Headhunter

THIRTY FIVE

  Harimau prowled the front of the room, his eyes behind dark glasses, his hands behind his back.

  Dusan didn't like this part. Never had.

  The girls were lined up in no particular order along the back wall and not one of them was looking at anything but the floor.

  Hari stopped moving and raised a hand up from his back to hang it out in front of him. He snapped his fingers loudly, twice. They all looked up, part shock, part obedience. All fear.

  Hari returned to his slow walk up and down, his head level, eye line on the girls. He stepped forward and laid a gentle hand on one of them, blonde haired, slender, very short. No more than eighteen years old. He coaxed her from the line up and gestured her silently, his other hand raised, to the end of the line.

  Stepping back he looked up and down and then moved toward another girl, curvier but of similar height. He moved her along to stand next to the young blonde girl.

  In this way Dusan watched as he re-ordered the line in order of height and then retreated to admire his work, as if this line of sloping bowed heads were in some way a conclusion, a finished job. In the corner of the room, watching with arms crossed, leaning back against the wall, were two men in black t-shirts and grey jogging pants. They looked bored with proceedings but watched all the same.

  Hari prowled the line again, closer this time, no more than a foot away from the girls all of whom tried to keep their eyes on him as he passed for fear of the rebuking finger-snap.

  He stopped midway, reversed, pulled out a dark skinned girl. She was statuesque, long-legged and shapely. Hari turned to Dusan and smiled broadly, nodded at the girl who was doing an admirable job of maintaining her composure.

  Moving her to the end of the line, Hari set about reordering his line in order of colour now, light to dark. Halfway through the task, Dusan's drifting attention was grabbed as the sharp crack of a slap cut the silence, followed by a stifled cry. Hari's hand hovered in the air behind the reddening buttock of Latino girl who froze and kept silent. Hari turned to him and pointed at her backside, firm and round in the G-string. Smiling at Dusan he turned back to the girl and slapped her hard again.

  She maintained the silence this time, and Dusan wondered now if Hari had made his choice and this would begin to end.

  Not yet. Hari snapped his fingers and the girl turned her head. There was a tear but the mouth was set firm. She looked at him, saw her own reflection in the dark lenses of his sunglasses. Again he raised his hand and smacked it hard and loud into her soft rump. She seemed to quaver a moment, and Dusan found himself wishing her still, hoping that she held out a little longer. Often Hari would leave the stronger ones alone. Test their resolve for a while until the others were all terrified and then he would round on the one who looked most afraid.

  That's how it worked either way; through fear.

  Slowly the hand came up again and this time her expression did not flicker. Hari raised his arm further until he was pointing her into position in this human colour palette.

  Turning to the line again Dusan saw the end arrive. The tears streaked down the pale cheeks of the short blonde girl that Hari had started with were like catnip to the Malaysian and he moved slowly toward her and each step broke a wall down inside her. By the time his hand was on her shoulder, the same spot as before, she had crumbled. Her shoulders dropped, her knees sagged and the cheap silk negligee she wore seemed suddenly too big for her slight frame as she shrank back inside it.

  Dusan knew what would follow. Hari's steps from here on out were practiced and rehearsed like a dance and one that none in the room would forget. That was of course the point.

  These girls, all of them, were for sale. The would be trafficked and sold but first they would be cowed. When this was done, when the hour was up, they would all of them know precisely how trapped they were, the consequences of non-compliance.

  Harimau stepped her forward with him and she followed meekly, sobs choking through her. When she was far enough out in front of them all he stopped her and pressed on her shoulder until she was kneeling. The girls at the wall all looked on, eyes widening in horror at the dawning realisation of what was about to happen but Hari snapped his fingers anyway, loud and sharp again, even as his other hand undid his trousers.

  She took him in her mouth and tried to stop the sobs from rising from her chest and into her throat. Hari looked from her petrified face up to the line of girls and then back again, gripping her hair in a tight, twisting fist. She made a gagging sound that Dusan tried not to hear, always tried not to hear, but which would lodge in his mind like all the others. Like all the others, but different and unique.

  Soon Hari raised his free hand and finger-snapped again, three times. This was a signal, not for the girls to keep watching, but to begin the final act. He was summoning forward the two quiet men from the corner of the room. They were giants next to Hari, dwarfing his short squat frame as they drew closer.

  Dusan noticed that one of them was aroused already, the shape of him clear and unconcealed by the cotton of his jogging trousers.

  Dusan stared hard at the floor as he saw Hari begin to tense. He was quite prepared to do any number of things for his boss, was well paid for doing so, but watching him climax, jaw clenched, head back, was not part of the job spec.

  Sated, Harimau stepped back from the girl as she crumpled to the rough carpet and drew desperate breaths between hacking coughs. The respite lasted less than a minute.

  The two large men circled her, hoisting their t-shirts over their heads to reveal their gym-toned torsos, black tattoos snaking their skin. Dropping their trousers they stood naked over her and then they began.

  Her ordeal would take another fifty minutes and would follow a repeated pattern. Only when the screams peaked or she fell limp would they stop and release her. A short pause to let them all think it was all over, and then begin again.

  If any of the other girls made a sound they would increase the violence and ferocity of the attack, if they looked away they would beat her harder and point at the girl in the line who had caused more punishment to be inflicted on their unfortunate fellow captive.

  At the end Hari barked out words at the men in harsh, terse tones and she was dragged away, naked and broken.

  'She is no good to me. I cannot use her. If I cannot use...' he said pointing after her. The door closed and Hari shrugged.

  Dusan stood and began walking for the door. They were finished here and he would not see these girls again, not in the flesh.

  He didn't know why Hari made him do this. The other man knew from experience that Dusan would not participate in the rapes, but he made him stand there all the same, from start to finish. Perhaps he just wanted an extra body in the room in case something went wrong; crowd control. Or maybe he knew that every part of this would scare and scar these girls; not just the man in the glasses with his sinister games and his tormented selection process, nor the huge savages made of sinew and evil and pitiless fury. But the silent man who stood there the whole time and barely even seemed to notice what was happening.

  What was his purpose? What function did he serve in this? Perhaps only Hari was supposed to know the answer to that, or perhaps the answer was simply that they all remember one simple truth; that Hari owned every one of them.

  THIRTY SIX

  'Headache?' she asked and dangled the box of painkillers over him.

  'No...' he said, a hint of confusion his voice. 'None. Brilliant.'

  'Daniel, that's not right. You went through plenty of it last night. You should have a skull splitter.'

  He stretched and looked up at Lisa with a grin. 'Yes. Yes, I almost certainly should. Probably in the post for later.'

  'It should be.'

  'Perhaps it's karma. I deserve a freebie.'

  'Malbec for breakfast then?'

  'Let's not push it,' he said and swung himself out of bed, noticing almost with surprise his nakedness.

  'Get yourself in the
shower, I'll make coffee.'

  He gave a thumbs up that looked awkward and embarrassed as he stood there wondering whether to cover himself or beat a hasty retreat for the shower before his cheeks began to flush.

  Lisa returned the gesture with a smile and a raised eyebrow. She leaned in and kissed him and then breezed out of the room.

  Campbell dropped his thumbs and scanned the room for his underwear. Finding them in a tangle with his jeans he snatched them up and slipped them on. Lisa's head appeared round the door.

  'Towel on the shelf behind the door. You don't take sugar?'

  He shook his head.

  'No. What we doing today then?'

  He pondered the question for a moment but was relieved when she melted back into the hallway to the kitchen without waiting for an answer. Campbell didn't have one. Anything he might try to do today was going to take some forethought but whatever it might be he felt that it would be done solo. How to rescind the invitation that she'd issued herself?

  Campbell ran the shower hot and blasted away some of the morning-after fog. They'd talked a lot and late into the night, chasing ideas and suspicions around like a dog with two tails. Lisa had tried to help fill in blanks or to extinguish some of his more incendiary speculation but there was no denying now that he was into something here. A man who has wandered into a meadow and just spotted that it's a minefield. Euphoria curdling into fear, tranquillity into tension.

  He could not recall all of it now, not with all the wine he'd got through to dull the edge of his sharp sense of paranoia.

  But certainly he remembered the way that the conversation had wound up quickly the moment Lisa had tried to stand, lost her balance, and plopped down on top of him, almost straight into his lap. He'd been too slow to catch her and she'd been too tipsy to try and break her fall. The pause between landing and their lips meeting had been minuscule and the rest was a blur of loosening buttons and crumpled sheets.

  It hadn't been awkward or clumsy or forced. It had just happened and then they were asleep, passed out until the sun rose and the dehydration kicked in.

  Campbell couldn't figure what to think about - Glasgow and Scorpio and what he thought he'd found, or the way that things had accelerated with Lisa. He still felt raw and battered from the beating he'd taken on their first date and the embarrassment of that humiliation still lingered, the way she'd tried so hard to say and do the right things, the way that there were no right things to do or say.

  But the ease with which they had fallen together, the way smoothed by the wine and the tightening feeling of allegiance as they waded through all the things he had learned at Scorpio and the singular oddness of Lawson's behaviour in Glasgow, that had felt right. Swift and natural like a blockage shifting from a pipe.

  He felt the sting of the grazes he still carried and the ache of the bruises but they were less red and angry now, a little more faded and blurred.

  Though he was a little groggy from the wine intake, his hangover was milder than it ought to have been and he felt a certain sharpness and clarity, a little spark of energy that he could tap into and exploit. He'd felt confused and under pressure, uncertain of himself and his instincts for some time now. The late nights, the new job, new demands, and then the mugging and the discovery in the office of the strange trail of companies all somehow intertwined. Perhaps it was waking up next to Lisa that had done it, or maybe being able to unload all of his worries and suspicions on someone else who could relate a little. But a tension had broken and Campbell felt like he could start to retake control and begin to discover what was going on.

  At the breakfast table he sipped the hot fresh coffee and tore through mouthfuls of toast.

  'What's the plan then? What's Dan's plan?'

  'Well,' he chewed a little faster to empty his mouth. ‘Dan’s plan is that he's... that I'm going to shoot off. And not refer to myself in the third person either. That's the kind of thing Giles would do.'

  'Oh,' she said and looked wounded.

  'I need to speak to someone about some of this stuff and I need to run a couple of errands. Maybe I can check back in with you later? You free later?'

  'Maybe you can check back in? Wow, you know how to make a lady feel special.'

  'Sorry. Just, you know. It's all a bit nuts. You helped me work through things last night and I think it helped me realise maybe it's not paranoia. But I need to... I just need to do a few things and speak to people and it's easier if I just get cracking by myself, leg it around for a while and then take a breather and get back to you, and your wonderful insights and warm bed...'

  If he thought the roguish suggestiveness of this approach might charm her, he didn't cling long to the hope. She'd lost something of the sparkle in her eye that had been there earlier.

  Of course, she'd been excited to talk things over with him the night before, to discover something curious and intriguing and possibly sinister might be going on in their workplace. It was exhilarating and a little scary and he'd just deflated her enthusiasm in short order. He'd need to do something more to make up lost ground here.

  He chewed more toast and looked at her as she avoided looking at him. Then something hit him.

  'Tell you what. You could do something.'

  'What?'

  'Might be good to know what Giles was shredding last weekend.'

  'Yes. So?'

  'Think you could try to find out?'

  'What, you mean ask him? Hey Giles, Dan thinks he saw you secretly shredding a load of documents last Sunday afternoon. Don't suppose you'd mind giving me a quick run down?'

  'No, no. You know his workload. Maybe you can go in to the office and check for something.'

  'I'm not following. Go through the shredder bins? Reassemble the strips of paper like the world’s most impossible puzzle?'

  'Not that, no. Stop being snippy. I mean you know the stuff he works on, see if you can root around his desk or file cupboard, see if there's anything missing...'

  'Missing?'

  'Yeah. Look, it's looking for a needle in a haystack I know.'

  'No, it's looking for no needle in a haystack.'

  'But you might notice something that's... conspicuous by its absence.'

  'Mmm,' she said, finally sounding like she was coming around. 'I guess that might work.'

  'See what's there, you might notice what's not.'

  'Still though. Hardly convincing evidence is it? Something possibly missing, presumed shredded.'

  'Yeah well, trust me. In my experience, important stuff goes missing, things can really kick off.'

  THIRTY SEVEN

  There are bigger, better run operations to deal with than this one. The Italians of course, the Russians. Hari prefers to keep it small scale though and deal with smaller outfits like this one.

  They are easier to control, easier to dominate and negotiating is far simpler. When things go sideways you don't have to worry about blowback from their friends in a half dozen other places.

  These guys, mostly Albanian, seem to like Dusan too, which helps. Though by Hari's limited grasp of Balkan geopolitics that seems odd. Shouldn't they hate him?

  There were things in the world that defied understanding and the effort required to do so was not warranted. Why look for logic where there was none? Just accept that they took every consignment that Hari sent them, paid well, handled themselves with discretion and were small enough that they were expendable and smart enough to know it.

  Right now though, they were particularly expendable, for one very good reason, but they had no idea of it. One of their number, who called himself Ratko and was ostensibly the man in charge, had something that Hari needed.

  Hari knew that their head man had something in common with him. They had both had dealings with the same man some years ago, for roughly similar reasons - guns - and later had both been left the poorer for an insider-trading scam gone wrong.

  The guns had been an occasional piece of business. Hari liked to vary his su
ppliers and shop the market. He liked to get a good price and a decent product and where necessary the market narrowed down to who could get the things you wanted to the place you wanted them.

  Having established that contact, Hari had exploited it where necessary; it wasn't just guns that needed moving, sometimes drugs and people too, sometimes money. Precious stones from war zones, cash; either physical or electronic. He'd made other contacts through this man and Ratko had come into his orbit this way.

  So Hari had known he wasn't the only one who had been made a fool of by Michael Horner nor the only one who had lost money on the 'tip' that had been more like a trap. But he'd probably lost more than anyone on it. Perhaps it was because the project was in Malaysia that it caught his imagination the way it had, made him ignore advice to go easy. Perhaps it was the idea that the project stood to destroy much of the area that he'd grown up in that so appealed; that fetid, bug-ridden, rats nest of a place. Maybe he just lost the run of himself.

  Either way, the deal wiped out a large portion of his hard-earned and carefully-laundered cash and left him looking like an idiot. Not being the only one had been some balm to the wounded pride, but Horner had marked himself that day.

  Hari could not imagine that it had been deliberate. Horner was far too smart to make that many enemies by rigging the deal for himself at the expense of so many dangerous people. Hari had put a contract out on his own broker in the aftermath of the deal, just to have someone to strike out at.

  The manner in which the Englishman dropped off the radar so fast looked like nothing but pure fear, the fox getting deep under ground when he hears the hounds coming.

  So Hari knew that Horner was attempting to make amends and he knew that his peace offering would be extended to everyone that had a grievance.

  Including Ratko.

  Ratko may have exercised some discretion in their business dealings, but the man liked to talk when in trusted company and had wasted little time telling Dusan all about his plans. He was not, he said, interested in getting sucked into some elaborate new hoax to line Horner's pockets a second time. Rather he would follow the scent and kill him. Maybe, he boasted, sell him on like one of the girls. He knew a few clients with particular tastes and extreme predilections. He'd like to make a slow, messy end of Horner. Perhaps Dusan and Hari would like to be there for the show?

  'You still like the product?' he asks Ratko as they seat themselves around a small table, fresh coffee on a tray between them.

  'Always good. Fresh and frightened. How my buyers like,' he grins back.

  'Good. It has been an excellent relationship. Good for each other.'

  Ratko nods and pours coffee.

  'Good to make money together. But not always we make money. We have lost too.'

  Ratko blinks but keeps filling cups. Hari presses on.

  'Remember?'

  Now Ratko seems to get it, that Hari is not about to upbraid him for some failed deal. He is referring to something else. A shared failure.

  He looks around the room and flicks his head toward the door. Everyone but Dusan leaves and then Ratko eyes Hari across the table and blows at the steam rising from the cup.

  'Dusan passed on my invitation? We make a show of him?'

  Hari shrugs and lifts his cup. 'Maybe. Something.'

  'We find him. Then...' the sneer is full of contempt but black malice burns in Ratko's eyes. The man has forgotten nothing of the sting he felt, has stoked the fire of his rage.

  'Then...' Dusan says. 'Then we show him how we are still angry.'

  Ratko's anger has simmered thus far, subdued out of respect for the power balance at the table. But suddenly he explodes.

  'He fuck me! In front of everyone, everybody see me fucked. Now, he will be fucked. Everyone will know, everyone. Hard, long. Like a pig, like a little bitch. I sell him and watch him die.'

  Hari puts the coffee down and leans back in his chair. Dusan circles the table and places a hand on Ratko's shoulder as the eruption subsides.

  'Like that?' Dusan says and Hari nods slowly.

  'Something like that,' he says. 'You want to go see him Ratko?'

  THIRTY EIGHT

  Giles Lawson has his orders. The time has come.

  He does not understand exactly but he can see his part in this and how to do it because the instructions are clear and leave little room for interpretation or doubt. The pay helps to focus his mind too, not the per diem he's been getting through Scorpio but the bonus he's expecting.

  That bonus makes all the difference, and though it is not right to say that it solves all his problems it certainly deals with most of them. Giles Lawson is an addict and drugs cost a lot of money. Gambling more.

  There are years behind him laid waste with recklessness and dreadful decision making, a spoilt young man starting out rebelling by wasting his father's money and then finding himself cut off and in a spiral.

  Amazing the fortitude that fear will give you and amazing the kind of fear that's waiting out there in the world for those who fail to heed the warnings.

  Lawson should have been the high-flying success that the school fees were paying for but even the best schools can do only so much and when someone is determined enough to send a message that money isn't love, there are no refunds and no returns. Lawson's father stuck at it with all the tenacity that had made him a professional success but he'd failed to understand that the hard work and the long hours that paid for giving his son the very best of everything was at the expense of what young Giles really wanted from his father. It is hard to understand that being sent away is supposed to be an expression of parental love or that the separation was just as hard the other way.

  By the time he saw it, his father was saying goodbye and his mother was in the ground.

  Barred from another casino, after another coke binge, he'd been collected from a police station, divested of his house keys and his credit cards and handed the truth, silent and deafening.

  His father had not spoken as he'd done this, but the look in his eyes as he stared at him and then left was one that Giles recognised. The losing-streak gambler at the table chasing one bad bet with a bigger one and refusing to see it until it could be refused no longer. You have lost too much; walk away.

  He'd had the intelligence to see it all clearly then, the trail of destruction he'd blazed through life, so angry at an imagined crime, taking his revenge upon the innocent, scorching the earth as he went. He lacked the capacity to stop though. Had he done so there and then, he'd have been clean and clear. The money he'd burnt had been earned and handed to him by an indulgent parent but when that indulgence ceased, Lawson's own had not.

  So then there were debts and drugs and days lost to all of it, chunks of the calendar dropping away before he surfaced somewhere broke and broken once more.

  The traditional avenues ran dry inside two years and then nobody would give him a loan or a credit card. But being stupid and resourceful is a sure way to destruction and Lawson found it in ever more extreme loan sharks. Passingly reputable at first but quickly he was using dangerous men to front him the cash he couldn't exist without.

  And then rock bottom. Vegas, a suite, the high stakes tables, hookers, champagne and fistfuls of coke. In three bacchanalian nights he had doubled his already massive debts.

  There was a week in the vice-tight grip of a hangover that visited every physical and mental torment upon him. He'd resolved at very long last to kick it all and get clean.

  Not with his parents help, nor friends, so few of which he really had anymore. Himself. Alone. The same way he'd got here.

  'Dad,' he had sobbed the word out as he stood there on the front step the last time he'd seen him.

  There was no reply and when he looked up at his father he could see the dagger sitting there in the old man’s heart, just where he'd left it.

  'School tie. I, uh, I need my old school tie.’

  The man had nodded and closed the door. In a few minutes he
returned and handed over the old thing, rolled carefully and pristine. In his other hand he held a blue suit.

  ’About the same size now. Should fit.’

  Lawson felt stung by the kindness, sharp like a slap.

  He nodded dumbly.

  ’Middle age spread at 28 Giles. Not got better has it.’ It was not a question. Or if it was, the question was ’how have I failed you?’

  He'd taken the suit and the tie and stared so intently at his shoes as he chewed on his shame that the sound of the closing door was inaudible.

  Somehow though, he could hear it now. Clear and defined, like a snap or a crack. The end of something. The sound, he fancied, of a full stop.

  Here though, now, were the final plays in the endgame. A few more steps, a few more weeks perhaps and he'd have his escape. But all the while the debts ran overdue and the interest piled up as he tested the patience of men with little of it. Men who would have their price.

  He'd played his role well at Scorpio, done the things he'd been asked to, hooked in their man and landed him. He did wonder about Campbell. Certainly the man was intelligent and tenacious, had begun to dig out some interesting stock ideas, though they were never really pursued with any kind of conviction.

  What he did know was that he was where he was supposed to be and that he would play his part too. Indeed, he was becoming more central to everything judging by the latest set of instructions he'd received and so the success upon which his bonus depended, depended on Campbell.

  Lawson could feel the familiar buzz of a high stakes game unfolding and his gut twisted and tightened, knowing there was nothing to do but keep playing.

  THIRTY NINE

  Campbell chews at his nails and watches the window. Steve is running late, but then it's a wet Sunday and he's asked to meet at short notice. Nonetheless, the waiting is turning a screw in his guts.

  When he gets there he looks concerned and pissed off simultaneously. Whether that is because he’s heading out into a wet London on Sunday morning instead of slumping on the sofa in front of the television or because he has a sense that Campbell may be about to unload some more work related drama on him is unclear at first sight.

  Campbell will have to hope it’s not the latter but attempts to make up for it anyway.

  ’Sausage or bacon?’ he says as he stands and offers a hand.

  Steve shakes it and half smiles. ’Not or. And.’

  ’Sausage and bacon. Done. Red or brown?’

  ’Brown of course. Savage.’

  Campbell orders the sandwiches and coffee and returns to their table. It's a pub that overlooks a fenced and tree-lined Green, though not in the English-village, cricket-or-bowls-sense, but more the park-benches-and-tramps-sense. This is South London.

  The decor is much dark wood and large elaborate mirrors, little in the way of modernising since the pub opened in the 1890s but for the shabby-chic furniture and the chalk board with the gastropub menu.

  ’Good choice, they do good pig in here.’

  Campbell nods and chews his lip.

  ’So how's things? Still messy? I half expected to see you having a pint with your breakfast after our last conversation.’

  ’Yeah, well it's not the hectic social life that's the issue really. I mean, only for the last week or so, but that's only because I've had other things going on.’

  ’The girl. Tell me it's the girl.’

  ’Lisa? No. I mean, yes, sort of. We sort of got together.’

  ’Sort of congratulations!’

  Campbell smiles, ploughs on.

  ’Turn on your bluetooth,’ he says and pulls his own smartphone from his pocket.

  ’Why?

  ’I need to send you something.’

  ’Hang on. If you're going to share some naked selfies or something, I have to tell you now, I’m not into that.’

  ’Turn it on.’

  Steve busies himself with the phone and then nods at Campbell.

  ’OK. Before I send this, I should say, it could be something... I don't know, could be bad.’

  ’Naked selfies, I knew it.’

  ’I don't really know what it is. And I know that I could be seeing ghosts in the shadows here, after what happened before. I know it sounds paranoid.’

  Steve draws a deep breath and lets it out. ’You seem hell bent on finding something in the shadows Dan. Let's hear it.’

  ’The new place, the dream job. I think I found something screwy.’

  ’Screwy how?’

  Campbell shrugs. ’Just... Suspect. Like too suspect to keep ignoring.’

  ’Yeah, but suspect how? You are new to this job Dan, it may be that the things you're seeing are just the way things work,’ Steve says but Campbell is shaking his head before the sentence is finished.

  ’But we both know enough about how things work to spot when something's off.’

  ’OK. So what are you seeing? Money Laundering?’

  Campbell shrugs.

  ’Insider trading?’

  Shrugs again.

  ’A Ponzi scheme? Tax evasion?’ Steve continues and Campbell’s head drops into his hands and starts shaking. ’Libor rate manipulation? Boiler room scam? Payment Protection Insurance misselling? Inadequate risk controls? I'm running out here Dan.’

  He looks up again and is about to start talking when the food arrives. They dig in silently, the tension between them refusing to abate.

  ’Truth is, I can't say precisely; just that something doesn’t add up. And maybe a few off your list are in there. Maybe the money laundering, or the insider trading, or the Ponzi scheme. Price fixing even.’

  ’Do you have enough to call the regulator?’ Steve asks after working through a huge mouthful of sandwich.

  ’Not sure I’d want to do that.’

  ’Blow the whistle if you think there's something going on. Shit or get off the pot.’

  ’It’s not quite that simple.’

  ’Right. I'm going to demolish this majestically constructed sandwich and you are going to explain to me what's got you spooked. If I'm spooked too by the end of this thing, we’ll take a look at whatever you're trying to get me to look at.’

  Campbell nodded and gathered his thoughts. ’Last few weeks I've been doing a lot of stock analysis, looking at companies and whether we should be buying or shorting them. But I can't figure them out, what they do. Lots of holding companies and subcontracts and a huge amount of crossover, like the same company names cropping up on each other's documents. But very light on detail about what they do, you know? We make this product and sell it to these guys. We provide this service to that company for this amount. None of that. Nothing clear. Normally a red flag right?’

  Steve chews and bobs his head.

  ’Then there's the corporate structure. You met my boss, but he’s pretty young and he’s got someone above him. Company like this, there’s a chunk of capital somewhere but I can’t figure out who that might be from. Nobody ever mentions that part of it.’

  As Steve works his way through the food and listens, the sceptical frown he wears softens and changes as Campbell goes on to describe the strange goings on in the wine bar bathrooms.

  ’Right,’ he says as he snatches up a napkin and wipes his mouth free of grease and sauce. ’That certainly is a lot of strangeness. Inconclusive I'd say, but curious all the same.’

  ’If you look at this lot you'll start to see what I’m seeing,’ says Campbell and waves his phone in the air.

  ’What is it then?’

  ’Notes mostly. A load of stuff I've been taking down to join all the dots.’

  Steve looks thoughtful a moment and then nods and taps the screen. ’Go on then. I'll take a look.’

  Campbell jabs at the phone screen and then looks up. ’Steve. I want to be wrong. I know I just spent a long time convincing you that I'm not, or that I think I'm right, but I don't want to be.’

  ’How do you keep finding trouble?’

  ’Keeps finding
me,’ he shrugs. ’Or not. Maybe these guys are just a half-arsed outfit and cut lots of corners. Maybe I just signed up to them wanting it to be a dream job. You can convince yourself of anything if you want to I guess.’

  ’I'll take a look.’

  ’Thanks Steve. I'm in your hands on this.’

  FORTY

  When Hogg enters the room with Rookes hovering on his shoulder Horner feels a little leap of tension in his stomach that has been getting worse each time.

  Listening for the name and not hearing it as Hogg updates him has been like water torture, the slow drip - drip - drip of building anxiety.

  He considers cutting to the chase and asking him outright about Stripes but refrains; there is no benefit in having either man see a hint of weakness.

  In the event Hogg spares him further waiting and fixes him with a level stare and shakes his head. Not yet, it says, no reply.

  Rookes’ eyes swivel between the two but his view of the exchange is obscured. Horner opens his mouth to tell him to leave them but then realises that having Rookes think there is something to hide is the best way to tell him there is.

  'Come in and sit,' he says, mustering a tone of impatience and disdain that requires little effort.

  They do and Hogg looks like he is trying less to keep his eyes fixed on Horner than simply off Rookes. There's a festering tension between them that Horner likes, because it means that they are unlikely to talk much and he needs his people divided and conquered.

  'Anything new?'

  'One more on board, Hind and Stripes still blanks,’ says Hogg. Then adds, ‘ Response-wise.'

  'Response-wise?'

  'Yes.'

  'Why say that? Is there something else? Spit it out Hogg,' Horner snaps.

  'First time for everything,' smirks Rookes and winks at Horner. Hogg drops his eyes to the carpet for a second, grinds his teeth.

  'Well I had something odd. Like someone tried to trace the data package without actually opening it.'

  'What does that mean? Should I care?'

  Hogg shrugs. 'Just, not happened before is all. And you asked for anything new. So...'

  'I did. Fine. Rookes?'

  'No idea. Big guy does the computers.'

  The pause and the expression are withering and even Rookes cannot ignore it. 'Hogg has finished. I am asking you to update me. If I need you to have an opinion, one will be provided for you.'

  'I doubled the detail on the house but stepped down the walkabouts. Too visible. Cameras have been upgraded too which covers the lack of boots on the ground. I let someone go too. Last of Marcus's guys.'

  'Why?'

  'Didn't know him well enough. What I knew I didn't like.'

  'Fair enough. Is this costing a lot?'

  'Not really. You want these guys to keep quiet you either pay them, or scare them.'

  'And which sledgehammer of subtlety did you opt for?'

  Rookes grins. 'Little from column A, little from column B.'

  'Is that it then? We're tighter now? Tight enough?'

  'Can never be tight enough in my opinion, but we're a sight better than when the last guy was running the show.'

  'No,’ says a voice from behind them. ‘The answer that Mr Horner should have been getting from you was a very definite no.’

  The sight of the three men in the doorway drains the colour from Horner's face so fast that Hogg fears the man will pass out right there. Rookes spins and stands but Dusan has a handgun at his hip that he barely even moves. He shakes his head and Rookes stops.

  Behind Dusan comes Ratko, with swagger and menace and a smug look that even Rookes would struggle to match.

  And then Hari strolls in, nonchalant and smiling.

  Hogg feels his fingernails begin to tear as he grips at the chair and he forces himself to ease off. He cannot identify precisely the source of his terror; whether it is the self-possessed, fearlessness of Dusan in his dark blue suit and white shirt, like a man just come from a meeting and ready for a cocktail. Whether it is the swaggering Ratko, all full of malicious intent and far too pleased to be here. Or Hari who seems to care too little. Perhaps it is the way Horner has visibly shrivelled into himself, all semblance of the overbearing arrogance evaporated.

  'You look a little pale Michael. You should get out more. The sun doesn't stop shining here I've heard,' says Hari.

  'Not expecting guests,' stammers Horner, frantically trying to collect himself.

  'No?' Hari frowns at Ratko, at Dusan in turn. 'But you sent us an invitation.'

  'An RSVP would have sufficed.'

  'Ha!' Hari laughs with a clap. 'Good.'

  'You know what I think of your invitation?' Ratko says as he takes a step closer. Rookes doesn't move. He's in Ratko's way but seems unsure about whether to tackle him if he keeps coming.

  'I think he knows,' says Dusan and there is a sharp crack that makes everyone jump.

  Ratko stumbles and looks confused and then just as Rookes and Hogg spot it, Ratko is clasping the wound with his hand, watching the dark blood seep between his fingers. He turns slowly, his hand to his chest and Dusan raises the handgun and presses it to Ratko's throat. Ratko's frown deepens and he moves his other hand up to the wound.

  'This man,' Hari begins and points at Ratko. 'Is dangerous.'

  Horner's mouth hangs open and any sense that he may have been going to have a say in what was about to happen is gone.

  'He wants you dead. He wants to kill you himself. Have you humiliated, tortured, raped even. The things he told me he was going to do...' he shakes his head.

  Ratko makes a sound, like he's attempting to say something, to protest, but all that comes from his mouth is some blood and spittle, a sound like a blocked drain. Dusan eyes his pristine white shirt with concern.

  'He does not care about the money.'

  Crack!

  There is a fine red spray from the back of Ratko's neck as Dusan pulls the trigger and Horner squints as it settles over him.

  The Albanian slumps down to the floor and grabs at his throat, a wet ragged hole there, pumping red. Horner's eyes widen and Hogg swallows back a dry heave.

  Hari stares down at the Albanian as he tries to stem the flow and he seems not to know that the battle is unwinnable, lost already. There is silence amongst those watching, but it is punctuated by Ratko’s desperate cough and rattle as he clings on and clings on.

  'Takes a long time,' observes Dusan. 'Surprising.' He is looking at Horner when he says this, like it’s a question. Horner nods and watches on.

  'This man, would deny me my compensation,' says Hari. 'I have waited a long time, wondering how I would be compensated. He simply sought revenge.'

  Ratko's breathing is ragged and slow and the blood has spread in a wide dark patch around him on the carpet.

  'I would like to be compensated first. Loss of capital, emotional distress,' he begins counting fingers. 'Reputational damage.'

  'Lost business,' prompts Dusan, gesturing at Ratko on the ground.

  'Lost business, of course. I can hardly continue to deal with Ratko any longer. I will need to find a new outlet for that part of the enterprise.'

  'Not easy, very specialist.'

  'That's right. And talking of specialist, what about the architect of this plan of yours? Who's making this happen? I want to know how it works.'

  Hogg felt his knees weaken and his bowels start to shift as Rookes turned to look at him. Hari stayed focused on Horner.

  'He's not here yet. Soon. I can get him here,' Horner says and he too does not look in Hogg's direction.

  'See that you do. I want to meet him.'

  Horner nods, tries not to look down as Ratko chokes out a last breath.

  'It's complex of course, rather technical, rather arcane. But he'll pull it together for us. He's the keystone really. I'd be delighted for you to meet him.'

  'He sounds good. Where do you find someone like that?'

  Horner shrugs. 'He sort of volunteered.'


  FORTY ONE

  The tepid drizzle of Sunday worsens into a cold squally downpour by Monday morning and Campbell has not come equipped. After Steve, he makes his way home and then back to Lisa's with clothes for the morning, a shirt, a suit, a tie. No raincoat. No umbrella.

  Lisa makes him share hers but it is small and polka dotted and the height difference means that he must either duck awkwardly or hold it so high she is barely protected. It makes for an awkward journey once the initial novelty has worn off a hundred yards from her front door.

  He arrives in the office with his trousers cold and clinging, his sodden suit jacket with the distinct look of a garment that is not supposed to be gotten wet having passed the point of no return. Dry cleaning may not fix this, he thinks and heads to his desk.

  The plan to be early has suffered from the slowdown that the weather brings, pavements clogged with umbrellas taking up space and people ducking their heads out of the freezing wind and not looking where they are going.

  Campbell is cranky and distracted. He knows that Steve will be at his desk by now across town and that he may even have started looking into Campbell's notes and his hit list of company names, but it isn't likely that it's going to trump his real duties so fast, or that any results are yet likely. He will have to wait for as long as it takes and knows that the squirming impatience that tugs and prods at him will hang around that whole time.

  What he needs is a distraction, so he sets about getting comfortable and dry and busying himself with some ’real’ work, which largely entails trawling through the company database for any more clues as to what he thinks he has found. It emerges slowly out of a deep, thick fog, the smallest of clues, the vaguest references to something that sits in the middle of it all, like a hub, or a spider in the centre of a web.

  Foundation Partners Investment Capital is another name with nothing to recommend it to Campbell’s keen sense of paranoia, nondescript and impersonal as it is. He sees it first in reference to Barracuda Trading, in what appeared to be a complex loan that advanced capital in exchange for stock options. On digging around he figured out what he thought the deal looked like; an advancement of a loan that carried the option for the debt to be converted into shares in Barracuda. In other words, if you don’t pay us back, we’ll own part of you.

  Then he saw a similar deal structured for the set up of Icarus Financial where the convertibility option for the bank to turn the loan to Icarus into shares in Icarus was a standout feature. The loan came not from Foundation Partners but from Keystone Capital which turned out to be a subsidiary of Foundation.

  Campbell started tugging at the thread and slowly it unravelled. Bodden Ventures he found links to next, with both Foundation and Keystone and Hunter Technologies also received seed capital from Foundation.

  The more he looked the more he found and the more self-conscious he became, his head snapping up like a meerkat every few minutes or so to survey the open space of the office and his colleagues milling about with their Monday morning faces on.

  ’Need a drink?’ said Lisa as she appeared at his side. Campbell jumped in his seat and rested a hand on her forearm in relief when he saw who it was.

  ’Jesus. Nervous much Dan?’

  ’Sorry, you scared the crap out of me.’

  ’Why so jumpy?’ she asked and he fixed her with a serious look and shook his head.

  ’Let’s get that drink,’ he said and stood, grabbing his mug from the coaster by the phone just as it began to ring.

  ’Or not...’ He picked up. ’Dan here.’

  Lisa watched as his brow furrowed and then his eyebrows seemed to make a break for his hairline, jumping right up his forehead.

  He said nothing as he hung up and then headed to the kitchen with his empty mug, Lisa in tow, her own brow furrowed in confusion.

  ’What is it? Was that Giles?’

  Campbell nodded and looked at her. ’The Cayman trip. Brought forward.’

  They stare at each other for a long time, before Campbell finally turns and makes the drinks they came for. The silence is filled for a very long time with all the questions that neither one gives voice to.

  FORTY TWO

  Rattled by the news about the trip to Cayman, Campbell fidgets in his chair for an hour and stares at the screen, busy getting nothing done. The tea goes cold and the screen goes dark from inactivity.

  Finally he stands and makes for Lawson’s office, not sure what he’ll say but sure he should say something. He doesn’t feel good at all about this. Considering it’s a trip to the Caribbean on the company credit card makes it particularly unsettling to feel so reticent. He should be excited, but that’s not what he feels.

  ‘What’s up?’ says Lawson as he walks in.

  ‘Got a minute?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Cayman Islands.’

  ‘Cayman man. Grand bloody Cayman!’ Lawson says and hangs a hand up high to be fived.

  Campbell does not oblige but goes instead for the deep frown. ‘I don’t get it. I mean, I don’t really know what my role is here.’

  Lawson shakes his head a little and offers a shrug, not quite following whatever point Campbell is failing to articulate.

  ‘Why? Why me? Why not some else, someone who knows this stuff better?’

  ‘Tough gig right? Jesus Dan, you can’t actually be upset about this?’

  ‘Sure, no. Just, I can’t see that the expense is justified if I’m not the guy that does the deals.’

  ‘Who else do you think there is? How big do you think we are exactly? You know everything and everyone already.’

  He nods dumbly, somehow further now from reassurance than he was.

  ‘So what do I need to bring?’

  ’No suits, just sort of smart casual. And your swimmers.’

  ‘What about work stuff? Research?’

  Lawson looks like his patience has worn through now at all the questions. ‘Just, you know, anything with Cayman on it. All the stuff you’ve been looking at that’s run through there, we’re looking at all of it.’

  As he wanders back to his desk, he ponders whether any of the companies that they have had him look at have not had references to Cayman on them.

  'You know what I said about Grand Cayman?' Lisa says as she bounces over to him from the other side of the office.

  Remind me?'

  'That you must take me.'

  'That, yes. Not sure I-'

  'Well,’ she cuts him off. ‘My fairy Godmother must have been listening.'

  A long pause as she stands grinning at him. ‘You're coming?' he asks.

  'Giles thinks you'll need help with everything. Staying organised.'

  'A beautiful assistant?'

  'Dashing sidekick. I prefer dashing sidekick.'

  'We'll see.'

  'Bonus points for the beautiful part though.'

  'Of course.'

  'Dashing sidekick.'

  ‘First task for the dashing sidekick will be to sit by Giles on the plane. You can be my posh-boy barrier.’

  ’That’s going to take Gin. I hope we’re going Business Class.’

  He nods but cannot continue to feign enthusiasm or reflect her excitement back at her. He grabs his damp jacket and heads for the door. ‘Heading for lunch,’ he says.

  ‘It’s 11.30.’

  He nods but says nothing. By the time he gets to the bank of lifts he has typed half the text message and when the doors slip open in the lobby he hits send.

  It’s a nice neighbourhood to take a walk in and he does just that, following a long looping route through the streets as he waits for a response. The buildings are old and no more than a few stories high, tasteful Georgian or Victorian architecture built in stone or London brick. They have off street parking and window boxes, ivy and wisteria trailing around the sash windows. It is hard to know which are the workplaces of rich people or the homes of rich people, but all the same it is tranquil and otherworldly and far removed from the p
lace he feels he is getting lost in.

  He tries to think clearly and force himself again to review his thoughts rationally. He’s been in the job only a couple of months now, it has been a whirlwind of activity, frantically social, a steep professional learning curve and he has stepped some distance outside his comfort zone. This was his intention. The last job felt like a dead-end, repetitive and too easy. He wanted to find, he reminds himself, all of these things he has found. He is stretched, he is tired, he is finding new limits.

  But is it too much? Is this normal, this life of late nights and expense-paid trips? Of murky and opaque business deals.

  He finds himself again back in that lock-up, his wrists tied, and in that dingy little terraced house with the naked light bulbs and gunshots popping down the hallway. Trouble found him before, almost killed him. Why must he insist on seeking it out now, seeing so many threats lurking in the periphery?

  Now Lisa is involved too, booked on the plane with him and Giles for whatever lies ahead. It was one thing to tell her of his suspicions, his tongue wine-loosened as it was. But he would rather she remain a spectator, back behind the safety barrier that he has failed to erect.

  The ding of the phone was lost in the London noise, even here in these back streets away from the traffic. “Been in a meeting all morning Dan. What’s the panic?”

  He types a reply to Steve so fast that he has to start again to correct all the typos and the illogical autocorrects.

  “Leaving the country tomorrow. Grand Cayman.”

  The wait is its own special torture but the phone dings again. “Poor you. I suppose that’s awful too! ;-) OK, will try to have a butcher’s at things after lunch.”

  He feels relieved that Steve has not forgotten him but knows too that he has reached his suspicions after several weeks of work. What can he realistically expect Steve to uncover in the space of an afternoon? Particularly considering that he’ll have his own work to be getting on with.

  Anything with Cayman on it, Lawson had said. That tone of exasperation. Stop asking questions.

  FORTY THREE

  Campbell gets to work gathering what Lawson has so vaguely specified is required and soon realises quite how much there is and that anything in paper form is too bulky and impractical to take anywhere far, let alone on an international flight.

  He spends more time than he allowed for digitising the data, or pulling what is already stored digitally off the main database and putting it into a cloud file. There’s not so much that it won’t fit on a memory stick, but he’s not confident that is something he should be doing. In the cloud file it’s locked up, encrypted and password protected. A memory stick, as he knows all too well, can go missing.

  There is little time to respond to Lisa’s emails, which drop into his inbox sporadically and range from the excited - a clipped image of a skimpy swimsuit she asks if she should buy - to the uncertain and nervous. Campbell cannot afford the time to indulge either emotion, nor would he if he could; he wouldn’t want to encourage her excitement when he felt so pensive about it himself, nor would he wish to worry her any further than she may already be. She was right to worry of course, knowing what she knew, but who the hell doesn’t get excited about a trip to the Caribbean? Especially with this persistent wet weather, grey clouds sitting on the roofs of the city.

  He sees all those names again popping up in record after record as he trawls the data and they begin to crowd out everything else until he can almost see nothing else, like they are all in bold and large font and all the rest greyed out and shrinking into the screen.

  When Lisa breaks the trance he notices that she has her coat on, then that the office is near-empty.

  ‘Coming yet?’ she asks.

  ’No,’ he shakes his head. ‘Still got to get this together, Giles was a little… vague.’

  ‘OK. We’re meeting here in the morning for a car at 7am. So be here before that.’

  ‘Sure. Seven,’ he replies absently, eyes drifting back to the screen.

  ‘Unless you want to come to mine and we can get an early start together. Early night too.’

  ‘Uh, yeah. No, I mean. I’ll probably be here a while. Then home to pack.’

  ‘After packing?’

  He misses the wounded tone in her voice, the hopeful lilt to the question. Misses the look on her face too because he is looking at the screen again.

  ‘I guess… I’ll call you. Let you know what time,’ but only late in the sentence does he actually look her in the eye.

  She drifts out of his peripheral vision and he goes back to the screen and begins to pick at another thread. Another nondescript corporate name on repeat but it’s not the fact he has seen it again so much as where.

  The data field that tells him who owns a firm does not contain the name of a person but a trustee corporation. Which is to say that the company is owned by a trust rather than an individual or group of named individuals.

  This is not so unusual, especially considering that the company in question - all of them on his list tonight - are Cayman Island registered. A trust is a common format for company ownership, but Campbell notes with a sense of creeping certainty that he has seen nothing but the names of trustee corporations in all of these firms.

  He tries to clear his head for a moment, to focus. What does that mean?

  A trust is a legal entity that can own property - like company shares - on behalf of pretty much anyone. These are the beneficiaries and the trust is run by appointed trustees who are responsible for everything - how it is run, how it is paid out and to whom. They can operate on the simplest basis - for charities for example, where it is an expedient way to protect the underlying funds for their intended purpose, or for grandparents holding money for the grandchildren too young or too irresponsible to have it for themselves just yet.

  At the more complex end, where the beneficiaries and purposes were various and larger in scope, it often made more sense to use professionals for the job at hand - trustee corporations.

  They were appointed to act in a purely professional capacity for the trust with a clear set of instructions. It also meant that a degree of anonymity might be achieved, as it was here.

  So far, so normal. But the more he checked, the more he saw that all of their target companies were owned this way, rather than a few entrepreneurs or the handful of founding partners of a startup. And not just by trustee corporations. One trustee corporation.

  He’d been so tied up seeing all the criss-crossing names popping up so frequently, been so concerned about whether Scorpio should be attempting to own these companies he had not paid enough attention to who actually did.

  He snatched at his phone as he felt it buzz against his hip and suddenly remembered that he was waiting on Steve.

  It was Lisa. A text message.

  ‘Make sure you get yourself home and then here. I don’t want a call at midnight saying you are still in the office. X’

  Not Steve. He dropped the handset on the desk and then remembered that she would want a response. ‘Leaving soon’ he tapped out and sent and then typed one out for Steve too, asking him for any feedback he might have. He’d had the whole day with Campbell’s notes and would surely be done and heading home himself by now.

  Campbell drew a deep breath and made a decision. Ten more minutes looking up this trustee corporation and then get out. If he hadn’t found a smoking gun yet, he wasn’t going to. And what would he do if he did? Confront Lawson in the morning? See what panned out in Cayman and blow the whistle later when he was sure?

  He found the website for the trustee corporation after a few abortive attempts. The name was innocuous enough - Professional Trustee Services International - and meant that he hit a few that looked the same but were obviously not right. The one that fit had a Grand Cayman address - none of the others did - and a brief description of exactly the type of service that Campbell expected to see. When he tried the About Us page, in hope of seeing some actual names and
faces, he was met with an error message. The page he was ‘temporarily unavailable due to routine maintenance’. He tried other parts of the website and got the same result. Just the homepage live. The rest of the site offline.

  Campbell accepted defeat and started closing down his workstation and headed for the exit, checking his wallet and phone were safely in his pocket. In the lift he checked the phone for a response from Steve but instead saw that his text message had failed. There was only one bar of signal on the phone screen but no matter how many times he hit retry, one bar was apparently not enough.

  It was not enough when he got off the tube, nor when he paused mid-packing or tried repeatedly in the cab ride to Lisa’s place. Poor atmospheric conditions he assumed, which was not what he encountered at Lisa’s when he arrived a little after ten. She was still picking outfits for the suitcase and then decided to model the skimpy swimsuit that she’d taken a detour on her way home to pick up, which met with the type of reaction that Campbell presumed was the right one since it did not stay on her for very long.