From across the room Livingstone watched on with calm detachment. Tyrone’s fate had been sealed the moment Goliath strapped him to the chair. What had just happened was sad, he supposed, but the ever-present risk of meeting a violent end was a consequence of the lifestyle they all embraced. Everyone who played the game knew the risks, but they all thought it could never happen to them. Tyrone had made his choices in life, and those choices had led to his death. He should have made better choices.
Wrenching the bat free a moment later – Goliath was right, it was much easier the second time around – he stood back and evaluated his handiwork.
‘There, all done,’ he said.
Dropping the bat, Goliath ambled over to a metal dustbin at the far end of the room and began undressing. Everything went into the bin, even his shoes and underwear. When he was naked, he picked up a yellow packet of bleach wipes from a shelf and began vigorously rubbing his hands and arms with them. The used wipes also went into the bin. A new set of identical clothing was waiting for him on a hanger next to the bin.
A few minutes later, he led Livingstone back up the secret staircase to the manager’s office, poured them both a generous measure of Macallan whiskey, and invited his perspective client to take a seat in one of the armchairs by the coffee table.
‘So,’ he asked, once he had made himself comfortable on the sofa, ‘What would you have done in my place?’
‘Exactly the same,’ Livingstone replied, keeping his tone neutral. ‘Except…’
Goliath smiled knowingly. ‘I know what you’re thinking. Why kill them here?’
Livingstone nodded. It had been reckless to the point of stupidity, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted someone like that working for him.
‘Do you think I killed them here out of arrogance, a misguided belief that I am so good at my job I can kill with impunity?’
‘Is that why you did it?’ Livingstone asked, turning the question around.
Goliath shook his head slowly but firmly. ‘No, Fam, I killed them here because it is the safest place I could possibly have chosen.’ He sat back in his chair, a man totally at ease. ‘These men will eventually be reported missing,’ he explained. ‘Even scum like them have families who worry about them. Their bodies will never turn up, of course, but supposing the police did launch a murder enquiry at some point, it would never go anywhere.’
‘You seem very confident.’
‘I am. There’s nothing to link either of them to this club or to me. Our state-of-the-art CCTV system has been recording all night and, as it covers everywhere within the club, even the basement, any foul play would have been captured on film.’
‘The way you’ve fooled the basement camera is ingenious,’ Livingstone allowed. ‘But what happens when the Old Bill find footage of the dead men arriving at the club earlier in the day? That’ll cause you problems, especially as there won’t be any footage of them leaving.’
Goliath smiled indulgently. ‘Don’t worry, Fam. I’ve got it all covered. Tyrone and Drake were picked up miles from here, well away from any CCTV cameras. The van used to grab them was on false plates, so if the Feds check DVLA records they’ll be misdirected to a perfectly legitimate van that’s registered to the local authority. They won’t find anything incriminating if they examine that! As soon as the two fools were tasered and bundled into the van, my men took their mobile phones off them. The batteries and SIM cards were immediately removed, so the Feds won’t be able to work out their movements from their call data. My men rang ahead when they were nearing the club, and at that point the cameras were turned off for precisely four minutes, which was all the time they needed to drive into the rear car park, unload the prisoners, and depart. The routine will be repeated in the morning in order to allow the bodies, which will be neatly wrapped up in the thick plastic sheeting you saw on the basement floor, to be removed. Everything will be taken straight to a nearby incinerator, where a man we pay an obscene amount of money to turn a blind eye to our activities every now and again will make sure that they are cremated.’
It was incredibly clever, Livingstone had to admit. Although Goliath had killed two men on his property, the footage from the club’s doctored CCTV would refute that fact.
Livingstone slowly nodded his approval. ‘Impressive, bruv,’ he said.
‘Impressive enough to convince you to hire me, I hope?’ the giant said.
‘Before I answer that, tell me one thing. Why did you kill those men in front of me, a complete stranger? Surely the fewer witnesses the better?’
The giant chortled.’ Mr Livingstone, I have checked you out thoroughly. You are no stranger to death – in fact, the word is that you have personally killed at least three men.’
Livingstone had indeed killed three men, not that he was going to admit it. The first had tried to stab him because he was becoming too powerful; the second had sent the man who tried to stab him, and the third had shot Livingstone during a botched drugs robbery. No bodies had ever been found; the men had just disappeared. ‘Nothing was ever proved,’ he said.
Goliath beamed. “’Ha, of course not. You and I are kindred spirits. I felt it the moment we met. I have a good nose for people,’ he said, tapping it, ‘and I instinctively knew that I could trust you with my secret, unlike Tyrone downstairs.’
Goliath seemed to harbour an
