CHAPTER ONE
When Norton saw Storey walk into the
bar he knew straight away the type of man he was dealing with: alert, cagey,
possibly dangerous.
He was maybe six
feet tall, had black hair curling on his collar and seemed restless. Norton
noticed a couple of women turn their heads to take him in, as though he’d
brought a different kind of energy into the place.
But Norton knew
all that from the clippings he’d read about Storey before contacting him. He’d
been plastered over the newspapers a few weeks ago—hero ex-cop, saving lives,
foiling smugglers. Norton’s boss, Bran Doyle, liked that. Said Storey would be
a good man to have on board now they’d got rid of Monks.
Norton wasn’t so
sure, thought Doyle was buying into the hype. Look at the way Storey stood at
the bar, smiling at the barmaid, struggling to get his wallet from his jacket
pocket. Playing the fool, getting a laugh from the girl. He could have done
with a shave and his jeans were faded, though he seemed fit: slim and broad in
the shoulders, moved well, probably not yet forty.
He wore a brown
leather jacket over an open-neck blue shirt, with a name on the pocket Norton
couldn’t read, and his shoes were scuffed at the front, as though he’d been
kicking stones.
He didn’t look at
ease in this place—maybe it was too high class.
Which is why
Norton had chosen it, give Storey a glimpse of what was coming if he took the
job. Let him taste the atmosphere, the possibilities. Norton didn’t mind if
Doyle wanted to hire Storey, but that didn’t mean he got an easy pass.
Now Storey had seen Norton staring at him and was walking over, pint of beer in
his hand, looking down at the shiny table-top, glancing at the other people in
the bar before speaking.
‘Norton?’
‘Yes, take a
seat.’
Storey sat in the
chair on the far side of the table, still wary. He said, ‘Posh place, this.
Your local?’
‘You think it’s
posh?’
‘Fancy weddings
and so on, isn’t it? Horse-drawn carriage taking the bride and groom away to a
fortnight in Bermuda.’
‘We’re not here
to talk about weddings,’ he said. Noticing Storey registered the rebuke but
didn’t react. ‘We’ve got a proposition for you.’
‘So you said. You
and your mysterious boss. I’ll drink this beer and listen to your pitch but I’m
not guaranteeing anything.’
‘Understood. You
should know this is completely legit, nothing dodgy. You’ll be on salary and
some benefits.’
Storey was still
staring at him. Then he said, ‘Were you in the services?’
Norton feeling
himself drawing back, surprised. ‘Irrelevant.’
Storey shrugged,
looking away, taking in the high windows of the bar, the well-toned young
couples possibly discussing wedding plans. The talk was low, the surroundings
refined. Norton could see the disapproval in his eyes.
Turning back to
him, Storey said, ‘There’s something in your skin-tone, your hair-cut. The way
you sit. You’re controlled. It was just a guess.’
Norton felt
unnerved but before he could speak Storey was talking again.
‘You said it was
something to do with security. What kind of security?’
Norton took a sip
from his whisky and counted to five, steadying himself. He said, ‘My boss is a
businessman, quite well-known in the city. He has a high profile, you might
say. He needs someone to take him from place to place—’
‘Like a
chauffeur?’
‘Well, more than
that. There’d be some driving but other general duties.’
‘Standing around
pretending to be alert but actually bored as shit.’
Norton felt
himself growing frustrated, the other man seeming to enjoy being contradictory,
pushing him. He said, ‘It’s not like that. It’s interesting work, lots of
variety, working for a good family.’
‘Why me? You can
pick up drivers at the Job Centre.’
‘Coventry isn’t
teeming with people with your qualifications.’
Now Storey was
grinning, as though Norton was suddenly comical.
‘You read my CV
in the papers, didn’t you, and thought you’d get a thug for cheap. You’d be
amazed the offers I had after that little event. TV interviews, book offers. A
couple of women wanted to marry me, show their gratitude for my service to the
city. I don’t know, you shoot someone and people either want to bury you under
a ton of shit or make you the new pope.’
Norton shook his
head. ‘I look at you and I don’t see anything special. Admittedly it took some
balls doing what you did. But I suppose you’d done it before, shooting someone.
I read you were a specialist when you were in the police. Firearms. Must have
known what you were doing but still a risk. My job, I never took risks.
Anything went wrong, you got a bollocking and maybe half a dozen men dead in
the street, dogs licking their ears. Know what I mean?’
Storey looking at
him again, his eyes still, like he was thinking something through.
He said, ‘When I
went down to London I went for the excitement. Coventry was dead. Didn’t have
all these students, this buzz it’s got now. I come back and the place is
changed, like it’s had a transplant, something new in the bloodstream. I don’t
know what it is and I don’t know whether I like it. You like it, don’t you?
Makes you think you’re still back in Iraq or wherever the hell you were.’
‘It was—’
‘Well I don’t
need that buzz any more. I had enough of it in London and now I’m back here I
want to be still. I don’t want to wake up every morning with my head already
pounding because of the noise I can hear in the background, a noise I don’t
know whether it’s really there or not, or whether it’s just my imagination
gearing me up to deal with the day.’
‘I think you’ve
got the wrong idea of what we’re asking you to do.’
‘I don’t think I
have. I know exactly what you want me to do. Drive a car, open doors, keep a
straight face, say Yes, sir, No, sir.’
‘This place needs
people like Bran Doyle—people with energy and vision, people who can get things
done.’
‘I’ve never heard
of him.’
‘He wants to meet
you.’
‘So why didn’t he
come in person?’
‘He wanted me to
meet you first. Sound you out.’
‘First interview.
See if I’ll spit on the carpet. So what do you think?’
‘I think you
won’t last forty-eight hours.’
‘I’d better meet
him then, hadn’t I, while I’ve still got the chance?’
Outside, Storey watched Norton drive out of the hotel’s car park, then followed. Norton had
said it was only a few minutes’ drive but be sure to keep up or he’d miss the
entrance.
By now he was
interested to meet the guy, Doyle, see what he was like and whether he could
work for him. He didn’t want to work for anyone, but he couldn’t afford to live
without some income and at least this sounded interesting, so far as it went.
After the business with the Syrian he’d laid low for a while, let things settle
down. His former boss in London would still take him back but he thought he was
past that now—he’d been his own boss for a while, in a manner of speaking, and
he found he liked it. So he wanted to keep his freedom but he needed money and
he didn’t want to prostitute himself for it. Besides, Norton had said it would
only be for a couple of months so maybe he could stomach it for that long.
The hotel had
been on the edge of town but now the route Norton was taking him had become
more countrified. Without city lighting the road suddenly grew darker, so
Storey turned on the Volvo’s main beams. He didn’t know this part of Coventry
and was surprised to see the dim outlines of flat fields to his left, while on
his right a succession of expensive-looking executive houses with their own
driveways slipped by, their living-room lamps just flickering on, the
executives well insulated from whatever was happening outside.
Storey wondered
what he was going to find. Who was Bran Doyle and what impact was he going to
have on his life?
Five minutes later Norton’s brake lights glowed and he turned and disappeared behind a
stand of trees that edged the road. When Storey arrived he saw a wide metal
gate was still swinging open, Norton waiting for it to complete its arc before
driving through. Storey followed.
Jesus, he thought, looking ahead. How the other half lives.
They’d entered a
compound, the drive paved in grey slabs, and at the end of its arc, beyond a
raised circular decking area, he could see the main house, looming grandly
against the night sky. The house seemed in fact to be two identical structures,
perhaps barns in a previous life, that were now connected by an entrance foyer
made entirely of glass and lower in height than the buildings either side. This
entrance and the building on its left were lit up while the other was dark.
As he followed
Norton to the parking spaces in front of the house he passed three
self-contained cottages, perhaps stables at one time, and looking further,
beyond the house, he could see a tennis court, lit-up by lights on tall poles,
and what looked like a covered swimming pool next to it. He could tell the
house was set in several acres of its own grounds, though in the growing dark
he couldn’t see the property’s furthest limits.
He pulled in
next to Norton’s car.
Norton was
already out and was waiting by the glass door of the entrance.
He seemed to know
what Storey would have been thinking, because he said, ‘Valued at one and a
half million last year. Not that I think he’ll ever sell it. Put too much work
into getting it right.’
The door opened
and a woman somewhere in her fifties stood there, looking first at Norton and
then at Storey. He saw she was still shapely and was attractive in a natural
way, slim and with a single loop of gold around her neck, her dark hair cut to
reach her shoulders and showing traces of highlight here and there.
She said, ‘Bran’s
upstairs. Can this wait?’
‘I told him I’d
bring Mr Storey tonight, if he’d come,’ Norton said. ‘Mission accomplished.’
The woman gave
him a look then turned a smile on Storey and stepped back.
‘I’m Charlotte
Doyle, the missus,’ she said. ‘Please come in.’
Her voice was
well-modulated and had the kind of accent Storey usually associated with
blue-rinsed stockbrokers’ wives from Kent. He’d begun to form some ideas about
Bran Doyle but was already having to change them.
He followed Charlotte Doyle across a tiled foyer and through a door into the largest
sitting-room he’d ever seen. The walls and ceilings were white, the floor pale
wood and the leather chairs a chocolate brown. A huge television was showing a
natural history programme but she flicked it off and threw the remote control
clattering onto a low glass table.
Now she was
turning to him again with her bright smile, saying, ‘You boys sit here while I
fetch him. He’ll be asleep by now, mouth open in front of his television.
Norton, try not to get your shoe-polish on the rugs.’
She clipped out
of the room and Storey walked further into it, passing the two huge sofas and
rounding a table set with six upright chairs, then approaching a dozen or more
black and white photos ranged in a display on the far wall.
Norton had
followed him and began to explain. ‘Doyle in his pomp. That’s Sean Connery,
without his wig. That one’s the man from Eastenders. The one sitting there is
Felicity Kendall. I don’t know the others.’
The photos were
all taken in clubs or restaurants, people grinning in the background, faces
pale in the photographic flash. Storey noticed the man who appeared in all the
photos was tall and solidly-built, as tall as Connery but broader across the
shoulders. He didn’t recognise the man’s face but saw that it had a definite
character. In the photos he was perhaps in his thirties but his features were
large, raw, as though they’d been pushed out of shape and then re-formed. It was
an eager face, the face of a man who enjoyed life and looked like he wanted to
swallow it whole.
He said over his
shoulder, ‘You haven’t told me what he does yet. An actor or something?’
‘In a manner of
speaking. He’ll tell you himself. Try and stop him.’
Storey was about
to reply when someone else came into the room at the far end, a girl in her
twenties, he guessed, by the lithe way she moved.
Norton saw Storey
looking past him and turned around.
‘Felicity. We’re
just waiting for your dad.’
The girl came
forward and now Storey could see her better. She had her mother’s clear
features and direct eyes but there was a colour to her skin that her mother
lacked. She wore tight black jeans and a white Fruit of the Loom tee-shirt and
her red hair was tied back in a short pony-tail.
Without holding
out her hand, she said, ‘I’m Fliss. Are you the new man?’
Storey said,
‘That depends on whether your dad passes the interview. Too soon to say but
it’s not looking good so far.’
A smile flitted
over her face but she didn’t give in to it completely, turning to Norton
instead to say, ‘Tell Dad I’m out with Darren, will you? I’ll be back later.’
‘Your wish, etc.’
She looked at
them both again, one after the other, as if checking they’d understood their
instructions, then turned and left.
Storey said, ‘She
still lives with mum and dad?’
‘You’ve seen the
place. Why would you move out? She’s practically got a wing to herself.’
‘A bird’s got to
fly the coop eventually. Otherwise the coop gets torn apart.’
‘You do Chinese
wisdom?’
‘Only in my spare
time. When I’m not practising my levitation.’
Storey heard voices outside the room, Felicity talking to someone, then an older
version of the man from the photos walked in. Bran Doyle. He wore a black shirt
with a wide collar and green cargo pants with big pockets. He was as large as
Storey expected, having seen the photos, but moved swiftly with a contained
energy. Storey thought he was probably in his early sixties but appeared ten
years younger. He had a broad, firm chest and hands like a bricklayer.
He was standing
now with those hands on his hips, about ten feet from Storey, looking him up
and down.
He said, ‘I’m
Bran Doyle and this is my patch. Nice of you to come. I read about you in the
paper and told Norton I wanted to meet you. Been banned from driving for twelve
months, bloody stupid. Said I’d get myself a driver. I did my research and read
up on you but on second thoughts I reckon you ain’t up to it. Ran away from
your job with the cops then got yourself caught up in something tasty. Ratted
out your gang and shot a bloke in the ‘ead. What use is that to me? I could
just as soon get one of our own up here. There’s a lad in Brixton wants to come
up and work for me. Why should I go outside, especially as you was one of them
rotten bastards what worked in the police? Hey, come back ‘ere. I ain’t fuckin’
finished talking to you yet.’
Storey was nearly
out of the room. Stopping, he turned back and said, ‘I’m loving your interview
technique but I’ve got another engagement.’
Doyle grinning.
‘Good. What else?’
‘I don’t like
rich people who are full of themselves and I won’t work for you if I’m like one
of those lucky charms you hang around your neck.’
‘I’m not rich.’
Storey laughed.
‘You’re not poor.’
‘Nothing wrong
with being poor.’
‘I never said
there was. But if you live in a place like this and say you’re not rich you’ve
got a weird view of the world.’
Doyle paused,
glanced at Norton, who looked as though he’d been enjoying the conversation.
‘Fetch us a
couple of whiskeys, Craig, there’s a good ‘un.’
Norton left and Doyle watched him, then sat on one of the brown sofas. Storey
noticed he still had all his hair but his face was lined, with scars showing
around the eyes.
Doyle said, ‘You
give as good as you get, don’t you? I like that in a lackey. Sick to death of
people who tell you what you want to hear. Norton’s a good man but he’s still scared
of me. You’re not, are you? No use to me if you are. But I expect you knew
that.’
‘I don’t play
games.’
‘Sit down. Take
the weight off your principles.’
‘I might not be
stopping.’
‘Were you looking
at my photos? A bit old now. I should get new ones, though I don’t meet the
same people up here as I did in London. You haven’t asked what I want you to
do—or did Norton lay it out?’
Storey sat facing
him, enjoying the man’s ability to dance around the subject as if it were all
part of the same conversation, the subject being himself. Doyle sat on his sofa
like a ton weight, not just owning it but laying claim to everything in the
room through it—the coffee table, the magazines scattered on its shiny surface,
the unlit logs in the marble fireplace, the patterned stretcher that lay
lengthwise on the dining table … Everything he looked at, he owned, and Storey
wondered what it must be like to have that power. Or at least to think you had
it.
Doyle said, ‘You
met the missus, didn’t you? She liked you. Said you’d do. Tonight must be like
one big interview, from your perspective.’
‘I don’t think I
want the job.’
‘The fuck do you
know? You haven’t talked to me about it yet. I haven’t had chance to exercise
the full extent of my fucking charms on you. Incidentally, you don’t mind bad
language, do you? Can’t help meself. What you get being brought up in a London
armpit. Eloquence comes second to a punch in the gob.’
Norton came in with two glasses, handed one to each man then moved away.
Doyle said,
‘What’s your opinion, Craig? You’ve had a chance to see Mr Storey here at close
quarters.’
Norton glanced at
Storey, then said to Doyle. ‘He can drive, so he’s qualified. Thinks a lot of
himself, but so do you, so you’re square.’
‘He says he
doesn’t want the job. Do you think we could persuade him?’
‘All the press
articles said he was a man of principle. Perhaps he’s making a point.’
Doyle said
nothing, swirling the liquid in his glass, and Storey took this as a cue and
tasted his drink—he knew nothing about whiskey but it was smooth and burned the
back of his throat in a way that suggested it was a good brand.
Doyle said,
‘You’ve gone quiet.’
‘You two are
doing all the talking. I’m just enjoying the view.’
‘So do you want
to play with us or not? Nice big car to drive, you can live in one of the
cottages for a couple of months, we’ll feed you and a woman will come in and do
your laundry and cleaning. All you have to do is smile at me and make sure the
petrol tank’s full.’
‘What happened to
your previous driver?’
Doyle glanced at
Norton, saying, ‘Difference of opinion. We had to let him go. Now you’re
looking at me as if I left him face down in a fuckin’ ditch. Don’t worry—I can
give you his phone number if you want to talk to him.’
‘What did you do?
I mean, for a living? Why all those photos with famous people?’
Doyle looked away
for the first time. Storey thought maybe he was embarrassed.
‘People wanted to
be near me,’ Doyle said. ‘I was famous in some circles because I was a fighter.
A boxer.’
‘I’ve never heard
of you.’
‘You wouldn’t
have. I wasn’t on telly. Started out, I’d show up at a fair where people were
selling cars. There’d be a challenge and I’d knock down a couple of people and
walk off with five hundred quid in my pocket. Then it escalated. By the time I
finished I was fighting in working-men’s clubs and the back rooms of pubs. Five
grand a time, or more. These famous people would roll up at the door, watch me
fight for a couple of minutes—that’s how long it usually took—then they’d want
to rub the top of my head for luck.’
‘Looking at this
place you had a lot of fights at five grand a piece.’
‘You’ve got the
wrong end of the stick, my man. I didn’t make money from boxing. I made it from
property. Investments. Done well in London then moved up here, bought this
place when it was a shithole and done it up. And I’m still ducking and diving.’
Storey said,
‘Well, thanks for the whiskey and the biography, but I don’t think I’ll fit in
here.’
‘Sorry to hear
that.’
Storey put his
glass down and stood up. He said, ‘Were you a good boxer?’
Doyle was also
standing now. ‘Terrible boxer. Good fighter. Do you know what they called me?’
‘No idea.’
‘I’d knock ‘em
down so quick they called me One Punch Doyle. Bear that in mind.’
