Hustle, p.4
Hustle, page 4
Henry nervously bit his lip, while Rafe closed the room door behind them. As it shut he saw Nina Glass staring at him through the shadows, her eyes coal-black and angry. In the hall light, Rafe saw his young brother’s brow furrowed with anxiety and realised he’d age badly – forty years from now, though the boyishness would never entirely leave him, the smooth skin would be lined and puckered: Henry was a worrier. And he was worrying now. Rafe glanced at Coco’s untroubled face, the contrast inescapable, and for a moment regretted bringing him into this. He rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Have I ever let you down, Henry? Tell the truth.’
‘Never.’
‘Not even once?’
‘Not even once.’
He prompted him. ‘The time you ran away? I went after you. What about that?’
‘I was a child.’
‘But I made you come back with me. You didn’t want to and I made you.’
‘You knew there was nowhere for me to go. You were looking out for me.’
Rafe nodded. ‘Because you were my brother and I loved you.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then, why would I stop now?’
Henry hesitated. Rafe was smarter than him, smarter than anybody, twisting him in circles with clever words as he’d been doing as long as he could remember. He shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t. Of course, you wouldn’t.’
‘So, when I tell you not to go near her again, I want you to listen. She’s Luke Glass’ sister. Do you understand what that means?’
‘She’s dangerous.’
Coco sneered. ‘She’s trash.’
Rafe glared at her. ‘The Glass family run half of London.’
Coco said, ‘And they’re still trash. I can smell the high-rise from here.’
Rafe returned his attention to Henry. ‘Dangerous, yes. But only if we give her the upper hand.’
Henry was still waiting for somebody to tell him what had gone on in Poland Street. ‘Why not just let her go? She says you shot an old man.’
‘Forget what she says.’ He looked at Coco for help and got none. ‘Okay, the jeweller’s got crazy. We can’t go back and change it.’
‘I understand that, except it doesn’t have to go any further. It could stop, couldn’t it?’
A light came on behind Rafe’s eyes. He’d always been pushing back against the world. Whatever had gone wrong in Poland Street had changed him: this wasn’t the brother Henry had known all his life.
Rafe scratched his ear and spoke as if it hadn’t occurred to him. ‘Yes, I suppose it could, only where’s the fun in that? Ask yourself this: do you seriously believe we can’t get the better of some ragtags from south of the river?’
‘Why would we even try?’
‘Because it’ll be the most exciting thing you’ll ever do.’
‘She says you’re going to kill her. Are you? Is that what’s going to happen?’
‘Julian wants to.’
Henry lost patience with him. ‘Fuck Julian. Actually, fuck all of you.’
Rafe put his arm round him. ‘Relax. Nobody’s going to die. Luke Glass will pay what we ask, we’ll have won, and his sister can go back to her tawdry existence.’
Coco broke in again. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, tell the boy the truth.’
‘Shut up, Coco, I’m handling this.’
She stepped between them. ‘Rafe is trying to protect you. He doesn’t want his young brother spooked. I don’t have his sensitivities.’
‘Coco, don’t!’
‘We left two people dead in Soho. The bitch you were getting cosy with knows who we are, which means we do her now or we do her later. That’s the reality, Henry. Accept it, you’ll sleep better. I promise.’
5
Day 2: Friday
Except for the light in an upstairs window, the King of Mesopotamia was blacked out – no surprise at five minutes to six on a freezing December morning, weeks before Christmas. Driving from my flat had been slow, cautiously edging through deserted streets transformed by snow that kept coming down. On another day, I would’ve given up. Weather or no weather, that wasn’t an option.
Women went missing every day in the city.
Other women. Not my sister.
Not Nina.
My mobile ringing on the bedside cabinet hadn’t wakened me. I wasn’t asleep. Down the line Mark Douglas sounded calm though his insides had to be churning. As he spoke guilt seeped into my bones and, suddenly, I felt cold – in my hurry to get to the Egyptian lady I’d forgotten Nina. When Shani had stepped into the Merc, I’d lost interest in the party and taken a black cab home.
Nina’s history was against her. More than once she’d pulled a no-show, usually because it wound Danny up. Since Douglas had come into her life, she’d quit running to every man that caught her eye and become almost domesticated. Almost. Sister No. 1 was still well capable of leading the rest of us a merry dance if she felt like it. Nina had Glass blood in her veins; she could be wild. But putting what she had with Douglas in danger, risking the most solid relationship she’d ever known for a fling with a stranger, would take recklessness to a new level.
I didn’t believe it.
The temperature on the dashboard said minus three. When I’d left my flat it had been minus two: the white-out was just getting started. Wherever Nina was, I hoped to God she wasn’t out in it.
I let myself in, climbed the stairs and opened the door. This had been Danny’s office, then mine. We’d built an empire from behind this desk though my memories weren’t fuzzy and warm.
Anything but.
Mark Douglas sat across from George Ritchie; they looked up when I came in. The similarities between them were few. George was an old-school villain who’d been in the game most of his life, a shrewd operator, in his day, the hardest man to come out of Newcastle. Douglas was a disgraced ex-copper from Glasgow, another hard man, who’d proved himself against people who’d fancied taking over what was mine. Good guys, both of them. Unfortunately, working together had been a problem and still was. Before I got here the silences would’ve been longer than the conversation.
Glasses and a bottle of fifteen-year-old Glenfarclas sat untouched in front of them, liquid amber, shimmering like a mirage. George poured three fingers into a tumbler and pushed it towards me. ‘Charley’s on her way. Felix won’t make it. Driving from the East End in this shit is a big ask.’
‘How’s he doing?’
‘All right. Now Jonas Small isn’t around some of the locals have crawled out of the woodwork.’
‘Serious?’
Ritchie swirled the whisky in his glass and dismissed my concerns. ‘Nuisance value. Don’t worry about it.’
‘I won’t, George, that’s what I pay you to do.’
Douglas took no part in the discussion – I doubted he was even aware of it. He was wearing the clothes he’d had on in the club, sitting straight, ignoring the whisky, his expression carved in stone. And I realised my initial assessment of him on the phone had been right: Douglas was in love with Nina. For him more than anybody, this was personal.
I said, ‘What do we know?’
He drew a breath from deep inside. ‘I spoke to her late on yesterday afternoon. She told me she’d meet me later. She had something she needed to do.’
‘Did she say what it was?’
‘I didn’t ask. Nina does her own thing. But the last few weeks she’s been… strange.’
‘You mentioned last night that she’d been secretive lately. What did you mean?’
‘Hard to describe. I wondered if…’
I repeated the point he’d reluctantly hinted at in the club.
‘There was somebody else?’
He nodded, slowly. ‘Actually, yes. Nina could have anybody she wanted.’
‘And she wanted you.’
We hadn’t heard Charley come in. She shook snow off her coat and stamped her feet; hours earlier, she’d hijacked me on the dance floor in LBC. I studied her for tell-tale signs she was hungover and didn’t find any. Both Nina and Charley worked hard and played harder. When it came to drinking, they could slug it out with the best. Charley looked as good as she had in the club. Some women are showstoppers – they just are: Sister No. 2 was one of them. Under the dark-blue coat with its fur-lined collar, she was wearing flared trousers and a black polo neck that highlighted her red hair and I remembered her dramatic entrance the first time I’d met her in this office the day she’d announced who she was and tossed her birth certificate defiantly on the desk to prove it.
A painted nail pointed at the whisky. ‘Got one of those for me, George? Hope so, it’s like the bloody Arctic out there.’
Ritchie produced a glass and poured. He hadn’t forgotten her arrival in our lives any more than I had. With Nina and Mark Douglas, she made it three out of four who didn’t want George Ritchie around. I was the boss and I did, so the rest would have to live with it.
Charley watched the liquid climb the inside of the tumbler. ‘Any word?’
We didn’t reply. She lifted the whisky, swallowed a third of it and finished the statement she’d started at the door. ‘You’re right, Mark, Nina could have anybody. But it’s you she’s in love with. Wherever she is, there isn’t anybody else involved.’
Ritchie’s face said he wasn’t certain about that. ‘I’ve already checked the hospitals. I can try them again.’
Douglas said, ‘And the police – she might’ve been in an accident.’
I let them get on with eliminating the obvious possibilities; they might turn up something – a part of me wanted them to. At least we’d know – but I didn’t kid myself. If Nina had been in an accident we’d have heard, or, worst-case scenario, had a visit from two awkward uniforms sent to deliver the news to the family.
I said, ‘Okay, let’s do this. Charley’s sure there isn’t another man. For what it’s worth, I agree. The last six months have been the happiest I’ve ever seen Nina. That’s down to you, Mark. An accident might be a possibility, except we would’ve been told. What does that leave?’
George understood the question and answered it. ‘It’s been quiet on our side. I mean, really quiet. There hasn’t been a serious move against us in long enough.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘Not south of the river.’ He fingered the stubble on his chin. ‘Now and again some idiot steals something that doesn’t belong to him. Maybe he’ll be lucky and get away with it. If he pulls the same stunt again, he’ll get slapped-up for his trouble. Broken bones keep the peace.’
‘What about the East End? You said Felix was getting hassle.’
Ritchie rotated the whisky glass between his fingers, considering his response. Experience had taught George it was prudent to never say more than was necessary. ‘Jonas is singing in the heavenly choir but a few locals liked things the way they were.’
‘Give me a name.’
He shook his head. ‘Foolish people. Nothing Felix can’t handle.’
‘Some of them might be feeling brave.’
‘They’d have to be more than brave to lift one of your sisters. I don’t reckon it.’
I turned to Douglas. ‘Anything at LBC?’
He dug deep, more for my benefit than his, and managed a wry smile, which couldn’t have been easy. ‘Our members wouldn’t dream of getting their hands dirty. They’re already rich. What would be the motive? And Nina hasn’t been to the club in months.’
Charley had preferred to listen rather than talk, allowing Ritchie and Douglas to say what they had to. So far, it wasn’t anything we could use. She put her drink down, cut through the speculation, and steered the conversation in a different direction. ‘She told you she had somewhere to go. Okay, where’s her car? Where did she park?’ The questions made sense. ‘Everybody parks as close as they can to where they’re going, don’t they?’
Douglas seized on it. ‘The police can get that information, we can’t.’
I said, ‘Not officially. At least not in a timeframe that’s any good to us.’
It was the wrong thing to say and set him off. ‘Officially or unofficially, I couldn’t care less if it helps Nina.’
‘I understand how you feel about her, Mark. Give it a couple of hours. If we haven’t heard anything I’ll contact some people.’
‘Why wait?’
‘Because we aren’t sure what we’re dealing with. Bringing in the police is the last resort.’
It wasn’t true. A man in my position had secrets – being able to reach into the heart of the Metropolitan Police Force any time I wanted was one of them. As soon as the meeting ended, I’d be getting my tame copper out of his comfortable bed in Hendon. Mark Douglas and Charley weren’t in the loop about Oliver Stanford – that was how it was going to stay.
Danny used to say, ‘Three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead.’ He wasn’t wrong. George Ritchie knew about Stanford. So did Nina. Already more than was wise.
I drained the whisky. ‘George, put the word out on the streets. Mark, talk to the girls in Glass Houses and check Nina’s emails. See if there’s anything unusual in them.’
‘Such as?’
Douglas was better than that; he was too close to be any use. I buried my reservations. ‘Set up traces on yours, mine, and Charley’s phones in case…’ I let the sentence go and barked instructions. ‘And get a look at the CCTV footage at her flat and the office while you’re at it.’
‘How far back?’
‘From when she first started acting differently.’
Charley said, ‘What do you want from me?’
‘Discreetly ask your girls if they know anything. Hopefully, some time today we’ll have word about the car.’
Mark Douglas was cracking; he needed more. ‘And until then are we expected to sit on our fucking hands?’
‘Until then, we wait, so yeah, get comfortable.’
6
Oliver Stanford cradled the cup of decaf coffee, enjoying the warmth of it against his palms. By habit and inclination, the senior officer was an early riser, normally behind his desk at New Scotland Yard well before his colleagues. Not today. Beyond the kitchen window, under a black sky, the lawn ran to the trees at the bottom covered in snow. The garden, and everything in it, was his wife Elise’s domain – she was always busy with some task or other. His contribution could be measured in pound notes. In spring, when the flowers were in bloom, her efforts were spectacularly rewarded; they’d spent many evenings on the patio, a glass of chilled white wine in one hand, a book in the other, enjoying each other’s company and the peace a world away from the ugliness and chaos of central London.
This morning, it was unrecognisable.
He considered having a car collect him rather than driving himself and rejected the idea; the main roads into town wouldn’t be clear. His dogs were waiting for him, tails wagging, anticipating the walk he took them on every day before he left for the city.
Stanford opened the door and shivered. ‘Sorry, boys. It’s brass monkeys out there. The garden is the best we can do.’
His mobile vibrated in his pocket. He fished it out, checked caller ID and blanched: Luke Glass only used this phone if it was an emergency. Recently, Stanford had heard nothing from the gangster and wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. As long as the money kept showing up in the private account every month, he wasn’t complaining. His relationship with the family had begun with Danny – a mad-arse of the first order, vicious and mercurial. He’d dropped out of the picture, thank God. Luke was running things – smarter, less reactive and more ambitious, but, beneath the surface, as ruthless as his brother had ever been.
Glass didn’t waste words. ‘I’m messaging you a car reg. Find out where it’s parked or if it’s been involved in an accident.’
‘What make?’
‘Renault Alpine A11O. Blue.’
‘Nice. Who’s the owner?’
‘Nina.’
‘An accident’s easy. Where it’s parked could take a while unless it’s been abandoned or impounded. What’s going on?’
‘Don’t ask. All I want to know is where she’s left it.’
‘Talk sense. She could be parked in somebody’s drive. Are you sure she’s even in London?’
‘Right now, I’m not sure of anything.’
‘I’ll file it as a stolen vehicle with my name as the contact, though your sister won’t like it if she gets pulled over.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Get on it as soon as you get to the Yard.’
Stanford watched the snow falling relentlessly. ‘Have you looked outside? It’s like the North Pole out there. I’ll be lucky to get to the end of the road, let alone the Embankment.’
Glass growled down the line. ‘Don’t mess me about, Oliver. I need that information and I need it now. Get there! Even if you have to hire a team of Siberian fucking huskies.’
Constance Greyland peered over her sunglasses at Florian arguing with one of the houseboys at the side of the pool; when he was bored, he found fault with everything, including her. Last night at dinner he’d got drunk, caused a scene – the latest in a long line – and embarrassed both of them. She recognised the signs. Florian didn’t know it but he was heading for the exit: men were like taxis – another one would be along in a minute.
She heard him swear and called to him. ‘What’s the trouble?’
‘It’s these damned waiters. I asked for a G & T ten minutes ago and it still hasn’t arrived.’
‘Perhaps they’re busy.’
‘Too busy to do their job? Heart lazy more like it. Next time, let’s go somewhere else. Somewhere we’re appreciated.’
Constance frowned and went back to her book. There was no point in arguing with him in this mood. One of them would be going somewhere else and it wouldn’t be her: Florian had outstayed his welcome, forgetting who was paying his drinks bill, starting to believe he deserved the comfortable life he enjoyed. At her expense. Sad in a way – she’d liked him. Not enough to put up with his crap. If he didn’t pull his socks up, he’d be back in England and out on the street by Christmas.
