17
I woke up the next morning with a sore head. It was difficult to tell whether it was courtesy of the whacks on it I'd received the previous morning, or the six pints of Pride I'd consumed on what was pretty much an empty stomach the previous night. Either way, I knew I needed some sustenance. I lay where I was for a while, my feet sticking out the end of the bed, mulling over whether it was worth going back to sleep for a few minutes or not, but the sound of kids running about and shouting in the corridor and the banging of doors coming from the floor below convinced me that it wasn't. I leaned over and picked up my watch from the floor. Five to nine. Late, for me.
I rose from my pit and showered and dressed, before heading into the big wide world. The weather outside was cold, grey and wet, and not unexpected for the time of year, but I didn't fancy spending very long in it, not now my blood had thinned from my time in the tropics. I found a newsagent's, bought the Sunday Times, Independent and News of the World, then ducked into an Italian cafe a couple of doors down and ordered a chicken-salad ciabatta with orange juice and coffee.
I ate in a booth next to the window while I read the papers. There wasn't a lot of interest: more violence in the Middle East; further warnings of the threat of Al Qaeda suicide bombers in London; a big article in the Sunday Times about pensions, the gist of which was that anyone retiring in twenty years wasn't going to have one. Which might have been true, but who wants to read about it over their cornflakes on their day of rest?
Only in the News of the World did I find any mention of my kidnapping and subsequent escape the previous day, and even that was very indirect. Under the headline DOG SLAIN DEFENDING MASTER on page five, there was a short piece describing how 'brave Alsatian' Tex and his owner, Ralph Hatcher, fifty-four, had stumbled across a suspected drug deal gone wrong while walking in woodland in Hertfordshire. The two of them had then been savagely attacked by several of the thugs involved, and Tex had died defending his master. Mr Hatcher had received facial injuries but had been discharged from hospital after treatment. And that was it, really. There was a photograph of a dog who may or may not have been Tex (it was hard to tell) staring at the camera with his tongue lolling out, but no photo of Hatcher. Obviously he wasn't interesting enough.
When I'd finished the ciabatta, I lit my first cigarette of the morning and smoked it all the way down to the butt. Did it taste good? Sure it did. Good enough for me not to feel guilty about it, anyway. I thought about phoning Emma, but it was still pretty early and I knew she wouldn't have anything for me yet. She'd probably still be in bed, and good luck to her. If you couldn't rest on a Sunday, when could you?
Instead, I ordered myself another coffee, lit cigarette number two and thought about my position. Emma Neilson had an inside link to the investigation of Malik's murder, and her information about the unnamed gangster was probably accurate. This guy clearly had a lot of resources at his disposal, including at least one copper working on the case, as well as the ability and ruthlessness to have a number of people killed. Obviously, I was going to have to find out who he was, but what then? He was a big player, which meant he was going to have serious protection. I remember once visiting the home of a major North London crime lord, Stefan Holtz, to question him in connection with the shooting of a business rival, and having to go through two sets of wrought-iron gates topped with barbed wire and a metal detector at the front door, and past at least ten moody-looking blokes in suits and half a dozen CCTV cameras before we finally got face to face with him in his office at the back of the house. Even then he sat ten feet away from us and four of his men remained in the room. People like that had enemies, and they weren't stupid. They took precautions. I was up against someone similar, someone I didn't even know, and all I had was a.45 revolver and six bullets. It didn't have the makings of a fair fight.
But that, of course, was the challenge.
18
The phone call finally came at half two in the afternoon while I was eating a lunch of fish soup with aioli mayonnaise in a small French place down in the West End on Goodge Street. I hadn't felt like heading back to the hotel after breakfast, and since there was a pause in the rain I'd started walking in the direction of the Thames, taking the opportunity to reacquaint myself with the sights and sounds of the city I'd left behind.
I put down my wine glass and pulled the phone from my pocket, wondering whether it was going to be Blondie, the man who'd claimed to be Les Pope, re-establishing contact. I hadn't heard from him in close to twenty- four hours, so was expecting to receive another of his threats at some point, now that it was obvious I'd missed my plane.
But this time a number was scrolling across the screen, so given his penchant for secrecy, I figured it wasn't him. I was right, too. It was Emma, and I felt a twinge of excitement at the sound of her voice. I think I was getting sad in my old age.
'How was last night?' I asked her.
She made a dismissive noise. 'It was all right. Nothing special. I spent a lot of money and I've got a hangover. Like a lot of Sunday mornings, really.'
'Well, take it easy for the rest of the day. That's what Sundays are for.'
'Do you think I've just been lying in bed, then?'
'No, of course not.'
'Because I haven't. I've been doing work. Work that you requested. You wanted Les Pope's home address.'
Suitably chastened, I asked if she'd got it.
She reeled off the address and phone number of a place in Hampstead, while I scribbled them down.
'He's been there two years,' she added, 'and he lives alone. I can't get hold of his mobile, though. I don't think there's one registered in his name. But you must have his number if you had his phone.'
'I've got it somewhere, don't worry about it. Did your article come out this morning?'
'Front page.'
I could hear the pride in her voice, and resisted the urge to remind her yet again to be careful. 'Well done. And thanks again for your help.'
'I haven't had a chance to look into Pope's background yet, but I will do. How are you planning to get him to talk, by the way?'
'I have my methods,' I answered cryptically, wondering about that myself.
'Don't do anything that's going to get you into trouble.'
'It's very nice of you to be concerned.'
She laughed. 'I don't want anything happening that's going to mess up the story.'
'I'll pretend I didn't hear that,' I said, thinking that that was the first time I'd actually heard her laugh. Maybe it was a good sign.
We said our goodbyes and I hung up and went back to my fish soup, which was tasty enough but curiously devoid of fish. I finished it off, though, then ordered a coffee and a slice of apple tart.
There was no point making my visit to the elusive Mr Pope on an empty stomach.
19
Grantley Court was a pleasant T-shaped cul-de-sac made up of large semi-detached mock-Georgian houses, built on a gentle incline a little way west of North End Road. It was a new development, five years old at most, and open plan in its design, so there were no hedges or walls blocking the view of the buildings or the uniformly turfed front gardens. No trees had been planted on the pavements, either, giving the road something of an exposed look, which didn't bode too well for any long-term observation of Pope's place.
I hadn't hurried there, preferring to arrive in darkness, which at that time of the year in southern England was usually with us by four o'clock. I got there just after four, following a lengthy journey by bus and foot. Pope's place, number twenty-two, was in the middle of the cul-de-sac, directly opposite the entrance and close to where the two strokes of the T joined. A newish silver Lexus was parked on the one-car driveway and a light was on on the ground
