He worked in a world where the fewer people in the know the better. He still relied on private meetings and word of mouth. Fortunately for him, so did the Colombians. Now they had finally agreed to meet him on his own turf. It was the last step. That they had felt confident enough to come to him was a coup in itself. They needed to show him that they trusted him, and he had to prove to them that he could guarantee them the protection needed. He had done just that. They had landed safely in England, and no one had questioned them.
It was dark now, the lights were on across London. It was funny, but he always thought that London looked more impressive by night. It looked more alive to him, full of possibilities and secrets. He glanced at his watch, a diamond Rolex with a platinum face. It was just after nine p.m. They would be here in the next ten minutes or so. He glanced around him. He had everything ready. The drinks cabinet – that he personally thought looked like a fucking cheap filing cabinet – had every alcoholic beverage known to man, and the leather sofas were placed strategically so everyone could interact together without having to move about too much. There was also food in the kitchen, should anyone request it.
Salvatore Ferreira was an extremely cautious man. Michael appreciated that trait. He rarely left his native Colombia. Michael had taken over a whole floor of one of the top London hotels to guarantee Salvatore his privacy, and also to give him the chance to enjoy the luxury such an establishment could provide.
He heard the soft thrumming noise that heralded the arrival of the private lift and, settling himself into his chair, he waited patiently to begin the meeting he had been waiting for for a year, and which would cement his legendary status in the criminal underworld once and for all.
Chapter Seventy
‘Listen, Declan, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this, believe me, but what else could I do, for fuck’s sake?’
Peter Barker, the elder of the Barker brothers, looked into Declan’s face with its usual blank countenance. But his colour was high, he was flushed red. Declan could tell the man was angry, and so he fucking should be. This was a piss-take, especially now when everyone knew there was something serious in the wind.
‘Look, don’t shoot the fucking messenger, mate – I’m trying to do the right thing here.’
Declan shook his head. This was the last fucking thing he needed tonight. The music from the nightclub was loud, even through the heavy fire doors of the offices. He hated the music they had to play in the clubs these days; it was fucking abysmal – it sounded like electrical interference to him. Declan sighed and, as calmly as he could, asked, ‘Who did you say told you this, Peter?’
Peter took a large joint out of his jacket pocket and, after lighting it, he puffed on it fiercely, before he answered his friend’s question. ‘I told you already, Declan – it was Jack Cornel. He was full of it. The stupid-looking northern ponce! I was all for hammering him, but my brother Billy stepped in. He reckons that this is about nausing up Michael’s meeting with the Colombians – though how they know about it is fucking suspect in itself. You and I know the Cornels have never been happy answering to him. Michael never gave them their due, and they fucking knew it. They are so fucking full of themselves. They still seem to think that the North is a fucking no-go area for us lot down here. The M1 passed right over their fucking heads, I tell ya.’
Declan laughed at the man’s words despite himself. He could be funny, could old Peter Barker. He had a dry humour which wasn’t everybody’s cup of tea, but always hit the proverbial nail on the head.
‘So they have come down south, determined to cause fucking havoc, have they?’