by Owen Mullen
She was anxious in ways that couldn’t be explained. Selling property was a tough business, competition was fierce, cancellations were common. The capriciousness of buyers couldn’t be overstated: in her experience, a deal wasn’t done until the commission was in her account. Clients were more than opportunities to make a profit, they represented a ton of work and it was a bummer when one slipped away. Only, this wasn’t one. It was two.
The call-offs didn’t concern her so much as how they’d been done. In both cases, the emails were abrupt and impersonal; the tone of the American’s last message bore no resemblance to what had gone before and might’ve been written by somebody else.
Algernon Drake came into her head. Usually Nina’s lovers were hungry for more. She hadn’t heard from Drake, perhaps because he felt humiliated. The barrister had powerful friends and a huge ego. This could be his way of hurting her. Nina pressed his number and heard it ring out.
He answered, sounding delighted. ‘Nina! What a pleasant surprise. I was just thinking about you. How are you, my dear?’
‘I’m fine, Algernon.’
‘Algie.’
‘Algie, of course.’
‘Missing me already?’
What an arse he was. His performance hadn’t affected his opinion of himself. Nina said, ‘Thank you for a wonderful time. I’m sure you’re going to love living in the flat.’
‘The flat…’ He seemed to have forgotten it. ‘Oh, yes, I’m certain I will, though I won’t hold onto it too long. I intend to punt it in a month or two. Glass Houses can handle the sale, how’s that?’
‘Great. I’ll look forward to it.’
Drake was breathing like an asthmatic Labrador; she recalled at the height of her passion wondering if he was about to have a heart attack. Nina grimaced and held the mobile away from her ear. He said, ‘Small talk is for small people, I always say. Let’s dispense with it and get to the point, shall we? You want to meet me? That’s usually why a woman calls a man at this time in the day. Am I right?’
He really was a disgusting letch.
She faked a giggle. ‘Almost, Algie, we’ll hook up very soon, I promise.’
The vagueness of her answer passed him by. ‘Well, I’m here whenever you need me.’
Nina wanted to puke.
Drake said, ‘Sorry, I can’t chat – have a meeting in chambers with a Conservative lord who’s a friend of the PM. Bloody idiot’s been at it with a maid who worked for him in Eaton Place. At first, he claimed he was only helping her out. Unfortunately for His Lordship, her son’s his image: blond hair, blue eyes, just like his daddy. A DNA test will end any hope he has of wheedling his way out of it. The fool had two families on the go at the same time. Can you believe it? No surprise his lady wife has kicked him out. He’s staying at his club, getting drunk and making a nuisance of himself. Won’t be able to afford that much longer. Divorce will ruin him, not to mention the scandal when the newspapers get wind of it. Better to admit it and salvage what can be salvaged, because that’s just the tip of the iceberg. The horny bastard’s been up to all sorts – prostitutes, threesomes, Soho massage parlours, you name it. If it moves, chances are he’s had his Right Honourable dick in it.’ He chuckled. ‘Can’t keep it in their trousers, these people. When will they learn, eh?’
Algernon didn’t do irony.
After Drake rang off, Nina sat behind her desk and stared at the wall. She could cross off the idea the barrister had anything to do with the cancellations. Hearing his voice, remembering what she’d done with him, filled her with loathing; he could take his bloody resale somewhere else. She scrolled through her directory looking for a link between the contacts. If there was one, she didn’t find it. One was local and fairly recent, the other – the New Yorker – went back to the beginning of the year.
And, now she thought about it, was there really a problem at all? In the grand scheme of things, a couple of rude no-shows meant little. She’d allowed George Ritchie – old woman that he was – to spook her. Who wouldn’t be freaked with men in a car parked outside the front door, knowing that wherever you went, they were following?
She picked up the phone to call her brother. Luke would give her a roasting, there was no escape from that. Worth it if it meant Ritchie called off his dogs. Except, he wouldn’t. Even raising the subject was a waste of time. Reluctantly, Nina closed her mobile down and went back to answering her emails.
The majority of enquiries were from people who’d spent Sunday trawling real-estate websites, scribbling figures, doing their best to convince themselves they could afford a house above their price range. The ones that most interested Nina had already sold and were deciding what their next postcode would be. Serious buyers. In London, it would be rare if they hadn’t come out ahead and were pondering whether to continue their progress up the ladder, or settle for what they could comfortably afford and take the pressure off. Nina was in no doubt what they should do. Go for it!
Life was too short to do anything else. Her dream was a house in Holland Park and a cottage in the Cotswolds – Bourton-on-the-Water, Castle Combe, somewhere ridiculously pretty.
She was working on it.
Around ten, Nina joined the girls in the office to drink coffee and chat about what they’d all done at the weekend. Algernon Drake didn’t get a mention. He’d served his purpose, just about; there would be no rematch.
She closed the door and concentrated on a couple from Crouch End looking to move nearer town, asking what 1.4 mil would get them in Islington. There was a short answer to that: not much.
A new email pinged in the inbox. She broke off thinking how to let the Crouch Enders down easily and opened it. Like the others it was terse, though it wasn’t a cancellation – an offer on a two-bed terraced house in Camberwell that was all but done and dusted on Friday afternoon had been withdrawn without explanation.
Nina reached for her mobile. It was time to call Luke.
18
The good weather was still here. I drove with the window down, one hand on the wheel and Coldplay’s ‘Viva La Vida’ blasting from the radio. On another day it would’ve lifted me. Mark Douglas’s men were arriving later, Ritchie’s reinforcements from Newcastle would already be here and Oliver Stanford would finally get off his arse and start doing what he was well paid to do.
I parked the car and went to a coffee shop near Little Portland Street, sat outside on a cane chair, sipping a macchiato espresso, and watched the world go by. For the first time, I came close to believing Ritchie and Nina had been right, that opening LBC had been recklessly ambitious.
The disappointment on Kelly’s face flashed into my mind and suddenly I felt desperately sad. But that ship had sailed and today my head was out to get me.
I was at the club when my mobile rang – the first of many calls I’d be taking and making in the next few hours. Mark Douglas said, ‘Just checking in. My guys are arriving at Euston station this afternoon. I’ll pick them up.’
‘What’s their background?’
‘Ex-police and special forces.’
‘Before you do anything, Ritchie will check them out. You can vouch for them till the cows come home, if he doesn’t clear them, they’ll be on the next train back to wherever they came from. Okay?’
Douglas wasn’t fazed. ‘Not okay. I told you already. Either I’m in or I’m out. Your people fucked it up royally. Now the same failures are going to judge me and the guys I bring in? No chance. I’m not having that and neither will they.’
Pushing back wasn’t what I’d expected from him, but if I’d been him my reaction would be the same. I let it go and moved on. ‘The Bishops’ money’s due on Wednesday.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Need to talk to you about that.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I want to change the plan so the cash is delivered to us. That way, it won’t be our responsibility until we have our hands on it in an environment we can control and defend. Anything that happens on the way isn’t
our problem.’
It made sense.
My sister sounded rattled. Eventually, she’d have to face me and was expecting a bollocking for her disappearing act: she wouldn’t be disappointed. That wasn’t what was bothering her. This was Nina. More like Danny than she’d ever admit: a vindictive hothead, never far from exploding if she imagined she was being disrespected. The last I’d heard from her was when she’d furiously ended the call on Saturday. Her attack on Ritchie was misplaced. She couldn’t get over the fact George had been Rollie Anderson’s right-hand man, and there was little he could do to change her mind, even if he tried, which he didn’t. He hadn’t come straight out and said it, but he wasn’t a fan of hers, either. Ritchie had followed my orders; her complaint was actually with me. If Nina wanted to take it out on somebody, she was looking in the wrong place.
‘Luke, it’s me.’
I tried to keep sarcasm to a minimum and failed. ‘Nice to hear from you, Nina. Where are you?’
‘At the office.’
‘How was your weekend? Everything okay?’
Normally, that would get me an earful. Instead, she said, ‘No, everything’s not okay. Three important clients have cancelled in the last twenty-four hours.’
‘That’s pretty common, isn’t it?’
‘Not like this. Not these people. I’ll forward the emails and you can see for yourself.’
‘All right. I’ll take a look. And we need to sit down, you and me. You’re a partner, you have to step up, otherwise…’ I lowered my voice ‘… I’ll cut you loose, Nina. I mean it. This is a game for big boys and girls.’
She’d already hung up.
The driver hauled himself up and unlocked the cabin, squeezed his stocky frame behind the wheel of the ’dozer, and checked the gearstick was in neutral. Sweat beaded his forehead. Under the yellow hard hat his scalp itched but if he got caught not wearing it, he’d be in trouble. Two days of sun had compacted the criss-crossed clay ruts on what, because of the rain, was a quagmire most of the time. He pressed the rubber bulb of the ignition and waited for the powerful machine to cough into life. When it didn’t, he tried again. After the third unsuccessful attempt, he climbed back down and went looking for the foreman.
No matter what time of the day or night I called him, George Ritchie answered right away.
He anticipated my question. ‘Before you ask, she checks out. Congratulations, you’ve got another sister. It wasn’t easy to track down her history on a weekend but my contacts came through.’ He paused. ‘How much do you want to hear?’
‘How much have you got?’
‘Enough to convince me she’s who she says she is.’
‘Then, tell me.’
‘Okay.’ I heard him take a deep breath. ‘After she walked out on your father, your mother went to Scotland.’
‘Scotland?’
Ritchie said, ‘With very little money it’s fair to assume her options would be limited. Presumably, she wanted to get as far away from him as possible.’
I wondered if she’d known she was pregnant.
‘How soon after she did a runner was the baby born?’
‘Seven and a half months in New York, like the birth certificate says.’
‘New York? How the hell did she get to New York from Scotland with no funds?’
‘Not such a stretch when you understand where she landed north of the border.’
Ritchie had uncovered a helluva lot. He was pleased with himself and was spinning out the information. I let him have his fun. ‘Where, George?’
‘Dunoon.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘The USA had sailors stationed at the Holy Loch. I’m guessing she met one of them just as he was about to be shipped back home. They were living in New York when Charlene – the baby – was born. He knew he wasn’t the father.’
‘Because it wasn’t his name on the birth certificate?’
‘Yes. So, he must’ve been okay with it.’
I stopped him. I had even more questions than before he’d started speaking. This wasn’t the time for them. ‘No, no, you’ve convinced me.’
‘What’re you going to do with this?’
‘Not sure.’
He said, ‘The way I see it, you don’t have to do anything. A sister you didn’t know you had shows up out of the blue. So what?’
Ritchie was right, except it wasn’t how I felt. ‘She’s family, George. That has to mean something – the importance of family is the one decent thing I got from Danny.’
His reply reminded me he’d lost family of his own along the way. ‘Mmmm. Hope you know what you’re letting yourself in for. Have to say, she came across as a bit of a handful.’
I hoped so, too, and changed the subject. Nina had forwarded the emails from her clients. I’d read them and agreed with her. The cancellations and how they were worded was strange. My sister understood the high-end real-estate market in this city, where the buyer had an almost endless choice. Fair play to her, she’d worked hard at it; her clients liked her. The final emails were brusque. Ritchie’s take on it would be worth hearing.
I said, ‘I’ve just had Nina on.’
‘Still mad about the weekend, is she?’
‘Probably, but that wasn’t why she called. She’s lost three clients in twenty-four hours and she’s concerned because it’s unusual. She’s thinking something’s going on and she might be right.’
Whenever he could, Ritchie ducked anything involving my sister. I heard his reluctance. ‘Given what’s happening, I wouldn’t be surprised, though it’s not much to go on. Let me have a look at them.’
An incoming call interrupted the conversation. I said, ‘Hold on, George. Have to get this.’
Glass Gate was my first foray into construction. It needed a steady hand. The foreman I’d hired had been in the building game since he was sixteen and been bossing sites for ten years; he knew his stuff and pulled the trades together with the minimum of overlap. I liked that he took decisions rather than bothering me every five minutes. Thanks to him, work was on schedule. We had an on-site meeting once a week and a face-to-face in my office at the end of the month with a contract site manager. My accountants handled the paperwork. I kept an eye on the cashflow. For him to be calling was unusual and, in the light of recent events, didn’t bode well.
He understood time was money and dived in. ‘We’ve got a problem, Mr Glass. Somebody’s been monkeying with the plant. Two of our machines are out. The watchman called in sick last night. It wasn’t until the bulldozer wouldn’t start, then one of the diggers packed in, that I took a closer look. Sure enough, a hole had been cut in the fence.’
‘What’s the damage?’
‘Assuming it’s a no-brainer, like sand in the filters, the best anybody can do is three days turnaround. It’s the delay we want to avoid.’
‘How much will that affect us?’
‘Not as much as it would’ve a couple of weeks ago, though bad enough. I’ll have the projections for you later.’ I pictured him running a finger through his grizzled jaw. ‘Funny thing is, on this job we haven’t had any run-ins with the locals. That’s why I wasn’t worried about not having cover.’
‘Do whatever you have to do. Just get it sorted, okay?’
He rang off and I went back to Ritchie. ‘Some bastards fucking about with the plant at the Gate.’
‘Thought you had a nightwatchman?’
‘Phoned in sick. Lucky for him, or he might be lying in hospital. They cut a hole in the fence.’
‘Serious?’
‘Serious enough. Time really is money in that business. Which reminds me, I had a visit from a very unhappy policeman. Whining about how we’re treating him. Thinks he’s the injured party, can you believe it?’
‘Maybe it’ll encourage him to get his act together.’
‘He’d bloody well better.’ I laughed. ‘The car was a bad start to his week. Then he checked his bank account and discovered I’d put a stop on his money.
Stanford’s lifestyle burns cash so that hurt. But he really didn’t appreciate the bullet. You outdid yourself on that one, George.’
His silence should’ve warned me. It didn’t. Eventually, he said, ‘What bullet?’
‘In the shoebox you left in Stanford’s car.’
‘Luke... I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
The silence between us couldn’t have been more ominous. With it, the pieces fell into place – the attack on LBC, the emails at Glass Houses, the machinery at the Gate and, waiting to be discovered, a bullet in a shoebox – fleshing out a picture clear enough to make sense.
We were being attacked on all fronts.
I said, ‘LBC. One hour. I’ll call Mark.’
19
Charley lay on the bed. It had only been two days but she was tired of waiting. Since her dramatic entrance on Saturday, George Ritchie would’ve been digging night and day into her background, hoping to prove she was an imposter and show her the door. Old George was wasting his time. Whether he liked it or not, she was Luke and Nina’s sister – the blood in her veins identical to the blood in theirs. Conceived in south London during a drunken assault on her mother, she’d been raised in another country and called another man father, but she was Charlene Glass. Family. And she wanted her share.
I arrived first and went to my office in the basement. Usually, I didn’t bring people to the windowless box in the bowels of the building, the room where the safe – the real safe, not the Mickey Mouse effort upstairs that the assassins had robbed – sat in a corner. The thieves had known the lay of the land on many fronts. Not being aware of where the big amounts of cash were held was their only mistake. It made no difference. They’d got the briefcase with the two hundred thou inside.
Ritchie came in, pulled a chair out and sat down. We didn’t speak. There was nothing to say until Mark Douglas joined us. I glanced across at George and noticed something was different about him. George Ritchie wasn’t stylish and never had been; he wasn’t that kind of guy. But since I was a gawky kid stealing cigarettes with my brother from corner shops and he was Albert Anderson’s enforcer, he’d always paid attention to how he was dressed. Today, that wasn’t true. His suit trousers were creased, the top button of the shirt underneath was undone and the tie drawn down. Unremarkable. Absolutely. Except, when I added it to the dark shadow on his jaw, it told a tale I hadn’t heard before. Mr Unflappable had his mind on other things, issues more important than running a razor over his face. His eyes were red-rimmed and I remembered how quickly he’d answered my calls.