James Craig - Acts of Violence

‘It’s a no-brainer, Sammy.’

‘When someone tells me something’s a no-brainer,’ he grumbled, ‘I usually run a mile in the opposite direction.’ She started to protest. ‘But in this case, let’s do it.’

‘Yay.’ Wendy made a feeble attempt at punching the air.

‘Just make sure there are punitive penalties in the contract if he doesn’t turn up.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Wendy chuckled, ‘I’ve already spoken to his manager. And Oscar’s a consummate professional; one of the hardest working men in showbiz, according to Heat magazine.’

‘Good for him.’ Sammy raised his eyes to the heavens. Instead of a nightclub, he should have opened an old folks’ care home, just as his mother had advised him. It would have been a lot less hassle and much better cash flow. ‘Make sure we have the penalty clauses in the contract anyway.’

That had been three months ago. Now, on the second night of Oscar’s mini-residency, Sammy had to admit that it was a case of so far, so good . The tickets had been sold, at £87.50 (plus a £6.50 ‘industry standard’ booking fee) and the first night’s bar takings had been even better than Wendy had forecast. By all accounts, Mr 451 had put in a storming performance, not that Sammy had been around to see it. He would never admit it, but the music gave him a terrible headache. He could stand it for a maximum of an hour a night, tops, and even then, only when the volume was kept to a reasonable level. Once the party really got started, he took himself off to another part of the complex or just headed back to his Shaftesbury Avenue crash pad. A creature of routine, he liked to be in bed with a cup of organic tea and a nice juicy crime novel on his Kindle well before midnight.

If all three nights went well, the Racetrack might almost break even for the week. It would be the first time since the refurb that this had happened – a milestone worthy of celebration, had it not arrived six months later than forecast. That, and the fact that there would be no Oscar 451 next week. On the back of last night’s efforts, Sammy had already enquired about the DJ’s availability, only to be offered some dates more than a year away. Despairing, he had sent Wendy off to try and rustle up some alternative names.

‘There must be more than one guy who is the next . . .’

‘David Guetta,’ she reminded him.

A lightbulb went off over Sammy’s head and he waved his arms around excitedly. ‘Couldn’t we get the real David . . . thingy?’

Wendy shook her head. ‘Never in a million years. Even if you could get a slot in his diary, which you couldn’t, we could never afford him.’

‘But he’s just a DJ,’ said Sammy, miffed.

‘Sammy, DJs are the new rock stars. It’s not like your day. Look how much we’re paying Oscar.’

‘We could charge more.’

‘We’re hitting the ceiling on ticket prices already.’

‘Not just tickets, I’m talking about booze. Once they’re inside, these kids will pay anything.’

‘We’re already asking almost a tenner for a bottle of lager. This is the most expansive venue in Town.’

‘OK, OK.’ Dismayed at being lectured on the financial facts of life by a marketing girl, he sought to bring the conversation to a swift end. ‘Just see who you can get.’

Taking a sip of his mojito, Sammy settled back into his seat as the numbers kept whirring through his head. However many times he did the calculation, he always came back to the same conclusion: you’re sinking.

From the outset, the Racetrack had always been marketed as a long-term investment. At least that was what Sammy had told his backers. The problem was, the investors’ idea of ‘long-term’ was eighteen months, two years max. On current projections, they were on course to get their money back in about two decades , if you factored in a significant, steady improvement in trading from this point. Not that clubs lasted that long – certainly not Sammy’s clubs. Waving at the hovering waitress for another drink, he turned to his guest. ‘You know, I’ve invested almost fifty million pounds restoring this place to its former glory.’

‘And how much of that came from your own pocket?’ Gunning his Grey Goose vodka, Ren Qi cradled the empty glass in his hands. With his London trip taking a turn for the worse, the last thing the Politburo chief needed was the hard sell from some nightclub-owner desperate to snare new investors willing to throw money into the financial black hole that he’d created. The whole point of investing in London was to protect the politician’s net worth, not see it evaporate into thin air.

Ignoring the question, Sammy slipped into his established spiel: ‘We’re open twenty-four hours a day, offering a casino, two restaurants and four bars, as well as a disco and a bowling alley. You can even get a massage on the top floor.’

Ren raised an eyebrow.

‘All totally kosher,’ Sammy chuckled. ‘Swedish, deep tissue – you name it.’

Ren nodded. Rolling his head, he could feel the tension in his shoulders; he could certainly do with a massage. Maybe he should check it out.

‘Last quarter, we pulled in almost 35,000 people a week, well ahead of our original forecasts. Highest ticket price in town. Highest in-venue spend.’ He gestured towards the dance floor. ‘And with gigs like these, those numbers are going to increase substantially.’

‘Impressive,’ Ren lied. He stared at the ice in the bottom of his glass. He currently had far more pressing matters to attend to than the London entertainment market. His energy levels had been depleted to the point where he knew that he had to step back for a short while, or risk making further mistakes. Things were bad enough already. Wang Lei was on the warpath and even Ren Jiong couldn’t be kept quiet with an endless diet of computer games for ever. Both of them would need to be dealt with, one way or another.

Ren Qi couldn’t risk further details of their London activities getting back to Beijing. There were plenty of people who would feast on the news of his family’s final, incontrovertible implosion. His career – thirty-five years of unstinting hard work – would be over in an instant as he was transformed into a poster boy for the latest clampdown on graft and corruption.

His trial, a carefully scripted affair in some hitherto unheard-of provincial Intermediate People’s Court, would be a classic Tiger-thrashing – the elite throwing one of its own to the mob in an attempt to show the masses that no one was above the law. Of course, everyone would see through the sham but it was a tried and tested technique that the Politburo would cling to for as long as they could. Ren himself had never had any problem with it, so long as he was not the one on trial. Now that he was facing the dock himself, the best-case scenario would be twenty years in jail, the rest of his life, more or less; the worst, a firing squad. Ren could sense them closing in. He was deeply uncomfortable about having to rely so completely on Guo Miao after the State Security man had messed up so badly with the death of Michael Nicholson. On the other hand, this was the first time in the many years they had worked together that the major’s competence had ever been an issue. Just as important, Guo’s dedication to Ren was not in any doubt. Nor was his willingness to undertake the dirtiest of dirty work without complaint.

After being told of Nicholson’s demise, Ren had ordered that the body be disposed of. He was confident that Guo would not fail again. No traces of his wife’s lover would ever be found.

Now, sitting with the nightclub-owner, the thought made him chuckle. He had hoped that Nicholson would be shipped back to China where he would be assured of a slow, painful death. In the event, however, this was retribution enough.