Old Enemies (18 page)

There were two other matters that were vital to Hiley. The first was that the bastard hadn’t rejected his suggestions out of hand. There might be flexibility, and that could go a long way to saving Ruari’s life.

The other point was that Jan hadn’t responded; even in tone there had been neither anger nor interest, no show of cosmetic outrage, nothing more than a flat ‘I’ll get back to you’, like the dull thud of a package being dropped on a conveyor belt. To Hiley’s experienced mind, that meant one thing. Jan wasn’t the main guy, he was a messenger, a hired hand who didn’t have the authority to think for himself. Someone else sat behind him, giving the instructions, and in a subtle yet significant way, the family had just taken a step in his direction. They were getting closer to the truth.

Two young women picked their way along the pavement in the highest of heels, their tailored coats wrapped tightly around their bodies, suggesting considerably more than they hid. Despite the winter weather, both coats finished high up the thigh.

‘Best damned show in town,’ Archer declared, loud enough for the two girls to hear. They giggled, leaning on each other’s arms for support as they disappeared along the crowded street.

Archer was sitting with Will Hiley and Andy Brozic in Jermyn Street at a pavement table outside Franco’s, beneath the protective awning and the red glow of an overhead heater as they watched the world go by. It was a crowded world, filled with Christmas shoppers and those who were still emerging from late lunches. Archer had chosen the location, an old haunt from his police days, a place where confidences could be carried away on the wind rather than shared amongst the nearby tables. Good for business, despite the distractions.

‘They’re not doing very well, are they, the Breslins?’ Archer continued, dragging his attention back to the other men.

‘It’s never easy in these situations,’ Brozic said.

But Archer persisted. ‘They’ve frozen, find it difficult to make decisions. Too busy arguing with each other. You’ve seen how it is between them.’

‘I think even my wife would throw a fit or two in the circumstances, wouldn’t yours?’

‘My wife?’ The question seemed to take Archer by surprise. ‘Married thirty-two years. Like an ocean liner, she is, ploughs through it all.’ It didn’t sound like much of a compliment.

A waiter arrived bearing a bottle and three glasses. Archer tried the wine, a deep, lustrous Sassicia, burying his nose in it a little theatrically before nodding in approval. ‘I ordered something red – not a moment for champagne, I thought. Maybe later, when this is all done and dusted, I hope? In the meantime, let’s imagine we’re in Tuscany, it’s July, the women have slipped into their shortest skirts and we’re just getting started.’

‘Not that we’ve got much to get started with,’ Brozic ventured as he sipped the wine, discovering it was considerably better than he’d expected. ‘The Swiss have given us bugger all, apart from bodies and excuses. Not that they’ve got a hell of a lot to go on.’

‘That’s why I think we should pursue the Italian connection,’ Hiley said.

Archer was shaking his head. ‘Probably a wild-goose chase,’ he muttered, ‘and even if it’s not, you know what happens once you get tied down with the Italian police. End up swimming through cold pasta, we’ll lose control of the case completely.’

Control seemed to be important to Archer, Hiley mused, and that was probably the real reason he didn’t care for the Italian angle. It wasn’t his, he didn’t own it, it had come from Harry Jones and Jones was clearly not wanted on this voyage. A pity, Hiley thought. ‘So what is it you suggest we do, Brian?’

‘I tell you what we do,’ Archer said, sniffing into his wine. ‘We have a word with my old mates at the Yard.’

‘But the Breslins have explicitly told us not to do that. No police.’

‘Sometimes, Will, you have to think for your client.’

‘Even so . . .’

‘A quiet word with my old colleagues in the Kidnap Unit. Meet them for a coffee or a curry, somewhere outside the office. I put to them a situation about a boy in Switzerland who’s gone missing – an entirely hypothetical situation, of course. They know how to play this game. Encourage them to put a few ferrets down holes, see if any rabbits pop up. Nothing on the record.’ He leaned forward as if he were about to share a confidence. ‘Scotland Yard was my bailiwick for over twenty years. I know everyone, how it works, how to get results. I’ve got good friends there, friends who owe me, you understand? They’ll do the rest.’

There was a point to Archer’s invitation and this conversation, but Brozic wasn’t yet sure what it was. ‘Why are you telling us this, Brian? You know we can’t disobey a direct instruction from a client.’

‘I’m not asking you to do anything, Andy. I’ll do all the work, share any results with you. I want to move things along. This is all about teamwork and I’m really enjoying being alongside you guys, you know. We might do more of it in the future, perhaps.’

‘For Mr Breslin, you mean?’

‘No, I doubt that. He and the newspaper are going through some choppy water right now, who knows where things will be once this is all over? Anyway, the newspaper’s not the end of my ambition. I reckon there’s more to life than prowling around checking up on who stole a box of pencils from the stationery cupboard. I may want to move on after this, spread my wings a bit.’

Ah, so that was the purpose of it all. The invitation. The booze. Archer wanted out, to jump ship, climb on board theirs. Brozic was just about to take up the point when Archer’s phone came to life. He’d left it prominently on the table, next to his glass, now it lit up with a text message. His features creased in concentration. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, gentlemen,’ he declared, ‘but duty calls.’ And already he was rising from his chair, offering his farewells. ‘But please enjoy the rest of the bottle. Be a shame to waste the stuff. In fact, as I’m in a bit of a rush, would you mind taking care of the bill? Bloody cheek, I know, but you’ll put it back through to us on expenses, of course, with a suitable mark up. What is it nowadays, fifty per cent?’ He laughed, yet the smile quickly faded to an earnest frown. ‘Take my advice, though. Get your bills in early. I may be speaking out of turn but . . . amongst friends. The weather forecast’s full of clouds for J.J., no matter how this little episode ends. Wouldn’t want it to rain on all your good work.’ He shook their hands, a little fiercely, and departed. At the corner of St James’s Street, he stopped to greet a considerably younger woman. He gave her a lingering kiss on the cheek; a few whispers later and they had disappeared around the corner.

The two security men watched him go. ‘So tell me, Will, what do you think of that one?’ Brozic asked.

‘Our Mr Archer?’ Hiley savoured a mouthful of wine, deciding it was more than big enough for him to leave the settlement of the bill to his boss. ‘Fifty per cent? The man’s hopelessly out of date.’ He swirled the remnants around his glass. ‘And a touch confused about his loyalties, too, I’d say.’

‘Think we can use him on board?’

‘Him?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I get enough shit from you.’

‘Remind me to fire you for insolence some time.’

‘Yes, sir.’

They went back to the bottle, and to the passing sights of Jermyn Street.

Early December. Darkness descended by around 4 p.m. that close to Christmas, and although the early night undoubtedly helped the matter, Harry afterwards concluded it wouldn’t have made the slightest difference if it had been broad summer. They were going to get him anyway.

He had just walked into his mews on his way home to change into his dinner jacket – he was due at a charity fundraiser. Like many London backstreets his mews had been built for housing stable hands and horses and had a surprising variety of entrances and doorways off it that once led to hovels rather than the up-market urban hideaways that had replaced them, and it was from one of these doorways that three men emerged to block his path. They stood, two on the pavement and the third occupying the gutter, thrown into silhouette by a distant street lamp. The lighting in this area was obscure, practically Victorian, and although it gave a vivid atmosphere, Harry concluded that one day it really would have to be brought up to date. He deserved to see who was about to mug him.

They took a couple of steps towards him. Harry was confident he could take two of them down, and he reckoned he had a good chance even with the third, except these weren’t young yobs or addicts looking for a short route to their next fix. As they separated and surrounded him, he realized it wasn’t likely to be a fair fight. This was no chance encounter. Two of them were carrying baseball bats.

‘Evening, lads,’ he began, hoping he might talk them round, before the breath was ripped from his body by a mighty blow to the kidneys. He fell forwards, gasping, into the arms of one of them, before a knee in his groin brought brilliant light to this dark corner of London, but only inside his head. The pain shot like a bolt of lightning from his bollocks through every synapse in his body and tried to push his stomach and all its contents out through his throat. During it all, not a word was said. More blows rained down until Harry was on his back, his head bouncing off a cast-iron basement grille. He knew from their silence and the highly effective manner in which they were beating the shit out of him that these men were professionals. This wasn’t a chance encounter.

Harry was no stranger to pain. Many years of practice had enabled him to compartmentalize it, not so that it didn’t hurt, you couldn’t stop pain hurting, but so that he could still keep thinking even while the rest of him felt as if he were taking a bath in acid. The pain might confuse but it didn’t consume. That was the theory, at least. He thought he could see the moon, although it might have been that distant street lamp, and he thought he could hear the cries of disturbed seagulls, but perhaps they were only his own cries. As he struggled with them on the pavement, he found he had a man either side of him, pinning his arms, and they were forcing his right leg to double up so that his knee was near his chin. He wasn’t sure what they intended but knew it would be unpleasant, so he tried to twist himself free. They were stronger than he was, but his timing was such that when the baseball bat came down and smashed into his leg, it hit not directly on the knee but a few inches below. It was a blow of immense force, one that for the moment was beyond pain and left him feeling numb. That was when he knew the real point of danger had arrived, because all his experience – of being shot, of being frozen, of being drowned – told him that it was when a man went numb that he died. Better to be screaming in agony; men who were screaming were still drawing breath. But now his body felt as though it no longer belonged to him, he was drifting away, helpless. He was only vaguely aware that his deadened leg was being repositioned – they wanted another go at busting his knee – God, they intended to cripple him. He could see the baseball bat raised high once more, ready to strike the blow, when he thought he heard a scream. Not his own scream but that of a woman, which for an instant seemed to distract his attackers, and he wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t twist and wriggle once more, grabbing the basement grille to help him roll on his side, protecting his knee. Another scream rang out, and now it was joined by a man’s shout, too; this private quarrel was in danger of rapidly becoming a public spectacle. It wasn’t running to plan any more. As Harry curled up, like a foetus in a bloodied womb, he felt a boot smash into the base of his spine, but then they were gone, disappearing like will-o’-the-wisps back into the swamp from which they’d come.