‘Does the company name mean anything to you? Dagmar Holdings?’
‘John, the Holtzes have God knows how many front companies washing their money. I honestly can’t remember them all individually. But I promise I’ll look into it for you.’
I could tell that Malik was beginning to think of me as an irritant, and I could hardly blame him. I might have unearthed a few matters that needed explanation, but in the end I had absolutely nothing concrete, and it was the concrete stuff that any police officer needed.
‘You know, Asif, you’re always looking for a way into the Holtzes. If what I spoke about to you yesterday … If that actually happened, think what it could mean. Someone would definitely open his mouth.’
‘Ifs and maybes, John. At the moment the most important thing is trying to prevent some sort of gang war breaking out, and that means finding out which madmen decided it would be a good idea to snatch Krys Holtz.’
‘Do me one favour.’
‘What?’
‘I’m going to ask DCI Knox to authorize a full search of Franks’s house for any traces that might back up my theory. I’d like to add that I’ve got your support for it as well. Please. If I can turn something up, I’m sure it’ll help your investigations. If I don’t, then it’s no loss to you.’
Malik thought about it for a moment, then, deciding that it was probably easier to agree than put up with more hassle, said he would. ‘But that’s the extent of my involvement. Is that clear?’
‘As daylight.’ I patted him on the shoulder. ‘Thanks. I owe you one.’
* * *
It was two hours before Berrin and I finished taking statements at Heavenly Girls. A number of the clientele and staff were severely traumatized, including one of the security people, a huge ex-boxer who’d had the misfortune to witness what was left of the two shot men, and who now kept bursting into tears, so it hadn’t been an easy task.
The rain had stopped by the time the two of us descended the steps to the street. The van we’d been travelling around in all night remained parked further up and I could make out Ramsay behind the wheel eating a sandwich, lazy bastard.
‘Sarge?’ said Berrin as we walked along.
I yawned. It was half two in the morning, a long way past my bedtime. ‘Yes, Dave?’
‘Have you got a problem with me?’
I stopped and looked at him, and realized how difficult I’d made things for him lately. ‘Of course I haven’t. I’m sorry about the last few days. I’ve been trying to follow up on a couple of theories I’ve got, and I suppose I didn’t want to share them until they’d come to something.’
‘But we’re working together on this. I need to know what’s happening otherwise I’m not going to be of any use to you at all.’
‘No, I understand that.’
‘So what was it you were talking to the SO7 bloke about?’
I sighed. ‘A theory I’m working on, but a real vague one.’ And it was vague, too, but I was sure there was something in it.
Berrin lit a cigarette. ‘Well, let’s hear it then. You never know, I might even be able to help.’
So I told him. By the time I’d finished talking, it had started to rain again. ‘What do you think?’ I asked, wondering if I was really any good at man management.
Berrin finished his cigarette and chucked it in the gutter. ‘I think I hope it isn’t right because if it is then it’s a gruesome chain of events. But it wouldn’t totally surprise me, you know. I reckon it’s got the ring of truth about it.’
‘So do I,’ I said. ‘So do I.’
Thursday, three days ago
Iversson
It was just after nine a.m. and raining hard when I stepped into a phone box on Seven Sisters Road. I dialled the number of a restaurant owned by Stefan Holtz. A foreign-sounding gentleman answered on about the tenth ring. ‘L’Espagnol,’ he grunted miserably, which I thought was a bit cheeky. I might have been a punter looking to book a table, and that sort of tone would have put me right off.
‘Tell Stefan Holtz that the man from Heavenly Girls wants to get hold of him. He’s got a message from Krys. I’m going to call this number back in fifteen minutes and I want to speak to him then.’
The guy on the other end didn’t speak and I hung up, getting out of the phone box and walking along the street in the direction of Camden Road. Fifteen minutes later, I entered another phone box on York Road and dialled the L’Espagnol number again. This time it was answered on the first ring by the same guy as before. ‘I’ve got a number to ring,’ he told me hurriedly. I wrote it down and rang off without further comment, then dialled it.
Four rings later and Stefan Holtz was on the line. ‘Where the fuck’s my son?’ were his first words, delivered in a rough north London rasp that made me think I’d been daft to start smoking again.
‘He’s unhurt. If you want to see him again it’ll cost you half a million quid in cash, used fifties. You’ve got twenty-four hours to come up with the money otherwise we’ll chop his head off, and use his quiff as a bog brush.’
‘If you fucking touch him, I’ll rip you limb from limb.’
‘I’m going to call back tomorrow morning at this time with further instructions.’
‘I need more fucking time,’ said Holtz, the first signs of desperation in his voice. For all his money and influence, he was powerless in the current situation, and he knew it.
I put the phone down, confident that he’d follow the instructions he’d been set. The two bodies left behind the previous night should have been proof enough of that. I was pissed off that we’d had to kill two men to get what we wanted, particularly since the whole thing had almost gone completely
