At Risk

29

By the time Kieran Mitchell reached the Brentwood Sporting Club, he knew that he was enjoying his last evening of freedom for a long time. His wife Debbie, frantic with worry and Stolichnaya vodka, had rung to say that the police had called at the house mob-handed, and voice-mail messages had piled in from contacts in at least half a dozen pubs and clubs. They were looking for him, methodically eliminating all his usual haunts. It was only a matter of time.

Looking around him at the familiar surroundings-the punters crowding the oxblood leather banquettes, the croupiers in their tight red dresses, the cigarette smoke hanging in the lights over the blackjack tables-he tried to impress its details on to his memory. He would need something to draw on in the months ahead. Wryly, he raised his glass of Johnnie Walker Black Label to his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. An ugly bastard, sure-he’d always been that-but a man who could hold things together when the situation called for it.

“You on your own, love?”

She was about forty, probably. Blonde streaks, glittery top, desperate eyes. You got them in every casino, the women who, having blown whatever they’d managed to scrape together that day, hung around the male punters like pilot fish. For a handful of chips, Mitchell knew, he could have taken her down to the car for ten minutes. Tonight, though, he just wasn’t in the mood.

“I’ve got people coming,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Anyone nice?”

He laughed at that, and didn’t answer, and finally she walked away. From the moment he’d walked into the toilet at the Fairmile and seen Ray Gunter’s body lolling against the tiles, he’d known that the people-smuggling racket had been blown to the four winds. The police wouldn’t have a choice; they’d have to go all the way with this one-follow as far as the trail led. And the short answer, of course, was that it led to him. He’d been seen with Gunter, he was a known confederate of Melvin Eastman… He took a deep slug of the Scotch and refilled the engraved tumbler from his private bottle. He was fucked, basically.

What the hell had Eastman been thinking of, getting into bed with those Krauts? Before they’d come calling he’d had a sweet little franchise running, bringing in illegals for the Caravan. Asians, Africans, working girls from Albania and Kosovo, all of them properly cowed and respectful. No trouble, no argument, and everyone going home happy.

The moment he’d clocked that Paki, though, he’d known he was going to be trouble. A rough crossing usually shook them down nicely, but not this one. This one was a psycho-a real hard nut. Mitchell shook his head. He should have drowned him while he had a chance. Nudged him overboard, rucksack and all-he’d heard that most Asians couldn’t swim.

Ray Gunter, of course-idiot that he was-had spotted the rucksack and decided to take it off the Paki. He hadn’t said anything about stealing it, but looking back it was blindingly obvious. And so the Paki-psycho nutcase that he was-had taken him out.

All of these events leading him, Kieran Mitchell, in his slate-grey silk suit and his midnight-blue Versace shirt, to this moment. To this glass of Scotch that could be his last for years. Conspiracy, immigration offences, terrorism, even. It didn’t bear thinking about. Not for the first time, he considered cutting and running. But if he ran, and they found him-as they surely would find him-it would go worse for him. It would cancel out the one card that he held. The card that, if he played it properly…

In the mirror he saw what he had been expecting for the best part of an hour. Movement near the entrance. Purposeful men in inexpensive suits. The crowd parting. Downing his Scotch in three measured draughts, he felt in his trouser pocket for the coat-check disc. It was cold out, so he’d brought the dark blue cashmere.