Daring Dooz (The Implosion Trilogy (Book 2)) (6 page)

Chapter 12

The rain
didn't bother Mrs Hathaway, as the next solicitor was just three doors away.
She ran up the steps and checked the nameplate on the wall. Unlike Digby’s,
which was stained imitation brass, covered in sooty lichen and snail trails,
this new nameplate looked as if it was made from freshly brushed titanium. The
sort of thing you might see doing something on a space station or up-market
mountain bike.

She
negotiated the entry-phone and stepped into reception. It was very smart, very
high tech, with subtle, concealed lighting. The receptionist sat behind a
frosted-glass desk, heavily laced with titanium and Macintosh screens.

‘Ya?’ said
the receptionist, without looking up from her Tatler.

‘It’s Mrs
Hathaway, 10.45 appointment.’

The
receptionist pressed the intercom.

‘10.45’s
here,’ she said in a bored drawl. Then added rather more enthusiastically,
‘Can’t wait for tonight, hotboy!’

She blew a
stage kiss into the phone, without taking her eyes of the snapshots of the
wealthy and wonderful at play.

Mrs
Hathaway understood from the receptionist’s languid wrist movement in the
direction of a door on the far side of the room, that she was supposed to go in
and see the solicitor.

She
knocked.

A voice
answered, ‘Come.’

The office
door had an architect-designed door handle in which you could easily catch and
rip off your thumb as you entered. But with her years’ of experience of unarmed
combat courses and street-fight training videos, she was alert to dangers of
all kinds. She opened the door without injury, and entered.

The office
was equally hi-tech with computers and more titanium office furniture. Behind
the desk, stretched out, with this hands behind the back of his head, was a man
of about 30. He was suspiciously tanned and had the sort of tight, wavy haircut
you see on guards’ officers or point-to-point officials. His suit was titanium
shiny too, with a pale pink, open necked shirt, finished off with pale pink
socks and pale grey loafers.

He looked
repulsively self-assured, but he was certainly a lot smarter than Digby whose idea
of sartorial elegance consisted of grey flannel trousers held up with a tie,
and a threadbare rust-red Harris Tweed jacket with a smouldering sleeve.

‘My name is
Mrs Hathaway.’

‘Ya,’ he
said, indicating a seat, in the most condescending way imaginable.

‘No thank
you, I’ll stand,’ she said.

She wasn’t
being rude, it was just that the chair had so many unrecognisable components,
levers and illuminated buttons. At the back of her mind, she thought that one
wrong move could fire her into the air, and, if she died from her injuries,
Digby would be off to the post box like a rocket, and effectively blow the
whole thing.

‘And you
are?’

‘Er -
Richard. Richard Face.’

‘Oh! So
Cumberbatch,
Fortescue
and De Vere are out with clients.’

‘Er yes,’
mumbled Dick. God, he
must
get round
to doing that deed poll thing. Perhaps Rapher Visconti or
Henri Montcrieffe - something with a
continental 'man of mystery' aura. He started to dream.

Mrs
Hathaway had a lot of ground to cover, so she went straight into her routine.

‘I’m a
self-employed cleaning lady. I have no money, and can't pay you anything for
the service I am about to request.’

Richard sat up
and leaned forward. Having got over the name bit, he’d been dealt the upper
hand.

‘Mrs Hathaway,’
he said with what, even the most generous observers would call a
arrogant
smirk, ‘I have to tell you my fees are 300
guineas an hour, and that’s my charge for poverty stricken clients - you know,
down to their last 250,000.’

He enjoyed
seeing the shock travel across her face. He cranked up the voltage.

‘I mean, we
have to earn an honest living. I have a family to support.’

She glanced
over his shoulder, and through the window could see at least three new Porsches
in the firm’s private car park. She also wondered if his family knew about Big
Tits Tatler in reception.

‘I understand,
of course,’ she said, looking down at the carpet.

Richard stood
up and his smirk developed a new and even more sickening dimension.

‘Why don't you
try old Digby Elton-John down the road. He’ll probably pay you for giving him
the work.’

He snorted at
his own wit.

‘Would it
help if I told you this work could lead to a large amount of lucrative legal
work coming your way?’

‘Look, Mrs
Thing,’ said Richard, raising his voice unnecessarily, as though something
unpleasant had started snapping inside him. ‘I’m beginning to get tired of you
and your problems, and I don't even know what your problems
are
.’

Whatever
was starting to snap, snapped. He began pacing the office, throwing his arms
around in all directions.

‘If I had a
quid for every senile old biddy who came tottering in here snivelling on about
getting legal expertise for free, with the promise of millions down the road,
I’d be more filthy rich than I already am. So in the nicest possible way, just
sod off.’

Mrs
Hathaway watched the flailing arms like a hawk. If he came too close, he would
have to be taken down.

Fortunately,
for the would-be Rapher, he stayed out of range. He took a breather from his
rant, and she calmly stepped in.

‘One more
thing, you didn't enjoy all the egg you had for breakfast did you?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You didn't
enjoy all the egg you had for breakfast?’

‘What the
hell are you talking about?’

‘You left
quite a large amount of it on your shirt.’

‘Oh shit,’
hissed Richard, pulling at his shirt to assess the damage.

He hit the
intercom.

‘I’ve got
crap on my shirt and the MP-animal sanctuary sex scandal meeting’s at 11.30.
Christ, that could be worth 750,000, especially if we time the press leaks
right. I’m gonna be offering my fuckin’ services to that multi-millionaire pervert
looking like something that just crawled out of a cardboard box on the
Embankment.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Mrs Hathaway, ‘just
soak it in cold water using a liquid
detergent with colour-safe bleach for 30 minutes, then wash it in warm water
with more detergent. If you can still see the stain, soak it for an extra 30
minutes, then rewash.’

Richard gazed at her, with his mouth open.
Then he spoke.

‘I don’t need any advice from you, you
time-suck.’

Mrs Hathaway wasn’t sure what a ‘time-suck’
was, but it didn't sound very nice.

‘I’ll say goodbye then.’

She held out her hand. Richard took it
reluctantly. Anything to get rid of the loony old bitch.

She shook his hand and said with a smile, ‘And
by the way, my advice was completely free! Enjoy the rest of your day.’

‘Bollocks,’ said Richard, which, given the way
he was feeling, he thought was pretty courteous.

Mrs Hathaway turned and moved through to
reception. As she left the office, Big Tits Tatler was on the intercom
screaming, ‘How the bloody hell should I know where there’s a shitting shirt
shop.’

She had some satisfaction in leaving two
disgusting people in disarray. But more satisfying was the fact that she had
had chance to practice her
Kyusho pressure
point, delayed-action handshake.

Kyusho enables you to completely incapacitate an
attacker by applying light pressure to specific points on the body. Attackers
go down suddenly, usually with a scream or profanity, and the effect lasts
about an hour. She’d taken the course last year, and developed a ‘one-minute
delayed action’ technique all by herself. Of course, it might not work.

But as she set foot on the pavement, en route to the
next solicitor on her list, she heard Richard screaming ‘Fuck me!’ And, while
she was sure a posh office like his would have the best possible hi-tech soundproofing,
his profanity was as loud and as clear as a bell.

Chapter 13

Mrs
Hathaway turned out of the lift, glanced in at Implosion Productions, where two
workmen were refitting the office door, and walked down to the corridor end.

It had been
a tough old day. Out of ten solicitors, only Digby had agreed to her request to
pop down to the post if she or Aubrey died mysterious deaths.

The other nine solicitors had been generally
unpleasant, condescending and rude, and, consequently, had experienced her
Kyusho pressure point, delayed-action farewell
handshake. Having, no doubt, been hardened by twenty years of distance training
in martial arts other types of advanced unarmed combat, she really didn't feel
the ‘handshake’ was much of an issue.

This was not the case at the local A&E, where
there had been a steady stream of unconscious solicitors arriving by ambulance
for the best part of the day.

She turned
the corner, tutted at the flashing neon tube, and put her key in the lock.

Aubrey was
asleep. Good. She changed out of her best frock and back into her pinny. No
time for a training session. There was one final call to make. A call that
would be best made while Aubrey was well out of it.

She went to
the mantelpiece and picked up Charlie Sumkin’s card - the one Vlad had so
kindly offered after the Vic incident.

As she
dialled the number, she sat down on the sofa. If it was going to be difficult,
she might as well be comfy.

Charlie
answered. ‘Yeah?’

‘Mr
Sumkins, hello…’

‘Who the
fuck is this and how did you get my private fuckin’ number?’ barked Charlie.

‘Vlad gave
it to me.’

‘What,’
said Charlie, in an even nastier tone, ‘you up the spout or got the pox? Shit!
I told him a million times, there’s a whole fuckin’ range of public medical services
available to the dodgy tarts he’s shaftin’.’

‘No, no. He
gave me your card - he said I handled myself very well.’

‘Look, what
that useless pervert chooses to watch when I’m not paying him is up to him. If
he gets off on watching you handle yourself, I couldn't give a toss.’

‘No,’ said
Mrs Hathaway, having absolutely no idea what Charlie was talking about, ‘I’m a
fighter - karate,
kyusho,
tae kwan do, aikido,
kung fu, hapkido and aiki jiu jitsu - that sort of thing.’

‘’Ang on a minute,’ said Charlie, ‘I fort for a minute there, we’d
got a crossed line with a Hong Kong brothel. Fighter? What d’you mean?’

‘Give me
five minutes tomorrow, and I’ll show you.’

‘Sorry
darlin’ but it ain’t that easy. I mean what did Vlad
see
?’

‘Well, if
you
must
know, I knocked someone
out.’

‘Who?’

‘Vlad’s
twin brother, Vic.’

‘Vic!
You’re fucking jokin’ me darlin’. And how’d ya do
that
? Hit him five times from behind with a crowbar while when was
pissed? Then dropped an anvil on his head? I tell ya, anythin’ less and he
wouldn’t have noticed.’

‘No, we
were boxing and I hit him with four uppercuts.’

There was a
short pause.

‘Well, I
know Vlad don't hand my card out to just
anyone
- he knows what would happen to him if he did. I’ll give you 10 minutes at 10
o’clock tomorrow.’

‘Thank you
very much Mr Sumkins, but that won't be necessary. It should only take five
minutes.’

‘Please
yourself.’ He put the receiver down.

Mrs
Hathaway smiled - part relief, part nervousness and part satisfaction that
everything was on track.

It was a
long shot, but she’d now gone too far to turn back.

By way of
reassurance, she stood up, walked over to her handbag, opened it and checked
her secret weapon was ready for action.

*

Now for
Aubrey. She woke him up, by shaking his shoulder, gently.

‘How are
you, my little Aubrey?’

Aubrey
looked up. His other nostril had reappeared, even though the multitude of
purple swellings around his eyes and mouth were still there. In general, he
looked as though 24 hours of sleep had done him some, if not a lot, of good.

‘Any grub
goin’?’ said Aubrey

‘Well, yes
there is?’ said Mrs Hathaway.

‘Good.
What?’ said Aubrey.

Years of
being beaten by Charlie Sumkins for saying the wrong things had severely
limited Aubrey’s powers of conversation. He equated the spoken word with pain.

‘Well you
know you said your favourite was mutton vindaloo with chana bhuna side extras
and some lager.’

Aubrey
nodded and started to dribble.

‘Well, on
my way home, I bought a take-away from that Indian restaurant in Frith Street.
I’ll pop it in the microwave.’

‘Good, ‘cos
all I had to eat when you was out was them apples. Disgustin’ - they tasted
like…’ He paused and screwed up his face. ‘…like fruit or somethin’!’

‘You stay
propped up in bed, and I’ll get it ready.’

It was true
Aubrey was abrupt and appeared ungrateful. But she knew that mutton vindaloo
with chana bhuna side extras was his favourite meal. She also knew that, if
anything went wrong tomorrow, it would not just be his
favourite
meal, it would be his
last
meal.

The
microwave microwaved merrily. The meal was delivered and demolished in record
time.

Aubrey lay
back and belched.

‘Bleeding’
great, darlin’.’

She looked
down with some satisfaction and a little concern on her face. The thing was,
she hadn't told Aubrey anything about her plans for tomorrow. She wisely
decided to wait until the morning to reveal they would be visiting Charlie
Sumkins. This was much better than telling him now, and having to deal with,
what she feared would be, mutton vindaloo-chana bhuna projectile vomiting on a grand
scale.