Junk lay all over the living room, except for a clear path between the threadbare sofa and the TV. The smell of weed hung heavy in the air. The guy with the shaved head sat slumped on the sofa, gazing towards the TV. He had a distinctive spider web tattoo that spread from his neck to his ear. The smudge on his forehead turned out to be a third eye inked between his brows.
Scully pointed at him. “That’s Mince on the couch. Mince, say hello to Coley.”
“Huh?” Mince looked up, grunted something and returned to staring at the TV.
“Mince? He a bandit or what?”
“Wanna ask him that?”
Cole glanced at Mince and thought again. “Nah.”
“Smart move, fella. It’s Mince as in minced meat. Said he brained someone once.” Scully shook his head. “Said it reminded him of mince.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Cole pointed at the TV. “Does he know the sound is off?”
Scully shrugged and pointed to a large joint sitting in an ashtray. A narrow plume of smoke rose from the tip and dissipated halfway to the ceiling. “Mince is someplace else, fella. See, he oughta be at a ton forty an ounce. If I wasn't someplace else after smoking that stuff, I’d be demanding a refund. A refund with menaces.” He looked Cole in the eye. “Know what I mean? Anyway, best let him alone. He don't like to be disturbed. Now, show me what you got.”
Cole took out the tin and prised open the lid with care. “I need keys made from these impressions.”
“Two?”
“Yeah, one of each. I don’t know which is the real one.”
Scully took the tin and examined it. “Can’t guarantee these’ll work, fella. These are a bitch to make.”
“Can you do it?”
“No. But maybe I know a bloke?”
“How much?”
“£200. Half now. The rest on delivery.”
Cole raised an eyebrow. “For both?”
“Yeah. Both.”
“How long?”
“Two days.”
“Fuck that. I need them in the morning.”
Scully sucked through his crooked teeth. “Could be a problem. I don’t do them myself. Gotta find the appropriate locksmith. Takes time.”
“You having a laugh? It’s a 30 minute job. And you said you knew a guy.”
“I said maybe, fella.” Scully spread his hands. “An extra £50 and I’ll have them in the morning.”
“Christ. All right. £100 now, another £150 tomorrow.” Cole counted out the notes and got up to leave.
“Hey, now we’ve done the business, you wanna try some of this ton forty weed?”
Cole looked to the sofa. Mince was now staring at the ceiling. He blinked slowly, as if the effort of raising his eyelids took too much energy. The extra eye tattooed on his forehead fascinated Cole. It was like Mince still watched everything around him, even in the depths of stupor. “Nah. Think I’ll pass.”
Scully shrugged. “Your loss.”
Scully held the door open, and Cole stopped on his way out. “Them keys don't work, mate, I’ll be the one demanding a refund. With menaces. Know what I mean?”
Scully reached out and grabbed Cole by the shoulder. Cole felt the fingers bite in, but he didn't flinch. Instead he stared Scully down.
“Look here, fella,” Scully said. “Here’s how it is. You don't fuck with me and I don't fuck with you.” Scully stared right at him. Never blinked once.
Cole nodded. “All right. But hand off the shoulder. Now.”
Scully withdrew his hand. “We got an understanding here, fella?”
“Yeah,” Cole said. “We do.”
When he got to the street, Cole rubbed his shoulder. There’d be a bruise later. He spat onto the street and lit a cigarette. Nobody does that to King Cole. There might come a day to settle Scully’s mark. But only after he got the keys to Alice Madsen’s house. That bitch’s mark was a lot bigger and her settlement would be a lot higher. He grinned at what he would do to her. In the meantime, he’d send another tweet.
46
Alice ate breakfast alone in the hotel. Her head throbbed to the beat of another hangover and she berated herself for drinking too much the previous night. Connie and Lucas had drunk less, they used the sensible excuse of having work in the morning. Perhaps I should quit, she thought. Or at least cut down.
She glanced at her phone to get the time. Kasper would be here soon. She downed the last of a large glass of water and walked out to the lobby. Fifteen minutes passed while she caught up with news from London on her phone. The police charged Samir Hassan with multiple terrorist offences. A male relative was currently in custody, helping with enquiries. They released three others after questioning, including a 31 year old foreign woman. She read the paragraph several times. The pall of suspicion would linger long after the event. That’s me, she thought. A suspicious 31 year old foreign woman. But I’m not foreign here. Copenhagen was true home, despite not feeling like it.
A man walked towards her. She heard his footsteps on the tiles and looked up at his approach. Was it over two years since she'd seen him? Her brother looked older than 38. His hair was thinning, and he looked tired and gaunt. His body too thin for his clothes, as if he was too busy preparing food for others to eat any himself. When she got to her feet and embraced him, the acrid smell of stale tobacco filled her lungs.
“Alice, hi.”
“Hello Kasper. You look like you’re working too hard.”
“Never stop. I don't have long this morning either. A supplier on Skindergade is waiting for me. I have a problem with the dishwasher. The temperature is too high for the wine glasses. They
