CHAPTER 12
‘Where’s my fucking money, Nicholas? You’re going to save yourself a whole world of hurt by telling me now.’ Nicholas Cohen put his hand up to his lip, then blinked at his fingers. They glistened with blood. His blood. Cohen was middle-aged with a receding hairline, heavy jowls and an expanding waistline, the body of a man who had spent most of his life sitting behind a desk. Cohen was on his knees, looking up at the man who’d hit him. Drops of blood splattered onto the thick white rug underneath him.
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
Warwick Richards shook his head. Richards was sitting on one of the sofas, watching Cohen with hard eyes. ‘You see, lying like that isn’t going to help you. You’re an accountant, Nicholas. You’re my accountant. Money is your job. Looking after it, putting it where the Revenue won’t find it. That’s what I’ve been paying you for. So telling me you don’t know where it is just doesn’t wash.’ Richards was a big man, six foot two tall and broad-shouldered, but he wasn’t the one who’d hurt Cohen. It had been years since Richards had hit anybody. He’d reached the stage where he paid to have people hurt though, truth be told, he sometimes missed the adrenaline rush that came with dispensing retribution. Richards crossed his legs and straightened the creases of his Hugo Boss trousers. He stretched his arms along the back of the sofa as he waited for Cohen to reply.
‘I’m not lying, I don’t know where it is.’
‘Two million quid doesn’t just go walkabout on its own. The only two people who had signing rights were me and you and if I’d taken the money out I wouldn’t be asking you where it was, would I?’
‘I think he’s broken my bridge,’ said Cohen, gingerly touching his jaw.
‘What fucking bridge?’
‘My bridgework. Three of my teeth, they’re a bridge. He’s broken it.’ Cohen pointed at Mick Halpin, the man who did most of the hurting that Richards needed doing. Halpin was an inch or two shorter than Richards but much wider, with a square shaved head and the thick muscular neck and forearms that came from regular visits to the gym and equally regular purchases of illegal steroids. Halpin had a small gold earring in his left ear and a thick gold chain around his neck. He was wearing an open-necked shirt that was flecked with Cohen’s blood and, as he stared down at Cohen, he cracked his knuckles.
‘The only reason that Mick hit you is because you won’t tell me where my bloody money is. This is on your head, Nicholas. So don’t cry about your busted bridge because it’s all down to you. Now where’s my fucking money?’
‘I told you, I don’t know.’
Richards sighed and waved a languid hand at Halpin. Halpin stepped forward and backhanded Cohen across the face. The sound was as loud as a pistol shot and Cohen fell back onto the white rug. Halpin kicked him hard in the stomach and the accountant curled into a foetal ball.
‘Don’t lie to me, Nicholas,’ said Richards. He looked at his watch, a solid gold Rolex. ‘Stop messing me around. I’ve got to be at the club before it closes.’
CHAPTER 13
Carolyn stood rooted to the spot, her hand over her mouth. The man on the sofa, the good-looking one, was saying something to the man on the floor. The bald man kicked him again and Carolyn winced. She took her mobile phone out of her bag. Still no signal. She began to shake, partly because of the cold but more because of what she was witnessing. Her mind was in a whirl, and she had absolutely no idea what to do. She knew she should just turn and walk away, climb back over the gate and head off down the road, that nothing good could possibly come from her staying where she was. She knew the sensible thing to do was to get away from the house, but it was as if her legs had turned to stone. She stared at the men in the living room, her hand still clamped over her mouth.
CHAPTER 14
Cohen stayed on the floor, curled up with his knees against his chest. ‘Get the fuck up and stop being such a baby, Nicholas,’ said Richards. ‘You took my money. I found out. Now I want it back. You’re going to be eating hospital food for a few weeks, but if you don’t stop fucking around it’s going to be a lot worse than that.’ Cohen didn’t react other than to sniff loudly. ‘Get the fuck up, Nicholas, now!” screamed Richards.
Cohen sniffed again and pushed himself up onto his knees. ‘Warwick, mate, let me tell you what happened,’ he gasped.
Richards stood up and pointed a finger at the kneeling man. ‘You’re no fucking mate of mine, Nicholas. Not after this.’
‘Look, just listen will you. I moved the money, you know that, but I can’t get it back.’ He coughed and spat out bloody phlegm. You know I gamble, right?’
‘What?’
‘Oh come on, mate, we’ve been to the races together. Cheltenham. Goodwood. I took you to Ascot once. All on me, remember?’
‘What’s your point, Nicholas?’
‘Cohen coughed again and sat back on his heels. ‘I had a bad year. I lost more than I won. Hell, I lost a lot more than I won.’
‘How much, Nicholas?’
Cohen shrugged. ‘A few grand at first. So I remortgaged this place. That was easy enough. But I kept on losing. So I borrowed more against the house.’
‘So your bank’s got my money, is that what you’re saying? Then you’re going to have to sell your bloody house if that’s how I get my money back.’
‘I’m sorry, Warwick. It’s more complicated than that.’
‘What do you mean?’
Cohen began to cry and he wiped his cheeks with the palms of his hands.
‘I was chasing my losses. I figured I was just on a bad streak and it would turn, so I borrowed.’
‘Borrowed? From who?’
Cohen swallowed nervously. ‘Lenny Wilson.’
‘Lenny fucking Wilson? Why the fuck would you borrow from that shark?’
‘I know, I know. I just wanted a loan for a week, I had a couple of sure things. But then they lost so I had to borrow more and then he started giving me credit and then…’ He began to sob again and buried his head in his hands.
‘Lenny fucking Wilson has my money? You stole two million quid from me and gave it to Lenny fucking Wilson? How could you lose two million on the horses?’
‘It wasn’t the horses, it was the interest. Ten percent a week. And then he said if I didn’t get the cash he’d kill me. And he meant it, mate. I know he meant it. And it wasn’t two million. It was just a couple of hundred grand, at first. I thought I could win it back so I took some from your account but that went and then I went back to Wilson. Then I had to keep paying.’
‘With my money?’
‘I’m sorry, mate. Really. I’ll get it sorted.’
Richards sneered at Cohen. ‘So what are you saying, that you’re more scared of him than you are of me?’
‘No, I just figured I could get back in the black before you found out. I’ve had a few wins, so I think my luck’s finally changed.’
‘Your luck? You fucking mug. There’s no luck in gambling. You gamble, you lose. It’s just that you’ve lost my fucking money, not your own. My fucking money. Why the fuck did you think you could use my money to pay off your debts, you fucking slag?’
‘Warwick, mate, be reasonable…’
‘Reasonable!’ yelled Richards. ‘You want me to be fucking reasonable. You stupid fucking twat!’ He reached over and grabbed a crystal figurine of a leaping dolphin off the coffee table, swung it to the side and smashed it into the side of Nicholas’s face. Blood splattered across the window behind him and Cohen slumped to the ground without a sound.