Sharpe patted Shepherd’s knee. ‘Because every day of our lives we run the risk of coming across someone who might recognise us. It can happen in the street, at a football match, at a restaurant. If you start worrying about it then you’ll end up a basket case. What happens, happens. Que sera, sera.’
‘Bloody hell, Razor, when did you go all Buddhist on me?’
The taxi pulled up in front of the hotel and Sharpe reached for the door handle. ‘If it happens, we’ll deal with it,’ he said. ‘You can pay for the cab, right? You get better expenses than me and, as you love to point out, I’m not getting overtime.’ He got out of the taxi as Shepherd handed the driver a twenty-pound note. Shepherd told the driver to keep the change and asked for a receipt, then joined Sharpe on the pavement. To their right was a pub with more than two dozen men standing around drinking and smoking. Like Shepherd they were wearing lounge suits and ties but there was plenty of bling on show as well, expensive watches, gold chains and diamond rings. Shepherd scanned faces as the cab drove off but he didn’t see anyone he recognised. A coach began disgorging its load of Chinese tourists, led by a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit holding a red flag above his head.
The reception area of the hotel was gloomy and despite the fact that it was almost eight o’clock there was a long line of guests waiting to check in. The Chinese tourists filed in, chattering excitedly.
‘I hope it’s boxing and not that kung fu bollocks,’ growled Sharpe.
A printed sign with an arrow pointing to the left showed them the way to the boxing. They went down a wood-panelled corridor to a large room with a bar packed with a couple of hundred men. Half a dozen bar staff in black T-shirts were working hard to keep up with the orders, with most of the drinkers paying with fifty-pound notes. Shepherd scanned faces again. His memory was near-photographic and he didn’t see anyone that he’d ever met but he recognised at least twenty criminals whose records he’d seen and one face that the Met were looking for in connection with a Securicor van robbery two years earlier.
To the left of the room was a seating plan on an easel. They went over to it and found Kettering’s table. It was number 21, close to the ring and just behind the judges’ table.
‘Drink?’ asked Sharpe, nodding at the bar.
Shepherd looked at his watch. ‘Let’s get to the table,’ he said.
They weaved their way through the bar to the entrance of the main hall. A boxing ring had been erected in the centre of the room underneath a massive dome-shaped chandelier. A long table had been erected on a podium against the far wall giving the organisers and VIP guests a clear view of the ring. There were another thirty tables around the ring, each seating a dozen people. Most of the tables were empty and a few Indian waiters were making last-minute adjustments to the cutlery and glasses.
‘Remind me again who I am?’ said Sharpe.
‘Don’t be a tosser all your life,’ said Shepherd. ‘Come on, let’s sit down. Might as well get ourselves a good view of the door.’
They were both using legends that they’d used before. Sharpe was James Gracie, a Scottish criminal who’d served time for armed robbery in the eighties before moving out to the Costa del Sol, from where he ran his arms business. The legend was rock-solid and even a check on the Police National Computer would come up with Gracie’s record. He’d used it several times over the years.
Shepherd sat down at the table, choosing a seat that allowed him a clear view of the entrance. Sharpe sat a few seats away so that he was directly facing the ring.
There were unopened bottles of red and white wine on the table. Sharpe reached for one and sneered at the label. ‘Cheap plonk. Fancy champagne?’
‘Let’s wait until the guys get here,’ said Shepherd. ‘We can make a show of it.’
Guests were moving into the hall and taking their places. A group headed for the VIP table, including a large black man wearing a floppy pink hat and what appeared to be a black mink coat, and a good-looking black man with a greying moustache, dressed in a sharp suit.
‘That’s John Conteh, isn’t it?’ said Sharpe, nodding at the man with the moustache.
‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. ‘What is he, sixty? I hope I look that good when I’m sixty.’
‘Do you think he runs marathons with a rucksack of bricks on his back?’
‘I don’t run marathons, you soft bastard.’
The VIP table began to fill up. Sitting next to Conteh was a sharp-faced man in a beige suit. He was talking animatedly to the heavyweight boxer and demonstrating an uppercut to the chin. Like most of the guests on the top table his head was shaved.
Four stunningly pretty black girls, as tall and willowy as supermodels, walked to one table followed by four heavyset men in Italian suits. Shepherd recognised one of the men; he was a well-known drug dealer based in Beckenham, south London. He looked over at Sharpe to see if he’d spotted him and Sharpe nodded.
‘Problem?’ asked Sharpe.
Shepherd shook his head. He’d worked on a case involving the drug dealer but had never met him. Shepherd saw Kettering and Thompson at the doorway but kept his face blank. Edwards and Gracie had never met the two men so they had to wait until they’d been introduced. ‘Here we go,’ he whispered to Sharpe. Then in a louder voice he began telling Sharpe a joke about a one-legged safecracker. He stopped when Kettering and Thompson arrived at their table.
Kettering grinned amiably. ‘You James and Garry?’ he said.
Shepherd stood up. ‘I’m Garry,’ he said, and held out his hand. Kettering shook it. He had a firm grip and Shepherd squeezed back hard.
‘Simon,’ Kettering said. He shook hands with Sharpe, and then introduced Thompson. ‘This is Paul.’ Thompson shook hands with them both and then they took their seats. Kettering sat on Shepherd’s left and Thompson sat between Shepherd and Sharpe. ‘Well, Ian speaks very highly of you two.’ Ian Parton was the cover name that Fenby was using.
‘Yeah, he’s a riot is Ian,’ said Shepherd. ‘He’s not here?’
‘Nah, don’t think he’s much of a boxing fan,’ said Kettering. ‘Football’s his game.’ He winked at Shepherd. ‘You a boxing fan, Garry?’
‘I like a good punch-up,’ said Shepherd. He nodded at Sharpe. ‘James is the pugilist. That accounts for his battered face.’
Sharpe laughed. ‘Yeah, I boxed a bit when I was a kid,’ he said. ‘What brings you down to the Big Smoke?’ he asked Thompson.
‘We’ve got a couple of fighters here,’ said Thompson. ‘We support a youth club in Birmingham and Harry was looking for some fighters who weren’t local so we said we’d bring our boys down.’
‘Harry?’ said Shepherd.
‘Harry’s organised tonight,’ Thompson said. ‘It’s a fundraiser for his club. Next time we have a fundraiser in Birmingham he’ll repay the favour.’
More people were arriving and the room was echoing with conversation and laughter. The guests were mainly men and the few women who were there looked as if they could well be charging by the hour.
Sharpe waved a waiter over. ‘Get me a bottle of Bollinger, will you?’ he said. He pointed at the bottles of wine on the table. ‘I can’t drink this crap.’
Kettering saw what he was doing. ‘What’s the problem, James?’
‘No problem,’ said Sharpe. ‘Just fancy a drop of bubbly. I’ll pay for it.’
‘You bloody won’t,’ said Kettering. ‘Tonight’s on me.’ He pointed a finger at the waiter. ‘What champagne have you got? Got any Cristal?’
‘Bollinger and Moet,’ said the waiter.
‘Two bottles of Bollinger,’ said Kettering. ‘And the bill comes to me, right?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the waiter, and he headed for the bar.
Two men appeared at their table. Big men with weightlifters’ forearms and bulging necks that suggested years of steroid use. Kettering stood up, walked round the table and hugged them both, then introduced them to Shepherd and Sharpe. ‘Terry and Tony,’ he said. The two men sat down and started chatting to Thompson.
‘They’re brothers,’ Kettering said to Shepherd. ‘Kickboxing champions, both of them.’
‘Who else is on our table?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Couple of pals of Harry’s, and three or four of my mates, assuming they can make it,’ said Kettering. ‘Don’t worry, you’re among friends.’
‘I’m not worried,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m just not sure it’s the most secure place for a meeting.’
Kettering laughed. ‘We’re just here to watch some boxing and have a bite to eat,’ he said. He leaned towards Shepherd, so close that Shepherd could smell the man’s aftershave, sweet with the scent of lime. ‘The thing is, Garry, we need to trust each other. Am I right? You don’t know us and we don’t know you but this way we get to feel each other out. See how the land lies.’