Live Fire (17 page)

He flicked his hair to the side and jogged down the street to Sharpe’s hotel. The go-go bars were shut, a dismal sight in daylight with flaking paint and slipshod electrical wiring hanging around the doorways. He walked past a street vendor selling fried insects from a wheeled stall bolted to a motorcycle. A pretty girl in her twenties was watching the vendor shovel into a paper bag what appeared to be a dozen or so fried cockroaches.

The further he got from the beach road the fewer people were throwing water, and when he finally reached the Penthouse he was no longer dripping but still far from dry. As he went into Reception, a good-looking Westerner with slicked-back black hair walked out hand in hand with a teenage Thai boy. The Westerner smiled at Shepherd but the boy looked away, embarrassed.

Shepherd went up to Sharpe’s room. He knocked on the door and Sharpe opened it. Sharpe was wearing a threadbare bathrobe and blinked sleepily at him. ‘The early worm . . .’ he grunted. ‘You’re sweating like a pig,’ he observed.

‘It’s not sweat,’ said Shepherd. ‘And you’re one to talk – you smell like a brewery.’

‘I’ve been working,’ said Sharpe, walking into the room, his robe flapping around his ankles.

‘Yeah, it looks like it.’ Shepherd scowled, shutting the door. He sat on a chair by the window. ‘And it’s the afternoon, Razor.’

‘Screw you,’ said Sharpe, flopping down on the bed. ‘I was out until five o’clock this morning, following the Brothers Grim around town. And you can’t stand in the bars drinking water and not attract attention so, yes, I had the odd beer or two.’

‘And?’

‘And you’ll have no problem bumping into them. They were in three discothèques and half a dozen go-go bars and they’re treated like royalty everywhere they go. Mark got into a fight and beat the shit out of three bodybuilders. Watch him, Spider. He’s a tough bastard.’

‘You gotta be careful, tailing these guys on your own,’ said Shepherd.

‘Nah, it’s not a problem,’ said Sharpe. ‘The town’s full of middle-aged white men wandering around aimlessly. It’d be impossible to show out.’ He groaned and rubbed his temples. ‘Can you get me a hair of the dog out of the fridge?’

Shepherd leaned over, opened it, and tossed him a can of beer. He popped the tab and drank greedily. ‘What do you think about the Moores?’ asked Shepherd.

Sharpe sat up and rested his head against the wall. ‘They’re what my old dad used to call ODCs. Ordinary Decent Criminals. Old school. Don’t go out of their way to hurt civilians, don’t touch hard drugs, never hurt women or kids.’

‘Good to their mothers? Like the Krays?’

‘You can mock, but the world was a better place when ODCs were committing crimes. These days, it’s all drugs, drive-by shootings and bombs on Tube trains. Remember that case in Tottenham? The ten guys who raped that girl, then poured caustic soda over her to destroy the DNA evidence? That’s the sort of scumbags we’re dealing with now. ODCs wouldn’t go near hard drugs, like crack and heroin, and if they ever used violence it tended to be against other criminals.’

‘I guess they’re a dying breed, all right.’ Shepherd grinned. ‘A bit like your good self.’

‘I’m only ten years older than you,’ protested Sharpe. There were banging sounds from the room next door, followed by loud grunting. Sharpe gestured at the wall. ‘That goes on all night,’ he said.

‘Is that a girl?’ The grunting had turned into loud squealing.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Sharpe. ‘Your hotel’s more upmarket, right?’

‘I’m moving out tomorrow,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve got a villa.’

‘Great,’ said Sharpe. ‘I’ll get packed.’

‘You can’t stay with me, Razor. I’m in Pattaya alone, remember? On the run from the cops.’

‘It’s a big place, right?’

‘Huge. With a pool.’

‘So put me in a spare bedroom and I’ll stay out of the way.’

‘You know it’s not going to happen.’

Sharpe sighed. The screaming next door reached a crescendo, and stopped suddenly. ‘I’m not staying here,’ said Sharpe.

‘Fine, check into somewhere else – the place is full of hotels.’

‘Do you think Charlie will run to a villa for me?’

‘Why don’t you ask her?’ he said. ‘Let me know what she says.’

‘Why don’t I just make the Moores my new best friends and move in with them?’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Shepherd.

‘Screw you.’

‘Not an option,’ said Shepherd. ‘But if you’re on the turn, you’re in the right part of town.’

‘Seriously, Spider, this place is getting on my tits. I don’t see why I can’t be in a four-star place. It’s not as if hotel prices are steep. This place is only twenty quid a night.’

Shepherd held up his hands. ‘It’s nothing to do with me. Like I said, you’ll have to talk to Charlie.’

Sharpe finished his beer and tossed the can into a plastic bucket beside the toilet door.

‘How approachable were the Moores?’ asked Shepherd.

‘They put themselves about a bit, but it was more other guys coming up to pay homage, shaking hands, a pat on the back, but they stayed pretty tight as a team. You worried about an in?’

‘I’m not sure it’s gonna work if I hang around and bump into them. If they’re criminal royalty, everyone’s going to want to bask in the reflected glory, right?’

‘Don’t see you’ve much choice. There’s no one here can give you an introduction. You tried the estate agent, right?’

‘He might mention me to them, but he’s not going to get me into the compound.’ Shepherd smiled encouragingly. ‘I thought we might try a bit of theatre. Get me noticed.’

Sharpe groaned. ‘Last time we did that I ended up with a broken nose.’

‘It was only a fracture. And a small one at that.’

Sharpe gestured at the fridge. ‘Get me another beer and let me think about it.’

The girl had said she was twenty-three but she looked as if she was barely out of her teens. She’d told Shepherd she had been working in the bar for three weeks and before that she had been assembling televisions in a Japanese factory in Udon Thani, in the north-east of the country. Her name was Nong, she had never been married and she didn’t like Thai men because they were lazy and beat their wives. Shepherd had the feeling that it was a story she’d told a hundred times and that she had been a bargirl for a lot longer than three weeks. She’d asked him if he’d buy her a drink and he’d said yes. When she’d tottered to the bar on her high heels he’d seen that her stomach was pitted with stretch marks.

When she came back with her drink she’d told him how she had to send money to her mother every month because her family was so poor, but Shepherd could see that her heart wasn’t in it. Lying to people was a skill, a craft that had to be honed, and reciting a list of untruths didn’t make you a good liar. You had to believe in the story you were selling. Shepherd knew all about lying. It was what he did for a living. He decided that most of the guys Nong spoke to were so drunk or stupid they never questioned what she told them so she’d given up making an effort.

It was a little after eleven o’clock and he was in a go-go bar in an alley off Walking Street. The Moore brothers were at a table close to a dancing podium at the far end with Yates and Wilson. Shepherd had visited a dozen such bars before he’d found the brothers, then phoned Jimmy Sharpe to let him know where they were. He had sat with his back to the brothers and watched the dancers until Nong had come up behind him, put her hands over his eyes and whispered, ‘Surprise!’ It was her opening gambit, pretending she’d mistaken him for somebody else. Then she’d slid on to the stool next to him, rubbed his thigh and told him her tale of woe.

The curtain at the entrance to the bar drew back and Jimmy Sharpe came in. He was wearing baggy shorts, a sweat-stained T-shirt advertising Singha, and flip-flops, the uniform of the sex tourist on the prowl. He went to the bar, ordered a beer to match the logo on his shirt and leered at the dancing bargirls. Then he pretended to see Shepherd for the first time and walked unsteadily to his table. He banged down his bottle and grinned at Nong. ‘Hello, darling,’ he said. ‘What’s your name, then?’

Her face tightened and she moved closer to Shepherd.

Sharpe reached out and ran his fingers down her arm. ‘Lovely little thing, aren’t you? Come here and give me a kiss.’

‘She’s with me, mate,’ said Shepherd.

‘She’s with whoever pays her bill, pal,’ he said, ‘and my money’s as good as yours.’ He shouted the last sentence and heads turned to see what the commotion was about. Sharpe took out his wallet and waved a thousand-baht note in front of her. ‘Come on, darling, let’s get out of here.’

Shepherd slid off his stool. ‘I already told you, pal. She’s with me.’

Sharpe pushed Shepherd in the chest, hard enough to move him back. ‘Get out of my face!’ he yelled, his Glaswegian accent heavier than usual. He grabbed his beer bottle and smacked it against the side of the table. It shattered, leaving him holding the neck and a wickedly sharp shard, which he thrust at Shepherd’s face. Shepherd swayed back, grasped Sharpe’s wrist with his right hand, and twisted savagely. Sharpe yelped in genuine pain and the remains of the bottle fell to the floor.

Shepherd stepped forward, increased the pressure on Sharpe’s twisted arm, then swung him to the side and threw him against the wall. Sharpe hit it hard, but immediately came back at Shepherd, swinging his fists and cursing. He managed to clip Shepherd on the side of the chin, jolting his jaw, but then Shepherd grabbed his T-shirt and pulled it halfway over his head. Shepherd kept the momentum going, pulling Sharpe towards him, then stepped to the side, like a matador avoiding an angry bull, and pushed him head-first into the wall. This time Sharpe went down on his hands and knees, swearing loudly.

Two Thai waiters were heading purposefully for Shepherd. The curtain at the entrance to the bar was pulled aside and another two looked in. Shepherd knew that he had only seconds to end the fight before they piled in. He grabbed the back of Sharpe’s shirt, dragged him to his feet and frogmarched him to the door. Blood was dripping from his nose and Shepherd hoped he hadn’t broken it. The Thai doormen moved aside to let Shepherd through. ‘Get the hell out, and stay out!’ Shepherd roared, kicking Sharpe’s backside. He followed him into the alley. ‘And if I see you in here again I’ll kill you!’ he yelled, and kicked him again.

Sharpe ran off down the alley, heading away from Walking Street. There were cheers as Shepherd walked back into the bar and a round of spontaneous applause from three skinheads standing at the main dancing podium. Shepherd gave them a mock-bow, then went back to his table. Nong threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. ‘You very brave man,’ she said.

‘Not really,’ said Shepherd. Mark Moore and Andy Yates were looking in his direction. Mickey was standing with his back to him, holding a banknote up to a bare-breasted dancer. Yates was saying something to Mark, who was nodding. Shepherd was sure they’d seen the fight so he’d achieved his objective. He finished his drink and called for his bill.

‘I come with you?’ asked Nong hopefully.

‘Sorry, love, I promised myself an early night,’ said Shepherd. He paid, waved goodbye to his skinhead fan club and left the bar. He walked slowly down the alley to make sure no one was following him, then increased the pace as he headed for the Penthouse Hotel.

Jimmy Sharpe opened the door to his room, clutching an icepack to his forehead. He grunted at Shepherd, then lay down on his bed. ‘You’re a bastard,’ he muttered.

‘I didn’t think you’d hit the wall as hard as you did,’ said Shepherd. He dropped onto the chair by the window and swung his feet onto the end of the bed.

‘You pulled my shirt over my bloody head so I couldn’t see where the hell I was. That wasn’t what we’d planned. Bottle, grab my arm, against the wall, I throw a punch, you grab me and throw me out. That was what you said, right?’

‘I improvised and I’m sorry,’ said Shepherd. ‘But it looked bloody good, I can tell you. I’m pretty sure they bought it.’

‘I think it’s broken,’ muttered Sharpe.

‘I’m sure it’s not. How can I make it up to you?’

Sharpe lifted the icepack and squinted across at him. ‘You can talk to Charlie and get me into a decent hotel,’ he said slyly.

It had been a long day and Simon Montgomery was looking forward to a beer and a curry in front of the television. Thursday was his wife’s bridge night, the one night of the week when she allowed him a curry in the house. Eileen hated the smell of Indian food, let alone the taste, and the first curry she had eaten with him had been her last. They had gone to one of Montgomery’s favourite restaurants in the East End of London. They were both in their early twenties, he was an up-and-coming barrister, she a copywriter with a top London advertising agency. Despite his suggestion that she should keep clear of seafood, she had had king prawn dhansak, and three hours later she had been throwing up like there was no tomorrow. That had been thirty-four years, three children and five grandchildren ago, but Eileen had refused ever again to be even in the same room as a curry.

Simon pressed the remote control to open his garage gates and drove the Jaguar in slowly. The house was almost two hundred years old and the two-car garage was a relatively recent addition. There had been just enough space to fit it in between the house and the garden wall and there was only just enough room for the Jaguar and his wife’s Mini Cooper. Montgomery knew that a fair amount of sherry was consumed at the weekly bridge session and that his wife’s parking abilities were dubious even when she was completely sober so he parked as close as he could to the wall. He closed the garage and unlocked the internal door that led into the kitchen, tapping the code into the burglar alarm before hanging his coat over the back of a chair and taking his briefcase to his study. He kept his takeaway menus in his desk because his wife tended to throw away the ones he left on the refrigerator door. He sat at his desk and took them out of the top drawer. There were three Indian restaurants within a mile of Montgomery’s house, but his favourite by far was Tandoori Nights. He knew the menu by heart but he still made the effort to look through it. Then he picked up the phone and ordered exactly what he’d decided on during the drive home – chicken jalfrezi, lamb rogan josh on the bone, sag paneer, a garlic naan and boiled rice.