‘Remind me again who I am?’ said Sharpe.
‘Don’t be a tosser all your life,’ said Shepherd. ‘Come on, let’s sit down. Might as well get ourselves a good view of the door.’
They were both using legends that they’d used before. Sharpe was James Gracie, a Scottish criminal who’d served time for armed robbery in the eighties before moving out to the Costa del Sol, from where he ran his arms business. The legend was rock-solid and even a check on the Police National Computer would come up with Gracie’s record. He’d used it several times over the years.
Shepherd sat down at the table, choosing a seat that allowed him a clear view of the entrance. Sharpe sat a few seats away so that he was directly facing the ring.
There were unopened bottles of red and white wine on the table. Sharpe reached for one and sneered at the label. ‘Cheap plonk. Fancy champagne?’
‘Let’s wait until the guys get here,’ said Shepherd. ‘We can make a show of it.’
Guests were moving into the hall and taking their places. A group headed for the VIP table, including a large black man wearing a floppy pink hat and what appeared to be a black mink coat, and a good-looking black man with a greying moustache, dressed in a sharp suit.
‘That’s John Conteh, isn’t it?’ said Sharpe, nodding at the man with the moustache.
‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. ‘What is he, sixty? I hope I look that good when I’m sixty.’
‘Do you think he runs marathons with a rucksack of bricks on his back?’
‘I don’t run marathons, you soft bastard.’
The VIP table began to fill up. Sitting next to Conteh was a sharp-faced man in a beige suit. He was talking animatedly to the heavyweight boxer and demonstrating an uppercut to the chin. Like most of the guests on the top table his head was shaved.
Four stunningly pretty black girls, as tall and willowy as supermodels, walked to one table followed by four heavyset men in Italian suits. Shepherd recognised one of the men; he was a well-known drug dealer based in Beckenham, south London. He looked over at Sharpe to see if he’d spotted him and Sharpe nodded.
‘Problem?’ asked Sharpe.
Shepherd shook his head. He’d worked on a case involving the drug dealer but had never met him. Shepherd saw Kettering and Thompson at the doorway but kept his face blank. Edwards and Gracie had never met the two men so they had to wait until they’d been introduced. ‘Here we go,’ he whispered to Sharpe. Then in a louder voice he began telling Sharpe a joke about a one-legged safecracker. He stopped when Kettering and Thompson arrived at their table.
Kettering grinned amiably. ‘You James and Garry?’ he said.
Shepherd stood up. ‘I’m Garry,’ he said, and held out his hand. Kettering shook it. He had a firm grip and Shepherd squeezed back hard.
‘Simon,’ Kettering said. He shook hands with Sharpe, and then introduced Thompson. ‘This is Paul.’ Thompson shook hands with them both and then they took their seats. Kettering sat on Shepherd’s left and Thompson sat between Shepherd and Sharpe. ‘Well, Ian speaks very highly of you two.’ Ian Parton was the cover name that Fenby was using.
‘Yeah, he’s a riot is Ian,’ said Shepherd. ‘He’s not here?’
‘Nah, don’t think he’s much of a boxing fan,’ said Kettering. ‘Football’s his game.’ He winked at Shepherd. ‘You a boxing fan, Garry?’
‘I like a good punch-up,’ said Shepherd. He nodded at Sharpe. ‘James is the pugilist. That accounts for his battered face.’
Sharpe laughed. ‘Yeah, I boxed a bit when I was a kid,’ he said. ‘What brings you down to the Big Smoke?’ he asked Thompson.
‘We’ve got a couple of fighters here,’ said Thompson. ‘We support a youth club in Birmingham and Harry was looking for some fighters who weren’t local so we said we’d bring our boys down.’
‘Harry?’ said Shepherd.
‘Harry’s organised tonight,’ Thompson said. ‘It’s a fundraiser for his club. Next time we have a fundraiser in Birmingham he’ll repay the favour.’
More people were arriving and the room was echoing with conversation and laughter. The guests were mainly men and the few women who were there looked as if they could well be charging by the hour.
Sharpe waved a waiter over. ‘Get me a bottle of Bollinger, will you?’ he said. He pointed at the bottles of wine on the table. ‘I can’t drink this crap.’
Kettering saw what he was doing. ‘What’s the problem, James?’
‘No problem,’ said Sharpe. ‘Just fancy a drop of bubbly. I’ll pay for it.’
‘You bloody won’t,’ said Kettering. ‘Tonight’s on me.’ He pointed a finger at the waiter. ‘What champagne have you got? Got any Cristal?’
‘Bollinger and Moet,’ said the waiter.
‘Two bottles of Bollinger,’ said Kettering. ‘And the bill comes to me, right?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the waiter, and he headed for the bar.
Two men appeared at their table. Big men with weightlifters’ forearms and bulging necks that suggested years of steroid use. Kettering stood up, walked round the table and hugged them both, then introduced them to Shepherd and Sharpe. ‘Terry and Tony,’ he said. The two men sat down and started chatting to Thompson.
‘They’re brothers,’ Kettering said to Shepherd. ‘Kickboxing champions, both of them.’
‘Who else is on our table?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Couple of pals of Harry’s, and three or four of my mates, assuming they can make it,’ said Kettering. ‘Don’t worry, you’re among friends.’
‘I’m not worried,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m just not sure it’s the most secure place for a meeting.’
Kettering laughed. ‘We’re just here to watch some boxing and have a bite to eat,’ he said. He leaned towards Shepherd, so close that Shepherd could smell the man’s aftershave, sweet with the scent of lime. ‘The thing is, Garry, we need to trust each other. Am I right? You don’t know us and we don’t know you but this way we get to feel each other out. See how the land lies.’
‘Point taken,’ said Shepherd. ‘But I hope at some point we can talk business.’
Kettering nodded enthusiastically. ‘You can count on it,’ he said.
The waiter returned with two bottles of champagne in individual ice buckets. He was followed by another waiter who was carrying a tray of champagne flutes. The first waiter popped the cork of one of the bottles while his colleague placed the glasses on the table. Two more men arrived at the table: one, obese, in a dark-blue suit, his hands festooned with gold rings, the other tall and thin with a shaved head and a large diamond stud in one ear. Kettering introduced them to everyone else at the table. The fat man was Davie, a scrap-metal merchant; the thin man was Ricky, a property developer.
Once all their glasses were filled, Kettering clinked his against Shepherd’s. ‘Here’s to swimming with bow- legged women,’ he said.
Shepherd sipped his champagne and smacked his lips appreciatively, even though he didn’t really like the taste. ‘I love a drop of bubbly,’ he said.
‘Big fan of Cristal, myself,’ said Kettering.
‘Yeah, you can’t beat Cristal,’ said Shepherd. He raised his glass to Sharpe. ‘Me and James, we knocked back half a case one night, remember?’
‘I remember the bloody hangover, that’s about all,’ laughed Sharpe. He leaned over and clinked his glass against Shepherd’s.
‘Then it couldn’t have been Cristal because you never get a hangover from Cristal,’ said Kettering. ‘You get what you pay for.’ He touched his glass against Shepherd’s again. ‘Anyway, great to finally meet you. Ian tells me good things.’
‘I hope he’s not told you too much,’ said Shepherd. ‘Wouldn’t want my name being taken in vain in Brummie- land.’
The doors to the kitchen burst open and a dozen waiters filed out carrying trays. The first course was a prawn cocktail served in stainless-steel bowls, followed by roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, roast potatoes and vegetables. Kettering made small talk with Shepherd while they ate.
As the plates were being taken away, Kettering ordered another two bottles of champagne, then he patted
