‘I opened the door and saw it there,’ the old man explained, ‘so I shut it again and called the police.’
Carlyle frowned. ‘And what makes you think it’s a bomb?’
‘They’re all over the place,’ Harry panted, ‘I saw it on the news. There’s a whatdyacallit . . . a terror alert thingy. Bloody nutters trying to blow everything up. Those Al . . . kayeeda folk, they’re everywhere. They should be deported, the lot of them. Send ’em back to where they came from.’
That would be the provinces, then
.
‘You’ve got to stay alert,’ the old man protested. ‘I wouldn’t stand there. You don’t want to get blown to smithereens.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Carlyle took a step backwards and peered at the box. There was some writing on it but he couldn’t make it out.
You really need to get your eyes tested
, he thought, and vowed to make an appointment at his local opticians as soon as possible. Less reluctant to bow to the inevitable than her husband, Helen had been there a few months earlier to get a pair of reading glasses. Now she spent half of her life wandering round the flat trying to find the damn things and accusing him of misplacing them. It drove him mad.
Squatting down, he carefully lifted up the box and brought it closer to his face so that he could make out what it said.
Unbelievable
.
Carlyle did a double-take.
Un-fucking-believable
.
Bursting out laughing, he said, ‘Harry?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Did you order anything from Amazon recently?’
Dino Mottram finished his Suntory Whisky Cappuccino and signalled to a nearby waiter that he would like an espresso. Watching the last of his directors unsteadily leave the in-house private dining facility next to the main restaurant floor of Nobu London on Old Park Lane, he grunted his displeasure. ‘Fitzroy is pissed – again.’
Dropping his napkin on the table, the soon to be ex-Mayor of London Christian Holyrod, watched one of the waiters scuttle over and take the elderly gent by the arm before he had the chance to walk into a broom cupboard. He then let out a small groan of pleasure and patted his ever-expanding stomach. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you did put on an excellent lunch. And not just the wine; the Beef Tenderloin was excellent.’
‘That’s no excuse for over-indulging.’ Mottram shook his silver head sadly. ‘I just hope he doesn’t go back to the office and grope his secretary.’
Holyrod narrowed his eyes against the glare from the skylight atrium. ‘How very 1950s,’ he drawled.
‘I’m not joking,’ Dino said tersely. ‘We had to pay tens of thousands in compensation to the last one when he dropped his trousers in her office and asked for a blow job.’
‘Not ideal.’
‘No. The old bugger claimed he was having some kind of flashback to his days in the Diplomatic Service in Africa. Ridiculous. Anyway, I’ve told the new girl that if he does it again, just to kick him between the legs and run.’
‘Good advice.’
‘I’ll get him pensioned off as soon as I can,’ said Dino. ‘Monty Fitzroy pinpoints exactly why we need fresh blood like you to drag us kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century.’
Christian Holyrod smiled.
‘I am genuinely delighted that we have got you at last.’ The older man gripped him firmly by the arm. ‘The Hero of Helmand residing in the boardroom of Entomophagous Industries – what a coup!’
Holyrod bit his lip. Introduced to Dino Mottram only six weeks earlier, he’d only joined Entomophagous Industries on a whim, largely because of the name. Entomophagy – from the Greek
éntomos
or ‘insect’, and
phăgein
, ‘to eat’ – meaning ‘insect eating’, had tickled his fancy. That, and the six hundred thousand pounds per annum for three days’ work a month. He tried to affect something approaching humility. ‘Helmand . . . that was quite a while ago now.’
Mottram jabbed a meaty finger into the space between them, his green eyes gleaming with passion. ‘It wasn’t that long ago. Anyway, the time doesn’t matter. What matters is that you did it.’
‘I suppose so,’ Holyrod agreed, although it seemed that his Army days were several lifetimes ago.
‘A
Boy
’s
Own
story made flesh,’ Mottram beamed. ‘One of Britain’s best soldiers – and then a stellar political career to boot.’
‘You are too kind,’ said Holyrod, grimacing slightly. The reality was that if his political career had indeed been ‘stellar’, or anything like it, he wouldn’t be here now, touting himself around the business world, looking to earn some proper cash for once in his life. As Mayor, he had been Prime Minister Edgar Carlton’s natural successor. But somehow, despite all the polls, Carlton had scraped a second election win and appeared to have every intention of holding on to the real political power at Number Ten for as long as possible. For Holyrod, well into a second term as Mayor, there was nowhere to go. No one was surprised when he announced that he would not stand for a third term. If, as the saying goes, all political careers end in failure, at least he had avoided failing on the biggest stage. Now, however, he had to earn a living. ‘I’m looking forward to getting started.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Mottram agreed, nodding vigorously.
‘I’m afraid that I don’t really know much about the company and what it does.’
‘Don’t worry about that.’ Mottram gestured towards the door. ‘Half of that lot have been on the board for years and they haven’t got a clue either. The trick is never to admit to your ignorance. You know what they say:
never apologize, never explain
and all that.’
‘Even so, I need to get up to speed with what it is you – we – do.’
Mottram’s espresso appeared and he took a noisy sip. ‘We do lots of things,’ he said airily. ‘Cars, property, natural resources – it’s a real old-fashioned conglomerate. We even own a football club.’
Holyrod made a face. ‘Football’s not really my thing.’
‘You surprise me.’
‘Why?’
‘You know what they say,’ Dino smiled. ‘Sport is really nothing more than war without the shooting.’
‘And what,’ Holyrod said, ‘is the point of that?’
Dino gave him a quizzical look. ‘So you’re really not into sport?’
Holyrod pondered the question for a moment. ‘I’ll watch a bit of rugby now and again, maybe go to Twickenham for the odd international, but I can’t say that I follow football. It is all so totally . . . base.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t make you go to any of the games.’ Dino sighed. ‘We’re not having a great season. Then again, we rarely do. What we do have, though, is Gavin Swann.’
Even the Mayor couldn’t have gone through life without coming across Swann, a regular on the front pages of the tabloids for reasons that had nothing to do with his sporting prowess. ‘Now him,’ Holyrod nodded, eager to show willing to his new boss, ‘I have heard of. More for what he’s got up to off the pitch, though.’
Dino smiled wanly. ‘He seems to have put the gambling and prostitutes behind him and have become a proper family man – or he will be soon. Now all he needs to do is score some goals. Apparently, he has helped sell almost half a million replica shirts in the last couple of years. And when he is not fit enough to play, which is fairly often,
we can always pack him off to Taiwan or Singapore to open another of our themed restaurants.’
‘Do you – we – make any money out of it all?’ Holyrod asked.
‘Some. Not as much as we should. Swann’s agent bleeds us dry. He agreed a new contract less than a year ago and already wants to renegotiate. Every time he does that, he raises the bar for all the others. It’s a never-ending cycle.’
Holyrod frowned. ‘Why don’t you just tell him to get lost?’
‘If only it were that easy. Agents are a real pain in the arse. They contribute to football’s prune-juice effect – the money comes in at the top and goes straight out of the bottom. We manage to grab some of it on the way down, but only a little.’
‘So why not just sell the club?’
Dino smiled ruefully. ‘Two reasons. First, and most important, we’d lose a packet. We paid far too much for the bloody thing in the first place, I’m ashamed to say.’
‘And the second?’
‘The second is that if we hold on long enough, we might
make
a packet. Hope springs eternal.’
That doesn’t seem like much of a plan
, Holyrod thought.
‘People are always saying the bubble is going to burst, but the whole thing just keeps getting bigger and bigger. Compare Gavin Swann with the Queen,’ Dino continued. ‘Twenty-five years ago, the Queen’s Christmas Day speech was watched by twenty-eight million people in the UK. This Christmas she’ll be lucky to get a quarter of that. And the only way for the Royals is down. Even the new lot. Mark my words, in a few years they wouldn’t even be able to get their own reality TV show. We make a few of those as well, by the way.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah. Nothing you’ve ever heard of. Hell, nothing
I’ve
ever heard of. Anyway, as I was saying, as the Royals have fallen, football has risen: more than twenty-three million people in Britain saw Gavin break his foot at the last World Cup –
at two o’clock in the morning!
’ Dino’s eyes misted over. ‘It is a monster that generates unbelievable wealth . . . and we can grab a piece of it.’
We’ll see
, thought Holyrod.
‘It would help if – off the pitch, at least – Gavin were a bit more like David Beckham and a bit less like Diego Maradona.’
‘Mm,’ said Holyrod, not really sure what Dino meant.
‘Anyway,’ Dino continued, ‘it’s probably best not to spend too much time thinking about it all or it will drive you round the bend. In terms of the numbers, sport is only a small part of our Group. There are lots of things in the portfolio that are currently more lucrative – and less likely to make you want to blow your brains out. I’ll arrange some kind of induction.’
‘That would be great.’ Glancing at his watch, Holyrod got to his feet. ‘Thank you for an excellent lunch. Let’s hope we can build on all your good work.’
Dino Mottram showed no sign of wanting to move from where he was. ‘I’m sure,’ he said, looking up at his newest recruit, ‘that we are going to go and do great things together.’
‘Fantastic!’
‘And more importantly,’ Dino added, with a cheeky glint in his eye, ‘make some serious amounts of cash.’
‘Can I touch it?’
‘What?’
‘Is it real?’
Scowling, Sergeant Alison Roche looked down at the boy who had sidled up to her at the Eurostar terminal in London’s St Pancras station. He was a scruffy-looking kid but well dressed; maybe ten or eleven with frizzy hair and a cheeky expression on his face.
‘I am Sidney,’ he told her.
Looking the kid up and down, Roche said nothing. He was wearing a pristine pair of blue and white Adidas sneakers, a pair of baggy stonewashed jeans and a grey T-shirt with a picture of a Dalek on it in red, under the legend
EXTERMINATE
. In his left hand was a half-eaten king-size Mars Bar.
‘That’s my name,’ the boy persisted. His English was precise but with a clear trace of an accent. Presumably, he was French.
Roche cleared her throat. ‘Go away,’ she growled.
Standing his ground, Sidney looked thoughtfully at the Heckler & Koch MP5 in Roche’s hands, waiting for another question to pop into his head. ‘Have you ever fired it?’ he asked finally.
Roche felt an overwhelming urge to give him a hard slap round the back of the head. Instead, she took a deep breath. ‘Bugger off!’
‘Have you?’ Sidney persisted.
‘Of course I’ve fired it, you stupid little sod,’ she hissed. ‘Now clear off.’ Thoroughly exasperated, she scanned the heaving station concourse, looking for any sign of someone who was responsible for
this annoying kid. People were rushing around in all directions – the usual frenetic scene you got at any mainline terminus – but no one seemed to be looking for Sidney.
Bloody parents
, Roche thought with the righteous anger of someone who had never had any offspring of their own.
They shouldn’t be allowed to have children if they can’t look after them
.
Sidney stuck the last of the Mars Bar into his mouth before extending an arm and letting the wrapper flutter to the floor.
Roche gestured angrily at the litter with the toe of her boot. ‘Pick that up!’
Happy to have gotten a rise out of the female copper, the kid grinned, revealing a mouth full of chocolate and caramel. ‘Are you going to arrest me?’ he asked, making no move to pick up his rubbish.
No
, thought Roche,
but a bullet in the foot might encourage you to lose the attitude
. Subconsciously checking that the safety on the Heckler & Koch MP5 was on, she felt her finger tighten around the trigger and realized that she’d been holding her breath. Exhaling at length, she took a step away from the boy.
Get a grip
, she told herself. Shaking out some of the tension in her shoulders, she made a mental note not to recall this little episode the next time she was called for a session with the departmental shrink. Suddenly, she saw a middle-aged woman in a paisley kaftan waddle towards them, a look of concern etched into her face.
About fucking time
.
‘Sidney,’ the woman squawked, ‘
viens ici!
’
‘
Maman
. . .’ the boy sighed, slumping his shoulders in the exasperated fashion of children the world over.
The woman grabbed her child by the arm and pulled him towards her with a force that seemed to Roche somewhat excessive. Catching the mother’s eye, Roche saw a look of horror cross her pudgy face. ‘
Attention, chéri
,’ she whispered theatrically. ‘
Elle est armée
.’
‘I know,’ Sidney said in English. He beamed. ‘It’s cool.’
‘
Tu m’emmerdes à la fin
, Sidney.’ The woman dragged him away, Roche glaring at her as she went. If she didn’t like the son, she
liked the mother even less.
We’re supposed to be here to protect you
, she reflected,
and you look at us like we’re shit
. Bending down, she picked up the discarded Mars Bar wrapper and tossed it on to a nearby café table.