Stephen Leather - Take Two

‘Then I need to hear you make a call before I give you the money.’

‘That’ll work,’ said Dunbar.

‘You can make the call, I’ll give you the five grand and everyone’s happy.’

Dunbar looked at his watch. It was ten-thirty. He had a surveillance operation he was supposed to be starting at five o’clock that evening but, other than that, he was free all day. ‘I’ll meet you somewhere,’ he said.

‘You don’t want me to know where you live, is that it?’ said Halpin. ‘Waste of time, pal. We already know.’

‘Bullshit,’ said Dunbar. He wasn’t on the electoral roll and none of the utilities were in his name.

Halpin chuckled. ‘Where are you now?’ he asked.

‘Home.’

‘I meant which room, dickhead.’

Dunbar frowned. ‘The kitchen.’

‘Walk through to your front room, mate, and open your blinds.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘I’m serious, dickhead.’

Dunbar walked quickly into his sitting room and peered through the slats of the wooden blinds covering the main window. Halpin was standing on the pavement outside the house. He grinned and waggled his fingers at Dunbar. ‘Surprise,’ he said.

Dunbar cursed and put his phone away. He went to the front door and opened it. ‘I don’t see people at home,’ he said.

‘There’s a first time for everything,’ said Halpin, unbuttoning his overcoat. He reached inside and took out a bulky envelope. ‘Do you want your bloody money or not?’

‘Yeah, all right, come in,’ said Dunbar. He held open the door and Halpin stepped inside. ‘Kitchen,’ said Dunbar. ‘I’ve just made a pot of tea.’

Halpin walked through to the kitchen as Dunbar closed the front door. ‘Nice,’ said Halpin, looking around. ‘You married then, Maxwell?’

‘Wife died a few years ago,’ said Dunbar. ‘Cancer.’

‘Yeah, cancer’s a bugger,’ said Halpin. ‘Took my old fellah last year. Colon.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Dunbar. He gestured at the teapot. ‘You want tea?’

‘Milk and one sugar,’ said Halpin, sitting down at the kitchen table. He toyed with a sovereign ring as Dunbar poured tea for the two of them.

‘Let me see the money then,’ said Dunbar as he sat down.

Halpin slid the envelope across the table. Dunbar took it and grinned when he opened it and saw the money inside. Halpin leaned over and took it from him. ‘It’s yours once you’ve made the call,’ he said.

‘You know she works every day?’ said Dunbar. ‘And her phone has to be off when she’s on the set.’

‘I’m in no rush,’ said Halpin. ‘Just keep calling until you get through.’

Andrea had the giggles. Corpsing they called it, and Andrea could have corpsed for the Olympics. The scene was a simple two-hander, Diana and Fiona sitting in a wine bar discussing their friend Saffie’s new boyfriend. Saffie was a buyer for a top London store. She was in her fifties and had a thing about younger men. Much younger. There were ten lines of dialogue in all, accompanied by sips of Ribena masquerading as claret. The scene was the day before Diana would discover Fiona in bed with her husband and it was light banter with a couple of very funny lines.

The first take had been almost perfect except for the fact that, at one point, Carolyn had accidentally clinked her glass against the bottle. It was a small thing but Harrington wanted to go again. That’s when the giggling had started. The line was simple enough. All Andrea had to say was ‘good things come in small packages’, which was meant to be a double entendre and was supposed to be accompanied by Andrea raising one eyebrow, one of her trademark looks. She fluffed the line and said ‘on small packages’ and, from that point on, she was unable to say the line without cracking up. She had half a dozen goes at it before apologizing profusely to the director and the crew, took a minute to compose herself and tried again. Unfortunately, she went from bad to worse and would giggle as soon as Harrington called ‘action!’

The giggling was infectious and soon Carolyn was also unable to speak and the two of them sat at the table giggling until tears as the director became increasingly frustrated. Eventually, after the fifteenth botched take, he took off his headphones and walked over to the table, his cheeks flushed. He bent down and lowered his voice. ‘Ladies, please, we are so far behind already today and if I don’t get this done and on to the next scene, I’m going to be in deep, deep shit.’

‘I’m sorry, Jake, really,’ said Andrea, wiping her eyes.

‘And now you’re smearing your make-up,’ said Harrington. ‘Come on, we’re all professionals, please let’s just do the job that we’re paid for, shall we?’

‘Jake, you’re right,’ said Carolyn. She took a deep breath. ‘It’s just a case of the giggles. We’ll get over it.’

Harrington looked at his watch then stood up. ‘Okay, take ten everyone,’ he shouted. ‘I need make-up to work on Andrea and when we start shooting I want everyone on their best behaviour.’

He went back to his monitors while Kelly rushed over with her make-up box and began fussing over Andrea. Carolyn stood up and took out her phone. She switched it on. There was a voicemail from Max Dunbar so she found a quiet part of the set and called him back. ‘Sorry, Max, I was shooting,’ she said.

‘Not with real bullets, I hope,’ he said.

‘Just a difficult scene. So, you have something for me?’

‘Yes, I’ve asked around about Warwick Richards, and done a little digging. He’s quite well known on the social circuit, he owns Charades nightclub in Leicester Square has quite a few commercial properties in Soho. He’s a bit larger than life, bit of a character, but he’s as clean as they come.’

‘Not a gangster, then?’

Dunbar laughed. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ he asked.

‘I just wondered,’ said Carolyn. ‘And you say he owns a nightclub. They’re usually pretty shady, aren’t they?’

‘Back in the Eighties, maybe,’ said Dunbar. ‘But with all the licensing laws and whatnot, it’s a much more professional business these days. Look, I had a word with a few of my cop friends and they all said he’s as clean as a whistle. Whiter than white. Does a lot of charity work but keeps it low profile.’

‘You’re sure, Max?’

‘Sure, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘I’m not saying he doesn’t meet the odd villain in his club, but that’s par for the course in the hospitality business. Warwick Richards is a straight-shooter, never had so much as a speeding ticket.’

‘Really?’

‘I shouldn’t be telling you this but I checked him out on the PNC. The Police National Computer. I’m not supposed to do that, what with the Data Protection Act and all, but I can tell you he doesn’t have a record.’

‘That’s good to hear. And did you check to see if he had any connection with an accountant called Nicholas Cohen?’

‘I did and I couldn’t find anything. He uses a city firm, one of the biggies. There’s no connection between him and the company you mentioned, Cohen and Kawczynski.’

‘Okay, Max, thank you. You’ll send me your bill, right?’

‘I’ll put it in the post,’ he said. ‘Oh, and there’s something else you might be interested in. He’s not married, never has been.’

Carolyn ended the call and switched off her phone. She was surprised at what Dunbar had told her. As clean as they come, he’d said. Yet she’d seen him batter a man to death. Or had she? She was starting to doubt her own memory. It had been late at night, there had been reflections on the glass, she’d had quite a bit to drink. When she’d first met Warwick Richards she had been sure he was the man she’d seen but after having spent time in his company, she was finding it harder to remember what she’d seen that night.