The Murder Exchange (46 page)

Jack Merriweather is being held in a segregation
unit at Belmarsh Prison, London, where he too
faces charges relating to the importation of Class A
drugs. He is to be the prosecution's main witness in
the trial of Neil Vamen and six of his associates.

Elaine Toms was charged with the attempted
murder of Max Iversson but was granted bail and
promptly absconded. She is currently at large.

Jean Tanner has a new boyfriend and as yet faces
no charges in connection with either the murder of

429

Shaun Matthews or Craig McBride. Police are keeping
a close eye on the boyfriend's health.

Asif Malik remains at SO7, where he's concentrating
his investigation on several north
London crime families who have had something of
a bonanza since the collapse of the Holtzes.

And me, well, I'm a DI again, and at least
halfway back to the position I was in a year ago.

You see, there is justice in this world. It's just that
sometimes it can take a long time to show itself.

THE END

Acknowledgements

Briefly, I'd like to thank the following people for
their help in getting this book to where it is now:
c;plina Walker, my editor at Transworld; Amanda
* res ton, Amelia Cummins, Vanessa Forbes, Luigi
Bonomi, and everyone at my agent's, Sheil Land
Associates; all those at New Scotland Yard Press
Office who've provided invaluable technical
assistance with their customary efficiency and
courtesy; and last but most definitely not least, my
long-suffering wife, Sally, who's always been there
to provide encouragement and support. As well as
the occasional much-deserved kick up the arse.
I raise my glass to you all.

Simon Kernick's new novel

THE CRIME TRADE

Is now available from Bantam Press
Here's a taster

'Where's the money?'

'Where's the gear?'

'Gear?'

Stegs kept his expression neutral. The dope. The drugs.
The stuff we're buying.'

The Colombian allowed himself a tiny smirk. It reminded
Stegs of the expression Barry Growler, a notorious bully at
his old school, used to pull before inflicting one of his famous
punishments. 'It's close to here,' he said.

'So's the money.'

'OK. That's good.'

'I'm going to need to see the gear first, before I hand over
any cash. I'll have to test it, see that the quality's right.'

'You don't trust me?' asked the Colombian, his hands
raised in a gesture of jovial innocence. The smirk grew wider.

Stegs didn't like the look of it at all, but that was the thing
in their game. You couldn't trust anyone, and not only that,

you could never tell how they were going to behave either.
This was his first time dealing with Colombians and he
couldn't help thinking about the scene in that old Al Pacino
film, Scarface, when Al and his mate, Angel, go to a Miami
hotel to buy some coke from a group of Colombians, only
for the sellers suddenly to pull guns on them and use a chainsaw
on Angel's head in a (surprisingly futile) bid to get
Scarface to reveal the whereabouts of the money. No, Stegs
was not enjoying this meeting one little bit.

Neither was his colleague. Paul 'Yokes' Vokerman. Yokes
was sitting in a chair next to Stegs, across the table from the
Colombian, Fellano, and he was fidgeting big-time, like he
had crabs.

Fellano, on the other hand, was oozing confidence, but
then he also had three bodyguards scattered about the hotel
room, and Stegs would have bet a grand no problem that
they were all packing firearms. Under those circumstances,
he had pretty good reason to be confident.

Now it was Stegs's turn to smile. 'It's not like that, Mr
Fellano.'

'Jose, please.'

'Jose.' Jose. Typical. It had to be fucking Jose. 'It's not
like that, but you have to understand my position. I have to
satisfy myself, and my partners, that the goods are genuine.
We've only done business once before, on a much smaller
scale, and I don't want there to be any complications or misunderstandings
this early in the relationship.'

'Of course. You are right. We don't want any ...
misunderstandings.'

Stegs didn't like the way Fellano emphasized the word
'misunderstandings'. In fact there wasn't anything he liked
about him, and he knew Yokes felt the same way. Fellano
was about forty-five, possibly a couple of years older, and
well built with a large, square-shaped head and features that
were berry dark and more South American Indian than hispanic.
He was dressed very smartly, but without ostentation,
and he had an amiable air about him which Stegs had seen

on serious criminals plenty of times before, and which he
knew would disappear faster than a bun at a weightwatchers'
convention the moment you got on the wrong side of him.
Stegs was keen for that not to happen.

He pulled a weighing machine out of the bag and put it
on the desk, hoping that it would act as a hint, which it did.
Fellano turned in his chair and nodded to one of the bodyguards,
who was leaning against the opposite wall, next to
the kingsize bed with the silk sheets. The bodyguard left his
post and walked into an adjoining room, emerging a few
moments later with a briefcase. He brought the briefcase over
to the table and handed it to Fellano. There was a moment's
pause while Fellano fiddled with the locks, then the briefcase
flicked open. He put it on the table with the open part
facing Stegs. There was a single kilo bag of coke in there.

Stegs stared at Fellano. 'Our deal was for twenty kilos, not
tor one. I was under the impression you were a major player.'

'Come on, Steve, we're wasting our time here,' said Yokes,
using the codename for Stegs he always liked to stick to.

Fellano didn't even look at him. Instead, he addressed
Stegs. 'You talk about trust, Steve, and I understand that,
but tell me this. How can I trust you? You could be anyone.
You could be a police officer for all I know.'

'I think my colleague might be right, Mr Fellano. Maybe
we are wasting our time here. I thought I'd provided you
with all the credentials you needed, plus twenty grand of our
money for that first kilo. If you still don't think I'm kosher
after all that, then there's nothing I can do about it.' Now it
was Steg's turn to start getting up. 'Maybe you ought to look
for another buyer.'

'I have the rest of the consignment nearby, but I now wish
to see the money.'

'OK, but I want to see the rest of the gear at the same
time.'

Fellano nodded. 'Sure, I understand that.'

'The money's not here, but it's also nearby. I'll show you
it, Mr Fellano, and one of your men, but I'm not going

outside with all of you. It's too risky. We'll arouse suspicion.'

'Then your partner will need to stay here.'

Yokes looked at Stegs, his expression one of concern. 'I
told you this was a waste of time, Steve. We don't need to
deal with people like this.' He stepped away from the table.

Stegs put his hand up. 'Hold on, Paulie. Wait a minute.'

'What's the point? We're just getting taken round the
houses here.'

'Because I didn't drive all the way over here for nothing,
that's why.' He turned to the Colombian. 'All right, Mr
Fellano, here's what I suggest. My man stays here with two
of yours, then you, me and your other guy take a walk down
to wherever you've got the stuff. You show it to me, and
after that, if you want, I'll take you to the money. Then we
return here and make the transaction. How does that sound?'

Yokes wanted to say something, but Stegs gave him a look
that said 'Come on. don't blow this!' and Yokes appeared to
relent, although he didn't look too happy about it. But that
was the thing about the drugs business, particularly the high
end. The complete lack of trust meant that even a routine
retail transaction required a half-hour debate and more than
a couple of heart-stopping risks.

Fellano thought about it for a moment. 'OK,' he said,
nodding slowly. 'That sounds fair.'

Stegs turned to his mate, who'd now sat down again. 'Are
you all right with staying here for a few moments, Paulie?'

'No, not really. Maybe you should stay here.'

'We've decided,' said Fellano with some finality. 'You stay
here.'

Stegs patted Yokes on the shoulder. Till only be gone a
few moments and I don't think Mr Fellano here is reckless
enough to cause any problems in a hotel room with thin
walls in the middle of Heathrow. Am I right, Mr Fellano?'

'I want this deal done as much as you do, Steve, even if
your friend is not so keen.'

'He's just cautious, that's all.'

'A man can get overcautious.'

'Not in this game,' said Stegs, with a cold smile. 'So whereabouts
nearby is the other nineteen kilos you promised?'

'In the trunk of a hire car in the parking lot.'

Stegs nodded. It wasn't an ideal location, but it was wet
and windy outside, so they probably weren't going to get too
much attention. 'Shall we go, then?'

'Are you sure about this, Steve?' asked Yokes.

'I'll be ten minutes. No more. Then we do the deal and we
walk.'

Fellano stood up and motioned for one of the bodyguards
- a wiry little guy with a droopy moustache and seventies
hair - to come with him. He then said something in Spanish
to the other two. Yokes looked nervous, and Stegs felt a pang
of guilt, having given him the worst job. The job of hostage.
But he couldn't see any other way.

'Let's go,' said the Colombian, and he and Moustache
walked to the door.

Tell him to get his fucking shades off,' Stegs said to
Fellano. 'He'll stick out a mile in them on a wet March day
at Heathrow airport.'

Fellano gabbled something else in Spanish, and
Moustache took them off, giving Stegs a dirty look as he did
so. Stegs ignored him. 'I'll be back in a mo, Paulie, all right?
Just stay here and keep these two company.'

Yokes looked at the two silent Colombians watching him
from the far wall, then back at his partner. 'Don't be long,'
he said.

Ten minutes,' Stegs answered. Ten minutes max.'

No-one spoke in the lift down to the ground floor, and when
the doors opened, Stegs hung back while the two Colombians
walked through the busy reception area and out of the
rear doors that led directly into the hotel's car park. After
spending a few seconds perusing a selection of the day's
newspapers and magazines that were laid out on a low
mahogany table, he walked casually in the direction they'd
taken.

It was raining steadily outside and the cloud cover was so
grey and thick that the day was almost dark. Only a handful
of people were scattered about, and they were mainly
businessmen, hurrying along under umbrellas, so immersed
in their working lives that not one of them even glanced up
as he passed.

He walked between the rows of parked cars and made his
way towards the back of the car park, keeping ten or twelve
yards behind the Colombians, watching for anyone who
looked out of place. A middle-aged man in jeans and a
Barbour jacket getting out of his car caught his eye, but the
man looked away without interest, and the moment passed.

When the two Colombians got to the last row of cars,
parked against a high brick wall that marked the car park's
boundary some fifty yards from the hotel, Fellano looked left
and right as nonchalantly as possible, then back at Stegs.
Stegs smiled like he knew them both, then quickened his pace
and caught up, walking between the two of them without
speaking as they approached a new metallic-blue BMW 7
Series. A typical high-end dealer's car. It made Stegs wonder
whether BMW approved of the fact that so many of its customers
were involved in the illicit drugs trade. Perhaps one
day they'd end up sponsoring crack dens.

Fellano stopped three feet from the back of the car and
deactivated the alarm.

Upstairs in the hotel room, Yokes Vokerman paced nervously,
trying to ignore the two other men in the room as they
watched him boredly; one by the door, the other against the
opposite wall. Yokes had expected there to be the usual
to-ing and fro-ing, as there always was on a big deal like this
one, but he hadn't wanted to be the one left up here with the
Colombians while Stegs went walkabout. It had happened
before of course, them being split up on an op. More than
once, since nobody ever took you at your word in the drugs
game; except this time, it shouldn't have happened. They'd
been told by the handlers to bring the money into the room

with them, but instead had opted to keep it back, thinking it
would show they were serious buyers (i.e. distrustful) if they
turned up without it. Which was now looking more and more
like a mistake. This meeting had been in the making for
weeks, months even. The Colombians had their credentials,
knew their backgrounds - their pedigree in the importation
game - and there'd already been a test purchase of a kilo, for
which they'd handed over twenty grand. And still they
didn't seem satisfied.

Since he and Stegs had arrived more than an hour ago,
they'd been thoroughly searched, before undergoing a long
and repetitive sequence of questions from Fellano about
deals they'd done, people they were meant to know, etc. The
Colombian had been trying to read them, to probe for weakness,
not so much in their accounts of themselves, but in their
characters, and Yokes was beginning to convince himself that
the reason for this was that he was on to them. Knew who
they were and was working out what to do about it. Fellano
was a ruthless man. He had a reasonably good reputation in
the marketplace (as much as anyone who sells hard drugs has
a reasonably good reputation), but cross him - give him any
reason to doubt you - and you could expect no mercy. Vokes
had heard a rumour once that Fellano had personally cut the
tongue out of a police informant's mouth back in Cali, and
had replaced it with the man's penis. It wasn't a thought he
wanted to dwell on.