Give The Devil His Due (40 page)

***

After an hour there was still no word on his condition. We sat, trying to drink coffee and tea from the A&E vending machine, no-one felt like talking. Another hour and three quarters passed. A doctor appeared and came over to speak with us.

       Neil had been sliding in and out of consciousness. He was now in the ICU, critical, but stable and heavily sedated. The request of contact details for Neil’s next of kin immediately brought a flood of tears from Denise. She wanted to see him. A brief visit by one person would be allowed. The doctor escorted Denise through the double doors leading to other departments. Gavin and I waited for her return. About ten minutes later she came back through, very upset.

       For the time being there was nothing more that we could do. We left the hospital. On the way home, Denise was extremely stressed. She was deeply worried about Neil and thought we should have gone to the police and been honest about the whole affair. I was sorry that she'd had to lie for us. I reminded her that Neil had been to jail before, that we'd got ourselves into something heavier than she perhaps realised and, if we weren’t careful, things could get a whole lot worse.

       She was understanding, but still thought we were making a big mistake. Having been the one to talk to the hospital staff, she would almost certainly be asked to give a statement to the police about the circumstances in which she'd 'found' Neil. However, blaming his condition on a late-night beating from drunken thugs was far better for all of us than having the local CID crawling all over my house looking for clues and our activities over the past couple of weeks coming to light. With no-one having seen anything and nothing to go on, the hope was the police would just file it away under one of those late-night-crimes-of-violence that never gets solved.

***

At the house, as we entered the lounge, Phil and Peach were sitting on the sofa, quiet. Tegan was tearful, she was on the floor by Pugs. He wasn’t breathing. Denise, now more subdued, put her arm on my shoulder. She’d known as soon as she’d arrived back from the gig that there had been no hope for him. As the realisation of what had happened hit me, I got down on my knees. I put my head next to his, kissed him and told him how sorry I was. I started to cry.

***

After seeing Neil in such a state, Denise desperately trying to save him, Maude gone and my dog bleeding to death, I knew there was an important decision to be taken. I went upstairs and made a couple of calls.

       The phone calls over; I returned to the others. It was a difficult choice to make but someone had to do it. I looked at their faces – still full of shock and disbelief. ‘OK, I don't want any arguments, here's what we're going to do ...’

Chapter 32

Friday 10a.m. London
When Peach, Phil and I walked through the front door of De Villiers-Moncourt on that morning it felt surreal. As we approached the main desk we noted the presence of a couple of security guards in addition to the female receptionist. We halted and stood there in our freshly-pressed suits, trying our best to look smart and confident.

       The receptionist was about to ask me a question but I forestalled her, looking her straight in the face and said, ‘My name’s Rees, this is Mr Simms and Mr Kozen. We're here to see Charles De Villiers.’ I didn't smile. She looked in the book on the desk in front of her.

       ‘I'm sorry sir, but I don't have any instructions with regard to a meeting. Normally if visitors are expected on the fifth floor, we are told in advance by Ms Stokes his PA.’

       ‘If you give her a call, there won't be any problem. I'm sure he's expecting us,’ I said.

       She picked up the phone, turned away from me slightly and spoke to someone I can only assume was Ms Stokes. She put the handset on the cradle, looked at one of the security guards and said, ‘Dominic, could you please take these gentlemen to the fifth floor, and show them into the chairman's office.’ He nodded.

       Dominic was a big lad, but then Security usually are I suppose. I looked at Peachy; he sensed my anxiety. We travelled up in the lift. Dominic didn't say a word, and with other distractions to occupy our thoughts, our silence was deafening.

       As we made our way out of the lift and on to the fifth floor, the décor took my breath away. There were paintings, all individually lit, that looked like they cost fortunes. Little gold plaques hung beneath them, with inscriptions that were too small for me to read as I walked along the corridor. The plush carpets and furniture wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Palace of Versailles. I didn't know whether Hugh Scully, Michael Aspel or perhaps the most powerful leaders in the free world were going to appear.
Obscene
and
opulent
were two words that sprang to mind. I glanced at Phil; he raised an eyebrow.

       We were escorted through another set of doors, and there sitting in front of us was Ms Stokes. I thought she appeared a bit sheepish, not at all haughty and authoritarian as you would imagine the PA to the chairman of such a powerful and wealthy company would look.

       She stood up, motioned us to sit around a small coffee table in a waiting area off to the right and took Dominic to one side. She said something very quietly to him, and then handed him a small piece of paper. Dominic read it and placed the note inside his jacket pocket. She walked towards us. ‘The chairman will see you now, gentlemen.’

       Perhaps she was psychic! She hadn't contacted her boss since we'd arrived. I guessed that getting us seated was all just a ruse so that she could speak to Dominic on his own, without our hearing what it was she wanted to tell him.

       Dominic opened the large door. We walked forward, Peach first, me in the middle, Phil behind and Dominic following us in. I heard the door close. I didn’t look back, for the sight before me held a far greater interest.

       Behind a colossal desk, seated in a high back, buttoned leather chair was Charles De Villiers. To his right was a burly-looking bloke who was considerably larger than Dominic. He was older and looked as though he’d been through the mill. His nose obviously had been broken at some stage in the past, the tell-tale signs of resetting all too apparent. He had other marks on his face that’d been made much more recently though; a small bruise on his cheek and a couple of scratches. He looked like a former rugby number 8 that wasn't afraid to mix it. On De Villiers’ left was another guy, not as heavy-set. In fact, if he was hired-muscle, he must have been good, because there wasn't a mark or disfigurement on him. I was beginning to wonder whether we'd taken the right decision to come. My heart was racing.

       There were three chairs set out in a line facing De Villiers. The big guy directed our attention to them with an open palm. I don't know why we did it, but the three of us sat down – probably some involuntary body-language reflex. Dominic stood behind us and by the door, barring our exit.

       I looked around the room. Its magnificence surpassed anything we’d seen up to this point. More very large antiques and
objets d’art
. Behind De Villiers there was a massive portrait of a young man, standing in all his finery, and it was
olde
. Over to the right side of the room was a large cabinet. On it, hand-cut crystal decanters, probably containing some seriously rare and expensive spirits. Nearby was another cabinet, chest-on-chest; it looked like walnut. The stuff in this room wasn’t fake; it was the real deal.

       De Villiers was writing. ‘Where is it then?’ He didn't even bother to look up. His accent, although similar to Vaughan’s, had a belittling tone. The man was instantly hateable.

       I took the plunge. ‘Are you speaking to me?’ He put his montblanc pen into its holder and placed it on the desk. He looked over his gold half-moon glasses with cold eyes. ‘Where is it?’

       ‘Where's what?’ I asked.

       ‘My property.’ He was glaring at me with total disdain. God, I wished we hadn’t sat down.

       ‘We haven't got your property.’

       He looked towards the number 8. ‘Brian, explain to him how things work around here would you?’ Brian nodded his head slowly and afforded himself a sadistic grin.

       My heart was almost pounding out of my chest. I stood up. If I was going to get a lamping, I wasn't going to have it while sitting down! I started to turn; not wanting to be hit first from behind by Dominic when suddenly, Dominic came flying past me in a downwards direction. His head hit the front of De Villiers’ desk.

       I was looking at Brian who had stopped advancing and was now posturing with his arm, pointing behind me. He shouted, ‘Who the fuck are you? Get out.’

       Dominic was starting to recover. I heard a familiar voice shout,
‘Stay down!’

       Dominic didn't stay down; he was soon up. As I spun round to keep him in view, I saw the fist of Martin Sedgely rise so fast, it was almost a blur – unlike the very audible ‘thwump’ which, in contrast, was clear as a bell when it connected with Dominic's Adam’s apple.

       Dom sunk to his knees choking. Martin kicked him in the balls, trying to take his mind off his throat I guess. I looked in the other direction. Peach and Phil were giving the smoothy a severe leathering, no help needed there.

       A movement caught my eye. It was Charles De Villiers going for the intercom.

       ‘Touch that button and you're a fucking dead man!’ What was I saying? It just came out. It seemed to do the trick though. De Villiers backed off. I quickly grabbed the intercom unit and yanked it as hard as I could, smashing it on to the desk. It was definitely broken.

       Brian threw a couple of haymakers at Mart – who dodged both. The second put Brian slightly off balance. Mart seized the opportunity and nutted Brian. The sound of the clash went right through me. Brian was dazed.

       Mart, whose adrenalin levels must have been going through the roof, wasted no time. With both hands coming together in a clapping motion, hit Brian on each side of the head, his palms making contact with Brian's ears. The force Mart had used was immense. Brian was on his back writhing in agony, blood trickling out of his ears. The Sedgster heel-stamped him on the bollocks three times. Brian wasn't moving any more, he was toast. Martin hadn't come to take prisoners.

       In fact, if heel-stamping on the bollocks had been an Olympic event, then there was no doubt who would be the gold medalist:
Martin Sedgely
. And I'm sure if the Olympic committee had their way, Mart would have undergone a test for banned substances. I had a sneaky inkling that he might have tested positive too, because if the performance I'd just witnessed was anything to go by ‘enhanced’ wouldn’t adequately describe it. Driving a cab over the years I’d seen many fights during the weekend nights, but nothing like this.

       Martin now turned his attention to Charles De Villiers. He walked over to the desk and grabbed De Villiers by the jacket collar. ‘Who do you think you are – sending goons round to hurt my friends, you arsewipe?’

       ‘Th-th-they've b-b-been blackmailing me.’

       Martin looked at me. ‘Have you b-b-been blackmailing him?’

       I had to give it to Mart; he could always come up with the unexpected.

       ‘No, of course not.’ I said. Phil was starting to snigger from the other side of the room. Even with Mart's newly-acquired speech impediment I wasn't laughing. For one split second I wondered if Phil had been involved in some unauthorised extra-curricular activity. I put the thought out of my mind.

       Mart snarled at De Villiers. ‘If my friends say they haven't then they haven't. Do you understand?’ De Villiers didn't answer.

       ‘I SAID DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’

       ‘Y-y-yes ...’

       ‘And if my friends ever have a visit from one of your people, I'll be back here and you'll be through that fucking window.’ De Villiers was scared and he wasn’t the only one, so was I.

       Mart continued. ‘You make me sick. You think ‘cause you've got a bit of dough you can do anything you like. Well let me tell you something, you can't. Is that you in that stupid outfit?’

       Mart was pointing at the huge portrait behind De Villiers’ desk. The subject was standing in a camp sort of pose, holding a carved walking stick and wearing a tricorn.

       ‘No, that is my f-f-f-forebear, Sir Edward De Villiers.’

       ‘Well fuck him!’ With that, he picked up a small bronze statue of a stallion rearing up on its hind legs. It had taken pride of place on the top of De Villiers’ desk. Mart hurled it at the painting. There was a ripping sound as the little statue tore the canvas and the painting dislodged itself from the wall, falling to the floor. ‘And fuck you.’ Mart raised his arm, and pulled it back, fist clenched, ready to give De Villiers one serious skull-buster.

       De Villiers shrieked. ‘No p-p-please don't hit me.’ He lifted his arm over his face to try and protect himself, sneezing as he did so. I don't think Mart had intended to hit him; he just wanted to watch him squirm a bit. It was a pitiful sight.

       I looked at Mart. His face contorted. I soon realised why, when I caught a whiff. Charles De Villiers had not only sneezed but followed through. Martin was standing next to a man who, through fear, had lost control of his bodily functions and soiled himself.

       Mart had had enough. ‘Get away from me, you stinkin’, spineless turd!’ He shoved De Villiers across the room so hard that he careered into a large pedestal with a marble bust upon it. The whole lot went over, shattering on the floor.

       Mart picked up De Villiers’ attaché case which was resting on the desk top and launched it. The case spun like a little UFO as it traversed the office, its short but purposeful flight ending in a spectacular collision with the decanters; booze and glass went everywhere.