Stephen Leather - Take Two

‘Maybe she didn’t see everything. And don’t forget they don’t have a body and there’s bugger all forensics. Plus we’ve got alibis. So if she does go to the cops, chances are they’re going to be looking for us to confess.’

‘That’s not going to happen, is it?’

‘Which is why they might think about wiring her up.’

Richards blew smoke up at the roof of the car park as the lift doors opened. ‘She didn’t ask anything like that. It was just chit-chat.’

‘So you think we’re all good?’

Richards stepped into the lift and Halpin followed him. ‘I think so, yeah.’

‘Boss, we need more than that.’ The lifts doors closed and Halpin pressed the button for the top floor.

‘We’re in the clear,’ said Richards. ‘I’m sure of it. She didn’t see anything.’

Halpin nodded, but he didn’t look convinced. ‘So it’s business as usual?’

‘Yeah. You can start phoning me instead of jumping out of the shadows, and I’ll arrange to see The Mint tomorrow.’

Carolyn waited until Saturday morning before phoning Maxwell Dunbar. She didn’t have his number stored in her phone but she had kept his business card. She’d put it in a large glass bowl with several hundred other cards and, when she got home, she tipped them out onto her dining table and spread them out. Dunbar’s was a plain white card with black lettering — Maxwell Dunbar Investigations. There was a landline and a mobile number. She tapped out the mobile number and Dunbar answered after a few seconds. ‘Max? It’s Carolyn. Carolyn Castle.’

‘Miss Castle, long time no hear. I hope your stalker isn’t back.’ He had a slight lisp and a habit of breathing too hard, as if he was asthmatic.

‘No, you sorted that little problem for me just fine, Max. But I have something else I need doing.’

‘At your service as always, Miss Castle.’

‘Max, I know it’s short notice but could you come around now? I’m working long days all this week and it’s fairly urgent.’

‘Not a problem, Miss Castle. Are you still in Notting Hill Gate?’

‘I am, Max. I’ll be waiting for you.’

Carolyn cut the connection. She made a cup of coffee and she was just finishing it when her doorbell rang. She had the door on the chain and checked through the viewer to make sure it was Dunbar before opening the door. He shook her hand, wiped his feet on the doormat, and took off his raincoat. She hung it on a coat rack and took him through to the kitchen. He sat down and exhaled. He was a heavy-set man in his early sixties. Carolyn had last seen him three years earlier but he seemed to have aged a decade. His hair was thinner and greyer and there was a waxy sheen to his face that suggested he wasn’t in the best of health. His beer gut strained at his shirt buttons and there was a dribble of something that could have been mustard down his shirt front.

‘Would you like a coffee, Max? Or water?’

He winked at her. ‘You know, a whisky would go down a treat and keep out the cold,’ he said. He tapped the side of his nose, which was threaded with red veins. ‘Maybe a splash of water, just to take the edge off.’

Carolyn went through to the sitting room and retrieved a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label. She took it back to the kitchen, poured a decent measure into a glass and added some tapwater. He took it from her, raised the glass in salute, and drank almost half of it in one swallow. There was a sour smell coming from him as if he hadn’t bathed in a couple of days.

‘So what’s your problem, Miss Castle?’ he asked.

‘I need you to check someone out for me. A man I’ve met. Warwick Richards is his name.’

‘Warwick Richards?’

Carolyn nodded. ‘He’s about six two, good shape, dark hair, he’s clearly got money. Drives a Porsche Cayenne. He says he runs a nightclub in Leicester Square and has a few properties.’

‘And what do you want me to do?’ asked Dunbar.

‘I need to know everything about him. Who he is. Where he lives. Friends. Enemies.’

‘Is he giving you a problem, Miss Castle?’

‘Not really. I’ve met him and I just need to know more about him. Can you do that?’

‘Of course. Now you say you’ve met him. Did he give you a card?’

‘Yes.’ She handed him the business card that Richards had given her. ‘Oh, and see if you can find out if he has any connection with an accountant called Nicholas Cohen. He’s a partner in a firm called Cohen and Kawczynski.’

‘No problem,’ said Dunbar.

‘How long do you think it’ll take, Max?’

‘A couple of days.’ He drained his glass and stood up. ‘I’ll call you as soon as I get anything.’

‘You’re a lifesaver, Max, thank you.’

‘Shall we say five hundred, on account?’

‘It’ll have to be a cheque, I’m afraid.’

‘A cheque’s fine, Miss Castle.’

Carolyn wrote him a cheque as he stood behind her, breathing heavily. She gave it to him, showed him out then went back to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine.

Richards had arranged to meet The Mint at a canal-side pub in Maida Vale, north London. The Mint was seeing his mother for lunch and said he’d be at the pub by three. He was waiting in the car park when Richards drove up. Richards parked, climbed out, and hugged his old friend. Murray Wainwright was in his sixties and the two men had known each other for more than twenty years. In a business full of liars, cheats and violent psychopaths, The Mint was one of the few men Richards totally trusted. He had long grey hair tied back in a ponytail, skin tanned from years in the Spanish sun, and pearly white teeth that were the best implants Harley Street could provide. There was a gold Rolex on his left wrist, a chunky gold bracelet on his right and a two gold sovereign rings on his right hand that were as effective as any knuckle duster.

‘Times are hard, are they?’ asked The Mint, looking over at the Porsche.

‘The Bentley, you mean? It was a red rag to a bull for the traffic cops. So many drug dealers drive Bentleys these days, we all get tarred with the same brush.’

‘And they ignore white Porches, that’s the plan?’

‘Don’t knock it if it works.’

‘MPG?’

‘Who the hell knows, Murray? And more to the point, who cares?’ The two men laughed and Richards opened his cigar case and offered it to The Mint. He took one, sniffed it, and bit off the end.

Richards did the same and lit them both before they walked along to the pub and sat at a table on the terrace overlooking the canal.

‘I remember when this was a right dangerous boozer,’ said The Mint. ‘You wouldn’t step in here without a gun in your pocket or a machete down your trouser leg.’

‘Gentrification,’ said Richards. ‘It’s happening all over.’

‘You’re not kidding,’ said The Mint. ‘I bought my mum her flat twenty years ago for a couple of hundred grand and you know what it’s worth now? A million quid. A bloody million. It’s a nice flat, mind, but it’s only got two bedrooms.’ A waiter came over and Richards ordered a bottle of Cristal.

‘I need to do some business,’ said Richards after the waiter had left. ‘I’ve run into a bit of a cash flow problem.’

‘Move to the Costa full time, mate. The Spanish are much easier to deal with.’

‘I need to stay close to the club. And you know I don’t like the sun.’ He leaned towards him. ‘Can you put something together for me? Rush job?’

‘What did you have in mind?’

‘I’ve got seven hundred and fifty grand tucked away for a rainy day. I was figuring we split that into three. You fix me up with three runs, if one gets through I’ll be covering my costs, if all three get through I’ll be a very happy bunny.’