rested on his chest. ‘It’ll be okay,’ he said quietly. ‘Don’t worry.’ When he kissed the top of her head, he was amazed at the softness of her hair.
‘Aldo fucking Fusco. Claims he’s Italian. Sicilian even. It’s all so much horse shit. His real name’s Sali, Sali Mejdani. He’s Albanian. From Tirana.’
Kiley had called his friend, Margaret, a solicitor who dealt with a lot of cases involving refugees, applications for asylum — ‘Was there anybody in Immigration who might talk to him, off the record?’ Which was why he and Barker were walking between Westminster Bridge and Vauxhall, tour boats slowly passing both ways along the river. Two fortyish men in topcoats, talking over old times.
‘This girl,’ Barker said. ‘Adina? You think she’d give evidence? In court?’
Kiley shook his head.
Barker broke his stride to light another cigarette. ‘They never do. Even if they say they will, when it comes down to it, they won’t. Too frightened about what might happen. Getting deported back to whatever shithole it is they come from. So these people go on squeezing money out of them. The lucky ones, like your Adina, they work the clubs. For others, it’s massage parlours, brothels. Twelve, fourteen hours a day; hundred, hundred and fifty cocks a week.’
‘You haven’t got enough,’ Kiley said, ‘without her, to have him arrested?’
‘Sure. Every once in a while we do.’ Barker released a plume of smoke out on to the air. ‘He can afford a better solicitor, better barrister. We can never hold him. So we keep a watch, as much as we can, wait for him to slip up. A container ship stuffed full of asphyxiated bodies we can trace back to him direct. That would do the trick.’
‘And he knows?’
‘Fusco? That we’re watching him? Oh, yes. And he loves it, makes him feel big. Important. A made guy.’
‘If I want to talk to him, you’ve no quarrel?’
Barker shook his head. ‘Til come along. Ride shotgun. Margaret might not forgive me if I let you get hurt.’
They were playing blackjack, five of them. Fusco had just bought another card on eighteen and gone over the top. ‘Fuck!’ he said.
‘Nice,’ Barker said from the doorway, ‘that you know your name.’
Three of the men round the table started to rise, but Fusco waved them back down. A couple by the wall drank their last mouthfuls of cappuccino and headed for the door. Barker and Kiley stood aside to let them past.
‘Hey,’ Fusco said, looking at Barker. ‘You never give up.’
‘You know a girl called Adina?’ Kiley said. ‘The Club Maroc’
Fusco eased back into his chair, tilting it on to its rear legs. ‘Sure, what of it?’
‘She says she owes you money.’
‘Not any more.’
Kiley moved closer. Behind him, someone came breezily through the cafe door, caught the eye of the woman behind the counter and stepped back out. ‘You mean she paid you? What?’
Amusement played in Fusco’s eyes. ‘No, she didn’t pay me. I sold her, that’s what.’
‘Sold her? What d’you mean, sold her? Where the fuck d’you think you are?’
The man nearest to Kiley was half out of his chair and Kiley levered him back down, hand tight against his neck. Across the room Barker was thinking a little more backup might’ve been nice.
‘You are right,’ Fusco said, ‘she owe me money. Did not want to pay. I sell the debt.’
‘You sold the debt?’
‘Hey,’ Fusco laughed. ‘You hear pretty good.’
Kiley went for him then, fists raised, and there were two men quick to block his path, holding his arms till he shook them off.
‘Jack,’ Barker said, clear but not loud. ‘Let’s not.’
Slowly, Fusco lowered his chair back on to all four legs. He was still grinning his broad grin and Kiley wanted to tear it from his face.
‘Jack,’ Barker said again.
Kiley eased back.
‘I tell you this because of your friend,’ Fusco said, indicating Barker with a nod of the head. ‘The one who took over the debt, he is called O’Hagan. He has a club in Birmingham. Kicks. You best hope she is working there. If not, get someone to drive you up and down the Hagley Road.’ Scooping up the cards, he proceeded to shuffle and deal.
‘The Hagley Road,’ Barker said when they were back on the street. ‘It’s-’
‘I know what it is.’
They set off south towards the Tube. ‘You’ll go? Brum?’
Kiley nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Tread carefully.’
‘You know this O’Hagan?’
‘Not personally. But I could give you the name of someone who might.’
On the corner of Old Compton Street, Barker stopped and wrote a name inside the top of a cigarette pack, tore it off and pushed it into Kiley’s hand. ‘West Midlands Crime Squad. You can use my name.’
‘Thanks.’
At the station they went their separate ways.
The last thing Kiley wanted, the last thing he wanted there and then, following the altercation outside Kicks, was several hours spent in A amp; E. Hailing a cab, he got the driver to take him to the nearest late-night chemist where he stocked up on plasters, bandages and antiseptic cream. When he asked for suggestions for a hotel, the cabbie took him to his sister-in-law’s B amp; B on the Pershore Road, near Pebble Mill. Clean sheets, a pot of tea and a glass of Scotch, full breakfast in the morning and change from fifty pounds.
‘You look like warmed-over shit,’ Mackay said next day, drinking an early lunch in the anonymity of an All Bar One. Mackay, detective sergeant in the West Midlands Crime Squad, Birmingham by way of Aberdeen. Suit from Top Man, shirt and tie from Next.
Kiley thought they could skip the small talk and asked about O’Hagan instead.
Mackay laughed. A cheery sound. ‘Casinos, that’s his thing. Any kind of gambling. That club you got yourself thrown out of, as much for show as anything. Entertaining. When one of our lot had his retirement bash six months back, that’s where it was. O’Hagan’s treat. Sign of respect.’ He laughed again. ‘Not an official donor to the Police Benevolent Fund, you understand, but here and there he does his bit.’
‘Widows and orphans.’
‘That type of thing.’
‘How about nineteen-year-olds from Romania?’
‘He has his share.’ Mackay drained his whisky glass and pushed it across a foot or so of polished pine. Kiley sought a refill at the bar, another coffee for himself.
‘You’re not drinking?’ Mackay asked, eyebrow raised.
‘How does he treat his girls?’ Kiley asked.
‘O’Hagan? Well enough, I’d suppose. So long as they stay in line.’
‘And if not?’
Mackay tasted his Scotch, lit a cigarette. ‘A wee bit of trouble with his enforcers once or twice. But that was gambling, debts not paid. The local lads sorted it as I recall.’
‘These enforcers — a couple of big guys, black, look as if they could box.’
Mackay laughed again. ‘Cyril and Claude. Brothers. Twins. And, aye, box is right. But they’re straight enough, not the kind of enforcers I meant at all. Those bastards are still in the open-razor stage. Cyril and Claude, much more smooth.’ He chuckled into his glass. ‘Which one was it, I wonder, rearranged your face?’
‘The talkative one.’
‘That’d be Claude. He works out in a gym not far from here. You know, he’s really not so bad a guy.’ Finishing his drink, Mackay got to his feet. ‘If you bump into him again, make sure you give him my best.’
