“Oh, come on.”
“Now, please.”
“Why should I?”
“Because she asked you to,” Sonya said, taking a step forward.
“Really?” He looked up at her. She was maybe an inch taller than him. Lottie could see his shoulders set. The male challenged. Sonya must have noticed to, because she took a step back.
“Patrick,” Lottie barked, loud enough to turn him. “Go now, please.”
Something went out of him. The fight, the fury. The shoulders dropped as he turned. Though he tried for cool. “Well,” he said, “I will leave you ladies to it.”
There was no mistaking the emphasis. He crossed to the front door, paused there. Lottie could almost hear the whirling thoughts. One of the problems of living with an actor, she’d discovered, was that they were always ‘on’. And this was, after all, the famous final scene.
He surprised her a little, when he turned, when he spoke, looking straight at her. “I’ll miss you lots, Lots. I love you so much. And I always will. You are the best.”
Then with the dignity he’d discovered, he left, leaving the door open behind him.
Bastard, Lottie thought, as tears brimmed and ran. I’d have preferred a slap.
19
Mr Phipps checked the time on the pub TV.
21:12. He’d decided to give the black kid till quarter past to leave. Otherwise he was going in. It was the balance of risk and probability. Two people to deal with was more of a risk, especially as he had to find the books before he killed them. One, the girl alone, put the odds on his side again, for a successful mission and a swift exit. Because the probability after that was that, whatever Sebastien said about his ‘friend’ in the other department supressing information, too many people now knew about Severin. Sebastien had also said that the hit wouldn’t be on telly till News at Ten. He’d been an hour out. Anytime now, internal investigations or whatever they called themselves would be all over Severin’s properties. Though the Plods might beat them to it. They weren’t stupid, most of the time.
He was ready. It might take him a minute or so to get in. There were methods. The voice of authority usually worked – fire, police. He had some false ID in his suit front right pocket, in case.
He tapped it – and felt the bulge underneath. Fuck, he’d forgotten to leave the envelope with the five grand in the car. It was too late to go back. Glancing around, no one looking, he slipped it out of his suit and dropped it into the duffle bag at his feet.
9:14. He stood, picked up the duffle. “Have a good night, sir,” the barman called in his Latvian-London accent and Phipps just grunted without turning around. He’d engaged too much with the bloke as it was. Three rounds of drinks, getting him to turn up the telly when the news of the morning’s hit played. Stupid that. Especially given what was about to happen across the road. Hope for your sake your visa’s legit, mate, he thought, as he left the pub.
He stopped, looked up at the house. Lights on top three floors, only the ground one dark, so people in, more options for entry. He looked around. Quick shifty, no one that worried him. Monday night drinkers, local flat dwellers getting snacks from the shop, a young beggar sitting with his back to the shop front, clasping a polystyrene cup, that fucking West Indian traffic warden. How many tickets could he get in a residents’ bay in one night? It was a trail though, paper and electronic - and that mean the car was toast. Mehmet, his Turkish mechanic over Turnpike Lane, would take it, spray it, plate it, flog it, and give Phipps half what it was worth.
Looks like Meaghan and I will be flying economy to the Maldives after all, he thought as he stepped off the kerb, because I’ll need a new motor. Then stopped - because the black kid was running down the steps. Crying. Lovers tiff? Didn’t stop, just took off at a fast lope towards Notting Hill. He hadn’t left the door open behind him which was a pity. But he was one less thing to worry about.
And then Phipps realized that this was going to be one of those blessed gigs where it all slipped into place. Because a blue Centra pulled up right outside the house, the driver put his blinkers on, stepped out, holding two white plastic bags, logo of some Indian restaurant on them, and walked up the stairs.
Phipps let him press the button, top floor, penthouse, where that beauty had gone earlier, heard her voice, and the buzzer go and the door lock release, before he ran up the stairs. “Perfect timing,” he said, which was true, reaching past the startled Bangladeshi fellow to push open the door and go in. He raised the duffel. “I have the beers to go with that.”
The Indian looked at his receipt. “Mr Singh?”
Phipps laughed. “Obviously not. But my sister is Mrs Singh. What do I owe?”
“Thirty two.”
Phipps put down the duffle and pulled out his money clip from his trousers, peeled off two twenties. When the man jangled coins in his pocket to make change, Phipps said, “Nah! Keep that. You’re a life saver.”
The Indian shrugged. Bit of a surly bastard, it was a great tip. “Just put the bags there,” Phipps said, pointing at a mirrored alcove where flyers and some letters sat before a vase with dried flowers in it.
The delivery man left, leaving the door ajar. Phipps took a quick look outside then closed it. Food smells rose from the bag and he was suddenly ravenous. When had he last eaten? That Big Mac with Meaghan at noon. He hated fast food, usually had a smoothie after a gig, avocado, kale, Creatine, and berries. But Shazza had rushed him and then there was the fracas. No wonder he’d felt the whiskies. Empty stomach.
He pulled a poppadum out, munched it, while he looked at the letters in the alcove. One was from the local council addressed to Severin Properties.
Flat C. Third floor.
He hadn’t had time for his usual pre-gig workout. But at least he could climb three floors. Quickly, because the penthouse beauty would be wondering where her curry was soon. This had been his favourite sort of op in the paras – a fast in and out.
He reached into the holster, and flicked the safety off. Then, picking up his duffel, he took the stairs steady, like a Stairmaster at the gym.
“When did you last eat?”
Lottie was staring at the door to the hall. The one Patrick had just gone through, leaving it open. She should close it. Somehow it needed to be closed. To shut him out, finally and forever. But her legs didn’t seem to want to move.
Sonya had said something. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Eating, Lottie. Have you eaten today?”
“Uh, not really. Perhaps that’s why I feel so funny. My legs feel odd.”
“Have you food here?”
“Some in the fridge. Bits and bobs.”
“This is a dish?”
Lottie smiled. “No. An expression. I think there’s some M&S soup. Butternut squash. There’s a microwave. Bread too. I’ll get it.”
“No, you sit. I get.”
Sonya went to the kitchen. Lottie heard the fridge opened, various cupboards, bowls brought out and placed. She got her legs going, wobbled to the door. When she reached it she heard the front door buzzer, someone let in, distant voices coming up the stairwell. She shut the door, leaned her forehead against it. Done, she thought. Finally done.
She went back into the living room. On the muted telly, the news continued, somewhere in Africa. In the kitchen, the microwave hummed, she heard bread being sliced. Then a plate was put down, the cutlery drawer pulled out. All sounds were sharp to her hearing.
Sounds. She needed some music. She grabbed her phone, hit Spotify, went to her jazz playlist. Clicked on a song, and Ella Fitzgerald began to sing from the Bluetooth speaker on the coffee table. ‘Easy Living’. Late Ella, her voice not as crisp as her younger one, but better, in her mind. The wisdom in it.
‘For you maybe I’m a fool but it was fun.’
She shook her head. Thanks, Ella, she thought. It had been fun. She had been a fool. No more.
Ella sang on – and there came a soft knock at the door. Lottie looked
down at the table, realizing what she’d seen and not seen there beside the Bluetooth – Patrick’s Panama hat. Fuck, she thought, picked it up, stood. We have to do Take Two on the exit scene?
As she walked towards the door, in the kitchen the microwave binged.
The door opened and there was the girl from the photograph. Small, petite really, not much bigger than Meaghan who took after her Mum, big boned Sharon. Wild eyebrows, which nearly joined now as she looked at him, puzzled. She was holding a straw hat.
“Yes?” she asked.
He was holding the duffel in his right, numb hand. So he grabbed her by the throat with his left, so she could not make any noise, marched her backwards into the room, gave a good squeeze and threw her over the back of the sofa. She landed hard on a glass table there, he heard a crack, and some woman singing. “Do not fucking move,” he said, his voice low and hard. “Move and I’ll fucking kill you.”
He dropped the duffel. The sides parted. He hadn’t zipped it up since dropping the money in, and the alien from the fun fair grinned up at him. He put both hands on the sofa back, leaned far over it, till his face was about half a foot from hers. She was sprawled, trying to sit up, despite his warnings. Didn’t matter. Just one thing did. “I need the books. Severin’s books. Get them for me or you are fucking dead.” He raised his voice to a bellow. “Now!”
He’d squeezed her throat pretty hard. Words came, strangulated. “Yeah, I will. I will! Don’t - ”
She tried to right herself, like a beetle on its back.
It was then Phipps noticed that there was someone else in the room – a woman, standing at the dining table about six foot away. She was holding a plate with a bowl on it. Steam came from the bowl. He recognized her, it was the sort of face you’d remember. The beauty from upstairs who could not, of course, be Mrs Singh.
“Oy,” he said, starting to rise. All he could manage before she chucked the bowl of soup at him.
Sonya had not heard the front door open. She had only heard the noise from the room, a voice low and nasty, the crash of something heavy onto glass. She’d been coming from the kitchen anyway, the soup steaming in a bowl on a plate in her left hand, a glass of water for herself in her right.
Lottie was lying on the broken glass table, trying to get up. A man was bending over the sofa, glaring at her. She heard him say, ‘you are fucking dead’, then saw him notice her. As he straightened up, she dropped the glass of water, took the bowl of soup in her right hand, grabbed its hot edge, and threw it at him. It wasn’t a powerful throw, her right hand was still sprained from the night before. But she stepped closer to throw, he was only about a metre and a half away, her aim was good and the soup was hot.
It covered his face. The plate hit him on the chin. He yelled, fury and pain, staggered back. Sonya saw him wipe his eyes with his right hand and reach, strangely, with his left hand into his left armpit. It was then she saw the holster, all she saw because she dropped the plate and she was moving fast towards him, reaching both her good and her bad hand to the gun he was pulling out.
With her right hand she caught his wrist, twisting it against the grain. Not too hard as her own wrist hurt, but the angle was bad for him, and he grunted. At the same time she grabbed the plastic – plastic, she thought, Glock – butt of the gun with her other hand, and slipped her thumb behind the trigger just as his forefinger closed over it. She felt the pressure as he tried to pull.
She shot her hands above her, taking him high, twisting as she did. Then she spun around, dropped, shoved her back hard into his chest, and threw him over her shoulder.
They were of a height. He was heavier, but not that heavy. He had to let go of the gun, otherwise his wrist would have snapped. It fell to the floor, the sound lost in the one he made as he landed hard on his back and neck, half against the wall.
She thought she might have broken her bad wrist now, it hurt so much. There was blood too, the Glock trigger guard had ripped off half her thumbnail as she threw him. He was now trying to get to his knees, yelping in pain as he did so, his left arm at a bad angle. Still he looked down, and lunged for the gun at her feet. She heeled it backwards, under the sofa. His lunge had fallen short anyway, and he glared up at her, fury and pain in eyes that peeped from a yellow crust of soup.
She’d had no time for thought, only reaction. But now a moment came, and a realization. Whatever this was, it was not good. For Lottie. For her. She could not get caught up in some crime now. Be held for months before a trial. All her affairs looked into, how she actually made her money. Thoughts flashed, then all were lost to one thing only, one image: her daughter’s face earlier that night.
The man was breathing heavily, clutching his left shoulder, still glaring. But he was not moving, so she did, stepping back. “Go,” she said, waving at the door. “Now!” she shouted, when he did not move.
He looked like he was going to say something. Lips parted over teeth bared in a snarl. And then he just stood, swayed, and staggered down the corridor and out the door.
She followed, slammed it shut. There was a chain and she put it on, came back. Lottie was just getting onto the sofa. Sonya reached into her bag for her phone, hit speed dial.
His voice came immediately. “Tsarina?”
“Come now. Fast.”
There was a growl. “Your client? Is trouble?”
Sonya looked at Lottie. “Yes.”
“I come now.” Another growl and he rang off.
Sonya dropped the phone back into her bag then went around and sat on the sofa. “Lottie,” she began, taking her hand.
Mr Phipps stopped in the entrance hall.
The stench of curry filled it. Earlier, the contents of the bags in the alcove had made him hungry. Now they made him sick. Or perhaps that was the butternut squash – on his lips, in his eyes, up his nose. Or the pain he felt all over, but especially in his left shoulder. The bastard was dislocated. It had happened once before, training for parachute jumps.
That bitch! She had thrown him over her back. How had she done that? Who was she? Bystanders were meant to… stand by. Like the gig’s wife that morning, Severin’s wife, face down on the floor. They were not meant to come on like fucking Wonder Woman.
He held up his left arm with his right hand, which wasn’t hugely better. Looked in the mirror behind the alcove. He was covered in orangey yellow. Face, hair, suit. Think, he ordered himself, lowering his arm, taking the pain, wiping the worst of the muck away with napkins he found in the top of the curry bags. Think, he thought again, and did.
If a mission goes wrong, adapt, that’s what he was always taught. Can’t achieve the primary objective go for the secondary. In the limited time he had before it all kicked off again – no doubt those bitches were even now calling the police - he should go back. He’d left too much evidence – prints, probably from when he pushed himself off the floor. His Glock! Worse, his duffle… with the fucking money! Why had he put that in there? Because he couldn’t be arsed to go back to the car. Where he should go now. Get his back up - the Beretta he kept duct-taped to the wheel arch. Return, kick in the door…
He knew, even as he thought it, that it was all just adrenaline and bollocks. He didn’t have the strength. And truly? He didn’t want to see Wonder Woman again.
Alright, Plan B. He’d long had it formulated: his line of retreat.
You have to go. Not home. Straight to Heathrow. There was an 11pm flight to Larnaca, he’d taken it before. He had one of his passports in the car, Cypriot credit cards. He was in West London, Monday night he could make the airport in half an hour. No bags, zap, on. He’d have to hit the washroom first. He had gym stuff in the car, he’d change into that. This time of year, this weather, half the tossers who went to Club Med in Cyprus dressed in singlet and shorts anyway. The Shadows would be no help, they were busted. Sooner he was far away from that set of wankers the better.
His breathing had slowed. Plan B it was.
There was a long, linen cloth with dec
orative string knots on its ends, under the vase with the fake flowers. He eased it out, pinned it down with his bad arm – fuck! – then jury rigged a sling. Slipped it over his head, and his left arm into it. It helped. Ready, he opened the door.
There was a man standing there – bald, squat, hefty. His hand was over the buzzer bank, and he jumped when Phipps appeared. Then his piggie eyes narrowed as he took in the mess.
“Heh! You the client?” he asked, his Eastern European accent thick.
“You what?” Phipps shook his head. “Just stand aside, please.”
As he stepped forward, the man put a hand into the middle of Phipps’s chest. “I think you client. You trouble. You hurt my friend.”
“What? Listen, step aside, you Latvian cunt, or I’ll - ”
“That’s Polish cunt,” the man said, and swung.
He swung left handed, which meant that Phipps couldn’t get his dislocated arm up to block, could only duck, enough not to take it on the jaw, not enough to get out of the way. The blow landed full on his ear, and had weight behind it, the southpaw knew how to throw a punch, unlike Malcolm this morning. There was a popping sound, and he thought, that’s my eardrum fucked.
His duck had made him stumble forward. The man let him pass. As he staggered down the stairs, he heard some words, Polish no doubt, being called after him. He turned briefly when he reached the pavement to make sure the bloke wasn’t following. But he’d stayed at the top, one hand holding the door open. Muttering another curse, the man spat, then went in.
Phipps shook his head. It hurt. Once, in civvies in Catterick, he and two mates had been set on by a gang of locals over some birds. He’d bust some ribs, fractured a cheek bone.
This hurt worse. On top of everything else he now had a constant high-pitched ring.
“Plan B,” he mumbled and set off towards his car.
After about fifty yards, he bent over and puked. A couple stepped wide around him, muttering their disgust. He kept walking. He’d left the BMW so far away! Finally he saw it, in the residents’ bay. And standing beside it, machine out… was that same fucking traffic warden!
One London Day Page 18