Exit wound, p.4
Exit Wound, page 4
The only thing Dex seemed to have changed was his hairdo and the ribbon on his chest. He’d won the DFC in Iraq four years ago, just before he got out of the RAF. Dex’s dad would have been really proud. When Hitler marched on Poland, Dex’s dad, the seventh son of a maharajah, was just graduating from one of the poshest private schools in India. The moment Neville Chamberlain declared war on Germany, so did the Viceroy. He didn’t consult the Indian Army, of course, but that’s colonialism for you. Thousands rallied to Lord Linlithgow’s call, and Dex Senior’s headmaster, an Old Etonian, made sure that when all his lads left for England they carried letters of introduction to an old schoolmate of his, an air vice marshal in the RAF.
Dex’s dad took to the skies over London and Kent in a Hurricane, and if he was anything like his son, he’d have flown with a white silk scarf sticking out behind him on a coat hanger. After the battle of Britain, he fought in North Africa and Burma, winning the DSO and ending his career as a group captain. He stayed in England, made a fortune, inherited a couple of others, and sent his only child to Eton in honour of his old headmaster. The only downside to the Khattri story was that Dex’s dad must have been as mad as he was. When he died, most of the cash went in death duties.
The Berlin ponytail had been about Dex keeping the RAF on their toes. He said his dad had flown in a turban and kept a spare in his flying jacket in case he became a PoW, and he was keeping up the tradition. The high command couldn’t make up their minds whether he was honouring a sacred tradition or taking the piss, and that suited him just fine. He’d liked to keep people guessing.
The madness and the hair weren’t Dex’s only claims to fame. He was such a fine athlete that he beat all-comers at the 100 metres when he was at Eton – despite having had to stop and put his massive dick back into his shorts after it popped out in all the excitement. Sports Day had never been the same there since.
Red Ken had gone totally grey, and the extra creases in his face had moved him on from basset hound to deflated barrage balloon. His nickname had originated during the miners’ strikes in ’84 and ’85. His family had been down t’pit for generations. His dad and two brothers had fought the police from the picket lines. Red Ken, along with quite a few others from mining families, had refused to meet Maggie Thatcher when she took time off from haranguing Arthur Scargill to visit Stirling Lines.
The great and the good from the MoD trooped up and gave their addresses, then a couple of Tenny’s sisters got to their feet. One of them read a poem, the other extracts from letters he’d sent from Afghanistan. There wasn’t a dry female eye in the house, apart from the tall one’s, of course. I even saw a couple of guys’ hands go up and brush away a tear.
The big moment came. The six pallbearers, all bulled up in their number-twos, moved up the aisle at a slow march. Pikey was one pace behind. The bugler got his lips in gear. Every man and his dog kept their fingers firmly crossed.
As the hymn finished, the coffin was slowly raised from its cradle. Pikey stood at the head, his hand touching the wood. He guided its ascent onto six shoulders with a combination of reverence and precision that had us all reaching for the Kleenex now.
The cathedral fell silent. There was a muffled sob from the family seats, then the squeak of perfectly synchronized boots as the crew carried their heavy load. With Pikey leading, Tenny was marched slowly back down the aisle. The first mournful notes of the Last Post sounded across the nave. Every head swivelled as the coffin passed. Immediately behind it, the family huddled together, supporting each other as they walked, followed at a respectful distance by the lads with the scrambled egg.
Janice looked as beautiful as ever, and so did the teenage twins. Their mother pushed one in her wheelchair and a much older man pushed the other. They wore identical long black velvet dresses that didn’t quite conceal the sheepskin-padded straps that held their ankles. They had bibs around their necks to catch the saliva, but nothing could stop their heads moving rhythmically from side to side. Tenny and Janice’s perfect world had collapsed around them when the girls were born – but their care had become the only thing that mattered.
As the coffin reached the courtyard, the bugle call faded. It had been note perfect. The organ sparked up, which seemed to be the signal for everyone to exchange a few hushed words.
The cathedral began to empty from the front. Red Ken and Dex filed past. Red Ken gave me another little nod and gestured discreetly to meet outside. Dex didn’t seem to understand protocol. He grinned from ear to ear as the tall one slid her sun-gigs back on, and gave me a big slap on the shoulder. ‘Great, wasn’t it? Splendid selection of hymns. I wouldn’t mind the same when I crash. Looking forward to the wake.’ He made a coming-for-a-drink? gesture.
I nodded and waited for my turn to leave.
By the time I got outside, the hearse was pulling away. Everyone in uniform saluted the coffin and the people in three black limos leaving for the private burial.
Then the mayhem began.
‘Great service, wasn’t it?’ they all bellowed to each other. But unlike Dex, who’d meant it, they were just going through the motions.
A voice piped up behind me that would have done the Tetley Tea Folk proud: ‘I’d rather have a shite life than a good service – that right, Nick?’
I turned and now I could smile. ‘How’s it going, Red?’
‘Better than it looks as though it’s going for you, son. Look at you – shit state. Get yourself a decent suit.’ He produced a pack of Benson & Hedges.
I shook my head, pointing at the disappearing black limos. ‘You’ll be hitching a lift in one of those any minute now, if you keep on with that shit.’
‘Good to know you still care, lad.’ He put one in his mouth and coaxed a flame from a purple disposable. He nodded across the cobblestoned courtyard. It had started to glisten in the light drizzle. I pulled up my collar and we started to walk.
‘How you been, anyway?’ he said. ‘I haven’t heard much about you since you left.’
‘This and that.’
‘The Firm, Dex said.’
‘Only when I first got out. I binned it. They hated me anyway.’
He laughed. ‘They hate everyone, lad. You want a lift up to the do?’
We’d reached the road. Red Ken pressed a key fob and the indicators flashed on a long silver Merc.
‘Whoa, you haven’t done badly!’
He grinned as he opened the passenger door for me. ‘Better than most. Still way behind Tenny, of course.’
I nodded. ‘But he never made prime minister.’
‘He still owes us our fucking peerages.’ He waved to a couple of lads who recognized him, threw away his half-smoked B&H and opened the driver’s door. He got in and played about with his seatbelt.
We nudged into the traffic as the one big wiper silently removed the rain. I sank back into a world of black leather. The Premiership player in the dark grey suit was standing back from the crowd, watching the Merc disappear. ‘How’re Chrissie and the girls, Red?’
He concentrated for a moment on the road as we wove through groups of mourners wandering oblivious to the traffic because they were too busy waffling to the mates they hadn’t seen since the last funeral they’d all been to.
Finally he shook his head. ‘She binned me. The youngest is in the States. The other married a hairdresser and fucked off to Australia. Can’t blame them. Fuck-all left in Brown’s Britain, is there?’ He continued before I could even draw breath, keen to change the subject. Fair one. ‘What about you? Remarried? Kids?’
‘Nah.’
‘So it’s just you on your own, is it? Nicky No-mates-and-no-money?’
I smiled. ‘Yep, just me. Who’s the woman?’
‘In the sun-gigs? Cinza. Not a clue why she’s with him. Maybe she saw him in his running shorts. She works in London for some Italian fashion mag.’
The one-way system was blocked. It would have been quicker to walk. The Merc finally glided into the car park opposite the drill hall.
‘What do you do, Ken? How do I get one of these?’
We climbed out into the drizzle and jogged towards the queue at the open door of the nineteenth-century Territorial Army building.
He grinned. ‘Same as you – this and that.’
‘Must be a better bit of this and that than I’ve been fucking about with. I’ve been on the circuit now and again, daily rates.’
‘Still got your house?’
I shook my head. ‘Renting – a studio flat in north London, near Tufnell Park.’
He slapped me on the back. ‘There’s fuck-all wrong with you, is there? You need to sort yourself out, mate. Get a roof over your head and a good woman under you.’
We filed in. The bar was doing a roaring trade. The bowls of peanuts on the veneered tables were already nearly empty.
‘There they are.’
Dex and Cinza were standing by a table on which sat two fresh pints, and Cinza was clearly trying to work out what the hell was happening – why all these people were drinking and shovelling peanuts down their necks like there was no tomorrow.
13
Dex put down his G-and-T and held out the two pints. ‘Here you go, chaps.’ He toasted each of us with a clink of his glass and then presented his friend. ‘Nick, I’d like you to meet Cinza.’
I raised my glass. ‘Hello.’
Cinza had a mineral water in her perfectly manicured hand. ‘Now I have met two of your friends, Dexter.’ Her accent was as cut-glass as Dex’s – and about as sincere as the Queen’s. ‘Shall we go soon? I have a dinner this evening and—’
‘No, Chinni – three.’ Dex lifted his glass. ‘To Tennyson.’
We toasted him, but there wasn’t even enough time to get my glass back on the table and my fist around what was left of the peanuts before Cinza started having words with Dex about their travel arrangements.
Red Ken leant towards me. ‘Tenny was getting out after this, you know. He got zapped the last week of his tour. Nightmare, eh?’
‘I always thought he’d be in until they kicked him out or carried him out.’
Dex had been chewing the slice of lemon from his glass during the negotiations. Cinza finally lost patience and got on her mobile. He turned to us. ‘Actually, we persuaded him to come in on a little venture of ours instead.’ He turned back and interrupted her call. ‘Chinni, darling, I’ll drive you back in plenty of time. Just a while longer to talk to old friends.’ He kissed her cheek as she waffled away in Italian, then turned and winked at us. ‘She’ll be fine. So hot-blooded!’
She certainly was. As she closed down her mobile she stormed off in the direction of the door, with Dex trailing behind. ‘Darling, just a few more minutes . . .’
Red Ken took a gulp of Stella, then stopped halfway and watched how the men in her path reacted. It was like the parting of the Red Sea; their eyes followed her every move. He lowered his glass and wiped the sides of his mouth with his finger. ‘We all did our time, lad, and what have we got to show for it, eh? Fuck-all, apart from a regimental tie or a padded coffin. Once you’re dead or out, who gives a shit about you? So fuck ’em, I say. Steak for them, burgers for the likes of us – I’ve had enough of it. Time to have some of the prime beef for ourselves. The same goes for Dex – and the same went for Tenny too. He only stayed in because he had to provide for the girls. Old soldiers just fade away? My arse – we have plans.’
‘Plans?’
‘Can’t tell you, son, unless you come in. I’m glad you’re here – me and Dex were hoping. The three of us had kept in touch.’ He smiled. ‘Not like you, you shite. We need a third man now Tenny’s gone.’
Dex reappeared, a little out of breath and with one cheek even darker than usual. ‘She loves me really – I think.’ Cinza had obviously treated him to a good slapping. He palmed the small beads of sweat from his shaved head. ‘I’ll call her tomorrow.’
Red Ken tutted like a disapproving dad. ‘Loves you? You only met her yesterday. Fucking soft in the head, lad, you.’
Dex couldn’t disagree.
‘I asked Nick here if he fancies coming in as our number three.’
Dex slapped me on the shoulder with one hand as the other reached for his drink. ‘Would you like to take Tenny’s place in our little wheeze?’
I checked Dex and Red Ken. They waited, glasses in hand. ‘Wheeze?’
Red Ken glanced round the room. ‘We can’t be talking about anything here. You going back to that squat of yours in Tufnell Park? How you travelling?’
‘Train.’
‘Come with us.’ Red Ken jerked his head at Dex, who had started singing along with the jukebox. ‘He’ll be coming too, now he’s lost his lift.’
I followed the two of them through the door. ‘As long as Dex ain’t driving.’
We were soon heading south towards Peterborough and onto the A1. Dex was at the wheel. I should have kept my mouth shut. He was driving like a lunatic, of course, as if this thing had wings instead of wheels. Red Ken and I were both strapped in at the back. I kept my attention firmly fixed on the traffic in front of us, catching Dex’s eye in the rear-view from time to time. He was smiling away to himself, head bouncing from side to side as he hummed a tune.
Red Ken also had his eyes riveted to the windscreen, ready to adopt the position when Dex finally achieved his death wish. ‘Let’s kick this off, then, shall we, lads?’
Dex nodded and grunted. Or maybe he was rapping – it was hard to tell.
‘This is what we’ve got, Nick. We’re going to steal a shed-load of gold. I’ll tell you where from once you say you’re in. Don’t worry, it’s not a bank, more like a warehouse. We’ve checked it out. We know we can make entry, and have a good route out.’
‘How much of a shed-load?’
Dex turned his head round just a little too much for my liking as the speedometer nudged ninety-five on the dual carriageway. ‘Three metric tonnes – but two tonnes of that is structure. It ends up as a thousand kilograms of the yellow stuff.’
Red Ken had got his BlackBerry out and was already online. He tuned in to bullionvault.com and turned the screen towards me.
‘Structure?’
The screen filled with charts and Red Ken held it closer. ‘You’ll find out if you’re in, won’t you? Now, the price of gold this minute is thirty thousand, six hundred and fifty US dollars per kilo. That’s already up six hundred a kilo today.’
He came out of the site and started on the calculator. I didn’t have to bother with the mental arithmetic. I knew it was going to be buckets.
Red Ken’s extra-large thumbs pounded the keys. He had to start again as they hit too many at once.
‘Six days ago, Nick, the price was twenty-eight thousand, six hundred. So . . . Right, here we are . . . We’re now looking at—’ He shoved the BlackBerry back towards me. ‘Thirty point five bar.’
I looked at the calculator. He was right: 30,500,000. ‘A few zeros ain’t going to make me jump in. I need to know where it is, what it is, who it belongs to, how you plan to do the job, and where the gold goes afterwards.’
Dex’s laugh came so suddenly and so loudly it made both of us jump. ‘We knew you were our man. Just like the old days!’ The laughter stopped, and I wasn’t sure who he was talking to next. ‘Well, not exactly, come to think of it. I’m not doing it for Queen and country any more, I’m doing it for me. So really, it’s—’
Red Ken sank back into the leather. ‘Dex, shut the fuck up, will you?’
I still wasn’t getting the questions answered. ‘Lads, I need to know what I’m getting into here.’
‘I want to tell you. I’d lay the cards out, but there’s someone else involved. I got to talk to him first.’
‘Who?’
Red Ken sat back up and turned to me. ‘Nick, it’s a tough call, I know, but I can’t tell you, not yet. You know the score. Listen, the reason you’re here is because we need you and we trust you, so you got to trust us.’
‘Sorry, lads, I’m not getting into anything I don’t know about. I’m not going to be part of it until you—’
‘Chaps!’ Dex’s hand was off the wheel. ‘This is all getting rather boring. Nick, the job is in Dubai. It’s a pair of gold doors that Saddam had made in the UAE for his palace in Basra. But, of course, they never made it into Iraq, did they? They’re just sitting there, ready for an extension to put them on.’ He laughed at his own joke. ‘The gold won’t even be missed. No one knows the doors exist – and is the UAE going to jump up and down when they disappear and let the world know they were dealing with big bad S a year before the invasion? Not on your nelly! It’s a victimless crime. It’s not like we’re mugging someone’s granny.’
‘That’s all well and good, but we’ll still have to sell the shit. How much are we getting out of that thirty and a half bar?’
Red Ken wasn’t happy with Dex, but so what? ‘Forty cents on the dollar.’ He tapped away on his BlackBerry. ‘That’s twelve and a quarter bar.’
Dex laughed. He was probably already walking round the Ferrari showroom in his head.
‘But who’s buying it? Where’s it going?’
Dex was now driving as if he was in one. ‘That’s the thing we don’t know, old chap – and, quite frankly, I don’t care.’
Red Ken nodded. ‘Nick, we’re the only ones who are going to look after us. It’s time for some steak. What do you say, mate? Twelve and a quarter bar three ways – and a bit for Janice and the kids.’
Dex was studying me in the rear-view. He winked. ‘You know it makes sense, chappie. You look as if you could do with the world’s biggest leg-up. The doors are even flat-packed for us. Six crates, six by four by two. It’ll be like loading up at IKEA.’
I turned back to Red Ken. ‘You really going for it?’
