'We can cover it, guv. We got them Somalis down Plaistow, yeah? That's twenty-odd right there. Couple of trucks coming in from Bulgaria this week, pikey scum, obviously, but we can knock them out to the farms 'cause there's piss-all for them to do on the building sites. Bring in a few others we got lyin' around. No worries.'
The waitress, Agnieszka, had discreetly sidled up to the table and placed Tyzack's food in front of him, along with the juice and coffee. He gave her a flickering smile of acknowledgement, took a forkful of egg and salmon and went on with his conversation.
'Well, I certainly hope not, Foster. I'm supposed to be getting on a plane for America in less than four hours' time. I have important work to take care of and I don't want any distractions. Which reminds me, those Pakis up in Bradford, were you able to explain that they really could not be allowed to operate in our market?'
'Oh yeah, me and a few of the lads went up north, gave 'em a proper kicking. Happy days.'
'And the merchandise?'
'Yeah, we took the slappers, obviously. Stuck 'em in our places. Got 'em workin' the same night.'
'Excellent. Glad we got that sorted, at least. Now, piss off and replace the seventy Chinese. Chop-chop!'
Tyzack hung up. Foster Lafferty was a shaven-headed thug from the East London end of Essex, but dealing with him was really no different to maintaining control over a stroppy, rather insolent sergeant-major. In fact, running a criminal gang, Tyzack had discovered, was very much like being in the forces: the fact that he'd been killing people for drug-runners and traffickers rather than Her Majesty was really just a technicality. His success had, over time, enabled him to start up his own small firm, much like a platoon. This had grown in size and power so that he could now regard himself as the colonel of his own private regiment.
There were, of course, still more senior men from whom he took orders and for whom he carried out assignments. They were hardly the kind of individuals for whom he would have chosen to work, all things being equal, but at least there was always the professional satisfaction of a job well done. By poisoning Dey, for example, he had both removed a competitor and framed an enemy. And the cocktail cherry, that had been a sweet touch. After that, putting a bullet through the back of the pimp's head had been the perfect way to round off the evening.
As he sipped at his espresso, Tyzack wondered whether Carver felt the same way. Was it a pleasure to him, too? Deep down, perhaps, but a man that obsessed with his own righteousness would never admit it. Tyzack had gone to considerable trouble and expense to compile a detailed dossier on his old enemy's activities. He'd pulled a few strings, called in some favours and found his way to Percy Wake, the pompous old poof who'd run the Consortium, the secret group of wealthy, powerful individuals who'd given Carver most of his jobs and by doing so made him rich. Wake was living down in the country now, in disgrace, missing the old days, bored out of his mind and longing for some malice and intrigue to brighten up his life. When Tyzack had asked for his help to get at Samuel Carver, Wake had been only too happy to help. He'd spilled the beans about Carver's old operations and working methods. He'd even done a spot of recruiting on Tyzack's behalf. It had all worked out very nicely.
'Can I get you anything else?' The waitress had returned to the table.
'How kind of you to ask, Agnieszka. Just the bill, thanks.'
He bestowed another one of his smiles upon her, wondering if it was worth slipping the manager half a dozen fifties and taking her away right now. He looked at his watch as she put his card through the machine. No, he really ought to be on the way to Heathrow. He had one man to kill, another one to screw up. So he tapped out his pin-number on the keypad, left the girl a generous tip and walked off down the Fulham Road.
Work, work, work, thought Damon Tyzack. I deserve a nice break.
13
The first morning at the ranch, Carver woke up with something tangled round his right foot. He reached down and felt a length of satin ribbon attached to a sliver of silk and lace. He remembered pulling that ribbon and its twin, and a sleepy grin crossed his face.
He was alone in the bed. Carver reached for his watch and was startled to see it was gone ten in the morning. He brushed his teeth, put on his jeans and wandered downstairs, expecting to find Maddy, but the kitchen and living-room were empty. The previous day she'd given him the guided tour of the house and its outbuildings. It struck him she might be out at the stable, tending to her horses, so he fixed himself a coffee, grabbed a pair of dark glasses and went outside.
The air was already warm, well on the way from the relative cool of early morning to the pure, dry heat of midday, and the sun was bright enough to make him glad of the shades. He stopped for a second to look at the forest-covered mountains ringing the horizon, their jagged peaks stabbing into the cloudless blue sky. Carver lived in Geneva, he was used to a spectacular backdrop, but that didn't make this one any less impressive.
The stables were empty, but as Carver came back outside he heard country music coming from the open-fronted, three-bay garage nearby, so he ambled across the compound till he came to a radio, left on a concrete floor next to a plastic bottle of mineral water and an open toolkit. Maddy's German Shepherd, Buster, was lying asleep beside them. Her open-top, metallic champagne Ford Bronco truck was lifted up on jacks just beyond him.
A pair of feet in battered old workboots poked out from underneath the truck, attached to legs encased in oily blue dungarees. Carver took a sip of coffee, put down his cup and peered under the Bronco with an inquisitive frown on his face.
'Hello?'
There was a muffled, high-pitched 'Shit!' then the boot-heels pushed down on the concrete and pulled their owner out from under the truck on a low mechanic's trolley.
Maddy got to her feet. One hand held a wrench, the other was making a futile effort to neaten the hair pinned up on the back of her head. Rebellious dark brown strands had escaped and fallen either side of her face, which was bare of make-up, other than a few smears of motor-oil. The top of her dungarees was tied around her waist. All she was wearing above that was a cap-sleeved white T-shirt with the words '[semi]sweet' written across the chest. The shirt was lightly speckled in dust and grime, as was the strip of flat, caramel-tanned tummy peeking out beneath it.
'Shit!' she repeated. 'I was hoping to get this done before you got up. Figured you'd be out for hours, the way you were lying there, snoring like a big ol' hog.'
She stopped for a moment and looked at Carver. He suddenly realized he was grinning like a village idiot.
'Yeah, go ahead, laugh,' she said. 'I know I look like crap.'
'No, you don't, you don't at all,' he said, slowly shaking his head, but still unable to take the smile off his face. 'You look great.'
'I do?'
Now she was smiling too and the way she was looking at him had changed. Carver was suddenly uncomfortably aware that not only had he not bothered to shave before he came looking for her, he had not brushed his hair or even put on a shirt.
Maddy pulled off her gloves and ran a single finger down Carver's chest. 'Well, you don't look so bad yourself, Mr Six-Pack. Couldn't resist showing it off, huh?'
Her finger was still moving down.
He reached out for her backside and pulled her towards him.
'We can't!' she said, giggling. 'Not in front of Buster!'
'He's asleep,' he said, and kissed her bare neck. 'How about the back of the truck – reckon the jacks'll hold us?'
Carver started nibbling Maddy's ear. She squirmed with pleasure and whispered, 'You'd have to take it real slow and gentle. Think you can manage that?'
'I can try,' he said.