Shepherd showed him through to the sitting room.
‘I’d forgotten how cosy this place was,’ said Plant, looking around. He had chosen everything in the flat, from the furniture and LCD television to the books on the shelves and the pictures on the walls.
‘Yeah, it’s not exactly a cat-swinging room, is it?’
‘Perfectly in keeping with a freelance journalist,’ said Plant. ‘Frankly we were lucky to get you into Hampstead the way rents are moving here.’
He sat down and sipped his coffee as Shepherd opened the garment covers. There was a dark-blue single-breasted suit, several shirts, a black linen jacket not dissimilar to the one that Plant had been wearing at Thames House, and a brown leather jacket that zipped up the front.
‘The leather jacket’s Armani,’ said Plant. ‘I’ve scuffed it a bit to give it some character. I wouldn’t mind it back when the job’s finished; it’s the sort of thing I can use again and again. The suit you can keep. The shirts too.’
Inside the holdall was a padded manila envelope. Shepherd opened it and slid out a driving licence. It had his photograph and the name of Garry Edwards, with the signature that he’d given Plant in Thames House. Shepherd didn’t recognise the address on the licence and he frowned at Plant.
Plant smiled. ‘I’ve used an office address for you. They’ll have the Edwards name on file so will field any enquiries.’
‘I doubt I’ll be flashing it around,’ said Shepherd. Also inside the envelope was a gold Cartier wristwatch, a gold money clip and a heavy gold bracelet.
Plant took a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it and a slim gold pen to Shepherd. ‘The jewellery you’ll have to sign for,’ he said. ‘It’s fully insured but please take care of it.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Shepherd, signing the form and giving it back to Plant.
‘I’ll love you and leave you,’ said Plant. He finished his coffee and stood up. ‘Thought I might swing by the Heath for old times’ sake.’
‘Bloody hell, Damien, be careful.’
Plant winked. ‘Not to worry, I’m loaded up with fake ID.’
‘I meant gay-bashers. It still goes on, you know.’
Plant grinned. ‘I’m just off the close-combat course and there’re a few new tricks that I’m dying to try out.’
Shepherd opened the door for him. ‘Why would they send a dresser on the close-combat course?’
‘Have you been to the Harrods January sales?’ said Plant. ‘Middle-aged women with fur coats and umbrellas are bloody lethal.’ He laughed and headed down the stairs.
The black cab turned into Russell Square and joined a queue of cars and coaches heading towards the Royal National Hotel, a massive nondescript concrete building that looked more like an office block than a hotel. ‘I’m not happy about this, Razor,’ said Shepherd.
‘What, because it’s got only three stars?’
‘No, because there’re going to be more than four hundred people here including a fair sprinkling of south London villains, any one of whom might know you or me.’
‘Hargrove has checked the guest list, right?’
‘Yeah, but most of the tables are in one name. I tell you, this could all turn to shit very quickly if someone recognises us.’
‘We could always grab a pair of gloves and sort it out in the ring,’ joked Sharpe.
‘Why am I the only one worried here?’
Sharpe patted Shepherd’s knee. ‘Because every day of our lives we run the risk of coming across someone who might recognise us. It can happen in the street, at a football match, at a restaurant. If you start worrying about it then you’ll end up a basket case. What happens, happens. Que sera, sera.’
‘Bloody hell, Razor, when did you go all Buddhist on me?’
The taxi pulled up in front of the hotel and Sharpe reached for the door handle. ‘If it happens, we’ll deal with it,’ he said. ‘You can pay for the cab, right? You get better expenses than me and, as you love to point out, I’m not getting overtime.’ He got out of the taxi as Shepherd handed the driver a twenty-pound note. Shepherd told the driver to keep the change and asked for a receipt, then joined Sharpe on the pavement. To their right was a pub with more than two dozen men standing around drinking and smoking. Like Shepherd they were wearing lounge suits and ties but there was plenty of bling on show as well, expensive watches, gold chains and diamond rings. Shepherd scanned faces as the cab drove off but he didn’t see anyone he recognised. A coach began disgorging its load of Chinese tourists, led by a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit holding a red flag above his head.
The reception area of the hotel was gloomy and despite the fact that it was almost eight o’clock there was a long line of guests waiting to check in. The Chinese tourists filed in, chattering excitedly.
‘I hope it’s boxing and not that kung fu bollocks,’ growled Sharpe.
A printed sign with an arrow pointing to the left showed them the way to the boxing. They went down a wood-panelled corridor to a large room with a bar packed with a couple of hundred men. Half a dozen bar staff in black T-shirts were working hard to keep up with the orders, with most of the drinkers paying with fifty-pound notes. Shepherd scanned faces again. His memory was near-photographic and he didn’t see anyone that he’d ever met but he recognised at least twenty criminals whose records he’d seen and one face that the Met were looking for in connection with a Securicor van robbery two years earlier.
To the left of the room was a seating plan on an easel. They went over to it and found Kettering’s table. It was number 21, close to the ring and just behind the judges’ table.
‘Drink?’ asked Sharpe, nodding at the bar.
Shepherd looked at his watch. ‘Let’s get to the table,’ he said.
They weaved their way through the bar to the entrance of the main hall. A boxing ring had been erected in the centre of the room underneath a massive dome-shaped chandelier. A long table had been erected on a podium against the far wall giving the organisers and VIP guests a clear view of the ring. There were another thirty tables around the ring, each seating a dozen people. Most of the tables were empty and a few Indian waiters were making last-minute adjustments to the cutlery and glasses.
‘Remind me again who I am?’ said Sharpe.
‘Don’t be a tosser all your life,’ said Shepherd. ‘Come on, let’s sit down. Might as well get ourselves a good view of the door.’
They were both using legends that they’d used before. Sharpe was James Gracie, a Scottish criminal who’d served time for armed robbery in the eighties before moving out to the Costa del Sol, from where he ran his arms business. The legend was rock-solid and even a check on the Police National Computer would come up with Gracie’s record. He’d used it several times over the years.
Shepherd sat down at the table, choosing a seat that allowed him a clear view of the entrance. Sharpe sat a few seats away so that he was directly facing the ring.
There were unopened bottles of red and white wine on the table. Sharpe reached for one and sneered at the label. ‘Cheap plonk. Fancy champagne?’
‘Let’s wait until the guys get here,’ said Shepherd. ‘We can make a show of it.’
Guests were moving into the hall and taking their places. A group headed for the VIP table, including a large black man wearing a floppy pink hat and what appeared to be a black mink coat, and a good-looking black man with a greying moustache, dressed in a sharp suit.
‘That’s John Conteh, isn’t it?’ said Sharpe, nodding at the man with the moustache.
‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. ‘What is he, sixty? I hope I look that good when I’m sixty.’
‘Do you think he runs marathons with a rucksack of bricks on his back?’
‘I don’t run marathons, you soft bastard.’
The VIP table began to fill up. Sitting next to Conteh was a sharp-faced man in a beige suit. He was talking animatedly to the heavyweight boxer and demonstrating an uppercut to the chin. Like most of the guests on the top table his head was shaved.