Take Two

CHAPTER 12

‘Where’s my fucking money, Nicholas? You’re going to save yourself a whole world of hurt by telling me now.’ Nicholas Cohen put his hand up to his lip, then blinked at his fingers. They glistened with blood. His blood. Cohen was middle-aged with a receding hairline, heavy jowls and an expanding waistline, the body of a man who had spent most of his life sitting behind a desk. Cohen was on his knees, looking up at the man who’d hit him. Drops of blood splattered onto the thick white rug underneath him.

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

Warwick Richards shook his head. Richards was sitting on one of the sofas, watching Cohen with hard eyes. ‘You see, lying like that isn’t going to help you. You’re an accountant, Nicholas. You’re my accountant. Money is your job. Looking after it, putting it where the Revenue won’t find it. That’s what I’ve been paying you for. So telling me you don’t know where it is just doesn’t wash.’ Richards was a big man, six foot two tall and broad-shouldered, but he wasn’t the one who’d hurt Cohen. It had been years since Richards had hit anybody. He’d reached the stage where he paid to have people hurt though, truth be told, he sometimes missed the adrenaline rush that came with dispensing retribution. Richards crossed his legs and straightened the creases of his Hugo Boss trousers. He stretched his arms along the back of the sofa as he waited for Cohen to reply.

‘I’m not lying, I don’t know where it is.’

‘Two million quid doesn’t just go walkabout on its own. The only two people who had signing rights were me and you and if I’d taken the money out I wouldn’t be asking you where it was, would I?’

‘I think he’s broken my bridge,’ said Cohen, gingerly touching his jaw.

‘What fucking bridge?’

‘My bridgework. Three of my teeth, they’re a bridge. He’s broken it.’ Cohen pointed at Mick Halpin, the man who did most of the hurting that Richards needed doing. Halpin was an inch or two shorter than Richards but much wider, with a square shaved head and the thick muscular neck and forearms that came from regular visits to the gym and equally regular purchases of illegal steroids. Halpin had a small gold earring in his left ear and a thick gold chain around his neck. He was wearing an open-necked shirt that was flecked with Cohen’s blood and, as he stared down at Cohen, he cracked his knuckles.

‘The only reason that Mick hit you is because you won’t tell me where my bloody money is. This is on your head, Nicholas. So don’t cry about your busted bridge because it’s all down to you. Now where’s my fucking money?’

‘I told you, I don’t know.’

Richards sighed and waved a languid hand at Halpin. Halpin stepped forward and backhanded Cohen across the face. The sound was as loud as a pistol shot and Cohen fell back onto the white rug. Halpin kicked him hard in the stomach and the accountant curled into a foetal ball.

‘Don’t lie to me, Nicholas,’ said Richards. He looked at his watch, a solid gold Rolex. ‘Stop messing me around. I’ve got to be at the club before it closes.’