Andy McNab - Meltdown

'What d'you mean, get to know her?' said Danny. 'I already do. I was talking to her in the office today.'

'And?'

'Well… she's… she's all right. Seems quite nice.'

Fergus shook his head and sighed. 'I'm not interested in knowing if she's nice. I want to find out what she knows. Chat her up a bit; use your charm.'

'Charm? What charm?'

'Get some!' said Fergus firmly. 'Just chat her up.'

Dudley looked over at the two teenage girls, who were still casting the occasional flirtatious glance in Danny's direction. He nodded towards them, causing Danny to look round. One of the girls smiled and beckoned, and Danny quickly turned back, his face aflame with embarrassment.

'I don't think it's me or your grandfather they're smiling at,' said Dudley to Danny. 'They seem to find you… interesting and attractive. Perhaps you are – I have no idea about these things – but you'd better make yourself interesting and attractive to this Storm.'

Fergus saw Danny suddenly look anxious. He laughed. 'Don't worry Danny, you've got the better half of the job. While you're chatting up Storm, I'll be making the acquaintance of Mr Siddie Richards.'

There was nothing, absolutely nothing, good about Siddie Richards. He was evil. And proud of it.

Siddie had spent much of the first twenty years of his adult life behind bars, mainly for crimes of extreme violence. But he'd never served time for the most serious crimes he'd committed, because Siddie had literally 'got away with murder'. More than once.

When Siddie reached the age of forty, he finally got wise and decided, reluctantly, to let others carry out the acts of violence for which he was famed and feared. Five years on and Siddie ran one of Manchester's biggest criminal gangs. There was very little that was illegal and lucrative that Siddie wasn't involved in. Gambling, extortion, prostitution, drugs – they were all separate arms of the Siddie Richards business empire.

Siddie was vain and arrogant. He never tired of watching the Godfather movies over and over again. He knew every character, every scene and virtually every line, and would quote them endlessly to his minions and to his long-suffering wife, Dawn.

And like his screen hero, Don Corleone, he believed in the old maxim of 'honour among thieves'. It meant that he operated by a simple rule: when he went into business with another criminal, he would never do the dirty on his new partner; not unless they did the dirty on him. If they did, his vengeance was swift, merciless and final. So it didn't happen. Ever.

Fergus had made the appointment to meet the gang boss after a couple of drinking sessions with one of Siddie's henchmen in a pub in the Moss Side area of Manchester. It had been relatively easy. All Fergus had needed to do was make the gangster believe it was possible that he knew the way into the Meltdown drug set-up.

Going by his old alias of 'Frank Wilson', Fergus told his gangland contact that he knew the makers of the drug, who were ripe for a takeover. All it would need was muscle and organization.

The response came back quickly: Siddie was prepared to meet and talk with 'Frank Wilson'.

The following day Fergus took a taxi out to Cheadle; like the twins, Siddie preferred to conduct his business meetings in the comfort of his home.

The house was worth well over a million; it was located in an area favoured by top footballers and celebrities based in the north-west. Fergus got his taxi driver to drop him off close to the house and then walked the last few hundred metres.

A high wall and an elaborately decorated pair of tall wrought-iron gates protected the property. Fergus pressed the button beneath the voice intercom connected to the house.

The voice that answered through the tinny speaker was surprisingly high-pitched and thin. 'Yes?'

'It's Frank Wilson.'

There was a low clunk as the mechanism was set in motion, then the two heavy gates began to glide open noiselessly.

Fergus walked through and up the drive, past well-kept lawns with large statues of Greek gods and goddesses. The house was mostly mock-Tudor, with thick black beams and heavily leaded windows, but a few other styles appeared to have been thrown in for good measure.

The wide front door of heavy oak stood under a canopy supported by marble columns. As Fergus reached for the large black knocker, the door swung open on huge hinges and he got his first close-up view of Siddie Richards.

He wasn't a pretty sight; he reminded Fergus of a pit-bull, but he was considerably less attractive. Not particularly tall – five nine or ten – broad and barrel-chested, with hardly any neck and a square shaved head. A puckered scar from an old battle ran from just above his right eyebrow down to the bottom of his right ear.

Siddie wasn't going to win any beauty contests, and when he spoke, the high-pitched voice didn't fit the look.

'Mr Wilson,' he said, extending his right hand.

'Frank, please,' answered Fergus as the thick, podgy fingers clasped his own, firmly.

'Call me Siddie. We'll go into my study.'

Fergus followed Siddie along a highly polished parquet floor, past garish reproduction furniture that Siddie usually described as 'Louis the something'.

Standing to one side of the open doorway to the kitchen was a huge guy who looked as though he weighed in at about eighteen stone, most of it muscle. Then, behind him, an even bigger guy appeared: by contrast, this one was pure blubber and he filled the whole doorway. Neither gave any sign that they had noticed Fergus as he sized them up.

'All right, boss?' said Mr Muscles as Siddie passed them.

'Yeah, I'm in a meeting. No interruptions.'

The gang boss led Fergus into a room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on two of the walls. They were crammed with neatly arranged red leatherbound books.

Siddie lowered himself into a leather chair behind a large oak desk and gestured for Fergus to sit on the smaller chair in front of him.

'You must be quite a reader,' said Fergus as he settled into the chair.

'Never opened one of 'em,' said Siddie, his small eyes weighing up his visitor. 'My Dawn bought 'em from some place where they fit books to the colour scheme. She reckons it gives the place a bit of class, but she don't read either.' He glanced over at a small round table where bottles and full crystal decanters huddled together. 'Drink?'

Fergus shook his head.

'Good,' said Siddie. 'So let's get down to business.' What Siddie Richards lacked in good looks, Storm Karlsson possessed in bucketloads. She was beautiful. Five feet six, lithe, ash-blonde, shoulder-length hair, blue eyes and high cheekbones.

Storm was a nineteen-year-old stunner, and she knew it. And like Danny said, she was 'nice'. Pleasant. Sunny. The twins had brought her into the travel business because she was good to have around: she could make even middle-aged, paunchy businessmen believe that they were the answer to every beautiful girl's dream.

When Storm wasn't meeting and greeting for the twins, she spent her working time flitting between their apartment and the office at the coach yard, occasionally answering the phone but mainly, as far as Danny could see, moving sheets of paper from one filing cabinet to another.

Danny was sitting at the office desk, supposedly checking through phone records. He watched Storm slide another sheet of paper into a filing cabinet, looking extremely pleased with herself for successfully completing the operation.

She was wearing a black jacket and skirt, which ended just above the knees. She looked great – maybe a little too smart for the scruffy, untidy office, but Storm was in her PA role so she'd gone for the PA look.

Danny took a deep breath, thinking again about his grandfather's order to 'chat her up a bit'.