False Friends (17 page)

‘I’l love you and leave you,’ said Plant. He finished his coffee and stood up. ‘Thought I might swing by the Heath for old times’ sake.’

‘Bloody hel , Damien, be careful.’

Plant winked. ‘Not to worry, I’m loaded up with fake ID.’

‘I meant gay-bashers. It stil goes on, you know.’

Plant grinned. ‘I’m just off the close-combat course and there’re a few new tricks that I’m dying to try out.’

Shepherd opened the door for him. ‘Why would they send a dresser on the close-combat course?’

‘Have you been to the Harrods January sales?’ said Plant. ‘Middle-aged women with fur coats and umbrel as are bloody lethal.’ He laughed and headed down the stairs.

The black cab turned into Russel Square and joined a queue of cars and coaches heading towards the Royal National Hotel, a massive nondescript concrete building that looked more like an office block than a hotel. ‘I’m not happy about this, Razor,’ said Shepherd.

‘What, because it’s got only three stars?’

‘No, because there’re going to be more than four hundred people here including a fair sprinkling of south London vil ains, any one of whom might know you or me.’

‘Hargrove has checked the guest list, right?’

‘Yeah, but most of the tables are in one name. I tel you, this could al turn to shit very quickly if someone recognises us.’

‘We could always grab a pair of gloves and sort it out in the ring,’ joked Sharpe.

‘Why am I the only one worried here?’

Sharpe patted Shepherd’s knee. ‘Because every day of our lives we run the risk of coming across someone who might recognise us. It can happen in the street, at a footbal match, at a restaurant. If you start worrying about it then you’l end up a basket case. What happens, happens.

Que sera, sera
.’

‘Bloody hel , Razor, when did you go al Buddhist on me?’

The taxi pul ed up in front of the hotel and Sharpe reached for the door handle. ‘If it happens, we’l deal with it,’ he said. ‘You can pay for the cab, right? You get better expenses than me and, as you love to point out, I’m not getting overtime.’ He got out of the taxi as Shepherd handed the driver a twenty-pound note. Shepherd told the driver to keep the change and asked for a receipt, then joined Sharpe on the pavement. To their right was a pub with more than two dozen men standing around drinking and smoking. Like Shepherd they were wearing lounge suits and ties but there was plenty of bling on show as wel , expensive watches, gold chains and diamond rings. Shepherd scanned faces as the cab drove off but he didn’t see anyone he recognised. A coach began disgorging its load of Chinese tourists, led by a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit holding a red flag above his head.

The reception area of the hotel was gloomy and despite the fact that it was almost eight o’clock there was a long line of guests waiting to check in. The Chinese tourists filed in, chattering excitedly.

‘I hope it’s boxing and not that kung fu bol ocks,’ growled Sharpe.

A printed sign with an arrow pointing to the left showed them the way to the boxing. They went down a wood-panel ed corridor to a large room with a bar packed with a couple of hundred men. Half a dozen bar staff in black T-shirts were working hard to keep up with the orders, with most of the drinkers paying with fifty-pound notes. Shepherd scanned faces again. His memory was near-photographic and he didn’t see anyone that he’d ever met but he recognised at least twenty criminals whose records he’d seen and one face that the Met were looking for in connection with a Securicor van robbery two years earlier.

To the left of the room was a seating plan on an easel. They went over to it and found Kettering’s table. It was number 21, close to the ring and just behind the judges’ table.

‘Drink?’ asked Sharpe, nodding at the bar.

Shepherd looked at his watch. ‘Let’s get to the table,’ he said.

They weaved their way through the bar to the entrance of the main hal . A boxing ring had been erected in the centre of the room underneath a massive dome-shaped chandelier. A long table had been erected on a podium against the far wal giving the organisers and VIP guests a clear view of the ring. There were another thirty tables around the ring, each seating a dozen people. Most of the tables were empty and a few Indian waiters were making last-minute adjustments to the cutlery and glasses.

‘Remind me again who I am?’ said Sharpe.

‘Don’t be a tosser al your life,’ said Shepherd. ‘Come on, let’s sit down. Might as wel get ourselves a good view of the door.’

They were both using legends that they’d used before. Sharpe was James Gracie, a Scottish criminal who’d served time for armed robbery in the eighties before moving out to the Costa del Sol, from where he ran his arms business. The legend was rock-solid and even a check on the Police National Computer would come up with Gracie’s record. He’d used it several times over the years.

Shepherd sat down at the table, choosing a seat that al owed him a clear view of the entrance. Sharpe sat a few seats away so that he was directly facing the ring.

There were unopened bottles of red and white wine on the table. Sharpe reached for one and sneered at the label. ‘Cheap plonk. Fancy champagne?’

‘Let’s wait until the guys get here,’ said Shepherd. ‘We can make a show of it.’

Guests were moving into the hal and taking their places. A group headed for the VIP table, including a large black man wearing a floppy pink hat and what appeared to be a black mink coat, and a good-looking black man with a greying moustache, dressed in a sharp suit.

‘That’s John Conteh, isn’t it?’ said Sharpe, nodding at the man with the moustache.

‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. ‘What is he, sixty? I hope I look that good when I’m sixty.’

‘Do you think he runs marathons with a rucksack of bricks on his back?’

‘I don’t run marathons, you soft bastard.’

The VIP table began to fil up. Sitting next to Conteh was a sharp-faced man in a beige suit. He was talking animatedly to the heavyweight boxer and demonstrating an uppercut to the chin. Like most of the guests on the top table his head was shaved.

Four stunningly pretty black girls, as tal and wil owy as supermodels, walked to one table fol owed by four heavyset men in Italian suits. Shepherd recognised one of the men; he was a wel -known drug dealer based in Beckenham, south London. He looked over at Sharpe to see if he’d spotted him and Sharpe nodded.

‘Problem?’ asked Sharpe.

Shepherd shook his head. He’d worked on a case involving the drug dealer but had never met him. Shepherd saw Kettering and Thompson at the doorway but kept his face blank. Edwards and Gracie had never met the two men so they had to wait until they’d been introduced. ‘Here we go,’

he whispered to Sharpe. Then in a louder voice he began tel ing Sharpe a joke about a one-legged safecracker. He stopped when Kettering and Thompson arrived at their table.

Kettering grinned amiably. ‘You James and Garry?’ he said.

Shepherd stood up. ‘I’m Garry,’ he said, and held out his hand. Kettering shook it. He had a firm grip and Shepherd squeezed back hard.

‘Simon,’ Kettering said. He shook hands with Sharpe, and then introduced Thompson. ‘This is Paul.’ Thompson shook hands with them both and then they took their seats. Kettering sat on Shepherd’s left and Thompson sat between Shepherd and Sharpe. ‘Wel , Ian speaks very highly of you two.’ Ian Parton was the cover name that Fenby was using.

‘Yeah, he’s a riot is Ian,’ said Shepherd. ‘He’s not here?’

‘Nah, don’t think he’s much of a boxing fan,’ said Kettering. ‘Footbal ’s his game.’ He winked at Shepherd. ‘You a boxing fan, Garry?’

‘I like a good punch-up,’ said Shepherd. He nodded at Sharpe. ‘James is the pugilist. That accounts for his battered face.’

Sharpe laughed. ‘Yeah, I boxed a bit when I was a kid,’ he said. ‘What brings you down to the Big Smoke?’ he asked Thompson.

‘We’ve got a couple of fighters here,’ said Thompson. ‘We support a youth club in Birmingham and Harry was looking for some fighters who weren’t local so we said we’d bring our boys down.’

‘Harry?’ said Shepherd.

‘Harry’s organised tonight,’ Thompson said. ‘It’s a fundraiser for his club. Next time we have a fundraiser in Birmingham he’l repay the favour.’

More people were arriving and the room was echoing with conversation and laughter. The guests were mainly men and the few women who were there looked as if they could wel be charging by the hour.

Sharpe waved a waiter over. ‘Get me a bottle of Bol inger, wil you?’ he said. He pointed at the bottles of wine on the table. ‘I can’t drink this crap.’

Kettering saw what he was doing. ‘What’s the problem, James?’

‘No problem,’ said Sharpe. ‘Just fancy a drop of bubbly. I’l pay for it.’

‘You bloody won’t,’ said Kettering. ‘Tonight’s on me.’ He pointed a finger at the waiter. ‘What champagne have you got? Got any Cristal?’

‘Bol inger and Moët,’ said the waiter.

‘Two bottles of Bol inger,’ said Kettering. ‘And the bil comes to me, right?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the waiter, and he headed for the bar.

Two men appeared at their table. Big men with weightlifters’ forearms and bulging necks that suggested years of steroid use. Kettering stood up, walked round the table and hugged them both, then introduced them to Shepherd and Sharpe. ‘Terry and Tony,’ he said. The two men sat down and started chatting to Thompson.

‘They’re brothers,’ Kettering said to Shepherd. ‘Kickboxing champions, both of them.’

‘Who else is on our table?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Couple of pals of Harry’s, and three or four of my mates, assuming they can make it,’ said Kettering. ‘Don’t worry, you’re among friends.’

‘I’m not worried,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m just not sure it’s the most secure place for a meeting.’

Kettering laughed. ‘We’re just here to watch some boxing and have a bite to eat,’ he said. He leaned towards Shepherd, so close that Shepherd could smel the man’s aftershave, sweet with the scent of lime. ‘The thing is, Garry, we need to trust each other. Am I right? You don’t know us and we don’t know you but this way we get to feel each other out. See how the land lies.’

‘Point taken,’ said Shepherd. ‘But I hope at some point we can talk business.’

Kettering nodded enthusiastical y. ‘You can count on it,’ he said.

The waiter returned with two bottles of champagne in individual ice buckets. He was fol owed by another waiter who was carrying a tray of champagne flutes. The first waiter popped the cork of one of the bottles while his col eague placed the glasses on the table. Two more men arrived at the table: one, obese, in a dark-blue suit, his hands festooned with gold rings, the other tal and thin with a shaved head and a large diamond stud in one ear. Kettering introduced them to everyone else at the table. The fat man was Davie, a scrap-metal merchant; the thin man was Ricky, a property developer.

Once al their glasses were fil ed, Kettering clinked his against Shepherd’s. ‘Here’s to swimming with bow-legged women,’ he said.

Shepherd sipped his champagne and smacked his lips appreciatively, even though he didn’t real y like the taste. ‘I love a drop of bubbly,’ he said.

‘Big fan of Cristal, myself,’ said Kettering.

‘Yeah, you can’t beat Cristal,’ said Shepherd. He raised his glass to Sharpe. ‘Me and James, we knocked back half a case one night, remember?’

‘I remember the bloody hangover, that’s about al ,’ laughed Sharpe. He leaned over and clinked his glass against Shepherd’s.

‘Then it couldn’t have been Cristal because you never get a hangover from Cristal,’ said Kettering. ‘You get what you pay for.’ He touched his glass against Shepherd’s again. ‘Anyway, great to final y meet you. Ian tel s me good things.’

‘I hope he’s not told you too much,’ said Shepherd. ‘Wouldn’t want my name being taken in vain in Brummie-land.’

The doors to the kitchen burst open and a dozen waiters filed out carrying trays. The first course was a prawn cocktail served in stainless-steel bowls, fol owed by roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, roast potatoes and vegetables. Kettering made smal talk with Shepherd while they ate.

As the plates were being taken away, Kettering ordered another two bottles of champagne, then he patted Shepherd on the arm. ‘You smoke, Garry?’

‘Not real y,’ said Shepherd.

Kettering slid a brown leather cigar case from his jacket pocket. ‘I’ve got some nice Cubans.’

‘I’l take a cigar, yeah,’ said Shepherd.

‘Come on, then. Let’s give dessert a swerve and we’l have a chat outside.’ He stood up and gestured with his chin at Thompson. Shepherd caught Sharpe’s eye and nodded at the door and the four men threaded their way through the tables to the doorway. They headed along the corridor and over to the pub. ‘Hey, Paul, get us some brandies,’ said Kettering. ‘The good stuff.’

Thompson went inside the pub while Kettering handed cigars to Shepherd and Sharpe and then lit them with matches. The three men blew smoke up at the stars.

‘So, Ian says you’re the go-to guys,’ said Kettering.

Shepherd leaned towards Kettering and lowered his voice. ‘What is it you want?’

Kettering looked around, then bent his head towards Shepherd. ‘AK-47s. Can you get them?’

‘I can get you anything, mate. The question is, have you got the money?’

‘We’ve got money,’ said Kettering. ‘Money isn’t a problem. So what would an AK-47 cost?’

‘Depends on how many you want,’ said Shepherd.

Kettering shrugged. ‘Forty?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Forty AK-47s? What are you planning, a war?’ He continued to laugh but his mind was racing because Kettering had caught him by surprise. He had been expecting the man to want to buy two or three, or maybe half a dozen. But forty was a total y different bal game. As he laughed he looked over at Sharpe and could see that his partner’s eyes had also hardened with the realisation that their investigation had moved up to a whole new level.

‘Can you get us forty or not?’ asked Kettering.