Ian Rankin - Beggars Banquet

Or perhaps – please, no – without them. He had hit his wife. The Bossman had smiled at her. The Bossman would take her, and Kejan couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t go. Would she take his children? Would the Bossman want them? Would he treat them right?

His wife’s breathing, so shallow. The room a little lighter now, so he could see the outline of her neck, the way it was angled against the stem-filled sack she used as a pillow.

Slender neck. Brittle neck. Kejan touched it with the tips of his fingers, heard a child cough and pulled his fingers away like they’d been too close to a torch.

He sat up then, looked down on the dark, curved shape. Twisted his own body around so that it was easier to reach down with both hands.

And heard the sound of lorries on the rough track outside, coming closer.

An aggrieved Hell’s Angel sat in Franz’s study, and it was all Franz could do not to reach into his desk drawer for the pistol and blow the man’s brains all over the walls. Defilement: that was what it felt like. Engine oil and cigarette smoke had invaded his most private space, and even when the man had gone, those taints would remain.

The rest of the gang was outside. One on one: Franz had demanded it, and the leader had agreed. A dozen of them. They’d scaled the perimeter wall. A dozen of them armed, and Franz with only three guards on duty. But now more were on their way: calls had been made. And meantime the three guards faced off the leather-clad bandits, while their leader and Franz sat with only the antique rosewood desk between them.

‘Nice place,’ the Angel said. His name was Lars. Well over six feet tall, hair stretched back into a thin ponytail. Denim waistcoat – all-important ‘colours’ – worn over leather jacket. And his jackboots up on Franz’s desk.

He’d grinned when Franz had stopped short of telling him to take his feet off the desk. But Franz was biding his time, waiting for his other men to arrive, and wanting to rise above all this, to be the diplomat. So he’d offered Lars a drink, and Lars now rested a bottle of beer against his crotch, and looked relaxed.

‘You’re financing our rivals,’ the gang leader said, getting down to business.

‘In what way?’

‘We’re in a war, no room for neutrals. And you’re funding their side of things.’

‘I pay them to act as my couriers, that’s all. I’m not financing any conflict.’

‘But it’s your money they’re using when they buy guns and ammo.’

Franz shrugged. ‘And whose money are you using, my friend? Are your mortal enemies at this very moment confronting your employer?’ He smiled. ‘Do you see the absurdity of the situation? I’m not happy, because here you are invading my privacy, and I don’t suppose your employer will be feeling any different. I’m a businessman. I am neutral: business always is. What you’re doing, right this second, is fucking with my business. My instinct naturally is to get out, which is what you want, yes?’

He had lost the biker, who nodded slowly.

‘Exactly. But what if the same thought is going through your employer’s mind? Where does that leave you? With no money, no prospects.’ Franz shook his head. ‘My friend, the best thing you can do for all our sakes is to begin discussions with your rivals, settle this thing, then we can all get back to what we want to be doing: making money.’

Franz reached into a drawer, held one hand up to let Lars know nothing tricky was coming. He produced a fat bundle of Deutschmarks and tossed it to the gang-leader.

‘See?’ he said. ‘Now I’m funding both of you. Does that make me neutral?’

Lars studied the notes, stuffed them into a zippered pocket.

‘Let me set up a meeting,’ Franz went on blandly, ‘get all sides together, anyone who has an interest. That’s the way business works.’

‘You’re full of bullshit,’ the biker said, but he was grinning.

‘Should your employer ever wish to dispense with your services,’ Franz continued, ‘you may wish to contact me.’ He wrote a number on a sheet of paper, ripped it from the pad. ‘This is my private line. Maybe next time you’re thinking of coming to see me, we could arrange an appointment?’

A nice big smile. Lars slid his feet from the corner of the desk. His heels had left marks on the woodwork. As he reached for the paper, Franz snatched it back.

‘One thing, my friend. Try something like this again without an appointment, and I’ll destroy you. Is that clear between us?’

Lars laughed and took the number, stuck it in the same pocket as the money.

Franz’s mobile phone rang. It was in the desk drawer, and he opened the drawer again, shrugging, telling Lars there was no rest for the wicked.

‘Hello?’

A hushed voice, one he knew. ‘We’ve got every one of those dirty fuckers in our sights.’

‘Fine,’ Franz said, making to replace the phone in its drawer, bringing out the pistol in its place. Lars was already reaching across the desk. He’d pulled a combat knife from one boot. Franz was leaning back to take aim when the gunfire started outside.

Caldwell was in the library. He’d locked the door, and when his wife had come knocking, saying the judge and his wife were thinking of leaving, he’d hissed at her to fuck off.

He sat in a burgundy leather chair, hands on his knees, while his visitor stood four feet away, the gun steady in his left hand.

‘My bodyguard?’ Caldwell asked.

‘Tied up outside. Let’s hope someone releases him before hypothermia sets in. It’s a bitter night. We wouldn’t want any unnecessary deaths.’

‘You’ve come from Franz?’

The man nodded. His accent was English. He had a heavy body, thick at the neck, and cropped hair. Ex-forces, Caldwell presumed.

‘With a message,’ the man said.

A typical gesture by Franz: he always had to show his puissance. Caldwell thought he knew now what this was about, and felt a mixture of emotions: the thrill of fear, fury at Franz’s little game; embarrassment that his guests would be wondering what the hell was going on.

‘Everything’s set,’ Caldwell told the man.

‘Really?’

‘Does Franz have any reason to doubt me?’

‘That’s what I’m here to find out. It’s nearly midnight. Everything was supposed to be finalised by midnight.’

‘Everything is.’ Caldwell made to rise from his chair, but the gun waved him back down again.

‘Links in a chain, Mr Caldwell. That’s all we are. The weakest links have to be taken out, the strong ones reconnected.’

‘You think I’d put myself on the line for a little turd like that?’

‘I think you like to operate at a distance.’

‘And Franz doesn’t?’

‘He always uses the best people. I’m not sure Hunter falls into that category.’

‘Hunter’ll do as he’s told.’

‘Will he? I’ve heard he might have a personal stake in all of this.’

Caldwell frowned. ‘How do you mean?’ His wife knocked at the door again, her voice artificially bright.

‘Darling, Sir Arthur and Lady Lorimer are leaving. I’ve asked Foster to bring the Bentley round.’

Her voice grated. It always had. The way she spoke now, like she’d been to elocution classes, like she’d been saying ‘Darling’ and ‘Sir This’ and ‘Lady That’ all her life. And all she was was a piece of crumpet he’d picked up early on in his travels through life. Too early on. He could have done better for himself. Still could, given the chance. Send her off with a settlement, or bring some mistress into the equation. It seemed to Caldwell that he hadn’t really started living yet.

‘Apologise, will you?’ he called. ‘I’m on the phone. Important business.’ He lowered his voice again, mind half on his life to come, half on the gun in front of him. ‘How do you mean?’ he repeated.