I asked for the bill and went for my wallet.

  "Don't bother with a tip. They've included twelve percent."

  "Bit cheeky."

  "They don't want cash on the table."

  "Well, they're bloody well getting it." No way was I paying with a credit card, not when the statements came to the house. If I'd learned anything from the Jim Beam fiasco, it was to keep the paper trail to a minimum.

  The waiter didn't mention the cash. He just did that thing posh waiters normally did when they thought you were a scally – he became obsequious to the point of sarcasm. I took the twelve percent back and he shut up. I helped Lucy with her jacket and caught a whiff that made me close my eyes for an instant – wine and perfume – before we hung close to each other in order to navigate our way out of the restaurant. The wine hit harder when it came with fresh air and we got a little giggly. I couldn't drive her back, not with this much booze in my bloodstream – last thing I wanted to do was hit any more animals on the way home – so we headed for Piccadilly and the nearest cab rank.

  I stopped by the rank and took some more money out of my wallet. In the corner of my eye, a Lexus pulled up close to the rank.

  I held up the money. "For a cab."

  Lucy smiled and put a hand on my arm. "You don't have to do that."

  "I can't leave you out here, can I?"

  "It's two-thirty in the afternoon."

  "I know. Murderers are out at this time of day."

  She laughed and moved closer. "You could come back, you know."

  Her eyes were wide and dark with the booze. There was a touch of colour in her cheeks. The way her small teeth appeared just behind her bottom lip made me want to answer in the positive and to hell with good intentions.

  And that was when I heard the voice, a heavy accent calling from nearby: "Mr Slater?"

  I looked away from her to see an Asian bloke coming my way. Well-dressed, groomed in the way only Asian blokes can manage without looking gay – the thin, sculpted facial hair, the scar line through the eyebrow. He smiled with all of his teeth and appeared to approve of Lucy's outfit. I found myself holding her a little closer than comfort allowed.

  "Alan," she said.

  "It's alright."

  "Mr Slater," said the Asian bloke again. "My name is Rizwan."

  I didn't say anything.

  "I'm Mr Ahmad's driver. He'd like a word with you if that's possible."

  I studied the bloke. He was youngish, too clean to have done any prison time. Certainly too polite. Nothing on his hands, nothing in his hands. Nothing under that jacket, either, unless it was tailored specifically. And if it was, he wouldn't be able to dip in without undoing at least one button. But this was probably the bloke Beale saw at the game. Beale always felt threatened by blokes like this no matter what they did. Part and parcel of being a racist prick was the fear of apparent success.

  "It's not me he needs to speak to."

  "He is aware of that. He would like your help."

  I hailed a cab for Lucy. The Hackney drew up and she got in. I made a move to join her and felt a strong hand on my arm.

  "Please, Mr Slater. This won't take long."

  I looked at the hand, then back at Rizwan. He was still smiling.

  "I don't have anything to say to him."

  "Then I'd very much appreciate it if you could be the one to tell him that."

  I looked back at Lucy and tried to keep calm. I backed off, shut the cab door. Rizwan released his grip. I watched Lucy and she watched me as the cab pulled away.

  "Alright." I nodded at the Lexus. "Let's get this over with."

  21

  If the idea was to take me up a back alley and beat the shit out of me, then Rizwan hadn't been told. He had the radio on low, playing some dance music that I didn't like and wasn't supposed to, and he chattered the whole time about the restaurant. Apparently, he was a bit of a foodie, and a big fan of Michael Caines.

  "It was Great British Menu that did it for me. He's only ever done it twice as a contestant, but that was enough for me. I like to experiment, myself. I took his galantine of quail spiked with raisins, served with a walnut salad, and I swapped out the raisins for sultanas, made the walnut into a full Waldorf salad, and it was a belter. He's a hell of a chef in my opinion. But then you don't get two Michelin stars for sitting on your arse, do you?"

  He smiled at me in the rear view. I attempted a smile back.

  "So how was the food? You never told me."

  "It was good."

  "What did you have?"

  I told him.

  "How much?"

  "Forty quid a head."

  "Oof. Get what you pay for, mind. You can't get that kind of class anywhere, you know."

  I nodded. He turned onto Regent Road. Up ahead was the Riverside, and he appeared to be heading straight for it.

  "Where is Mr Ahmad?"

  "In the casino waiting for us."

  "I don't have a membership."

  "That's okay, I'll just sign you in."

  And he did. The receptionist beamed at him in a way that made me think they knew each other. Even security cracked a smile. We passed through the glass reception like air, and Rizwan led the way to a man I spotted from the moment we crossed the threshold. Just as Beale described him, Ahmad was a tall, elegant Bollywood villain. He wore a light suit, had a heavy Selleck and hair down to his collar. As we drew closer, I caught the flash from his hand. Closer still, and the shine came from two large gold rings on his right hand. When he saw us, he smiled and showed more gold in his mouth. He nodded to one of the valets, a little platinum blonde with a face like a turtle, and held up two fingers. She scuttled off to the kitchen. He stood when I was within handshake distance and we did just that. He had a businessman's shake: warm, dry-palmed and firm.

  "Mr Slater," he said. "Very pleased to meet you. Do take a seat. I've ordered coffee for us."

  He gestured to the blue bucket chair next to him and I sat down. Ahmad nodded to Rizwan, who then made himself scarce. The place was almost empty, and only a few of the tables were open. Listless, half-dead dealers spun up for single punters. The music was the same kind of MOR sub-Lighthouse Family bollocks they played in all the other clubs, the musical equivalent of those sugared waters – bearable until the nasty sweet aftertaste, which was just like the coffee the valet brought. Ahmad tipped her a couple of quid and she went away happy.

  "So what was it you wanted to talk about?"

  "I'm sure you know."

  "Beale?"

  "The fourteen thousand pounds."

  "That's his debt."

  A sideways nod in agreement. "Yes, but one he seems intent on not paying."

  "Well, he doesn't have the money to pay it, does he?"

  "You know that?"

  "It's obvious." I looked at Ahmad. "Isn't it?"

  Ahmad shifted position in the chair. He sipped his coffee and replaced cup and saucer on the small table between us. "Then we need to assess the situation."

  "You know where he lives."

  "Yes, I thought I did. He doesn't appear to be answering the door. Or his phone. And from what I could find out from his work—"

  "He hasn't been in since last Friday."

  "Correct. So I'm beginning to worry that something may have happened to him."

  "Certainly looks like that, doesn't it?"

  Ahmad leaned back in his seat and waited for me to say something. When I didn't, he shrugged and said, "So?"

  "So I don't know where he is any more than you do."

  "And when was the last time you saw him?"

  "You the police now?"

  He smiled and shook his head.

  "Then I don't have to tell you anything, do I?"

  The smile remained. "I was hoping this would be a civil discussion."

  "Is this where you threaten me, Mr Ahmad?"

  "I think you have the wrong impression."

  "Can you blame me?" I took out my mobile phone and dialled three nines. If this turned nasty, I wanted the police a little green button away.

  "I'm not a gangster, Mr Slater." He nodded to a stocky guy, tattooed up both arms, sat at the blackjack table, his eyes shadowed under a prominent brow. "That man over there, Mr Pollard, he's a gangster. He robs people. He breaks people's legs. He's a loan shark. He's a close personal friend who knows to keep his distance most of the time because unlike him, I'm a legitimate businessman."

  "Still sounds like you're threatening me."

  "Then you're you not listening. I just wanted to know if you'd heard from your friend."

  "If I had, I wouldn't tell you."

  Ahmad's face creased then. He regarded me as if he was surprised, but it was too much to be sincere. Then he relaxed into a low chuckle. "You're not aware of the full picture, are you?"

  I kept my thumb light on the green telephone. "Apparently not."

  "I'm not a stupid man, Mr Slater. I arrive at a game run by a man who lives in filth like a pig, I don't really expect him to have fourteen thousand pounds to spare."

  "Then you shouldn't have lent it to him."

  "Well, I didn't. Not just him. Mr Beale was happy to give me a second. And normally I don't accept a second if that second isn't present, but I made an exception in this case. I don't suppose I need to tell you who that second is."

  Because I was his safety net, even when I wasn't there. And I was doing much better than Beale, so I could probably afford it. It was a child's logic, and more fool Ahmad for believing it.

  I shook my head slowly. "His debt, he pays it. I didn't agree to be a second. You can't hold me to it."

  "I won't if I can find Mr Beale." Ahmad held up a hand before I could interrupt. "And in the case of any loan, there has to be some small compromise as to how that loan is repaid. Obviously, I'd prefer a one-off reconciliation, but if that isn't possible, then other terms can be arranged."

  "Like what?"

  Ahmad blew air. "It's entirely bespoke according to the debt. I'm willing to wait on a second mortgage if that's the easiest way of going about it."

  "Very kind of you. But if you want your money, you're going to have to work a bit harder. Call it the price you pay for setting him up."

  "Who set him up? I sat down for a straight game."

  "You had it all worked out with the lads beforehand."

  "I thought he had. If anyone was a mark at that table, Mr Slater, it was me. Your friend was playing erratically. I was suspicious of him for a while until I realised that he was just a terrible player with a gutter mouth." Another smile. "It was an absolute pleasure to take him for everything he had, given his obvious prejudice. But there was no set-up, Mr Slater, I can assure you of that. I make enough money to afford me the comfort of playing straight."

  "Something went wrong, though."

  "Yes, your friend got greedy and played emotionally." He reached for his coffee, rubbed two fingertips together as if he was dying for a cigarette. "Does he normally play like that?"

  "No," I lied. Unless I was along to keep him in check, he'd play like a pike. Sometimes it worked out for him. Most of the time it didn't. And I was starting to think that I was the mark here because I believed Ahmad when he said it wasn't a set-up. He hadn't gone to the game expecting to run a scam; he'd gone there thinking he was the target. And the only one who'd been played was Beale. Ahmad was a distraction, a focus for Beale while the dealers skinned him. All that bragging, all that bullshit about being a top salesman must've fallen into stark relief when they saw the state of his house, but it was already too late to call it off. If anything, it might've solidified their intention, their motivation now more revenge than pure monetary gain.

  And I had to admit, as plans went, it was one of the better ones. They'd pulled it off admirably. At least, most of them had.

  "I can also promise you that someone will pay that debt. If it isn't Mr Beale, it will be yourself, Mr Slater. So if you do know where he is, I'd very much appreciate a nod in the right direction. It would be a shame to have to draw this out unnecessarily."

  "What happens if he doesn't have the money?"

  "If you tell me where he is, I'm sure we'll be able to arrange something mutually beneficial. I don't particularly want to have to press the matter. The chief gratification was to skin a bigot. The money was and still is secondary, so how I get it back isn't the issue. I'll take his house or he can take a second mortgage on it. I'm willing to wait if I'm guaranteed payment. I'd rather not split the debt between you. It's more complicated logistically, and I'd probably need to bring in some experts." He glanced across at Pollard, who was now having a chinwag with Graham Ellis. I didn't know he worked here. He must've done something awful to end up on a Riverside day shift. The brief pleasure of imagining that prick up to his ears in debt was smothered by the fear that I'd be next. "So if you'd be kind enough to tell me where Mr Beale is, we can finish this."

  I looked at the nines on my mobile for a few seconds. I didn't have much choice in the matter. I deleted the nines and called Beale instead.

  "Alan?" He sounded groggy. He could have been pissed.

  "Where are you?"

  "I'm in the car. What's happened?"

  I glanced at Ahmad. He looked like a cat about to pounce, his pupils full and dark.

  "Nothing. I reckon we should probably catch up."

  "Did they find him?"

  "No. Not that I know of. Listen, shall we say the Commercial tonight?"

  Beale laughed. The sound had a rattle attached to it that didn't sound too healthy. "Yeah, aye, we should do that."

  "Say seven." I raised my eyebrows at Ahmad, who nodded. "Seven o'clock sharp. I'll get them in for when you arrive, okay?"

  "Okay." Beale cleared his throat. "Listen, I'm sorry about the other day. I shouldn't have lied to you."

  "It's okay."

  "Are we alright?"

  "Yeah, we're fine. We should probably sit down and talk it through."

  "Thanks, mate." He sounded emotional.

  "You've got nothing to thank me for."

  "No, I do. I'm in a bad way."

  "I know."

  "Any company's good, but yours is best."

  My chest hurt for no good reason. "Okay, then. I'll see you later."

  I killed the call. Any company was good. I hoped that was true because I wasn't going anywhere near the Commercial tonight. But I knew someone who would be more than happy to take my place.

  "Thank you, Mr Slater. I'll be in touch."

  22

  Beale called that night, a couple of times. I let it go to voicemail both times, and when he called again, I turned off my mobile. The next morning, I went through the messages and deleted them the second I heard his voice. Whatever he had to say, I didn't need to hear it.

  Instead, I spent a relaxing weekend with my wife, and we didn't argue once. It was good. It felt good. We took Buttons out for walks, ate out at a restaurant that Cath had seen reviewed in The Guardian, and I didn't notice the Asian blokes until we were on our way out, but even then they weren't a threat and the thought that they were following us just seemed bizarre. And yes, that smell still clung to the inside of the car, but we both ignored it, because that was what married couples did – they ignored things together until they went away.

  It got so that come Monday morning, the last thing I expected to see was Eric coming at me with a face like an undertaker. I had my leads, most of them immediate blow-outs, but a couple that might not have been with a little graft, and I was about to get a coffee to help me out onto the road, when Eric made his presence known, hanging off to one side and shivering like a dog outside a shop.

  This wasn't good. Eric was only ever the bearer of bad news.

  The first thing that came to mind was that I'd been sacked. I looked around to see if Jimmy Henderson was skulking in the shadows somewhere, because it was just like him to send a messenger. Henderson wasn't anywhere in sight, but I geared myself up for it anyway. I hammered the milk button and watched spit-like froth hiss into the cup. Maybe the sack was the best thing that could happen to me. Then I could dump these shit leads and be down the dole office by lunchtime. Less time than that, actually. I heard you could put your application in online now.

  But it wasn't the sack.

  "The police were here," said Eric quietly.

  I brought the coffee up and sipped it, mostly to hide my face. Still too hot to drink, so it scalded my lips and that was all. I tried to look interested and innocent at the same time. "That right? What for?"

  "Yes, they – look, it's probably not the best place to talk about this—"

  "What's the matter?"

  "Laura'll be back off her break in a minute. I was only filling in."

  "They got you on reception now?"

  "Jimmy says we're all in it together. Teamwork."

  "Shit work, more like. You want to stand up for yourself, Eric. It's a slippery slope, mate."

  "I know. Look—"

  Eric nodded to one of the meeting rooms we never used on account of it being chiefly a storage room for window offcuts and bent plastic chairs. He looked over his shoulder as if to make sure nobody was listening, then he put hands on me and led me through to the meeting room. I followed him, coffee in hand, too stunned to do anything else. This was the same bloke who couldn't shit straight most of the time thanks to his IBS, who scrabbled out a living from commissions on singles and the odd door, and whose main reason for coming to work was to spend time away from his fat, born-again Christian wife and his mongoloid kid. And suddenly, he was the one taking the lead. I couldn't quite get my head around it, wondered what had happened, and I didn't hear much of what he was saying until he said, " ... and they found him last night."

  "Sorry, what? Found who?"

 

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