The Murder Exchange (2 page)

'This is an important deal to me. I'll make it
worth your while.' Fowler took another gulp of his
drink while I waited to hear how much 'worth your
while' meant. 'As I said, I want three men. One of
them's going to have to be you. Johnny said I
should insist on you.'

'Oh yeah?'

'Yeah. He said you could keep a cool head.' I
didn't say anything so he continued. 'Five grand. In
cash. That's what I'll pay for you and two of your
best people to come along with me.'

"That's a lot of money.'

'It's a lot less than I'll be getting out of this deal.
I look at it as a worthwhile investment. One other
thing...'

'What?'

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'I need at least one of the people with me, preferably
you, to be carrying.'

I tightened the grip on my glass. 'I don't want to
get involved in anything like that, Mr Fowler.'

Fowler leant forward and I caught a whiff of his
breath. It was a nasty combination of sweet and
sour, like air freshener in a Gents' toilet. 'Look, I
know what you're saying but I'm dealing with
dangerous people here and if one of them does
something stupid, like pulls a gun, I don't want it to
mean the end of my retirement fund. I know your
background so I know it's not something you can't
handle, and it's because of that that I'm paying big
money.'

'Like I told you, I'm not into doing things that are
likely to get me put away, and playing around with
firearms is not conducive to a free and happy life on
the outside.'

'You offer protection, right? You and your
employees guard people who feel threatened.
Right?' I nodded, since he was pretty much on the
ball there. 'Well, I feel threatened, and I want you to
guard me for a period of time of what? - no more
than a couple of hours tops, and for that I'm going
to be paying very serious money. Now I know it's a
risky assignment but it would be for what's on
offer. If I wanted security to go to a council meeting
to protect me in case I got waylaid by angry voters
then it would be worth a lot less, but it isn't.' He
paused to finish his drink. 'But you know as well as
I do that there's virtually no chance anyone's going
to pull anything. It's just not worth it.'

'There are a lot of nutters about these days.'

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Fowler began to look frustrated. 'I need an
answer. Do you want the work or not?'

The thing about life is there's always pressure to
make quick decisions. Most of the time people tend
just to follow their instincts and get by as well
as they can. When they don't follow their instincts,
they tend to make mistakes. Often big ones. And
it's usually to do with money.

'Make it six/ I told him, 'and I'll do it.'

And that, of course, was my mistake.

My job's a straightforward one. I run an organization
that provides security in the form of
bodyguards to various minor celebrities, and the
occasional dodgy businessman with something to
hide, and I've done it for the last five years. Funnily
enough, it tends to be a pretty uneventful business
and none of our people have ever been injured in
the line of duty, which I suppose says as much
about our clientele as it does about us, and which is
just the way I like it. I've had my days of excitement
and adrenalin. They were fun enough while they
lasted but I'm past all that now.

I had reservations about this particular job at the
time, but in the end I reckoned that, like most
businessmen, Fowler's buyers weren't going to do
anything to mess up the deal. If they were getting
the club at a decent price, which they probably
were, then that ought to be enough for them. I
know you should never forget how stupid and
greedy people can be, but my feeling was that when these blokes saw that their seller had turned
up with back-up, they'd be foolish to want a

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confrontation. I was a bit concerned about the talk
of guns but, to be honest with you, I didn't think
they'd resort to that. Again, you had to ask yourself,
what would be the point? There's a lot of
gunplay about in London these days but most
of the real psychos tend to be the kids, and they
don't go round buying nightclubs.

After Fowler had gone, I tried Johnny Hexham's
number, wanting to know if there was any information
he could give me about the nightclub
owner and the situation at his place, but he wasn't
answering, so I put in a call to my partner, Joe
Riggs, on the office number.

Tiger Solutions.'

I cringed like I always did when I heard that name.
Tiger Solutions. I should never have let him talk me
into that one. Joe reckoned it made the punters think
they were dealing with a tough outfit; I thought it
made us sound like a fucking wildlife charity.

'Joe, it's Max/

'Max. How'd it go with Fowler?'

I told him what the deal was, and the amount of
money on offer. Joe whistled through his teeth.
"That's a lot of cash. It's getting close to half of what
we pulled in in the whole of last month. And in
readies, too. What's the catch?'

"The buyers are the type who could turn nasty.
And this Fowler, there's definitely something
dodgy about him.'

Joe laughed. 'He's a nightclub owner, what do
you expect? They're all dodgy, but no worse than
some of the people we have to protect. Anyway,
let's not turn down anything this lucrative.'

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Like I said, money was always the key. You never
want to say no to it. I didn't mention anything
about Fowler demanding that I carry a gun on the
night. There was no point. It would just complicate
matters. As it happened, I wasn't even sure I was
going to bother bringing one along anyway, particularly
as I had no intention of using it in defence
of Fowler's pension fund. If they pulled shooters,
my hands were going up faster than a porn star's
knob, it was as simple as that.

I told Joe there was no fear of me pulling out, not
for six grand. 'I'd just like to know a little bit more
about him, and the place he owns, that's all. I
wouldn't mind finding out why these people want
it so much.'

'You can make a lot of money in that line of business,
you know that. The youth like to have a good
time.'

Teah, maybe. So, are you going to come with me
on this one, then?'

'When is it?'

"Thursday night.'

'This Thursday?'

'Yeah.'

'Ah shit, I can't, Max. I'm looking after Terri.'

Terri Dennett was a singer, and not a particularly
good one at that, with a drugs problem and an ego
that was a lot bigger than her talent. Whenever
she attended record company events or awards
ceremonies she had to be accompanied by a minder
who had the dual task of making sure the paparazzi
never got too close to her - not that they usually
tried too hard - and preventing her from sneaking

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off and taking too many drugs, and consequently
making a fool of herself. Tiger Solutions had the
contract for looking after her and she insisted on
Joe being the one who escorted her on her various
outings. He had the right level of seniority, and the
patience to be able to put up with her. I didn't. I'd
taken her once and it had all ended in tears. She'd
managed to blag some coke while in the Ladies,
vacuumed it up her nose in one go, and got into a
slanging match with some talentless sixteen-year
old from one of those real shite boybands that make
Westlife look like Pink Floyd. He'd told her she
couldn't sing for shit - which was true, she couldn't
- but coming from him it was an insult of the most
heinous kind. I'd pulled her away before she could
rip him to shreds and the bitch had turned on me,
opening fire with a severe knee to the bollocks, and
then adding insult to injury by tipping a glass of
expensive white wine on my head while I was
doubled over in agony. I don't think she'll ever
know how close she came to death that night. It
took an immense amount of willpower to stop
myself from putting my hands around her throat
and squeezing with all my strength until she was
dead, but somehow I managed it, opting instead to
pick her up, sling her over my shoulders, and walk
right out of there, much to the joy of the paparazzi,
who for once showed a real interest in filming her
being removed kicking and screaming. When we
got outside I'd dumped her on the pavement and
walked off.

Needless to say, she hadn't asked for me again.

'You know, Joe, you've got an excuse for

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everything. What's she got to go to this time?'

'Some fucking hoohah where they all tell each
other what talented artists they are, even though
they don't mean a word of it. A barrel of laughs it
won't be. You know, if there was any other way I'd
do it.'

'Sure you would. Anyway, who do you think I
should take? I want a couple of decent people for
this sort of thing.'

Tiger, like most security companies, didn't have
any operatives on the payroll. Most of those
we hired out tended to be freelancers, although we
were very careful about who we used and tended to
stick, wherever possible, to people we'd worked with
before. We ran through a few names together and
eventually decided on a shortlist of three: two we
particularly wanted, and one reserve. All of them had
worked with Tiger on and off for at least three years,
and all were of a calibre that they could be relied
upon should things suddenly decide to go tits up.

When's he going to get us the money?' asked
Joe. 'For this sort of thing, we're going to need it in
advance. I don't want him running out on us.'

'It's sorted. I'm picking it up with him. I'll count
it on the spot, then drop it round at the office and
put it in the safe before we head out to the meet.'
'Good move. So, where's it taking place?'
'Good question. I haven't got a clue.'
'Well, if it's too far, don't forget to charge him for
petrol.'

Which was Joe all over. He'd call himself careful;
everyone else preferred the word tight. I laughed
and hung up.

20
Thursday, seventeen days ago

Iversson

There were three of us in the car. Me in the front
passenger seat, Eric driving, and Tony in the back.
You always feel a bit nervous when the people you're
dealing with are unknown and likely to be unpredictable,
but at least I had reliable backup.

Like everyone we used, they were ex-military.
Eric was an old associate of mine, a big beefy bloke
in his early fifties. He was a Taffy who'd done
fifteen years in the Welsh Borderers, and he'd been
an occasional employee of ours since day one. You
didn't mess about with Eric. Not only did he have a
face like Frankenstein's monster, he had the body,
too, with fists like sledge-hammers. He was a calm
bloke, not easily given to temper, and a real old
fashioned gentleman with the ladies, but if you
fucked him about, you paid a high price. Once, a
few years back, he'd been doing some debt
collecting work for a couple of Albanians. When
he'd turned up at the flat where he was going to
pick up the money, he'd been greeted by the debtor

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and two of his mates, all armed with pickaxe
handles. According to reliable accounts, the three of
them launched a full-frontal assault, weapons flailing.
It was a big mistake. Eric hit the debtor so hard,
the bloke's head flew back and knocked out one of
the others. The third swung his pickaxe handle at
Eric's head, only to have Eric grab it with one hand
and break his jaw with the other, like something out
of a Bruce Lee film. Enter the Welsh dragon, and all
that. The whole thing took about four seconds, and
immediately became local legend.

Tony was just as useful, but a lot different. Late
twenties, good-looking in a public-schoolish way,
he was an ex-marine who'd also worked with us on
and off since the early days. He was only a little
guy, no more than five nine and skinny, but
he was one of the fittest, fastest people I'd ever met.
I liked him, too. He had what you might call a dry
wit, and he delivered his lines with all the urgency
of Roger Moore's James Bond, like he might fall
asleep before the end of the sentence. But there
was something about him, something in the way
he carried himself, that told anyone who was
interested that, for all his laid-back attitude, he
was not to be messed with. He was reputed to have
shot an IRA gunman in Belfast in the early nineties
before the first ceasefire, finishing him off when
he could have taken him alive. It was something he
neither confirmed nor denied, but you could
believe that he'd done it. He was that sort of bloke.

I gave them a brief rundown of my meeting with
Fowler, and what I'd found out since, which wasn't
a lot, to be honest. Joe and I had both asked around

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to see if anyone knew anything about Roy Fowler
and the Arcadia, but the only person who had any
information at all was Charlie White, another ex
soldier who did occasional doorwork for clubs
north of the river, and all he could tell me was that
he'd heard it had a drugs problem.

'Surprise fucking surprise,' said Eric. They've all
got a drugs problem. So, do you think there's going
to be trouble?' He didn't sound like the prospect
bothered him too much.

I gave him one of the most confident looks I
could muster. 'Not when they see us, there won't
be.'

'Famous last words,' said Tony, in that enigmatic
way of his. But then, he'd never been the sort to
look on the bright side.

We were picking up Fowler from a pub in
Farringdon Street, not far from the Underground
station. It was a busy late summer evening and darkness
was beginning to settle on the lively streets of
Clerkenwell as they filled up with revellers. Traffic
was still bad even at this time, and I jumped out of
the car fifty yards short of the pick-up point, leaving
it idling in a typical urban snarl-up.

The place was crowded with students and the
younger end of the office-worker crowd so Fowler,
with his bad-news fake tan and middle-aged side
parting, stood out like a sore thumb. He was sat at a poky little table in the corner, just in front
of the Ladies, nursing a Red Bull and looking
like someone had just caught him fucking an
under-age girl. He was nervous - nervous and
shifty - and even from some distance away I