The First Novels: Pay Off, the Fireman (12 page)

       
The where was St  James’s Park, the when was five minutes after I climbed out of the Granada opposite Horse Guards Parade, the wind tugging at the coats of the two policemen stopping non-permit-holders from parking outside the barracks. The coming alone was no problem because I gave McKinley the rest of the day off and told him to meet me at the flat the following morning.

       
Big Ben chimed in the background as I walked along the path to the lake which bisects the park, past the concrete snack bar that’s a scaled down version of Liverpool Cathedral, the modern one, not the pretty one. Pigeons, geese and ducks were taking bread from tame tourists, waddling from hand to hand, too gorged or too lazy to fly, waiting until positively the last minute before getting the hell out of my way.

       
Stand in the middle of the footbridge, Tony had said, and wait for me. He was late, walking from the direction of The Mall across the grass under the towering horse chestnuts, giving a wide berth to a game of football between white overalled painters and carpenters who were blasting a muddy ball at goalposts made of dropped pullovers.

       
We both leant on the faded blue-green railings, facing towards Buckingham Palace. The flag wasn’t flying so the Queen wasn’t at home, but if she had been, and if she’d been standing on the balcony with a pair of powerful binoculars, then maybe she’d have wondered what we were talking about, and if she’d had a supersensitive directional microphone and had been able to pick up what we were saying, maybe she’d have wondered why two grown men were verbally fencing like a couple of nervous interviewees.

       
‘What’s going on, sport? What are you up to?’ he asked.

       
‘What are you talking about, Tony?’

       
‘Just listen to him,’ he said, more to himself than to me. ‘When I give you the word I want you to turn round very slowly and look at the fountain at the other end of the lake. Pretend you’re deep in thought, listening to what I’m saying, then turn your head to two o’clock and tell me if you recognize the man sitting on the bench there. Do it now.’

       
I followed his instructions, not sure what to expect but knowing something was wrong. It was Iwanek, dressed just the way he was when I met him in the Savoy, except that he’d added a dark brown raincoat with the collar turned up. Shit, shit, shit. Tony hadn’t turned but I knew he was waiting for me to speak, to explain.

       
Two men, both with hands thrust deep into the pockets of dark overcoats, approached Iwanek, one from behind, one walking along the duck-strewn path, and simultaneously sat down on either side of him. It looked like something out of a George Raft movie and I smiled. Tony had always had a taste for the melodramatic. Iwanek got up to go, I could feel the tension from a hundred yards away, and one of the men laid a restraining hand on his arm and spoke to him. He settled back down, resigned but with the air of an animal that realizes it’s trapped but is still looking for a way out.

       
‘Well?’ said Tony, and this time he turned and we both looked at Iwanek like a couple of used car dealers at an auction, assessing the merchandise.

       
‘What makes you think I know him?’ I said.

       
‘Just listen to him,’ he whispered again. ‘Playing with fire, playing with the big boys.’ He sighed and looked at me, eyes hard and cold. Like his voice.

       
‘Three reasons, sport. One, he was waiting for you outside the wine bar when we met two days ago. Two, he followed you here today. Three, he can’t take his eyes off you. There’s either something very wrong here or he’s in love with you. Talk to me.’

       
‘I hired him.’

       
‘To do what? To follow you? Is that what he is, protection?’

       
‘No, I guess he’s checking me out, the equivalent of you or me asking for references or getting a credit check done. It’s not a problem.’ A lie, that one. Iwanek was a problem, a real humdinger, and one that I wasn’t sure how to deal with. Hell, hell, hell.

       
‘What’s going on?’ he pressed. ‘What in God’s name would you want to hire a man like that for?’

       
I suppose lying is like eating raw oysters, the first one is the hardest, you’ve got a psychological barrier to cross, but once it’s done you never look back, it just gets easier and easier. I had no trouble with lie number two but if I’d had a life-size portrait of myself in the attic, done in oils and framed in gilt, then the face would have started to blemish, the skin to wrinkle and age.

       
‘This client I wanted a girl for is going to need looking after while he’s in London. That guy there was recommended to me, and I asked him to recruit another two. There’s quite a bit of money involved, I suppose he just wants to confirm who he’s working for.’ That sounded about as solid as a self-assembly kitchen unit, because if it was bodyguards I’d wanted then I would obviously have gone to Tony, but he let that pass.

       
‘What do you want to do with him?’ he asked.

       
‘Let me talk to him. I’ll point out the error of his ways.’

       
‘I could get my two friends there to give him the good news.’

       
‘No, I don’t want him hurt, he was just a little over-enthusiastic. Can I borrow them for a few minutes, though?’

       
‘Sure. They won’t break.’

       
I walked over the bridge and down to the path where the three of them sat like a row of brass monkeys. I stood in front of Iwanek and he looked up at me, unsmiling.

       
‘Satisfied?’ I asked, and I knew I had to be careful because everything I said would be relayed back to Tony and I was in enough trouble already. He just kept looking at me, curious rather than afraid.

       
‘Are you satisfied?’ I repeated. I had to convince him that I was in control, a hard man who could cause him a lot of grief if I chose to. The two men sitting like a couple of bookends would go a long way to persuading him, and if the worst came to the worst I knew they could hurt him badly. But then I’d run the risk of losing him.

       
‘You wouldn’t have expected me to accept the sort of job you offered without knowing what I was getting into,’ he said, and the tone left me in no doubt that he was the hard man, not me.

       
‘You’ve already accepted the job and you took my money. It’s too late to be checking up on me. You’re hired and there’s no going back. You’ve given me a dilemma, Jim. I can’t have you following me all over London, now can I? You’ll get in my way. But if I break your legs, correction, if I get these two to break your legs, then you’ll be no use to me. What shall I do, Jim? Advise me.’

       
‘These two don’t worry me,’ he said, and I believed him. ‘But I’ve got the message. I wanted to know who you are, what you do, and the sort of circles you move in. I still don’t know what you’re up to, but I’ve an idea now of the sort of business you’re in. I won’t bother you again. Give me a call when you’re ready.’

       
He got to his feet and walked off without a backward look, leaving me to escort the two heavies back to Tony.

       
‘I don’t suppose you’d tell me what you’re up to even if I asked,’ he said. ‘So I won’t.’

       
‘I’ll be all right,’ I replied. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

       
I didn’t hear a cock crow and the sky didn’t split open to unleash a bolt of lightning, but I knew I’d lied three times and that the third lie had slipped off my tongue like butter off a hot knife. I left Tony behind and went off in search of a cab, having added years to the hypothetical portrait in my hypothetical attic.

The evening sky was threatening rain as McKinley braked sharply in front of Sammy’s flat, sharply enough to throw me forward but not sharply enough to snap the seat belt and send me tumbling over the bonnet. Not quite. The taxi driver who’d managed to slam on his brakes and squeal to a halt three inches from our rear bumper hit his horn angrily, reversed his cab and drove past glaring at McKinley who took not a blind bit of notice.

       
‘I’ll wait here, boss,’ he said.

       
‘You’re double parked, Get-Up, but we won’t be long,’ I replied, but I was only halfway out of the Granada as she came through the front door and down the steps.

       
She’d curled her red hair and it bounced and shimmered as she walked, the ends stroking her bare shoulders. Her dress was long and black and could have been worn to a funeral if she’d wanted to be gang-raped by the pall bearers. It was slashed from the ground to just below her waist on both sides and her long brown legs flashed in and out as she clicked down the steps on high heels. Three things held the dress up, two thread-like silver chains across each shoulder and the swell of her breasts. Around her perfect neck was a single strand of pearls matched by a smaller group on her left wrist. It was all the jewellery she was wearing and Sammy didn’t even need that.

       
‘You look delicious,’ I said as I reached for her hand.

       
‘Don’t I just?’ she laughed, and I helped her into the back seat and slid in beside her. ‘I hope you appreciate all the effort that went into creating this work of art.’

       
‘You’ll be telling me next that bodies like yours don’t grow on trees.’

       
‘They don’t grow like this at all without a great deal of work. A lot of exercise, a lot of care and attention, and a lot of money.’

       
‘You make it sound like owning an expensive car, looking after the bodywork and keeping the engine in good running order.’ She crossed her legs as I spoke and her slender foot brushed against my trouser leg.

       
‘That’s a fair comparison,’ she said, and already her hand had found its way to my knee, circling it thoughtfully. ‘But some collectors’ cars are more than a hundred years old. I’ll be lucky if I stay in concours condition for another five. And it’s not as if I’ve only had one careful owner.’

       
Now she was laughing, eyes sparkling as she tilted her head to one side and looked my face over. She reached up and stroked my right ear, nipping the lobe between finger and thumb. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

       
We weren’t going anywhere because McKinley was twisted round in the driver’s seat, mouth agape, eyes eating up Sammy and what the hell, who could blame him? She’d turn more heads than a road accident dressed like this.

       
‘Let’s go, Get-Up,’ I said, and as he turned back in his seat his eyes were the last thing to move. He sighed, deeply and sorrowfully, like a poodle being asked to leave the bed of his mistress. He put the car into second gear and drove away from the kerb in jerks and jumps before switching the wrong indicator light on.

       
It took thirty minutes of McKinley’s stop-start driving before he dropped us in front of the four-storey grey stone building in Berkeley Square which houses Spencers, a restaurant used mainly by advertising executives and media salesmen and anyone else on no-questions-asked expense accounts.

       
The square was clogged up with traffic and any nightingale brave or stupid enough to venture there to sing would be coughing up phlegm for a month. Several horns honked as McKinley leant over and asked what time he should pick us up.

       
‘Just hang around, Get-Up. I won’t be long,’ I told him. ‘Find a parking space nearby and keep your eyes on the front door.’

       
I took Sammy by the arm and together we walked up the stone steps, past the twin bay trees standing guard duty either side of the door and through the bar.

       
The food in Spencers tended to be overcooked and overpriced and the decor completely over the top: vivid flock wallpaper, cheap paintings in expensive gilded frames, and huge ornate chandeliers with electric candles flickering annoyingly. But it did have one advantage over any of a dozen other places I would quite happily have taken Sammy to – Ronnie Laing could be found there three or four evenings a week, often dining alone. He used Spencers as his canteen, always had the same table, was treated like a long-lost relative every time he crossed the threshold and knew the menu by heart. He tipped well, usually took the maître d’s advice on food and let the wine waiter choose his drink. They couldn’t have loved him more if he’d rolled up his sleeves and pitched in with the washing up.

       
A phone call earlier in the evening had confirmed that Laing had booked a table, and as Sammy and I were shown to a booth I saw him sitting in a corner facing the entrance, on his own and halfway through a plate of mussels, either a large starter or a small main course.

       
‘We’ll sit here, if you don’t mind,’ I said, as the waiter tried to steer us away from Laing, and I pointed to one of the small circular tables about twelve feet from where he was sitting. I recognized him from the photographs that had appeared at the time of the takeover but he wouldn’t have known me from Adam. He didn’t go to the funeral. He didn’t go to either of them.

       
‘Not at all, sir,’ said the waiter through clenched teeth, and the ‘sir’ was very much an afterthought as he pulled out the chair for Sammy. Unfortunately it was the chair facing away from Laing and the waiter barely concealed his disdain as I slid into it myself and motioned her to take the other one. He rushed round to pull out the second chair and was rewarded with a toe-curling smile from Sammy and a long lingering look down the front of her dress.