James Craig - Acts of Violence

Seeing his guest muster a smile, Sammy ploughed on. ‘We are forecasting a profit within the next couple of years. Around half of our visitors are Asian, many from London and the South East, but we get many Chinese tour groups too. They do a circuit of Bicester Village, Bond Street, Buckingham Palace and the Racetrack.’

The waitress reappeared with another mojito and a large vodka. Although he hadn’t asked for the fresh drink, Ren began mechanically drinking the vodka. Never much of a drinker, he was already feeling slightly woozy. It was hot and he fumbled with the top button of his shirt before loosening his tie. The music, some unidentifiable mush, was beginning to give him a migrane.

‘Send all the information to my financial advisers in Mayfair,’ he said. ‘I will see what they have to say.’

‘Good, good.’ Sammy poked at the ice in his drink with a green straw. ‘I will make sure they have it tomorrow.’

‘Fine.’ Ren took another mouthful of Grey Goose and felt his eyelids slowly begin to droop. ‘But now is not the time for business,’ he muttered.

‘No, no.’ Jumping to his feet, Sammy raised a hand, clicking his fingers.

Three tables away, Sonia Coverdale nudged her co-worker for the evening, a redhead from Scotland called Morag, who already looked like she’d had one glass too many. ‘C’mon.’

‘About time,’ Morag slurred, struggling to her feet.

Sonia tenderly pushed a strand of hair from her companion’s face. ‘Get a grip, girl – Harry won’t be happy.’ Harry Cummins expected his girls to live up to certain standards when they were working. In particular, the boss did not tolerate drunkenness, which he considered ‘prole-like behaviour’. If he found out about Morag, she would be out on her ear faster than you could say ‘ sorry sir, but I’m afraid that you do have to wear a condom ’.

‘Harry’s a wanker,’ Morag grumbled.

‘Fair comment, but keep it to yourself, eh?’ Sonia nodded at Sammy as she helped Morag stop swaying as discreetly as possible. ‘We’re on. Just try not to puke in the guy’s lap.’

With Sammy leading the way, Ren headed up the stairs, a girl on each arm. It was a struggle to hold the redhead up straight, but Ren took each step with the same grim determination with which he had risen up through the Party hierarchy. At least his reward tonight would be a lot quicker in coming. Reaching the top-floor landing, Sammy turned left and ambled down a long, dimly lit corridor. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Ren saw there was a set of double doors at the end, guarded by the largest bouncer he’d ever seen.

‘That’s Kendrick,’ Sammy shouted over his shoulder, as if reading his guest’s mind. ‘He’s from American Samoa.’ On mention of his name, the bodyguard reached down and opened the door. With the air of a reigning monarch, Sammy disappeared inside. The redhead stumbled and Ren had to strain to stop her from falling. The other girl gave him an apologetic smile.

‘Morag’ll be OK,’ she whispered. ‘I think she might have just had a dodgy prawn or something.’

Or something, Ren thought. With a sense of weary shame, he realized that this was the type of place better suited to his wastrel son. Pushing that thought as far away as possible, he kept moving forward. ‘Let’s just get her inside.’

‘Welcome to the ultra -VIP suite!’ Sammy shouted over the relentless drive of generic rap lyrics blaring out of speakers built into the ceiling. Extending an arm, he bade them contemplate what looked like the scene from a particularly debauched music video. In front of a buffet table groaning with food of all descriptions, a dozen or so women lay around the floor in various states of undress. As far as Ren could make out, there were only two other male guests. One, sprawled on a white leather sofa pushed up against the far wall, underneath a large poster advertising the residency of Oscar 451 downstairs, had his trousers around his ankles and an almost empty bottle of Jim Beam in his hand. Despite appearing to be asleep, he was being fellated by a white girl while her black colleague filmed the action on a smartphone and offered up the occasional shout of encouragement.

‘You should be able to watch that on the internet in about five minutes,’ Sammy grinned. ‘Hey,’ he called to the girl with the phone, ‘make sure you get the branding in the background.’

The second man was sitting in the middle of the room on what could only be described as a throne. A flunky stood beside him with a flute of champagne while the man tapped repeatedly on the screen of his phone. Ren felt Morag wobble again and reflexively tightened his grip on her arm. However, she wriggled out of his grasp and staggered towards the King.

‘Oh my God. You’re . . .’ Unable to finish her sentence, the hapless girl sent a stream of projectile vomit straight into the man’s lap.

‘What the fuck?’ Before anyone had the chance to react, the man jumped up. Tossing his sick-covered phone to the flunky, he began frantically wiping at his clothes. ‘You stupid fucking bitch. What have you done?’ He raised his fist but Morag was so far gone that she was halfway to the floor before the punch was unleashed.

The sour smell rising from the throne sent people scurrying for the door.

‘Towels,’ Sammy squealed. ‘Someone get some towels and some hot water.’

‘Fuck that,’ the King screamed, ‘I need a whole new outfit – and a shower.’ Eyeing Ren for the first time, he bared his fangs. ‘What you doin’, man,’ he poked at the comatose Morag with the toe of his defiled Nikes, ‘bringin’ that in ’ere?’

Edging backwards, Ren looked for Sammy. But his host had now fled, along with most of his guests.

‘Well?’ The King grabbed the lapels of Ren’s jacket.

Not able to think of any kind of reply, Ren tried to pull himself away, stumbling on the slick floor as the man released his grip. Righting himself, he tried to make for the door, only to find his escape blocked off by the flunky. There was a groan as Morag disgorged the further contents of her stomach at their feet. Ren felt bemused. How could such a small creature have so much inside her? He felt a hand on his shoulder, spinning him round, followed by a succession of blows, which smashed the cartilage in his nose. As he went down for a second time, he tried to angle his fall away from the pool of vomit soaking into the carpet.

Playing with his BlackBerry, Carlyle stood patiently in line, waiting to be seen. He knew it was his turn when the old codger who was standing behind him gave him a quick poke in the ribs.

‘Hurry up, son,’ the man muttered. ‘Some of us haven’t got all day.’

Ignoring the old git, Carlyle nodded at the woman behind the counter.

Vicky Collingridge, manager of the Drury Lane pharmacy, gave him a cheery smile. ‘Good morning, Inspector. How’s the foot?’

Carlyle winced. ‘So-so.’ The truth was it had been less painful of late but he knew that the respite would only be temporary.

‘Are you wearing the support?’

‘Well, sometimes.’ In reality he found it too much of a hassle; he couldn’t get his shoe on with an athletic support under his sock.

‘You’ve got to stick with it.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Anyway, what can I do for you this morning?’

‘I wondered if I could ask you about something.’ Conscious of the pensioner shuffling behind him, Carlyle moved further along the counter and lowered his voice. ‘In my professional capacity.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Vicky gestured towards the small storeroom at the back of the shop that doubled as her office. ‘Why don’t we go in there?’