He was Bentley Horrocks. In many files of the organisations tasked with combating crime barons, his age was listed as fifty-one. His address was given as a seven-bedroom mansion, south of Meopham in Kent. His wife was down as Angela, but he referred to her as ‘Angel’, and he had two daughters in private education. A mistress, Tracey, was installed at Canada Wharf. He visited her every Tuesday and on occasional Fridays. The files encompassed his dealings in property development in south-east London, reclamation of wasteground, scrap-metal clearance – also extortion, Class-A importation, money-laundering and other ‘interests’ in Peckham and Rotherhithe, and Bermondsey, south of the river. He had been subject to four heavyweight investigations and, each time, had seen them off.
He walked in the grounds of his property, circling in the centre of a wide lawn, with Jack – around the same age but not his equal. Both men, on that wet, windy morning, wore anoraks, with scarves covering their lower faces. Bent assumed that he was continuously under police surveillance and even here, with no sign of watchers or cameras, he reckoned they’d want to video the movement of his mouth, then run the tapes for lip-readers to interpret. He had made a science of caution, and was a free man.
‘Can’t stand still,’ was one of Bent’s maxims.
Jack usually answered, ‘Too right, Bent. Just can’t stand still.’
A dilemma faced him. Should he keep climbing the increasingly fragile ladder, or stay at the level he was at? A big force inside the United Kingdom, a man who could ‘melt’ hard guys with his stare . . .
‘It’s when you’re weak, when you’re not moving forward . . .’
‘Spot on, Bent. Weak when you’re not going forward . . .’
Jack told him about the pattern of flights they would use, what passports through which airport, and when they were due to arrive at their destination. A big step, beyond any comfort zone he was familiar with.
‘What sort of place is it?’
Jack answered, obsequious, an accountant who took care of detail and was not consulted on strategy. ‘A good place for you, Bent. Not like the shit here, but on a different level. Where you should be, Bent. Where the big money is and the big players, Bent. When you’re there, you’ve left this garbage behind you.’
He paused. He kicked a few of the early leaves that had come down in the night, and the rain dribbled on his face, soaking into his scarf. Jack stayed close to him and would have tried to read his mind. The scumbag made an issue of reading his mind and his mood . . . Heroin was dead, the amphetamine trade was saturated, but the cocaine marketplace had room, in his estimation, for further expansion, which was why he would break a self-imposed rule, and travel far from his own territory. He barely knew where it was.
‘We’ll enjoy it, won’t we? Calabria, where the action is?’
‘And do some serious business, Bent.’
Jack had said they were little more than peasants – and Jack would know because he’d been christened Giacomo and was from good Italian stock, immigrants and ice cream, who had settled in Chatham. They’d show Bent proper deference, not like those Russian bastards. Deference always topped the list of Bent’s demands. He’d offer big money and make bigger money, times over. A different level, higher up the ladder. He whistled for his dogs, pulled his scarf off his mouth and went back to his house. Angel – if she wasn’t still pissed from last night – would have done him breakfast. The forecast said it would rain most of the day – but his iPad said that the sun would be shining on the Calabrian coast. He thought himself beyond the reach of little people, out of their league.
Another scream, a man’s voice. At first the cry was of surprise, then of extreme pain. The one who had stayed longer inside came through the door, bent at the stomach, head lowered, his hands over his groin.
Jago was on his feet.
The park was empty – no dog-walkers, no buggy-pushers, no smokers. The traffic flowed on the street and pedestrians were moving briskly past the pizzeria. The citizens of Savignyplatz and Charlottenburg ignored the movements and sounds they skirted. The girl had followed the guy out, defiant.
The young man had twisted to face the action. The one by the car, rooted to the spot, watched his friend staggering towards him. That didn’t figure in the equation of a simple cash collection. Behind the girl was the man who would have paid over the pizzo that had been waved on the pavement as a symbol of success. She might have barged past him, elbowed him clear, and had kneed or kicked the groin of the guy who had lingered – perhaps gone to the toilet.
Jago watched. The man was not a fighter. He lacked the hand-to-eye co-ordination that was second nature in the Canning Town warrens. The younger man, the leader, flattened him. He was a fighter. The grabbing of a wrist, and the twist of the arm, provoked a squeal of pain, and the man was prone on the pavement. He wore a long waiter’s apron, which had been crisp and white and was now dirty. He writhed, helpless and defenceless. The man by the car had a pistol out. The leader had his arm behind him, hand outstretched, waited, then snapped his fingers. The magazine was detached, a bullet prised out. It went into the leader’s hand. He held it close to the waiter’s face, fingers, then forced it between his teeth as he gasped and retched. An awful croak. Jago heard it, but no one else did.
They laughed. She came past the man. She took their attention.
The man on the ground spat out the bullet, which rolled along the pavement. The faint sunlight caught it, a jewel among the dirt.