‘You brought this on yourself,’ he sneered.
Thompson sucked in some air and suddenly spat a wad of blood-streaked saliva into Stanley’s face. Stanley reeled back in disgust and Thompson smiled at his handiwork, pleased with what he had done. ‘You’re a dead man, Stanley. They know where you live, they know where you go. They know everything about you. You’re a fucking dead man.’
Stanley wiped the spit off his face, leaving a long glistening blood-stained streak across the corner of his forehead. ‘Who, the Albanians? You’ve set the fucking Albanians on me?’
Thompson only grinned in reply. ‘You’re bluffing, you’re fucking bluffing. You haven’t got the balls for it.’
Stanley stepped forward again and, as Thompson struggled against the men who were holding him, he placed the tip of the knife against Thompson’s chest, working it so that just the tip began to pierce the surface of his skin.
Thompson grunted with pain. Stanley carefully positioned the knife so that it fitted into the space between two of his ribs and directly in front of his heart. Then he placed the palm of one hand on the hilt of the knife and looked up into Thompson’s eyes.
The men stared at each other for what seemed like an age.
‘Do it,’ hissed Thompson. ‘Do it, do it, do it, you fucking wan –’
Stanley shoved forward hard and plunged the knife forward, driving it all the way up to the hilt. The tip of the blade emerged out of Thompson’s back and he cried out in agony, a long piercing menacing scream that made even the men holding him wince. Then Stanley held the end of the knife in both hands and twisted it violently to the left. The sound of bones cracking, tendons tearing and flesh parting could be heard around the arena.
Blood shot out from Thompson’s wound and more seeped out from the corners of his mouth. He started to breathe more quickly, more noisily, a horrible death rattle, then it went silent. Dead.
Stanley pulled out the knife and let it fall to the floor. ‘Get rid of him,’ he said.
Jack Stanley remained still for a few moments and watched as the body of his former best friend was manhandled out of the fighting ring and towards the car park, where a specially prepared truck was waiting.
From there the body would be decapitated and have its hands removed; the remainder would be fed to pigs owned by the farmer who ran the complex – another reason why the fight had been staged there.
Stanley had used pigs to dispose of bodies in the past, having got the idea from the Mafia wars in Sicily in the 1980s when more than four hundred corpses were believed to have been disposed of in this way. The Mafia favoured the use of pigs because of their huge, omnivorous appetites and the fact that they leave little of a body behind other than dentures, which could easily be buried. With the pigs on the job, Thompson’s body would be completely consumed within the space of twenty-four hours.
Stanley nodded at a couple of men to begin sweeping fresh sawdust over the centre of the ring to cover up the blood stains. He looked down at his own hands, which were also covered in blood. He made his way to the men’s room in the next building and began to wash them, watching his reflection in the mirror. He had ordered the deaths of many men in his criminal career, but he had taken the lives of only four personally.
He felt surprisingly little. No remorse. Like a soldier in a war, he justified his actions in the sense that it was him or Thompson. He could not hesitate, he could not show mercy. Thompson had been aware of the rules. If you live by the sword you die by the sword. His conscience was clear; he had nothing to worry about.
His phone began ringing. There was still blood on the back of his hands as he reached for a paper towel to dry them. His lips curled into a thin smile as he saw the name on the display screen and quickly put the phone up to his ear.
‘Hello, my little Princess, how are you?’
17
The moment they entered through the huge dark wooden doors, Stacey felt as though she had walked in on the set of the popular eighties sitcom Cheers. Delicious smells wafted towards her as she looked out over the New York-style bar-cum-dining room, its walls covered in posters from theatrical productions from around the West End.
‘So, what do you think?’
Stacey turned to Dr Jacques Bernard and smiled sweetly. ‘It’s amazing. You’d never have guessed that something like this was around here. I’ll admit it, I’m impressed.’
They had met an hour earlier in a wine bar close to the Embankment, where they had enjoyed a swift glass of chilled Chablis before making their way to the restaurant that Jacques had booked. They had walked through Covent Garden and then into a side road devoid of pedestrians and traffic. For a moment Stacey wondered where the good doctor was taking her, when, suddenly, he stopped outside a seemingly abandoned building and pointed up to a tiny brass plaque on the wall.
‘We’re here,’ he said with a grin.
‘And where is here?’
He pointed towards the plaque. ‘The coolest restaurant in London.’
Collins leaned forward and read the name engraved on the plaque, which was about the size of a paperback book: JOE ALLEN.
‘The food’s a little dated, as if the place is somewhat stuck in the eighties,’ Jacques continued. ‘And the jukebox hasn’t worked for years – which is probably something of a blessing. But the atmosphere is fantastic and you can do some serious star spotting here. One time, Gwyneth Paltrow was on the table next to me. The great thing about having all these old posters around is that you can be pretending to look at them when in fact you’re checking out who else is here. It’s the perfect excuse.’
They were escorted through to a table in the middle of the main dining area. As soon as she sat down Collins reached into her bag and pulled out her mobile phone. She checked the signal strength and then placed it face up on the table beside her before beginning to study the menu.
‘Sorry,’ she said as Jacques’s eyes looked pointedly at the phone. ‘If anything happens I need to know about it right away.’
‘I understand, of course,’ he replied, returning his eyes to his menu, where they remained until the waitress came to take their orders.
He surprised her by ordering the cheeseburger. Her eyes scanned the menu once more before the waitress held out her hand to take it back.
‘I didn’t see any burgers on the menu. Are they just humouring you?’
‘Ah, it’s one of their trademarks. They serve them but they are not on the menu. It makes people who are in the know feel a bit special.’
‘You mean it makes them feel a bit smug.’
‘Sorry, did you want a burger yourself? It’s probably not too late.’
‘No, it’s fine, I’ll stick with the chicken. Christ, I’ve lived in London all my life and I’ve never heard of this place. How come you do?’
‘Well, it’s not my first time here, in London, I mean. I’ve lost count of how many times now. I was here a couple of years ago for almost six months, a couple of years before that and a couple of years before that too. I’d like to think I know the city pretty well.’
‘I guess that helps when it comes to impressing attractive young students.’
‘Oh, they’re all putty in my hands by the time I’ve finished telling them my name. Is that what you want to hear? Is that the sort of person you think I am?’
‘This is the first time we’ve spent any real time together. I have no idea what kind of man you really are.’
Jacques smiled warmly. Stacey was aware that several women in the restaurant were having sneaky glances in her direction, wondering if her handsome companion was some new hot film star.
‘I’m very glad you agreed to come out with me,’ said Jacques. ‘I was worried that I was being too forward when I asked you to have dinner on the same day that we met.’