Maxim Jakubowski - The Best British Mysteries III

As the Americans say, go figure.

The Chairman’s office is in a smart, glass-fronted block in the West End, rubbing shoulders with a team of showbiz lawyers on one side and a well-known film company on the other. Like many top crims, The Chairman believes respectability comes from who you know, not what you do.

We troop upstairs with me sandwiched in the middle, through a set of armoured glass doors into a plush foyer with carpets like a grass savannah. An office at one end has the lights on and the door open.

‘Ah, there you are, Stephen,’ The Chairman says, like we’re old buddies. His English is faultless. He’s studying some spreadsheets under a desk-lamp and hitting the keyboard of a Compaq with quick fingers like the accountant he’s rumoured to have been before he went sly. ‘Sit down. Coffee?’

The offer and the first name familiarity are all part of the game of being in charge. Patrick pours me a coffee from a jug in one corner and hands me a cup. It looks like a thimble in his hand.

‘I’d prefer to be home in bed,’ I say tiredly. ‘Without the kerbstone for company.’

The Chairman looks up from his figures and seeks out Patrick with a look of reproof. ‘Say what? Have you been using those things again? Patrick, didn’t I tell you, there are people you don’t need them for. Mr Connelly, here, is one of them.’ He shakes his head like you would with a small child. ‘You’d better get the door repaired.’

‘OK,’ Patrick mutters, totally unconcerned. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’

‘No, you’ll do it now. Wake someone.’ He says it nice and soft, while tapping away on the keyboard once more, but there’s suddenly a chill in the air.

Patrick lumbers out, leaving Hooper to watch over me.

‘How’s that’s nice brother of yours?’ The Chairman sits back and smiles. Like he cares. If he ever met Malcolm, it must have been by accident.

‘He’s fine,’ I say, and wonder where this is leading. Malcolm doesn’t approve of my life, other than agreeing to the occasional meal round my flat when he’s up in London. He thinks all criminals should be locked up, sometimes me included. It’s not that I do anything overtly illegal, but he thinks anyone who doesn’t use Her Majesty’s Post Office to send letters and stuff must be pulling some serious strokes, and by association, I’m tainted by their guilt.

‘Good. And your Auntie Ellen. How’s her husband – is he any better?’

Now I’m seriously worried. Nobody knows about Auntie Ellen or Uncle Howard, for the simple reason that they live down in Devon and I don’t talk about them. A nicer pair of old folks you’ll never meet and I owe them a lot. They were instrumental in our upbringing after our parents died when Malcolm and I were kids.

‘Say again?’

‘Oh, come now.’ The Chairman picks up a photo from his desk and shows it to me. It’s a shot of a familiar white-haired old lady in her garden, innocently pruning her roses. In the background, made fuzzy by the distance but still recognisable, is the gangly figure of Uncle Howard. I can’t see what he’s doing but it looks like he’s talking to himself. He does a lot of that, bless him. Early Alzheimer’s, according to the doctors. ‘I know all about your family, Stephen. Your aunt and your loopy uncle. I make it my business, you know that. It gives me leverage. If I need it.’

The last four words are uttered with meaning, and there’s no misunderstanding; he needs leverage now. It’s still in me to try, though.

‘And if I don’t want the job?’

He shrugs and drops the photo in the bin. ‘Then you’re short one aunt and uncle and the county of Devon is a sadder place.’ He picks up a large manila envelope and flicks it across the desk. ‘I want that to arrive in Brussels first flight this morning. Kill another passenger for their seat if you have to, but get it there.’

‘Why not use Hooper or Patrick?’

He winces with impatience and I get a cool chill across my shoulders. ‘If I could use them I would,’ he says, like he’s talking to a particularly dumb child. ‘I’m using you.’

‘For a simple delivery? What’s inside – pictures of the Prime Minister? Funny money?’

He leans forward into the lamplight and I can see he’s got a bead of sweat across his brow. Only I don’t think it’s the heat. ‘You refused me once before, Stephen. I don’t like that; it undermines my reputation. You understand about reputations, don’t you?’ He sits back, suddenly aware that Hooper’s watching him now, not me. Men like Hooper are always on the lookout for chinks in the armour, and there’s no bigger chink than a boss who shows signs of letting a minor problem get under his skin. Loyalty in his world is a commodity, and can be sold. ‘There’s a rumour going round that you won’t work for me.’ He waves a dismissive hand. ‘Frankly, I don’t care if it’s true or not, and in any case, as you can see, it’s both false and at the same time, useful.’ He smiles coldly. ‘Ring me the moment you complete. Be back here afterwards to collect a payment. No hand-over or no return here by three at the latest and Hooper gets to play with his blowtorch in sunny Devon.’

I pick up the envelope as The Chairman goes back to his computer, and turn to find Hooper watching me with dangerous intensity. He’s hoping I’ll fail.

Outside I breathe deeply and search for a cab. Eventually I pick up one going my way and get back long enough to have a shower, make one important phone call, throw on some respectable clothes and dig out my passport. Then it’s off to the airport to wait for a plane and blag a ticket.

Brussels airport is all aluminium and zero atmosphere, and there are few people at Arrivals save for a couple of cleaners, a man with a bunch of flowers, and a fat, sweaty individual in a green suit. This last one is carrying a section of brown cardboard with the name Bouillon scrawled across it in large, black letters, and is staring at me with a look of deep melancholy.

I check my instructions and the name matches. When I look up, he’s waddling away fast, his green jacket flapping in the breeze like an elephant’s ears.

‘Hey -’ I go after him, but the man has a head start and leaves me behind, in spite of his size. What the hell is this?

It’s only when I get a prickly feeling in the back of my neck and turn round that I realise I’m being followed by two men. One of them is the man with the flowers.

Shit, as we say in the courier business. This doesn’t look good.

I stuff the envelope in my pocket and go after Green Suit. I don’t know what his problem is, or what the envelope holds which is so important he’s being tagged by two men. But I really don’t want to get left holding it and have Hooper go after Auntie Ellen just because of some local territorial disagreement by a bunch of Walloons.

Running is out of the question; nobody runs in airports anymore, not unless they want to be brought down by a burly security guard and have a Heckler & Koch stuck in their ear.

I settle for a fast walk, with occasional snatches at my watch, like I’m late for a meeting. Behind me, the two men have split up and veered off at angles, no doubt so as not to appear on the same security monitors as me. One man hurrying, fine; three men hurrying, cause for alarm.

I end up out by the taxi rank, and catch a glimpse of Green Suit across the road, panting his way up the stairs to the upper levels of the multi-storey. The place is bedlam as usual, with taxis and cars streaking by without paying too much attention to the pedestrian crossing, but I risk it and race across after him. I leave a trail of burnt rubber and angry horn blasts in my wake, but at least I make it.