Their usual meeting place was one of a string of properties Dominic Silver now owned in central London. Over the last couple of decades, he had steadily built up a London portfolio that was worth easily north of?20 million, even after the recent market crash. This one was a small Georgian house on Meard Street, a short pedestrianised alley between Dean Street and Wardour Street, in the heart of Soho. It was set back from the pavement, behind a wrought-iron gate, with a small plaque on the door that said NO PROSTITUTES HERE. Carlyle pressed the buzzer and the door clicked open. A voice on the intercom said, ‘Come right to the top.’
The house was home to Gideon Spanner, a former paratrooper who was currently Silver’s number one bodyguard, debt collector and personal trainer. Carlyle found both men in a large room that covered almost the whole third floor. It was empty apart from a sofa and two armchairs, which were positioned facing a fifty-inch Panasonic plasma TV screen. Carlyle stood in the doorway, eyeing the two men watching a boxing match. The fighters were really going for it and the commentary was reaching fever pitch. There was a station logo in the corner of the screen, but he didn’t recognise it, probably another one of those premium sports channels he didn’t subscribe to. Carlyle knew next to nothing about boxing, but this bout clearly wasn’t live. It looked like a tape of an old fight from the 1970s or the 1980s.
‘Drink?’ Dom looked up from the screen long enough to wave his glass in Carlyle’s direction.
‘What is it?’
‘Guavas, mangoes and goji berries. Not bad.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘In the kitchen, downstairs. Help yourself.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘No, go on.’ Dom nodded at the screen. ‘This is nearly finished.’
It took Carlyle five minutes to find the kitchen and pour himself some juice. When he came back, he plonked himself in the free armchair, and they all watched the boxing in silence. After a couple more rounds, one of the fighters called it a day.
Dom muted the TV and turned to Carlyle. ‘Leonard-Duran Two, generally considered one of the greatest fights in history.’
Carlyle made a non-committal kind of noise in response.
Dom looked at it him. ‘You know what I’m talking about?’
‘Not really,’ Carlyle admitted.
‘Sugar Ray Leonard and Roberto Duran – the artist and the street fighter. Both of them were great, great fighters. They had three famous contests, back when we were kids. This was the second and the most famous one.’
‘The No Mas fight,’ said Gideon, who may not even have been born when the fight actually took place.
‘ No Mas meaning “No more”. That’s what Duran was supposed to have said when he quit in the eighth round.’ Dom gestured at the screen with his chin. ‘Duran denies saying it, but it’s such a good story. No Mas – what a great ending. No one was going to let the truth get in the way of a story like that.’
‘Interesting,’ was all Carlyle could think of to say. Other people’s passions invariably left him bemused.
‘Anyway,’ said Dom, ‘it’s nice to see you, John. You’re looking well.’
‘Thank you,’ Carlyle replied, bowing his head slightly. ‘You too.’ And it was true. Dom was one of those annoying guys who looked better in his late forties than he did in his early twenties: richer, healthier, more relaxed. Carlyle wished that he could say the same about himself. Dom’s cheeky-chappy demeanour had been long since jettisoned, replaced by a professional/academic look that was underpinned by a degree in Business and Management from Queen Mary College on the Mile End Road. Dressed in Comme des Garcons, with rimless spectacles, greying, shoulder-length hair, and some flattering lines around his eyes, he was currently on top of his game.
Finally finishing his trip down boxing’s memory lane, he gave Carlyle his full attention. ‘What can we do for you?’
‘That remains to be seen,’ said Carlyle, smiling.
‘As always.’ Dom turned to Gideon. ‘The inspector and I go back a long way.’
Gideon kept his eyes on the silent screen. ‘Uh-uh.’
‘Yes,’ Dom smiled, ‘John is one of my earliest comrades. We’ve worked together a lot over the years.’
Carlyle said nothing. Dom was right, up to a point. They had known each other for a long time and the relationship was both stable and cordial. It wasn’t complicated but it wasn’t clear either. Neither of them would necessarily have wanted to create it from scratch if it didn’t already exist, but they could both see its advantages… as well as its disadvantages.
Dominic Silver had left his old picket-line mates like Carlyle a long way behind. He had built up his business slowly, one step at a time, wherever possible avoiding conflicts and solving problems without needlessly resorting to violence. As the years turned into decades, his reputation grew. In a business where to survive two years was rare, to have survived two decades was a miracle. He had never been arrested, never mind convicted of any offence. In the last few years, he had reached his peak, settling comfortably in the third or fourth tier of the capital’s drug-related entrepreneurs. Near the top but not aiming for the top. This was not a bad place to be, reasonably comfortable and avoiding the problems facing those above him and those below him. His operation was turning over maybe low millions each year, with clients including a swathe of minor celebrities and some of the newer entries in Who’s Who. Before the recession took hold, he even had a couple of corporate clients, major City financial institutions who bought on account.
Business school had shown Dom how to build up a portfolio of assets and diversify risk. With all of his property and other investments, drugs probably now accounted for less than a third of Dom’s income. However, it wasn’t the kind of business you could easily retire from. Similarly, despite the risks, Carlyle could not easily walk away from their relationship which, after all this time, was almost as much personal as professional. Dom, like Carlyle, was a family man. He’d had the same girlfriend for more than twenty years and, as far as Carlyle knew, they enjoyed a happy, monogamous relationship, one which had been blessed with five kids. The families knew each other well, and Alice had played with the Silver kids plenty of times over the years.
Carlyle drained his glass of guava, mango and goji. Dom was right; it was good. ‘I’m in the market for some information.’
‘Obviously.’ Dom sat further forward on the sofa and eyed Carlyle intently. ‘What kind of information?’
‘I’m interested in five men specifically. Their names are George Dellal, Ian Blake, Nicholas Hogarth, Harry Allen and Sebastian Lloyd.’ Hewasn’t yet ready to mention Holyrod and the Carltons.
Dom made a show of thinking about that for a few seconds. ‘This is the thing you were on the TV for last week?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Not making much progress, then?’ He grinned. ‘So what do you want to know?’
‘The usual. At least some of them use drugs, cocaine mainly and a bit of ecstasy. Where do they get them from? Who do they like to indulge with? What else do they get up to? Any interesting peccadilloes?’
‘Interesting peccadilloes?’ Dom laughed. ‘We all have some of those.’
‘You get the picture.’
‘Sure. Give Gideon the list and we’ll see what we can find out.’
‘I appreciate it.’ Rummaging through his pocket, Carlyle found a piece of paper, a receipt for a sandwich he’d bought the day before. While he scribbled down the five names, he thought about whether there was anything else he could get from his host. Things needed to be pushed along a bit, so he showed a little more of his hand. ‘Do you ever supply the concierge at the Garden Hotel?’ he asked, without looking up.
Dom glanced at Spanner and turned back to Carlyle. ‘Alex Miles? Yeah, now and again. Only the odd bit of business, though, nothing major. He likes to use different people. He wouldn’t make “my top hundred clients” list.’
‘Blake was the stiff found in his hotel last week.’
Dom made a face to signify: OK… and?
Gideon Spanner meanwhile kept staring blankly into space.
‘Blake was a fairly high-end drug user,’ Carlyle continued, ‘the type of guy who might buy from the likes of you through someone like Miles.’
‘There’s lots of those,’ Dom smiled. ‘Just leave it with us. We’ll doubtless dig up something. We usually do.’
‘I know.’
‘I’ll walk you down the stairs.’
At the front door, Dom followed Carlyle out into the street. ‘How’s the family?’
‘Fine,’ Carlyle said. ‘You?’
‘Good. The eldest two are at secondary school already.’ He grimaced. ‘The fees? Bloody hell!’
‘Tell me about it. Alice is at City in the Barbican now.’
‘That’s an excellent school.’
‘Yes, it is. We’re very pleased.’
‘How can you afford that?’
‘Good question.’
‘If you ever-’
‘No, no,’ Carlyle interrupted quickly. He wasn’t going down that road again. ‘We’re fine. She’ll get a scholarship soon… I hope.’
‘Good luck.’
‘Thanks.’
Would Carlyle ever take Dominic’s cash? It didn’t get any less tempting as the years went by. He’d discussed it with Helen a few times, in a What if? kind of a way. But it was never a serious possibility. They knew that if he ever crossed that line, he could never go back. The bottom line was that it wasn’t worth it, since it would be incredibly stupid to risk everything just for money. Never say never, of course, but things would have to become truly desperate.
Dom moved the conversation quickly on to less choppy waters. ‘We should get the kids together over the summer hols.’
‘Helen would like that. She’s always worried about Alice not having enough company, being an only child.’
‘Excellent.’
Dom wasn’t always this chatty, so Carlyle thought he might as well do a bit more fishing. ‘How’s business? Getting squeezed by the recession?’
‘Nah… well, maybe. Like you, I’ll never be out of work. It might be tough for a while, though, as I’m a discretionary spend.’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Yeah, sometimes,’ Dom laughed. ‘But, I’ll tell you this, we’ve just turned off easy street and on to shit street. The good old days are over. The easy money has run for the hills and the dirty money is getting dirtier. Things could get quite nasty for your average punter.’
‘Sure.’ A sociology lesson from a drug dealer, Carlyle thought. That’s just what I need.
‘You think about it, no more buying a house in London, watching the price going up, and then thinking you’re Warren Buffett. We’re off on a bumpy ride: industrial unrest, unemployment, stagflation – back to the bad old days of the seventies and eighties. You remember them?’
Yes, Carlyle thought, I do indeed.
Dom was off again on one of those monologues he’s perfected over the years: ‘Back to the days of power cuts, the rise of the National Front – or, rather, the bloody BNP,’ Dom continued. ‘Back to the days of mortgage rationing, holidays in Southend rather than Jamaica.’
Carlyle, who hadn’t been on holiday anywhere more exotic than Brighton since before Alice was born, said nothing. Dom probably spent more on his holidays than an inspector’s annual salary afforded.
‘We’re running out of power, too,’ Dom continued, really on a roll now. ‘Our ageing power stations are closing and we haven’t bothered to build new ones. Power cuts, shutting down the tube service, reducing hospital services, three-day working weeks, Alice doing her homework by candlelight… it’s all on the cards.’
‘Maybe.’
‘No maybes about it, mate. Civilisation requires electricity. Without it, it’s chaos and anarchy, here we damn well come. I wouldn’t want to be stuck at the top of your block of flats when the power fails.’
‘Thank you for that happy thought.’
‘Have you got a gun?’
‘Are you kidding?’
‘I wouldn’t rule it out,’ Dom smiled. ‘We are in serious, serious shit here. History is repeating itself in ever shorter cycles. Scumbag capitalism has been running out of control. The Russians are invading other countries again. They’ve even remade Brideshead Revisited. Even worse, that bunch of idiot public schoolboys will be running the country soon, or trying to.’
‘Helen wants me to take her to some film about the Baader-Meinhof,’ said Carlyle glumly. He couldn’t understand why his wife would want to spend two hours watching a film about German terrorists. Maybe it offered a gossamer thread to her lefty past.
‘Great date movie,’ Dominic sniggered. He flashed one of his trademark, old-style smiles. They were rarer these days, and usually of the sixty-watt rather than the hundred-watt variety, but this one was a decent approximation of the days gone by. ‘At least all this shit makes it interesting, eh? Just as long as they don’t bring back Spandau fucking Ballet.’
On her knees in a bathroom at Party HQ, Yulexis Monagas slipped Xavier Carlton’s penis out of her mouth and began gently flicking its tip with her thumbnail.
Xavier grunted with a mixture of surprise and pleasure. His member twitched on the brink of orgasm.
Yulexis released her grip and carefully moved her face out of the line of fire. She looked up at her boss. ‘Xavier?’ she said quietly.
‘Yes?’ he gasped.
‘Xavier… I’m pregnant.’
His eyes widened in surprise but he was incapable of speech as a stream of ejaculate flew past her left ear.
Yulexis quickly moved backwards and handed him a small towel. ‘I’m pregnant.’
He frowned, not wanting to believe it.
‘Almost twenty weeks,’ she added.
‘Twenty weeks?’ Xavier sniffed. That sounded quite a lot. He looked her up and down and felt himself begin to harden again. Shouldn’t he be able to notice that sort of thing? She didn’t look any different. Giving himself a quick wipe, he resisted the urge for seconds and zipped up his trousers. ‘Are you sure it’s mine?’
Buttoning up her blouse, she fought back a sob. ‘Of course it’s yours. Who else’s could it be?’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said airily, ‘we can get it sorted. I know a good man in Harley Street.’
‘What do you mean?’ Yulexis asked, taking a step backwards.
Xavier frowned. He was beginning to think this girl was a bit dumb. ‘Well, you can’t keep it, obviously.’
‘Xavier! It’s too late for an abortion! Anyway, I want to keep it.’
The look that passed across his face made her shiver. But then he managed a smile. Not much of a smile, but a smile nonetheless. Taking hold of her shoulders, he reached over and kissed her on the top of the head.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll get an appointment arranged.’