Elizabeth nods. ‘Of course banking doesn’t always work that way, Robert, as you well know. It doesn’t always nibble around the edges of the cake, leaving everyone else enough to eat. Sometimes it sacks the baker and keeps the cake all for itself.’
‘Not my kind of banking,’ says Lord Townes. ‘I honestly think that Davey Noakes might be more fertile ground for you.’
‘Although of course you would say that,’ offers Elizabeth.
‘And with good reason, Mrs Best,’ says Lord Townes. ‘Because you are talking to a man who may just have lost a ten point five million pound deal.’
Joyce looks out of the window again, and decides she has a question too.
‘And you’re also a client of The Compound?’
‘Safest place in the country,’ says Lord Townes.
‘And what do you keep in there?’ Joyce asks.
‘Well, forgive me,’ says Lord Townes, ‘but that’s my business. Something valuable though, like everyone else.’
Something valuable. That’s interesting. When Joyce looked out of the bay window again, she had realized there was no fog on the lawn; it was simply that the bay window had not been cleaned in a long time.
‘And are you planning to visit any time soon?’ Elizabeth asks.
‘I am not,’ lies Lord Townes. Joyce and Elizabeth don’t even share a glance. They know what they know. ‘You’re assuming that someone is after the money? The whole lot?’
‘It’s a working hypothesis,’ says Elizabeth.
‘If someone is trying to steal this money, it has to be someone who knows it exists,’ says Lord Townes. ‘It certainly isn’t me, I’m a hopeless liar. Which leaves you with only two options. One, Davey Noakes. And two –’
‘Nick Silver,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Who, you tell me, has conveniently disappeared,’ says Lord Townes, standing. ‘So take your pick. One of two.’
It seems the meeting is over. Lord Townes has been charm itself, but, as Joyce takes a final look at the stag with one eye, and the lord who has just lied about his visit to The Compound, she knows that he’s their third option.
The only thing Joyce can be sure of is that the butler didn’t do it. Because there is no butler.
36
When you’re killing more than one person, the order matters.
There had once been an Albanian gang who operated in and around Gatwick Airport. Three brothers. One an accountant, one a cage fighter and one a certifiable lunatic. Classic set-up, all bases covered.
These three brothers had transgressed some code or other, skimming money off the top of a heroin shipment, something like that, Danny forgets the details. All he remembers was that a price had been put on their heads, and a guy Danny used to know from karate got the job. Callum was his name, God rest his soul.
Ideally you’d want to kill all three at once, but, for various logistical reasons – it was the school holidays, Danny remembers – they weren’t all going to be in the same place any time soon. So Callum kills the cage-fighter brother in his local gym, and the accountant brother in Center Parcs (the Longleat one, Danny thinks) and heads up to the Lake District to kill the certifiable maniac, who is on a walking holiday. While on the journey up, the maniac brother gets word that the cage-fighter brother has been killed. He doesn’t love the news, but cage fighters get killed all the time, so he doesn’t want it to spoil his holiday. He then gets the news that the accountant brother has also been killed, which can mean only one thing. Someone is coming for all three brothers.
He puts a status update on Facebook, showing the cottage he and his wife are staying in, and waits for Callum to arrive. When the dust had settled, Callum’s head was in Lake Windermere, his torso was in Coniston Water and his legs and arms had been sent by FedEx to his parents. The brother was back in Albania, and later died climbing Everest for charity.
There was some sympathy for Callum, of course – his ordeal, it later transpired, had lasted several days – but really he had to take some of the blame on himself. It was widely discussed, and agreed, that he should have killed the maniac brother first: nice, isolated cottage, kill the wife too, then tootle back down to Sussex and kill the cage fighter, and then a quick hop west to Longleat to pick off the accountant. Even if the accountant had got wind that his brothers had been killed, he simply would have flown back to Albania, without taking the trouble to kill and dismember Callum first.
All this goes to say that Danny is going to have Jason Ritchie killed before he has Suzi killed.
He has taken a jet-ski along the coast and moored it at Playa de Bahínas. There’s a restaurant on the beach that hauls seafood straight from the fishing boats and grills it over an open fire, with olive oil and lemon straight from the mountainous slopes overlooking the sand. It also serves burgers though, and that’s what Danny is having.
‘When can you do him?’ Danny asks, squirting ketchup into his bun.
The man looks at his watch and gives it some thought. ‘Tomorrow?’
Danny nods. ‘And where?’
‘His house is tucked away,’ the man says. ‘I’ll take round an Amazon delivery that needs signing for.’
Amazon deliveries have been the single greatest boon for professional hitmen. Everyone is always expecting one.
‘Then straight round to the next target?’ Danny says.
The man nods. ‘She does the school run at three. I’ll wait outside the house.’
Danny hands the man an envelope. ‘Here’s the first ten thousand.’
The man tucks it into his jacket pocket.
‘I’ll see you here on Wednesday for the next twenty,’ says Danny. ‘Make it quick and make it clean.’
The man nods. ‘Don’t Callum it.’
‘Exactly.’
Danny takes a bite of his burger. It’s a bit cold in the middle, but it’s still good. All being well, he’ll get the call from the police – your wife’s dead, come and identify the body, etc. – and he can fly home on Wednesday evening with the perfect alibi.
He can sell the house (‘too many memories’), leave the boy with his grandad and see a bit of the world. Expand his horizons. Since he arrived here, he’s already met a Moroccan counterfeiter and a German guy who sells fake vitamins on the internet. Travel broadens the mind.
The man stands, and they shake hands.
‘Should have done this a long time ago,’ says Danny.
‘See you Wednesday,’ says the man.
37
On Thursdays they still meet in the Jigsaw Room. But today is not a Thursday, so they are meeting in the hot tub. Ron’s choice.
It’s not often that Ron gets his way, but today he has. He supposes he’s simply in everyone’s good books because of the Lord Townes tip-off.
Ron is drinking a pint, Ibrahim has a mineral water and a plate of olives, Elizabeth has one of the protein shakes that Bogdan has got her addicted to, and Joyce is drinking a steaming-hot cup of tea.
‘Here’s how I see it,’ says Ron. ‘Yeah, maybe Ravey Davey’s done it, he’s got form. And maybe Townesy’s done it –’
‘Don’t call him Townesy,’ says Joyce, blowing on her tea, and then on her own forehead. ‘He’s a lord.’
‘They’re the worst of the lot, Joycey,’ says Ron. ‘The worst of the lot. But this Nick Silver business seems too convenient.’
‘Mmm,’ agrees Ibrahim.
‘Someone tries to kill him,’ says Ron. ‘And fails. A bomb goes missing. Someone smashes up his office, and he leaves you a Post-it note? Help me, help me? Does that all seem above board to you, Lizzie?’