Simon Kernick - The Murder Exchange

But things were coming together, and that was the main thing. Johnny Hexham, a man always in pursuit of money, had already stolen the first car, the one I was in now, and was currently hunting down a van to use as transport for Holtz. Joe, acting as a businessman in pursuit of some much-needed recuperation, had made a verbal agreement to hire one of the farmhouses I’d seen on a one-month let, starting the following day, and was scheduled to go down there in a few hours’ time to put down the money and pick up the keys. Johnny was on driving standby every night the following week, and the rest of the team were together, although I still hadn’t met the jeweller’s brother, Kalinski. If all went according to plan, I’d get to give him the once-over the following night when the four of us, minus Johnny, met to discuss the final details.

A black Toyota Land Cruiser pulled up outside Heavenly Girls and stopped, engine rumbling, by the side of the road. A couple of seconds later a big bloke, at least six four, probably more, stepped out. This was Fitz, if Elaine’s description was correct. Another bloke, only slightly shorter and with the same build, came out the other side. Big Mick. And then the man himself, Krys Holtz, emerged from the front passenger side and stepped onto the pavement. Krys was a lot shorter than the other two, probably no more than five ten, but again he had the big build. He was no fucking oil painting either, and you could understand why he had to pay for it a fair amount. He dressed well, in an expensive dark suit and leather coat, but his face was all fat and jowly, like someone had lived in it too long, and his haircut — a big black Elvis-style quiff that had gone out of fashion when the King was still below fifteen stone — was all over the shop. He was only meant to be thirty but he looked at least ten years older. I was surprised that the sight of him didn’t fill me with rage. Instead, I watched him calmly, knowing that I’d be getting even shortly.

Krys hurried up the steps to the house, flanked by the other two, then the door opened and a very satisfied-looking Tugger Lewis stepped out. Tugger moved aside, avoiding the group, who walked through the space he’d just occupied as if he wasn’t there. He made his way over to the car and, after turning round to check that Krys and his men had entered the building, got in the passenger side. I started the engine and pulled away from the kerb. It was 1.25 a.m.

‘So, how did it go?’

‘Very nice,’ said Tugger in his thick Geordie accent. ‘The lasses are high quality, I have to say.’

‘They ought to be for that sort of price.’

‘Aye, I know. Two hundred quid for half an hour. That’s about two quid a thrust. It’s a shocking price. I was down at a place in Puerto Banus a couple of years back and it cost?38.70 for a girl once the exchange rate was taken into account. And you got forty minutes.’

‘See, that’s what I’d consider a fair deal. A quid a minute. Not much more expensive than a fairground waltzer.’

‘And considerably more exciting.’

‘Exactly. So, what’s the layout in there like?’

‘Reception’s on the second floor. There’s a lift goes up there. You come straight out into a foyer and you’re facing the lass on the desk.’

‘Security?’

‘Two bouncers in dickie bows. Big lads, mind, but not armed. As far as I saw, it’s only them, and they won’t be any trouble. There’s a bar that’s off the foyer and that’s where the lasses hang out when they’re not otherwise engaged. You can go in there and have a drink with them; if you like one, you go off with her to one of the rooms. I’m not sure how many rooms there are, definitely no more than a dozen. I went up to the next floor and there were six that I counted, all very spacious and comfortable. They use rooms on the fourth floor as well, and I reckon it’ll be the same layout. The second floor’s just the reception area, and the first and ground floor’s accommodation for the staff, I think. Basically, the whole building belongs to them.’

‘Well, you know the plan, Tugger. Will it work in that sort of place?’

He appeared to think about it for a moment. ‘Aye, I think so, but it’s risky, no doubt about it.’

I grinned at him. ‘But think of the rewards. Think of how far a hundred grand’ll go up your way. You could probably buy a whole street in the north-east for that.’

‘Aye, maybe so, but you’ll have to move up there too, Max. You can’t even get a garden shed round here for that sort of price. Hardly worth risking your neck for.’

‘It’s only a short piece of work,’ I replied, stopping at a red light. It struck me then that Fowler had said pretty much the same thing on the day we’d first met.

But you know what they say. Once bitten, twice ready.

Gallan

My weekend was blissfully quiet. Rachel and I did the tourist thing, stuff we’d never done together when we’d been living in the same house, because at that time I’d never really felt the need. We went to the Tower of London, the London Aquarium, Madame Tussaud’s, and even the Houses of Parliament. And when we weren’t treading the pavement, we were taking it easy and enjoying each other’s company. I cooked curry on the Saturday night and we ate it in front of a video of The Nutty Professor . The food was terrible, the film not a lot better, but it didn’t matter. It was just a nice way to spend the evening. I let her stay up until quarter to eleven but warned her not to tell her mother. ‘Otherwise she won’t let you stay with me again.’ She winked and gave her nose a conspirator’s tap, telling me not to worry, it would be our secret. Girls can be so manipulative.

Manipulative or not, I was a lot sadder than I thought I’d be when I had to take her back on Sunday evening. I promised I’d have her for the weekend again in two weeks’ time and she told me that she’d look forward to it. I think, then, I must have done something right, but it was still a lonely journey home.

When I walked into the station on the Monday morning, however, I was feeling more refreshed than I had for a long time. Crime in the area had continued to be fairly stable in the intervening time. A fifteen-year-old Somali refugee had been put in hospital with severe head injuries after being beaten with a baseball bat during a gang fight (three minors had been arrested at the scene and bailed pending further enquiries); a spate of seven muggings had occurred on one estate, one ending in a stabbing, but the two perpetrators, both fresh out of a young offenders’ institute, had already been arrested and charged; and a twenty-one-year-old woman had knifed and seriously wounded her common-law husband with a kitchen knife. She too had been arrested, and charged with GBH.

Although harrowing for the victims and their families, particularly the parents of the Somali boy who’d come to Britain seeking sanctuary and who now had to keep vigil at their son’s bedside in intensive care, in many ways these crimes were a CID officer’s dream because they were all pretty much self-solving. There’d be plenty of paperwork, as there always was when someone was arrested, but other than that the manpower effort would be minimal, and it would make our clear-up rate that much better. All of which meant less pressure from above.

In fact, so confident were the Brass that morning that the chief superintendent, in tandem with Knox, announced that the long-awaited ‘Back on the Beat’ initiative was going ahead that week. Members of CID, including the DCI, were to spend a night out patrolling with uniformed officers in an effort to regain an understanding of the pressures the uniforms had to endure, and to help, in the words of the chief super, ‘to foster a continued and ever deeper spirit of co-operation between these two essential and ultimately symbiotic arms of law enforcement’. These words were uttered with a completely straight face, which told you a lot about the sort of leadership we had. I was pissed off to learn that members of the Matthews murder squad were also being used on this exercise, and I was told later during the squad meeting by Knox that Berrin and I would be going out on Wednesday night. I made a brief complaint about this, but I knew that one way or another I was going to have to be in attendance. The chief super had sanctioned it, therefore Knox would enthusiastically go along with it, as would Capper. My problem, like that of so many other coppers, was that the chain of command above me was made up almost entirely of politicians.