If corruption were an Olympic sport, two of its recent mayors, both jailed, would have had gold medals in their trophy cabinets, and ninety-four dignitaries, also jailed, would have slugged it out for silver and bronze. Today the area played host to brutally active Russian, Albanian and Irish Mafia clans, along with a thriving community of British gangsters. Yet despite the occasional shooting, the crime rate was relatively low, and with its year-round benign climate, it was a long-established playground for expats and tourists.
Several miles west of Malaga airport, Lucas Daly drove the rented Jeep fast up a twisting highway cut through the mountains, keeping an eye on the arrow on the satnav. He used to know the area well, having owned an apartment in Marbella’s bling suburb of Puerto Banus for some while, until he had been forced to sell it to pay gambling debts four years ago. He had not been back here since.
It was 11.30 a.m. local time. Down below them to their left was a town of white houses, and the cobalt-blue Mediterranean beyond. Although the air-conditioning was whirring away on maximum power, Daly kept his window wound down, savouring the blast of 34-degree heat on his face after the crap English summer he’d endured. ‘Shit, it’s hot,’ he said, shaking a Marlboro Light out of the pack.
‘I’m sorry,’ the Apologist said.
‘You don’t always have to apologize for everything.’
The Apologist said nothing for some moments. Then he said, ‘Okay, I’m sorry.’
Lucas Daly grinned then patted his henchman on the shoulder. ‘You know why I like you, Augustine?’
‘No.’
‘Coz you’re a moron! You’re always fucking apologizing!’
‘I’m sorry.’
Daly lit the cigarette, then answered a phone call from his bookmaker in Brighton. Immediately his mood soured. He’d placed a bet on a horse race, and paid on his Amex, but it had not gone through. It was a long-odds hot tip, a dead cert, from a bent trainer he knew who had a horse running at Brighton. He’d bet far bigger than usual. If the horse, Fast Fella, won, it would give him some welcome respite from his immediate problems.
He pulled into a layby, and hastily gave his bookie the details of another card, which he kept for emergencies and which was not yet maxed out. Then they drove on in silence, which was usual. The Apologist didn’t have a lot of conversation, unless the subject was football, about which he could talk for hours. He knew everything there was to know about every football team in the whole of Britain, their strip, their key players’ names, their goal count for the season. Lucas avoided talking football with him; it was like pressing the switch on a machine that had no off button.
And besides, he had other stuff on his mind. A lot of stuff. Bad stuff.
Total shit.
One particular loan shark, who had recently bailed him out of his latest problem, was turning nasty. He’d been stiffed on a major deal. And his cantankerous father was refusing to help him. His best hope was for the old bastard to die soon. Alternatively a change in his run of bad luck with the horses and at the gaming tables. Hopefully this bet would be the start of it.
Driving past Marbella and Puerto Banus and on for a few more miles, they headed along the main drag into the neighbouring town of Estepona. To their left was the pyramid shape of the Crown Plaza. To their right, a large Lexus dealership and a closed-down car wash. The arrow on the satnav was pointing right, but Lucas Daly knew where he was.
They drove up past a short promenade of shops and bars into a residential area of small, white houses and apartment blocks. Ahead on their left was a row of shops, at the end of which was a bar with an outside terrace and the name LARRY’S LOUNGE printed in red capital letters on a scalloped awning. Two shady-looking men in their thirties, in dark glasses, accompanied by a bored, tarty-looking younger woman, were seated at an outside table. One man was smoking a huge cigar.
Daly pulled into a parking space a short distance past the bar. They climbed out into the searing heat, and headed towards the bar. Daly, a lightweight bomber jacket slung over his shoulder, was dressed in white T-shirt, jeans and brown suede Gucci loafers, and walking with his customary swagger; the Apologist, a foot taller than him, wore a T-shirt, tracksuit bottoms and trainers.
Inside the bar was a cool blast of air. Half a dozen men lounged in front of a TV screen, mounted high on the wall, showing a replay of some football game. Three of them, heavily tattooed, wore singlets and cut-off jeans, like a uniform. All of them were holding beer cans, and shouting at the screen. A few years ago, Lucas would have known the faces in here, but these were strangers to him.
The Apologist stopped and stared at the screen for some moments. ‘Manchester United and Sunderland. Not a good game.’
Two of the men glared up at them suspiciously. They walked on.
The interior was a cross between an ersatz English pub and a bodega, with an L-shaped oak bar, wooden stools, beer pumps, oak barrels on the wall lined with bottles, and shelves stacked with spirit bottles. Tiffany lamps hung from chains all the way around, and British football club pennants decked the walls, along with framed signed photographs of past Manchester United, Newcastle, Arsenal and Chelsea teams.
Behind the counter stood a tall, wiry man, with short thinning hair, dressed in a grey button-down shirt, opened to the navel. A tall glass of lager stood in front of him. He looked at Lucas Daly. ‘Seen you before, haven’t I?’
‘Yeah, you might have done. Used to own a place in Banus. Drank here a few times – until that fellow got shot.’
‘You and half of the Costa del Sol. Screwed my business totally,’ he said, in an East London accent. ‘That was five years ago, but people got long memories. No one comes here no more – apart from a few regulars.’ He pointed at the slobs watching the footy. ‘I have to work as a window cleaner some days, to make ends meet. Thing is, you see—’
Lucas Daly interrupted him. ‘I’m looking for Lawrence Powell.’
‘Yeah? You’ve found him.’ He gave him a stony stare.
‘I’m a mate of Amis Smallbone. He told me to tell you that you’re a tosser.’
Lawrence Powell grinned. Then, looking uneasily, first at the Apologist then back at Daly, he said, ‘Thought he was still inside.’
‘He’s out.’
‘He’s a fucking idiot, that one.’ He shook his head, then tapped the side of it. ‘Nutter. So what can I get you, gentlemen?’
‘A San Miguel and a Diet Coke.’ Daly glanced at the Apologist for approval, and got it. The man never drank alcohol. ‘Do you have any food?’
‘Crisps.’
‘That all?’
‘Plain or cheese and onion?’
‘One of each.’
The drinks arrived, with the crisps. Daly dug into them hungrily, while the Apologist drained his Coke. The barman stood, silently and patiently, behind the bar. ‘So, Amis is all right?’ he asked.
‘He was needing a good dentist, last time we saw him.’ Daly smirked at the Apologist, who nodded pensively, but distractedly, as if his mind was on some forgotten sadness.
‘I’m looking for some people living out here,’ Daly said. ‘I’m told you know them. Eamonn Pollock, Tony Macario and Ken Barnes?’
‘You’ve got nice friends,’ Powell replied.
‘I only do quality.’ Lucas Daly glanced at a barstool, two away from where he was sitting. He could see the bullet hole in the top of the seat, where a previous occupant had been shot through the groin in an argument over a woman. He’d been in here when it had happened, and still winced, five years on, at the screams of pain from the .38’s recipient.