Beggars Banquet (25 page)

He turned out the light and headed back downstairs, where his guests were waiting. The cheeseboard was being placed on the table. A huge log fire crackled and spat in the hearth. The room was wood-panelled and fifty feet long, a devil to heat. But nobody looked uncomfortable. The whiskies and champagnes and wines had done their trick. Armagnac still to come, and the best champagne kept for midnight itself. On his way to his chair, he leaned down and kissed his wife’s head, which drew smiles from the guests. Eight of them, all but two staying the night. His driver would take these two home - that way they could both drink.

‘I’ll have no sobersides tonight,’ he’d told them.

His guests were all professional people, wealthy in their own right, and as far as they were concerned Caldwell made his pile in a variety of property deals, security transactions and foreign investments. The Tomkinsons - Ben and Alicia - were seated nearest Caldwell. Ben had made his money early in life, a communications company in the City. He’d been a lowly BT engineer before founding his company, taking his one big risk in life. Now, twenty years on, he had homes in Kent, Scotland and Barbados, and liked to talk too readily about fishing. But Caldwell’s wife got on well with Alicia, ten years younger than Ben and a real beauty.

Jonathan Trent had been an MP for two years, resigning finally (and famously) because the hours were too long, the pay laughable. He’d returned to his merchant bank, and was these days one of Caldwell’s many advisers. Trent didn’t mind where Caldwell’s money came from, didn’t ask too many questions. His first piece of advice to his client: get the best accountants money can buy. These days Caldwell was shielded as much by his small army of legal people and moneymen as by his hulking Mercedes and bodyguard. Even tonight Crispin was on duty, somewhere on the property, revealing himself only to any unwelcome visitors.

Caldwell glanced at Trent’s wife, who was as usual putting away double the drinks her husband was. Not that she couldn’t hold the stuff, but it was always quantity over quality with Stella, and this irked Caldwell. Put the finest Burgundy in front of her and she slugged it like it was off the bottom shelf at Thresher’s. He’d seated Parnell Wilson next to her, in the hope that the racing driver’s tanned good looks would take Stella’s mind off grain and grape. But Wilson was too obviously besotted with his girlfriend, Fran, who sat directly opposite him. From their looks, Caldwell knew they were playing some provocative game of footsie under the table. And why not? Fran was like all Wilson’s conquests: tiny and gorgeous and leaping out of what dress there was, naked skin the only cloth that would really suit her.

Caldwell had a large share in the syndicate which owned Wilson’s racing team. Not that Caldwell enjoyed the sport: frankly, he could see no point to it. But he did enjoy the travelling - Italy, Brazil, Monte Carlo - and he always met interesting people, some of whom turned into useful contacts.

Final guests: Sir Arthur Lorimer and his museum-piece of a wife. Lorimer was a judge and near-neighbour, and it pleased Caldwell to have the old soak here. Cultivate the Establishment: Trent’s second piece of advice. His reasoning: if you’re ever found out, it reflects badly on them, and as a result they’ll try to ignore what misdemeanours they can. Caldwell hoped he’d never have to put this to the test. But that might be up to Hunter.

There’d been a phone call earlier from Franz in Dortmund, just to wish him a happy and prosperous new year.

‘With your help, Franz,’ Caldwell had said. They never said very much on the phone. You never knew who was listening, even at Hogmanay. It was all codes and intermediaries.

‘Your party’s tonight?’

‘In full flow. I’m sorry you couldn’t make it.’

‘Business so often interrupts my pleasures. But I’m sending a little token, Patrick. A gift for the millennium.’

‘Franz, you needn’t have.’

‘Oh, but it’s nothing really. I look forward to seeing you soon, my friend. And enjoy what’s left of your party.’

Enjoy what’s left
.

They were on dessert when the doorbell rang. Caldwell decided to answer it himself, thinking of Franz’s gift.

A man was standing on the porch. He was dressed all in black, smiling, pointing a gun directly at Caldwell’s heart.

He needed couriers to Denmark, and the Angels were good at their job. But they lacked
dedication
. And he definitely didn’t need a war starting up between rival chapters. He needed that like he needed a hole in the head.

He thought of Caldwell’s gift and allowed himself a smile.

No visitors to Franz’s home this night. Few visitors on that day of the year. He conducted business from an office in the city, and travelled often. But here, in this fortress he had constructed, spending the best part of DM300,000 on security alone, here he felt safe, felt a certain tranquillity at times. These were the moments when his thinking was at its best, when he could plan and debate. Beloved Mozart on the stereo, and tonight not the Requiem - not on a night that should be a blossoming of hope and fresh intentions.

His second fresh intention: after the diplomatic trip to Denmark, a further trip to Afghanistan. He’d heard worrying reports of depleted harvests, and of crops and fields being burned by suddenly efficient soldiers. He’d asked an associate in Chicago what the hell they thought was going on.

‘Blame our fucking dick-dipping President. He’s trying the same shit he pulled in South America. “Be my friend,” he tells them. “Let me loan you money, billions of dollars of clean government money. Use it to rebuild your infrastructure or line your private Zurich bank vault. But just get rid of all the shit you grow.” It’s all politics, as usual.’

The voice from Chicago was distorted - a side-effect of the scrambler. At least no one would be listening in.

‘I don’t understand,’ Franz had said - though he did. ‘I thought we had arranged for friends to be placed where they could help us.’

‘What can they do? CBS go prime-time on a field of burning poppies, then up pops the Prez to say he did it. His ratings jump a couple of points, Franz, this guy would do his dear departed grandma in the ass for a couple of points.’

End of conversation.

Sad really, to think that decisions taken a continent away could affect one so much, but thrilling too. Because Franz saw himself as part of a network which embraced the globe, and felt his importance, his
place
in the scheme of things. If they ever set up colonies in space,
he
wanted to be supplying them. Dealer to the universe, by appointment to infinity . . .

Mozart silent now. He hadn’t realised, but midnight had come and gone. Then a buzzer sounding: the guardroom, one of his men informing him of intruders entering the compound.

It was a matter of time. It was for the future.

He tried to envisage a future for his wife, his three children. He had more than once caught the Bossman staring at his wife, running his tongue over his bottom lip. And talking to her once, too, though she would not even admit it, kept her eyes on the ground as she denied and denied.

Kejan had slapped her then, the bruise a lasting smudge against her cheekbone. It didn’t seem to want to go away.

There were so many things Kejan didn’t understand.

The soldiers passed around lighted torches. Their commander, arguing with the Bossman. The Bossman saying that he always paid, that he always kept everyone sweet. The commander not listening, the Bossman persistent. Soldiers fingering their weapons, noting that the Bossman’s men were better armed with newer, gleaming automatics.

‘Orders,’ the commander kept saying. And: ‘Just let us get on with it for now.’

‘For now’: meaning things might be okay later, that this had some deeper meaning which the commander felt unable to share.

But later . . . later there would be other workers, willing workers. New people could always be found later.
Now
was what mattered to Kejan. He lived from moment to moment in this dark, overcrowded room. He waited for the moment he knew was coming, when the future would become the present and he would be consigned to the road with his family.

Or perhaps - please, no - without them. He had hit his wife. The Bossman had smiled at her. The Bossman would take her, and Kejan couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t go. Would she take his children? Would the Bossman want them? Would he treat them right?

His wife’s breathing, so shallow. The room a little lighter now, so he could see the outline of her neck, the way it was angled against the stem-filled sack she used as a pillow.

Slender neck. Brittle neck. Kejan touched it with the tips of his fingers, heard a child cough and pulled his fingers away like they’d been too close to a torch.

He sat up then, looked down on the dark, curved shape. Twisted his own body around so that it was easier to reach down with both hands.

And heard the sound of lorries on the rough track outside, coming closer.

The rest of the gang was outside. One on one: Franz had demanded it, and the leader had agreed. A dozen of them. They’d scaled the perimeter wall. A dozen of them armed, and Franz with only three guards on duty. But now more were on their way: calls had been made. And meantime the three guards faced off the leather-clad bandits, while their leader and Franz sat with only the antique rosewood desk between them.

‘Nice place,’ the Angel said. His name was Lars. Well over six feet tall, hair stretched back into a thin ponytail. Denim waistcoat - all-important ‘colours’ - worn over leather jacket. And his jackboots up on Franz’s desk.

He’d grinned when Franz had stopped short of telling him to take his feet off the desk. But Franz was biding his time, waiting for his other men to arrive, and wanting to rise above all this, to be the diplomat. So he’d offered Lars a drink, and Lars now rested a bottle of beer against his crotch, and looked relaxed.

‘You’re financing our rivals,’ the gang leader said, getting down to business.

‘In what way?’

‘We’re in a war, no room for neutrals. And you’re funding their side of things.’

‘I pay them to act as my couriers, that’s all. I’m not financing any conflict.’

‘But it’s
your
money they’re using when they buy guns and ammo.’

Franz shrugged. ‘And whose money are
you
using, my friend? Are your mortal enemies at this very moment confronting
your
employer?’ He smiled. ‘Do you see the absurdity of the situation? I’m not happy, because here you are invading my privacy, and I don’t suppose your employer will be feeling any different. I’m a businessman. I
am
neutral: business always is. What you’re doing, right this second, is fucking with my business. My instinct naturally is to get out, which is what you want, yes?’

He had lost the biker, who nodded slowly.

‘Exactly. But what if the same thought is going through
your
employer’s mind? Where does that leave you? With no money, no prospects.’ Franz shook his head. ‘My friend, the best thing you can do for all our sakes is to begin discussions with your rivals, settle this thing, then we can all get back to what we want to be doing: making money.’

Franz reached into a drawer, held one hand up to let Lars know nothing tricky was coming. He produced a fat bundle of Deutschmarks and tossed it to the gang-leader.

‘See?’ he said. ‘Now I’m funding both of you. Does that make me neutral?’

Lars studied the notes, stuffed them into a zippered pocket.

‘Let me set up a meeting,’ Franz went on blandly, ‘get all sides together, anyone who has an interest. That’s the way business works.’

‘You’re full of bullshit,’ the biker said, but he was grinning.

‘Should your employer ever wish to dispense with your services,’ Franz continued, ‘you may wish to contact me.’ He wrote a number on a sheet of paper, ripped it from the pad. ‘This is my private line. Maybe next time you’re thinking of coming to see me, we could arrange an appointment?’

A nice big smile. Lars slid his feet from the corner of the desk. His heels had left marks on the woodwork. As he reached for the paper, Franz snatched it back.

‘One thing, my friend. Try something like this again
without
an appointment, and I’ll destroy you. Is that clear between us?’

Lars laughed and took the number, stuck it in the same pocket as the money.

Franz’s mobile phone rang. It was in the desk drawer, and he opened the drawer again, shrugging, telling Lars there was no rest for the wicked.

‘Hello?’

A hushed voice, one he knew. ‘We’ve got every one of those dirty fuckers in our sights.’

‘Fine,’ Franz said, making to replace the phone in its drawer, bringing out the pistol in its place. Lars was already reaching across the desk. He’d pulled a combat knife from one boot. Franz was leaning back to take aim when the gunfire started outside.

Caldwell was in the library. He’d locked the door, and when his wife had come knocking, saying the judge and his wife were thinking of leaving, he’d hissed at her to fuck off.

He sat in a burgundy leather chair, hands on his knees, while his visitor stood four feet away, the gun steady in his left hand.

‘My bodyguard?’ Caldwell asked.

‘Tied up outside. Let’s hope someone releases him before hypothermia sets in. It’s a bitter night. We wouldn’t want any unnecessary deaths.’

‘You’ve come from Franz?’

The man nodded. His accent was English. He had a heavy body, thick at the neck, and cropped hair. Ex-forces, Caldwell presumed.

‘With a message,’ the man said.

A typical gesture by Franz: he always had to show his
puissance
. Caldwell thought he knew now what this was about, and felt a mixture of emotions: the thrill of fear, fury at Franz’s little game; embarrassment that his guests would be wondering what the hell was going on.

‘Everything’s set,’ Caldwell told the man.

‘Really?’

‘Does Franz have any reason to doubt me?’

‘That’s what I’m here to find out. It’s nearly midnight. Everything was supposed to be finalised by midnight.’

‘Everything
is
.’ Caldwell made to rise from his chair, but the gun waved him back down again.

‘Links in a chain, Mr Caldwell. That’s all we are. The weakest links have to be taken out, the strong ones reconnected.’

‘You think I’d put myself on the line for a little turd like that?’

‘I think you like to operate at a distance.’

‘And Franz doesn’t?’

‘He always uses the best people. I’m not sure Hunter falls into that category.’

‘Hunter’ll do as he’s told.’

‘Will he? I’ve heard he might have a personal stake in all of this.’

Caldwell frowned. ‘How do you mean?’ His wife knocked at the door again, her voice artificially bright.

‘Darling, Sir Arthur and Lady Lorimer are leaving. I’ve asked Foster to bring the Bentley round.’

Her voice grated. It always had. The way she spoke now, like she’d been to elocution classes, like she’d been saying ‘Darling’ and ‘Sir This’ and ‘Lady That’ all her life. And all she was was a piece of crumpet he’d picked up early on in his travels through life. Too early on. He could have done better for himself. Still could, given the chance. Send her off with a settlement, or bring some mistress into the equation. It seemed to Caldwell that he hadn’t really started living yet.

‘Apologise, will you?’ he called. ‘I’m on the phone. Important business.’ He lowered his voice again, mind half on his life to come, half on the gun in front of him. ‘How do you mean?’ he repeated.

‘You see,’ the man said, ‘that’s the difference between my employer and you.
He
takes the trouble to know things, to know
people
. He’s a thousand miles away, and he knows more about your operation here than you do.’

‘What does he know?’ There was a slight tremble in Caldwell’s hands. Why would Franz be so interested in Caldwell’s territory? Unless he was planning some incursion, or to move in some new operator. Unless he thought Caldwell wasn’t his best bet any more . . .

‘Hunter,’ the gunman was saying. ‘He’s tough, but just how tough? I mean, that’s what we’ll find out tonight, isn’t it? If things go the way they’re supposed to.’

‘Nelly’s just a runt. Hunter won’t have any trouble with him.’

‘No?’ The man got right into Caldwell’s face. ‘What if I tell you something about Nelly?’

‘Such as?’ Caldwell’s voice nearly failed him.

‘His surname’s Hunter, you fucking idiot. He’s Johnny Hunter’s kid brother.’

Hunter was in the club, chain-smoking, eyes everywhere. He didn’t feel like dancing. The bass was like God’s heartbeat, the lights His eyes shining down across the little world. Hunter’s right knee was pounding, speed working its way to his fingertips and toes. He sat alone at the table, Panda not six feet away, just standing there so nobody’d bother his boss unless the boss wanted to be bothered. He hadn’t much left to sell. Not much at all.

His friends were whooping on the dance-floor, waving to him occasionally. They probably thought he was cool, sitting the dances out, smoking his smokes. He rattled a cube of ice into his mouth and crunched down on it. Another drink replaced the empty glass. Fast service in the club, because he owned thirty per cent. Thirty per cent of all of it. But he knew that fifty-one was the only percentage that mattered.

Fifty-one meant control.

He was waiting for Nelly, hoping not to see him, knowing he’d come here eventually. Hunter could have gone elsewhere, but what did it matter? Nelly would always find him. It was like the guy had a homing instinct.

Nelly: young and whacked out and terminally stupid.

Hunter had always tried to keep things between them strictly business. He could have refused to deal with Nelly, but then Nelly would have gone elsewhere, maybe gotten into worse trouble. But Hunter had never done him any favours. No dope better than anyone else was getting; no discounts for family.

Strictly business.

Only tonight, Nelly was going to get better dope. He was going to get the best stuff going. Caldwell’s orders.

‘Hey, Hunter!’ A girl he knew: short skirt, any tighter and you’d have to call it skin. Waving him on to the floor. He waved back in the negative. She blew him a kiss anyway. Margo and Juliet were off somewhere: maybe at the ladies’, or whisked away by other raptors. They were meat, the window-dressing in a butcher’s shop. Hunter didn’t give a fuck about them.

He didn’t give a fuck about anyone but himself. Number One. Looking out for.

Ah, shit, Nelly . . .

Hunter punched the table with his fist. It was all about the future, about Nelly’s versus his. No contest, was it? Nelly all fucked over anyway, while Hunter was just starting out. There was never going to be any contest. But all the same, he hoped the crowds outside, the swoop and swirl of this millennial midnight, would keep Nelly away. Maybe the tide would wash him down on to Princes Street, and he’d score there. Or maybe the cops would grab him, spot him at last for the one they wanted. Which was just what Caldwell didn’t want. No telling who Nelly would grass up. No telling where the trail would lead. So instead there was to be a deal. There was to be the purest heroin going, stuff that would stop your heart dead.

Caldwell’s orders. And Caldwell was acting on orders, too. And the person
above
Caldwell - Hunter had the idea it was some German or Dutch guy -
that
was who Hunter had to impress. Because he had to make a name for himself pronto, had to get ahead of the game, had to stake his place as Caldwell’s replacement.

Had to make contact.

Had to make good.

‘Yo!’

His chest tightened. Lanky and dripping sweat, unlikely ever to be let in by the bouncers if they didn’t know he was Hunter’s brother, here came Nelly, nodding towards Panda, sliding into the booth and tipping the remains of someone’s lager down his neck.

‘Thought I was never going to find you, man.’

Hunter gazed at his brother, couldn’t find any words.

‘Happy New Year, ’n’ ’at,’ Nelly said.

‘It’s not midnight yet. Another couple of minutes.’

‘Oh, right.’ Nelly nodding, not really giving a toss about any of this conversation, or any emotions his brother might be feeling. Only needing a taste.

‘Dosh,’ Nelly said, sliding the money across.

‘You know the score, Nelly. Panda takes care of that.’

Panda: standing there with one packet in his pocket exclusively for Nelly. Hunter’s orders. And when Nelly OD’d, Panda would know Hunter had balls.

Everyone would know. Nobody’d ever try to screw him. The word would be made flesh. Suicide a small price to pay for that big bright future.

Nelly was already thinking of getting to his feet. He had no business now with Hunter. His business, his most urgent and necessary business, was with Panda. But he had to make a bit more conversation, pretend he’d a bit more respect for Hunter than was the case.

‘Eh, man, just to say . . .’ Nelly twitched. ‘Like, sorry about the kid.’

‘Are you?’

‘Christ, man, how was I to know he’d take the whole shot? I didn’t know he was a virgin.’

‘But you sold him your methadone, right?’

‘Needed the dosh, man.’

‘And he was fourteen?’

Nelly twitched again. ‘It’s going to be cool though? I mean, the police and the newspapers are going apeshit looking for—’

‘I’ve got friends, Nelly. They’ll take care of it.’

Nelly’s face brightened. ‘You’re the best, Johnny.’ On his feet now. ‘Don’t let any of the bastards tell you different.’

Hunter got up. They hugged, wished one another Happy New Year as the siren in the club sounded, releasing balloons. The DJ put on ‘Auld Lang Syne’, and it was like they were kids again, getting to stay up late this one night of the year, ginger cordial and madeira cake. Sneaking into the kitchen for swigs of whisky and brandy, giggling at each new pleasure revealed to them.