'I'm skint.'
'We can't ask them.' Dillon looked across the cobbled yard to the two Arabs. The slim dapper one, Salah Al-Gharib, was beckoning, his gold ring winking in the sunlight. 'Hey, they want you.' Dillon nudged Steve. 'Go on. I'll check the route.'
Grumbling, Steve climbed out, and shambled over. Dillon swore, long and loud, discovering his squashed cap Steve had been sitting and farting on. He bashed it into shape, too busy straightening the bent peak to notice Steve was shaking his foot in the air, having trodden in a heap of fresh horse dung.
The black and chrome JVC stereo deck (nearly five hundred quid's worth) was the first item on the agenda. It smashed through the upstairs window and landed on the concrete path, disintegrating in a tangled heap of plastic and metal and solid-state circuitry.
Taffy stood at the broken window, spick and span in parade-drill order, maroon beret pulled low over the left eye in the approved Parachute Regiment manner, and let fly with a stream of tapes, CDs and records, showering down over the scrubby patch of lawn. A portable TV set followed, and a transistor radio followed that, hurled out with a methodical calm efficiency that was strangely at odds with the crazed, wide-eyed expression on Taffy's face.
The front door opened and the phantom drummer shot out, dreadlocks flying, a look of sheer terror in his eyes. He stumbled down the path, screaming abuse as a bass drum smashed an even bigger hole in the window and scored a direct hit on the garden gnome casting his rod in the flower bed. Out sailed the rest of the drum-kit, hi-hat cymbals setting up one hell of a racket as they skimmed and bounced into the road.
Mary came out of the kitchen next door and ran screaming round the side of the house, arriving to see Taffy emerging through the front door. 'Oh God Almighty – what have you done?'
Taffy strode down the garden path, kicking the mangled remains of the stereo deck out of his way. 'Got some peace and quiet,' Taffy said. 'That's what I've done.'
He turned sharp left through the gate, straightened his shoulders, and setting his beret at the correct angle, marched off.
'Where are you going?… Taff?
'For a quick drink,' Taffy said, arms swinging.
Dillon was crouched forward in the passenger seat, brow furrowed, speaking on the portable phone: 'I told her this morning! I mean, what am I supposed to do, Susie? Hello…?'
He shook the handset. 'This ruddy thing keeps cutting out… Hello?' He shook it again, and this seemed to do the trick. He listened, nodding, and in a quick muttered aside to Steve: 'It's Taffy's wife again, she's freakin' out about something.' He said into the phone, 'Susie? Can you hear me…? Okay, give her this number, if she calls again, or you get her number, but Susie -'
Snap, crackle, pop.
'Bloody hell! Hello… can you hear me?'
Steve nudged his elbow. 'Here they come.'
'I got to go,' said Dillon quickly. 'Don't call me unless it's an emergency, 'cos I'm working!'
He cradled the handset and hopped out, tugging his jacket straight and squaring up his cap.
' London, sir?' Dillon asked, opening the rear door.
Salah Al-Gharib gave a curt nod. 'White Elephant,' he said, climbing in after the big man.
Dillon pulled a face at Steve through the window, who returned Dillon's blank look with one of his own. Dog track? Indian restaurant? Mosque?
All the way down the M11 Dillon anxiously watched the red needle of the fuel gauge creeping to within a hair's breadth of Empty. Finally, scared to death they were going to run out, he ordered Steve to pull off at the service station just outside Epping. Luckily the clients were going through some papers, taking no notice; even so, Dillon blocked their view of the petrol pump meter as he carefully measured out £2.72 pence' worth to the drop, then surreptitiously palmed the handful of loose change from Steve. Now they were both skint.
It didn't take them long to find him. Taffy's glass of Murphy's stout was still half-full when the phantom drummer's redheaded older brother, a couple of his mates in tow, walked into the saloon bar. Three customers took one look and shifted rapidly out of the way, leaving Taffy alone on his bar-stool in the corner. Slowly, all the time in the world, Taffy turned his head to look at them. They were a mean-looking bunch but his expression didn't alter, kept its same level, sullen stare, unimpressed by this walking pond-life.
'Oi! You three -' The landlord was across, pushing his rolled-up shirtsleeves further up his arms, pointing at the door. 'Out! Out now!'
Taffy's red head neighbour stopped in the middle of the floor, head lowered like a bull about to charge, eyes glittering. 'Gonna have you,' he murmured softly, just loud enough for Taffy to hear. 'You want to come outside?'
'Police – call the police,' the landlord told the blonde barmaid, who scuttled to the phone. He put both hands flat on the counter and leaned forward. 'Did you hear me? I'm calling the cops. Now – all of you – out. Get out!'
Redhead and his mates stood their ground, a tight little knot of hatred, and as the landlord raised the hatch, Taffy saw a stealthy movement and there was a knife in the redhead's hand.
'No trouble, lads… come on now…'
Taffy stood up. He lifted both hands, palms open, to indicate that he didn't want any trouble either. The red-head came for him. Taffy side-stepped, got an elbow lock on the knife-arm, twisted the redhead round to the bar with his arm up his back, wrist bent double. Taking the knife off him, Taffy dragged his head back by his red hair and slit his throat.
'Put your hat on,' said Steve. 'Get the doors open!'
While Dillon rammed his cap on and fixed his tie his eyes never left the wing-mirror, which he'd been anxiously studying for the past fifteen minutes. He gripped the doorhandle and said, 'You clocked that red Sierra parked at the back of us? They've been around the block twice and come back. They seem very interested in us…'
Steve flicked the air-spray round the back of the car and switched on the engine. He waggled his thumb urgently, indicating that Dillon better attend to the clients, stepping out of the White Elephant after a dinner that probably cost as much as Susie spent on food in a month.
Dillon held the door open, and while they were settling in he glanced sideways under the peak of his cap, attempting to make out the occupants of the Sierra and how many. In the darkened interior he saw the glow of a cigarette, nothing more.
He nipped round and climbed in. 'Back to base is it, sir?' Dillon inquired, glued to the wing-mirror. Steve flashed the indicator and pulled out into Curzon Street, the Sierra's dimmed headlights springing on. It began moving off without indicating.
'Yes,' the secretary replied, polishing his gold-rimmed spectacles. 'Then that's it for today!' His boss, the big man, was dozing off, hands clasped comfortably on the swell of his paunch, recently replenished.
Steve drove up Park Lane, crossing into the right-hand stream to make the approach into Oxford Street. At this late hour, traffic was fairly light, at least by London standards, and Dillon could see the red Sierra merging into the same lane, two cars behind. He spoke quietly, hardly moving his lips, 'Keep your eye on 'em, they're right behind us.'
Steve nodded, the Mercedes surging smoothly forward, whisper-quiet under the power of its three-litre, 140 bhp engine. Dillon, after a minute's private debate with himself, inclined his head to the rear of the car. He kept his voice calm, no sign of agitation.
'Excuse me, sir… we've got someone following us. They were parked outside the Club, and they've been on our tail since we left. It's a red Sierra – take a look for yourself.'
Raoul Al-Mohammed immediately blinked open his heavy eyes and with his secretary turned to stare out of the tinted back window. They turned back, eyes locked together.