Maxim Jakubowski - The Best British Mysteries III

I hit the top level to find him about to squeeze his way into a tan Mercedes.

‘What,’ I gasp, throat dry, ‘is your flicking problem?’

For some reason he looks puzzled, then scared. ‘OK,’ he hisses. ‘Give it to me!’

OK ? Like I’m doing him a favour? Now there are certain formalities we go through in this business, like exchanging IDs. It’s not been unknown to have someone turn up for a collection who shouldn’t, if you know what I mean. And with Hooper and Patrick waiting to take a trip to Devon and perform industrial injury on two lovely old people, there’s no way I’m handing over this envelope to an unknown, two others in hot pursuit or not.

He huffs and puffs but hands over a business card. It confirms his name and I give him the envelope. Moments later he’s heading for the down ramp.

As I walk back down the stairs, I get out my mobile and dial a number.

‘Yes?’ It’s The Chairman. There are voices and the sound of glasses clinking in the background. Must be a breakfast meeting in gangland.

‘Delivered,’ I tell him. Then I see the two men at the bottom of the stairs. I show them my empty hands and they turn away as if deciding to cut their losses. ‘There seems to be some local interest, though.’

‘Local interest?’ The Chairman sounds bored. ‘What sort of interest?’

I tell him about the two men, and the enraged bellow begins to build the moment I say I handed the envelope to Green Suit. ‘You what?’ he snarls. ‘Bouillon’s tall and thin, you idiot! That was the wrong man! You’ve just handed over some priceless documents to the wrong person!’

There’s more along those lines, but I’m no longer listening. Something doesn’t sound right. How did he know my Bouillon wasn’t tall and thin? I hadn’t mentioned it.

Then it hits me. I’ve been set up. No wonder Bouillon was puzzled; I wasn’t supposed to catch him. And the other two were merely for show. It means The Chairman hasn’t forgotten my first refusal; in fact, he’s found a way to use me as an example to others and salvage his dented pride. There was no handover, and I’m willing to bet his tirade just now was within earshot of some influential people he was looking to impress. Or frighten.

I dial another number. Malcolm answers.

‘They OK?’ I ask him.

‘Fine,’ he replies. ‘We’re having breakfast. Nice hotel in -’

‘Don’t tell me,’ I instruct him. ‘Walls have ears.’

Malcolm laughs. It’s a game to him; a silly, ludicrous game in which he’s indulging me. He doesn’t know The Chairman like I do. I’d asked him to take Aunt Ellen and Uncle Howard out for the day, starting with an early breakfast somewhere swish and booking them into a nice, quiet hotel away from home. At short notice it was the only thing I could think of.

I travel back to London with a feeling of dread. If I call Malcolm again and warn him that Hooper and Patrick could be on their way down, he’ll either think I’m lying, or panic and call the cops. To him, the seamier side of life is what you read about in the papers. The best I can do is hope he keeps their heads down, wherever they are.

I’m halfway back to London along the M4 when he rings me. He doesn’t sound happy.

‘It’s Uncle Howard,’ he says. ‘He’s gone for a walk.’

‘Great,’ I tell him. ‘Get him back.’ Then I realise what he’s saying. Uncle Howard has reached the stage where he’s virtually forgotten everyone he knows and where he lives, and ‘going for a walk’ means he’s wandered off. He could be anywhere.

‘Shit, Malc,’ I shout. ‘How the hell did you let that happen?’

‘He went to the loo. I thought it was OK – he’s done it OK before and always come back. This time he didn’t. The hotel receptionist said she saw him walking towards Piccadilly.’

I feel a set of cold fingers clutch my guts. ‘You said where?’

‘Piccadilly, in London. You said take them out, so I thought a day in London…’

I want to shout and scream at him, and tell him what a stupid, naive great pillock he is. But it’s no use. It’s not his fault – it’s mine. Then I consider it. There’s as much chance of them hiding successfully in the Smoke as anywhere else. Better, in fact. Just as long as they don’t happen to walk past a certain office block in the West End just as The Chairman comes out.

‘OK,’ I say calmly. ‘You did good, Malc. Can you leave Ellen there and go look for him? I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

He gives me the name of the hotel and I cut the connection. I have to get to The Chairman and get him to pull his dogs off. I don’t know what I’ll have to do, but there must be a way.

The Chairman is out and his secretary doesn’t know when he’ll be back. She won’t ring him, either. There’s no sign of Hooper or Patrick.

I drive along to Piccadilly and find the hotel where Malcolm has holed up with Aunt Ellen. It’s small and posh and they’ll have thought it beats the Savoy hands down.

Aunt Ellen answers when I call on the house phone. Malcolm has just called to say he’s found Uncle Howard and they’re on their way back to the hotel. I breathe a sigh of relief and tell her to stay where she is, then go downstairs to meet them.

Hooper is standing on the pavement, flicking his cigarette lighter.

He looks totally incongruous in that setting, and the hotel doorman is eyeing him with definite concern.

The Land Cruiser is at the kerb behind him, with Patrick in the driving seat. In the back sits the crumpled figure of Uncle Howard. Alongside him, Malcolm fills the other seat, looking drawn and pale and seemingly asleep.

‘Hey, man,’ says Hooper, grinning, his speech a deliberate Caribbean drawl. He normally talks straight London. ‘Guess who we foun’ walkin’ long the street jus’ now. I say to Patrick, I say, “Man, doesn’t that look like Mr Connelly’s big brother and his daffy uncle?” An’ sure enough, it is.’

As I begin to move, he steps in my way, a hand on my chest. In the car, Patrick is leaning back, his hand alarmingly close to Uncle Howard’s windpipe. He could snap it in an instant, the move says.

‘What say we go for a ride?’ says Hooper, dropping the drawl. He stands aside and I climb in alongside Patrick. Hooper slides in next to Uncle Howard, who smiles in a friendly, vague manner and doesn’t know me from a tent peg. To him, it’s all part of another day. Malcolm is breathing heavily and has a large bruise on the side of his handsome face.

The Land Cruiser blasts off and we twist and turn through the streets towards Paddington. In minutes we’re running alongside some railway arches and pull up at one with large double doors. The rest of the street is deserted save for a mangy dog and two kids on bikes. At a look from Hooper, all three disappear.

We’re bundled inside and the doors close. We’re in some sort of workshop, the air thick with the smell of oil, grease and burned metal, the floor littered with scrap paper, fags ends and small twists of shaved metal, iron filings, the lot. On one wall is a storage rack full of lengths of steel, like giant knitting needles, and around the other walls is a collection of benches and machines, the use of which I can only guess at. Metalwork wasn’t really my subject at school.

Hooper produces a blowtorch and fires it up, while Patrick looks on, holding a length of half-inch steel rod.

Uncle Howard is staring at everyone in turn, not alarmed, merely curious. His gentle eyes alight on a metal lathe in one corner, and he smiles in vague recognition. He used to work in a factory years before. He probably feels comfortable in this sort of place.

I look at Malcolm slumped against one wall, wishing him awake. If there’s anyone who can help us it’s Malcolm, with his enormous shoulders and powerful hands. Only I know he won’t. Big as he is, he’s got as much aggression in him as a cotton bud.