Page 44 of End Game (William Warwick #8)

‘Funny you should mention that, Mr Faulkner,’ said Longe, as the two men went on digging, his voice now revealing a harder edge. ‘Somethin’ I forgot to mention. Just a couple of days ago, I had a visit from a Russian gentleman who used to be an associate of yours.’

Faulkner looked worried, while Booth Watson was sick in his mouth, but swallowed it.

···

Ross’s gaze hadn’t left the CCTV screens for a moment, and although he couldn’t hear a word passing between them, he didn’t need to be told it wasn’t a friendly conversation.

He now regretted allowing Rebecca to leave early.

As the two men continued to throw shovel upon shovel of sand out of the long jump pit, Ross’s eyes fell on a figure sitting in the shadows in the corner of one screen.

He was secreted behind a pillar, with what looked like two large suitcases next to him.

Although he couldn’t see the man clearly, there was something familiar about him.

Ross made a second call.

···

Paul yawned as he came to a halt at a roundabout just about a mile from the stadium.

He didn’t much care for being a glorified nightwatchman.

It was soul-destroying work. He was looking forward to the Paralympics in ten days’ time, when he would be taking over William’s role as Gold Commander and calling the shots.

Then, after a well-earned holiday, he’d be joining the fraud squad as a Superintendent.

He couldn’t wait to get back to banging up some real criminals.

As he came off the roundabout back onto Olympic Way, his phone rang. Once he heard what Ross had to say, he switched on his siren and broke the speed limit.

···

‘I thought that might surprise you,’ said Longe, with an exaggerated sigh. ‘And what else do you think your Russian friend told me?’

Faulkner made no attempt to respond.

‘That you made a deal with him but welched on it at the last minute. I told him that was par for the course. And would you believe it,’ said Longe, ‘my new friend was willing to come up with the eight million I still need, and even agreed on a fifty-fifty split …’ He paused. ‘But on one condition.’

‘But you’ve got my money now,’ said Miles, sounding unsure of himself for the first time.

‘You’re right about that, Mr Faulkner, and I’ll be cashing your cheque first thing in the morning.’

Miles glanced over his shoulder at Booth Watson, who didn’t seem to have any considered advice to hand. Faulkner hesitated for a moment before he gave a little ground. ‘Okay. I’ll also agree to fifty-fifty.’

‘But I’ve already got that,’ said Longe.

The two heavies had finished digging and were climbing back out of the pit.

···

Ross made a third call.

Rebecca put down her knife and fork and reluctantly answered her phone. Although Ross whispered, he didn’t leave her in any doubt she wouldn’t be seeing the late-night film. Rebecca got up, said ‘Happy Birthday, Maureen,’ and left her credit card on the table before rushing out of the restaurant.

···

Faulkner stared down into the hole and swallowed hard. ‘I’m willing to agree on sixty-forty in your favour,’ he said, spitting out the words.

‘No, thank you, Mr Faulkner,’ said Longe. ‘Now I’ve got your cheque, as well as the Russian gentleman’s eight million, as far as I’m concerned, it’s double or quits.’

‘Double or quits?’ repeated Faulkner.

‘Yeah, I get double, while you quit.’

Booth Watson gasped, but could only watch as one of the heavies picked up a spade and strolled menacingly towards Faulkner.

‘You can’t be serious,’ Miles stammered, as the thug raised his spade.

‘Never been more serious, Mr Faulkner,’ said Longe.

‘I’ll pay you seventy-thirty,’ said Faulkner.

But the heavy kept advancing.

Suddenly, with a swing that would have impressed a seasoned baseball player, the heavy struck Faulkner in the back of his legs. He collapsed on the ground with a scream that echoed around the ground.

‘Nice one,’ said Longe.

‘Take the eight million,’ said Faulkner, now on his knees.

‘You seem to have forgotten, Mr Faulkner, that I’ve already got it,’ said Longe, holding up the cheque.

The other heavy stepped forward, picked Faulkner up off the ground and threw him over his shoulder as if he were a sack of potatoes. He carried him across to the long jump pit and dropped him unceremoniously into the gaping hole.

Booth Watson, now frozen to the spot, looked on in horror.

Faulkner tried to clamber back out, but the man with the spade struck him on the head – not hard enough to knock him out, but just hard enough to make sure he didn’t try to climb back out a second time. A different scream rang out across the empty stadium, pain mingled with fear.

‘Ah,’ said Longe. ‘Something I forgot to mention, Mr Faulkner – your Russian friend’s one condition.’ He paused. ‘I had to make sure you could never do another deal. I happily agreed to his terms.’

Longe didn’t need to give an order, because the two men had already begun to shovel the large mound of sand back into the hole. It was covering Faulkner’s shoulders within moments, but they still continued to ignore his pleas, followed by cries as they piled more and more sand on top of him.

Faulkner screamed out to Booth Watson, but his lawyer, head bowed, was being violently sick, as the sand continued to be deposited relentlessly, shovel after shovel, on top of his client.

Faulkner’s body was now almost covered, but his eyes were still staring up at Longe, his lips barely moving.

Longe bent down, as only one ear was still visible, and gave his former partner a warm smile.

For a moment – just a moment – Faulkner thought he might still survive.

‘Name your price,’ he moaned, spitting out some more sand.

Longe merely smiled. ‘I thought you’d like to know that an old friend has dropped by to wish you better luck in the next world.’

···

Ross put down the phone, praying the cavalry would be appearing at any moment.

He continued watching the CCTV screens, to be taken by surprise once again as he saw the man who’d been hidden behind the pillar step out and walk slowly across to join Longe by the long jump pit.

A Russian spy and a London gangster.

Two men who only had one thing in common: self-interest. Their own.

Ross was well aware of his responsibility as an officer of the law, but didn’t find it easy to put aside his personal feelings.

Faulkner had been responsible for the death of his first wife, Josephine, and he was the reason Jojo had grown up without a mother.

He’d also been responsible for the death of Avril Dubois, whose evidence – had she made it to the witness box – would have sent Faulkner to prison for the rest of his life.

And would Ross ever come to terms with the terrible death of Jackie, his colleague and close friend, who had died because Faulkner turned a blind eye?

Ross then thought about the blindfolded lady, perched on the roof of the Old Bailey weighing up the balance of justice, and became painfully aware that whatever decision he made, he would have to live with it for the rest of his life.

He’d spent the whole of his professional career protecting the public from the kind of two-bit gangsters who were now surrounding the long jump pit. But did that make Faulkner’s life worth saving?

But he finally realized there was one overriding factor to consider: common sense. If he did decide it was his duty to attempt to arrest the four men, and save Faulkner’s life, what were the odds of him ending up in the long jump pit sharing the same grave as his old adversary?

Ross compromised, not something he often did, and continued hoping that the Light Brigade would arrive in time to arrest the four villains and save the fifth.

···

Faulkner stared up at the Russian undersecretary, who didn’t favour him with a smile. He pleaded for the last time, as Petrov picked up a spade, filled it with sand and allowed it to fall slowly onto Faulkner’s face.

The pleading turned to a whine, followed by total silence, as Petrov continued shovelling until Faulkner was out of sight.

Having completed his task as a grave digger, Petrov stood back and watched as the two thugs raked over the grave.

He retrieved the two heavy suitcases from behind the pillar and handed them over to Mr Longe.

‘I should have dealt with you in the first place,’ said Petrov, before making his way out of the stadium.

When he reached the entrance and the night watchman opened the gate, he didn’t leave a tip.

···

‘I’d quite forgotten about you, Mr Booth Watson,’ admitted Longe, once Petrov had departed, ‘but then, to be fair, you weren’t part of the Russian gentleman’s agreement. So, I’ll tell you what I expect you to do …’

‘Anything, anything,’ spluttered Booth Watson, as he fell on his knees, his hands cupped in prayer.

‘I’m going to bank this cheque for eight million first thing in the morning and, should it bounce, I think it only fair to warn you there’s a triple jump pit on the other side of the track and, although in your case it may require a lot more digging, I have a feeling my men are up to the task.’

Booth Watson swallowed hard. He didn’t doubt it.

‘So, Mr Booth Watson, should anyone ask after Mr Faulkner, you will simply say he’s abroad on business and not expected back in the near future.

And while he’s away,’ continued Longe, looking down at the freshly raked sand, ‘you’ll draw up a contract to work exclusively for me.

No doubt, you’ll charge an outrageous fee, while at the same time you’ll still be collecting a thousand pounds a day from your late client.

’ Longe grinned, before once again glancing over his shoulder at the long jump pit.

‘So, I think you’ll agree, on balance you’ve come out of this deal rather well. ’

Booth Watson nodded, before making an even more hasty retreat than Petrov. As he left the stadium, he spotted flashing lights in the distance and for the first time in years, he began to run.

···

Longe looked up to see the nightwatchman charging down the steps towards him, screaming, ‘Police, police!’

A word that had Longe and his two henchmen running for the nearest exit, but when they reached the gate the night watchman was nowhere to be seen.

Longe knew he was trapped. He turned back and began to run towards the track, only to see half a dozen armed police officers heading towards him. He quickly swung around to face an even larger group of coppers coming from the opposite direction.

Moments later, the three of them were surrounded, handcuffed and led away.

Paul ran down the steps and out onto the track to find Ross frantically digging. He quickly joined him, grabbed the other spade and they both carried on digging until a body appeared. Ross had seen enough bodies to know this one was dead.

···

William skidded to a halt just as Longe was about to be bundled into the back of a police van.

Many things had given William pleasure over his years with the Met, but few as much satisfaction as seeing Longe and his two cronies arrested for attempted murder.

As the police van drove away, William turned to see Ross and Paul coming out of the entrance to the stadium tugging two suitcases.

‘Going anywhere?’ asked William.

‘I wish,’ said Ross, as he stopped and unzipped one of the suitcases to reveal row upon row of neatly stacked fifty-pound notes filling every inch of available space.

One of the young constables couldn’t stop gawping.

‘So where’s the omnipresent Mr Booth Watson?’ demanded William.

‘Got clean away,’ admitted Ross, ‘but what he doesn’t realize is that we have him on camera starring in his own home movie.’

Ross looked across to see Rebecca jumping out of her car and running towards them.

‘Sorry you missed the main feature,’ said Ross, as William zipped up the suitcase and instructed Paul to take them both back to the Yard. But no one moved as two paramedics carrying a stretcher walked slowly towards them.

William stepped forward and pulled back the sheet, as if he needed to be certain Faulkner hadn’t escaped his clutches once again. He stared down at his old nemesis, well aware his final act had been one of courage and ultimately self-sacrifice.

He touched his forehead in respect, a gesture he wouldn’t have thought possible a week ago.

But then real life is so often stranger than fiction.

‘Change the charge to murder,’ said William, as he replaced the sheet over Faulkner’s head, allowing the stretcher bearers to continue on their way to a waiting ambulance.