happened, I wasn’t even sure I was going to bother bringing one along anyway, particularly as I had no intention of using it in defence of Fowler’s pension fund. If they pulled shooters, my hands were going up faster than a porn star’s knob, it was as simple as that.
I told Joe there was no fear of me pulling out, not for six grand. ‘I’d just like to know a little bit more about him, and the place he owns, that’s all. I wouldn’t mind finding out why these people want it so much.’
‘You can make a lot of money in that line of business, you know that. The youth like to have a good time.’
‘Yeah, maybe. So, are you going to come with me on this one, then?’
‘When is it?’
‘Thursday night.’
‘This Thursday?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Ah shit, I can’t, Max. I’m looking after Terri.’
Terri Dennett was a singer, and not a particularly good one at that, with a drugs problem and an ego that was a lot bigger than her talent. Whenever she attended record company events or awards ceremonies she had to be accompanied by a minder who had the dual task of making sure the paparazzi never got too close to her — not that they usually tried too hard — and preventing her from sneaking off and taking too many drugs, and consequently making a fool of herself. Tiger Solutions had the contract for looking after her and she insisted on Joe being the one who escorted her on her various outings. He had the right level of seniority, and the patience to be able to put up with her. I didn’t. I’d taken her once and it had all ended in tears. She’d managed to blag some coke while in the Ladies, vacuumed it up her nose in one go, and got into a slanging match with some talentless sixteen-year-old from one of those real shite boybands that make Westlife look like Pink Floyd. He’d told her she couldn’t sing for shit — which was true, she couldn’t — but coming from him it was an insult of the most heinous kind. I’d pulled her away before she could rip him to shreds and the bitch had turned on me, opening fire with a severe knee to the bollocks, and then adding insult to injury by tipping a glass of expensive white wine on my head while I was doubled over in agony. I don’t think she’ll ever know how close she came to death that night. It took an immense amount of willpower to stop myself from putting my hands around her throat and squeezing with all my strength until she was dead, but somehow I managed it, opting instead to pick her up, sling her over my shoulders, and walk right out of there, much to the joy of the paparazzi, who for once showed a real interest in filming her being removed kicking and screaming. When we got outside I’d dumped her on the pavement and walked off.
Needless to say, she hadn’t asked for me again.
‘You know, Joe, you’ve got an excuse for everything. What’s she got to go to this time?’
‘Some fucking hoohah where they all tell each other what talented artists they are, even though they don’t mean a word of it. A barrel of laughs it won’t be. You know, if there was any other way I’d do it.’
‘Sure you would. Anyway, who do you think I should take? I want a couple of decent people for this sort of thing.’
Tiger, like most security companies, didn’t have any operatives on the payroll. Most of those we hired out tended to be freelancers, although we were very careful about who we used and tended to stick, wherever possible, to people we’d worked with before. We ran through a few names together and eventually decided on a shortlist of three: two we particularly wanted, and one reserve. All of them had worked with Tiger on and off for at least three years, and all were of a calibre that they could be relied upon should things suddenly decide to go tits up.
‘When’s he going to get us the money?’ asked Joe. ‘For this sort of thing, we’re going to need it in advance. I don’t want him running out on us.’
‘It’s sorted. I’m picking it up with him. I’ll count it on the spot, then drop it round at the office and put it in the safe before we head out to the meet.’
‘Good move. So, where’s it taking place?’
‘Good question. I haven’t got a clue.’
‘Well, if it’s too far, don’t forget to charge him for petrol.’
Which was Joe all over. He’d call himself careful; everyone else preferred the word tight. I laughed and hung up.
Thursday, seventeen days ago
Iversson
There were three of us in the car. Me in the front passenger seat, Eric driving, and Tony in the back. You always feel a bit nervous when the people you’re dealing with are unknown and likely to be unpredictable, but at least I had reliable back-up.
Like everyone we used, they were ex-military. Eric was an old associate of mine, a big beefy bloke in his early fifties. He was a Taffy who’d done fifteen years in the Welsh Borderers, and he’d been an occasional employee of ours since day one. You didn’t mess about with Eric. Not only did he have a face like Frankenstein’s monster, he had the body, too, with fists like sledge-hammers. He was a calm bloke, not easily given to temper, and a real old- fashioned gentleman with the ladies, but if you fucked him about, you paid a high price. Once, a few years back, he’d been doing some debt-collecting work for a couple of Albanians. When he’d turned up at the flat where he was going to pick up the money, he’d been greeted by the debtor and two of his mates, all armed with pickaxe handles. According to reliable accounts, the three of them launched a full-frontal assault, weapons flailing. It was a big mistake. Eric hit the debtor so hard, the bloke’s head flew back and knocked out one of the others. The third swung his pickaxe handle at Eric’s head, only to have Eric grab it with one hand and break his jaw with the other, like something out of a Bruce Lee film. Enter the Welsh dragon, and all that. The whole thing took about four seconds, and immediately became local legend.
Tony was just as useful, but a lot different. Late twenties, good-looking in a public-schoolish way, he was an ex-marine who’d also worked with us on and off since the early days. He was only a little guy, no more than five nine and skinny, but he was one of the fittest, fastest people I’d ever met. I liked him, too. He had what you might call a dry wit, and he delivered his lines with all the urgency of Roger Moore’s James Bond, like he might fall asleep before the end of the sentence. But there was something about him, something in the way he carried himself, that told anyone who was interested that, for all his laid-back attitude, he was not to be messed with. He was reputed to have shot an IRA gunman in Belfast in the early nineties before the first ceasefire, finishing him off when he could have taken him alive. It was something he neither confirmed nor denied, but you could believe that he’d done it. He was that sort of bloke.
I gave them a brief rundown of my meeting with Fowler, and what I’d found out since, which wasn’t a lot, to be honest. Joe and I had both asked around to see if anyone knew anything about Roy Fowler and the Arcadia, but the only person who had any information at all was Charlie White, another ex-soldier who did occasional doorwork for clubs north of the river, and all he could tell me was that he’d heard it had a drugs problem.
‘Surprise fucking surprise,’ said Eric. ‘They’ve all got a drugs problem. So, do you think there’s going to be trouble?’ He didn’t sound like the prospect bothered him too much.
I gave him one of the most confident looks I could muster. ‘Not when they see us, there won’t be.’
‘Famous last words,’ said Tony, in that enigmatic way of his. But then, he’d never been the sort to look on the bright side.
We were picking up Fowler from a pub in Farringdon Street, not far from the Underground station. It was a busy late summer evening and darkness was beginning to settle on the lively streets of Clerkenwell as they filled up with revellers. Traffic was still bad even at this time, and I jumped out of the car fifty yards short of the pick-up point, leaving it idling in a typical urban snarl-up.
The place was crowded with students and the younger end of the office-worker crowd so Fowler, with his bad-news fake tan and middle-aged side parting, stood out like a sore thumb. He was sat at a poky little table in the corner, just in front of the Ladies, nursing a Red Bull and looking like someone had just caught him fucking an under-age girl. He was nervous — nervous and shifty — and even from some distance away I could make out the sheen of sweat on his forehead.
