Shredder (4 page)

Old Cardigan was smiling his ghastly black smile; he was crouched, the razor once more in his right hand, circling it slowly, inviting me to come and try my luck. I didn't need luck; I didn't even need the dustbin lid. Chucking it aside, I strode forward, seized the old man's razor hand in my left and grabbed his thin bony old face in my right.

“You know what gets my goat about old people these days?” I said. “They think they have nothing to learn and they never sodding listen. I came here to talk to the Guvnor, not listen to some nasty old fart witter on about his childhood.” Old Cardigan was still grinning, and he hadn't dropped the blade. His bony left hand had closed around my right wrist,
as if to pull it off his face, but his grasp was light and feeble as a cobweb. I forced his right wrist upwards until the cutthroat razor was a finger's breadth from his eye, and all he did was twist his head to the side and offer me his jugular. He had balls, for an old guy, but I noticed he'd missed a bit when shaving that morning. Ironic.

“What the fuck's been going on here?”

I looked behind me. Large was on his hands and knees, shaking his head; Little had slumped away from where he'd fallen against the pub's back door. Standing in the open doorway was a heavyset guy in his late twenties with a golden tan and thick black hair cut so short it stood up. His clothes were expensive and well-cut, concealing the extra bulk he carried around his shoulders and midriff. He struck me as a man used to giving orders, and from the look on his face he wasn't impressed by the scene that greeted him—Little and Large stunned, bleeding, and daubed with blood and filth, and some sweaty overgrown teenager he'd never seen before mugging Old Cardigan for his razor.

I shoved the old man's face away and wrenched the razor from his bony fist. Bending down, I stood on the blade and twisted the handle until the blade
snapped off. Then I straightened up and tossed the stump at him. He made no move to catch it, but just let it bounce off his cardigan and rattle onto the concrete.

“I've another dozen like that at home,” he sneered.

“Go and fetch one then, and try again. I've got all week.”

“Get inside, clean yourselves up,” the new arrival grunted at Little and Large. Both men stumbled meekly back into the pub, Little wiping his hands on his polo shirt, making the stains worse. Ignoring me, the new arrival turned to Cardigan with a scowl of contempt. “What did I tell you about playing vigilantes, Eric? You too senile to remember, is that it?”

Odd, I thought. I'd expected him to challenge me first and let the old man have it in private later, but the new guy must have really hated Old Cardigan—Eric.

The old man was shaking now, with rage rather than age, and I saw his fingers twitch for his razor before he remembered I'd disarmed him. His rheumy old eyes blinked. “Don't you talk to me like that, you little prick,” he protested. “I was sorting out proper hard men when you were still pissing your britches.”

The big guy leaned in and fixed the old man with
a steady stare from icy-gray eyes that didn't water or blink. “Eric, you can't even bloody shave yourself anymore, so stop trying to scare people with that razor, it's embarrassing.” I'd seen that stare before: it looked like I was in the right place. Eric's saggy jaw was working away in furious humiliation, and his fingers twitched again, longing for the feel of the blade. But he said nothing more, and the younger guy turned to me. “And what do you want?” He was my height, but heavier, and his cold stare was drilling into me in a way I remembered all too well.

“The name's Finn Maguire. I have a message for your dad.”

It was a gamble, but it paid off. McGovern Junior smirked, intrigued. “What message?” he said.

“I'd rather deliver it in person.”

“I'm sure you would.” Junior frowned, as if my name had rung a bell. “Hold on—Finn Maguire?”

“I used to work for your dad. In that restaurant in Pimlico.”

Another gamble, with higher stakes. In that restaurant I'd seen the Guvnor's second-in-command murder a cop, a fact I'd never admitted to anyone. I was pretty sure the Guvnor wouldn't have talked about it either: everybody in his clan would be
curious to hear what had really happened. Curious enough to take their time and ask nicely, I hoped, rather than by shoving needles up my fingernails until I was screaming the truth to anyone who'd listen.

I saw calculation flicker in McGovern's eyes, then he grinned like a wolf and squinted up at the sun.

“It's hot out here,” he said. “And it stinks. Eric, go change your Y-fronts, I think you've shat yourself again.” He turned back and offered me his hand to shake. “I'm Steve,” he said. “Let's get a pint.”

Steve made a quick muttered call on his mobile in a quiet corner of the pub, his glance flicking over to me every so often, while I stood at the bar gulping down lemonade. I'd expected him to make a joke when I asked for a soft drink, but he'd merely nodded to the barmaid, who went scurrying off for my pint of lemonade. The lager I'd abandoned earlier sat on the bar getting warmer and flatter still, but I left it there—I wanted to keep my wits sharp, or at least not blunt them any further. Old Eric had followed us in, and now he clambered back onto his stool at the bar and lit himself a new cigarette, squinting into the smoke. Young McGovern returned, tucking
his mobile phone away, apparently satisfied, and started telling me what a player Eric had been in his prime; about how much the Krays—or was it Jack the Ripper?—had feared that razor, and how Eric had slashed faces to order and got paid by the length of the wounds. “Three farthings a stitch, wasn't it?” snorted Steve.

The old man sipped at his lager, stony-faced. I felt a twinge of pity for him, having to sit there and be sneered at by the boss's son, when all he'd been doing was defending their turf. Then I remembered the vicious old bastard approaching me with his razor open. He probably deserved all of it, and worse.

Eventually Junior grew tired of baiting Eric and turned back to me. “So how'd you find this place, then?” I'd expected him to lower his voice, but he didn't seem to care who heard him.

“I asked around,” I said.

“Who'd you ask?” Young McGovern's grin had hardened.

“It's in
The Good Pub Guide
,” I said. Junior laughed, as I'd hoped he would, and I tried to steer our conversation in a less risky direction. “I need to speak to the Guvnor. I have a message for him.”

“Yeah, you said,” said Junior.

“So can I meet him?”

“What's it about, exactly?”

Why don't I tell him? I wondered. Let him give the Guvnor the message, give him the Turk's phone number, let them sort it out between themselves?

Because as appealing as the impulse was to blurt out the Turk's demands and do a runner, I didn't trust anyone to deliver the message but me. Yes, it was dangerous getting involved, but Zoe and I were already involved; I was alive right now because the Turk wanted to use me as an envoy, and if I wanted to stay alive I had to deliver the message in person and see how the Guvnor reacted. The more I knew about each side, the more clout I'd have with the other, and with Amobi.

“The Turk” was all I said.

It was all I needed to say. Junior nodded thoughtfully. Picking up his pint, he sank the rest of it in one gulp, then slammed the glass down. “Turn out your pockets,” he said.

It didn't take me long: a handful of change, a wallet with a bank card and a travel card, my house keys and my phone. McGovern slid the phone across the counter to where the blousy barmaid rematerialized.

“Lose that for us, Michelle,” said Junior. Wordlessly she picked up the handset, flipped the back off and lifted out the battery, then started to work the SIM loose.

“Oi, that's my phone,” I protested.

“Tough,” said Junior. He was flicking through my wallet, feeling in the seams and corners—for bugs presumably—while Michelle wrapped up my mobile in a sheet of foil.

“Don't I even get the SIM back?”

“Phones can be traced, SIMs can be traced,” said Junior. I felt a flash of hope: if they were taking me somewhere I couldn't be traced, maybe it was to meet the Guvnor. Then it struck me how incredibly naive that was. Maybe Junior was just humoring me so I'd go quietly; maybe the Guvnor already knew what the Turk wanted and wasn't interested in talking, in which case I was surplus to everyone's requirements. I wondered how many people had entered this pub and never been seen again: somehow I didn't think Amobi would bring a National Crime Agency unit to raid this place, kicking over tables, roughing up the customers and demanding to know what had become of me; more likely his department would just look for a new snitch and start over.

“Derek, frisk him,” said Junior. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Large looming behind me, but he waited until I'd placed my hands on the bar and spread my legs a little before he started patting me down. Large Derek was cautious—probably worrying that if he did find anything I'd elbow him in the face—but he was thorough. Down my arms, all over my torso, my front pockets and rear; from the tops of my trouser legs all the way down to my ankles. I was wearing light trainers with thin soles, where it would have been nearly impossible to conceal anything, but he kneaded each foot in turn.

Junior slapped my wallet back down on the bar. “Properly,” he grunted to Derek. What the hell. I sensed Derek hesitate, before his big beefy right hand cupped my balls and gave them a good kneading. My eyes watered and I nearly did slam an elbow into his face, but I held back: better to be groped than forced to drop my trousers and show everyone that the only weapon I had tucked away in there was standard issue.

“I usually don't go this far on a first date,” I said.

Derek snatched his hand away, more embarrassed than I was, and I saw Junior catch his eye, nod and turn to Michelle.

“Is he there yet?”

“He's just bringing it round,” she said.

“You're lucky I called in today.” Junior smirked at me. “I don't normally. Prefer places with a bit more life, to be honest. And a lot more fanny. It's like a geriatric ward in here, except the food's worse.”

I saw Michelle's glance flick to him, in her eyes a tiny spark of resentment that she snuffed out instantly. Her overpainted face resumed its bored, vacant expression. She was scared of Junior, I could tell, and I suspected his jolly, sardonic exterior was a thin layer of hardened lava over a volcanic temper; the same temper I'd seen in his father.

“Oh, and I'll need a carrier bag,” Junior told her, as an afterthought. Michelle rooted around under the counter—I got the impression she was rummaging in a dustbin—before she finally produced a thin plastic carrier bag, the sort you get from all-night no-name supermarkets. She shook some dubious liquid off it and handed it to Junior. I thought he'd insist on a clean one, but he didn't seem bothered, and when he rolled down the rim and turned to me with the bag held in two hands I understood why.

“You're not going to suffocate,” he said. “It's only until you're out in the car.”

“I could just shut my eyes—” I started to say, but he'd already started pulling the bag down over my head and neck, so I couldn't even see out of the bottom. I heard Eric pipe up, with a snort of sarcasm, “You going to spin him round and round as well? Like in Blind Man's Buff?”

“No, I've got a better idea,” I heard Junior say, an instant before his fist crashed into the side of my head. I staggered, lights flashing behind my eyes, and my knees went a little. Or rather I let them go a little, so Junior wouldn't feel it necessary to hit me again. He'd been aiming for my face, I knew, hoping to knock a tooth loose or split my lip, but as soon as he'd spoken I'd heard his intentions and turned my head. It still felt like I'd been whacked in the skull with a frying pan, and the cut to my temple had opened up again, but the blood trickling down my neck below the bag's rim seem to satisfy Junior for now.

A hand under my armpit hauled me upright and dragged me forward, back towards the passage that led to the toilets, and out again into the hot still air of the stinking yard. I heard an engine running, a quiet purr of power, and knew I was being dragged towards the boot of a big car before my thighs collided
with a rear bumper, the tow hook nearly taking my kneecap off, and a hefty hand between my shoulder blades pushed me forward and bent me down.

I let my balance go and fell into the open boot, raising my fists and pushing my chin into my chest to shield my face as I landed. Somebody hauled at my legs and I pulled them in only a moment before the boot lid slammed shut, locking me in darkness. Instantly I felt like a spud left to bake in a slow oven. Sweat gushed from my pores, soaking my shirt, and I tasted the blood from the cut to my temple as it changed direction and trickled down into my mouth.

Well, at least I'm getting somewhere, I thought. And my hands were free. I hooked the rim of the bag with my thumbs, pulled it off my head and gasped for air—I'd been running so low on oxygen even the hot stuffy boot was an improvement. The Guvnor's people had locked me in a trunk once before, but that car had been a rustbucket in a breaker's yard, and this one was luxurious by any standard—thickly carpeted, with a tiny cool air-conditioned breeze leaking in from the passenger compartment. Rumpled underneath me was what felt like a woolen picnic blanket.

I tried listening for conversation from the passenger compartment, but if anyone was in there they weren't talking. I had nothing to eavesdrop on, no idea where I was headed or how long it would take, and nobody to call, now that my phone was sitting at the bottom of the Horsemonger's trash bin. I shifted my feet, my hip and my shoulders in turn as I pulled the picnic blanket from underneath me, rolled it up into a long, squishy pillow and tucked it under my head. It smelled of stale wine and rancid strawberries.