The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries (4 page)

As I pass the small, central dance-floor, I’m greeted by several of the girls. They wink and blow me kisses, and one – Chanya from Thailand – brushes against me like a cat as I
pass, her expression inviting. But I know it’s only a bit of fun. She doesn’t want me. Like all the girls here, she’s after a ticket out, and someone of my standing simply
hasn’t got the resources to provide that.

Still, the attention puts me in a better mood, and this lasts as long as it takes to round the dance-floor and take the three steps to the upper level. Because it’s then I spot the man who
is my current nemesis, none other than The Crim himself.

This is a surprise. I’ve not seen The Crim in here before. He’s sitting at a corner booth talking animatedly to one of our regulars, the right honourable Stephen Humphrey MP, a
former junior defence minister, who always seems to have plenty of money. There’s some skulduggery afoot, I’ve no doubt about that, and I wonder what it might be.

I watch them from a distance for a full minute as they hatch whatever evil plot they’re hatching, and I think they make a right pair. The Crim is a big lumpy ox of a man with looks to
match, while the MP is tall and dapper, with every pore of his Savile Row besuited form oozing expensive education. He sports a quite magnificent head of richly curled, silver-white hair that makes
him look like Julius Caesar on steroids. To be honest, I’ve heard it’s a very expensive rug, but then you hear a lot of intimate details in a place like this, not all of them pleasant,
or true.

I’m not so bothered about all that at the moment, though. What I am bothered about is getting my BMW back, since it was taken from me under duress, as I think you’ll agree. Clearly,
if The Crim’s here then so is the car. And what’s more I’ve got my spare keys on me. I’m taking a risk by repossessing it, of course, because The Crim is definitely not a
man to cross, but I can’t bring myself to do nothing when I know that it’s probably in the underground car park, only yards away.

I take a look round for The Gang and The Knife, but they’re nowhere to be seen.

However, when I look back at the Crim’s booth, I see that one of the girls, Vanya, a tall, statuesque blonde from Slovakia with an icy smile and a model’s poise, has approached the
table, and is leaning over talking to Humphrey. The Crim meanwhile is surreptitiously peeking down the top of her cleavage, and trying without success to be all nonchalant about it.

As I watch, The Crim reaches into his pocket and pulls out what look suspiciously like my car keys. With a reluctant expression, he hands them over, not to Humphrey, but to Vanya, and she gives
the big ox an enthusiastic peck on the cheek. What the hell’s going on here, I wonder, as the politician gets up and the two men shake hands?

A second later, Humphrey and Vanya turn and walk hand in hand across the length of the club and disappear out the exit.

Not for the first time in my life, I’m confused. What’s he done with my car now?

It’s one of the club’s rules that senior members (i.e. those the management want to keep on good terms with) can take selected girls off the premises and back to their own places, by
prior agreement. Stephen Humphrey is one such member, but since he’s married with a sizeable brood of kids, I doubt he’s taking her back to his place for a bit of slap and tickle.

Which means they could be going anywhere.

So, what do I do now?

For the next half hour or so, I don’t do a lot, just keep walking the floor of the club, making sure that everyone, clients and girls alike, feels happy and secure. But all the time
I’m thinking about my car and the heinous way it’s been taken from me. And, of course, what I need to do to be reunited with it.

Finally, I can take no more. I’ve got to have it back. It’s just turned midnight when I head outside and make a call to the firm who monitor the tracking device that’s
installed in it. I tell the man on the other end of the phone that a friend of mine’s driven off in my car for a prank. I don’t want to involve the police but I do want the car back, so
can he please activate the tracker and let me know where it is? He doesn’t like the idea, and to be fair, it’s a bit of an unusual request, but eventually, having ascertained that I am
who I say I am, he does the honours and informs me that my car is currently outside Number 21 Bowbury Gardens in Hampstead.

Ah, the wonders of technology. Now all I need to do is get there.

As I turn round, putting the phone back in my pocket, I see The Crim hurrying down the steps with The Knife and The Gang in tow. They don’t see me, but keep on going
round to the entrance of the underground car park. Something’s up, I think, but I’m no longer so worried about them. The important thing is to get my rear across to 21 Bowbury Gardens
before anyone else does. So, after a quick few words with my fellow doorman, Harry “The Wolverine” Carruthers (so-called because of the thick black mat of hair that covers his body from
neck to toe), he agrees to lend me his car. He’s not too happy about it, obviously, since number one he’s going to have to cover for me and number two, when finishing time comes round
at the unearthly hour of 4 a.m., he’s going to have some trouble getting home.

I tell him not to worry about this since I’ll have it back well before then, and anyway, he owes me one. The Wolverine’s not happy, there’s no doubting that, but eventually he
parts with the keys, and I drive off towards Hampstead in the hunt for truth and justice.

It’s just turned quarter to one and raining when I pull into Bowbury Gardens, a quiet residential road of rundown three-storey townhouses, and I’m immediately
confronted by an alarming sight. The front door of one of the houses about halfway down is open and I can see Vanya, the girl who left the club in my car, being manhandled by a number of men who
all have their back to me.

Hearing my car approach, one of them turns round and I see that it’s Jim The Crim. He immediately turns back and grabs Vanya by the arm, pushing her back into the house. I carry on
driving, looking straight ahead, hoping they won’t recognize me, and as I pass I see that they’ve all now disappeared inside. I also see my motor – sleek and metallic-black, like
a crouching panther – parked at the side of the road.

I find a space nearby and pull in. The spare keys are in my pocket. Now is the time to pretend I never saw Vanya being accosted by The Crim and his boys, grab my car and drive off, end of story.
Obviously, I’m going to have to get out of London for a while, in order to escape The Crim’s wrath, but I was planning a holiday anyway, and Stallions isn’t exactly a job
I’ll miss.

But the problem is that I’m an honourable man, as I’ve told you before. I can’t just walk away from a damsel in distress; it’s not right.

However, there’s another problem. I am outnumbered, and if I remember rightly (which I do), the Knife is carrying a gun. Since I know that The Wolverine is a man who sometimes strays on
the wrong side of the law, I check in his glove compartment for any useful accessories and, lo and behold, I find a can of pepper spray. It’s not a lot but it’ll have to do.

Putting it in my pocket, I get out of the car and jog through the rain past my car, resisting the urge to kiss the paintwork, and carry on to the door where I saw the altercation. I try the
handle and it’s locked. There’s a buzzer lit up on the wall beside it and I see that the house is split into three flats. Taking a step back I note that the third floor’s the only
one with lights on, so figure that this one’s Vanya’s place. I come forward again and launch a flying karate kick at the lock on the door. It looks pretty old and it gives easily,
flying open with an angry crack.

Surprise has never been my strong point and I wonder again why I’m helping Vanya. She’s never been particularly friendly to me. In fact, I’ve always thought her aloof and cold.
I think maybe I’m simply a sucker for punishment.

I shut the door behind me and move forward in the darkness, listening. I can’t hear any sounds from above so I head over to the stairwell opposite and take the steps upwards, my shoes
tap-tap-tapping on the cheap linoleum floor. It smells of damp in here and I suddenly feel sorry for Vanya, coming thousands of miles to work in a brothel servicing middle-aged men, and living in a
dump like this.

There’s a scream. It’s short and faint, but it’s definitely coming from the top floor. Before my fights, I used to get so nervous and pumped-up that I’d be bouncing off
the walls, counting down the seconds to the action. I get that feeling again now. I can sense impending violence and it’s weird, but I’m actually looking forward to it. It’s like
I’m living again for the first time in months, years even.

And now, of course, I know why I’ve come here, and why I’m defying Jim The Crim Sneddon himself. I crave the excitement. It’s like a drug.

The pepper spray’s in my left hand as I mount the last step, see a door in front of me, all plywood and chipped paint, and do a Jackie Chan on this one as well. It flies open as well and
this time I’m confronted by a sight that’s alternately hilarious and shocking.

First, the shocking part: Vanya, dressed in civvies, is sitting rigid on her threadbare living room sofa, her pale blue eyes as wide as saucers. Above her, with one foot on said sofa, stands The
Knife, the tip of his trademark stiletto touching the little fold of skin just below her left eye. In his free hand, he holds a thick lock of blonde hair that he’s clearly just lopped off,
and it looks like he’s about to embark on some more physical damage. The expression on his face is one of cold pleasure.

Now for the hilarious part, and believe it or not, there is one. Wailing like an angry baby in the middle of the room, is the right honourable Stephen Humphrey MP. Except his resplendent silver
mane is no longer attached to his head, but is actually bunched up in Vanya’s hand, like a sleeping Jack Russell, where she’s obviously removed it with some force. So, the rumours are
true. Humphrey really is as bald as a coot, and I think it must have been his screams I heard, because his shiny dome is red and raw, and laced with the remnants of torn adhesive.

The Crim is the only other person in the room, and he’s having a bit of a laugh at Humphrey’s plight. At least he is until he sees me bursting in like some avenging angel. The MP is
the nearest to me, but I don’t bother with him. As Defence Minister, he had a reputation as a tough guy in parliament. But it’s one thing making the brave decisions that send other men
to their deaths, and another getting in the firing line yourself. He makes his intentions admirably plain by jumping out the way very fast, and burying his newly naked head in his hands.

I identify the priority target as The Knife, since he’s the one with the weapons, and as he turns my way, I let him have it with a liberal burst of the spray. He tries to cover his face
but he’s not fast enough, and as he chokes and splutters against the fumes, at the same time bringing his knife round in my direction, I knock him down with a swift left hook. He hits the
sofa, out for the count.

But The Crim’s a bit quicker, having had that much more time to react, and he yanks his head away as I fire off another burst of the spray. He’s exposed in this position, and I come
forward and punch him in the kidneys, twice in quick succession. He stumbles and loses his footing, and I grab him by his coat and pull him close, shoving the canister against his nose and spraying
off the last of its contents straight up his nostrils.

He starts gasping for air and twisting round uncontrollably, smashing into the stereo unit, part of which falls on his head with a loud clunk. I let go of him and turn round to look for Vanya,
who’s giving the prone, mewing Humphrey a bit of a working over. I pull her off him and, at that moment hear the sound of a toilet flushing round the corner, just out of sight.

Oh no! The Gang! In all the excitement, I’ve forgotten about him, and now I’m out of spray. A second later, he comes into the room – twenty-five stone of muscle and jelly. The
guy’s amazingly fast for one so immense, I have to give him that.

“Run!” shouts Vanya rather unnecessarily, but he’s almost upon me, leering like a demented clown and, worse still, The Knife is starting to get to his feet, obviously not quite
as knocked out as I’d thought.

I strike The Gang with a three-punch combination, every blow slamming into his tiny, childlike face, but they might as well be kisses for all the damage they’re doing, and he keeps coming
forward, wrapping great arms round my torso, and dragging me into a vice-like bearhug that quite literally takes my breath away. I try to say something but no sound comes out. I feel my ribs giving
way. I have never been in such pain in my life, and I think that if I die like this, it will be a truly terrible way to go. And it’s all because of that arsehole, Kevin.

In the background, I can see The Knife rubbing his eyes. He hisses to his colleague not to kill me. He wants to end my life himself. It almost seems preferable to what I’m going through
now.

But then The Gang’s grip loosens, and he suddenly goes boss-eyed. I get my right arm free and deliver an uppercut that catches him under the chin. The grip loosens still
more and I struggle free, bumping into Vanya, whose hand is thrust between The Gang’s legs, twisting savagely. As the Americans would say, this girl has spunk.

We turn together, just in time to see The Knife slashing his weapon in a throat-high arc, and it takes all my old reactions to fend off the blow, using my right arm to block his, and my left to
deliver two vicious little jabs – bang bang – right into his pockmarked mug.

He actually says “Ouch!”, then goes straight over backwards, landing on the carpet, only to be trampled on by The Crim, who is still blundering around the room like a drunk
gatecrashing a ballet performance.

And then we’re out the door and down the stairs, taking them two and three at a time, and I can hear The Gang lumbering behind us. Vanya stumbles and I grab her arm and pull her upright.
We hit the street at a mad dash, veering right in the direction of the BMW. She starts fiddling in the pocket of her jeans for the keys, thinking that’s she’s going to be the one
driving, but there’s no way that’s going to happen.