Dark Forces (8 page)

There were six bottles of wine opened on the table, three red and three white, and Shepherd could see that they were all good vintages. But the wine stayed untouched. Evans waved over a middle-aged waiter with a neatly-trimmed beard and ordered a round of drinks. Everyone wanted beer or spirits. He automatically ordered Shepherd a gin and tonic. Shepherd took a quick look around. It was pretty much an all-male affair, though off to his left there was a women-only table, which looked as if wives had been parked there by their husbands. The women were in their thirties with over-styled hair, too much make-up and jewellery, and their painted nails glistened like talons.

The doors from the kitchen burst open and Evans flinched, then grinned shame-facedly as waiters poured into the room, laden with trays. There were several hundred people to be fed and the serving staff worked with military precision as they placed the starter on the tables. It was pâté with toast and a limp salad. Shepherd didn’t feel like eating and pushed the food around the plate until everyone had finished. Evans was constantly summoning waiters and ordering more drinks. The wine stayed untouched, as it seemed to be on most of the tables. Even the wives had ignored it and ordered themselves Cristal champagne. Shepherd kept an eye on the far side of the room but the tables were hidden from view by the boxing ring.

Plates were cleared, and after ten minutes, the army of white-shirted, black-trousered waiters returned with stainless-steel trays and the main course: roast beef, which proved to be surprisingly good, with a selection of vegetables. Evans ordered another round of drinks. Gin and tonic was a good drink when he was undercover because no one could tell how much alcohol was in the glass. Whenever Shepherd was sure he wasn’t being watched he’d slosh some water into it.

Evans was holding court at the table, and as he was paying, his guests were happy enough to eat and listen. He told stories about his boxing days, and the great fighters he’d met over the years. He was a huge fan and spent tens of thousands flying around the world to get ringside seats at all the major bouts. Shepherd kept looking over each time anyone walked by on the far side of the ring, but while plenty of people were heading back and forth to the toilets, Owen’s bladder seemed to be made of sterner stuff.

As the plates were being cleared away, a black-suited man in his fifties walked purposefully across the room. He had the look of a manager, and a minute or two later he went back to the door, this time accompanied by Owen. Shepherd raised his napkin and dabbed his lips but Owen didn’t look in his direction.

When the manager opened the door Shepherd saw two uniformed policemen. One spoke to Owen, who threw up his arms angrily but after a few seconds he appeared to calm down and the door was closed. Dessert was served. Some sort of mousse with thawed frozen berries. Shepherd picked at it as he listened to Evans tell the story of how he had met Muhammad Ali in Las Vegas.

Shepherd’s phone vibrated and he fished it out of his pocket. It was a text message from Razor.
Sorted.
And a smiley face. Shepherd grinned and put it away.

‘Good news?’ asked Evans.

Shepherd hadn’t realised the man had been watching him. ‘Another job,’ he said.

‘Back to the New Forest?’

Shepherd pointed a warning finger at the man’s face, but he was still smiling. ‘Mum’s the word, mate.’

Evans held up his pint glass. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

The two men clinked their glasses together. ‘I hope so,’ said Shepherd.

Evans narrowed his eyes. ‘You saying I’d grass you up?’

‘Of course not,’ said Shepherd. ‘What the fuck, Paul?’

Evans burst out laughing. ‘I’m busting your balls, Terry, you soft bastard. Now, are you coming to the big match? I’ve got a dozen ringside seats and your name’s on one of them. We’re all going for a steak first and we’ll hit the Mayfair afterwards.’

The boxing match was due to be one of the biggest of the year, a rematch between the Russian heavyweight champion Konstantin Kuznetsov and British champion Barry ‘Face-Down’ Hughes, who got his nickname after three consecutive opponents fell in that way early in his career. The match was taking place at an East End football stadium where more than twenty-five thousand boxing fans were expected. The cable TV pay-per-view rights were said to be worth tens of millions. Shepherd had heard that ringside seats were selling for five thousand pounds each. He raised his glass to Evans. ‘Try to keep me away,’ he said.

Evans raised his own. ‘You the man.’

Shepherd grinned, pretending to be a bit drunker than he actually was. ‘No, you the man.’

‘Fuck off!’ shouted Evans. ‘You the man.’

‘Okay. I’m the man,’ said Shepherd. They clinked glasses and drank. Evans waved a waiter over and ordered another round.

A big man in a too-tight tuxedo stepped into the ring. He was holding a microphone and started to introduce the men sitting at the top table. Shepherd jumped as a hand fell on his shoulder. ‘Terry, good man.’ He looked up to see Marty O’Neill grinning down at him. He squeezed, hard enough to hurt. Marty was a big man, a couple of inches taller than Shepherd. He had rock-hard forearms – Shepherd could imagine generations of O’Neill men laying tarmac or working down the mines – and while he was a good twenty kilos heavier than Shepherd there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. Marty’s hair was an unnatural shade of chestnut, except round his temples, which remained grey. He had a strong jaw, and teeth that Shepherd assumed had been professionally whitened. Marty favoured Armani suits and recognised Shepherd’s tuxedo for what it was. ‘Nice,’ he said, running his hand down the sleeve. ‘Cashmere?’

‘Yeah, he does a good suit does Giorgio,’ said Shepherd.

‘Not a hundred per cent, though?’ said Marty. ‘Cashmere wool mix, right?’

‘Twenty per cent, I think.’

‘I met him, once, Armani.’

‘You serious?’

‘In a club in Piccadilly. Sent him over a bottle of Cristal. Nice guy. Real gentleman.’

‘Did you ask him for a discount?’

Marty chuckled. ‘Fuck me, I didn’t think of that. Look, Tommy and I are going for a quick smoke. Keep us company, yeah?’

‘Sure,’ said Shepherd. He stood up and Marty waved at his brother. Tommy got up and the two men walked outside. Tommy was older than Marty by a couple of years but he was shorter and slighter. Unlike Marty, Tommy had allowed his hair to grey while his teeth showed the effects of smoking and red wine. The only jewellery he wore was a simple gold wedding band and he tended to buy his clothes from chain stores. He always seemed slightly the worse for wear: his hair was unruly and there was generally a greyness to his skin as if he was short of a few essential vitamins.

Character-wise, Tommy and Marty were chalk and cheese. Marty was loud and ebullient, always cracking jokes and teasing people. Tommy was much quieter, and there was always a short pause before he spoke, as if he was running his comments through some internal checking mechanism. Marty had a quick temper but Tommy was always ice cold, almost lizard-like. Shepherd had met the older brother only a few times but he had never seen him anything other than totally calm. But of the two men, it was Tommy who made him the more nervous. Marty could fly off the handle when something upset him, but he was just as quick to calm down. Tommy was much harder to gauge, and Shepherd always felt he was walking on eggshells when he was in his presence.

Shepherd followed them, wondering if the invitation was connected to the cops taking Owen away. A dozen or so men were already smoking, split into three groups, but Marty and Tommy walked into the car park so they wouldn’t be overheard. Tommy reached inside his jacket and pulled out a leather cigar case. He opened it and offered it to Marty. Marty took a cigar and Tommy held the case out to Shepherd. Shepherd wasn’t a smoker but he took one. Marty had produced a gold cigar cutter and a Dunhill lighter but Tommy had already bitten the end off his and spat it onto the ground.

‘Classy,’ said Marty, carefully cutting his.

‘Poncy,’ said Tommy, gesturing at the cigar-cutter.

Marty held it up. ‘This, gentlemen, is an instrument of torture. Put a guy’s pecker in the hole and he’ll sing like a fucking canary.’

He held it out to Shepherd, who grinned. ‘Mate, I’ve got to be honest, my dick’s way too big to fit in there.’ He gave it back and bit the end off his cigar, then followed Tommy’s example and spat it on the ground.

Tommy roared with laughter, pulled out a box of matches and handed it to Shepherd. He lit a match but held it out so that Tommy could light his cigar from it. He could see from the man’s smile that he appreciated the gesture of respect. Marty used his lighter to get his cigar going and both men puffed contentedly as Shepherd lit another match and attended to his own.

‘Thanks for taking care of that thing for us,’ said Tommy, his voice a low growl.

‘Happy to help,’ said Shepherd.

‘The bracelet and the video were nice touches.’

‘I figure that when there’s no body, proof of death is always appreciated.’

Marty blew a thick cloud of smoke at the night sky. ‘He was a bastard – he had it coming.’

‘No question,’ said Tommy. He flicked ash onto the ground. ‘Howard said you were keen to do more work for us.’

‘Sure,’ said Shepherd.

‘We don’t do that sort of thing often. Once in a blue moon.’

Shepherd shrugged. ‘That’s OK. But I meant it in a wider context. You could get me more involved in the business.’

‘Why would you want that, though?’ asked Tommy, quietly. ‘You’re good at what you do. You’re a freelance so you can work as and when you want. Why tie yourself down to one crew?’

‘It’s the fact that I’m a freelance that worries me,’ said Shepherd. ‘A lot of the time I’m dealing with people I don’t know. Okay, jobs come in by word of mouth and a new client always has to be vouched for, but one day maybe I’ll get approached by a wrong ’un, someone trying to stitch me up.’

‘An undercover cop?’

‘It happens. So far I’ve been lucky, I’m below the radar, but then some smart arse began calling me the Hammer, and once you’ve got a nickname the cops start taking an interest.’ He took a short pull on his cigar and blew smoke. ‘Look, here’s the thing. You run a slick operation. No one fucks with you. The cops don’t bother because they know you’re untouchable, right?’

Marty grinned. ‘Pretty much, yeah.’

‘I’m guessing that part of the reason is you have a few top cops in your pocket. The odd judge, maybe.’

Marty’s grin widened. ‘We couldn’t possibly comment,’ he said.

‘And it’s none of my business, obviously,’ said Shepherd. ‘But my point is, I’d rather be inside the tent than outside. I’d prefer to be part of a team, that’s all. And you’re the best team around.’

‘No need to go blowing smoke up our arses, Terry,’ laughed Tommy, but there was an edge to the laughter that made it a casual threat.

‘You know what I mean, though,’ said Shepherd. ‘My money’s good, no question of that. But it’s erratic. And the more jobs I do, the more I’m putting myself at risk. If I’m part of a crew, especially a successful one like yours …’

‘I hear you, Terry,’ said Tommy. He looked at his brother. ‘What do you think, Marty?’

‘Give him a go. What have we got to lose?’

Tommy turned back to Shepherd. He paused for a few seconds, staring at him with unblinking eyes. ‘We’ve got a bit of a problem on the Rock. Do you fancy flying over and sorting it out for us?’

‘Sure. What’s the story?’

Another short pause, then just a hint of a nod. ‘I’ll have Howard run it by you. Let him know if you need any more people. He’ll sort it.’ He drew on his cigar as he studied Shepherd’s face. ‘You been to Gibraltar before?’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘Spain. But never Gibraltar.’ That was a lie, but a necessary one. Shepherd had visited Gibraltar several times, but always in transit with the SAS on a Hercules, usually en route to Belize.

Tommy nodded. ‘If you feel like a curry while you’re there, pop into Raj’s Curry House. That’s what it’s called, no shit. Ragged Staff Wharf. Best curries I’ve ever had. Place looks a bit run-down but you can’t beat the food.’

Marty nodded in agreement.

‘Mind you, if you want to try some decent food, come out to Dubai.’

‘I might take you up on that,’ said Shepherd.

‘Gordon Ramsay’s new place is shit hot,’ said Tommy.

‘So you’re there for the food, not the lack of an extradition treaty?’ said Marty.

Tommy punched his brother softly on the arm and laughed. ‘Bit of both, truth be told.’

A roar went up inside and Tommy gestured at the hotel entrance. ‘Let’s get back inside,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t want to miss the fights.’

Omar Hassan was sitting with his family in the large dining room. His mother insisted that the family ate together as often as possible and that was no hardship because she was an amazing cook. His father was at the head of the table, his wife facing him and closest to the door. Omar was between his father and Aidan, with Toby and Zack opposite. Jasmine carried in the last of the food, then took her seat between Aidan and their mother.

Omar’s mother had been working in the kitchen for most of the afternoon, joined by Jasmine when she got back from the garage. While the men had showered and changed their clothes, the women had put the finishing touches to the meal. There were succulent lamb kebabs, goat curry with okra and aubergine, aloo gosht and chicken Korma. Plates of freshly made naan bread were scattered along the table, with a bowl of steaming rice and a larger one of salad.

Omar was famished but he waited for his father to help himself before heaping food onto his plate. There was water and fruit juice to drink and Omar washed his food down with both. The talk was usually about football or work, but
The Voice
was on later that night and they were all backing their favourites. Toby, of course, was championing the blonde with big breasts even though two of the contestants were Asian. Omar didn’t join in the discussion as he bolted his food. All he could think about was his mission. The piece of paper with the photographs of the vehicles he was to purchase was in his back pocket and he had constantly to fight the urge to take it out and look at it.