Dead Money (19 page)

"So he came after me?"

"No, he just wanted to get a look at you, like I said. Probably wanted to see if you were real."

"Well, I'm glad I didn't hang about, then. Fucking pervert."

"I've got the feeling he'll try something else."

She looked at me, stunned.

"Not with you. You're safe. He ever comes near you again, call me and I'll have him sorted out. No, I'm thinking his next move might be to try and use you against me."

"Like how?"

"Like telling my wife."

"And you're bothered about that?" she said, then shook it away. "Of course you're bothered about that."

"I have to be."

"Okay. I understand. Why do you have to be bothered, though?"

"Lucy—"

"I'm not getting upset. No tears, nothing like that. But I have to ask, the way you talk about her, what do you have to lose? I mean, it's not like you love her or anything. From the way you talk about her, she doesn't sound as though she likes you much, either. And if you're in a situation now where you're seeing someone else, then there's obviously
something
wrong, isn't there?"

"Yeah. No, you're right. You're absolutely right."

"So what's stopping you from calling it a day? It'd be a load off your mind, wouldn't it?"

"It would." I nodded. "But I can't do it."

"Why not?"

"Because I saw what it did to Beale. His missus divorced him, didn't even take that much money from him, and he'd wrecked himself in a month."

"You wouldn't do that."

"I'm pretty sure he thought the same thing." I shook my head. "No, I probably wouldn't, you're right, but I don't want to take that chance."

"So you're going to stick with the loveless marriage."

"You make it sound so depressing."

"It kind of is, isn't it?"

"There are ways round loveless marriages. People reach compromises." I finished off the lamb, washed it down with the wine. Then I rubbed my mouth with the napkin. "But I'm not going to take the piss, am I?"

"No. I completely understand. You want to patch things up with your missus, I'm all for it. I don't want her getting suspicious, and I don't need you stressed to buggery because of it. Why spoil a good thing, eh?" She smiled, but her eyes didn't show it. "I like you, Alan. I really do. And I'm not going to wreck your life to prove it."

"Okay. So we'll leave it for now."

"It's what you want."

"Are you alright with it?"

"It's what you want," she said again.

I took another drink of wine. "Listen, it might be for a little while. And I'm sure you get plenty of options—"

She laughed so loud it drew glances from some of the other tables, then she stifled it with her napkin.

"What's so funny?"

"You were going to ask me if I was going to wait for you, weren't you?"

That's exactly what I was going to do. "No."

"You're not going to prison, Alan."

I laughed at that. It didn't sound right, and the sound drew more glances. "No, I'm not."

"Look, I'm not going to be Miss Haversham for you, but I promise not to get married too quickly." She arched her eyebrows. "Good enough?"

No, it wasn't. The thought of another bloke made me want to break things. And the look she was giving me made me want to have her right there on the table. But then, as much as my heart hammered and my mouth went shingle dry, I had to pull it back. Understand that this was the right thing to do. Limit the complications if Beale decided to get stupid about the situation. If Lucy wasn't an issue, then she couldn't be used as a threat.

I had some chocolate thing afterwards, with another wine that made my stomach play up. I took some more Rennies and used the wine to wash the dust from my mouth.

Lucy watched me. "Oh yeah, that'll do wonders. You got stomach problems?"

I patted my side. "Just a dicky tummy."

"Stress, Alan. I told you."

"It's a killer, I know."

By the time we had coffee, I was half-pissed with the wine and desperate to sober up a little, because if I got any more tipsy, I'd be catching a cab back to her place and any good intentions would be well out of the window. She was playing up to it, too. Using all the tricks. Touching my hand, looking at me through her lashes, throwing in memories of better, cheaper and sweatier afternoons. Testing my resolve. I brushed it off, or at least that was the effect I was going for. I wanted out of there. The longer I stayed, the more I'd mess this all up.

I asked for the bill and went for my wallet.

"Don't bother with a tip. They've included twelve percent."

"Bit cheeky."

"They don't want cash on the table."

"Well, they're bloody well getting it." No way was I paying with a credit card, not when the statements came to the house. If I'd learned anything from the Jim Beam fiasco, it was to keep the paper trail to a minimum.

The waiter didn't mention the cash. He just did that thing posh waiters normally did when they thought you were a scally – he became obsequious to the point of sarcasm. I took the twelve percent back and he shut up. I helped Lucy with her jacket and caught a whiff that made me close my eyes for an instant – wine and perfume – before we hung close to each other in order to navigate our way out of the restaurant. The wine hit harder when it came with fresh air and we got a little giggly. I couldn't drive her back, not with this much booze in my bloodstream – last thing I wanted to do was hit any more animals on the way home – so we headed for Piccadilly and the nearest cab rank.

I stopped by the rank and took some more money out of my wallet. In the corner of my eye, a Lexus pulled up close to the rank.

I held up the money. "For a cab."

Lucy smiled and put a hand on my arm. "You don't have to do that."

"I can't leave you out here, can I?"

"It's two-thirty in the afternoon."

"I know. Murderers are out at this time of day."

She laughed and moved closer. "You could come back, you know."

Her eyes were wide and dark with the booze. There was a touch of colour in her cheeks. The way her small teeth appeared just behind her bottom lip made me want to answer in the positive and to hell with good intentions.

And that was when I heard the voice, a heavy accent calling from nearby: "Mr Slater?"

I looked away from her to see an Asian bloke coming my way. Well-dressed, groomed in the way only Asian blokes can manage without looking gay – the thin, sculpted facial hair, the scar line through the eyebrow. He smiled with all of his teeth and appeared to approve of Lucy's outfit. I found myself holding her a little closer than comfort allowed.

"Alan," she said.

"It's alright."

"Mr Slater," said the Asian bloke again. "My name is Rizwan."

I didn't say anything.

"I'm Mr Ahmad's driver. He'd like a word with you if that's possible."

I studied the bloke. He was youngish, too clean to have done any prison time. Certainly too polite. Nothing on his hands, nothing in his hands. Nothing under that jacket, either, unless it was tailored specifically. And if it was, he wouldn't be able to dip in without undoing at least one button. But this was probably the bloke Beale saw at the game. Beale always felt threatened by blokes like this no matter what they did. Part and parcel of being a racist prick was the fear of apparent success.

"It's not me he needs to speak to."

"He is aware of that. He would like your help."

I hailed a cab for Lucy. The Hackney drew up and she got in. I made a move to join her and felt a strong hand on my arm.

"Please, Mr Slater. This won't take long."

I looked at the hand, then back at Rizwan. He was still smiling.

"I don't have anything to say to him."

"Then I'd very much appreciate it if you could be the one to tell him that."

I looked back at Lucy and tried to keep calm. I backed off, shut the cab door. Rizwan released his grip. I watched Lucy and she watched me as the cab pulled away.

"Alright." I nodded at the Lexus. "Let's get this over with."

21

If the idea was to take me up a back alley and beat the shit out of me, then Rizwan hadn't been told. He had the radio on low, playing some dance music that I didn't like and wasn't supposed to, and he chattered the whole time about the restaurant. Apparently, he was a bit of a foodie, and a big fan of Michael Caines.

"It was
Great British Menu
that did it for me. He's only ever done it twice as a contestant, but that was enough for me. I like to experiment, myself. I took his galantine of quail spiked with raisins, served with a walnut salad, and I swapped out the raisins for sultanas, made the walnut into a full Waldorf salad, and it was a belter. He's a hell of a chef in my opinion. But then you don't get two Michelin stars for sitting on your arse, do you?"

He smiled at me in the rear view. I attempted a smile back.

"So how was the food? You never told me."

"It was good."

"What did you have?"

I told him.

"How much?"

"Forty quid a head."

"Oof. Get what you pay for, mind. You can't get that kind of class anywhere, you know."

I nodded. He turned onto Regent Road. Up ahead was the Riverside, and he appeared to be heading straight for it.

"Where is Mr Ahmad?"

"In the casino waiting for us."

"I don't have a membership."

"That's okay, I'll just sign you in."

And he did. The receptionist beamed at him in a way that made me think they knew each other. Even security cracked a smile. We passed through the glass reception like air, and Rizwan led the way to a man I spotted from the moment we crossed the threshold. Just as Beale described him, Ahmad was a tall, elegant Bollywood villain. He wore a light suit, had a heavy Selleck and hair down to his collar. As we drew closer, I caught the flash from his hand. Closer still, and the shine came from two large gold rings on his right hand. When he saw us, he smiled and showed more gold in his mouth. He nodded to one of the valets, a little platinum blonde with a face like a turtle, and held up two fingers. She scuttled off to the kitchen. He stood when I was within handshake distance and we did just that. He had a businessman's shake: warm, dry-palmed and firm.

"Mr Slater," he said. "Very pleased to meet you. Do take a seat. I've ordered coffee for us."

He gestured to the blue bucket chair next to him and I sat down. Ahmad nodded to Rizwan, who then made himself scarce. The place was almost empty, and only a few of the tables were open. Listless, half-dead dealers spun up for single punters. The music was the same kind of MOR sub-Lighthouse Family bollocks they played in all the other clubs, the musical equivalent of those sugared waters – bearable until the nasty sweet aftertaste, which was just like the coffee the valet brought. Ahmad tipped her a couple of quid and she went away happy.