Dirty Business (The First Acer Sansom Novel)

  Sansom whispered into the young man’s ear, ‘Soon, you’re going to start wondering if you can take me, try something while I’m talking to the woman. You give in to that idea and you won’t be limping through life; I’ll put one through your spine. You probably won’t die, but you’ll need wheels to go anywhere. Understand?’ The young man nodded vigorously. ‘Just keep yourself between me and the kids and you’ll live to fight another day. Keep your hands where I can see them. It’s the last friendly warning you’re going to get.’

  *

  Tallis had barely made it halfway across the room before he noticed the big black man’s gaze had targeted his approach. Botha too, aware that something had caught the attention of his man, looked up to study the old fellow approaching in the cheap suit. Tallis was mindful to keep his hands well out in the open, where all could see he posed no threat. The last thing he wanted was to be taken out in violent fashion by an overzealous minder. And given recent events surrounding their boss, their paymaster, he suspected that all would be on a high state of alert, with instructions to act first and ask questions later.

  When the big man was certain that Tallis had set his course for their table, he stood and came around to intercept him, putting himself between Tallis and Botha. Botha remained seated. From the corner of his eye, Tallis now saw the suit hurrying over from his position at the doorway. It was time, he felt, to exercise one of his particular talents. He raised both his palms in front of him in the most non-threatening of ways, forced his face into a smile and looked as amiable as he felt he could. He stopped a few feet away, aware that for the second time in a week he had brought silence and stillness to a restaurant.

  ‘I’m here to see Mr Botha,’ he said, locking eyes comfortably with the giant of a man in his path.

  The black man shot a look at the suit and with a flick of his enormous head sent him scurrying back to his post. ‘Mr Botha is here to meet a man called Sansom. You do not fit our description of him.’

  Tallis could hear that the restaurant’s patrons were still more attentive to the scene being played out in front of them than to their own conversations. He also noted that this seemed to bother the man in front of him not at all. ‘I’m here instead of Sansom.’

  ‘Then we’re leaving,’ said the black giant, staring down at the policeman, ‘and if you get in the way, I will personally put you through the nearest window.’

  The policeman did not doubt the threat or the man’s ability to carry it out. He stood immobile, looking up into the brutal black face.

  When Botha spoke it was the short clipped voice of English with a strong Afrikaans accent. ‘Who are you?’ he said.

  With the huge frame between them, Tallis couldn’t see the man who spoke to him. But he realised that what he said next would probably be his last opportunity to forge the meeting. The giant made no attempt to improve his view. ‘My name is Tallis. Sansom wasn’t able to come.’

  ‘Not much of a man then, is he? I’ve taken the risk, haven’t I?’

  Tallis got the idea that this man was genuinely concerned about Sansom’s proximity and motives; he sounded edgy, anxious and irritable. ‘It wasn’t his choice. If you’ll allow me to explain, I’m sure that I can make you understand. I’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind. Clearly, I’m no threat to you.’

  ‘He’s right; we’re leaving,’ said Botha.

  Tallis heard a chair being pushed back behind the big man, who maintained his position between him and Botha. Botha emerged from behind the huge frame to appraise Tallis for a brief second, imprinting his face on his memory. Then he turned and began walking away. The big man gave Tallis a final stare and turned to follow him.

  Feeling that he was about to lose his one opportunity, he delivered his trump card, calling out to the retreating figures with complete disregard for the attentions of others present. ‘Does the name Bishop mean anything to you, Mr Botha? Or the ship, The Rendezvous?’ Botha stopped, both shots hitting home. He turned again to face the policeman and all Tallis could think was that if someone had dropped a pin, it probably would have burst both his eardrums.

  Cold clear grey eyes bored unblinkingly into him from across the room. Botha spoke something quickly and quietly to his tame giant, then turned again and Tallis feared that he had lost him. The big black man headed back towards Tallis and it seemed that everyone in the restaurant drew their breath, waiting to see, as Tallis suddenly feared, this huge man pick up the old duffer and propel him through the closest window. Instead, he came close and said in low tones, ‘For your sake, I hope you know what you are doing. Follow me. He’ll see you in a private room.’

  *

  The woman was taller than she had looked sitting down and Sansom realised as she glided across to him that most of her was leg. He put out his hand to stop her. One of the children let out a high-pitched giggle at something in the film they were watching. It lent a surreal air to the situation and made Sansom uncomfortable. He felt the need to remind the man standing in front of him that he was more than capable of monitoring him as well as talking with the woman. He jabbed him hard in the spine. ‘Remember,’ he said.

  The woman glared at him. She was tough. Sansom could see it in the bold way that she faced him. And he was the one with the gun. She looked from him to the gun and back to his face.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ she hissed. Her English was excellent. Like Eda, she retained only a slight trace of her native Turkish accent. Sansom almost admired her for her brazenness.

  ‘Shut up and listen,’ he said, giving her a clear message from the start. ‘Think very carefully about what I’m about to offer you. You give me any reason and your kids will need therapy for the rest of their lives. It can really mind-fuck a nine-year-old to see a man’s brains explode all over the furniture.’

  She remained silent. ‘I’m either taking you or one of your kids with me. That can be your decision, but I’m not leaving alone.’ He knew he was giving her no choice at all. ‘And we’re leaving in ten seconds.’

  She stared disbelievingly at him, coming to terms with the shocking change in her evening’s circumstances. She looked into the face of the man that Sansom had brought into the room before him. ‘You fool. He’ll kill you for this,’ she said.

  ‘Not if he does what he’s told,’ said Sansom, trying to discourage the youth from some idiotic action. He didn’t really want to have to shoot this inexperienced boy, especially in front of children.

  ‘I wasn’t referring to you,’ she said, transferring her glare back to him.

  ‘You’d better hope that ‘“he”’ doesn’t then,’ said Sansom. ‘Who’d look after the children with you gone?’ Sansom jabbed the pistol again into the guard’s back and, taking a step backwards, said, ‘It’s time to leave.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere and neither are any of my children,’ she said.

  Sansom locked eyes with her for a second before calling out across the room. ‘Hey! You, boy.’ A boy, the oldest-looking there, turned around. ‘Come here,’ said Sansom. The boy looked towards his mother. ‘Now,’ said Sansom. His seriousness was lost on none of them. With a puzzled look, the boy began to get up.

  ‘Wait,’ said the woman. ‘Sit down, Matthew. It’s OK.’ The boy began lowering himself down, but he was clearly concerned about what was happening with his mother. The woman waved his attention back to the screen before turning back to Sansom. Controlled, but with barely concealed hate, she said, ‘I’ll kill you myself when this is over.’

  Sansom had no doubt that she was talking to him now. She turned and called to the boy, ‘Matthew, mummy’s just going to check on something. Stay here and look after your sisters. Understand?’ The boy still wore a look of uncertainty but nodded to his mother.

  Sansom ushered the two out of the cabin area to the deck and, with a quick glance round, motioned that they should head towards the stern of the yacht. Once there, he told the youth to give his phone to the woman. Then to her he said, ?
??Call the last person that he spoke to. Tell him you don’t care what he’s doing but to get back here, now. Alerting him to this situation will endanger your children. Remember that.’

  Making no attempt to keep the loathing out of her eyes, she did as she was told. When it was done, Sansom told her to throw the phone overboard. Then they waited in the shadows.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ she said.

  ‘You’ll find out later – but for now, shut up.’

  They made a tense tableau, the three of them standing, waiting, each expecting something violent from the others. Sansom took a step backwards, putting a little more space between them.

  ‘If you don’t do something, Jacob, I will personally cut your balls off and make sure that you live. What could be worse than that for a man?’ she said.

  Sansom shot him in the foot. The silenced pistol spitting out its carnage with little more than a stifled sneeze. The young man crumpled to the deck in an agonised writhing heap.

  ‘See what you made me do?’ he said.

  A look of disgust flitted across the woman’s features. Sansom knew then that she was no stranger to violence. The figure on the deck began to sob with the agony.

  ‘If you don’t keep quiet down there, Jacob, I’ll have to finish you,’ said Sansom.

  The young man shoved his fist into his mouth, muffling the noise of his pain. He continued to writhe. The woman looked down at him and Sansom thought she might finally offer him some comfort. He couldn’t have been ten years older than the boy he’d spoken to in the saloon. Instead, she kicked him viciously, twice. Sansom doubted that in the circumstances he felt either blow.

  The waspish droning of the speedboat’s engine filtered through the night air, quickly increasing in volume. Sansom felt himself strangely relaxed after his initial uncertainty, completely in charge and at ease with it all.

  ‘Next stupid remark you make, it’ll be your foot they’ll be finding bits of. Keep still and your mouth shut. Do what you’re told and, who knows, you might see your kids again.’

  The boat came alongside. The engine’s revs died. Sansom watched from his shadowy concealment as the pilot expertly nestled the craft against the landing platform at the rear, skipped out and tied it up in one fluid movement. He came up the short aluminium ladder holding on with one hand, a carrier bag full of take-away food in the other.

  The man was on the small exposed section of deck before he noticed the woman. His eyes flicked from her to the body on the deck and then to Sansom. His confusion stopped him in his tracks.

  He was a good deal older, more experienced. The refinements of his suit didn’t disguise the streetfighter in him. Sansom believed he could pose a problem.

  Sansom had intended only to persuade him, one way or another, to relinquish the keys to the speedboat, but now, even on his borrowed time on the boat, he made time for a question as a thought occurred to him.

  ‘Ever heard of a ship called, The Rendezvous?’ The man’s eyebrows creased down in puzzlement and then his face changed to one of recollection and then realisation. He smiled at Sansom, showing a set of good white teeth that almost certainly wouldn’t have been his own. Sansom couldn’t have understood better if the man had drawn him pictures.

  He shot him twice. The first bullet hit him high in the chest, throwing him back against the railings where his head struck, sending out a metallic ring. He was probably already dead before the second shot shattered the dental work that Sansom found so offensive and exploded the back of his head over the deck.

  He then pointed the gun at the woman and said, ‘Coming, or dying?’

  It seemed to have finally dawned on her that the maniac with the gun would kill her without hesitation and she had too much to live for. Maintaining some dignity, she moved forward towards the platform and the speedboat, stepping carefully over the man whose blood and brains were now fouling the deck.

  Sansom cast a last look around then bent to the young fool lying moaning on the deck. Close to his ear Sansom said, ‘Tell Botha that if he wants to see his wife alive again, the mother of his children, I expect the girl back unharmed. Understand?’ The figure nodded without looking up.

  Stopping only to fish the boat’s keys, weapon and mobile phone out of the dead man’s pockets, he dropped down into the boat. The woman had sat on the last of the three padded bench seats. As the engine roared into life, he motioned for her to join him in the front. He wasn’t going to have his back to that seething body of capable fury.

  *

  The door closed behind Tallis and without protest he submitted himself to the cautionary patting down. Botha surveyed him keenly from a wingback chair. Tallis noted another of those expensive-looking bottles of water on a table next to him. Had he been expecting to use this room all along? he wondered.

  The black man removed Tallis’s police warrant card from where he was meant to find it, studied it for a moment and, seemingly satisfied, took it across to his employer. They hadn’t asked him to take a seat. Botha studied the warrant card. The men exchanged a quick look and Tallis interpreted something resembling confusion pass between them. He waited patiently.

  ‘The plot thickens,’ said Botha, finally. ‘Sit down, Detective Inspector, won’t you, and tell me why the British police are in league with a murderer.’ He tossed the warrant card on to the chair arranged opposite him.

  Tallis retrieved it and sat down. He reminded himself that he was now in the company of a very dangerous man; a man that might be ultimately responsible for the death of his daughter and another who may even have pulled the trigger that ended her short, wonderful and promising life.

  ‘Let me start by saying that I’m part of a large and far-reaching police task force investigating certain irregular dealings of a British Member of Parliament – Bishop,’ he lied. He was following his detective’s sixth sense that there was a strong connection between Botha, Bishop and The Rendezvous. Something that went deeper than casual murder.

  ‘You haven’t answered my question,’ said Botha, clearly preoccupied with the more immediate threat of Sansom than with anything he was hearing. ‘There is a lunatic running around out there killing my people, claiming that sooner or later he’s going to get around to me and my family.’ Tallis glimpsed how rattled Botha was at the actions and threat of Sansom. ‘Explain him if you want to prolong this meeting.’

  ‘He is not part of our operation. Clearly, British justice would never sanction anything like the behaviour that he has been demonstrating.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Botha. ‘The British have been sanctioning dirty operations abroad ever since they learned to sail.’

  Tallis inclined his head slightly, conceding the point. ‘He is a rogue element, sponsored, it appears, by Bishop. Bishop obviously wants you out of the picture. Dead men tell no tales and all that.’ Tallis noted the men exchange another look. ‘Anyway, you’ve no need to worry about him any more. He is no longer at liberty to be a threat to anyone.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Let’s just say that he is enjoying a little British hospitality overseas. He was picked up a few hours ago. He’s cooperating nicely. One of the reasons that I’m here, in fact.’ While Tallis couldn’t guarantee that Botha was buying his story, he detected an alteration in the man. Not wanting to give them time to think and pose more questions that might start to reveal the holes in his story, he adopted a policy that offence is the best defence and started his own questioning.

  ‘The name Bishop obviously means something to you, Mr Botha. He means something to us as well. If I can be candid for a moment, we suspect that Bishop has been involved in some significant irregularities in the arms trade. But he’s clever and careful. Covers his tracks well. Loose ends are not something that he seems to like leaving untied.

  ‘Our investigation keeps turning up possible witnesses, people who we can show he has had, shall we say, shadowy dealings with; people who keep dying prematurely. I think that we can perhaps help each o
ther.’

  He paused and then, encouraged by Botha’s silent attention, he pressed on. ‘You clearly have knowledge and information that he would like buried, if you’ll forgive the expression. We would like to know what that is. Of course, if we can get something cast iron on the man we can neutralise him, which would in turn negate any further threats to you.

  ‘My understanding of the way Bishop operates is that as soon as he finds out that his assassin has lost his liberty, there will be another along soon. He really has proven quite doggedly effective and resourceful. It’s one of the things that have made him such a difficult target for us. He’s simply too high profile and well connected to botch things up with some half-arsed case against him. But we edge ever closer. Building evidence bit by bit.’ Tallis paused in the hope that some of his bombardment might sink in.

  It seemed to Tallis that the South African eyed him with a certain lack of charity. Although Tallis didn’t know the man well enough to be sure of this interpretation, it still filled him with an uncomfortable sense of foreboding.

  ‘To be honest, Mr Tallis, I feel insulted,’ said Botha. He switched his attention to pouring himself a long glass of water. Tallis fought the urge to fidget. He felt a plummeting of spirit that he hoped was not betrayed outwardly. And he had believed things had been going so well.

  ‘Did you really imagine that I would be so naive, so foolish, so gullible to sit down with a complete stranger, allow myself to be intimidated, hoodwinked, fooled by a badge, a story, a remote threat and with nothing that I can see to gain for myself, other than the knowledge that I am assisting British justice; to happily sit here and spill my guts – incriminate myself? What a fool you must think I am, Mr Tallis.’

  If anyone felt a fool at that moment, it was Tallis. Accepting that protestations would potentially only dig him deeper into his position, a position that he wasn’t enjoying and from which extraction would be that much more difficult, he shut up.