Nothing but Trouble (11 page)

When he turned, he saw that James was standing very still with his shoulders slumped. His jaw was slack, his mouth wide enough
to catch flies.

‘I didn’t have any choice,’ Stagg said.

‘You could have just kicked him out. You didn’t have to …’

Stagg gave a shrug. ‘Yeah, I could have – but what kind of lesson would that have been? By this time next week he’d have been
back again with half the scumbag dealers in London in his wake. You let them think you’re a soft touch and that’s just the
beginning. Before you know it, the big boys will have moved in and this place will be swimming in gear. Is that what you want?’

James shook his head. ‘No, but—’

‘But nothing,’ Stagg insisted firmly. ‘This is the only language
these bastards understand.’ In fact the club was already swimming in gear, but it was
his
gear and nobody else’s – his coke, his E, his dope, his crack. The profits were his and he intended to keep it that way.

‘What if he goes to the law?’ James said anxiously, already baulking at the prospect of his licence being taken away. ‘He
could do you for assault.’

Stagg brushed down his suit whilst mentally raising his eyes to the ceiling. James Harley-Cunningham, his business partner,
moved in the blue-blooded circles of London and the Home Counties. He was a nice enough guy, but about as streetwise as a
pedigree poodle. ‘Yeah, and what exactly is he going to tell them? That he was just dealing a little bit of the white stuff
and along came the big bad man and beat the shit out of him? Hardly likely, is it? Nah, you don’t have to worry, mate. He’ll
crawl back under whatever stone he came from. We won’t be seeing him or hearing from him again.’

‘You think?’

‘I’m sure.’

As if he’d been temporarily paralysed, James finally began to move again, shifting restlessly from one Gucci-clad foot to
the other. He stuck his hands deep in the pockets of his tailored jacket and pursed his lips. Stagg looked over at him, aware
from his stance and from the expression on his face that he was still shocked by what he’d witnessed. It was unfortunate that
he’d walked in when he had. Next time Stagg would remember to lock the door.

‘You all right, mate?’

James gave a nod, but his eyes told a different story.

Stagg felt irritated by the younger man’s ignorance of the realities of the club world, but he was simultaneously aware that
it was this naivety that enabled him to make a packet on the side. The legitimate end of the business brought in good profits,
but
they were split straight down the middle. It was the lucrative extras, the junk, the dope, the white stuff, that really swelled
the coffers of his personal bank account. He had this side running like a well-oiled machine, and the last thing he needed
was a spanner in the works.

‘Look,’ he said, walking over and laying a hand genially on James’s shoulder. ‘No one likes this kind of thing. It’s ugly.
It’s nasty. But it has to be done. You do see that, don’t you? There are plenty of firms out there who’d like a piece of Selene’s.
You either stamp on it now, or you sit back and watch until we’re drowning in the shit. At that point there’ll be no going
back, word will get around and we’ll end up with the law on our backs.’

‘I suppose,’ James said dubiously.

Stagg squeezed his shoulder. ‘Believe me, it’s a fact. This way we send out a clear message and we keep control.’

James managed a tentative smile. ‘I just don’t like—’

‘I know, I know. I don’t like it either. But it’s over now. Finished. You don’t need to stress about it. You just do what
you do best – keeping the punters entertained – and I’ll sort out the rest.’

James opened his mouth as if about to say something, but swiftly closed it again.

‘Good man,’ Stagg said, patting him on the back.

Together they left the storeroom and walked silently along the corridor. They parted at the corner, James heading in the direction
of the music and the main area of the club, Stagg pausing for a moment to watch him. He frowned as his partner strode quickly
away, hoping that he’d done enough to smooth things over. He didn’t need Harley-Cunningham taking the moral high ground or
poking his nose into things that didn’t concern him.

After a while Stagg moved off too. He unlocked the door to his office, went through to the private bathroom and took a
slash. As he was washing his hands, he peered at his face in the mirror. Yeah, not a mark on him. Looking good. In fact, better
than good. He might be forty-seven, but he could pass for ten years younger. And when push came to shove, he was still fit
enough and strong enough to get the better of any dirty little scrote who trespassed on his territory.

Stagg dried his hands and went back to the office. There he poured himself a large brandy before sitting down behind the wide
glass desk. He lit a cigarette and inhaled the smoke, the act made ten times more enjoyable by the knowledge that it was illegal
to smoke on the premises. Well, the law could go fuck itself! It was his office and he’d do what he damn well liked.

He picked up the phone, hesitated for a second and then punched in the number. It was answered after a couple of rings. ‘It’s
me,’ he said. ‘You okay?’

‘What are you doing? I told you not to call.’

Stagg swept his sleek fair hair back from his forehead. ‘Sorry, babe. I was worried about you.’

‘And you’ll have good reason if he catches me talking to you.’

From the other end of the line he heard the sudden click of a door closing and then the tapping of heels on a wooden floor.

‘Just tell me you’re all right.’

Her voice softened a fraction. ‘I’m fine. Really, I am.’

‘I want to see you. Can you get away? Can you come to the club?’

‘Are you crazy?’ she said.

‘Yeah, I’m crazy. I’m crazy about you.’

She whispered her reply. ‘Don’t.’

‘Everything’s in place. Just tell me that you haven’t changed your mind, because once the ball starts rolling—’

‘I haven’t,’ she said. ‘Why should I? Look, I have to go. I’ll call you Monday.’

‘Take care of yourself,’ Stagg said. But he was talking into emptiness. She’d already hung up. He replaced the phone in its
cradle and sighed. Sitting back in his chair, he linked his hands behind his head and gazed at the wall. She was trouble,
he knew she was, but that was the appeal: it was what made her so completely irresistible.

At seven o’clock on Sunday morning, Harry’s sleep was abruptly interrupted by a series of loud clattering noises coming from
the floor beneath. Worried that someone was breaking in, he leapt out of bed, pulled on his jeans and a T-shirt and dashed
out of the flat. It was only as he was taking the stairs two at a time that he realised that he hadn’t grabbed anything that
could be used as a weapon – or even thought about picking up his phone. Well, it was too late to do anything about that now.

As he rounded the corner of the stairwell, his heart pumping at the prospect of interrupting a burglary, he came across two
middle-aged men huffing and puffing as they heaved an old metal filing cabinet along the corridor. It took his brain a second
to register that they were taking it
into
the office of Mackenzie, Lind rather than out.

Squeezing past them, he padded along the landing and found Lorna Green standing in the main reception area waving her arms,
barking out orders and conducting what looked like a military operation. ‘Over in the corner. Not there,
there
!
To the left. No, not right up against the wall.’

Lorna was their PA and receptionist, as well as Mac’s other half. She was forty-six, a prettily plump woman with an apple-cheeked
face and shoulder-length wavy fair hair. Usually more the sympathetic than the strident sort, today she was revealing her
inner steel. She stopped mid-orders when she saw Harry, and smiled.

‘Hi’ she said, glancing down at his bare feet. ‘Sorry, we didn’t disturb you, did we?’

He gazed back at her, confused. ‘I thought you were coming on Monday.’

‘That was the original plan, but I told Mac it was a bad idea. We’d never get the van parked outside, not with all the morning
traffic. I mean, we’re supposed to be opening tomorrow and I don’t want to have to spend half the day organising things. No,
it makes more sense to get it done now.’

‘You want a hand with anything?’

Lorna seemed about to make a suggestion when she was distracted by one of the removal men trying to dump a tall potted palm
in an inconvenient or perhaps visually undesirable spot. Quickly she hurried over to take control of the situation.

Harry walked through reception in search of Mac. He found his partner lurking in his new office, standing by the window and
peering down on to the street.

‘Keeping your head down?’

‘I had to cancel my game for this,’ Mac said with a sigh. ‘I don’t see what was wrong with the original arrangements.’

Since being forced to give up his two favourite pursuits – heavy drinking and reckless gambling – Mac had begun playing golf.
It was a game he’d previously viewed with contempt, the pastime of boring bank managers and senior police officers, but he
had now taken it up with enthusiasm. Harry suspected this was more to do with the crafty Scotch at the nineteenth hole than
any real appreciation of the fresh air and exercise.

Mac left the window, pushed his hands into his pockets and perched on the corner of his desk. He was an ex-cop like Harry,
a large man knocking on sixty with wide shoulders and a receding hairline. What was left of his grey hair was shaved close
to his skull.

‘I don’t understand what the rush is. We could have done all this tomorrow.’

Harry knew, despite the grumbling, that Mac and Lorna were tight. If it hadn’t been for her, Mac would have ended up in the
gutter. She’d saved him from himself – or at least from his self-destructive habits – and got his life back on track.

‘Well, if it makes her happy. After all, she’s the one who keeps things running smoothly. Best to let her do it her way.’

Mac shot him a look, as if to suggest that a little more loyalty to the male cause might be in order. ‘You’re not the one
who was dragged out of bed at the crack of dawn.’

‘Not far off,’ he replied, glancing at the clock on the wall. ‘How on earth did she manage to get that lot on the job at this
time of day?’

‘You know Lorna. If she makes up her mind about something, there’s no stopping her.’

‘I need a shower,’ Harry said, ‘and some breakfast. Have you eaten yet?’

‘Good idea,’ Mac said, pulling himself upright. ‘Let’s get out of here. You got any bacon, any eggs?’ He rubbed his hands
together, instantly cheered by the prospect of food. ‘I can throw something together while you take a shower.’

‘There’s eggs, but if you want anything else you’ll have to get it from the newsagent’s. You could grab some milk while you’re
there; I’m sure the removal guys will be expecting a brew before too long.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Mac said.

‘What about Lorna?’

‘She won’t mind. She’ll prefer us out of the way.’

They went back through to the reception area, already half filled with crates and boxes.

‘Ten minutes,’ Mac said to Lorna. ‘Just nipping upstairs to get some fuel. Do you want anything?’

She shook her head, preoccupied by the job in hand. ‘No, I’m fine. I’ll grab a sandwich later.’

‘Okay, I’ll bring you back a coffee.’

But Lorna was no longer listening. Another filing cabinet was being lugged through the door, and it demanded her immediate
attention.

By the time Harry had taken a shower, shaved and got dressed, the pungent smell of frying food was drifting through the flat.
He went into the kitchen, where two hefty portions of sausage, bacon, eggs, mushrooms, fried bread and beans were sitting
on the counter. He stared at the plates.

‘God, Mac, what is this? Some kind of suicide attempt?’

Mac made a huffing noise. ‘There’s nothing wrong with a decent breakfast.’

‘Sorry, my sincere apologies. Thanks very much for clogging up my arteries.’

‘It’s a pleasure. Now stop whining and grab a plate before it goes cold.’

Harry cleared a space on the living room table and they both pulled out chairs and sat down. Mac took a large mouthful of
his food and grunted appreciatively. ‘Ah, you can’t beat a good fry-up.’ He glanced at Harry. ‘Oh, and if Lorna asks, we had
scrambled eggs on toast.’

‘Like she’s going to believe that. She’s not stupid. She’s going to have you on lettuce for the rest of the week.’

Mac was quiet for a while, digging into his breakfast with all the eagerness of a half-starved man. When the plate was almost
cleared, he looked up at Harry and said, ‘So, have you thought any more about what I suggested?’

‘You mean the honeytrap idea?’

‘There’s money in it. Women want to know whether their partners can be trusted or not. We’re missing a trick if we don’t get
on board.’

‘I don’t know,’ Harry said. ‘It still makes me feel uncomfortable. You take some ordinary Joe, a guy who’s basically the faithful
type, he has a few drinks too many, gets propositioned by the sort of girl who wouldn’t normally look twice at him and suddenly
all his judgement flies out of the window.’

‘A cheat’s a cheat. It doesn’t matter what the circumstances are.’

‘Says the man who’s been divorced three times.’

Mac grinned. ‘So I know what I’m talking about.’

‘Yeah, but this honeytrap stuff is just a form of entrapment, isn’t it? That guy could have gone on and been faithful to his
wife until death did them part if he hadn’t been set up.’

‘I don’t see what you’re stressing about,’ Mac said, waving his fork in the air. ‘The woman wants to know if her man’s open
to temptation, half-cut or not. If he does it once, he’ll do it again.’

‘But that’s my point. Maybe he
wouldn’t
have done it, or rather agreed to do it – I’m presuming these girls make their excuses and leave before the serious fumbling
begins – if it hadn’t been presented to him on a plate.’