Bombproof (26 page)

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why are you sorry? It wasn’t your fault. Don’t ever say sorry for something you didn’t do.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do you know who I am?’

‘You’re a friend of Tony Murphy’s.’

Garza roars with laughter. He rocks back on the Chesterfield sofa, unable to stop himself, wiping tears from his eyes.

‘He told you that?’

‘Not exactly,’ says Sami. ‘I just assumed.’

Garza has stopped laughing. It’s amazing how quickly his eyes fill with violent intent. ‘Why did Tony Murphy ask you to rob an evidence room at the Old Bailey?’

‘Mr Murphy didn’t give me a reason.’

‘But you did it anyway?’

Sami can tell that he’s misread the situation and there’s no point in lying. He tells Garza everything, recounting what Murphy said to him at the restaurant and at the dog track. He tells him about Nadia and the drug den and Dessie blowing himself up.

‘When I saw the evidence bags and your boy’s name I just assumed Murphy was doing the job for you.’

Garza’s turns his face to the glass doors. Light catches in the pockmarks on his cheeks and they look even more like lunar craters.

‘You remember the two gentlemen who brought you here?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘If I’d wanted someone to break into an evidence room and take exhibits, they could have done it in twenty minutes and left none of the fucking mess you did.’

‘So you didn’t want the stuff stolen?’

‘Not by you, son.’

Sami feels his insides betray him. He reaches for a coffee cup but his hand is shaking too much.

‘If I’m to believe you, Mr Macbeth, I owe you an apology,’ says Garza. ‘You’ve been had over by Mr Murphy. Consider it a learning experience.’

‘I swear, I had no idea,’ says Sami.

Garza motions him to lean closer. ‘That still leaves one question. Why did Murphy want you to take the stuff? My lad got himself into trouble. I’ll get him a good lawyer - the best - and I’ll fund his defence, but if he goes down so be it. Might be what he needs.’

‘You don’t really mean that,’ says Sami.

‘Don’t I?’

‘I’ve been inside. Prison doesn’t teach you any lessons.’

‘Do you want to go back inside, Mr Macbeth?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Sounds like you learned something.’

Garza invites Sami to take a walk with him. Maybe this is where they go into the garden and he hands Sami a shovel to dig his own grave. They walk past the stable block and down a long path between empty enclosures. There are signs still attached to some of the gates. One of them reads:
Saltwater Crocodiles
(Crocodylus porosus). Inside is a brackish pool, surrounded by rocks and weeds.

‘The interesting thing about a saltwater croc is the teeth,’ explains Garza. ‘They’re not razor sharp so they can cut. Instead they’re like pegs. That’s why a croc rolls its victim over and over, ripping the flesh. The death roll. Sometimes they’ll take the carcass underwater and tuck it under a log or a ledge for a few weeks, waiting for the body to go soft before they eat it.’

Sami peers into the murky pool. ‘And you’re sure this one’s gone?’

‘Went to Whipsnade.’

Garza opens an inner gate and they walk across a large grass enclosure.

‘What exactly did you take from the evidence room?’

‘Drugs and a gun.’ Sami doesn’t mention the cash.

‘Where are they now?’

‘I have them.’

‘Where?’

‘In a safe place.’

‘Are you purposely being obtuse, Mr Macbeth?’

‘No, sir, I don’t know what obtuse means. Murphy still has my sister. He wants the gun badly.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. It’s all he seems to care about. He wants me to destroy it.’

They reach another enclosure. The sign says,
African Wild Dogs
(Lycaon pictus
)
.

‘It means painted wolf,’ explains Garza. ‘People sometimes mistake them for domestic dogs gone wild.’

‘They
look
like dogs,’ says Sami.

Garza points to a photograph on the sign. ‘They have round bat-like ears and only four toes. Domestic dogs have five. African Wild Dogs are more efficient as killers than lions or leopards or cheetah. They hunt together, taking turns, chasing down a buffalo or wildebeest and ripping it apart as it runs, eating it alive.

‘That’s what Tony Murphy is doing to me, tearing chunks of flesh, spreading rumours that I’m behind the robbery. I’ve had two Members of Parliament cancel appointments in the past twenty-four hours and an old friend from the Lords rang and told me not to bother coming hunting.’

It’s just a few knobs, thinks Sami, but doesn’t say it out loud.

‘Why would Murphy do that?’

Garza’s eyes are flat and expressionless. ‘Good question, Mr Macbeth. Good question.’

The woman Sami saw riding earlier is talking to a group of gardeners near a cluster of greenhouses. She raises a hand and shades her eyes from the winter sun and for a moment Sami thinks she might wave. Instead she turns away and continues her conversation.

‘My wife,’ explains Garza. ‘She comes from a respectable family; old money. They were so fucking poor when I met her, I had to bail them out and buy this place to keep it from the taxman.

‘My wife says I’m cold. She can talk. That’s her over there - the ice queen. Five years ago she got busted by the police for giving her personal trainer a blowjob in a car park. The newspapers got hold of the story.

‘I squared the indecency charges and I got the newspaper to drop the story. I didn’t divorce her. She thought I was going to forgive her. She thought I needed her name to be respectable. That shows how little she knows me. When she came home from her next exercise class, she discovered two twenty-year-old hookers in the hot tub. I told her to get us all a drink.’

Garza gazes at the trees proudly as though he planted them himself.

‘I told her if she wanted to stay, she could stay, but if she ever screwed around again, I’d make sure she got nothing, not a pot to piss in. I had all the evidence I needed - substance abuse, alcoholism, psychiatric reports. She’d be lucky to see our son once a fortnight with supervision. People don’t screw me twice, Mr Macbeth, do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I want you to phone Tony Murphy. Organise a meeting. Give him the shooter. Get your sister.’

‘Then what?’

‘Duck.’

Sami takes a moment to digest the implications. Garza’s lips curl upwards into a smile. ‘I’m joking, Mr Macbeth. Get your sister. Make sure she’s safe.’

Sami tries to enjoy the joke but can’t tell if a smile ever reaches his face.

53

Murphy picks up on the second ring.

‘It’s me,’ says Sami, clearing his throat. ‘We meet tonight at midnight. Putney Bridge.’

‘Where on Putney Bridge?’

‘In the middle.’

‘You’re going to hand me a shooter in the middle of Putney Bridge? Why not take an ad in
The Times
?’

‘This way I’ll know you’re alone. Bring Nadia. Nobody else.’

‘And the rozzers will be waiting either end?’

‘Only if they follow you.’

‘You’re a cocky little shite.’

‘And you’re a fat windbag, Mr Murphy. Now we’ve cleared that much up, we can both get down to business. Tonight. Midnight. Don’t be late.’

The call ends and Murphy drums his fingers on the desk. It could be a trap. Macbeth might already be in police custody. No, Bones would have called him if that had happened. The situation can still be retrieved.

Murphy lights a cigar and tilts his face to blow smoke towards the ceiling. His fingers touch the sides of a whisky glass. The exit strategy is almost in place. It just needs one final piece for the whole jigsaw to land on Ray Garza’s head. The trick is not to panic. It’s all comedy. He could be dead right or dead depending on the outcome.

Murphy picks up his phone and calls Ray Jnr.

‘My boy, my boy,’ he says, sounding like a Jewish grandfather. ‘It’s been too long … no hard feelings … I got a new batch of girls in. There’s one in particular I want you to try. She’s sweet as a peach. Come on over.’

54

The front door opens before Ruiz can raise a knuckle. Frank Dibbs must have been watching him open the gate and walk up the path.

‘It’s about time,’ he says, looking irritated.

‘Time for what?’

‘I’ve left dozens of phone messages … and I’ve written letters. ’

Mr Dibbs is shaped like a sea elephant and is wearing a tartan sweater knitted with love but very little skill.

‘Have you brought your noise thingumajig?’

‘You seem to have me confused with someone else.’

‘You’re from the council aren’t you? I said to Margaret, “This will be the noise officer from the council.” Didn’t I, Margaret?’

Margaret must be the woman standing behind him in the hallway wearing a dressing gown and protective glasses. Maybe it’s a form of foreplay.

A burst of laughter emanates from the Anglesea Arms across the road. Three young guys stumble out, shouting to the mates they’ve left behind.

Mr Dibbs can’t hide his disgust. ‘You hear that? Every night we have to put up with fights, vomit, drunkenness, broken bottles. Last week we had a shooting.’

‘That’s what I’m here to talk about,’ says Ruiz, pleased to change the subject.

Mr Dibbs doesn’t seem disappointed. The shooting is his next favourite subject. He describes it in graphic detail, rising to great levels of personal umbrage, pointing out where the participants were standing.

Mr Dibbs was upstairs when the fight broke out. He looked out his bedroom window and saw two policemen arguing with a driver of a Porsche parked on the footpath outside the Anglesea Arms.

‘The police had opened the boot and one of them lifted out the spare tyre. That’s when this young bloke went mad, screaming at them and claiming he was being set up. One of the officers began using his radio and the next thing I saw was the gun.’

‘Who had the gun?’

‘The young bloke. He was waving it about, yelling at them. I had to duck.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why did you have to duck?’

‘Because of the bullet.’

Mr Dibbs has managed to omit this detail from his account. Ruiz takes him back over it again.

‘You saw the flash.’

He nods. ‘The bullet hit the house. That’s why I ducked.’

‘The second sound must have been close.’

‘Right below me.’

Ruiz retraces his steps and stands in front of the Dibbs’ house. He studies the lilac painted brick façade, scanning the unbroken horizontal lines of mortar beneath the paint.

‘Are you sure he was standing over there?’

‘Absolutely.’

Ruiz moves back and forth across Wingate Road, searching the asphalt and gutters. Ray Jnr had a Beretta 93R machine pistol set on single shot rather than rapid fire. The shell casing would have been ejected from the breech - but where did it go?

Lying flat on his stomach, Ruiz looks under the parked cars. The nearest drain is eight yards away, covered by a square metal grate. He crawls beneath the chassis of a car and peers between the bars.

‘Have you got a torch inside, Mr Dibbs?’

‘Of course, we’re always prepared.’ He doesn’t move.

‘Perhaps I could borrow it.’

‘Oh, right, yes.’

Still lying on his stomach, Ruiz watches tartan trousers with matching slippers disappear into the house and re-emerge a few minutes later. Mr Dibbs hands him a torch. Ruiz nudges it between the bars and tries to peer into the blackness of the drain, which smells of sump oil and dog turds.

Four feet below him, wedged between a flattened hub-cap and a broken umbrella, he spies the brass 9mm shell casing.

Ruiz slithers out and fetches a tyre lever from the boot of his Merc. He jams the tapered end beneath the edge of the grate and prises it upwards, far enough to hook his fingers underneath and prop it open.

Leaning head first into the drain, he slips the end of a ballpoint pen into the hollow case and drops it into a Ziploc bag. He’s been carrying that bag around for three years, ever since he retired and even before then. Old habits die hardest.

55

Ray Jnr looks at himself in the mirror and sneers, doing his best De Niro impersonation.

‘You talking to me?’

‘You
talking
to me?’

‘You talking to
me
?’

He looks over his shoulder. ‘Then who the hell else are you talking to? I’m the only one here.’

He spins and draws his hand from his pocket, finger pointing and thumb cocked, like he’s holding a gun.

‘Don’t mess with me, fucker.’

His eyes are twinkling. He adjusts his hair, teasing it into spikes.

For the past five days Ray Jnr has been dining out on the story of doing time in the ‘Big House’. It’s like he’s been ‘made’ now. He’s a proper wise guy.

There’s still the issue of the attempted murder and drugs charges, but his old man will sort that out. He’ll huff and puff and call Ray a fuck-up and say, ‘not this time, junior’, but he’ll come through. He always does. Blood is thicker than mud.

Ray Jnr is at Tony Murphy’s club in Bayswater, where the girls all look like wannabe models or page-three girls with big hair and bigger racks. It’s one of those discreet establishments where a limo picks you up and drops you home and they provide a receipt at the end of the night, which any self-respecting accountant would put straight into a pile labelled ‘business expenses’.

Not one of those clubs full of rich old codgers fixated on shagging nanny or being spanked by matron. The place is full of talent - real talent - a classy international smörgåsbord of pussy, fresh off the plane from Prague or the boat from Beijing.

Ray Jnr wouldn’t mind a stake in a place like this - he should suggest it to Murphy. Free food, complimentary drinks, discretion guaranteed. So what if some of the girls are coked up, there’s never a shortage. They all want to come to London and they don’t mind paying the fare.

Tonight is one of Murphy’s special parties. Select guests only. A new batch of girls has arrived at the club and Ray Jnr gets to sample the merchandise before it gets bruised. He might even break a girl in; some of them are so naive they’re as good as virgins.