…LONDON…
‘Let me be clear. I’m tired, I don’t want to be in this shithouse town.
We have the place, the cunt is there alone. Now one man is dead and two are in hospital with burns and the cunt is gone.’
‘Well, in essence.’
‘In essence? That means?’
‘Yes. Mr Price.’
‘So keep your fucken Limey talk for your old private school pals.
This’s a fuck-up of some size, not so?’
‘Yes. It is. But we had…’ ‘Who hired these people?’
‘We’ve used them before, Charlie, they’ve done…’ ‘You hired them?’
‘Well, ah, Dave…’ ‘Don’t be a prick. Don’t fucken shift the blame. Who’s the seller?
In fucken essence?’
‘We’re not sure right now. We’ll be…’ ‘That’s so fucken reassuring. You don’t even know who the cunt is.
We’re trying to kill some cunt, we don’t even know who he is.’
‘Haven’t had very long. This thing kind…’
‘Very long? Very long? You want very long? Oh, well, sorry to rush you. Listen to me. You now have no fucking long. You have absolutely zero long. You are in negative long.’
‘We’re doing everything we can.’
‘I need to say to you, any more fucked up than this, you boys, you get skewered asshole to Adam’s apple. Cooked like fucken barbecue pigs. All night long, meat falls off the bone. Only the pigs, they kill the fucken pigs first.’
‘If I can say something, Mr Price…’ ‘Say. Just say.’
‘This is England, we can’t just…’
‘Wow, you fucken Limeys are somethin. Dunkirk, fucken retreat, 209 fucken disgrace, your finest hour.’
‘It’s the Battle of Britain actually.’
‘What?’
The Battle of Britain. That’s England’s finest hour.
‘That right? Excuse my fucken ignorance. Well, listen to me, goes for you both. Things don’t get better quick your fucken worst hour’s gonna happen real soon. Your fucken worst minute. Anyway. Now. Where the fuck are we?’
‘Mr Price, someone shot two men in a hotel in Earls Court the night before last. In the legs. The room was in the name Martin Powell. No sign of him. The men have told a story-met a man in a pub, he invited them to his room to have a drink, he turned…’ ‘Just the fucken ending.’
‘Mackie said people tried to kill him in a hotel, he told the woman that. Wishart. This Powell could be our man.’
‘You heard this when?’
‘An hour ago. We’ve got people on it.’
‘So pleased to hear that. The motorbike rider? It’s the one picked this Mackie up?’
‘Yeah. The address we got for the bike, it’s her old address. We sent someone, parcel to deliver, you know. Wrong address, this other woman, she gave the new address…’ ‘And your people went around there and shot themselves in the balls. Jesus, Martie, I cannot fucken believe…’ ‘They say they heard the phone ring inside. Hit the front door, he was already gone.’
‘Who’s carrying the can for this?’
‘No problem. They’re, ah, reliable. Good.’
‘Are you fucken mad? One man. One solitary fucken individual. On a plate. First, your reliable cunts decide to take him out in the most public place they can find, make this brilliant fucken decision, you don’t put them straight.’
‘Can I say, I didn’t…’
‘Fuck that up, then they set a building alight, own casualties minor. Just one dead, two in hospital having emergency skin grafts…’ ‘Private clinic, it’s…’
‘Shut the fuck up.’
‘Ah, there’s no chance of any ID, not the vehicle either. It should be…okay. Yes. Safe.’
‘Should be? Safe? Boy, who the hell trained you, you ask for your money back. Plus fucken interest. This Powell? When you gonna know?’