‘Should your employer ever wish to dispense with your services,’ Franz continued, ‘you may wish to contact me.’ He wrote a number on a sheet of paper, ripped it from the pad. ‘This is my private line. Maybe next time you’re thinking of coming to see me, we could arrange an appointment?’
A nice big smile. Lars slid his feet from the corner of the desk. His heels had left marks on the woodwork. As he reached for the paper, Franz snatched it back.
‘One thing, my friend. Try something like this again without an appointment, and I’ll destroy you. Is that clear between us?’
Lars laughed and took the number, stuck it in the same pocket as the money.
Franz’s mobile phone rang. It was in the desk drawer, and he opened the drawer again, shrugging, telling Lars there was no rest for the wicked.
‘Hello?’
A hushed voice, one he knew. ‘We’ve got every one of those dirty fuckers in our sights.’
‘Fine,’ Franz said, making to replace the phone in its drawer, bringing out the pistol in its place. Lars was already reaching across the desk. He’d pulled a combat knife from one boot. Franz was leaning back to take aim when the gunfire started outside.
Caldwell was in the library. He’d locked the door, and when his wife had come knocking, saying the judge and his wife were thinking of leaving, he’d hissed at her to fuck off.
He sat in a burgundy leather chair, hands on his knees, while his visitor stood four feet away, the gun steady in his left hand.
‘My bodyguard?’ Caldwell asked.
‘Tied up outside. Let’s hope someone releases him before hypothermia sets in. It’s a bitter night. We wouldn’t want any unnecessary deaths.’
‘You’ve come from Franz?’
The man nodded. His accent was English. He had a heavy body, thick at the neck, and cropped hair. Ex-forces, Caldwell presumed.
‘With a message,’ the man said.
A typical gesture by Franz: he always had to show his puissance. Caldwell thought he knew now what this was about, and felt a mixture of emotions: the thrill of fear, fury at Franz’s little game; embarrassment that his guests would be wondering what the hell was going on.
‘Everything’s set,’ Caldwell told the man.
‘Really?’
‘Does Franz have any reason to doubt me?’
‘That’s what I’m here to find out. It’s nearly midnight. Everything was supposed to be finalised by midnight.’
‘Everything is.’ Caldwell made to rise from his chair, but the gun waved him back down again.
‘Links in a chain, Mr Caldwell. That’s all we are. The weakest links have to be taken out, the strong ones reconnected.’
‘You think I’d put myself on the line for a little turd like that?’
‘I think you like to operate at a distance.’
‘And Franz doesn’t?’
‘He always uses the best people. I’m not sure Hunter falls into that category.’
‘Hunter’ll do as he’s told.’
‘Will he? I’ve heard he might have a personal stake in all of this.’
Caldwell frowned. ‘How do you mean?’ His wife knocked at the door again, her voice artificially bright.
‘Darling, Sir Arthur and Lady Lorimer are leaving. I’ve asked Foster to bring the Bentley round.’
Her voice grated. It always had. The way she spoke now, like she’d been to elocution classes, like she’d been saying ‘Darling’ and ‘Sir This’ and ‘Lady That’ all her life. And all she was was a piece of crumpet he’d picked up early on in his travels through life. Too early on. He could have done better for himself. Still could, given the chance. Send her off with a settlement, or bring some mistress into the equation. It seemed to Caldwell that he hadn’t really started living yet.
‘Apologise, will you?’ he called. ‘I’m on the phone. Important business.’ He lowered his voice again, mind half on his life to come, half on the gun in front of him. ‘How do you mean?’ he repeated.
‘You see,’ the man said, ‘that’s the difference between my employer and you. He takes the trouble to know things, to know people. He’s a thousand miles away, and he knows more about your operation here than you do.’
‘What does he know?’ There was a slight tremble in Caldwell’s hands. Why would Franz be so interested in Caldwell’s territory? Unless he was planning some incursion, or to move in some new operator. Unless he thought Caldwell wasn’t his best bet any more…
‘Hunter,’ the gunman was saying. ‘He’s tough, but just how tough? I mean, that’s what we’ll find out tonight, isn’t it? If things go the way they’re supposed to.’
‘Nelly’s just a runt. Hunter won’t have any trouble with him.’
‘No?’ The man got right into Caldwell’s face. ‘What if I tell you something about Nelly?’
‘Such as?’ Caldwell’s voice nearly failed him.
‘His surname’s Hunter, you fucking idiot. He’s Johnny Hunter’s kid brother.’
Hunter was in the club, chain-smoking, eyes everywhere. He didn’t feel like dancing. The bass was like God’s heartbeat, the lights His eyes shining down across the little world. Hunter’s right knee was pounding, speed working its way to his fingertips and toes. He sat alone at the table, Panda not six feet away, just standing there so nobody’d bother his boss unless the boss wanted to be bothered. He hadn’t much left to sell. Not much at all.
His friends were whooping on the dance-floor, waving to him occasionally. They probably thought he was cool, sitting the dances out, smoking his smokes. He rattled a cube of ice into his mouth and crunched down on it. Another drink replaced the empty glass. Fast service in the club, because he owned thirty per cent. Thirty per cent of all of it. But he knew that fifty-one was the only percentage that mattered.
Fifty-one meant control.
He was waiting for Nelly, hoping not to see him, knowing he’d come here eventually. Hunter could have gone elsewhere, but what did it matter? Nelly would always find him. It was like the guy had a homing instinct.
Nelly: young and whacked out and terminally stupid.
Hunter had always tried to keep things between them strictly business. He could have refused to deal with Nelly, but then Nelly would have gone elsewhere, maybe gotten into worse trouble. But Hunter had never done him any favours. No dope better than anyone else was getting; no discounts for family.
Strictly business.
Only tonight, Nelly was going to get better dope. He was going to get the best stuff going. Caldwell’s orders.
‘Hey, Hunter!’ A girl he knew: short skirt, any tighter and you’d have to call it skin. Waving him on to the floor. He waved back in the negative. She blew him a kiss anyway. Margo and Juliet were off somewhere: maybe at the ladies’, or whisked away by other raptors. They were meat, the window-dressing in a butcher’s shop. Hunter didn’t give a fuck about them.
He didn’t give a fuck about anyone but himself. Number One. Looking out for.
Ah, shit, Nelly…
Hunter punched the table with his fist. It was all about the future, about Nelly’s versus his. No contest, was it? Nelly all fucked over anyway, while Hunter was just starting out. There was never going to be any contest. But all the same, he hoped the crowds outside, the swoop and swirl of this millennial midnight, would keep Nelly away. Maybe the tide would wash him down on to Princes Street, and he’d score there. Or maybe the cops would grab him, spot him at last for the one they wanted. Which was just what Caldwell didn’t want. No telling who Nelly would grass up. No telling where the trail would lead. So instead there was to be a deal. There was to be the purest heroin going, stuff that would stop your heart dead.
Caldwell’s orders. And Caldwell was acting on orders, too. And the person above Caldwell – Hunter had the idea it was some German or Dutch guy – that was who Hunter had to impress. Because he had to make a name for himself pronto, had to get ahead of the game, had to stake his place as Caldwell’s replacement.