"Nothing. Nothing to do with me," Dale moaned.
"The diary was taken, Dale. Where me and Mr. Cook writes notes for each other. Like the note I wrote saying you should have your ass kicked out. With that diary gone, he had no idea. No one did."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"How about these tins?" he snapped, sawing away.
"I don't know."
"You don't know how they got in your boot? You don't know why you stole them? Only they're not really stolen, are they? Because you made some kind of cash buy from the driver, but not for us. Not for the supermarket. Got your own market stall somewhere, Dale?"
Dale said nothing.
Jimmy had sliced off the lid and now he upended the tin, spraying syrup and coconut meat all over the other crates stacked in the boot.
Only it wasn't coconut meat. Two clear bags of white powder, fist sized, lay on a crate in a pool of sugary gel. He was no expert, but TV cop thrillers had educated the masses over the years, and he knew he was looking at either heroin or cocaine. A lot of it in just those two bags, crammed into a tin. And there were a lot of tins.
***
"So you were very smart," Victor said. "I say were, because the moment you took my cocaine, that made you very stupid. Where is it?"
Jimmy ignored the question. "It's a great set-up. You run a foods company, so the tins will not be suspect. You have the infrastructure in place to get them around the world, maybe with just a few guys in place along the path to make sure the right tins go to the right places. Then you buy off some guys in the shops to take the deliveries and remove the tins containing drugs. Nice."
Victor seemed happy to have his skills acknowledged. "Exactly. We make the tins, so they're not doctored. And we have real coconut meat tins, too, so if any are searched for whatever reason, it all stands up. Glad you approve. The guys in the shops, though, aren't bought off. They're low level gang members who get the jobs specifically. Sometimes the original employees are a bit clumsy, if you get my point. A broken leg here, a snapped arm there, and suddenly there's a vacancy."
Jimmy thought. He remembered that Dale had been hired because the guy who had his job before had suffered a spine injury in some car crash. Engineered, then. Dale had been one of only three applicants, so maybe others with interest in the position had been scared off. Maybe the three had all been Hartbauer's men, making it unimportant who actually got the job. That was months ago. Had Dale been doctoring the deliveries and unloading cocaine for all that time? Certainly he had had the Friday night warehouse shift for that long.
"So that was why I was targeted. Not because I stumbled upon your operation, but simply because I was going to recommend that the guy you put in place got fired. Just that. No real big deal, and not really a spanner in your works, because you could have arranged for another guy to get the job. A slight hiccough, but enough in your brain to warrant murder. Nice."
"And if I was planning to put you in the ground because of something so simple, imagine what lengths I'll go to against a guy who steals all my cocaine. Maybe you should imagine that and then tell me, right now, what you did with my property."
"And Alfo the Destroyer? He got in the way somehow, too. That was why you hired Chopper."
Victor laughed. "Hired you, you mean. That was some kind of fluke bad luck. I tried to imagine your face when you opened that file and saw yourself. Good luck for you, though. Any other way, you wouldn't have had the first clue, and you'd be as dead as you're going to be if you don't give me my cocaine right now."
"Alfo. What did he do?"
Victor ignored the question. He gave a nod, and the guys who had hold of Jimmy forced him to his knees. He arms went behind his back, pulled and held tight.
"I'm not about to explain everything to you, Marsh. Alfo got greedy, let's leave it at that. He supplied the lowlifes this end, but he had a small territory and I cover a lot of big ones. Yours isn't the only place in London that takes my deliveries, and Alfo isn't - wasn't - the only gang leader I work with. The others are happy with the deal I have in place with them, and today they're still walking and breathing. And if they decide to take the piss with me, then I'll hire another of your ilk to erase the problem. And next time I won't try to skimp and save by hiring some local hitman. Look at the problem that caused me." He gave another nod and a third guy moved into position. Some pre-arranged routine. The man held a gun, which he pressed against Jimmy's forehead.
"Three seconds," Victor said. "Then you won't know what tomorrow brings."
"I'll know part of it. I see it already. You and your henchmen searching bins and gutters, trying to find the cocaine."
"One."
"We can do a deal."
"Two."
"I just want to be left alone."
"Three," Victor said, and the gun jerked in the goon's hand. Jimmy flinched. Others made shocked sounds. But no bullet had been fired, at least from that weapon. The gunman was staggering around, clutching his hand, moaning. Everyone else froze. Nobody had heard a gunshot, but all knew that the bullet that ripped the gun from their colleague's hand had been fired from a tower far away, by the hand of a man proficient at long-range murder.
Jimmy had dropped the phone when he flinched. It lay on the ground before everyone as a centrepiece. And it was still on speakerphone.
"The deal was I end him," said Einar's voice. "The next guy to try something want to step up?"
Nobody stepped up. In fact, they backed off some more. Victor, unfazed, moved close enough to reach down and snatch up the phone. He too then backed away.
"You'll get your chance, Einar." He said into the phone. Then to Jimmy: "Now, where were we? Oh yes. A deal. You think I'll let you go and trust you to stay silent?" He laughed.
"I don't care about drugs," Jimmy said. "You can even carry on bringing them to my place. I don't care about that. I just want to go home with my wife and kid and not worry about being shot in the head."
"But you'd be silly to believe that. With what you know. I wouldn't trust a guy in my position. I'd worry that he was going to agree to the deal and then have me shot once he had his cocaine back."
"I don't care about the drugs. Seriously. I trust you will hold to your word. I'll hold to mine. Let me go, promise my family will be left alone, and I'll tell you where the drugs are kept."
"No. We'll take a drive. You included. Once I have the cocaine in my hands and no police are running at me, I'll cut you free. My word on that. Any tricks, you lose your head."
***
Jimmy's hands were bound behind his back with cable ties and he was hustled into one of the other cars, back seat, a guy either side of him. He saw someone drive his car away, then the Toyota left. His car went third, followed by the last one. They took the curving bridge, went right, hit the roundabout. He watched his car take the first exit, obviously going off somewhere to be crushed, or just dumped. The other cars took the second exit. The lead car contained the guy he'd given the postcode to.
It was a fifteen minute journey that missed the centre of London. They drove south along the east side of Hyde Park and took a left, and then a right. More turns, more straight roads, and then they were on a road lined with terraced houses, some of which had been converted into shops that would sell you a second hand pair of trousers and shops that would dry clean those trousers and others that would give you a loan against them. Other side of the road was a large patch of land barred by a temporary melded metal mesh fence set in big black support feet.
The land belonged to an old building, squat, square, dark brick, lots of windows, most smashed, some boarded over. In a space between the top two rows of windows there had once been a sign, ten big letters now gone but their ghostly residue visible: FFW VENEERS.
The cars stopped. Three cars in a line. Jimmy watched as Hartbauer exited his Toyota and stood at the fence. The slim guy who'd driven him got out also and lifted an edge of a fence panel from its support foot, pushing it open like a gian
t door. Then he stood back.
Jimmy was hauled out the car and taken towards the gap. Men crowded him, maybe just so nobody could see that he was tied. But there weren't many people around, and nobody seemed to care anyway. Just a bunch of guys, all but one in suits, looking at some derelict building, maybe just thinking about renovating it.
"Check it out," Hartbauer told two of his guys. In they went, squeezing through the gap. They rushed towards the ruined building, splitting up. Each man ran down a side and then round the back.
Hartbauer got on his phone. Jimmy could hear it ringing, but nobody answered. Hartbauer looked at the screen, perhaps to make sure he had dialled the right number. It went to voicemail. "Einar, where are you? Did you get the postcode? We're here. Call me."
Jimmy smiled.
Two minutes, and both men were back to report that they had seen no life inside. There was a big shutter round the back, cracked open four feet. They peeked in, but saw nothing untoward.
Hartbauer stepped in front of Jimmy. He looked like he wanted to say something, some final threat, maybe. Instead, he just stared at Jimmy, then moved away. Jimmy heard him speak to the slim man.
"I'll wait here. You lot go in. Watch him."
Jimmy made his move. He twisted, leaned forward, barged the nearest guy out of the way, and started running. Right towards Hartbauer. The big man jumped aside. Jimmy tried to weave between the Toyota and the car that had brought him here, but he was tackled to the ground. As he fell, he twisted again, landing hard on the bonnet of the pick-up truck with a clang. Two seconds later he was gripped by many hands and held upright. Hartbauer moved in front of him.
"You're going to trick me," Jimmy said. "Once you get the drugs, you'll' kill me and leave me in that building."
Hartbauer stepped away, saying, "Go get my property."
Jimmy was hustled through the gap and across the wasteland. Marched alongside the building and to the shutter round back. It was tall, thin, rusted, covered in graffiti. The gap was a black letterbox between the bottom and the ground, like a mouth waiting to swallow them. He was pushed ahead, a hand on his neck, bending him, feeding him into that mouth.
***
The place was gutted. It had pillars of stone peeling paint, portions missing from the walls, graffiti and dust everywhere. There were holes in the floor where machinery had been bolted and then ripped up. Jimmy had checked out his place online. Built in the 1930s, it had been used during the second world war to produce veneers for Spitfire cockpits. Various other enterprises had taken residence since the war, but the place had stood empty for the last eight years. And it looked untouched for all that time, apart from the graffiti and signs of foot traffic in the dust. Trash was everywhere, but lines like rivers of concrete had been cleared to allow the passage of people valleys. In the corners, the trash was in bags and heaped high, as if some kind of attempt had been made to clean up, although most likely it was just the stuff removed to create the pathways. But there were too many bags, so maybe people knew about this place and used it as a tip. But all that was quickly shifted from Jimmy's mind as he was dragged and nudged and pushed towards a wall where there was a set of stone steps leading up. They moved under a big, square aperture in the ceiling. If a hoist had resided there, all the mechanisms and components had long gone. Below, there was a table set upright and neat amongst the trash, and on it were rubber ducks with metal loops on their backs.
The slim guy, who someone had called Jeremy, sent two of the bruisers up the stairs first. They came back seconds later, gave a nod, and then everyone else went up.
On this floor the windows had drapes, big black sheets of some material like weed control fabric. It was much darker up here because of it. All black except for a dim square of light from the aperture and tall portions of thicker black that Jimmy knew were the pillars. Another set of stairs began close to where the first set ended, leading up to the third and final floor. But Jimmy said,
"Here, this floor, near the back."
"He says we're close," Jeremy said into his mobile phone. "Place is empty, pitch black, though."
He had been keeping Hartbauer abreast of their every movement. Before now, just updates for a curious man. Now, though, Jeremy sounded concerned.
"Okay," he said, slightly dejected. Just then a light came on as one of the bruisers fired up the flashlight on his phone. Jeremy stomped across to him and snatched it away, killed the light.
"We move unseen," he said.
They moved slowly. As they closed on the centre of the room, chairs exposed themselves, knitting out of the dark. Five or six arranged around the aperture. And on the floor by them, fishing rods.
"Hook a duck," one of the bruisers said, giggling. "Kids."
"Keeps them from stabbing each other in parks," another said. Jeremy whispered for them both to shut up. He moved close to Jimmy, behind, and snaked an arm around his neck, holding him like a human shield. "What's back there," he said into Jimmy's ear. He clearly didn't trust this whole thing.
"There's a bag in the corner," Jimmy said. "Will I definitely be let go after this?"
"Go yank those window covers," Jeremy barked in a whisper at one of the bruisers.
The bruiser rushed away. No trash up here, so he made quick time. Vanished right into the dark. A few moments later light pushed through a window as the bruiser yanked the blind. He was a silhouette against the big, broken window.
Another silhouette moved into the frame. They merged like living shadows, and a scream rang out, girly for such a big man.
"Fucking trap!" another bruiser yelled.
Then there was a gunshot.
***
THE NIGHT BEFORE
Jimmy parked in the spot where he'd exit from a vehicle some ten hours later. The night was empty, although he could hear rough male voices a house across the road. He threw a bag over the fence and climbed after it. He walked upright and confident towards the old warehouse, certain he was unobserved but taking no chances. If anyone was watching, he didn't want to seem suspicious. He walked just like what he was: a man with a purpose here.
He slipped alongside the building, looking at all the windows. If he didn't find a door to enter through, he would crack some boards from a window and slip in that way. But a door would be better.
Around back, he found the open shutter was open four feet. He wasted no time and ducked under.
The warehouse was almost pitch black, but he could see flickering light from the ceiling, where there seemed to be a big square hole. He moved slowly towards it, careful not to make a sound by crushing a discarded drinks can or empty crisps packet. When he got within just a few metres, he was aware of thin lines in the dark, dangling down from the hole. From this angle he could see a small portion of the upper floor. Two black men illuminated by firelight were sitting in chairs with fishing rods. Below the hole, their lines dangled, hooks trying to snare one of a number of rubber ducks on a table.
He knelt, silent, still, watching. Now and then one of the guys he saw leaned forward to peer down to adjust his aim. But mostly they sat back, just chilling like fishermen, no serious intent on the game. Maybe if a duck was hooked by a swinging line and dragged, the tension would alert the man holding the rod and he'd yank up his catch and whoop with glee. But that didn't happen, and the guys just sat there, eroding time.
Someone said something funny and Jimmy heard at least six voices bellow with laughter that echoed around the upper floor. Nobody was looking down right then, he figured. He stepped forward and grabbed a dangling line and pulled.
"What the fuck?" he heard someone shout. The fishing rod clattered through the hole and clumped to the ground. He heard a chair scrape against concrete. Laughter broke again, until the same shocked voice said, "There's some fucker down there."
Jimmy dropped his bag and raised his hands, staring up at a bunch of heads poking down through the aperture. On the far side he saw two guys kneeling, but closest to him the heads were upside down. r />
Then all hell broke loose. Someone cocked a gun and aimed it at him. Another told him not to move, while another voice screamed that he was a dead man. Footsteps, at least three sets, thundered across the roof, away from him. Moments later, he saw human-shaped clumps of dark piling down the stairs against the far wall.
He swept the table free of ducks and lay bent over it, hands behind his head.
"I'm here to help, here to help, here to help," he yelled over the shouting. He repeated it as the men closed on him, as hands grabbed him, as he was carried away. He was roughly handled up the stairs, arms and legs held, carried bodily. "I came alone, I came to help you," he bellowed.
The upper floor was bare apart from the chairs around the hole and an inflatable child's paddling pool full of cans of, presumably, alcohol. Jimmy could see quite well because the windows here, while mostly broken, were not boarded over, although there were rolls of black cloth nailed above like drapes. Moonlight turned squares of the dusty floor white, while light from a brazier with high flames tossed the shadows of the men shadows across the walls. Seemed like a nice place to chill at night, and that was what one man was doing. He hadn't erupted from his chair like the others, which put him down as some kind of leader. The men carrying him wore bright colours in plastic, like kaleidoscopic tracksuits, but the guy lounging in the only padded chair wore jeans and a pullover. He was black like the others and had cornrows and a trimmed full beard. He stood as the group carrying Jimmy got close and dumped him on his back. Someone slid his neck and shoulders over the aperture. Two men put a heavy foot on a thigh each. Jimmy was balanced there over the hole, forced to use his abdominal muscles to stay supine. He looked up as the leader stood over him.
"So who the fuck are you, bleach one?" he said. He had a thick Cockney accent. London all his life.
"Check the bag first," Jimmy said. "You'll like what you see."
The guy didn't bat an eyelid, but Jimmy heard someone rummaging in the bag. He heard tins clattering together.
"Idiot wants to buy us off with tinned fruit, Leo," said one. Jimmy relaxed slightly at hearing the man's name. Leo. The guy he needed.
"Open one," Jimmy said. "Tin opener's in there. Check it out."