Good Bait

30

A few of the caravans looked as if they might be lived in year round, though signs of occupancy were few. Most stood empty, waiting for summer residents, short-term rentals, six hundred a week for a twin berth and counting. Along one side, a phalanx of empty concrete stands, weeds starting to push through, cracks appearing. Before the season there’d be a lick of paint, a few flowering shrubs, a stiff broom; the kiosk that now stood empty, partly boarded over, would be back in business, selling milk and bread, Calor gas, cereals, cheap DVDs and morning papers.

Off to one side, someone had been dismantling an old trailer, wheels and planks of splintered wood, the chassis bare and rusted over. Metal glinted for a moment in a sudden shaft of sun, bright through lowering skies.

Jack Kiley had called back first thing.

Anton Kosach was currently under investigation for his possible participation in money laundering. He was also suspected of involvement in people trafficking, prostitution and the illegal import and sale of arms. The works.

He had been targeted, questioned, never charged.

‘Nice guy,’ Kiley had remarked.

Cordon looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes shy of ten. The local east-west train disappeared into the tunnel on its way towards Warrior Square. Behind him, the trees at the wood’s edge leaned in together, tall and mostly bare. Dust kicked up as he walked and left a grey film across his shoes.

Crouching down towards the dismembered trailer, he selected a length of rusted iron and backed away towards the space between two empty caravans.

Minutes later, a car slowed and, without indicating, turned into the yard. A silver Merc with alloy wheels. No subtlety here.

Engine switched off, the driver sat for several moments before swinging his legs round and climbing out, the click of the car door behind him soft and precise. Broad shouldered, not tall, he was wearing a blue Nike zip-up jacket with loose-fitting black trousers, leather shoes. Late thirties, Cordon guessed, early forties, just starting to go to seed.

As he watched, the man double-checked his watch, lowered the zip on his jacket midway down.

Iron held down flat against his thigh, Cordon stepped into sight.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘Never mind.’

‘Where’s the woman? The boy?’

‘They’re not coming.’

‘They better fuckin’ be. S’posed to be here now.’

His face was flushed, cheeks swelling out.

Cordon walked towards him, taking his time. ‘You’re not listening,’ he said.

‘Don’t give me fuckin’ listening. You call ’em, get ’em here, or fuckin’ else.’

Cordon shook his head, the brittle edges of the iron biting into his hand.

Angling his head to one side, the man hawked phlegm and spat at the ground, then, as if making a decision, he arched suddenly forward, reaching round to the back of his jacket as if he might be going for a gun.

The one chance, likely the only one he was going to get, Cordon hit him with a fast swing, smack against the underside of the elbow with a crack that made him scream.

‘You bastard! You broke my fuckin’ arm.’

In for a penny, Cordon hit him again, the knee this time, and the man went down in a sprawling heap. Cordon pressed his foot down hard against the damaged leg and pulled the pistol from where it had been resting against the small of the man’s back. One click and he pocketed the magazine. The gun he hurled away as far as he could.

‘You’ll live to fuckin’ regret this.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

Cordon rested the rusted end of iron against the man’s sweated forehead, oblivious to the pain in his eyes.

‘A message for Anton …’

‘I don’t know no fucking Anton.’

‘Then whoever sent you on his behalf. Steer clear. The woman and the boy. Well clear. This isn’t the way.’

Stepping quickly round him, Cordon freed the keys from where they’d been left in the Merc and launched them in a high, steepling arc, deep into the woods.

‘Bastard!’ the man shouted. ‘You’re gonna fuckin’ pay for this. Fuckin’ pay.’

Cordon thought, one way or another, he was probably right. Walking away, breath raw, his heart hammered inside his chest. This time he’d managed it without a scratch.