STATUS DRIFT: A gripping undercover detective crime thriller, page 8
The lift arrives. I usher her in ahead of me. She accepts with a gracious nod and turn of her head. She has to be in her seventies, and she hasn’t succumbed to surgery to maintain her physique and skin clarity. She clearly works out and from the muscle tone I would say a regular yogi. She has a calm presence. Nothing more is said as the lift glides down. The floor stops moving with a light bump. The voice announces our arrival and indicates the doors are about to open.
‘Have a lovely evening.’ It’s all I had to offer by way of goodbye as the lift doors open and she strides out into the foyer.
‘Likewise. Enjoy your night clubbing.’ She gives me a sly wink and the concierge opens the main door.
I follow her and see she’s heading for a taxi across the street.
‘Would you mind if I took your arm? I’m not as steady in these shoes as I used to be but still love a heel.’
I can’t refuse. She takes my arm. I feel like an escort.
My attire is fitting for the occasion. I smile at the concierge as we exit and head for the taxi. It’s pulled up near the roadside. Four ways flashing. A passing overground train echoes in the distance. The traffic is stationary as we begin crossing the road towards the taxi. As I approach, I ask where she’s going so I can tell the driver. I near the car and turn to the driver’s open window. Car horns become lively.
The headlights of the approaching car are the first things that alert me to the outside world closing in. The second thing is that it’s on the footway. The vehicle careers straight through the old dear. I instinctively roll over the cab’s bonnet. There’s screaming, chaos, people are running down into the tube station. I’m on the road. I see reverse lights heading towards me at speed. I roll under the taxi as the lights become blinding and collide with the bonnet of the cab. I carry on rolling and exit the underside of the car onto the road that’s now congested.
The ramming car has left. It’s back up on the pavement and away. I get up, surrounded by a crowd. No one is helping me. All eyes are on the lifeless body of the woman on the pavement. I can see blood. Lots of it and a bare foot. The other encased in a heeled shoe. I move away. My body aches but I’m unhurt. My clothes have taken a beating but that’s just the jacket. Sirens echo. Time slows. The doors to the MI6 building are locked down. I know this wasn’t a terrorist attack. It was meant for me.
I have to leave. If the police link me later, I will claim shock. I’m guilty by association of helping the poor woman to her death. I buy a bottle of water and snap out four more Tramadol. I down them all. I check around me. I need to move away from the area as cordons are being thrown up. A black cab is turning. I hail it and he pulls over. ‘Euston, please.’
The cabbie stops at Euston station. A nearby club has an AC/DC tribute band on. Let There Be Rock is reverberating around the bar. The alcohol is making my head feel light but I’m in control of my senses. The band is good and the air guitar playing from a corner of the room is being gratefully received. The Angus Young wannabe has the shorts and school tie with no shirt and curly hair. He’s good enough for me to stay for Whole Lotta Rosie, another Scotch, and a drink with a bar leaner. My phone vibrates. I check the screen. Razor’s number is up. I press green and step outside.
‘Yes?’
‘I take it you don’t give a shit about your bike? I’ve arranged for its crushing in the next twenty minutes unless you appear with the cash. What’s that shit in the background?’
‘Keep your hair on. I keep my own time. I’ll see you in ten. Make sure your door goons don’t wind me up.’
I kill the phone, finish my drink and say goodbye to the company at the bar. She smiles and turns back to the band. I don’t blame her. Where I’m going sounds like a right barrel of laughs. I know where my bike is and it isn’t at a scrapyard.
12
I get another cab to drop me at the venue. The driver is thankful we’ve reached the final destination after my insistence on random stops along the route. As long as he gets paid, he doesn’t see any issue in stopping where I ask him. I alight into shops whilst he waits. He had no intention of leaving me as I’ve paid up front and he liked the look of the notes. I take out my phone and back everything up to the SIM card and ensure nothing is left on the handset. I wipe all my messages, call logs and reset the phone to factory settings. The cab driver pulls up outside a red door. I look over the cab’s roof at a tasteful neon sign announcing the club’s entrance. The driver wishes me a good evening and leaves to fleece another fare. I knock on the door and Snowy greets me.
He’s dressed in the standard-issue black shirt, long black coat and black gloves of a door operative. He’s not smiling. It’s his door and domain. He invites me over the threshold. Once inside, he indicates I raise my arms for the obligatory pat-down. He only does the top half and waist. I haven’t called Winter. I’ll do that when I get the opportunity. Her team will have seen me go through the door though. You couldn’t miss me, as there was no queue to talk of; the entrance being in a side street off the Euston Road. You’d have to know about the place to bother checking it out.
The hall is deceptively wide with one entrance in and out at this level. Snowy leads me down a flight of stairs to a relaxed drinking lounge. The clientele are wealthy and well turned out. The decor is tasteful and not what I expected from Razor. There are no pictures of motorbikes, only framed mug shots of visiting celebrity attendees. It oozes class. Long sofas of red leather line the room’s walls, with low drinks tables in front. The wooden floor is varnished oak that clicks as the high heels of the female waitresses stride over the boards. The table service is conducted by the kind of people you’d expect to see in a fine art gallery.
The bar complements the minimalist style of the room. No beer pumps here. Clearly not a drink of the trade. Champagne, wines of many denominations and liquors are the beverages of choice. I’m struggling to see Razor with any links to this venue, let alone owning it. He would suit a bar in the East End and not appear out of place. Snowy nods towards a connecting door. I follow his lead. No one glances in our direction or has any interest in who I am. If you’re in here then you’re meant to be in here and that’s enough for them.
Snowy pauses at the door and presses the intercom twice before entering. The door is soundproofed. If police were to raid this place you’d need the rapid entry team to mechanically force the doorframe with the giant can openers. I follow Snowy in. Razor is sitting in a brown leather Regency-style chair smoking a cigar. He’s dressed in a smart two-piece suit, open-neck white shirt, gold neck chain, and watch to match. He’s increased the jewellery on his hands but hasn’t gone overboard.
He nods towards an identical chair opposite him. Snowy remains at the door. The room is as big as Mike’s living room. The street entrance deceptively denies the volume of space behind it. Razor has a private bar area and staff. The staff are motioned to leave.
‘What will you drink?’ Razor’s up and behind the bar, sweeping his hand along a host of shorts on display.
‘The Dalmore, straight, no ice.’
He finds the bottle, dispenses a decent measure of the twenty-four-year-old single malt into a crystal glass, and hands it to me as he sits back down. He says nothing of my choice. I can tell by his face – pouring that hurt.
Razor’s in good form. ‘It’s a good night to be here. Indie music night, love it!’
He’s smiling at me. I raise my glass in acknowledgement of his hospitality. My options are limited here. I can’t get out any other way than the one I came in, and that’s blocked at the present time.
Razor nods at Snowy. Snowy hesitates before leaving but gets the message and does one. Just Razor and myself grace the room now. I say nothing. I was always taught it’s impolite to break silence. The other person may be deep in thought and wouldn’t be appreciative of the invasion. It also gives me time to mull over various strategies for the evening. Kat isn’t here.
Razor breaks the silence.
‘I didn’t think you’d have the bottle to show. Do you have the money?’
I remain impassive and twitch my upper lip towards my nose. ‘Yeah, I have the money. Do you have my bike?’
He throws me the keys and I catch them. He’s added a key fob with the number of the club on. Tasteful.
‘It’s out back. I’ll have one of my lads stick it in the van and bring it back to you.’
I wait until he’s finished his drink before replying.
‘I want to see it before I give you the money.’
‘Fair enough. I’d be the same in your position, especially as you’re sitting there like a cocky little cunt thinking it’s never moved.’
He’s got a smile on him that would make a Harley Street dentist orgasm. He’s swept the bike and found the tracker I’d placed under the seat. I focus on my breathing, remain calm, assured, and wait for him to confirm my thoughts.
‘We found a tracker under the seat. Shitty little device you can buy online. What interests me is why you’d have it on there? If I were in your position, I’d have one the police could access remotely to find where the bike is, or better still just get a new one. So, what’s the deal?’
He chugs on his Cuban and smoke swirls around his assured, overconfident face.
I get up and walk to the bar. He indicates with a nod that I can help myself. I do just that. He places his hand on top of his glass. I wander over to a signed picture of Liam and Noel Gallagher with Razor. Razor’s in the middle with his tongue out, arms around them both whilst holding two bottles of beer.
‘Nice picture. I came here to honour a gentlemen’s agreement, not to be questioned as to how I keep tabs on where my transport is.’
Razor’s by my side. He guides me to another picture. This one’s of Lemmy, a decanter of whisky in his mouth like a baby’s bottle, winking at the camera.
Razor continues his guided tour. ‘Those little fuckers didn’t know how to party like that man. Now he knew how to have a good time. Him and his band drunk me dry but what a night. Club was packed out, floor took a battering, bar took a restock I haven’t seen since he died. He would always come here when he was in London. It was a place he could relax, be himself and get wasted. Now, I know a man who knows what he likes when I see one. You had bottle to take on Snowy at the café. It didn’t go unnoticed. No man who’s a pussy would do that or have two grand ready to offer at short notice unless he had a decent income stream. So take the plug out of your arse, let’s introduce ourselves properly, and I’ll show you your bike. You can stick the two grand behind the bar and have some fun.’
Razor has his meaty hand on my shoulder, patting it like he would a dog. There’s presence in his application of skin on fabric.
I turn and face him and hold out my hand. ‘Sky’s my name.’
He has my hand in a shake. Both of us applying enough pressure so as not to intimidate but try and find a level playing field. He could have had me robbed on arrival, beaten to a pulp and dumped as a lesson. He hasn’t. I take that as a good sign.
‘Friends call me Razor on account of me always having a close shave.’ His head rears back as he belly laughs at his own joke.
I smile in reciprocity.
‘Right then, let’s go and party shall we, Sky?’
‘Yes, Razor, let’s do that.’
Snowy opens the door and I follow down some carpeted stairs towards the basement. A code activates one set of doors and the sheer weight of them opening provides a suction that you’d expect on a vault. The door closes and I can hear music from beyond another door at the far side of a clean, white-seated area we’ve entered that mirrors the bar upstairs.
This area is slick and designed as a place to kick back. Orange pod chairs with sofas to match and his favoured small drinking tables are the only furniture. The bar is white with a marble top. You’d expect it to feel cold but the decoration gives the illusion of being in an ice cave. A fleet of women all dressed like they’ve stepped off a Paris catwalk greets Razor. These aren’t staff; they’re here for the fun.
Razor walks towards the bar, leans over to the barman and speaks into his ear. I notice the barman glance over to me and nod. He reaches down below the bar and brings up a small steel box, which he hands to Razor, who brings it over to where I’ve decided to sit. Razor joins me and the barman follows shortly after with a double Dalmore, as I like it. Razor has straight vodka. I’d watched the barman make the drinks and there was no sign of foul play. Nevertheless, I swirl it and sniff before I drink it. Razor notices, smiles, raises his eyes and pushes the box towards me.
‘Stick all your phones in here. House rules. No signal down here and no photos are allowed for your Facebook wall. You keep the key and get it when you leave. The box is kept in a safe in my office.’
I take out my only phone and break it open and keep the SIM card. Everything is stored on there. I put the broken-up phone in the box and put the card in my wallet. Razor doesn’t break a smile. He hands the box to the barman who goes to the door to take it upstairs.
The doors to the main floor open and there is Kat. She strides over to where we are seated, nods at me and bends down towards Razor. After a brief conversation, for his ears only, he gets up and adjusts his jacket.
‘Right, son, let’s go and have some fun.’
I get up as he pauses at the door. The sound’s dim. The opening bars to Fuckin’ in the Bushes fill the auditorium. Razor strides in and starts shaking hands with those who reach towards him. Others are pumping the sky to the beat of the track whilst Razor is busy nodding his head to the rhythm as he enters his arena like a gladiator. Kat is at his side; her eyes scan the room as she pushes people aside as Razor makes his way towards a sectioned area at the far side of the room.
The music is bouncing off the acoustic foamed walls. I have never experienced anything like this before. There must be three hundred people dancing, jumping and partying. The dress code is relaxed. Drug taking is open and evident. It’s a blizzard in here and no one gives a shit, as they’re all stoned or getting that way. There’s a staged area that hosts the DJ. She’s swaying her headphone-adorned head like a hippy in a trance. Fuckin’ in the Bushes slips into I Am the Resurrection and a party of blokes that could have come straight from a rugby pitch lifts Razor into the middle of the dance floor. The atmosphere is energised. The room is a swirl of lights and flowing fabric as bodies move with the music. I join the party now the Tramadol has taken hold and the alcohol warms my blood. For once I feel alive and go with the flow. I need to be trusted, and pissing off the host acting like a prude won’t achieve that. I have no idea of time and don’t care. I need to shake off the shit and bathe in the city’s sweat.
Hindu Times bashes my brain. My voice croaks the lyrics with Razor as the surge of the dance floor swells with heat and tears. The air-conditioning does a job cooling my face and as the start of Fools Gold fires up I’m lost in a haze of ritualistic energy and delirium. I manage to remain standing. The crowd aren’t boisterous enough to knock me down. I can feel someone’s arse against mine. The touch is brief. It’s Kat. This time she’s dragging a comatose guy out towards a set of doors at the back of the dance floor. The doors are flung open and he’s transferred to two minders. The doors shut. A separate pair of door hangers block the exit, fingers pressed against their earpieces. No one alters what they’re doing and they all carry on dancing or indulging in their drug of choice. Razor waves at me to follow him to the side of the dance floor. The people part. I follow behind him and we enter a glass room. The volume subsides to a level where it’s easy to speak.
A different barman appears. We take a seat and look out on the crowd. The same drinks are left with a bottle of water and a menu. I take the menu, as does Razor, and we both sit and survey what’s on offer. There are others in the booth, a young Arab and a couple of henchmen drink orange juice and water and enjoy watching the show from the confines of the glass cell.
‘So do you like what you see?’
‘Yeah. It’s a great place. You’ve done well.’ I’m too conscious of the company we are keeping to have any fruitful conversation. I sense Razor can take a guess at my thinking.
‘Everyone here has a secret. They pay two grand a week for membership to come here and enjoy that secret. I have three rules: No weapons, nonces or phones. There’s a diverse cross section of society who enjoy the ambience and relaxed atmosphere. What goes on here stays here. Any loose lips get dealt with accordingly. I’m making you aware of that now so there’s no misunderstanding when you leave.’
‘Understood. So what’s with your woman there, the one who was at the café? Is she your wife, mistress?’
‘Kat? Neither. She’s head of my security. Fucking good at the job too. Stunning and cunning all in one beautiful package. I have enemies, plenty of them. You don’t get this far in life and make none. Now you’ve asked a question, it’s my turn. What’s your business?’
I take a sip of water and maintain eye contact. ‘I’m retired. Took a hit in the army and got paid out. I invested the money well and live off the returns.’
He’s not convinced. I don’t like the way this is going.
‘Don’t bullshit me, son. I’ve been around the block more times than a blind sprinter. Your return would have to be fucking high to be able to blow two grand just like that. You approached for a reason yesterday. You either come out with what you want or I’ll see you out myself.’
He motions to Kat who comes into the room. He whispers in her ear and she goes to the Arabs. They vacate the room without hassle or argument.
She shows the men to another member of staff and remains in the room positioned at the door. I notice she’s wearing an earpiece. There’s little option available to me. Either I try to leave and the whole job is blown, or I front it out and see how we go. I choose the latter.
‘The truth? I like your bodyguard and followed her into the café to get her attention. What happened after that was an error on my part for which I’m here to apologise.’
