After Fowler had gone, I tried Johnny Hexham’s number, wanting to know if there was any information he could give me about the nightclub owner and the situation at his place, but he wasn’t answering, so I put in a call to my partner, Joe Riggs, on the office number.
‘Tiger Solutions.’
I cringed like I always did when I heard that name. Tiger Solutions. I should never have let him talk me into that one. Joe reckoned it made the punters think they were dealing with a tough outfit; I thought it made us sound like a fucking wildlife charity.
‘Joe, it’s Max.’
‘Max. How’d it go with Fowler?’
I told him what the deal was, and the amount of money on offer. Joe whistled through his teeth. ‘That’s a lot of cash. It’s getting close to half of what we pulled in in the whole of last month. And in readies, too. What’s the catch?’
‘The buyers are the type who could turn nasty. And this Fowler, there’s definitely something dodgy about him.’
Joe laughed. ‘He’s a nightclub owner, what do you expect? They’re all dodgy, but no worse than some of the people we have to protect. Anyway, let’s not turn down anything this lucrative.’
Like I said, money was always the key. You never want to say no to it. I didn’t mention anything about Fowler demanding that I carry a gun on the night. There was no point. It would just complicate matters. As it 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
