Broken Faith (20 page)

Chapter Twenty-eight

Jimmy sat in the Eurostar looking at his reflection in the window as they passed under the Channel. Even if George went straight to the station, or into the town and found a public pay-phone to call his mates in London ,they couldn't stop him now. Eurostar was the fastest way into central Paris, he'd be there just before nine local time. And they couldn't get anybody local to be at the Gare du Nord to pick him up because all they could give any Paris talent would be a verbal description, useless to any watcher as the Eurostar disgorged. He was safe for the time being.

Above him on the rack was the new holdall he'd bought when he arrived in St Pancras from Leicester. He'd bought everything else there that he'd need to get him on his way and see him through the next few days. He'd stocked up on Euros and, as he always did these days, he'd had his passport with him. He'd been able to keep his little appointment with George, do the business, catch his train and get on his way. If he'd made the right move at the right time things should start going his way now. He was the one ahead of the game and they were the ones having to play catch-up.

The train suddenly emerged from the blackness of the tunnel into the light of a clear French morning. Jimmy adjusted his watch to French time. He knew nothing about the railway system in France or Spain but the way he looked at it was, how difficult could it be to get a train from Paris to Spain and then on to somewhere near Gibraltar? Thank God the EU had paper-free borders. Even if the Spanish police were looking for him they weren't looking too hard.  He still wasn't in the frame for Suarez's murder. Their problem was that they'd had him, questioned him, and chosen to kick him out. Then they'd found that he'd been shagging one of their own who'd suddenly got two bullets in her. He could see how they'd want to know what that was all about, but he could also see how they weren't in a big hurry to go public on it. They'd look for him and up the pressure if they had to until they found him and when they did he had no doubt that the question would finally get asked: what exactly was your relationship with Inspector Seraphina Suarez? He only hoped he could come up with some sort of answer.

Jimmy looked out of the window and pushed Suarez and the Spanish police to one side and made his mind go back to the London end. Even if it was the way George said, and the people he was up against were the supermen of English crime, no outfit was powerful enough to find one bloke who was somewhere on a train or a plane or a coach in France or Spain. No he was clear, now it was up to George to sell them his deal.

Jimmy thought about what George had told him, all run out of flash offices in somewhere like Canary Wharf, tickets to the opera and the ballet. Things must really have changed, it wasn't crime like he was taught it. But that had been long ago and things did change. It was people that stayed the same.

Jimmy tried to doze, it had been a long and tiring night and there was a lot of travelling to come. He closed his eyes, stretched out his legs and let his mind wander. It didn't wander very far.

The problems would begin when he got to Gibraltar. From what he knew it was a bloody tiny place, not somewhere he could melt away into the crowds or blend in, not somewhere to try to hide and then pop out and do what he had to do.  And even if he could, it wouldn't help because all they had to do to nail him was have one man watching the door of whatever office he needed to visit. He settled further down and kept his eyes closed. Yesterday was already ancient history and it would be a long day, and there were more where that came from.

But his mind wouldn't switch off.

How long would it take to get to the bottom of Spain? Probably two or three days, maybe more. It depended on how often he stopped. But that was to the good. It gave them time to do what he'd suggested. It also gave them time to think that he might change his mind; that he might give himself up to the Spanish police and pass on what he'd already got. Yes, things were, at last, running his way, but only just.

His mind wanted to begin again so he opened his eyes, turned and in the window, against the darkness of some trees, caught a brief glimpse of someone, a man old enough to know better. He looked away. He kept telling himself he was too old for all this, yet he kept on doing it. Why? He thought about it and the same answer came up as it always did. What else was there? There was no one he cared about now except his daughter and the grandchildren he had never seen, and they were on the other side of the world. She didn't want to know him, she'd gone as far away from him as she could get. No, there was no one really. And he didn't want anyone to care about him. Suarez had cared, but she'd been a glitch in the machinery, a hiccup, a one-off moment when he almost wanted to rejoin the human race. But most of all she'd been a mistake, for both of them. Look at what it did to her. The truth was he didn't want to change. The truth was he didn't want anything. Then he remembered Harry's words when they had met at his villa.

You were right, Harry, I was a toxic bastard. I still am and it's all I ever fucking will be.

Chapter Twenty-nine 

Jimmy took a taxi from the Gare du Nord to the Gare Montparnasse, where he could catch a train and head to the Spanish border. He looked around and chose a café close by where he could sit for a while, have a big cup of coffee and a warm croissant for breakfast, and watch Paris go about its business in the morning sunshine. The coffee and croissant came and were as good as they looked and smelled. He felt revived after his journey. The sun was warm, not scorching like the Spanish sun, and he felt relaxed as Paris bustled about him. He hadn't seen much of the city but somehow he liked the place. He put a hand into his pocket to get a handkerchief to wipe his mouth and felt something in his pocket. It was George's phone. He had forgotten it was there. He took it out and switched it on. George had missed three calls. Jimmy checked. They were all from the same person, Rosa.

‘Shit.'

He called up the last voice message.

‘And where the fuck are you, George? I've called you twice already. Costello never turned up and I'm hanging around waiting to be told what to do. Do we stay here or come back or what? Fucking get back to me will you?'

Jimmy switched off the phone and put it away. Suddenly Paris wasn't a pleasant place to sit and have breakfast, relax and feel warm. It was the wrong place. The right place was Santander, and bloody quick. He called the waiter and asked for the bill.

You clever bugger, George. What made you think you needed Jarvis to do the story-telling? You can tell the tale all right yourself, as a writer of pure bloody fiction you're up there with the best of them. Respectable villains who go the ballet, with offices in Canary bloody Wharf, who could go anywhere and do anything. Bollocks, all pure bloody bollocks, but you knew I'd swallow it all. This whole thing wasn't set up by any modern bloody master criminals, it was set up by a very old-fashioned villain working out of a Kilburn pub called the Hind. Jimmy almost laughed to himself at the fool he'd been.

And the best part was that I told you everything I'd found out, showed you how to mothball everything and let Harry take the fall so you could begin again when the dust settled. Well, done, George. Very clever. But you're not home yet.

The waiter brought him the bill. Jimmy paid and left, heading for the station.

He needed to be in Santander, he needed the Spanish police to have what he'd got before George could cover his tracks. He didn't give phoning more than a passing thought, who could he phone? This had to be done personally where he was known if he wanted to get any action in a hurry. What was the quickest way to get there? He went into the Gare de Montparnasse. It was a big, busy station and it took Jimmy a couple of minutes to locate the ticket windows. He saw them and went across. There was a queue at each one. He chose the shortest. After a few minutes he got to the window.

‘I want to go to Spain.' The woman behind the window shrugged and said something in French which went right past Jimmy. ‘Do you speak English?'

She shook her head.

‘Non.'

He understood that. She looked along the line of ticket sellers. Then she said something else. It sounded like, sank. It meant nothing to Jimmy. She said something again, slowly. Gee-shay sank. It sounded a bit Oriental. Jimmy shook his head. She said the same word again a couple of times and held up five fingers then pointed to her left.

‘Five? What, window five?'

‘Oui.' Then she said slowly, as if to a backward child. ‘Guichet cinque. English there.'

Jimmy understood.

‘Thanks.' He left the window and joined the queue at window five. Eventually it was his turn. The man behind the glass was young. Jimmy hoped his English was good.

‘Do you speak English?'

‘Yes.'

‘I want to go to Spain.'

‘Don't we all? Whereabouts in Spain?'

‘Santander, and I'm in a hurry. How long would it take by train?'

‘You would be best taking the TGV. The next one leaves at –' He checked a screen. ‘– eleven twenty-five. You arrive in Irun at sixteen fifty-five.' He looked back at Jimmy. ‘From Irun you would catch a Spanish train.'

‘So altogether how long?'

‘It would depend on the time from Irun to Santander. I don't know whether there is a direct connection or not. For that information you would need to go to the International Enquiries desk.'

‘Make a guess.' The young man gave a shrug and spread his hands, the universal Gallic gesture that said he wasn't even going to try. Jimmy needed some idea of how long it would take. ‘It's important, a police matter.'

That brought the young man back into things.

‘A police matter?'

‘I have been told a friend has been badly injured and the police need to talk to me. Like I said, I need to get to Santander the fastest way I can. Would it be quicker if I took a plane?'

‘It could be. It would depend on when a suitable flight was available.'

Jimmy decided to pack it in. This wasn't getting him anywhere.

‘How long would it take to get to the airport?'

‘Which one?'

‘Oh, Christ. How many are there?'

‘Two. Charles de Gaulle and Orly.'

‘Which would be better for Santander?'

The shrug came again, he was SNCF, not Air France.

‘Which is closer if I go by taxi?'

The young man had to think.

‘I'm not sure, but by taxi, maybe Orly.'

‘Thanks. Where are the taxis?'

The young man pointed and Jimmy saw the sign. He left the window and headed for the taxi rank. Getting to Santander by train sounded too slow. George had a start on him now. But he thought Jimmy was headed for Gibraltar and taking his time so maybe he wouldn't be in too much of a hurry. Jimmy had to beat him to the punch which meant taking a chance on the airport. He came to the taxis and got in the first one.

‘Orly airport. I'm in a hurry'

The driver nodded and seemed to understand. The taxi pulled away. The Paris traffic was busy but the driver was either mad, or clever, or both and they made good time clearing the city.

Just under thirty minutes later the taxi pulled up at the drop-off area, Jimmy paid it off and went in. He went to the nearest departure board. There was nothing anywhere near Santander. It was mostly French destinations. The Terminal building, what he had noticed of it, was not so very big by international airport standards and it began to look to him as if he had chosen the wrong airport. He looked at his watch, just after eleven. He looked at the board again. There was an Iberia flight to Madrid due off in six minutes. Sod it. From Madrid he could have got to Santander or Bilbao. As he looked down the list of destinations the Madrid flight disappeared from the screen. The remaining departures times went as far as 13.16 but there was nothing that might help him so he found a seat and sat down and watched the departure board.

Flights disappeared from the board and flights got added but nothing came that was any good to him. He waited. Then another Iberia flight to Madrid appeared at the bottom of the list. 14.45. Jimmy got up and walked along the Concourse until he found the Iberia ticket desk.

‘Do you speak English?'

‘Yes.'

‘I want to go to Santander. If I catch the 14.45 to Madrid and get a connection what time would I get in?'

‘The young woman consulted her screen.

‘There is a connection at Madrid for Santander which will get you there by 18.45.'

‘I'll take it.'

Jimmy pulled out his wallet and the young woman began processing his ticket. When it was sorted he went through the security check and into the Departures lounge. He looked at his watch again. If his flight left on time it would go in just over two hours. Maybe he would have done better at Charles de Gaulle but even going through Madrid he would probably still get to Santander faster than if he had gone by train. Had he made the right decision? Then he let it drop. Right or wrong, he'd made his decision and he was going by plane. He went to one of the bars and bought himself a beer, found a table, sat down, and began his wait. He should eat, he knew he should get some food inside him but he wasn't hungry so he settled for beer. How quickly would George get going? Jimmy took a drink. Was he still ahead or was he back to being the one playing catch-up? It was an interesting question but one there'd be no answer to until he got to Santander. So he drank his beer and waited.

Chapter Thirty

It was half-past ten and the pub was empty except for a girl behind the bar getting everything ready for opening time. George was sitting at his table by the
Staff Only
door, opposite him was Rosa. She put down her tea and looked at him.

‘You're a mess, you know that?'

George knew it. His nose, what wasn't covered by a plaster, was red; his right eye had taken on a shade of deep purple and there was a plaster stretched over it. The right side of his bottom lip was swollen, giving his mouth a sulky look.

‘Never mind what I look like.' George took a careful sip of his tea. ‘It's you we're talking about. I had you alongside Costello to see where he'd to go with this thing. Somehow you fucked up and that set him running.' Rosa didn't bother to disagree. George wasn't in the mood for a debate. ‘But I'm still ahead of the bastard. He's after the last bit, the property firm in Gibraltar, and when he gets that he'll have pretty much all of the Spanish end. But that's all he's got and most important, he hasn't got me. He thinks I'm here dealing for him so he's taking his time which means I can clean up here before anybody comes looking.'

‘What happens when he gets the Gibraltar information?'

‘What do you think?'

‘I think you get closed down and your wallet takes a beating.'

‘Maybe. But I haven't set all this up for some ex-copper to walk in and blow it away.'

‘You said it was this Harry bloke in Spain Jimmy wanted taken down. Why not let him do that? It's not a bad idea, the one he came up with. Lose Mercer and Henderson and let the police think it's all over, then put in someone new and start again somewhere else. Jimmy was right, with Jarvis dead Mercer's lost his cover as a writer. With no books you don't need any publisher so you don't really need Henderson. Any half-decent accountant could run the money end once you'd set up another company.'

George ignored her, he'd been wrestling with the problem of finding the best way to deal with the situation ever since he'd left Ebbsfleet. Rosa's suggestion that he fall in with Jimmy's plan made sense to her because she knew a lot about the Spanish operation, she had to, but that was all she knew about. George knew the whole picture. He wasn't so worried about one poxy little porn operation. What concerned him was the Gibraltar company. It was linked to other companies and a lot more than porn money went through it, not only for George but for a lot of his business associates. Let Costello give Iberian Holdings to the police and too many things might start to unravel. Jimmy's idea was good enough in its own way, but only if he had time to separate out what he wanted to keep from Iberian Holdings and what he'd have to let go to satisfy the Spanish police. That would take some time and it wouldn't be straightforward. Could he isolate everything connected with Mercer and Henderson in the Gibraltar company quickly enough and leave no loose ends? He had no problem with letting the police have Harry. Harry had made a mess of things. He was getting too old and sloppy. For God's sake, he'd even managed to kill a woman police inspector when he'd been told to try for Costello himself, which meant the Spanish police wouldn't cut a deal, not with someone who'd put two bullets into one of their own. That was a nuisance. If Harry was sure he was going down he might give them George as the man who ordered the shooting and try for a reduction in sentence. It wasn't a big problem, Harry couldn't give them anything that would nail him, but he needed to be free of police interest while he sorted out Iberian Holdings. The company was in Harry's and Henderson's names but Harry didn't know that. When business required it, George had all the necessary documents to prove that he was Harold Reginald Mercer.

Rosa pushed her teacup away. It was finished.

‘What about the property firm? Does it give Costello what he wants to clinch everything?' George nodded. ‘Is it in Mercer and Henderson's names?'

An idea was forming in George's head.

‘Just Henderson's.'

‘You know, I think it was a mistake.'

‘What was?'

‘You shouldn't have sent Mercer after Costello.'

‘Never mind that.' George had made up his mind. There wasn't enough time to sort out the company. Costello had to be stopped. ‘The point is we're ahead of him.'

‘So, what happens now? You send a couple of goons to Gibraltar to wait for him and then do the job?'

George looked at her. She hadn't looked like a reporter when he'd first met her and she didn't look like a killer now, but she'd done an OK job until she'd screwed up. But that was probably more down to Jimmy being clever rather than her being stupid. Maybe she could make up for it by doing another little errand. He thought about it. He didn't have a whole lot of choices.

‘No. There's too many people involved already. Jimmy has to be taken care of, but there's another person I need seeing to before I get round to him and I want it done in-house, so to speak.'

Rosa knew what he was saying and she didn't like it.

‘Fuck that. I told you I don't –'

But George still wasn't in a mood to have a debate about anything.

‘Shut it. You came to me, girl, I didn't come to you. I asked for talent, and someone whose judgement I respect recommended you.' George sat back and gave her the best he could manage of a smile. ‘You want to be up there don't you, in among the fast money, in among the real action, among the real movers and shakers? A fancy degree and all the ambition in the fucking world but you don't have any patience. You want it all and you want it now. Fine, I can respect that. You've got brains,' the smile went and George lent forward, ‘but have you got bottle? Without bottle you're just another wishful thinker waiting to be a fucking casualty, someone who wanted it all but couldn't get it up when the blood started to flow.' He could see he'd made his point. ‘If I say I need someone fucking dead all I want to hear from you is who, where, and when? You know quite a bit about me now and you know what's going on. That means you're in and the only way out is somebody finding your body one day and trying to identify what's left by your DNA or your fucking dental work. You know I can make it happen.' George sat back and tried the smile again.  ‘It's your choice, girly; you dead, or the one I want dead, dead. Take your time.'

Rosa looked at her empty tea cup. She wished she drank. She felt she needed something stronger than tea.

‘Get me a drink, not tea.'

George made a gesture to the bar and the girl came over to their table and waited.

‘What do you want?'

‘You decide. You're the big thinker this morning.'

George turned to the girl.

‘A double Scotch, nothing in it.'

The girl left.

Rosa sat and waited for her drink but there was nothing really to think about. George was right, she wanted it and she had to take it all or not at all, there was no middle way. She'd paid her way in her first year at Cambridge by doing small-time dealing in cannabis, and she'd worked her way up to Class A drugs by the time she graduated. She found she had a talent for it and had become that rare thing, a student who came out of university considerably better off than when she went in. After graduation she made up her mind to join the bad guys and use her talents where they gave her the biggest returns in the shortest time. That meant either working in the City or working with the friends who'd supplied the drugs. Her friends won.

‘I suppose there has to be a first time for everything, doesn't there?'

George's face began to split into a grin but stopped quickly. His fingers went to his swollen lip. He might get away with a smile but it was too soon for anything more.

‘Sensible girl. I want you to go to Santander.'

The whisky arrived. Rosa picked it up and took a sip. It burned her throat but she liked it. It was something powerful. She took another sip. If she was in she might as well be in all the way. What other way was there?

‘And who do I kill there, Henderson?'

George nodded.

‘Good girl. There's only one real trail to follow in this and it's the money. The money leads to Henderson and he really can finger me. Eliminate Henderson and the trail goes cold and gives me time to sort things out. First we lose Henderson and then we'll see to  Jimmy fucking Costello.' He put his hand inside his jacket and pulled out a wallet. ‘Here's some expenses money.' Rosa took it. ‘Go to Harry, tell him I sent you, but don't tell him what's going on at this end. Tell him we're on top of everything here but say Henderson's been in touch with me and I think he's getting ready to blow the whistle and try to save his own neck so I'm getting rid of him. He'll get you a gun. Tell him when and where you'll do it so he can have a solid alibi. Knock over Henderson, ditch the gun and get back here. Finish him off and there'll be five grand waiting for you when you get back.'

Rosa finished what was left in her glass. She felt great.

‘There'd better be.'

And she got up and left.

George watched her go. Graduate fucking villains, what was the world coming to? He hoped she was as good as she thought she was. One thing was certain: she was a slippery customer, too ambitious and too interested in other people's business. He thought about where things stood. If she got Henderson he was pretty much clear, if she missed, well, he wasn't getting any younger. Maybe it was time to retire and find a bit of sunshine and female company. He gently felt the plaster on the cut over his eye. He had never liked violence, and he liked it least when he was on the receiving end. Yes, he'd start mothballing things at this end so that when they came looking, if they came looking, there would be nothing that would put him in a court and get a conviction. Careful, that's me, careful and clever. George put his hand in his pocket for his mobile. Then he remembered where it was, and what was probably on it.

‘Shit.'

Suddenly he decided that it wasn't mothballing the company needed, it was closing down. Oh, well, nothing goes on for ever. Then he thought about Rosa. No sense in stopping her now.  Get him if you can, girl, it'll be good practice, but that's all it will be because it looks like you're going to be too late. I think the damage has already been done.