Page 43 of End Game (William Warwick #8)

R EBECCA LOOKED AT HER WATCH: seven o’clock. ‘Doesn’t it feel strange,’ she said to Ross, as they sat together in the Gold Suite, enjoying a cup of tea and what was left of last week’s biscuits.

‘Strange?’ repeated Ross.

‘Only a week ago, there were eighty thousand spectators sitting out there watching a spectacular firework display, clapping, singing, cheering, and now there’s just the two of us …’

‘And the nightwatchman,’ Ross reminded her, as he looked up at the CCTV screens revealing a deserted stadium.

‘And in ten days’ time, it will, once again, be full for the Paralympics,’ said Rebecca, looking at her watch.

‘Let’s hope they’re not quite as eventful as the Olympics.’

‘Especially as William will be away on holiday from tomorrow and Paul will be in charge.’

‘Chief Inspector Adaja is well up to the challenge,’ responded Ross, with a smile. ‘And once the Paralympics have run their course, we’ll all be looking for another job. Perhaps you already know what you’ll be doing?’

‘I’m being transferred to the drugs squad,’ said Rebecca. ‘And you?’

‘I’ll be staying with the boss,’ said Ross. ‘No one else will have me.’

Rebecca laughed. ‘Which boss?’

‘William, of course,’ revealed Ross. ‘Don’t forget, the Hawk will finally be retiring at the end of the year.’

‘And I hear Paul is going to be promoted to Superintendent in charge of the fraud squad.’ Rebecca glanced at her watch once again.

‘Continually looking at your watch won’t make the time go any faster,’ said Ross. ‘So, where do you have to be, and when?’

‘It’s Maureen’s birthday,’ admitted Rebecca, ‘and I’m meant to be taking her for dinner to make up for—’

‘What time?’ asked Ross.

‘I could only book a table for seven o’clock,’ said Rebecca, ‘before going on to a late-night show.’

‘Then you’d better get going.’

‘But I don’t come off duty until Paul takes over for the night shift …’

‘The boss goes on holiday tomorrow,’ said Ross, ‘and by now, the Hawk will have left for the night, so I think just this once …’

‘You wouldn’t have said that a week ago – but thank you,’ said Rebecca. She grabbed her bag and beat a hasty retreat before Ross could change his mind.

Ross glanced up at the bank of CCTV screens, to be greeted with row upon row of empty seats.

Then one of the screens flickered and went blank .

He smiled. William, being a belt and braces man, had since the opening ceremony problem installed a back-up system in the Gold Suite that only the inner team was aware of.

Ross flicked a switch below his desk, and the blank screen lit up again.

He took another look at the screens, each displaying an empty stadium, and then decided to make himself a cup of tea.

···

The nightwatchman was standing by the front gate, waiting for them to arrive. Longe and his two bodyguards turned up on time, with another man in tow he didn’t recognize. He assumed he must be another bodyguard, although he couldn’t understand why he was dragging two heavy suitcases behind him.

A thick wad of notes changed hands as Longe entered the stadium. He looked up anxiously at a camera and said, ‘Is it safe?’

‘Yes,’ replied the groundsman. ‘The three CCTV cameras looking out onto the track are kaput , and won’t,’ he said confidently, ‘be working again before the electrician arrives in the morning to fix them.’

‘You’ve done well,’ said Longe, ‘and if we all get out without being sussed, you’ll be paid double.’

The nightwatchman closed the gate, locked it, and led them down the steps into a long dark corridor. ‘I’ve worked out a secure route from the gate and back,’ he said, ‘so you won’t be seen coming or going.’

‘How many coppers on duty?’ asked Longe, as he followed the nightwatchman along the corridor.

‘Just the one, Bernie. The other one left early, and the night shift isn’t due on until eight.’

‘We’ll be long gone by then,’ said Longe.

They emerged from the tunnel and walked out onto the track, where Longe sat down in the front row of the stand. The two thugs took a seat either side of him, while the man with the suitcases tucked himself behind a pillar out of sight.

Longe surveyed the empty stadium before him, then instructed the nightwatchman, ‘Make sure you’re waiting for our two guests, who should be arriving any moment, then bring them straight to me.’

The nightwatchman quickly retraced his steps to the front gate, to find two strangers waiting for him.

···

Ross had his back to the CCTV cameras as he waited for his tea to brew. He took his time – a rare luxury after the last few weeks of endless, dawn-to-dusk activity. He raided the biscuit tin of its last inhabitants before pouring himself a cup of tea and taking a sip.

Mug in hand, he turned around, spilling some tea on the floor.

He stared at the CCTV screens, put the mug down and made a phone call.

···

The nightwatchman unlocked the gate to welcome Mr Longe’s guests. He gave them a cursory nod, but only after another, smaller wad of notes had changed hands. He took them on the same route into the stadium and out onto the track, where Mr Longe was waiting for them.

‘Welcome, Mr Faulkner,’ said Longe, as they entered the arena. He stood up, his two heavies just a yard behind, their eyes never leaving Faulkner.

Longe offered an outstretched hand, but Miles ignored it.

‘I’m glad you brought your lawyer with you,’ said Longe, ignoring the slight, ‘because we’re going to need his expertise once we’ve agreed terms.’

The nightwatchman slipped away, but couldn’t miss the man with his suitcases hidden discreetly behind a pillar, listening to every word.

Longe looked slowly around the stadium before he said, ‘“All these things I will give you”, to quote a friend of mine.’

‘But you seem to have forgotten,’ replied Faulkner, ‘our Lord turned him down.’

‘And look where that got him,’ said Longe.

‘And you need to remember, they’re not yours to give until the contract is signed,’ said Faulkner. ‘Try not to forget that nine million pounds is a very large sum of money, with no guarantee of success.’

‘No more than we agreed,’ said Longe, his tone becoming sharper, ‘and just think about the return you’ll be getting on your investment, Mr Faulkner.’

‘Only if West Ham sign the contract,’ responded Miles. ‘Otherwise, I stand to lose the nine million I’ll have paid you, and perhaps that’s a risk I’m not willing to take.’

Behind him, Booth Watson stood watching the two sparring partners warily, and was already wishing he hadn’t agreed to accompany Miles.

‘But there’s no risk involved, Mr Faulkner,’ said Longe. ‘West Ham have all but agreed to cough up the two and a half mil a year to rent the stadium for their home matches. So, in four years’ time, you will have your capital back, and from then on, every penny we make will be profit.’

‘ We ,’ repeated Faulkner. ‘How much do you imagine your split will be?’

‘Fifty-fifty,’ said Longe confidently, ‘just like we agreed.’

Faulkner’s eyes remained fixed on his would-be partner. ‘So, I have to put up the rest of the money to make sure you can close the deal, in the hope that West Ham will end up renting the ground. And for that, you’re expecting me to be satisfied with only fifty per cent of the profits?’

‘Yeah,’ said Longe. ‘That seems fair, because without me there is no deal.’

‘And without my money,’ came back Miles, ‘there’s certainly no deal.’

‘Well, given the circumstances,’ said Longe, ‘why don’t we say sixty-forty in your favour?’

‘Well, given the circumstances, why don’t I just tell you to bugger off?’ retorted Faulkner, a note of defiance creeping into his voice.

The two heavies jumped out of their seats, making Booth Watson wish he had another appointment, but Longe raised an arm and said, ‘Not yet, boys.’

They both retreated like lapdogs, but the words not yet sent a shiver down Booth Watson’s spine.

‘You see,’ said Faulkner, still looking directly at Longe, ‘there’s something you haven’t fully appreciated.

Cash is king.’ He gave the jumped-up mafia boss a condescending smile.

‘However, I’ll tell you what I’m willing to do.

I’ll loan you the further eight million so you can close the deal, but on one condition. ’

‘Seventy-thirty?’ suggested Longe, appearing to give way once again.

‘Not a hope,’ said Faulkner. ‘Once the capital and the interest have been fully repaid, you’ll be lucky to end up getting ten per cent of the profits, which will still net you around a quarter of a million a year. Not a bad return for buying a bent councillor a villa on the Costa del Sol.’

‘And if I agree to those terms,’ said Longe, ‘you’d be willing to cough up the eight million,’ he paused, ‘before the end of the week?’

‘You can have it right now,’ said Faulkner, turning to face his lawyer.

Booth Watson bent down, opened his Gladstone bag, and extracted a signed cheque for eight million pounds, which he handed over to Longe.

After checking the noughts, Longe smiled for the first time. ‘That’s all I need, Mr Faulkner,’ he said, ‘because once I’ve cashed your cheque, you’ll become surplus to requirements.’

‘Thanks for the warning,’ Faulkner responded, not attempting to hide any sarcasm.

‘But if that’s your attitude, it will only take one call to my bank and the cheque will bounce all the way back to Stratford, while I suspect Councillor Dawson won’t be too fussy about who pays him, as long as he gets his retirement home on the Costa del Sol. ’

‘But there’s something else you haven’t considered,’ said Longe, the confidence returning to his voice.

‘And what might that be?’ asked Faulkner.

Longe ignored the question. He simply nodded, and his two heavies stepped forward and began to walk slowly towards the long jump pit. Booth Watson watched in disbelief as they picked up two spades and began to dig.

‘You don’t frighten me,’ said Faulkner, standing his ground, ‘because without my money, you don’t have a deal.’