‘So is PerfectPartners.net one of your targets?’
After a moment’s hesitation, Barrey said, ‘One of. Why do you ask about that one in particular — is that the one that your buddy got caught on? Maybe if we do business, I can find a way to get your buddy paid back — how much was it?’
‘Six hundred and fifty thousand bucks, give or take.’
‘No big deal.’
‘It is to him. It’s everything he has — or had — in the world.’
Barrey’s phone made a soft, staccato noise. Raising an apologetic hand, he answered the call. ‘Yeah? What? That’s... that’s... is he just having a laugh on me?’ His voice was becoming increasingly loud. ‘Jesus H — Christ, I don’t believe this. Sort it!’ He killed the call, shoving his phone back in his pocket, looking furious.
‘Bad news?’ Sorokin asked.
‘What’s that got to do with you?’
‘Quite a lot, actually.’
Barrey stared at him. ‘Huh?’
‘You see, Mr Barrey, it wasn’t just my pal who got screwed out of money on your website scam, it was me, also.’ Sorokin looked at him levelly. ‘Ninety-seven thousand and sixty-three bucks and forty-two cents, to be precise. Are you going to give that back to me, too?’
Barrey’s whole demeanour suddenly changed, his lips forming an ugly snarl. His body shifted and Sorokin saw his arm, with his hand concealed by his napkin, drop below the table. ‘Just what is your game, Mr Sorokin?’
‘I’ve come here to get even with you, you fat bastard. To level the score.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yep, that’s about the size of it.’
For an instant, Barrey’s confidence evaporated and he looked wracked with uncertainty. ‘You’ve not invited me here to discuss a business deal at all, have you?’
‘You’re catching on, fatso. I’ve come here to nail you and see you brought to justice.’
‘And how exactly do you intend doing that?’
‘Quite simply. Down in the street below, this place is surrounded by Jersey States Police officers.’ Sorokin pulled open his suit jacket to reveal his wiretap.
Barrey stared at him in disbelief and rising anger. ‘You’ve fucking tricked me, you sack of shit.’
‘That’s pretty rich, coming from you, Barrey. How many hundreds of people have you tricked out of their savings?’
‘I’ll tell you something you don’t know, Mr Smartass former New York cop. There’s no law in Jersey preventing ownership of handguns — just like in your country. I have one under the table now, pointed at your crotch. Call off the cops this second or I’ll blow your nuts off.’ Looking panic-stricken, he turned and signalled to a table where two large men were seated.
They rose and began walking over.
Sorokin seized the opportunity and upended the table into Barrey’s lap, at the same time lunging forward, putting his arm round the back of Barrey’s head and pulling his face into a bowl of scalding oysters, hearing the crunch of breaking glasses and shells.
Barrey twisted away, more agilely than Sorokin had anticipated, and rolled into the table of the two lovers, sending their lobsters and wine glasses flying.
As Sorokin lunged after him he saw the two henchmen closing on him. He spun, headbutting one and kicking the other, hard, shattering his knee. Barrey clambered to his feet, stumbled and crashed into a table, sending a seafood tower flying. As the former detective reached him, oblivious to the shocked faces of diners and waiters, Barrey grabbed a bottle from an ice bucket and swung it at him. Sorokin ducked. Barrey swung it again, this time catching him a glancing blow in the face with it, dazing him and propelling him reeling into yet another table, sending more glasses and dishes to the floor.
As he crawled back onto his hands and knees, half blinded with pain, he saw Barrey, minus his Stetson, wig askew, lumbering towards the exit. He reached it several seconds after Barrey had vanished through it, determined, totally determined, the bastard wasn’t getting away. As he ran down the first flight of stairs he heard a voice below him yell, ‘Stop, police! Put your gun down. Put your gun down or we shoot! Drop your gun and put your hands in the air where we can see them.’
Turning a corner in the stairwell he saw Barrey below him drop his gun, and it clattered down the steps.
Directly below were four police officers in body armour, helmets and vizors, two aiming automatic rifles, two pointing handguns.
Barrey raised his arms in the air.
Sorokin stood still for a moment. Then, he couldn’t resist it, he carried on down until he was right behind Barrey, leaned forward and spoke quietly into his ear. ‘Guess I’m never going to see my money back now. But I tell you what — this moment, it’s worth every damned cent just to see this. And if you want the really bad news, I’m told they don’t serve grilled oysters in British jails, so eat the one that’s still stuck to your forehead and savour the taste — you’re gonna have to make that last a while.’
114
Friday 12 October
The drizzle finally let up and, to the relief of PC Doug Riley who was drenched to the skin, the sun came out. He pulled a flapjack from his rucksack and took a bite. Then he froze as he heard the sound of an approaching vehicle.
Hastily swallowing and replacing the rest, he zipped the bag up and waited. A taxi bumped along the cart track past him, headed around the driveway and pulled up outside the front door. With the smell of exhaust fumes in his nostrils, Riley watched through his binoculars as the rear door opened and the passenger climbed out.
Not the tall black man he’d been briefed to expect.
The man paying the driver looked to be in his late fifties. He was dressed in a tweedy jacket, checked shirt and blue cords, with well-groomed grey hair. As the taxi drove off the man looked around, seemingly getting his bearings, then walked to the front door. He had no luggage, just a coat over his arm.
Riley lowered the binoculars, raised his camera, zoomed in and took a series of photographs as the man let himself in with a key.
As soon as the front door closed, Riley spoke into his radio. ‘Mike Whisky One to Mike Whisky Two.’
‘Mike Whisky Two,’ the response came almost instantly from his colleague, from his hideout somewhere beyond the rear of the house.
‘An IC1 — white male — late fifties, has just arrived in a taxi and entered the house, using a key,’ Riley informed him.
‘Workman?’
‘No, he looks posh.’
‘Port out, starboard home,’ Hastings said.
‘What?’
‘Just being facetious.’
‘Save it,’ Riley said. ‘This man’s not on our brief or radar. We’re waiting for an IC1 female, late fifties, a tall IC3 in his thirties and the possibility of another IC1, a short, thin guy, might be walking with a limp. So any idea who this visitor might be?’
‘A burglar?’
‘With his own front-door key?’
‘Good point!’
Riley radioed the support team, asking if there was intel on anyone else expected at the house.
Moments later a request was radioed back, asking him to ping the photographs, urgently, to the Silver command team.
115
Friday 12 October
Roy Grace, at his desk, looked at his watch. Under four hours to the rendezvous. The Armed Response and the Local Support Team officers would be in situ by 4.30 p.m., with all vehicles removed from the immediate area.
His adrenaline was surging. He was excited, but nervous. Troubled by one constant thought: where did the wild card, Tooth, fit into all of this?