by Owen Mullen
It had taken all of thirty seconds to kill three men and steal two hundred thousand pounds.
Freddy would’ve been impressed. What a story that would’ve been.
Nina watched Mark Douglas leave, imagining her thighs circling his hard body, feeling a quiver between her legs. On the other side of the room, Vicky Messina pulled out what looked like a diamond-studded Shisha Sticks Sofia, and if it was possible Nina despised her even more – giving wealth to an idiot: what a waste.
Nina was a demanding and aggressive sexual partner, an unapologetic predator who usually got what she wanted. Too much for most of the lovers lucky enough to get the chance to take her on. Men were there to be used and discarded when some new entertainment came along; she wouldn’t change, even if she could. Rules were for other people, people prepared to abide by them. That wasn’t her. Nina was a Glass.
Her mobile rang. She picked it up and cupped a hand to her ear, smiling, already on her way to the door. ‘Mr Drake. What a surprise. I was just thinking about you.’
4
It was 1.55 a.m. Further along, Islington had more than its share of raucous party bars and clubs, jumping with late-night drinkers. Where they were on the main drag was like an abandoned film set.
They kept to the speed limit. With three dead men in the van, attracting unwanted attention wasn’t wise. In twenty minutes, they’d seen two black cabs, a Renault with no lights on travelling in the other direction, and an old woman, probably homeless and hungry, rummaging in a bin. Others would rouse themselves from the shadows and join her, the underworld of pimps and prostitutes, sellers and pushers, addicts and alcoholics who hid in the day and lived by night while the rest of London slept.
The late Freddy The Mouth was propped in the passenger seat, blood pooling under him from the fatal wound in his chest. It had taken death to silence Freddy – for once, he had nothing to say. Neither did anybody else. The men crouched in the back, focused on where they were going and what they would do when they got there.
At Lloyd’s Bank on Gray’s Inn Road, a police car with two uniforms was parked on the opposite side of the street. As they passed, the van driver watched for the telltale puff of exhaust smoke in his mirror that would mean they had a problem. The plan depended on nothing unexpected getting in the way – there was no legislating for being tugged at two o’clock in the morning by a couple of bored constables. It would end badly for the coppers, no doubts about that. But dead policemen were an unnecessary complication, a complication with repercussions. The force looked after its own: the case would never be closed and, if need be, they’d be hounded for the rest of their lives.
When the neo-Gothic architecture of St Pancras was behind them, the driver put his foot to the accelerator and raced along Euston Road. At the end, he turned left into Great Portland Street and relaxed for the first time since they’d spotted the police car. ‘Nearly there,’ he said, as much to himself as anyone else – a sentiment his colleagues understood – turning his head so his face wouldn’t be caught on the CCTV camera trained on the street. His accomplices pulled on their masks and crouched, tensed and ready, gripping the heavy handles of machetes.
Down the lane behind the club, a shaft of amber from the basement cut the darkness. In it, two security guards waited for the van to roll to a stop, eyes on the main road in case uninvited guests decided to join the party. None did. They banged twice on the side of the van and stepped back. A nod passed between them – the cash was here; everything was okay.
And in that reassuring moment, their concentration slipped. Just for a second. Three at most. But the difference – as they were about to discover – between living or dying.
The back doors flew open. Machete blades, thick and sharp, designed to cause maximum hurt, glinted in the light: the first blow landed on a neck releasing a red gusher that arced in the air and landed on the dull plaster wall in a crimson spray; the second effortlessly separated fingers from a hand; the third hacked a leg that would never walk again.
The minders hardly had time to register the pain. No time to draw their guns.
A second. Three at most. The difference between living or dying.
The club’s security guard’s teeth were even and white, his arrogant eyes heavy with marijuana. He probably imagined he could handle himself because of the endless hours he spent at the gym. It took a lot more than that. Weights didn’t fight back. But it was a nice idea if you were him. His hair was short and dark and slicked with gel. Over a black T-shirt, the jacket bulged slightly on his left-hand side. Hiring this one had been a poor decision. Douglas suspected the sister he’d just spoken to was responsible: looking good in a T-shirt could’ve swung it. The bouncer hadn’t let his pock-marked skin give him an inferiority complex; confidence and indifference oozed from him in equal measure. Mark Douglas recognised the type – he’d met scores like him – ace at standing around playing the tough guy. No damned use when it mattered.
Douglas flashed his ID and breezed through, his footsteps echoing in the dusty stairwell, the pulsing R & B groove of Khalid fading behind him. Halfway down, he heard a cry and saw a security guard rush towards it. Douglas didn’t hesitate. He ran back the way he’d come, talking low and urgently into his mic.
‘Trouble at the back door. Secure the client.’
The guy with the marked face stared but didn’t react. Douglas reached inside his pocket and relieved him of his weapon. ‘We’ve got a situation. Get your men. Now!’
Douglas edged down the stairs, holding the unfamiliar gun in both hands. It didn’t take a trained eye to realise the guard on the concrete floor was beyond help. Out in the lane, a second guard lay still. Voices drifted from an inner door. Douglas couldn’t make out what was said over the relentless pounding from the club upstairs. Difficult to believe people were dancing, drinking, playing footsie under tables, totally unaware of what was happening yards away.
A female screamed, a man laughed, and Douglas looked round the frame. In the middle of the room, a guy in a mask held the blade of a machete to a terrified woman’s neck; a thin red line trickled down the pale skin of her throat and disappeared into her blouse. Ending her life would be easy, a flick of the wrist, no more. His mate kneeled in front of the safe.
Mark Douglas’s famous client wasn’t in danger.
Through sheer bad luck for the thieves, he’d stumbled on a robbery. He pressed his shoulders against the wall, counted to three, and stepped into the room. Until he said, ‘Hands up. Hands up or I shoot,’ nobody had known he was there.
The guy on his knees stopped what he was doing and looked round. His friend was unfazed, understanding the advantage he had, and stayed where he was.
Douglas spoke again. ‘Get your hands in the air!’
The machete tightened against the woman’s flesh; the blood flow quickened and she shuddered. Her captor pulled her closer to him. ‘Don’t know who the fuck you are, friend, but if you’ve got even half a brain, this is the time to use it. You’ve no idea who you’re messing with. Put the gun down and walk over to the corner.’
‘Not happening.’
‘Then this is down to you.’
The blade bit deeper; the helpless woman started to cry. ‘Please, please. I don’t want to die. I only work here.’
‘Listening to that? She doesn’t want to die.’
Douglas trained the gun on him. ‘The question I’m asking myself is how you feel about it, given that a second after you kill her, I’ll kill you?’
Footsteps would mean the club’s security was arriving. There was only silence.
Machete Man said, ‘All right, you’ve made your point. Good for you. Now get away from the door or I’ll slit her throat. What comes after…’
He shrugged and Mark Douglas believed him. ‘Okay. Take it easy.’
The robbers backed towards the exit, still using the woman as a shield. When they reached the street, Machete Man tilted her head back and drew the blade across her flesh in one continuous stroke. Her eyes
rolled and she collapsed. The callousness of it caught Douglas by surprise. Before he could react, the robbers were racing up the lane towards a third man behind the wheel of a car. The rear door was open. Douglas steadied himself and took aim. The first shot hit the one with the sack of money, killing him, the second struck the assassin in the shoulder spinning him round. He stumbled and fell, got up, grabbed the bag and dived into the back seat. The car roared away, leaving carnage behind.
Douglas got on his knees and tenderly cradled the woman’s head. Her eyes were closed, already unconscious, unaware of him: dying without knowing why. Stemming the bleeding was impossible; blood gurgled in her severed windpipe like percolating coffee; there was no hope. He held her hand, gently rubbing the cold fingers, whispering it was going to be all right, hating himself for the lie.
When the last breath left her body, he took off his jacket and covered her. Inadequate, but the least he could do. The killing had been unnecessary. She’d served her purpose; the man could’ve let her go. It hadn’t been about escape or protecting themselves from capture: it was murder, cruel and deliberate; the act of a sadist.
you’ve no idea who you’re messing with
Yes, he did. What he’d come up against was pure evil.
The men in the van had died quickly: a sudden flash, a nanosecond of pain and gone from the world. The guards at the back door hadn’t been so fortunate; their injuries had been excruciating, crippling and ugly. Douglas didn’t let himself dwell on the woman.
Security had taken their time. When they finally arrived, it was all over. His assessment of them had been sadly accurate: clowns in designer suits who wouldn’t last two minutes if the shit really hit the fan. A celeb with too much champagne down their neck was as much as they could handle.
Vicky Messina was on her way back to the Dorchester, her svelte frame wedged uncomfortably between his men; her night had been cut short. She’d take her displeasure out on whoever was handy. Telling her it was for her own good would be a waste of time. The singer was the client. Douglas should’ve been with her. With his shirt soaked in innocent blood, the temper tantrums of an overpaid brat were unimportant – he couldn’t have cared less.
He spoke to an Armani suit. ‘Who are you?’
‘Luigi. Front of House Manager. I heard a noise and came down.’
‘Who’s in charge?’
The terrified guy pointed to a corpse on the floor with its throat cut. ‘He is. Paul Fallon.’
‘Okay, call Mr Glass. Now.’
Douglas sensed the T-shirt who’d surrendered his gun too easily behind him. ‘Where’ve you been hiding? Start doing your job. Seal the lane. Those bodies, get them out of sight. Put them in the van, lock it and give me the keys. Move, for Christ’s sake! There’s a pack of paparazzi around the corner who’d sell their granny for a photograph of this. That can’t happen.’
‘What about the police? Shouldn’t—’
‘No police until we understand what’s going on. Where’s Nina?’
‘Haven’t seen her.’
‘Fuck! Find her and make sure she calls Luke.’
5
Kelly’s blonde head was resting on my chest, one lean leg draped over me in post-coital togetherness, when my mobile vibrated on the bedside cabinet. She rolled away and covered her beautiful breasts to punish me, sighing an exaggerated sigh. She wasn’t happy. And she wasn’t the kind of girl to keep something as important as that to herself.
I’d promised a night without interruptions – no phone calls, no meetings, no I-have-to-stop-off-for-a-minute diversions: a romantic evening, just the two of us. Until now, I’d been as good as my word. The restaurant in Mayfair had cost an arm and a leg. If there was a difference between what it served and the lasagne we could’ve had in Clapham at a quarter of the price, it escaped me. But Kelly liked the idea of going up West and it was only money.
These days, not something I was short of.
She mouthed ‘tell them go to hell’. I would’ve obliged, except the manager of LBC, Luigi Giordano, was blowing like he’d run to Marble Arch and back again; his broken accent didn’t help me understand.
‘We’ve got a problem, boss. Need you here.’
‘What kind of problem?’
‘Better don’t talk on the phone.’
I was out of bed and on my feet. Cryptic conversations in pidgin English irritated me.
‘Damn it, Luigi, what’s wrong?’
If it was hard to say, it was even harder to listen to. He struggled to get the words out.
‘We’ve… we’ve been attacked.’
‘How bad?’
Most of what he told me didn’t register – our men were down; bodies and bullets and blood; lots of blood; guns and knives and something about a woman who worked in the office whose name I’d forgotten. Luigi Giordano was from Sicily. Mafia country. As a boy, he’d witnessed violence. But not like this. He was in shock and couldn’t tell a story if his life depended on it. Maybe it did. His track record at some of the top hotels in London was impressive. I’d hired him for his front-of-house skills; this wasn’t his territory. Paul Fallon was Head of Security. Why was I talking to a freaked-out Sicilian?
I forced myself to calm down – Luigi was hysterical enough for both of us.
‘Put Paul on.’
‘Paul’s dead, boss.’
Icy tendrils snaked round my heart and squeezed.
‘The briefcase. Did they take the briefcase?’
His answer crystallised any details I’d missed.
‘What briefcase? No briefcase.’
‘Then, give me Nina.’
‘We can’t find her. Mark said—’
‘Mark! Who the hell is Mark?’
‘I don’t know. He’s here with some celebrity. He stopped them.’
Five minutes away from the place and the roof had caved in. Kelly could be as pissed-off with me as she liked. This was more important. I said, ‘I’m on my way,’ and headed for the door.
George Ritchie was old-school. Twenty-first-century crime, spreadsheets and wire transfers and not getting his hands dirty sat badly with him. His wheelhouse, what he did better than anybody, was run the street scams I’d been distancing myself from since taking over Danny’s operation. Nice earners, for sure. But drugs and girls, knocked-off cigarettes and booze weren’t where I saw myself ten years down the line. Glass Houses, Nina’s estate agency, the construction company I’d started, and LBC in Central London, were the future.
Businesses with potential. Real potential. The kind of money you could spend without worrying about getting caught.
From what I’d heard, tonight we were in George country.
He answered right away – at this time of the night it should’ve made me suspicious. I missed it. ‘Meet me at the club. Now.’
He didn’t ask why. He didn’t ask anything. He said, ‘I’m on my way,’ and hung up.
George Ritchie sat at his desk in the office above the pub; he hadn’t gone home. Ritchie knew Luke wouldn’t contact him in the middle of the night unless he had a good reason. A very good reason. He hadn’t been unduly worried by the hits on River Cars and Eamon Durham in Lewisham. It smacked of small-time: young Turks trying their luck in the big league. Nuisance value. Letting slip a name – Jazzer – was an amateur error. One they’d pay for, late or soon. This was different. This was the club. Earlier, he’d put the troops on alert for show more than anything. Suddenly, the threat had become real.
He lifted his car keys off the desk and headed downstairs. On the bar, the beer pumps were like soldiers on parade in the dull glow of a nightlight. Ritchie locked the door of the King Pot behind him and looked warily up and down the street, seeing nobody – hardly a surprise at twenty minutes to three in the morning. He had a well-deserved reputation for caution – few survived as long as he had without it – though at times it was obvious, even to him, he was being paranoid.
That wasn’t the case tonight. Something weird was going on.<
br />
When I got there, Ritchie was talking to a well-built guy with blood on his shirt who looked like he could handle himself. In the light from the back door, every year of his life and a few more for luck were etched on George’s face. He’d been in this game a long time; tonight, it showed. I searched for the word to describe him and found it; it wasn’t difficult. Old. George was old. The young bruiser from Newcastle who’d come to the capital to shake the trees and make a name for himself had done a runner. But I’d still think twice about taking him on.
I said, ‘Where’s Luigi?’
‘Sent him back upstairs. Anything he knows, this guy told him.’
The stranger made eye contact and held it.
George said, ‘Mark Douglas. Luke Glass.’
‘What happened? The short version.’
‘Short’s the only version I’ve got. I was checking the exits and ran right into them.’
‘How many?’
‘Three.’
‘Recognise them?’
‘They wore masks. But you might. One of them’s in the van. Dropped him, winged his mate, the third got away.’ He pointed up the lane. ‘A car was waiting on the main drag. Be interesting to get a look at the CCTV.’
‘He would’ve been more useful to us alive. Why kill him?’
‘Didn’t give me a choice.’
Luigi had described carnage. I didn’t see it. ‘Where’re the bodies?’
He hooked a bloodied thumb in the direction of the van. ‘Dumped them in there in case some paparazzi bastard got an anonymous tip-off and wandered into the scoop of his miserable life.’
This guy had been thinking on his feet. Impressive.
‘Before you open it, it’s not pretty. There was a lot of blood. I had it hosed away.’
‘Good work.’
‘They used machetes. Unusual, to say the least. Especially since they’d killed what I’m guessing was the original crew.’