‘Sorry, I don’t dance very well,’ the Apologist said.
Daly grinned and slapped him on the back. ‘I’m talking about rocking the boat.’
‘Rocking the boat?’
‘It’s a joke.’
‘I don’t get it.’
Daly pointed at the Contented.
The Apologist grinned. ‘Ah. Sorry.’
49
The quay was almost deserted, apart from one young couple eating each other’s faces, who weren’t going to be noticing anything else happening around them. Lucas Daly, needing a cigarette to steady his nerves, put one in his mouth, then clicked his lighter to no avail; it was out of gas.
‘Shit.’
He walked over to the couple and, ignoring the fact they were snogging, said loudly, ‘Either of you speak English?’
They both turned. ‘We are English,’ the male said. ‘What do you want?’
‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a light?’
‘Bloody hell!’ He dug in his pocket, clicked a lighter and held the flame up to Daly’s cigarette.
‘Thanks, mate,’ he said, grabbing the lighter and walking away with it, drawing on the cigarette.
‘Don’t sodding mention it.’
When he had finished the cigarette the couple had disappeared. He handed the Apologist a pair of surgical gloves, and snapped on a pair himself. Then the Apologist followed him up the gangway of Contented, through the gate, which the two henchmen had left unlocked, and onto the wide deck of the yacht. It felt plush and smelled of teak, polish, varnish and leather. They could feel the faint floating motion of the vessel.
Daly opened the patio doors and entered the huge rear saloon. All around the sides were white leather banquettes, and in the centre was a curved bar, with stools also covered in white leather. On the wall behind were shelves stacked with an array of spirits. There was a distinct smell of pizza in here.
Behind the bar were shiny wooden steps, with a roped handrail. They could hear the sounds of a football commentary coming from a television somewhere down below them. Raising a hand to keep the Apologist a distance behind him, Lucas Daly walked slowly down. In front of him, at the bottom, he saw a large dining room. Its centrepiece was a twelve-seater table, with white leather-covered chairs arranged around it, and a huge television screen, showing a football match, at the far end of the room. Macario and Barnes, facing away from them, were eating their pizzas out of the opened cartons, and swigging from cans of lager.
He beckoned the Apologist down, pointed at his own chest, then at Macario, then pointed at the Apologist and indicated Barnes.
The Apologist nodded.
Both men hurried forward, as silently as they could. Just as Macario was putting a slice of pizza in his mouth, Daly felled him with a single karate chop to the back of his neck. He fell sideways off the chair, and onto the floor, where he lay still. The Apologist hauled Barnes up, out of his chair, onto his feet.
‘What the—?’ Barnes said, before the Apologist tightened his grip on his throat, turning the rest of his words into an incomprehensible gurgle. Then the Apologist stamped really hard on his foot.
The shaven-headed man cried out in pain.
‘Sorry,’ the Apologist said.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Barnes croaked, his quavering voice betraying his fear.
‘I’m Mr Pissed Off,’ Lucas Daly said. ‘And this is my friend, Mr Even More Pissed Off. And you are Ken Barnes?’
He said nothing.
‘Cat got your tongue?’
Again he said nothing.
‘Tell you what. My friend here has some tongs. Curling tongs. He could plug them in, heat them up, then pull your tongue right out of your mouth. Would you like that? Then you’d have an excuse for not speaking, wouldn’t you?’
Barnes’s eyes filled with terror.
‘Hurt him a little again, Augustine. He’s not being very talkative.’
The Apologist stamped on the man’s foot again, this time even harder.
Barnes screamed in pain, tears shedding from his eyes.
‘So you’re able to scream. If you can scream, you can talk, yeah? So what’s your name?’
‘Ken Barnes.’ He could hardly speak for the pain.
‘I need some information from you. Like, did you have a nice time in Withdean Road, Brighton, last week? Was it fun torturing that old lady with the curling tongs?’
‘It wasn’t me,’ he yammered.
‘No?’
‘No. Wasn’t me. I was – I was . . .’ He fell silent.
Daly nodded at the Apologist. He stamped even harder, and this time Daly heard the crunch of breaking bones, accompanied by a howl of agony from Barnes.
‘Barcelona just scored,’ the Apologist said, nodding at the television screen.
‘He did that. It was him, the stupid bastard,’ Barnes gasped.
‘Your friend, Mr Macario?’ Daly asked.
‘Yes.’
Daly nodded, then looked down at the slumped, unconscious figure of Tony Macario. ‘The strong, silent type, is he?’
‘I was just hired to do the job. They needed someone to help hump the furniture, that’s all I was doing there.’
‘Hired by who? Your boss, Eamonn Pollock?’
Barnes said nothing.
Daly turned to the Apologist. ‘You’d better stamp on his foot again.’
‘Noooooo! Please! I’ll tell you what you want.’
‘That’s better,’ Daly said. ‘Because you’re going to tell us anyway, so the less pain for you, the less aggro for us. Now, I’ve a list of things I really want to know. First, where is the Patek Philippe watch you stole from that house? Second, where is the rest of the stuff? Third, where is the safe on this boat, and how do we open it. And fourth, where is your boss, Eamonn Pollock?’
‘I don’t know about any watch, that’s the truth. I don’t remember a watch.’
‘Remember getting the safe code from that old lady?’
He shook his head.
‘You know something, I don’t believe you,’ Daly said. ‘Why is that, do you think? Because you’re a crap liar?’
‘The gorilla’s broken my fucking foot.’
‘He’ll break the other one in a minute. That old lady was my auntie. That watch belonged to my grandfather. I can’t get my auntie back because she’s dead. But I’m sure as hell going to get that watch back. And you know where it is.’
Barnes shook his head.
Daly cupped the man’s chin in his hand, forcing him to look straight at him. ‘Listen to me, Ken. If you don’t tell me where that watch is, my friend’s going to kill you. Simple as that. I’ll give you ten seconds to think it over.’
Daly stood staring at his own watch for the ten seconds. Then he looked at the Apologist and rotated his wrist. Moments later, Barnes was hanging upside down, suspended by his right ankle.
‘That helping to clear your mind?’ Daly asked.
‘I’ve drunk too much,’ he slurred for the first time. ‘Please put me down. I – I—’
‘Maybe you need another drink, to help the old brain cells?’ Daly asked.
He shook his head. His eyes were like two frightened little birds.
‘Be back in a tick,’ Daly said, and climbed up the stairs.
‘Sorry to keep you hanging about,’ the Apologist said.
Moments later Lucas Daly reappeared with a bottle of Macallan Scotch in one hand, and a small plastic funnel in the other. ‘Put him on the deck,’ he instructed the Apologist. ‘Then open his gob.’
The henchman obliged. Barnes tried to wriggle free, but the Apologist knelt on his chest, pinioning him to the floor, and held his head with his hands, as firmly as a vice. Daly knelt, unscrewed the cap of the bottle, pushed the funnel into his mouth, then began pouring in the whisky.
The man spluttered and choked.
‘Am I pouring too fast?’
Barnes tried to shake his head, but it was held in the Apologist’s iron grip. In less than five minutes, the bottle was empty.