The Silent Man, page 9
Klara looks up. ‘And that’s not the half of it. Jason’s response to Oliver is colourful. Os can take over here.’
‘As Klara says, Jason’s responses are colourful as is the language. I’m embarrassed to read them out loud.’
‘Don’t hold back, Os. We’re all adults here,’ says Pierce.
‘Yes, ma’am . . . here goes. In response to the text Klara just read out, Jason replied: “Fuck you, fucknuts! Who do you think you are, telling me how and when to speak to my wife? Fuck right off! We may be separated but that could change tomorrow. She still loves me – don’t you get it? She doesn’t care about you. You’re just a convenience. Also, stay the fuck away from my son. He’s not comfortable with you hanging around the house all the time. What he means by that I don’t know but if I find out you’ve laid one of your filthy fingers on him I will not be responsible for my actions.”’
‘It gets worse,’ says Klara. ‘Coming back to Derek Fox. Here’s that email from him: “I know what’s going on between you and Katie. Stay away from her. You are poison. You’re a drunk and an abuser. We all saw what you did at Lucas’s party. You should be ashamed of yourself. Stay AWAY from my family!”’
‘Do we know what he did at Lucas’s party?’
‘Don’t know the details but according to these exchanges Jason broke his son’s arm.’
Chapter 19
M
ADDY WATSON STANDS ALONE ON the bow of The Pride of Elizabeth smoking a Marlboro Light and enjoying the gentle rhythm of the cruiser as it makes the approach towards Westminster Bridge.
The rain has mercifully stopped, a break in the clouds reveals a gorgeous canvas tinted with the darkest of oils. She is tempted to close her eyes, stretch out her arms and say, ‘I’m flying, Jack!’ just like Kate Winslet in Titanic but decides against it. Wouldn’t do to get caught by her boss, Andrei, or one of his new business partners. That would be mortifying.
A chilly river breeze pierces her thin business suit and makes her shiver. After tossing the cigarette into the dark waters, she rubs heat into her arms and turns to make her way back to the party. She stops when she hears footsteps. She looks in the direction from where they came. Through the gloom, she sees the white jacket and white gloves of the waiter-for-hire as he closes the front glass doors of the party room. He was a last-minute show after their usual waiter had phoned in sick. She has to admit she’s less than impressed with this one. For a start, he lacks people skills. There was no smiling or banter despite Maddy insisting that he make more of an effort with Andrei’s clients. She makes a mental note to tell the agency not to send him back. Maddy watches him for a moment, and wonders why he’s outside and not tending to their guests.
Her eyes slide to the meeting room, where she sees Andrei stand in preparation for his speech. She is about to make her way back when her phone vibrates. A message from Sofia.
Hey, Maddy. How’s it going?
Maddy bites her thumb and wonders whether she should respond. Relations between Andrei and his sister are strained and pressing ahead with this new partner meeting without her has only made things worse. As usual, Maddy, the humble, obliging PA, is stuck between them both. After a moment’s consideration she composes a response; something generic and positive, concluding with a promise for them all to meet first thing tomorrow. She presses send and pockets her phone.
Maddy makes her way back to the conference room and pulls at the sliding glass doors, but they don’t budge. They’re locked. Had the waiter just locked them? Why would he do that?
Fuck!
She grins an apologetic smile inside at anyone who might be looking her way and searches for Andrei, but he’s already making his speech. She hurries around the side of the boat to the rear doors, still holding her phone and is surprised to see the waiter standing at the doors, looking in at the conference room. He shakes the door handles. It seems they are also locked.
‘What’s going on?’ Maddy asks.
His head swings around to look at her. He frowns but says nothing.
‘Are the doors locked?’ she asks, confused.
The waiter pulls away from the door and edges a few feet behind her. Maddy tries the doors: they don’t budge.
She turns to look at the waiter and frowns. He’s undressing. Underneath his uniform is a wet suit of all things. ‘What the hell?’
Looking in at Andrei, Maddy waves to him, but he is giving his speech and has the attention of the room.
A cold sensation runs up her spine like the blade of a dagger. This isn’t right. She knows Andrei does business with some strange and dangerous people. She had told him she preferred not to know about that stuff. Maddy composes herself. ‘Just stay where you are,’ she says to him in a firm tone. ‘I need to consult with Mr Brodsky.’ Using her phone, she calls Andrei’s number. Eyes wide and fixed on her boss, she waits for the line to connect. The boat falls into shadow as it cruises under Westminster Bridge. It’s then that the clock strikes and the Great Bell rings the first of eight sombre chimes.
‘He won’t hear you,’ says the waiter from behind.
Maddy is about to speak but something flashes past her face and locks around her throat, squeezing tighter and tighter. She can’t breathe. Dropping the phone, she reaches for her neck, her fingers feeling what feels like a chain. She kicks at the doors twice with all her strength. Inside the conference room, the guests turn to look her way. Andrei too. They frown and run to the doors. Maddy wants to scream but it’s impossible. She cannot get purchase and feels herself being dragged across the boat. She kicks, a shoe flies from her foot. And then she tips over backward, falling, falling. She plunges into ice-cold water, and he is with her, pulling, tightening and squeezing the life from her. Above her the skies flash in a ball of flame. Water floods her mouth and nostrils and in moments darkness consumes her.
Chapter 20
A
RCHER SITS AT A PLASTIC table for two under the glaring white lights of Covent Garden’s Five Guys burger restaurant. She has just finished on a call to the hospital and spoken to Grandad. He had sounded tired and veered off topic twice before eventually drifting off mid-conversation. Despite that, it had been good to hear his voice.
She opens Instagram, finds Penny Todd’s account and searches through her posts. She finds a group of pictures from Lucas’s birthday, taken in the garden of her home. It was a sunny day, bunting hangs from a tree and adorns a table of food and presents. Lucas is grinning ear to ear at the camera with an assortment of smiling and laughing friends. Scrolling across to the next shot is another picture depicting the children peering up at a man with a painted face, wearing a bowler hat, a double-breasted coat and brandishing a magician’s wand in one hand and flowers in the other. The next shot shows Penny, Jason and Lucas smiling together. The party table contains beer and wine bottles. In the background, among the adults she doesn’t recognise, she picks out Oliver Stocker, Katie Fox and, surprise, surprise, Derek Fox. None of them look like they’re enjoying themselves. But then again, do adults really enjoy kids’ parties?
Through the corner of her eye, she sees Quinn approaching, carrying a tray crammed with enough food to feed a family.
‘Someone’s hungry,’ she comments, her brows knitted.
‘Starvin’ . . . ’ Quinn plops himself down, hungry eyes focused on the spread. He lifts a tall drink and a straw from the tray and places them on the table in front of her. ‘One vanilla milkshake for you . . . everything else, for me.’
‘How can you eat all that and remain so . . . lean?’
‘I have the metabolism of an Olympic athlete, Grace. Surely you must have clocked that by now.’ Quinn leans into the burger, tears a huge chunk from it and chews awkwardly with his mouth thankfully closed.
Over his shoulder, she notices a man with a tattooed neck and cropped hair enter the restaurant. She feels her stomach tighten. Steve Barry. One of Frankie White’s men. His eyes search the clientele and stop at Archer. He watches her, his thin lips twisting into a dark smile. Unflinching, she holds his gaze.
Quinn’s voice jolts her. ‘Grace, you’re white as sheet. Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ she lies, peeling the paper from her straw.
Quinn narrows his eyes and looks around. He sees Barry. Quinn takes a second chunk from his burger and turns back to Archer.
‘How’s your delicate little sandwich?’ she asks.
Quinn stops chewing, smiles, points at the burger and gives it the thumbs-up and glances behind him before going in for a third bite. Barry has joined a long queue for food, his eyes remaining steadfast on Archer.
Archer inserts the straw into the thick shake and lifts it to her mouth but decides she can’t drink. ‘We should go,’ she says, not wanting to be in the same place as Barry.
‘Aye.’
‘Bring your dinner.’
‘Lost my appetite,’ he replies.
Quinn swallows the last of his burger.
They stand. Archer leaves her milkshake but Quinn picks his up. They walk past the queue, Archer ignoring Barry’s stare. As she steps outside, she hears Quinn’s voice: ‘Oops! Sorry about that.’
‘What the fuck!’ someone says, among the giggles of the clientele.
Turning back, she sees a furious Barry, arms wide, face and jacket covered in strawberry milkshake. His fist flies at Quinn but he’s quick and grabs it, kicking Barry’s legs from under him. Barry lands with a thud on the tiled floor and gasps as Quinn places his boot on the man’s neck.
‘Harry, no . . . ’ says Archer as she hurries back inside.
Quinn squats down, his face close to Barry’s ear. ‘Take your ugly face back to White’s sewer and lodge it firmly up his ass, where it belongs. I don’t want to see it again.’
‘Harry, enough!’ cries Archer.
Quinn ignores her as he twists Barry’s arms and applies more pressure to his neck. ‘Understood?’ he growls.
Barry’s pink milkshake-coated face twists. He groans in pain.
‘I didn’t quite get that.’
Barry nods his head. ‘Yesh! Yesh!’
Quinn lifts his boot and lets go of his arm. Barry scrambles across the floor, lies against a trashcan, panting and cradling his arm.
Archer is about to speak but Quinn, his expression stony, says, ‘Leave it, Grace.’ He stalks out of the restaurant.
Outside, Archer grabs his arm. ‘What was that about?’
Quinn takes a breath and casually wipes away speckles of milkshake. ‘He was getting on my nerves.’
Archer points inside the restaurant. ‘That’s not how we do things, Harry!’
‘Sorry. Not sorry!’
Archer’s anger melds into dread. She thrusts her hands into her coat pockets and looks away. ‘You don’t get it, do you? By asserting yourself as my knight in shining armour – which, by the way, I never asked you to do – you’ve now just upgraded yourself to White’s kill list.’
‘I’m not afraid of him.’
‘Great! I’m so happy for you.’
‘Well, that’s OK then!’ retorts Quinn.
‘And what good is that to me, Harry? Don’t you understand? I need you. I can’t do this without you. White will take out Grandad. Then you. Without both of you . . . I’m done, if not dead.’
A heavy silence hangs in the air between them.
She hears Quinn sigh. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘We should go,’ she replies.
‘Yeah, we should.’
They sit in silence on the way back to Quinn’s flat. Archer gets a news alert on her phone.
Explosion erupts on Thames River Cruiser
‘Shit,’ says Archer, reading the brief summary.
‘What is it?’ asks Quinn.
‘A river cruiser exploded on the Thames earlier. About thirty minutes back. No sign of any survivors yet.’
‘Jesus.’
In Quinn’s flat, Archer and Quinn sit silently on the Chesterfield, watching the rolling news coverage of The Pride of Elizabeth. There is phone footage showing a clip of the cruise ship emerge from Westminster Bridge, explode in a ball of flame, float across the water and collide with a tourist cruiser before crashing against the Embankment walls. In another video the fire brigade and the marine police unit struggle to tether the now smouldering cruiser like fishermen of old subduing a restless whale.
Quinn is half looking at his phone. ‘According to this report, it’s not a tourist cruiser. Someone hired it for the evening. Must have been a party or something.’
‘Horrible,’ says Archer. ‘Those poor people. And their families too.’
‘I wonder what caused it,’ Quinn muses.
‘We’ll find out soon enough.’ Archer yawns. ‘I’m going to go to bed.’
‘No worries. Goodnight.’
‘’Night, Harry.’ Archer gets up and makes her way across the living room.
‘Grace . . . listen, about earlier.’
She gives him a tired smile. ‘It’s fine, don’t worry about it. G’night.’
Chapter 21
A
RCHER WAKES TO THE MURMUR of voices the following morning, which she assumes is Quinn’s television. Blinking, she reaches for her phone, but the screen is dark. She had forgotten to charge it.
‘Shit.’
She squints at the digital alarm clock. It’s 8.15. Late. She slides out of bed and plugs her phone into the mains. It had rained overnight. She had fallen asleep listening to it pound the windows of Quinn’s bedroom. She opens the curtains and pauses at the view of Kennington Park. The morning is grey and misty. Pools of water like black mirrors are dotted across the estate.
She realises the voices are not coming from the television. It’s Quinn talking with someone. A second voice she knows well. A moment of panic grips her and she fears the worst. Archer exits the bedroom and is greeted with the nutty aroma of fresh coffee. A half-dressed Quinn is in the kitchen, sipping from a chipped mug. To her surprise, Charlie Bates is there too.
‘Charlie, what are you doing here? Is it Grandad?’
‘Morning, Grace,’ says Charlie. ‘Nothing like that. I phoned the hospital and he’s doing fine. Don’t worry about him.’ He sets down his mug and embraces her. His overcoat still carries the cold, damp moisture from outside. ‘I tried to call but your phone kept going to voicemail.’
‘The battery died.’
‘Coffee, tea?’ asks Quinn.
Relief surges through her. ‘The coffee smells good.’
‘You might need a few strong coffees today,’ says Charlie.
Quinn hands her a mug. ‘Charlie brings news.’
Archer grips the hot mug, takes a sip and looks to Charlie. ‘What might that be?’
‘It’s about The Pride of Elizabeth incident on the Thames last night. It was no accident.’
‘Arson?’
‘Worse. The boat was packed with explosives. Possibly set to a timer. Everyone on board was killed. That everyone includes Andrei Brodsky.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘As serious as – if you’ll forgive the pun – a dead man.’
‘Why was Brodsky on the boat?’
‘He’d hired it to celebrate a new business deal.’
‘So, it was a hit?’
‘Yes.’
‘White?’
‘It’s looking that way.’
Archer’s mind processes Charlie’s news. Could this mean a swift arrest of Frankie White and an end to the threat against her and Grandad?
‘Brodsky killed Ethan, didn’t he?’ she says.
‘During White’s incarceration, Brodsky had muscled in on White’s territory with a network of county lines and minors trafficking drugs. Earned him a lot of cash, it did. Cash that White believes is his. Since his release, White has taken back control, eradicated Brodsky’s county lines and set up his own. Essentially, a turf war with White as the victor.’
‘Has this intel come from your mole?’
‘Mostly.’
‘So, he’s taken out Brodsky to end the turf war?’
‘That’s one reason,’ Charlie replies. ‘Brodsky is – was – brutal. He wasn’t going to sit back and let White get away scot-free. So, to answer your previous question, he orders a hit on White’s grandson.’
‘And makes it look like a suicide,’ says Quinn.
‘That’s right. From what I understand, once Ethan’s conviction was dropped, he became a different person. To him it seemed he’d been given a second chance. He was eager to get out and restart his life. Killing himself was the last thing on his mind. Poor kid. Everyone knew Ethan was fragile, so no one asked any questions. Brodsky made sure Frankie knew though.’
‘So, White comes back at him like a savage.’
‘And fries Brodsky, his team, and a bunch of people he was going into business with.’
‘Who were they?’ asks Quinn.
‘Believe it or not, Brodsky had a few legit businesses alongside his nefarious ones. On board were foreign investors he had brought in to bolster a property deal in Canary Wharf.’
‘Does your contact have proof of all this?’ asks Archer.
‘We’re working on that and I’m confident we’ll get it. Soon.’
‘How soon?’
Charlie rolls his shoulders and hesitates before answering, ‘I don’t know, Grace. I’m pushing hard.’
Despondency sweeps through her. For a moment it seemed the threat against her and Grandad would disappear. ‘So the status quo remains,’ she says, more a statement than a question.
‘I’m afraid so. Sorry, Grace.’
‘No worries,’ she says, placing the mug down on the cracked Formica worktop.
