Penalties, page 6
CHAPTER 16
Gabe went back downstairs. Lisa was still in reception by the mailboxes, holding half a dozen letters and clearly waiting for him. ‘Any joy?’ she asked.
Gabe shook his head. ‘He’s not there. But it looks as if something happened.’
‘Like what?’
‘There’s a broken chair. That might have been the noise you heard. Were you in all day yesterday?’
‘Most of the time, yes.’
‘And no ambulance came?’
‘I would have said.’
‘I know, I know. Sorry. It’s just I can’t work out why he would have left the flat without his phone.’
Lisa grimaced. ‘I wish I could help. I hope he’s all right.’
Gabe looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said.
‘Can I ask you a favour?’
‘Sure.’
‘Can I take a selfie with you? My nephews won’t believe I actually met you if I don’t show them a picture.’
Gabe laughed. ‘Of course.’
‘Brilliant,’ she said. She stood close to him, held the phone out, and pouted. Gabe couldn’t help grinning. She took a picture, then another for luck, and then thanked him effusively.
Gabe hurried outside to his car and climbed in. He drove off and slotted his iPhone onto its holder on the dashboard before calling Joe McNamara on hands-free. ‘Eric’s not in his flat,’ said Gabe. ‘But his car is parked there. There’s some damage in the flat as if he’d fallen over. A neighbour heard some noise yesterday morning.’
‘What do you mean, damage?’
‘A broken table. A smashed mug.’
‘You got into his flat?’
‘A neighbour had a key. Oh, his phone was there.’
‘This is not good, Gabe.’
‘The only thing I can think of is that he had some sort of an accident and is in hospital.’
‘I’ll get someone to phone around,’ he said. ‘Look, Gabe, I hate to ask but were there any signs that he’d been drinking?’
‘No,’ said Gabe. ‘There was a cup of coffee spilled on the floor. No booze.’ Gabe thought it best not to mention the half-empty brandy bottle because he was fairly sure that LeBrun hadn’t been drinking it.
‘That’s something, I suppose. Where are you now?’
‘Driving to the training ground. I should be there in about half an hour.’
‘See you there,’ said McNamara. ‘Look, if Eric is off the grid, how do you feel about taking over as captain for the match?’
‘Hell, Joe, I’ve got enough on my plate with the penalties.’
‘Just for this game, Gabe. Please. You’d be doing me a big favour.’
‘Okay, okay,’ said Gabe.
‘You’re a star,’ said the coach, and he ended the call.
Gabe drove for five minutes and then his phone rang again. He looked over at the screen. It was Laura, calling on FaceTime. He swiped the green phone with his finger and then concentrated on the road. ‘Baby, I’m driving,’ he said.
‘Gabe!’ she said and he could tell from her voice that something was wrong. His eyes flicked across to look at the screen. Her face was fearful and there were tears in her eyes. ‘Baby, what’s wrong?’
‘You have to do what they say, Gabe,’ said Laura. ‘Just do what they say.’
‘Baby, what are you talking about?’ Red lights flashed ahead of him and he realised the car ahead of him was breaking. It was a black cab, slamming on the breaks to avoid a cyclist. The cab squealed to a halt and Gabe only just managed to avoid smashing into the back of it. He looked back at the screen. Tears were running down his wife’s face.
‘Gabe, they say they’ll kill me and Ollie if you don’t do exactly as they say.’
‘Laura, what the hell’s going on?’
‘Please, Gabe, don’t let them hurt Ollie.’
‘What do you mean? What the hell are you talking about?’
The picture lurched and Gabe realised Laura wasn’t holding the phone. The phone pulled back and he saw that Laura was sitting on a chair, her arms at her side. Then he saw the grey duct tape around her arms. ‘Laura!’ he shouted.
‘Gabe!’
The camera panned to the left and Gabe caught a glimpse of a man wearing a ski mask His stomach lurched. The taxi in front of him moved off. ‘Laura, what’s happening?’ he shouted, pulling the phone off its mount and holding it in front of him.
The phone continued to pan to a sofa. Ollie was lying on it, bound with duct tape. There was a strip of tape across his son’s mouth. ‘Ollie, no!’
Horns began to sound impatiently behind him but all his attention was on the screen. The phone moved closer in on Ollie, so close that Gabe could see the fear in the boy’s tear-filled eyes. ‘Ollie, don’t worry, I’ll get you out of there,’ he said.
The phone moved back and Gabe saw there was another man in a ski mask standing behind the sofa, holding a gun. His hands were trembling but he managed to press the sleep button on the top of his phone and immediately hit the home button, capturing a screen shot of the image. He did it twice more. The horns behind him were more insistent now with half a dozen cars joining in the cacophony. The phone tipped back down again, giving him a view of the duct tape around Ollie’s arms and legs.
More horns sounded and Gabe pulled the car over to the side of the road and switched on his hazard lights. A white van drove by and the driver glared at him, flashed him a ‘V’ sign and mouthed obscenities. Gabe was already staring at the screen of his phone.
The camera had panned back to Laura. ‘We have your son and your wife,’ said a voice. ‘Now listen carefully to what I have to say.’
There was a view of the man standing near Laura and Gabe took two more quick screenshots, then another ski-mask filled the screen.
‘You are to make sure that your team loses today. Do you understand me?’
‘What?’ asked Gabe. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘You will lose the match today. If your team wins, or if it is a draw, your family dies.’
‘I can’t throw a whole game, I’m just one player,’ said Gabe.
‘You can and you will,’ said the man. ‘But if you don’t, your wife and son will die. And that will be on your head. And if you talk to the police, they will die. Tell no one. Just throw the match and you’ll get your family back, safe and sound.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Gabe.
‘Do you understand?’
‘Let me talk to my wife!’
The phone lurched and Laura was on the screen. ‘Gabe, please, do what they say.’
‘Have they hurt you?’
‘No, but they said they’ll hurt Ollie if you don’t do what they say.’
Gabe heard something in a language he didn’t recognise, then the man standing next to Laura grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head back before pushing the barrel of his gun under her chin. Gabe saw a tattoo on the man’s hand and he fumbled to get a screenshot. ‘Please, don’t hurt her!’ he said.
‘Do as we say and we’ll release her and your boy unharmed. All you have to do is to make sure your team loses this afternoon. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ said Gabe.
The man released his grip on Laura and she slumped forward, sobbing.
The man’s ski-mask filled the screen. ‘You lose the game. You don’t contact the police. You don’t tell anybody. Follow those three rules and you’ll have your family back safe and sound.’ The call ended and Gabe stared at the blank screen in disbelief.
There was a loud knock on the passenger side window and Gabe flinched. It was a policeman. ‘You can’t park here,’ said the officer. ‘Red lines. Move on.’ He was in his twenties and his helmet seemed a size too big for him.
Gabe held up his phone. ‘I was just making a call.’
‘You need to do that somewhere else or I’m going to give you a ticket.’
‘Sorry,’ said Gabe.
The policeman made a ‘wind the window down’ gesture with his hand and Gabe did as he was told. The officer leaned forward, then his face broke into a smile. ‘You’re Gabe Savage.’
‘Yes,’ said Gabe. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I had to pull over to use the phone. I’ll be on my way. Sorry about the inconvenience.’
‘No problem, Gabe. Bloody hell, Gabe Savage. You’ve got a big match today.’
Gabe forced a smile. ‘I know.’
‘Think you’ll win?’ asked the cop.
‘I hope so.’
‘You’re the bookies favourite.’
‘That’s what they say.’
‘I was going to put a bet on, but the odds. . .’ He shrugged. ‘And you’ve got that record thing, for the penalties.’
Gabe nodded. He was finding it hard to concentrate on what the cop was saying. Images of a tearful Laura and Ollie gagged and bound kept filling his mind.
The policeman was looking at him intently and Gabe realised he had said something and was waiting for a reply. ‘Sorry, what?’ said Gabe.
‘I said, do you practise penalties a lot, to get that good?’
‘Pretty much every day,’ said Gabe.
‘The way you make that ball curve, it’s something,’ said the cop. He pointed at the road ahead. ‘Anyway, you get on your way, Mr Savage. And good luck today.’ He patted the car door and straightened up.
‘Thank you, officer,’ said Gabe.
The cop bobbed down again and gestured at the phone. ‘And don’t hold that as you’re driving. That’ll get you a ticket even if you’re not actually using it.’
‘Right, officer, thank you,’ said Gabe. He put the phone on the passenger seat and pulled away from the kerb.
His mind raced and he could barely concentrate on the traffic around him. He indicated left and pulled into a side street. He found a parking space and reversed into it, then grabbed the phone and stared at the screen. He called up the screenshots he’d taken and flicked through them, his heart pounding. He felt suddenly trapped by the car and he got out and paced up and down the pavement. It was as if he was trapped in a nightmare and if he could just force himself to wake up everything would be all right and he’d be lying in bed next to Laura. He took deep breaths, trying to calm himself down, but the screenshots of the men in ski masks just made it worse.
A woman in a long coat walked by with a poodle on a lead. She looked at him inquisitively and he turned away from her. He had to do something but he had no idea what. Call the police? What could they do? And the warning had been clear – talk to the police and Laura and Ollie would be killed. Could he throw a game? Maybe. Especially if there were any penalties. But what if he couldn’t, what if he tried and the team still won? Laura and Ollie would be dead and how would he be able to deal with it. He felt light-headed and he realised he was hyperventilating. He tried to slow his breathing but it was an effort. He wanted to run and scream and punch something. He folded his arms gripping the phone tightly, his mind racing. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,’ he repeated like a mantra. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’
He stopped swearing and leaned against a brick wall, and began banging the back of his head against it. He needed help. But who? Who the hell could do anything to help him?
CHAPTER 17
Ray Savage had his game face on. Jaw set tight, lips thin, eyes shielded behind impenetrable sunglasses. He was wearing a black Versace suit and a blue checked Ted Baker shirt and in a holster under his right arm he had a fully loaded Glock pistol. He was standing with his back to the wall with his hands at his side.
To his left was Mike Tyler; he was a few inches shorter than Ray and several kilos heavier. His suit wasn’t quite as expensive and he wasn’t wearing sunglasses but he had a matching Glock in a shoulder holster. Like Ray he had his game face on, his lips tight and his eyes ever watchful. The two men were there to watch over their boss, Den Donovan, one of the country’s major cannabis importers. Donovan spent most of his time in a palatial villa in the Caribbean, but whenever he was in the UK he never went far without Mike or Ray. Today was special, a face-to-face meeting with the leader of a Yardie gang who controlled a large chunk of the crack cocaine market in Brixton. No one knew what Wesley’s other name was, or even if Wesley was his family name or his given name. Everyone called him Wesley, or Mad Wesley if he was out of earshot. He was a big man, close to seven feet, with short dreadlocks and a rash of tribal scars across both cheeks. He was wearing a denim shirt with cut-off sleeves that revealed bulging forearms and puckered skin close to his left shoulder where a bullet had ripped through his flesh. There were another three similar wounds under the shirt, the result of an assassination attempt three years earlier. Two men had between them put four bullets into Wesley but he had still managed to pull out his own gun and fight them off. He had spent two weeks in intensive care but within three months both his attackers were dead and buried out in the New Forest. Wesley put his lucky escape down to the talisman that he always wore around his neck, but the emergency room doctors were of the opinion that it was his bulk that had saved him.
Donovan had been the one who had requested the meeting so Wesley had insisted it be on his turf. They were in the back of a car-wash he owned, a mainly cash business that he used to launder his illicit gains. They were in a storage room at the rear of the main cleaning area and outside they could hear the splash of water and the slap of wet sponges against metal. It was a labour-intensive business with most of the cleaning, inside and out, done by hand.
There were no windows in the room, and it stank of detergent and stale water, but there was no chance of them being seen or overheard, so as far as Donovan was concerned it was fit for purpose. Donovan and Wesley were sitting either side of a wooden table covered with empty bottles and ashtrays overflowing with the butts of cannabis cigarettes. Whereas Wesley ran his drugs operation with a steel hand, he was clearly much more relaxed about what his car cleaners did in their down time.
Everyone in the room was armed. There were two ways to arrange a meeting. One was to insist on no weapons, but that was always difficult to enforce as it meant searching everyone and there was always at least one person who took offence. Having everyone unarmed also left them vulnerable to a surprise attack so no one was happy about giving up their weapons. Ray preferred the second option – weapons were just fine so long as they stayed concealed. Everyone then just assumed that everyone else was armed and behaved accordingly.
There were eight men in the room. The principals and three heavies each. That had been agreed in advance. The third member of Donovan’s security detail was Barry Chisnall, he was only in his twenties but he was a former squaddie and as hard as nails. He was standing on one side of the door, his arms at his side. On the other side of the door was one of Wesley’s heavies – a lanky Rastafarian with waist length dreadlocks tied back with a knotted yellow, green and red handkerchief. Wesley’s two other heavies were standing by the wall facing Ray and Mike. The three Yardies who were looking after Wesley hadn’t bothered with holsters, their guns were tucked into their belts, which in Ray’s opinion showed a distinct lack of professionalism. Belts could easily snag a weapon – pulling a gun from a holster was always smoother and faster.
Donovan wasn’t a big fan of face-to-face meetings but Wesley had insisted and made it a deal-breaker. Donovan had decided that since there were no drugs and no money involved, the sit-down was probably worth the risk.
‘Thanks for seeing me, Wesley,’ said Donovan. ‘I know you by reputation, obviously.’
Wesley nodded, accepting the compliment.
‘We’ve got a problem with the Turks, and I gather you’re having problems too.’
‘What makes you say that?’ asked Wesley.
‘It’s no secret that three of your people have been shot in the past couple of months. The boys at Operation Trident put it down as black-on-black but we both know it’s the Turks. They’re encroaching on your turf and you can’t have that, right?’
Wesley nodded slowly. ‘Go on.’
‘We’re in the same boat,’ said Donovan. ‘Last month a consignment of mine was hijacked on the way from the docks to London. Two of my men were put in hospital and I lost half a ton of very high grade cannabis. It came out of the blue and I had no inkling of who might have done it, then suddenly Stoke Newington and half of north London is awash with the stuff. So much of it that the price dropped by a third.’
‘The Turks only deal heroin,’ said Wesley. ‘Protection rackets and prostitution among their own communities, but outside of that their only interest is heroin.’
‘In the past, that’s true,’ said Donovan. ‘Which is why they’ve never been a problem in the past. I bring in my bit of puff, you handle the crack and the coke, the Turks import their heroin, everyone makes money. But that’s all gone to fuck now that the EU has gone and allowed 70 million Turks visa-free access to Europe. Their criminals are flooding into Europe and a lot of them are getting across the Channel now. The heroin trade alone isn’t enough to keep them all occupied, so they’re starting to spread their wings.’
Wesley’s brow creased into a deep frown. ‘And you know this, how?’
‘Because I’ve got my ear to the ground, mate,’ he said. ‘It’s happening right across the country. Same as when Yugoslavia fell apart in the Nineties and all the Bosnian and Serbian mafia flooded in.’
Wesley grinned, showing a single gold tooth at the front of his mouth. ‘Before my time,’ he said.
‘Mine too,’ said Donovan. ‘I was just pointing out the historical precedent. It happened when Communism folded in Russia and we had all the Russian gangsters piling in. Now it’s the Turks. There are just too many of them to stay confined to the heroin trade, and that means they’re going to start treading on our toes.
Ray’s phone rang and both men looked over at him. The James Bond theme. Ray was a big fan of the Bond movies, especially the Daniel Craig ones because the general view was that Ray was the spitting image of the actor, albeit a few kilos heavier.
Donovan shook his head angrily. ‘Are you fucking serious, Ray?’
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