Severed

I look at him as he speaks, and I'm almost unable to believe my ears. Unless I'm very much mistaken – and I'm damn sure I'm not – I know the man in front of me. I recognize the voice. A clear, slightly West Country brogue with a confidence in it that hangs very close to arrogance. He served in the same battalion of the Parachute Regiment as me. He was a captain. I didn't know him well – I can't even remember his last name – but we were soldiers together, and that will always count for something.

'Hello, Iain,' I say.

He tenses in his seat, then reaches over and switches on a lamp, which is when I get my confirmation. This is definitely the man from the battalion. He's looking thinner than I remember, and he's bleached his hair blond and added a thin beard-like strip of hair, which is also bleached and runs from his bottom lip to his chin, but it's still him. Beneath the look of surprise, his face is etched with knots of tension. I don't know whether to feel relieved or mightily pissed off. In the end, I plump for both.

He squints at me. 'It's Tyler, isn't it?' he says in a way that tells me he knows exactly who I am. 'Jesus, what the hell are you doing here?'

'You know exactly why I'm here,' I answer.

Like everyone else, Sellman looks surprised. 'You know him, chief?'

'Yeah, we know each other,' I say.

The captain shakes his head. 'I didn't think someone like you would be in with them, to be honest.'

'I'm not in with anyone,' I tell him. I glance at his three bodyguards. I don't want to say too much in front of them. 'Is there anywhere we can talk?'

He looks at me distrustfully. 'You're not a cop, are you, Tyler?'

'Of course I'm not. You know that.'

'You might be working with them.'

'I'm not working with anyone.'

'But you've got what I want, right? The money?'

There's a glint in his eyes as he speaks, and I remember a story that once did the rounds that he was something of a gambler and used to lose a lot of money on the horses. The military isn't the kind of career that can sustain heavy financial losses. Considering that one of the job hazards is sudden and violent death, it's actually very poorly paid. I'm guessing that this is why the captain's started a new career, and from the amount of money I'm about to hand over to him, whatever it is is pretty lucrative.

'Have you got what I'm here for?' I ask him.

He ignores the question and addresses Shaven Head. 'Check if he's got any mobile phones on him.'

Shaven Head silently continues his pat-down where he left off, and pulls out the one I was supplied with.

I put a hand on his wrist. 'You don't need that,' I tell him, meeting his eye.

I'm trying to be as reasonable as possible, but I'm not going to let these people take the piss out of me, and I have to hang on to this phone. At the moment, it's my lifeline. Shaven Head and I glare at each other and I tense my body, ready to strike out. If it comes to it, I'll use my free hand to take him in the pressure point just below his left ear, swing him round while he's weakened, and smash my knee into the small of his back. He's a big guy, no question, but anyone can be beaten if you know what you're doing, and I've always known what I was doing, even if, at the moment, I'm not exactly feeling my best.

'Be careful of Tyler,' the captain tells Shaven Head, with just a hint of amusement in his voice. 'He's a dangerous man when aroused. We just need the thing turned off, Tyler. For security reasons. They can do anything with mobile phones these days. Even turn them into recordable microphones. I don't want anyone listening in.'

'I told you. I'm not a cop.'

'It's not just them who can listen in,' he answers cryptically.

At this point, Shaven Head interrupts. 'Let go of my wrist,' he tells me, his tone one of barely suppressed rage, 'or I'll break your arm.' I notice then that he has an Eastern European accent.

'Let him turn it off,' says the captain, 'then you can have it back. OK?'

I release my grip on Shaven Head's wrist, knowing there's no point in forcing a confrontation. He turns off the phone and smacks it down in my hand, and I put it back in my jeans pocket.

The captain looks over at me, and I think I see confusion in his eyes. 'You actually want it, do you? What's inside this case?' He leans down behind the table and produces a burgundy briefcase smaller than the one I'm carrying, and carefully places it on the table in front of him.

'What I want is to talk to you,' I say.

'What's there to talk about?'

'Has he got the money or not?' demands Sellman. 'We need paying, chief.'

'You'll get your money, Sellman,' the captain tells him.

'I just want five minutes alone with you, that's all. I'm in trouble, sir. All right? So, for old times' sake, do me this favour.'

He doesn't say anything for a couple of seconds, and if I'm honest, he doesn't really owe me anything. We're not great mates. Christ, I still can't even remember his last name. But then he nods slowly and gets to his feet, picking up the Glock and the burgundy briefcase. 'We'll go through to the kitchen.'

'Are you sure you want to do this, chief?' demands Sellman. 'It could be a trick.'

'He's unarmed. Just keep an eye on the front door, and make sure no one comes in.'

The captain motions me to follow him through the door the man from Miami Vice is guarding. Miami Vice himself, who's remained utterly impassive throughout the conversation, moves aside as we pass.

As the captain switches on the overhead strip light, shutting the door behind him, I see that the kitchen is cramped and ancient, with holes and gashes in the linoleum flooring. There's a small table with two chairs squeezed into one corner, and we sit down opposite each other. I put my briefcase down by my side, and he does the same thing. Up close, I notice he isn't looking so well. His skin is pink and blotchy, and his cotton shirt is so heavily sweat-stained that parts of it are clinging to him. It's clear he's under a lot of strain.

I wipe sweat from my own forehead. The kitchen is windowless and stuffy, and the overhead light is making an annoying buzzing sound.

'So, what's there to talk about, Tyler?' he asks.

'I need your help,' I tell him. 'My girlfriend's been murdered and I've been set up for it.'

'I'm sorry to hear that.'

'I need to find out who's behind it.'

He shakes his head. 'I can't help you.'

'What's in the case you're selling?'

His expression changes, as if a shadow is passing across his face. 'Something you don't ever want to see, I promise you.'

'I know I don't want to see it. I just want to know what it is.'

He sighs. 'Listen, Tyler, I always liked you,' he begins, although I don't think he ever did particularly, 'but I'm in a lot of trouble too, and I don't know who it is who's setting you up. All I was told was that somebody would be coming here today to pick up this case, and they'd have a hundred and fifty grand in cash. Have you got that?'

'You're not helping me, Iain.'

'I told you, I can't.'

'If you're in trouble, maybe I can help you.'

He smiles, but it comes out looking close to a sneer. 'No, mate, you can't help me. No-one can. That's why I need that money. I'm finished here, completely. And I'm a marked man.'

'What have you done?'

He crosses and uncrosses his hands on the table in front of him. Drops of sweat run down his cheek, and there is a hint of something painful – is it shame? – in his expression. 'I've got something on someone,' he says quietly, his eyes moving about but not quite settling on anything. 'Something bad. Something that'll ruin him. Rather than ruin his life, I've thrown him a lifeline. In exchange for some money, he can have that something back.'