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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Underwood and Dexter
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
A deranged predator on the rampage, a man with a terrible, drug fuelled obsession, a monster who thinks he's a god. The discovery of a decapitated body signals the start of a living nightmare for Inspector Alison Dexter. As she struggles to co-ordinate the manhunt, Dexter is suddenly forced to confront two demons from her own past: the arrival of a man that poisoned her career and the resurrected memory of a life she had to destroy. Returning to New Bolden CID after medical leave, John Underwood leams that Jack Harvey - the police psychiatrist that saved his own sanity - has been murdered. Events take on an added urgency when Harvey's wife is savagely abducted. Baffled by the killer's crazed modus operandi, Underwood becomes entangled in Dexter's investigation and eventually finds assistance from the unlikeliest of sources.
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ACID LULLABY
ED O’CONNOR
For Jude, with love
‘Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad’
Christina Rossetti, Remember (1862)
Contents
The Churning of the Ocean
1
January 1980, East London
Ignoringthepainwasimpossible.Ignorancemadeitworse.Perhapsitcouldbescouredaway.
She handed over fifty pence and walked to the back of the bus. The vehicle hissed and lurched into motion as she fell into a seat. Alison’s feet were cold. She had waited at the bus stop for forty-five minutes. Her shoes had succumbed to January rainwater and her socks were soaking wet.
The bus lumbered south down Walthamstow High Street, stopping every minute or so to collect small groups of football fans. Many kept their claret and blue woollen scarves tucked beneath the collars of their jackets. Walthamstow was a Tottenham heartland. Travelling West Ham fans had to be discreet, especially on Derby Day.
Alison studied every face carefully.
She hadn’t done the journey before but she was smart and prepared. She knew the football ground lay to the south east and that it was located just off the Romford Road. The bus timetables had given her the rest of the information she needed. When the incognito West Ham fans changed buses at Leyton and revealed their colours, she followed them.
An hour later Alison stood outside Upton Park. She could smell fried onions and horseshit. There were bursts of singing from groups of fans as they approached the ground and bustled anonymously past her. The chant floated along Disraeli Road:
‘… foreverblowingbubbles,prettybubblesintheair,’
Alison sat on a low stone wall that shielded a row of shops opposite the main entrance to the football stadium.
Somanypeople.
She had never seen such a crowd. There was a fish and chip shop directly behind her belching out acrid fumes of vinegar and cooking fat. She felt sick. She hadn’t been eating. Not since Vince had started on her again. The bruises on her back still stung.
‘… theyflysohigh,upinthesky,’
She studied the faces carefully. Hard, East-End faces with eyes that hunted with cold intelligence. A huge brown police horse clopped past her. It had a long scar on its hindquarters. Unhappy times.
‘… thenlikemydreamstheyfadeanddie,’
A cloud of conversation rolled over her as a pub emptied its contents onto the pavement. Two men sloshed past. She could smell beer. One had a dark piss stain on the front of his jeans. Alison scoured their expressions for a hint of familiarity.
‘Wotchu facking looking at?’ one snarled back at her.
Alison looked away.
‘Saucy little cow.’
They brushed past. One hacked a green streak of mucus from his throat and spat it on to the tarmac opposite her. Alison withdrew the photo from the back pocket of her jeans. It was an old Polaroid that smelt of chemicals. She was just a baby. The man holding her could have changed in twelve years. Still, the basic features would be the same. Just as they were on the claret and blue football shirt he was wearing.
Somanyfaces.Bodiesbumpingintoeachother,flowingindifferentdirections.Singingandchanting.
Alison, watching in growing frustration, began to see the impossibility of the task she had set herself. She decided to move around, to join the flow of blood as it pumped towards the heart; the dark bulk of the stadium. She slipped into a stream of people and questioned some of the less frightening faces.
‘Mister, do you know Gary Dexter?’ Alison asked.
‘Oo?’ said the shape in the black leather jacket.
‘Gary Dexter. He works in Dagenham.’
‘Not for long if the Tories have their way.’
‘Oo’s she want?’ said another voice.
‘Gary Dexter.’
‘I know a Gary Barker.’
‘Ee’s that prick from Gant’s Hill.’
‘Wouldn’t call the man a prick.’
‘Ee’s Arsenal isn’t he?’
‘Fair point.’
Alison broke away. It was 2.45. The game started at three. She grimaced in pain as someone clattered into her back and cursed her for being an obstruction. Her ribcage ached: the pain had kept her awake all night. The bruising was much worse this time. Vincent had kicked her. He’d never done that before. Her mum had just stood and watched. And sobbed.
Stupiduselessdirtybitch.
Suddenly, the pressure of bodies increased against her. There was shouting all around her. The crowd surged as a fight broke out. A volley of beer bottles sailed over her head and exploded against the concrete in front of her.
TottenhamfansamongstWestHam.Forcingtheirwayintothemainstand.Swearing,shouting,peoplefalling,peoplescramblingtogetaway.
Alison was lifted off the ground then thrown to the floor. Boots scuffled and kicked around her. She dropped her photo as she tried to cover her head with her hands. She stretched an arm into the crowd to retrieve it then recoiled in pain as someone trod on her wrist. She screamed in pain. Broken glass punctured her skin through the thin fabric of her anorak. Furious voices ricocheted around her.
‘Piss off, you yid wankers!’
‘Fuck off back to your stinking ghettos!’
More fists. A man fell to the ground in front of her. His mouth was awash with blood and one of his ears was half torn away. Alison closed her eyes as a boot smashed into his face spraying her with blood.
Suddenly, she felt strong hands on her shoulders. A policewoman dragged her out of the crowd, pulling her roughly from the chaos. With an effort, she hauled Alison up onto the bonnet of a nearby police squad car.
‘You okay, sweetheart?’
Alison was shaking, afraid to look the woman in the eye.
‘Did they kick you? Are you bleeding?’
Alison shook her head.
‘I lost my photo,’ she said quietly.
The WPC glanced over her shoulder as the fight tumbled toward the entrance to the main stand: an avalanche of petty grievances.
‘Do you feel dizzy or sick?’ she asked checking Alison’s head for damage.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Are you with anyone? Did you come here with your dad?’
‘The photo was of my dad.’
Two male police officers joined them.
‘Your head’s cut, Wrighty,’ grunted one of them.
‘I’m okay.’
‘We’ve got to move,’ came the unenthusiastic reply.
Sally Wright lifted Alison Dexter’s head so she could look her in the eye.
‘I’ve gotta go, sweetheart. You sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m okay.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Fourteen.’
‘That’s too young to be down here on your own.’ WPC Wright became aware of blood trickling from the cut to her temple. She dabbed it away with the sleeve of her tunic.
‘I was looking for my dad. I know he likes West Ham.’
‘Stay out of the way. Keep your head down,’ Sally Wright advised as she moved away. ‘Wait by the car.’
Alison watched her leave from the bonnet of the panda car, amazed as the WPC ran directly towards the maelstrom of brawling men ahead of her.
Alison Dexter felt ashamed and pathetic. She felt weak: a burden to herself and others. She was alone in a concrete universe. No one was coming to save her.
That night, Alison sat on her bed and listened to her mother and stepdad arguing in the adjacent room. At 9.30 she retrieved the steak knife she had taken from the kitchen drawer and secreted in her pillowcase. She removed the Mickey Mouse watch that Vince had bought her for Christmas.
She placed the blade against the pale skin on the topside of her wrist. Slowly but firmly, as the screams grew in intensity next door, Alison Dexter cut herself for the first time.
2
Summer 2001, Canary Wharf
The clock was ticking.
Crouch could only take so much. Every man has a breaking point and Crouch wasn’t an idiot. He had done his best to be a generous spirit: play the part of the best-friend lover he had read about in Liz’s magazines. It hadn’t worked. Nothing had worked. Slowly but inexorably she was sliding away from him and he wanted to know why.
He was prepared to be reasonable. He could take the mind-numbing tedium of his job in Eurobond settlements at Fogle & Moore. He could take the quiet disdain of Liz’s loud-mouthed friends on the trading floor. He could accept the steady disentanglement of their sex lives and the recent unexpected revelation of Liz’s self-esteem issues. But he wasn’t prepared to be screwed around and he was starting to smell betrayal.
In six weeks it would be their anniversary. A whole year since he’d pulled Liz in the drunken haze of a bank offsite. The entire bond department had visited Sandown Park for an evening of racing and champagne. It hadn’t been pretty. Fogle & Moore’s bond traders were legendary in the market for excessive alcoholic consumption. Each of the currency desks had nominated a patsy for the Vomit Olympics: a pint of neat Vodka then a pint of lager in a head-to-head time trial. Sterling had beaten Euros in the final. The losing traders paid a grand each to the winners. Settlements hadn’t been invited to take part – they didn’t really count.
Liz Koplinsky had worn a pretty floral dress. In the carnage of the drinking competition it had fluttered like a flower on wasteland. Crouch remembered it fondly. He’d chanced his arm. She was out of his league but he was battle hardened. Like one of those children’s toys that you knock back but can’t knock over. Nothing ventured and all that.
She had been watching the drinking competition. Pieter Richter, the head of Euro Sales, was being carried to the toilets with sick smeared down the front of his Boss suit. There was much laughter and piss-taking. Liz was on the periphery and this gave him an opportunity. He caught her eye.
‘You not joining in?’
She smiled a bright white smile. ‘God no! I start spinning on coffee.’
‘Cawfee?’
‘You ripping the shit out of my accent, bud?’
‘No. I like it. New York, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘It’s a big city on the other side of the Atlantic, in a land we call America.’
Her jab connected sharply with his ego. Still, in for a penny. ‘I mean whereabouts in New York?’
‘I know what you meant. I’m just shitting you. I’m from Queens. It’s a dumb accent.’
Crouch was starting to relax. ‘It’s a great accent. I lived in New York for a while.’
‘Really? With the company?’
‘A training programme.’
‘The Kramer Course?’
‘That’s right. I did the operations module.’
‘Okay. I did the trading module two years ago.’
Crouch knew all about that. Liz Koplinsky was already a minor legend on the trading floor. A working class girl from Queens who had joined Fogle & Moore as a secretary then worked her way on to the Corporate Bond Trading programme.
‘Listen,’ she had touched his arm and for a second he smelt champagne on her breath, ‘I don’t know nothing about horses. You wanna help me win some money?’
He remembered feeling an almighty surge of relief. ‘Love to.’
Over the next two hours they’d lost about three hundred quid and drunk a lot of Bollinger. Liz hadn’t mocked his nasal estuary Essex accent. Most English girls disliked his voice. Liz said it was funny. She had laughed when he called her ‘geezer’ or ‘Doris’. Encouraged, he had tried to teach her cockney rhyming slang.
‘We call a pub a “boozer” right? Boozer rhymes with battlecruiser.’
‘Beddlecwoozer.’
‘That sounds cute! Say it again!’
‘Beddlecwoozer.’
‘Cruiser!’
‘Cwoozer! Whadda fuck! I’m not Eliza-fawkin-Doolittle.’
‘Concentrate! We’re going for a Mickey down the battlecruiser then sinking a Ruby Murray.’
‘A mickey down da ’cwoozer den sinking a Wooby Muwwie.’
‘Pukka!’
‘Lawbbly jawbbly.’ She was laughing.
‘Koplinsky,’ Crouch smiled as he shook his head in mock disapproval, ‘you are a heartbreaker.’
She’d looked him straight in the eye; fixed him in those big black pupils and exploded his heart: ‘Cwouchie. We should hang out more.’
And they had. Eight months of drunken hilarity and vigorous sex. Crouch had become a lost soul. He’d never been in love – the concept had always made him nauseous. But he could feel himself slipping, gradually losing control, like he was falling asleep at the wheel of his life. Then, just as he had given in to loving her, the sex had stopped.
Not immediately. It had evaporated slowly and miserably. Now, six weeks away from the anniversary of their first night together, Crouch considered some stark statistics. Three months since they had last slept together. Three weeks since she’d kissed him unprompted. She’d stopped inviting him round to her flat and hidden behind a wall of excuses built on exhaustion and overwork.
It was a weak argument. Crouch spent endless hours reconciling trades on Fogle & Moore’s computer systems. Hard work had always made him want sex more not less. Still, he had reasoned, Liz worked in the front office. Front office shit was always heavier. Traders worked under a different set of pressures: clients gave them shit, Max Fallon and Danny Planck screamed abuse and instructions from their offices, the market could churn and twist their trading books into the red in an instant. He’d decided to cut her more slack.
Their relationship came to centre on emails and SMS messages as Liz started to stay later and later at the office each night. Crouch always finished work by six. He was old-fashioned like that: you work hard all day but at six o’clock you stop. Let the investment bankers and lawyers jerk off in their offices until after midnight. It wasn’t his style and on thirty-five grand a year it simply wasn’t worth the effort.
Still, he had begun to find excuses to stay late. He found himself inventing work simply to stay longer in the office waiting for Liz to finish. He wanted to get an angle on what was happening. He knew she was freezing him out but he couldn’t understand why. A few weeks previously they had been talking about moving in together – she had even given him a key to her flat in Wapping – and now this.
AkeytoherflatinWapping.
Now she was stonewalling him. Girls back at his school in Romford had called it the ‘mushroom’. When they had been upset about something they’d let their hair fall in front of their faces to hide their emotions. Whenever he tried to confront Liz about the unfortunate state of their relationship, she mushroomed him. She’d mumbled her exhaustion through a veil of chestnut-coloured hair. When he’d asked her over the phone about the evaporation of their sex life she’d claimed to have ‘issues with herself’.
Whaddafuck?
Crouch was frustrated and furious. He had fallen back into the bad habits of his early twenties: drink, nightclubs, drugs. He had started snorting coke after two years of abstinence and had even cracked a couple of Es. His old school friend Chris Aldridge – Aldo – had sorted it for him. Aldo was kind of ‘in the trade’. Crouch didn’t ask too many questions. Aldo didn’t like talking about his business interests but he was happy to give out advice with his pills. That week at a busy Holborn bar he had made his opinions on Liz Koplinsky clear.
‘Chuck it. She’s obviously porking someone else.’
The thought made Crouch feel sick. ‘She’s not like that.’
‘Bloody hell, Simon! What happened to you? They are all like that. So are you. So am I. It happens all the bloody time.’
‘She’s at the office all the bloody time. That’s the problem. Besides, she says she’s got some self-esteem shit going on.’
‘That’s what they all say, mate.’ Aldo expelled cigarette smoke and then followed the dispersing fog with his eyes. ‘Take my word for it. She’s getting sausage somewhere else. If she’s got a self-esteem problem it’s because she feels guilty about enjoying herself.’
The words unnerved Crouch: there was something horridly plausible about them.
‘Why not tell me, then? At least have the courtesy to tell me to piss off. I hate all this messing around. I’m too old for games.’
Aldo grinned a yellow toothy grin. ‘You’re thirty-two, mate. Games are all you’ve got left.’
Crouch nursed his pint sullenly tracing the lines of gas bubbles that rose magically from its depths. Aldo watched him closely and relented slightly.
‘You like this girl, right?’
‘Of course.’
‘You want to find out what’s going on?’
‘Welcome to the conversation, Aldo!’ Crouch snapped sarcastically.
‘Then don’t be a victim. Take the initiative.’ He dabbed cigarette ash in to a round black ashtray.
‘I’m not with you.’
‘If she’s not going to tell you what’s going on, then you have to find out.’
‘Okay.’
Aldo glugged a bitter mouthful of whisky. ‘Consider this,’ he leaned forward as if he was about to impart one of the great secrets of the universe, ‘what do women do when they’ve got a secret?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Think about it.’
‘You’ve lost me, Aldo.’
‘They tell it to their mates. She does have mates, I take it?’
‘Of course. But they aren’t going to tell me anything. Most of them look through me like I’m a bleeding window pane.’
Aldo shook his head. ‘Crouchie, you ain’t using your imagination. Look mate, I hate to see you hurt. I’m proud of you. You’re the only one of us that’s actually done something useful with his life. You’ve got a proper job, a flat, qualifications. Don’t get dragged down by some bird.’
‘What are you suggesting Aldo?’
‘Bug her.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You can get voice-activated Dictaphones. Very handy they are too. Next time you’re at her flat, stick one in a fucking pot plant near to her phone. Then the next time she’s having a bleedin’ heart with one of her mates you’ll have the whole thing on tape.’ Aldo sat back in triumph. ‘Banged to rights.’
‘You are having a laugh?’
‘It’s up to you. Be a victim or take control. Same again?’
Crouch watched Aldo as he collected their glasses and sauntered up to the bar. He couldn’t do that to Liz. It was preposterous and unfair. She didn’t deserve that.
Or did she? Crouch considered the issue. He had a right to know. If she wasn’t prepared to tell him the truth didn’t he have the right to root it out for himself? He persuaded himself that if she was screwing him over then she had surrendered her right to privacy. Suddenly, Crouch found himself clear of the moral quagmire and wandering in the cold light of logistics. It would be difficult but not impossible.
AndhehadakeytoherflatinWapping.
3
Max Fallon’s office at Fogle & Moore overlooked West India Docks. He could see the crawling dinosaurs of the Docklands Light Railway and beyond them the East End shit heap that soiled his horizons. It was always a reminder. A reminder of what he was working to avoid. A reminder that he had a responsibility to the little people that worked for him: the responsibility to make the right calls. Still, he was finding it hard to focus. His mind was on the coming evening’s festivities, not on the conference call he was supposedly chairing.
‘My concern,’ squawked a disembodied voice from the spidery speakerphone, ‘is the quality of investors that you have lined up for our bond issue.’
The voice belonged to Andrew Pippen, Junior Treasurer at Fulton Steel; a jumped-up accountant. Pippen had a good line in crumpled, charcoal coloured suits and ropey red ties. Fallon loathed him. He loathed the ordinariness of the people he had to be polite to. Chippytreasurerswiththeircrappyred-brickdegrees:sullentwatsimprisonedincheapshoesandsmallprovincialminds.
‘You see,’ Pippen continued nasally, ‘Fulton Steel is a traditional blue chip. We want our bonds placed with traditional “buy and hold” investors. Pension funds and the like.’
Fallon groaned and looked across at Danny Planck, the Head of European Bond Trading. Planck shook his shaved head and made a delicate ‘wanker’ motion with his wrist. Fallon nodded and released the mute button on the speakerphone. Liz Koplinsky smiled as he winked at her.
‘Andrew, we understand your concerns.’ Fallon’s eye crawled up and down Liz’s legs, lingering at her crotch. BeCommanding. ‘Let’s be frank. The facts are these. First, Fulton Steel is a debut issuer. You have no track record. Second, the investors you refer to are respectable European financial institutions. Thirdly, you need money quickly.’
‘I see your point, Max, and I realize it is in your interest to bring this deal to market quickly.’
Max was irritated. It was a cheap shot and it stung. ‘Andrew, we want a successful deal. Our interest and your interest are one and the same.’
‘But all these Italian brokerage firms …’ paper rustled at the other end of the phone as Pippen read through the underwriting list. ‘Forgive my ignorance, but won’t they just dump the bonds at the first opportunity?’
Fallon pressed mute on the speakerphone and turned to Planck. ‘Danny, this is a dog shit credit in a dog shit market, right?’
‘That is being generous,’ Planck replied.
‘So frankly, he’s lucky to have a deal at all?’
‘Maxy, it’s a marketing miracle that we’ve pre-sold any of this crap.’
Fallon nodded, justified in his anger. ‘Talk to him then. Sell him some technical bollocks. He’s doing my head in.’
Fallon sat back in his seat and put his feet up on the desk. He wanted Liz to see he was wearing Gucci loafers. He tried not to think about what he was going to do to her later. The thought of Liz chewing on his cock was clouding his judgement. Focusonthelittlepeople.
Danny Planck thought for a second before turning to Liz. ‘You handle this one, hotshot. Feminine touch required.’ He released the mute on the phone.
Liz Koplinsky leaned forward slightly. Fallon studied the flowery white lace of her bra as it pressed against her blouse.
‘Andrew. It’s Liz.’
Fallon admired Planck’s thinking. He could almost hear Pippen’s trousers tightening. The little prick had been drooling over Liz at the pitch for the deal two months previously. Frankly, he couldn’t blame him.
‘Oh. Hello there, Liz!’
‘For a new borrower first impressions count. If these brokerage firms sell your deal quickly, that ain’t necessarily so bad. Quality buyers will snap up their bonds. Take this example. Let’s say that you’re a big soccer fan and you can never get tickets to see your team. The match is sold out. After a while you’re gonna lose interest. But what if some agency offers you tickets at a premium? You get to see your team. The price of the tickets keeps going up. It’s supply and demand. Without supply, demand will eventually die out, right?’
‘I see what you mean,’ Pippen observed quietly.
‘You put shit on your roses and they grow better, right?’
Pippen laughed an electronic laugh. Fallon could just see him in his miserable little office in Derby rubbing the end of his useless prick through the pockets of his crackly suit and making his fingers smell. ‘I don’t know if my board of directors will be persuaded by the scarce football ticket analogy. Most of them support Stoke City.’
‘They should be persuaded,’ said Fallon, ‘it’s a compelling argument.’
Pippen cleared his throat. ‘Well, thank you, guys. That was helpful. I’ll call you back tomorrow with a decision.’
Fallon turned the phone off. ‘We got him.’
‘Hook, line and fucking sinker. Nice one, Liz.’ Plank patted her on the head as he stood up.
‘You gotta keep it simple, right?’ Liz gathered her papers, and looked Fallon directly in the eye as she left the office. ‘See you later, Max.’
Fallon watched her leave.
‘You are a disgrace,’ said Planck, watching Fallon’s hungry grey eyes moving up Liz’s legs.
‘What?’
‘You’re old enough to be her father!’
‘Wicked uncle maybe.’
‘You seeing her tonight?’
‘Dinner at the Palais and then she’s gonna earn her Christmas bonus the hard way.’
‘Pack your Viagra then.’
‘I’m thirty-eight, you cheeky bastard.’
‘Better take two packets.’
Planck watched through the glass walls of Fallon’s office as Liz returned to her desk on the far side of the trading floor. ‘I thought she was boffing some oik in Settlements.’
‘Well, she obviously fancies some pedigree sausage.’
‘Sloppy, Settlement seconds.’
Fallon grinned. ‘I’ll suffer that indignity.’ He sat down and began to read through some brochures he’d received from an estate agent in Cambridgeshire. He was tired of London. Finally, he had the money to start thinking about moving out for good.
His digital wristwatch beeped. It was 5p.m.
Twohoursandcounting.
4
Five minutes later, Liz Koplinsky’s burglar alarm started beeping automatically as Crouch entered her apartment. He walked quickly to the control panel in the hallway and entered Liz’s code. The noise stopped abruptly. It was an easy pin number to remember: ‘212’ was the dialling code for Manhattan and the ‘3’ denoted 3rd Avenue. Liz’s first apartment in New York had been in Manhattan on 92nd and 3rd. 2123. Easy.
He looked around the apartment he knew so well and suddenly felt like a criminal. It was as if his very presence soiled the place. He walked into the lounge area and sat for a second on Liz’s low white leather sofa. The apartment had a wide view of the Thames grumbling by two storeys below. The river was a mixed blessing. He loved the sight of it but the sounds had driven him demented. The thumping disco boats had often kept him awake half the night, the honking barges disturbing him at five in the morning.
To the left of the main window Liz had installed a giant fish tank. It was shaped like a huge letter ‘H’: two hexagonal pillars connected by a horizontal glass tube. It was filled with a galaxy of exotic fish. There was even a frustrated looking crab scratching at the foot of one of the pillars, attracted by the bubbling air filters. Liz had told him that the suppliers had to winch the tank into her apartment, over her balcony. It had cost her thousands. He felt like pissing in it.
After a moment, Crouch stood and began to root through the paperwork on Liz’s desk. Mostly credit card bills and air mail from the US. Crouch studied these in closer detail, imagining some stateside sweetheart. However, the letters offered nothing of interest. He replaced them and turned his attention to the phone.
He picked up her handset and dialled 1471. A recorded voice spoke to him flatly.
‘You were called yesterday at 11.36p.m. The caller withheld their number.’
Whowouldcallheraftereleven-thirtyatnight?Noonefromthebank.Theyknewshehadtobeupatsixinthemorning.Someoneelsethen?Fromoutsidethebank?
Disappointed, Crouch turned his attention to the answer phone. The red display showed the numeral ‘1’. He hesitated. If he played the message he would have to delete it. He decided to take the chance.
‘Hello. This is Janet from Seamless Dry Cleaning. Miss Koplinsky’s suits are ready for collection.’
Shit.
He deleted the message and removed the Dictaphone from his pocket. It had cost him forty pounds and had a voice activated capability. Crouch looked directly above the desk. There was a shelf; a high bookshelf, cluttered with fantasy novels. Liz liked all that goblin and dwarf bullshit. He reached up and rested the Dictaphone on top of the books before taking a step back.
‘I am Simon Crouch,’ he announced to the empty room. ‘I am falling apart.’
He reached up and pulled down the Dictaphone. The LCD display was flashing ‘STDBY’. He pressed play.
‘… am Simon Crouch. I am falling apart.’
It sounded worse when it was repeated back at him.
5
At 6p.m. Max Fallon took the lift to the basement of Fogle & Moore Investments and walked into the company gym. He changed quickly into his new Hilfiger gym clothes and crossed into the workout area. He paused briefly to watch an aerobics class as he stretched his hamstrings. He marvelled for a second at the line of sweaty secretaries wearing knickers outside their tights: jigging to the left and reaching to the right.
Fantastic.
It put him in the mood.
The gym was always busy in the early evening and most of the machines were busy. Max found himself a treadmill and started his usual programme. He began to jog and found his eyes wandering across the view through the full length windows: across the redundant dock that was now only a giant water feature, past the ancient cranes that stood forlornly like skeletons in a museum, towards the hulking concrete minimalism of Cabot Square.
The sun threw rosy washes of evening light over docklands. It reminded him for a brief moment of his childhood in India. Of the lonely nights spent hammering a football against the wall of the Foreign Office residential compound or of reading books while his father attended embassy functions. The sun had seemed so close then that it had frightened him. He had imagined the earth being sucked into its giant yellow mouth. He smiled.
Kids’stuff.
He knew he couldn’t touch the English sun. Although – he mused – he could probably buy it.
Twenty minutes later Max was in the shower and he took time over himself. He was especially thorough in the places where he hoped Liz Koplinsky’s attention might linger in a few hours’ time. He still jutted and rippled in the right places. His skin had still retained the olive sheen that his tropical childhood had earned. Viagra would not be necessary. Danny Planck was a cheeky bastard.
He spent some time in front of the mirror. He shaved for the third time that day, thrilling at the smoothness of his skin. When he brushed his face against Liz’s Koplinsky’s inner thigh later there would be no friction. She would think she was writhing on the tongue of a ghost, or a God. He applied Clinique skin balm. He didn’t want Liz fixating on any unpleasant dry flakes of skin during dinner. Finally he applied a sliver of styling mousse to hold his brown hair back from his face and accentuate the brutal jawline that he knew was his finest feature.
Fragrant and empowered, Max Fallon returned briefly to his office on the bond trading floor to stow his gym bag. A baggy-eyed blonde night secretary shouted across the floor that his cab had arrived. Fallon gave her a quick ‘thumbs-up’ and grabbed a book from his desk to enliven the cab ride to the West End. It would take his mind off Liz until he met her at 7.30. It was a dog-eared copy of a book called GodsandMyths.
The Palais was an old favourite: a bright and airy Anglo-French restaurant that overlooked Covent Garden. It was much loved by the West End media mob: advertising executives and TV producers. Its small entrance lobby opened out spectacularly onto a huge glass-domed atrium.
‘Cool place,’ said Liz Koplinsky, handing her coat to a waitress.
‘Best in town,’ Fallon replied. He couldn’t take his eyes off Liz’s bare shoulders. Her black strapless dress was working a spell on him. Liz’s skin appeared totally smooth – no rogue moles or blemishes. He wanted to bite her, feel her melt on his tongue like white chocolate, slide over her perfectly smooth body. They were led to their table immediately. Fallon noticed that Liz liked to brush her hand against the leaves of pot plants and the petals of cut flowers as she walked past. She was a sensual girl. He liked that.
‘So does this count as fraternizing?’ Liz asked as she settled in her chair and a waiter placed a napkin on her lap.
‘Socializing,’ said Max with a smirk.
‘What’s the difference?’
‘You’ve still got your clothes on.’
Liz’s face softened slightly as she repressed a smile. ‘Oh that! It’s a New York thing. We don’t eat out naked.’
Max switched the subject. He didn’t want to labour the point. ‘So how did the little girl from the ghetto become a big shot bond trader?’
Liz feigned annoyance. ‘Hey, buddy! I didn’t come from any ghetto.’
‘Queens?’
‘It’s a very respectable neighbourhood. My father worked at the airport.’
‘Carrying baggage?’
‘He’s an engineer, smart-ass. And he didn’t care too much for limeys, either.’
‘Limeys!’ Max laughed at the tired expression. ‘Is this nineteen forty-two?’
Liz bridled slightly. ‘Well, don’t you have a nickname for us?’
‘Yeah,’ Max paused for effect. ‘Fuckwits.’
‘Asshole.’
‘I’m kidding. New York’s okay,’ Fallon said. ‘The people are friendlier than Londoners, that’s for sure. Central Park beats the shit out of any of London’s parks.’
‘Central Park is Valhalla if you’re a jogger,’ Liz conceded. ‘I prefer Hampstead Heath, though. I go up there on Sunday mornings. Kids fly their kites on the top of Parliament Hill. Beautiful.’
‘Whatever rings your bell,’ Fallon sniffed.
‘So do you live near here? In the centre of town.’
Max shook his head. ‘I’ve got a place in Chelsea. I’m buying a gaff out in the countryside.’
‘Sweet. An olde English cottage?’
‘Something like that. I’ve got this dream of renovating an old manor house. You know, doing the English country gentleman thing. Bring up kids in the countryside. I wouldn’t bring up my dinner in London now.’ He looked at her, half-embarassed. ‘It’s silly, really.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Liz. ‘Where have you been looking?’
‘How good’s your geography?’
‘Try me.’
‘East Cambridgeshire.’
‘You got me.’
‘I’m from Cambridge originally. My father still lives up there. There’s some great old places on the Suffolk border.’
‘That’s a long drive.’
‘Not in a Porsche.’
‘In this country any drive’s a long drive. I thought you had a jeep.’
‘I’ve got a Land Cruiser and a Porsche 911.’ He noticed her necklace. ‘Why are you wearing that Egyptian thing?’
‘It’s an ankh.’ She held it up for him to look at. Inevitably, his eyes wandered down.
‘I know what it is. Why are you wearing it?’
‘It’s a life symbol.’
‘Sweet.
‘What about you? What’s with the book?’
Max looked down at GodsandMyths. He smiled. Liz noticed he had very white teeth. ‘That’s an old friend.’
‘How come?’
‘I lived in India when I was a kid. My father worked at the British Embassy in Delhi. I used to get so bored on my own. Sometimes I stole books from the library at the English School. This was one of the best ones: Hindu myths, gods and demons and shit. I love all that stuff. It’s silly but when I was eight my mum entered me in some school fancy-dress competition as a Hindu god. I’ve always had a passing interest since then.’
‘Why were you on your own?’
Fallon’s expression clouded briefly. ‘My mum died soon after we moved there. There was a car accident.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault,’ Fallon replied crisply. ‘Unless you were driving a motorbike through the northern suburbs of Delhi in November 1971.’
‘Did you win?’ Liz ignored his weak attempt at humour.
‘Win what?’
‘The fancy-dress competition.’
‘Of course.’
Liz held up the old book in her hands and flicked through. She winced at some of the pictures. ‘Man. This would give me nightmares.’
‘Assuming you get to sleep tonight.’
She ignored the flirtation. ‘So you’re a closet intellectual?’
‘Hardly.’
‘What did you read at College?’
‘Philosophy.’
‘No shit?’
‘Yes shit. You say “shit” too much, by the way.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Actually, I read Philosophy for two years then I changed to Theology.’
‘Why, for Christ’s sake?’
‘That’s a bad joke if you meant it. To be honest, I found philosophy boring. Theology was more to do with belief systems and religious mythology: much juicier.’
‘I’d never have guessed you were into all that stuff.’
‘I’m full of surprises. There’s a mythology exhibition at The British Museum this week as it happens. I’m going on Saturday. You should come.’ Max waved at the wine waiter who pulled a notebook from his pocket and drifted over.
‘I got better things to do on a Saturday than hang out in some stinking museum, bud.’
‘Stinking?’
‘Good evening,’ the waiter smiled at them.
‘Champagne,’ Max said without looking at him. ‘Not the house muck. Something decent.’
‘Of course, Monsieur.’
‘And you can ditch the accent. I’m not a tourist.’
The waiter froze, bit his tongue and walked away. Liz was horrified.
‘Max, you are so rude.’
‘He’s about as French as my nuts.’ Max studied her closely for a second, his eyes moving over her. ‘I’ve got a question for you now.’
‘Shoot.’
‘What’s this I hear about you shagging some monkey from Settlements? Slouch or Couch or something.’
‘Crouch. That’s nothing. Just a kink I gotta iron out.’ Liz felt a sudden sting of guilt. She tried to dab the wound away.
‘Someone like you doesn’t need any dead wood.’
‘He’s a nice guy but it’s never going to work out. He’s kind of possessive.’
‘Ditch the bitch, I say. There are winners and losers. Blokes like that live in a cheap, spivvy little world. Cheap beer. Cheap clothes. A suffocating mortgage. Motorway nightclubs. Match of the Day. You don’t want that. Don’t demean yourself.’
Liz shook her head slowly. ‘You’re just an incurable romantic, aren’t you?’
Two champagne glasses appeared before them on the table. Max tasted the wine, gold and sparkling.
‘Spot on!’ He gestured at the waiter to continue pouring. ‘Seriously bloody spot on.’
The bubbles nibbled at his tongue. He felt empowered. Liz sipped her champagne and he noticed the soft smear of lipstick she left on the lip of the glass. It was going to be a long and fruitful evening.
6
The following morning Simon Crouch got into work early. He was at his desk at 7a.m. He hoped to have a chat with Liz before the market opened and she immersed herself in trades, emails and excuses. He walked across the lift lobby from Settlements onto the hallowed ground of the trading floor. Most of the traders and bond salesmen were already at their desks. Some glugged coffee from expensive cardboard containers, others enjoyed the tits on page three and a few stared intently at their trading screens hunting out the titbit of information that might give them an edge.
Eventually he arrived at the eurodollar trading desk in the centre of the floor. It was distinctive for three reasons: first, it had a line of US flags stretching across the tops of the computer monitors as if they denoted forces on a battlefield diorama. Secondly, a large rubber Yoda dangled above the desk in a noose. The toy had a piece of cardboard sellotaped across its belly that said: ‘May the Bourse be with you.’ Thirdly, Danny Planck, head of trading, was already booming instructions at his beleaguered foot soldiers.
‘The word today is Gas, boys and girls. We are expecting a billion spondoolies to hit the market from Arizona Natural Resources. Now as you know, this is a skittish market. It’s jumping about like a kangaroo in a carwash. The extra supply won’t help.’
Planck picked up the baseball bat he kept by his desk and waved it around for emphasis. Crouch hung back. He had seen Planck smash up computer screens with his bat.
‘Look for simple switches into quality credits. Don’t bugger around. Use my tip list. Dangle your balls in the fire at your own peril.’ Planck looked around and picked up the bacon roll from his desk. ‘Now which one of you piss ants has taken my ketchup?’
Planck spotted Crouch hovering nervously at his elbow.
‘What do you want, Crouchie? My trading sheets messed up again?’
‘Is Liz around?’ Crouch found his Essex accent grew more pronounced on the trading floor, like a boxer using his jab. ‘I need to check a couple of trades.’
‘Course you do!’ Planck winked at him. ‘Nice shoes by the way. Oi Adrian! Clock Crouchie’s didgeries.’
A curly-haired trader looked up briefly from his glowing Bloomberg Screen and winced.
‘Plastic fantastic,’ he said with a yawn.
Planck grinned hideously. ‘Yeah! Disposable shoes. They are shocking, Crouchie. A man’s shoes say a lot. You’re squeaking like a fucking hamster.’
‘Is Liz around?’ Crouch was used to taking flak from the Gucci-shod traders but today it burned inside him, like he’d drunk a pint of wasps.
‘She’s gonna be late,’ Adrian said flatly. ‘She was on the lash last night.’
‘Thanks.’ Crouch walked away, the bile rising inside him. Liz had been out on the piss half the night. Somuchforbeingexhausted. He ignored Danny Planck’s derisive shouts from behind him.
‘Eak-eak-eak-eak!’
As he left the floor and crossed back across the lobby that separated Settlements from Trading, he walked right into Liz Koplinsky. She was emerging from a lift clutching a huge Starbuck’s Coffee. She had shower-wet hair scraped back over her head. It made her eyes shine brighter, despite the bags beneath them.
‘Hey you,’ she said wearily; an emotion flickered across her face. Crouch tried to decipher it: panic turned into guilt?
‘I called you last night.’
‘I heard the phone. I was tired. I had an early night.’
The lies were becoming more obvious. Her eyes darting sideways as she spoke. He would remember that.
‘When can I see you?’ he asked simply.
She felt a rush of pity. The simple imploring tone of his question upset her.
‘Listen, I’ll call you later. Big day on the desk today.’ She dragged her eyes from the floor with an effort. ‘I gotta go.’
Crouch felt the frustration fermenting in his stomach as he watched her leave. He had seen enough. He knew it was over.
Now, he had to know why.
Around the corner, Liz arrived at the Eurodollar desk to a chorus of jeers and ‘look-at-the-state-of-that’s!’ She slumped into her chair and hung onto her coffee for warmth and support.
‘Good night, then?’ Adrian asked without looking up from his screens.
Liz nodded. ‘The best.’
‘Some loser was looking for you.’
Liz felt another spasm of guilt. She had treated Simon poorly. She had wanted to call it off but had hoped he would get the message by implication. Through the broken glass window of a hangover Liz saw she at least owed him the respect of breaking up properly. She decided to send him an email.
7
The black cab roared up from the gloom of the Limehouse Link Tunnel onto the highway. Crouch sat in the back, cold sweating with anxiety. The cab turned left at Tobacco Dock. The driver looked over his shoulder and opened the connecting window.
‘Left here, mate?’
‘Yeah,’ Crouch replied, ‘then down Wapping High Street. It’s opposite the tube station. Raleigh Wharf.’
‘Gotcha.’
They arrived two minutes later. Crouch told the cab to wait for him. He hurried into the building as the cabbie opened a plastic thermos flask of coffee.
Crouch unlocked Liz’s apartment. ‘2-1-2-3’ silenced the alarm system.
The flat was humid and smelt of shower-gel. He was nervous and quickly retrieved the Dictaphone from the bookshelf. He was back outside within a minute.
Back in the cab, Crouch took a deep breath and pressed play on the Dictaphone. Nothing happened. The batteries had died. The taxi rumbled back towards Canary Wharf, bouncing along the ancient cobbles of Wapping High Street. Crouch held the muted machine tightly in his hand.
Max Fallon drifted into his office at 8a.m. Wearily, he turned on his computer and noticed he had twenty-six emails. Three were from Liz. He groaned and necked half a bottle of Evian. She had been a disconcertingly good ride but he hoped that she wasn’t a bunny boiler. A barnacle bird at the office was the last thing that he needed. He would trawl through the messages later. For the moment, he would concentrate on fighting dehydration.
Simon Crouch bought two calculator batteries from the shop next to the canteen at Fogle & Moore and hurried down to his office. He closed the door behind him and fumbled the new batteries into the dictaphone. After a deep breath he pressed ‘play’. A light flashed on and through the electrical crackle of the playback he could hear snatches of Liz’s voice.
‘… Fogle & Moore … giving me a frigging pay rise … working my ass off twenty-four-seven.’
Therewasamumblinginthebackground.SomeoneelsewasintheroombutCrouchcouldn’tdeterminewho.HefrownedashetriedtodeciphertheanswerandcursedtheDictaphone’sinadequatecondensermic.Liz’svoicebrokethroughthecrackleagain.Shesoundeddrunk.
‘… I do work weekends … some weekends … why are you being such an asshole …’
HecouldhearLizlaughing.Therewasacrashofbreakingglass.DrunkLizdroppingstuff –he’dseenherdoitbefore.
Footsteps.FootstepsonLiz’sstrippedwoodenfloor.Expensivefootsteps,gettinglouder.Aman’svoice.
‘… are all assholes. Didn’t your mother tell you that?’
FuryengulfedSimonCrouch.Furythatshehadliedtohim.Furythathehadlostcontrolofevents.Terroratwhatwascoming.Hecouldheararustlingsound.Likethecrumblingofapaperbag.
‘Shit. There’s wine down the front of your dress.’
Liz’sreplywasmuffledandindistinct.Theman’svoiceagain.
‘Why don’t you just take it off?’
Crouch stopped the playback and was suddenly sick into his waste basket. He wiped the acid bile from his mouth. There it was. Cold and brutal. She was screwing him around. His heart was racing. His blood boiled behind his eyes. For a second, he thought about throwing the Dictaphone away. And yet morbid fascination drew him on. He tried for a moment to catch his breath. He removed his tie, its cheapness now stained with vomit. He pressed play.
Liz’svoice:‘Whaddyathink?’
Man: ‘… kingfantasic.’
Liz:‘Youplanningondoinganythingaboutit?’
Man.Hesoundeddrunktoo.‘Whataboutyourboyfriend … MrSad-ActfromSettlements.’
Liz: ‘… over.He’snobody.Nowarewegonnafuckorareyougonnatalkshitallnight?’
Crouch sat back in his chair. It would have been better to walk in on them and catch them in the act: better to have fixed a single frozen horror in his mind. Then he could have turned the image into a jigsaw and picked away at it over time. Now, his imagination was painting dozens of terrible pictures.
He was infuriated by his own idiocy. He was the biggest dickhead on the planet. He had cut her so much slack, believed all her self-esteem bullshit, tolerated the evaporation of their sex life. Aldo had been right all along. She was a piece of garbage. Crouch smashed his hand against the plastic desk. How could he have been so utterly fucking stupid?
Theplaybackcontinued.Gruntingthroughthedistortion.
Man:‘Youlikethis?’
Liz:‘Fuckyes… Fuckyes…’
Man: ‘… knewyouwereadirtybitch …’
Liz:‘Ugh… Ugh… Fuckme … Fuckme …’
Fawkme.Fawkme. Crouch found that her accent suddenly revolted him. As if he was eating sludge raked up from the bottom of the East River.
Man:‘Wheredoyouwantit?’
Liz.Breathless.‘AnywhereMax,anywhereyoufuckingwant …’
Youfawkingwant.Max.Anywhereyoufawkingwant.Max.Max.
The noises went on. Grunting, screams, rustling. Like killing a pig. Eventually, the tape ran out and in the sudden silence of his office, Crouch cried for the first time in ten years. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Max Fallon, the market’s quintessential tosser, screwing his girlfriend. The image sickened and excited him. He found his own desolate arousal even more enraging. It took two hours for his despair to harden into fury.
At 10.30 he read an email from Liz saying she needed space.
At 11.00 he called Aldo.
8
Friday afternoon was usually a dead loss. The market indices always behaved erratically after lunchtime as hundreds of traders sloshed back to their desks with half a gallon of lager inside them. It was a sunny day too. The bars around Canary Wharf were already spilling people onto the dockside walkways. At 4.30p.m., Fallon gave up and decided to join them. He pulled on his navy blue suit jacket and announced his departure to the trading floor over the intercom: ‘I’m off to the pub. I suggest you wankers join me.’
Insulted but unshackled, the weary traders gave up trying to make sense of the muddled Friday market and headed for the door.
Simon Crouch stood at the far end of the trading floor. His eyes still stung. His guts were still twisted in agony. He saw Fallon striding from his office with Danny Planck jogging to keep up with him. Planck asked Fallon a question and slapped him on the back when he heard the answer. Crouch knew they were talking about Liz. It sickened him. She would be another filthy fairy story that fed the cult of Fallon. He would be the nameless sad act from Settlements that got shat on whenever the story was recycled.
He was not prepared to accept that. Aldo had agreed to meet him at six o’clock. Aldo had a plan. Fallon had something bad coming.
The majority of the 3rd Floor bond jocks soon joined Fallon and Planck in Corney & Barrow. Time slipped by. Fallon was feeling generous and bought three pitchers of lager which were greedily, ungratefully received. He ordered a Japanese premium beer for himself. It came in a frosted glass; ice cold. It was a nice touch. Fallon enjoyed bestowing his largesse on the little people. They thought it made him one of them. He knew it was about control.
Tall and imperious Pieter Richter drifted over and floated at Fallon’s side. He was ambitious and aggressive: the youngest director in Sales & Trading.
‘So come on, man!’ Richter boomed, Harvard Business School hadn’t quite ironed out his German accent, ‘did you stiff her?’
Fallon was enjoying the attention.
‘What kind of question’s that?’ Fallon wore a grin that spoke a thousand words.
‘You stiffed her.’ Richter turned to Planck. ‘Can you believe this lucky son of a bitch?’
Planck solemnly nodded his agreement. ‘It’s a disgrace. Nice, innocent girl like that.’
Fallon almost choked on his beer. ‘Do me a favour! Innocent? She half ripped my flesh off.’
‘Show us, man,’ Richter demanded.
At the far end of the bar Simon Crouch bought a pint of Heineken for himself and a Vodka Mule for Aldo. He watched the laughing traders. Fallon’s voice, pure mockney, rose above them.
‘Piss off!’ Fallon shouted. ‘Just ’cause you don’t get any.’
‘This is bullshit, man,’ Richter teased. ‘You didn’t fuck nobody.’
Planck grinned. ‘You won’t say that when you see your bonus.’
Fallon hated being taunted. He was a God. He would provide a revelation for the unbelievers.
‘All right, then.’ He slipped off his jacket and lifted up the back of his shirt. ‘What about that, then?’
Even Crouch could see the angry red nail marks scratched along Fallon’s hairless back. He recognized them. Six months ago he had worn them himself, proudly like a medal. He swallowed the acid that suddenly spurted into the back of his throat. Aldo grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of the bar. The shrieks of the traders tumbled out of the door after them.
There was a small standing area outside the bar that overlooked the dock. Aldo dragged Crouch over and pushed him into the wall. His friend was ready to explode. Tears brimmed in Crouch’s red eyes.
‘That prick.’ He spat the words into Aldo’s face. Aldo could taste the beer. ‘I’m going to rip his head off.’
Aldo pushed Crouch back into the wall. ‘Don’t be stupid. We talked about this. You want to get even, then get smart.’ Aldo reached into his right jacket pocket and withdrew a tightly folded square of tin foil. Crouch’s body began to relax and he watched his friend discreetly unwrap the silver paper.
‘What’s that?’ said Crouch, brushing the tears of fury from his eyes.
Aldo held up the unwrapped parcel so Crouch could see it. ‘This, mate, is revenge.’
On the tin foil lay three white pills.
They heard shouting from inside the bar. Crouch could make out Planck’s voice rising above the mayhem. He looked back through the doorway.
‘Jesus, Maxy, you were supposed to screw her not murder her!’ Planck was spluttering lager over the gathering.
‘What can I say?’ Fallon replied loudly. ‘She was out of control. I’ve got a gift.’
‘This calls for a celebration!’ Pieter Richter sloshed a shot of vodka into the nearest trader’s glasses. ‘To Max’s prick. For refusing to die quietly.’
There was a wave of laughter. Max was loving it; the adoration of the little people. The control.
Outside, Simon Crouch tried to control his emotions and took the tin foil sheet from Aldo.
‘What’s your idea, then?’ His voice was cracking.
Aldo shot a quick look around him.
‘We fix the wanker. Spike his drink. Scramble his brain.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘Am I smiling?’
Crouch picked up one of the pills and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger.
‘What are they then?’
Aldo smiled. ‘They are what you might call experimental. We call ’em “Lobotomies”. Active ingredient is a close relative of an old friend: lysergic acid diethylamide.’
Crouch was dismissive. ‘You want to give this prick an acid trip?’ He handed the pills back to Aldo. ‘Waste of time. I want to kick his head in. Not send him to dreamland for a couple of hours.’
‘This is not ordinary acid. Your average street dose of LSD contains between twenty and eighty micrograms right? These little beauties,’ he held the three pills reverentially in the palm of his right hand, ‘contain two hundred micrograms each. And I am reliably informed that there are one or two other chemical jack-in-the-boxes in there too. These are not recreational, Crouchie. These are strictly for basket cases. Even I wouldn’t take these. In fact, I suggest we both wash our hands once we’ve got shot of them. You want to mess this guy up. This will give him a permanent headache.’
Crouch was uncertain. It wasn’t what he had planned. He had wanted to beat the stupid smirk off Fallon’s face; to feel the wanker’s jawbone snap at the end of his clenched fist. Perhaps there was still a way.
‘Will they kill him?’ he asked after a moment’s thought.
‘Doubtful. But he won’t be writing any piano concertos. He may have trouble tying his own shoelaces. Spike his drink. Isolate him and then when he’s losing the plot we’ll give him a working over. I know a place.’
‘Let me do it.’ Crouch took the pills from Aldo and returned to the pub.
The traders were awash: bobbing happily on a frothing sea of lager. The bar was claustrophobic with their noise. Max was feeling the pace and placed his half-drunk Guinness back on the bar. Richter was the first to pounce: ‘Brits are such pussies!’ he roared.
‘What are you on about now?’ Planck growled at him.
‘You can’t take your drink, man.’ Richter gestured at Fallon’s guilty glass. ‘It’s common knowledge.’
‘Oh, and you Americans can? Don’t make me laugh.’ Planck snorted derisively.
‘I’m half German and half Japanese, man.’ Richter sneered in triumph.
‘And what a fucking combination that is!’ Planck shot back.
Richter ignored the insult and turned to Fallon. ‘When are we launching this Fulton Steel deal?’
