The vet scanned the cat for a microchip, to see if its owner could be traced. But there wasn’t one. The unfortunate animal had a fractured skull, broken leg and ribs, bruised spleen, and a number of minor injuries as well. The vet was doubtful it would last the night. But it did, making a surprisingly rapid recovery. She’d never owned a cat before and had had no desire for one. But when the vet told her it would be put into a local animal rescue centre, she had softened and taken him home herself, regardless of the high veterinary bills yet to come for the creature’s continued recovery.
She’d done a tour of the neighbourhood, heavily disguised so no one would subsequently be able to identify her, trying to find out if anyone had lost a cat or knew who he might be, but had drawn a blank. Then she gave him every chance to wander off to his home, but he just hung around, not interested in going anywhere.
She named him Tyson, after the boxer, because he was clearly a tough guy. He was sullen, too, never quite giving her the unconditional love and affection she thought that maybe, considering what she had done, she deserved. Instead, generally regarding her as little more than his personal can-opener, he spent much of his time outside in the garden, in all weathers, or else scratching away on that wall upstairs.
Just occasionally, if she left her door open, he would stroll into her room in the middle of the night, jump onto the bed and then, purring, nuzzle up against her face affectionately, licking her and waking her up.
‘You know what, Tyson,’ she said to him one time, wide awake in the middle of the night. ‘I love you, but I just can’t figure you out. But then again, I guess you can’t figure me out either, can you? And the thing you really, really can’t figure out is what’s behind that wall, isn’t it?’
19
Sunday 22 February
Tooth, in a leather jacket, black T-shirt and chinos, sat on a sofa in a quiet corner at the rear of the Macanudo cigar bar on 63rd Street in New York, whiling away the Sunday evening by chain-smoking his Lucky Strikes and drinking Diet Cokes. A group of guys sat in front of the wall-mounted television screen at the far end of the room, watching a re-run of the Superbowl.
He didn’t do football games.
He didn’t do cold, either, and right now outside at 7 p.m. it was freezing cold, dark and sleeting. He shot a glance around the room, which was decorated like a gentleman’s club and dimly lit. It was the way bars used to be in the years before the smoking ban had turned smokers like him into exiles in most places in the western world.
Apart from the waitress, who occasionally came over to check on his drink, no one took any notice of him.
He took from his wallet the one-hundred-dollar bill that Vishram Singh had handed him, and looked at it. Looked again at the serial number printed on it. 76458348.
One phone call yesterday evening had established it came from a sequence of numbers from the new one-hundred-dollar bills, totalling $200,000, that had been in the suitcase apparently taken from the Park Royale West suite of a scumbag Romanian called Romeo Munteanu. He was a bagman for a bunch of Russian businessmen based in the enclave called Little Odessa, down in Brooklyn, near New York’s Brighton Beach, who had become his main paymasters in the past year.
The first part of this job, for which he had been paid his requisite total fee of one million dollars in advance, into his Swiss bank account, had been accomplished. It had been to teach Romeo Munteanu a lesson that would send a signal to anyone else that his bosses were not to be messed with. That had been easy. The next part was more challenging.
Five thousand dollars, handed over in the back office of the night porter, had secured him a copy of the videotape of the woman who had checked in to the hotel under the name Judith Forshaw, and a copy of the registration form she had signed. But the porter reckoned he knew who she really was. Just as he was about to tell Tooth, a news bulletin came on the small television in the office. It featured further revelations of indicted financier Walt Klein’s misconduct, stating that the scale of his fraud was even greater than at first thought. It referred to the arrival back in the USA, the previous week, of his body, accompanied by his distraught fiancée, Jodie Bentley. The images showed Jodie, looking bewildered in a storm of strobing flashlights in an airport arrivals hall, then subsequently entering the New York Four Seasons hotel.
‘No question, buddy,’ the porter had said. ‘She was all nervous, had a British accent, I think that name was a cover or something. Guess maybe she’s trying to escape the paparazzi, you know.’
The blade of his stiletto, which still had fresh blood on it from Romeo Munteanu, accompanied by his threat that the trembling porter would end up the same way as the man in Suite 5213 if he breathed a word to anyone, had also secured him the man’s silence.
The address Judith Forshaw had put on the registration form was in Western Road, Brighton, England. A seaside city he had gotten to know. He’d been there twice before, once to kill an Estonian sea captain who’d attempted to run off with a cargo of drugs, in a harbour to the west of the city. And on a second occasion to avenge the death of the son of a New York mobster — which had nearly ended badly for him. If he needed to make a transatlantic trip to Brighton, at least he would be returning to a city he knew. Most of his assignments were to places totally alien to him.
With earphones plugged in, he played the video of her in the foyer of the Park Royale West Hotel. Judith Forshaw. She had taken $200,000 that wasn’t hers.
As well as something much more important to his paymaster. Something worth more than the million-dollar fee he had been paid. A USB memory stick that his paymaster needed back. Urgently.
Tooth studied her face for some moments. He would remember it now forever. He never forgot a face.
Judith Forshaw or Jodie Bentley. He would find her.
She might have gone to LaGuardia Airport, but he reckoned that was a false trail. Her fiancé, Walter Klein, was dead. Klein was a Jewish name. He knew the Jewish tradition was to bury their dead very quickly. He imagined the funeral would be taking place sometime this coming week, assuming his body was released by the Medical Examiner. As his grieving fiancée, Jodie Bentley would surely attend. Or would she?
Walt Klein was all over the news. His assets had been frozen. Clearly Jodie had been left high and dry — why else would she do a dumb thing like robbing a stranger? Desperation?
Was she going to risk hanging around Manhattan? To see an old crook, who’d left her penniless, being put in the ground?
Would he have hung around, in her situation?
He didn’t think so. He’d have gotten the first plane out of this freezing hellhole.
20
Monday 23 February
Shelby Stonor’s mate, Dean Warren, had sat opposite him in the pub a few weeks ago.
‘You know what you is, don’t you? An effing dinosaur!’ Dean said. ‘No one burgles houses no more. Why you faffing around, being out late at night, taking all those risks? Anyone what’s got anything worth stealing has burglar alarms, safety lights, dogs, CCTV cameras. There’s much better stuff, and with less chance of getting caught — and lighter sentences. You could make several grand a week dealing drugs or doing internet scams, yeah? Or nicking high-end cars, like what I’m into right now. Range Rovers pay the best. A simple bit of technology that scoops up their keyless door and ignition codes lets you open and drive one off in minutes. They’re paying ten grand for a top-end Rangie right now! Five grand for a convertible Merc SL! Within twelve hours of nicking ’em, they’re into a container being shipped out of Newhaven to the Middle East or Cyprus!’