Hunter didn’t know how much Caldwell was making. Ten, fifteen grand a week, had to be. House down in the Borders apparently, more a castle than a house. Six cars, each one better than the Saab. Hunter wanted to be Caldwell. He knew he could be Caldwell. He was good enough. But Caldwell had the contacts… and the money… and the muscle. Caldwell had made people disappear. And if Hunter didn’t keep business moving, he might find himself on the wrong end of his boss. There were other dealers out there: younger, just as hungry, and edging on the desperate, which meant reckless. All of them would like Hunter’s power, and his clothes and car, his women and money. They all wanted his money. And now Nelly of all runts was giving him grief – just by his very existence. Caldwell’s goons making sure Hunter knew what had to be done, making him acknowledge just how low he was on the ladder.
‘It’ll be you takes the fall,’ one of them had said. ‘You or him, so make it clean.’
Oh, he’d make it clean, if that was what it took. He knew he’d no choice, much as he liked Nelly.
‘Are we clubbing or what?’
Billy Bones talking: skinny as a wisp of smoke, seated the other side of Juliet, whose legs he’d been staring at for the past half-hour.
‘One more,’ Hunter said. The pub was heaving, table service impossible. There were a dozen empty glasses on the table. Hunter reached out an arm and swept them to the floor.
Patrick Caldwell examined himself in his bathroom’s full-length mirror. He was casually dressed: brogues, chinos, yellow shirt, and a Ralph Lauren red V-necked sweater. Nearing fifty, he was pleased that he still possessed a good head of hair, and that the only grey was provided by touches at either temple. His face was tanned, and his eyes sparkled with self-satisfaction. It had, in the words of the song, been a very good year: less merchandise apprehended by the authorities; demand steady in some areas, increasing in others. A very satisfactory year. But still something niggled him. The more money he made, the more contented he should be: wasn’t that the dream? But the things he really wanted seemed still intangible. Seemed further away than ever, yet so close he could almost taste them…
He turned out the light and headed back downstairs, where his guests were waiting. The cheeseboard was being placed on the table. A huge log fire crackled and spat in the hearth. The room was wood-panelled and fifty feet long, a devil to heat. But nobody looked uncomfortable. The whiskies and champagnes and wines had done their trick. Armagnac still to come, and the best champagne kept for midnight itself. On his way to his chair, he leaned down and kissed his wife’s head, which drew smiles from the guests. Eight of them, all but two staying the night. His driver would take these two home – that way they could both drink.
‘I’ll have no sobersides tonight,’ he’d told them.
His guests were all professional people, wealthy in their own right, and as far as they were concerned Caldwell made his pile in a variety of property deals, security transactions and foreign investments. The Tomkinsons – Ben and Alicia – were seated nearest Caldwell. Ben had made his money early in life, a communications company in the City. He’d been a lowly BT engineer before founding his company, taking his one big risk in life. Now, twenty years on, he had homes in Kent, Scotland and Barbados, and liked to talk too readily about fishing. But Caldwell’s wife got on well with Alicia, ten years younger than Ben and a real beauty.
Jonathan Trent had been an MP for two years, resigning finally (and famously) because the hours were too long, the pay laughable. He’d returned to his merchant bank, and was these days one of Caldwell’s many advisers. Trent didn’t mind where Caldwell’s money came from, didn’t ask too many questions. His first piece of advice to his client: get the best accountants money can buy. These days Caldwell was shielded as much by his small army of legal people and moneymen as by his hulking Mercedes and bodyguard. Even tonight Crispin was on duty, somewhere on the property, revealing himself only to any unwelcome visitors.
Caldwell glanced at Trent’s wife, who was as usual putting away double the drinks her husband was. Not that she couldn’t hold the stuff, but it was always quantity over quality with Stella, and this irked Caldwell. Put the finest Burgundy in front of her and she slugged it like it was off the bottom shelf at Thresher’s. He’d seated Parnell Wilson next to her, in the hope that the racing driver’s tanned good looks would take Stella’s mind off grain and grape. But Wilson was too obviously besotted with his girlfriend, Fran, who sat directly opposite him. From their looks, Caldwell knew they were playing some provocative game of footsie under the table. And why not? Fran was like all Wilson’s conquests: tiny and gorgeous and leaping out of what dress there was, naked skin the only cloth that would really suit her.
Caldwell had a large share in the syndicate which owned Wilson’s racing team. Not that Caldwell enjoyed the sport: frankly, he could see no point to it. But he did enjoy the travelling – Italy, Brazil, Monte Carlo – and he always met interesting people, some of whom turned into useful contacts.
Final guests: Sir Arthur Lorimer and his museum-piece of a wife. Lorimer was a judge and near-neighbour, and it pleased Caldwell to have the old soak here. Cultivate the Establishment: Trent’s second piece of advice. His reasoning: if you’re ever found out, it reflects badly on them, and as a result they’ll try to ignore what misdemeanours they can. Caldwell hoped he’d never have to put this to the test. But that might be up to Hunter.
There’d been a phone call earlier from Franz in Dortmund, just to wish him a happy and prosperous new year.
‘With your help, Franz,’ Caldwell had said. They never said very much on the phone. You never knew who was listening, even at Hogmanay. It was all codes and intermediaries.
‘Your party’s tonight?’
‘In full flow. I’m sorry you couldn’t make it.’
‘Business so often interrupts my pleasures. But I’m sending a little token, Patrick. A gift for the millennium.’
‘Franz, you needn’t have.’
‘Oh, but it’s nothing really. I look forward to seeing you soon, my friend. And enjoy what’s left of your party.’
Enjoy what’s left.
They were on dessert when the doorbell rang. Caldwell decided to answer it himself, thinking of Franz’s gift.
A man was standing on the porch. He was dressed all in black, smiling, pointing a gun directly at Caldwell’s heart.
Franz knew he was going to have to head up to Denmark. Those damned Hell’s Angels and their little squabbles. All that tribalism was so bad for business. Not that they cared much about business, all they cared about was themselves. They reminded him of nothing so much as feuding families in some American cartoon book, a face-off between two mountain shacks. It had started as a question of territory – almost always his business disputes were to do with encroachment. That was why meetings were so important, so lines of demarcation could be drawn. But these bikers… put them in a room together and the hate was like some fug in the air, sucking out oxygen and replacing it with toxic gas.
He needed couriers to Denmark, and the Angels were good at their job. But they lacked dedication. And he definitely didn’t need a war starting up between rival chapters. He needed that like he needed a hole in the head.
He thought of Caldwell’s gift and allowed himself a smile.
No visitors to Franz’s home this night. Few visitors on that day of the year. He conducted business from an office in the city, and travelled often. But here, in this fortress he had constructed, spending the best part of DM300,000 on security alone, here he felt safe, felt a certain tranquillity at times. These were the moments when his thinking was at its best, when he could plan and debate. Beloved Mozart on the stereo, and tonight not the Requiem – not on a night that should be a blossoming of hope and fresh intentions.