A Good day to die

6

It was early evening and already dark by the time I returned to the Big La Laguna Dive Lodge, the place I now called home. It was only a small hotel, with sixteen whitewashed guest rooms arranged round three sides of a tiny courtyard, containing an even tinier pool. In front of the courtyard, facing directly onto the beach, was our open-air bar and restaurant, and next door to that was the dive shop we ran. We'd given the whole place a complete refit and paint job when we'd bought it, and had even gone so far as installing expensive rattan furniture in the rooms and the drinking and eating areas, and although I say so myself, the place looked good.

My room was right at the back of the hotel and faced straight into a Filipino family's apartment, but since I didn't spend much time in it, the view didn't really bother me. I went straight up to it now, saying hello to a couple of our guests on the way, and showered and changed, before going back out to locate Tomboy.

I found him in the back room of the dive shop, sitting at the table with a load of paperwork spread out in front of him. He had a half-full bottle of San Miguel and a crumpled pack of Marlboros within easy reach. On seeing me come in, he smiled expectantly. 'How's it going, mate? I was beginning to get worried about you. It all went all right, didn't it?'

I stepped into the room and shut the door behind me, a signal that we could talk. 'It's all done.'

He nodded appreciatively. 'Good. Now we can get back to running this place. Did you get rid of everything?'

I told him I had and he asked me whether it had been in the place we'd discussed.

I nodded.

'You did a good job, Mick,' he said, calling me by my nickname, and sounding not unlike a man I used to do work for back in London. 'And it's going to tide us over for a long time. We won't have to do it again.'

I felt like taking him up on the 'we' bit, seeing as he hadn't done a lot, but I didn't bother. I was too tired for an argument. 'When are we going to get the balance of the cash?'

'As soon as he's seen the photos. You took 'em all right, yeah?'

I nodded and he reached over and picked up the cigarettes, watching me with an expression that might have been sympathy. 'It's all over now. You can forget about it.'

I shook my head. 'It's not over, Tomboy. Billy Warren wasn't who he said he was. He was Billy West, a villain I had dealings with back in the old days. You must have known him. You knew every villain round our way.'

He scrunched up his face into an expression of acute concentration. 'The name rings a bell,' he said after a pause, 'but I can't picture him. It must have been after my time.'

'It wasn't. I hadn't seen him in at least ten years before today.'

He shook his head. 'Nah. Like I said, the name rings a bell, but that's it. I honestly don't remember him.'

I wondered why he was lying. Tomboy had known every villain on our patch, most of whom he'd put behind bars with his information, but if he had known Slippery Billy he wasn't saying, and I decided to let it go for now. 'Anyway, Billy West was also a shooter on the side. He'd moved into that line of business recently, and the last job he did, the one that brought him over here, was Asif Malik.'

'The two-man hit in the cafe?'

'That's the one.'

'Shit, how's that for a coincidence?' He shook his head, looking suitably taken aback. I decided he couldn't have known about Slippery's involvement in Malik's murder, otherwise he'd never have let me near him. Tomboy had never known Malik, but he knew he'd been my partner and was a man I'd liked and respected. 'I'm sorry about that, Mick. Or maybe I'm not. At least it gave you a reason to sort him out.'

'Who's Les Pope?'

Tomboy sighed and lit one of his Marlboros. 'I was afraid you'd ask that. Why do you want to know?'

'I'm interested,' I told him. 'Apparently, he was also the man who set up the Malik job.'

I thought he'd resist telling me too much, but I think he saw in my expression that I wasn't going to be fobbed off. 'He's a lawyer.'

I managed an empty laugh. 'Well, there's a surprise.' So at least Slippery Billy hadn't been lying about that. 'Go on.'

'He does defence work as a solicitor, and he knows a few bad types, but he's always kept his nose clean, so he's never really received much attention from the law. He's also well-spoken and well-educated, which helps.'

'How do you know him?'

'The usual. He defended me on a couple of cases years ago, before I knew you. We kept in touch, and I did a little bit of work for him now and again.'

Just like Slippery had. 'What sort of work?'

'The illegal sort. Providing other clients of his with alibis, helping them out of binds. Nothing too serious, but put it this way: he's not the sort of geezer I'd like to mess with. He knows people who could make life very difficult for you if they wanted.'

'The sort who'd pay to have people killed?'

'I suppose so, although I've got to admit it was a bit of a surprise when he rang me out of the blue last year about our man in Manila.'

'He'd never asked you to get involved with anything like that before?'

'No, course not.'

I wasn't sure I believed him. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed odd that Les Pope would have asked Tomboy to help commit murder on two occasions in the space of a year, unless he knew something about his former client that made him confident he'd go along with it. I think I'd deluded myself that Tomboy's involvement in crime while he'd been an informant of mine back in London had always been on the periphery. I still didn't want to believe that it had been anything more. After all, I liked the guy. He'd helped me out when he could have earned himself a lot of money by turning me in to the Philippine authorities when I first arrived here, and we'd lived cheek by jowl for the three years since. He was a friend. Even so, the doubts that had prickled away all day remained.

'Why do you want to know all this, Mick?' he asked, picking up his beer bottle. 'What good's it going to do? We're thousands of miles away from Pope and London, and you know what they say. Let sleeping dogs lie.'

'Because,' I said, choosing my words carefully, 'he was responsible for killing someone I liked and respected. If it had been you he'd killed, I'd be asking the same questions.'

'Keep it down, can you?' he hissed, dragging on his cigarette.

'It's all right, I locked the front door. We can talk.'

'Look, I appreciate why you're asking the questions, but what's done is done. You know what I'm saying? It's spilt milk and all that. I'm sorry about Malik — I am — but nothing's going to bring him back, and the man who pulled the trigger ain't no more, so let's just forget about it, eh?'

'That's easier said than done.'

He took a swig of beer, banged the bottle down on the table and stood up, craning forward in my direction. When he spoke, his voice was a forced whisper. 'What the fuck are you going to do, Mick? Go back to London and pop Pope? Then get on a plane like nothing's happened and fly back here?' He raised his hands, palms outwards, in a gesture of 'What more can I say?' 'It don't work like that. You're a wanted man in London; chances are you'll be picked up before you even locate him, let alone pull the trigger. And if that happens you ain't ever going to see the outside of a nick again, are you? Not with your record. They'll throw away the key. Are you willing to risk all that just to kill the bloke who had something to do with organizing the hit on someone who you worked with once, but ain't seen in over three years? Because I'm telling you, mate, if that's the case, it ain't worth it. Honestly.'

He was right, I knew that. And for exactly those reasons. In the end, it was far too risky. I'd built up my life here. I was happy, and even on those days when I got tired of the heat and the sight of palm trees, it was still a vastly preferable alternative to the inside of a cold English prison. Plus, I told myself for maybe the thousandth time in my life, injustices are perpetrated every day by people who will never be brought to book for their crimes. Take most politicians, for a start. I couldn't kill them all. Why tear apart my whole life just to get at one person, when there'd be a dozen more waiting to take his place?

Because Malik was my friend.

Because he was a good man.

Because I was not.

'Ah, forget it,' I sighed. 'I'm just talking.'

'I know it's pissed you off. I can't believe it myself, as it happens. Small fucking world.' He stubbed out his cigarette and got back down to business. 'You got the key to Warren's room? I'm sending Joubert over later to clear it out.'

I fished it out of my pocket and handed it to him, disappointed that his mind was already on other things. It struck me then that I didn't really know Tomboy Darke at all, even after all these years, and it was a thought that depressed me, because it exposed my failings as much as his.

'Come on,' he said, taking the key and finishing his beer. 'Let's go get you a drink.'

I followed him back through the dive shop and next door to the bar, where, not for the first time in my life, the booze beckoned invitingly. For the moment, at least, I'd try and forget the ignominious fate of Slippery Billy West and those he'd murdered back in the old country.