling him. “Not any more it’s not. Place is vegan.”
“What? Nonsense!”
Phipps nodded at the menu on the wall next to the bar. “See for yourself.”
Sebastien rose, peered, then shook his head. Phipps looked at him as he came back. At his black hair, groomed with expensive product. The eyes, under the glasses, a little too close together, the long nose and almost translucent skin. Centuries of cousin fucking – or worse – leading to him. To ‘fear not’ and ‘ever cautious’ and acceptable pies. He’d had officers in the Middlesex like him, before he transferred to the Paras. Prats. But certainly not stupid. His brains bulged out of his dome forehead.
But as he returned to the table, Phipps noticed something else, which he hadn’t before. The Shadow was moving a bit gingerly. He looked down, and saw tensor bandages over the man’s wrists. Wondered now what was behind the sunglasses. “What happened to you?”
Sebastien grimaced slightly as he sat. “Slipped on the pavement,” he replied and Phipps thought, like fuck. He couldn’t give a toss about any injuries the man had, nor how he actually got them. But there was an air of grievance about him today, and an edge behind the nonchalance. The meeting was unusual too, he usually avoided the face to face. Careful here, he thought, as he sipped his lime and soda.
“Well, that’s bloody annoying. The food. We’ll have to go somewhere else.”
“Better be quick then, hadn’t we?”
“Indeed.”
The brochure that came out – for sun holidays in the Aegean – was not the usual bang up job. They’d been in a rush, given what he’d told them after that morning’s work, in a brief text conversation on a new cell, now disposed of. The sewers of North London are awash with phone bits today, he thought.
“We found the mistress quickly enough. You got the first letter right anyway. ‘L’, not for Laura or Lorraine but Lottie.” He opened the brochure to the Cyclades, to a pasted-in, professional shot of a smiling young woman. “Lottie Henshaw. A pianist, classically trained but earning a living in jazz orchestras and playing in the pit for, uh, musical theatre.” He gave a brief shudder. “She was a tenant of Severin’s in Tufnell Park, a one bedroom. Then five days ago he moved her to the flash pad he owns in Notting Hill.” He shook his head. “Honestly, we are very disappointed. The reason we chose this man to be our accountant was his normality, his regularity. Family man, North London Jew, synagogue, cap thingy, the lot.”
One London Day Page 14