Cobweb (16 page)

Greenway departed without further comment.

Patrick said, ‘As you know, once upon a time when we worked for MI5 our brief permitted certain out-of-hours activities. Partly for sheer nostalgia reasons I can feel one coming on tonight.'

‘We do no longer work for MI5,' I agreed. ‘But what have you in mind?'

‘I'd like to gatecrash a certain private club that has illegal undertones.'

‘Jo-Jo's?'

‘Jo-Jo's.'

I knew he was in a good mood after getting agreement on the exhumation and said, ‘Well, as I'm supposed to be your adviser, you'd better give your other reasons. Pretend I'm Greenway.'

Standing by the car he ticked off on his fingers: ‘It's run by an Italian who's almost certainly the local godfather and who was Harmsworth's snout. Harmworth might not have realized quite how deeply the old snake's involved with pushing up the crime figures round here but, as we've already surmised, he could have done and reasoned that his presence kept out far worse hoodlums. Also, Theodore du Norde is a member, even though he lives quite a way from here in west London and gives the impression of being a bit sneery about Woodhill. And thirdly, after asking a few polite questions in the club you and I were set upon by a knife-carrier who might be connected with the place, or it could have been another attack on the law. So I want to address all these little unanswered niggles by taking the place apart at the seams, with explosives if necessary.'

Deeming the last remark to be mere wishful thinking, I said, ‘There are still a lot of “coulds” and “mights”. What do you hope to achieve? – and I'm only asking this because ten to one it won't be the kind of thing that can be used as evidence in anyone's trial.'

‘Sometimes, as we've discovered before, you have to make things happen. And then people behave in a way that can be used as evidence.'

‘They'll recognize us.'

‘We'll be masked and I propose, unless circumstances change, to use my very good line in ex-IRA bad boys – with current lay in tow.'

‘We'd have to have a convincing reason for what we were doing.'

‘You're right.' He pondered. ‘Yes, I know. Your brother has gone missing and was last seen in the place, in the bar, by one of the members – du Norde.'

I hummed disapprovingly, Marge Simpson-style at this and then said, ‘It stinks. And I hate to be such a wet blanket but you shouldn't go armed. You're only permitted to carry a handgun for personal protection purposes. If our nocturnal activities are traced back to SOCA, I'm more than sure you'd be finished with them.'

‘An Italian won't expect an Irishman to be useful with a knife.'

At a little before midnight we were in the narrow lane, almost medieval in its dirt and darkness, behind Jo-Jo's. We had eaten there earlier – and observing our present surroundings I was wishing we hadn't – kept our heads down, paid our bill in perfectly normal fashion and gone back to our digs to change. Matters at Jo-Jo's had not been normal, however, everyone for some reason being in a high state of jitters. A waiter had dropped a whole tray of clean glasses and bolted from sight leaving the mess to be swept up by someone else. The bar staff and waiters had whispered in huddles and of Jo-Jo himself there had been no sign. The fact that my meal had not been the one I had ordered, actually much more expensive, and we had not been charged the extra even though we had pointed out the mistake, spoke of chaos behind the scenes as well. Perhaps something had really gone wrong and everyone was nervously awaiting the boss's arrival and subsequent wrath.

Helpfully, the lane was not a cul-de-sac, running parallel for most of its length, as might have been expected, to the one fronting the properties. The southern end, farthest away from the main road, ended up in what must have been the Shire's Yard of its name, a dismal area with another exit that appeared to serve as delivery access to the rear of shops; the other did a right turn and narrowed until it was no more than a footpath between terraces of Victorian houses that led to a side street.

We were dressed in dark clothing: navy-blue tracksuits, ‘yachty' shoes with non-slip soles of a similar colour and black balaclavas, and right now, after our initial reconnoitre, were perched on a low wall, our backs to another higher one in the company of several large and malodorous refuse bins. It was dark and slightly foggy in a smoky way and although the rear entrance to the restaurant-cum-club was only about ten yards away I knew we were quite invisible to anyone who emerged from it unless they were carrying some kind of light.

Patrick gestured in the direction of where we had just explored, with the aid of his ‘burglar's' torch – steps that led down into a basement – and whispered, ‘That's probably regarded as the emergency exit of the club in the event of a police raid. The main entrance, a door with a very large gentleman keeping guard, is at the bottom of a wide staircase inside. I propose we get in this way.'

‘I thought these places had to be inspected,' I muttered. ‘The steps look lethal and there aren't any lights, not even down by the door.'

‘I should imagine there's everything to gladden a fire-prevention officer's heart when the inspections are made, but things like lights, or rather the bulbs in them, are quietly removed afterwards. These folk don't want to make entry easy to outsiders.'

‘The door looked solid enough.'

‘It's just as well I brought my sonic screwdriver then,' said the avid
Doctor Who
fan.

The basement area was not completely dark, a weird sort of glow rising through the misty air from below ground level, presumably escaping through the blinds on the windows. I suddenly remembered that I had planned to write a novel encompassing everything Sherlockian, gloomy and bog-ridden. In the next moment my imagination had galloped away, forcing me to strangle at birth lurid ideas involving evil miasmas emanating from putrescent corpses in mires and, as Katie would say, ‘all sorts of silly stuff like that'.

‘What was going on in there earlier, d'you reckon?' I said in Patrick's ear. ‘They were freaking out.'

‘God knows. Perhaps a fridge has failed and everything in it's gone off.'

A church clock struck twelve and still Patrick sat motionless. I shifted my weight slightly: the wall was freezing cold through my trousers and getting harder by the minute. At last I could stand it no longer and said, ‘What are you waiting for?'

‘I rang Theodore du Norde pretending to be Jo-Jo and asked him to come over. I'm giving him time to get here, that's all.'

‘Why, though?'

His teeth flashed white as he grinned at me. ‘Just stirring things up a little.'

‘You won't know if he's arrived from here,' I pointed out grumpily.

‘There were several cars parked down in that yard. I reckon anyone who didn't want to be seen on the streets would park there. So if he does come this way, it suggests he's as dodgy as Maggie says.'

Another ten minutes went by, during which my rear end went quite numb.

Then, even above the traffic noise on the main road, I distinctly heard the sound of tyres crunching over the rough ground of the yard, parts of which were liberally scattered with dumped hardcore and broken bricks. A door slammed and a couple of minutes later a small hurrying figure appeared. We froze, for whoever it was carried a torch. But he was too involved with finding his way and we saw it was Jo-Jo as he went from view into the light emanating from the basement. There were a series of knocks at the door and we heard it open and close.

Patrick was listening, head cocked, a hand on my wrist. Another car was arriving. There was a lot of door-slamming, but only one person eventually materialized: the unmistakable, blundering, portly outline of du Norde, using a flash lamp with an almost flat battery. He was swearing under his breath as he struggled to see where he was going and then uttered an expletive out loud as he tripped and nearly fell over some projection or other. I waited, breathlessly, for him to go headlong down the steps, but he survived and after knocking in the same fashion – three quickly, a pause and then two more – was admitted.

‘We go!' Patrick said.

We were off the wall and making our way towards the steps when I heard people coming at the run. I was grabbed, thankfully by my working partner, finding myself momentarily airborne and then, only a little scratched, in very close proximity to one of the rank and overgrown bushes that grew at the bases of the walls – inside it, to be precise. Seconds later several dark shapes ran past us, almost close enough to touch, actually brushing the foliage, and disappeared down the steps. There followed the hammering and smashing of wood as the door was broken down.

I spat out the leaf in my mouth.

From the building came a subterranean convulsion, a megaton upheaval of the terrified accompanied by shouting, screaming and the crash of overturned furniture. Several people tried to escape up the steps but were hauled back. We heard the sound of blows, more shouts, groans and then it went quieter as though the main activity had moved farther within. No, just one sound – that of prone bodies being dragged away.

‘Oh, brother,' Patrick whispered and then had gone.

Over the years I have discovered, the hard way, that the safest place to be in situations like this is not hanging around nervously on the fringes but right behind him, if necessary passing the ordnance. Nothing like this was required to begin with as the two masked men standing just inside the shattered door who disagreed with Patrick's insistence on entry ceased to take further interest in the proceedings and we locked their unconscious selves in what turned out to be a storeroom. Then we stood quite motionless, listening.

I think it had occurred to us both that the raid might be a police one, in which case we had no choice but to silently retire. But police left on guard would have identified themselves – in fact, would probably have mistaken us for part of their own team from the way we were attired.

Whoever it was was turning the whole place over. At least, I thought, the restaurant was closed at this time of night, so the chance of members of the public being caught up and hurt in the violence was slim. Then we heard male voices: not speaking English.

The man in my life immediately binned his Irish nationality and strutted into the large, opulently furnished room that led off a short passageway in which we had paused, and surveyed what was going on. Everyone conscious – three were not – stared at him, as still as waxworks. Jo-Jo and his staff were lined up against one wall together with club members, including du Norde, and, facing them, several more masked individuals protectively clustered around another man, who was not masked. The latter – finely honed features, olive complexion, galactically expensive suit – gestured imperiously to one of his henchmen, who produced a flick knife and lunged in Patrick's direction.

Or, at least, he began to do these things, the weapon dropping to the carpet as another embedded itself in his upper arm. Patrick thoughtfully supplied the general anaesthetic of a chop across the neck before he retrieved it, scooped the other knife from the floor and went back to stand in exactly the same place as he had been before.

‘What do you want?' asked the boss with a strong Italian accent. ‘I have no quarrel with you.'

‘You are threatening my good friend Jo-Jo,' Patrick said silkily, likewise, but with his voice pitched a little higher than normal. ‘And it goes without saying that you are not welcome here. Leave.'

The other sneered. ‘He can only afford to pay you a pittance. I offer you more. But first I must know who you are. Remove your mask.'

‘Pittance!' shrieked Jo-Jo. ‘You call 50k a year for doing next to nothing a pittance? He is not joining you. I will have you killed first!'

‘Big words from a nobody,' said the intruder with a false chuckle. And to Patrick: ‘Skill with a knife is rare in the UK.'

I supposed, afterwards, that he must have surreptitiously nudged the man standing nearest to him. There was an explosion of movement – although at the time it always seems that things like this happen in slow motion – a gun was produced and coming up to aim in our direction. Patrick and I both flung ourselves aside and a shot cracked out, very loud in the low-ceilinged room.

I left the Glock pistol where everyone could see it, in my right hand, and stood upright. The would-be sharp-shooter had gone over backwards as though an express train had hit him but was now sitting up, hugging his right leg, moaning.

Patrick said it, but personally I would have cut the crowing.

‘We're not too bad with firearms either,' he drawled.

‘This bastard is a liar and – and – will kill you when he knows who you are,' Jo-Jo babbled to him, pointing accusingly with a quivering forefinger. ‘I give you half the protection money from the other restaurants on top of your retaining fee if you get rid of him and his murderers and stay with me!'

He certainly deserved a prize for thinking on his feet.

‘What else will you give me?' Patrick said in a bored voice.

‘A – a cut in the proceeds of the dog-racing scam.'

‘I'm not interested in working-class crime,' he was loftily told.

‘OK, a share of the drugs business, then. Please, I give you that if you help me – keep on helping me, I mean.'

‘That sounds more like it.' Patrick gestured towards du Norde. ‘But what about greasy fatso? Does he run things for you? – he looks as though his fingers are in all your pies.'

‘No, he – he just gives me information about what rich Londoners have in their homes and I sell it to antiques thieves.'

‘You stupid old
git
!' du Norde bawled.

‘Well, you do!' Jo-Jo retorted furiously. ‘And you cost me more than you bring in, you fat fool, with your expensive taste in things that you expect me to supply free of charge.'