Captives (28 page)

    Inside the restaurant the tables were bare but for cloths, all immaculately clean. The staff wouldn't arrive to set them for a while yet. Out in the kitchen preparations were already taking place in readiness for the lunch-time trade. The restaurant always did well at lunch-times, situated as it was in Shepherd Market. It was one of five such establishments owned by Ray Plummer.

    Now he sat at one of the tables, cradling a glass of white wine in one hand. With the other he gently stroked his hair.

    There were five other men with him. They too had drinks. Plummer put down his glass and reached into his inside pocket for the monogrammed cigarette case. He took one and lit it, looking round at his companions.

    'Same voice as the other night, Ray?' said John Hitch, flicking his long blond hair over his shoulders.

    Plummer nodded.

    'And I still couldn't pin the bastard down,' he complained.

    'He says the shipment's coming in by boat?' Terry Morton said.

    'The Sandhopper, it's called,' Plummer told him. He repeated the other details about the shipment of cocaine, as relayed to him by the mysterious informant the previous night. He sat back when he'd finished and sipped his wine.

    'Could it be a set up?' Joe Perry wanted to know. Perry was a thick-set, bull-necked man who looked as if he'd been eased into his suit with a shoe-horn. The material stretched so tightly across his shoulder blades it threatened to rip. His face was smooth, almost feminine; it looked as if it had never felt the touch of a razor.

    Plummer shrugged.

    'It could be,' he said.

    'It could also be bollocks, couldn't it?' Morton interjected. 'I mean, there might not even be a shipment of coke.'

    'Then why bother phoning?' asked Adrian McCann, rubbing a hand over his close-cropped hair. Over his ears it was completely shaved. 'It's a bit fucking elaborate, isn't it?'

    'That's what I said,' Plummer agreed. He turned to Hitch. 'You heard the geezer the other night, John; he didn't sound like he was joking, did he?'

    Hitch shook his head.

    'I agree with Joe,' he added. 'It could be a set-up.'

    'But by who?' Plummer wanted to know, a note of exasperation in his voice. 'We know it's not another organisation in London, especially not Ralph Connelly's firm.'

    'Could it be somebody working for Connelly with an axe to grind?' asked Martin Bates, running his finger around the rim of his glass. Bates was in his early twenties, one of Plummer's youngest employees.

    Plummer shrugged.

    'Who knows? The point is, do we go with it or not? Do we assume there is a shipment? And, if there is, do we knock it over?'

    'Are you asking for votes, boss?' Hitch said, laughing.

    The other men laughed too. Plummer didn't see the joke and glanced irritably at Hitch, waiting until they calmed down.

    'Right, let's assume there is a shipment of coke,' he continued. 'Let's say that phone call was kosher. The day after next the shipment is meant to be arriving, if the information's right. If it is right then the coke is hidden among a load of coffee beans. Now the question is, if this is a set-up, we're going to get hit when we try to take the lorry they're transferring the shit to. How do we get round that?'

    'Take out the lorry first?' offered Joe Perry.

    'No,' Hitch said, smiling. 'We hit it before they even take it off the boat.'

    Even Plummer smiled.

    'Hijack the fucking boat,' Hitch continued. 'Unload it somewhere else down the river. We have our own lorry waiting. Unload it, pack it away and piss off.'

    Plummer slapped him on the shoulder.

    'That's what we'll do,' he said. 'Take the shipment while it's still on the river.'

    'Like pirates,' chuckled Morton.

    The other men laughed.

    'Ray, there are some other things to consider,' offered McCann. 'Once we've hit Connelly's shipment, he ain't going to be too happy.'

    'I wouldn't be if I'd just lost twenty million,' Plummer said humourlessly. 'What are you getting at? You reckon he might come looking for bother?'

    'Wouldn't you?' McCann said.

    'He's right, Ray,' Hitch interjected. 'A fucking gang war is the last thing we want.'

    'What am I, stupid?' Plummer said. 'There's no need for Connelly to know who turned him over. If it's done properly, and I'm not talking about fucking balaclavas and funny accents, there's no reason why he should know who hit him.' He looked at Hitch. 'I'm leaving that side of it to you, John. Like I said, you got about thirty-six hours.'

    Hitch nodded.

    'If the worst comes to the worst and he does find out, what then?' Perry wanted to know.

    'A gang war would be as damaging to Connelly as it would to us. He won't want it,' Plummer said with assurance. 'But if he does, he can't win. We're stronger and, for twenty million, I'm bloody sure we're going to be better equipped. Connelly will realise that. He's not stupid.'

    'So we go with it, then?' Hitch echoed.

    Plummer nodded. He reached across and touched Hitch's arm.

    'John, I want Jim Scott to drive one of the cars,' he said quietly.

    Hitch looked puzzled.

    'Scott? He runs one of your clubs, doesn't he? I wouldn't have thought he was the right bloke for this kind of operation,' Hitch said.

    'I want him involved,' Plummer said, his eyes never leaving Hitch. 'He knows how to handle himself. He'll be all right.'

    'I'm sure he will. I just don't know why you want him in on it.'

    'I've got my reasons,' Plummer said.

    Hitch shrugged.

    'I'm sure you have,' he said. 'Okay, I'll tell him. If you want him in, that's fair enough, Ray. You're the boss.'

    Plummer smiled.

    'Yeah, I am.'

    

    

    They were watching him. He was certain of it now.

    As the tube pulled into Westminster station Trevor Magee looked directly across the compartment and saw his own reflection in the glass. He tried not to look either left or right. As the doors slid open he glanced at the middle-aged couple who got out but then stared straight ahead again.

    The doors remained open for a moment but no other passengers got on.

    Magee realised that he was alone apart from the other two.

    And he knew they were watching him.

    The two youths, both in their early twenties, one black, one white, had boarded the train at Gloucester Road station. At first they had sat directly opposite him, but as the train travelled through the subterranean tunnel one of them had moved three seats to his left. The other had moved to the right. Both sat on the opposite row of seats and Magee moved uncomfortably under their gaze. He looked up briefly and saw that the black youth was watching him. He was tall, taller than Magee's six feet, dressed in faded jeans and baseball boots which made his feet look enormous. He had one hand in the pocket of a baggy jacket. The other he was tapping on his right thigh, slapping out a rhythm, perhaps the accompaniment to the tuneless refrain he was humming.

    His white companion was also staring at Magee. He too wore baggy jeans and baseball boots, and across his T-shirt the words 'Ski-Club' could be clearly seen. His face was pitted and he needed a shave.

    Magee was painfully aware that he was alone in the compartment with the youths. He glanced at the map of the Underground on the panel opposite and saw that they were approaching Embankment Station. He decided to get off.

    Would they follow him?

    Out of the corner of his eye he could see the white youth had draped one leg over a plastic seat arm and was reclining, his gaze never leaving Magee.

    He began to consider the worst possible scenario. If they both came at him at once, from opposite sides, how would he deal with them?

    He tried to tell himself he was being ridiculous. He was, after all, thirty-six years old, six feet tall and well-built. Should they try anything he should be more than capable of dealing with them. But the doubts persisted.

    The black youth got to his feet, standing still for a moment, swaying with the motion of the train, gripping one of the rails overhead for support. Then he began walking towards Magee.

    The train was slowing slightly; they must be close to the station.

    The youth sat down opposite.

    Magee clenched both fists in the pockets of his long leather overcoat. The knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsed.

    He was ready.

    The train eased into the station and he got to his feet, heading for the door, pressing the 'DOOR OPEN' button even before it was illuminated. The orange light flared and he jabbed at it. The door slid open and he stepped out onto the platform, walking quickly towards the exit. Once there he paused and glanced behind him.

    There was no one following.

    He smiled and hurried to the escalator, scuttling up the moving stairway towards street level, finally emerging into the ticket hall. As he passed through he cast one last glance behind him to assure himself he was free of pursuers. Satisfied that he was, he walked out into Villiers Street, into the arms of the night.

    A chill wind had come with the onset of darkness and Magee pulled up the collar of his coat as protection against the breeze. Both hands dug firmly in his pockets, he walked along the narrow thoroughfare, the lights of the Strand up ahead of him. A young woman passed close and smiled. Magee returned the gesture, nodding a passing greeting, turning to look at her, appreciating the shapely legs visible below her short skirt.

    She had not been the first woman to offer him a smile during the past few hour. Magee was a good-looking man, his shoulder-length black hair and chiselled features making him look at least five years younger than his actual age. He had helped one woman with a pushchair and screaming infant on to a bus earlier, and she had gripped his hand tightly in hers as she had said thank you. He had merely smiled and waved to her as the bus pulled away.

    
You either had it or you didn't,
thought Trevor Magee, smiling broadly to himself.

    He passed a pub on his right called The Griffin, the sound of loud music swelling from inside. For a moment he thought about going in and fumbled in one of his pockets for some change, but he decided against it. He walked on, climbing the flight of stone steps that brought him up into the Strand itself.

    To his right there was a McDonalds; behind him the lights of the Charing Cross Hotel glowed in the darkness. To his left was Trafalgar Square.

    Magee's smile broadened.

    He looked around him, aware of the traffic speeding up and down, of the people who walked past him on the pavement, of people coming out of McDonalds laden with fast food. There was a dustbin outside and an elderly man dressed in a filthy jacket and torn trousers was shuffling towards it. There was a dark stain around the crotch of the trousers; Magee wrinkled his nose at the stench the old man was giving off.

    He watched as the tramp sorted through the rubbish, finally pulling out a soft-drinks container. He took off the lid and sniffed the contents, satisfied the liquid was drinkable. He swallowed it down as if parched.

    Magee's smile faded to a look of disgust.

    The tramp tossed the empty cup away and shuffled off in the other direction.

    Magee watched him go, pushing his way past pedestrians, finally disappearing down a side street.

    The younger man swallowed hard, then turned and walked briskly in the direction of Trafalgar Square.

    He had things to do.

    

    

    She rubbed a thin layer of Vaseline over her lips and smiled, satisfied with the extra lubrication. Zena Murray had seen on television that beauty queens used the trick so she figured it would work for her. After all, she had to do a lot of smiling in her business, too. Contestants in a beauty contest had only judges to impress with their looks and stance. Zena had many other, more trenchant critics to impress. The punters were always demanding.

    Jim Scott watched as she finished applying the vaseline, pacing the dressing room as she stood naked before him, slipping on a G-string and a suspender belt.

    'And you haven't seen or heard from Carol since last night?' he said agitatedly.

    'Scotty, we work together, that's it,' Zena told him, rolling one stocking up her leg.

    'She didn't stay with you?'

    'There's hardly room in my place for me, let alone bloody guests,' Zena told him.

    Scott sighed.

    'She's okay, I bet you,' Zena said, trying to sound reassuring. She looked at Scott, something close to pity in her voice. 'Look, Scotty, you shouldn't worry about her so much. She's got her own life to lead, you know.' And you won't be part of it for much longer. 'You'd be better off looking for someone else,' she smiled, her attempts at light banter failing miserably. 'I'm unattached, you know.'

    'I don't want anyone else, Zena,' he told her.

    She shrugged.

    'Just trying to help,' she said. Help, or soften the blow?

    Scott opened the door.

    'When she comes in, tell her I want to see her, will you?' he said, then he was gone.

    Zena pulled on another stocking and heard his footsteps echoing away up the corridor.

    

    

    Scott returned to his office and sat at his desk, glancing at the phone, wondering if he should try calling Carol's flat again. He resisted the temptation, leaning back in his seat, running a hand across his forehead. A confusion of emotions tumbled through his mind: anger, concern, fear. He couldn't seem to settle on one that suited him. It was not knowing where she was that was so unsettling.