The Last Winter of Dani Lancing: A Novel (33 page)

Once he gets to the top floor, there is a group of armed men waiting for him. Even though he is near-enough naked they still frisk him for weapons. One of them cups his balls and grips his penis.

“This is no time to get an erection,” he tells himself. Thankfully it’s cold and the frisk only lasts a few seconds.

“You can see I don’t have anything. No weapon, no wire, nothing. I’m not here as a copper but as a regular citizen. I need a favor from Franco,” Tom tells the assorted men, none of whom seem to be in charge. A nod seems to run around the group and one of them disappears inside.

“Nice night,” Tom says, trying to be friendly.

The gunmen laugh and then melt into the shadows leaving him seemingly alone. He stands shivering for ten minutes before the door opens again and he is motioned inside. Once over the threshold he is frisked again by a giant of a man before being led into a large room.

“Wait here,” he’s told, and the giant leaves.

The room is empty, except for a huge sofa. On one end is a beautiful young woman, maybe eighteen, with flawless cinnamon-colored skin. She wears a silk sarong that looks like the sun, it’s so bright. She is as high as a kite. Her eyes are rolled back in her head and she sways to music only she can hear. Occasionally she giggles. Tom sits at the other end of the sofa, as far from the girl as he can be.

“I really need to see Franco quickly,” Tom says to the air, assuming a hidden camera somewhere. Bradman will wake up within an hour or two and time is short. “Ben Bradman owes Franco a lot of money. I am here to buy that debt from him … as well as something else.”

Tom hears a click from somewhere.

A minute later the giant reappears and ushers Tom from the room and into another. This room is even larger. Tom wonders how it’s possible—the entire story of the block must have been knocked through into one flat. In this room there’s a full-size snooker table. Franco is playing a long red. He pots it expertly and straightens up. He’s a tall and imposing figure; the story Tom had heard was that his bloodline was ancient African royalty, and the young man holds himself ramrod straight. Franco turns toward Tom and for a second seems so young, a gawky teen with a slightly cheeky smile and swagger. Tom feels a smile start to break, then recalls a body he saw a month or two ago. A mutilated corpse, punished by Franco, and his smile fades. The story goes that Franco inherited this empire from his uncle, who had built it up over twenty years using a mixture of loyalty, brutality, fear and clever pricing models. The uncle had been known to be cruel and heartless. Franco was said to be worse. Tom looks to the other player. He recognizes him off the telly—an up-and-coming snooker star.

“Police Constable Bevans, do you play?” Franco asks as he eyes up another long pot.

“There’s a table in the station house. I’ve played a few times,” Tom replies, trying to keep his voice level. Of course his uniform is downstairs with his warrant number on it, someone must have linked the number to the name. Still, it was quick work to get a name.

Franco nods and folds himself back over the cue. He wears sunglasses, which he pushes down his nose so that he can look over the top. He pulls the cue back and shoots the white ball down the table. It clatters into the black, which dances in the jaws of the pocket before spilling back onto the table.

“Bad luck there, Franco. Do you want another try?” says the professional. Tom can hear the fear in his voice.

“No,” Franco says, sounding a bit brittle. “I’m done.” The professional looks like he wants to cry. “Fuck off, pool boy.”

The giant reappears and leads the snooker player out.

Franco walks off, through another door. Tom looks around and then follows him. The new room is even larger. Pinball machines line one wall and a large office table sits in the middle. Covering one wall is a huge noticeboard, breaking up East London into the areas led by its chief distributor. Shit, this is gold dust for the anti-drugs unit, Tom thinks, but he looks away. He isn’t here as a policeman. A rolled-up dressing gown hits him in the face.

“Please put that on, PC Bevans.”

Tom does as he’s asked. It is a flaming red and yellow kimono—a dragon.

“Looks good on you. Very Hendrix. Keep it as a gift.”

“Thank you.”

Franco sits down at his desk, feet up on it. He pushes the sunglasses back on his head. Even though he’s tall, the desk dwarfs
him—Tom cannot help but think he looks like a child playing businessman. Tom is left to stand.

“So what do you want, Mr. Policeman?”

“Ben Bradman, reporter with the
News of the World
.”

“A filthy rag. A friend?”

“He is no friend.”

“I am pleased to hear it. The man is scum.”

“He owes you money. I will buy that debt from you.”

Franco raises an eyebrow. “Why would you do that, Mr. Policeman?”

“That’s my business, Mr. Franco.”

Franco smiles. “He owes me four thousand pounds. I will sell that debt to you for eight thousand.”

“Agreed.” Tom doesn’t stop to think where he could possibly find the money. “Of course you can see I do not have the money on me.”

“When we shake on the deal, you will have two days to deliver the money.”

“Fine.” Tom pauses. “There is something else I would like to ask of you. Something … more unusual.”

“More unusual than buying this debt?” asks Franco, intrigued.

“I think you will find it so.” He pauses to concentrate his courage. “Heroin, Mr. Franco. I want a large amount of heroin. Enough so that when it’s found by the police, it will result in the person in possession being sent to prison for a long time. But I do not want to buy the heroin, I want to borrow it and return it. Probably in three months’ time.”

For a few seconds there is nothing, then Franco’s throat erupts with a deep laugh. “You are right, Mr. Policeman, that is indeed most unusual.” He laughs again. “You are a strange man, PC Bevans.”

“Call me Tom.”

Franco reacts like he’s been slapped. He is up and across the room in an instant. In one fluid motion he grabs Tom by the throat, kicks his legs out from under him; he falls with a crack to his knees. Franco jabs a small blunt-nosed gun into Tom’s neck.

“Tell me, friend Tom, why do you do this?”

Tom feels the cold metal press harder into his throat. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try.”

A pause.

“My … a woman is missing. She is my best friend and Ben Bradman told the dirtiest lies about her.”

Franco lets him go, almost like Tom burns him, and turns away.

“I am sorry.” He pauses. “Tom.”

Tom stands, the gun is gone. Franco returns to his desk, though this time he does not put his feet up on it.

“Okay, I will give you half a kilo of dirty heroin. It’s cut with bathroom cleaner; it is likely that any conviction for supplying contaminated H would result in the judge throwing away the key. Would that suit your purposes?”

“Yes.” Tom feels shame for a second, then remembers Bradman’s words and his story in the newspaper.

“I do not require the heroin back. I do not sell dangerous product. It was cut by a business associate. An ex-business associate.”

Tom remembers the mutilated body—was that his crime? “Thank you. I will also need some … other evidence.”

Franco nods. “I can supply that also. I suggest you will need to administer at least one dose of genuine product to Mr. Bradman to complete the frame. You may also have that free and gratis. I do not like this man, you understand.”

Tom nods.

“Do you know how to administer such an injection?”

Tom creases his brow. “I saw a police training film at Hendon.”

Franco grimaces. “I know that film—it is useless. Come with me.”

Franco walks Tom back through the snooker room and into the sofa room. The beautiful woman is asleep.

“Wait here.” Franco leaves for a minute or so and returns with a carrier bag, which he hands to Tom. Then he leans forward and pulls open the woman’s sarong.

“Lovely, yes?”

Tom doesn’t reply, but he cannot help but think she is exquisite, flawless, except for her shoulder where there is a sore red welt. It is a brand that has been burned upon her, a single F. She is the property of Franco.

Then Franco pulls her legs apart and Tom sees she has a line of tracks spreading along her inner thigh. Some are pinpricks, others little scabs, and two are little open mouths. They spread from her like a butterfly emblazoned on her body.

“Here.” Franco takes a syringe out of the bag and pushes the lever up. A drop of liquid is pushed out of the needle. “You will have seen this on TV—there must be no air in the syringe. Use it to create a number of pinpricks on Mr. Bradman’s arm, then do the final one into a vein. Tie this around his arm. We do not need to protect Mr. Bradman’s pretty arms.”

He shows Tom how to tie a rubber tube around the girl’s arm, then he flicks her forearm to show the vein.

“You see?”

Tom nods. She stays asleep through all this. Somehow it makes it worse. From somewhere the giant reappears with a bag marked H
OMEPRIDE
F
LOUR
.

“Here is all you need.”

“Thank you.”

Franco holds out his hand. Tom looks at it nervously for a second and then extends his own. Franco’s grip is like a vice. He holds Tom’s hand and does not let go.

“Tom, do you know how I happen to run this business?” asks Franco.

“I understand that you inherited the business from your uncle.”

“True. And do you know what happened to him?”

“I do not.”

“I slit his throat and drank his blood. That is, by tradition, how we transfer power in my tribe. When the old ruler became too weak he would choose a successor. That man would then drink his life and his strength. Her name?”

“Danielle.”

“And for her?”

“I would drink a man’s blood.”

He nods. “Two days, Mr. Policeman,” and releases his hand. “This act of faith, of trust from me, will be repaid. You understand?”

Tom nods.

“One day, friend Tom, one day I will ask something of you.”

Downstairs Tom puts his clothes back on. They are cold and wet—he doesn’t like to think about what the wet could be. He returns to Bradman’s flat. It had all taken a little more than an hour. The reporter is still unconscious. Tom thinks of the beautiful human pincushion back at Franco’s. He feels sick, but rolls up the reporter’s sleeve, takes the needle and presses it into his arm.

Later, Franco tells his men that he will be alone with the cinnamon-colored beauty. There are sniggers and winks—each man knows why he wants to be alone with her. He tells them not to disturb him under any circumstance, and closes the doors to her room. She lies on the sofa in a drug-induced sleep. He sits beside her and draws her toward him, her head down to rest on his lap. He smoothes her hair and strokes her face. She means nothing to him. He would not kill for her, would not lift a finger for her. There is no one in the world he would risk himself for, no one for him to care if they live or die. With that thought in his head, he sheds a tear. The first since he was four years old.

Monday, October 11, 2010

Tom walks back into the cafe—at least he’s dry now, after nearly twenty minutes of wringing out his clothes and keeping the air dryer going. He walks over to Keyson’s table and sits down. The table is still strewn with photos and newspaper cuttings dating back to Dani’s disappearance. He’s seen all of the photos of Dani except one: her at some swanky party. She looks all dressed up. It’s folded, he reaches out to it open it.

“No—no.” Keyson puts his finger on it and slaps Tom’s hand away. “Tea’s cold, Tom. I’ll get you another.” He waves at the waitress who quickly comes over.

“Another tea for my friend and I’ll have a black Americano. Candy—what biscuits do you have?”

“Rich tea, Bourbons, custard creams, Garibaldi …”

“That’s it. Garibaldi—a plate of those, please.”

The waitress skips off, eager to please.

As soon as she is out of earshot, Tom growls, “What’s this about?”