The Murder Exchange

Saturday, eight days ago

Iversson

The rain came down like a tropical monsoon. A month with none and then the whole lot arrives at once, just like London buses. It was difficult to see out of the car window, there was so much of it, but I suppose in a way that was useful. At least no one would be paying me too much attention as I sat parked across the road from the flash-looking four-storey townhouse where the Heavenly Girls brothel was based.

For the hundredth time that night, I looked at my watch. 1.15 a.m. I’d been there close to two hours now, watching and waiting, seeing how much activity there was, wondering if that pervert Krys Holtz was going to turn up. A steady flow of cabs had been pulling up and spitting out their male passengers, mainly of the suited and booted variety, all looking like they had the cash to pay the sort of prices this place apparently asked. Elaine had told me she’d heard that thirty or so women worked for them but only about ten were there at any one time, in keeping with the intimate atmosphere. I reckoned that those ten were being kept pretty fucking busy if tonight was typical, and there’d probably be as many as twenty-five bodies in there when we hit the place. This meant we were going to have to move extremely fast. With that many people and that many rooms, it would be impossible to secure everyone, so you had to guess that one of them was going to be able to get a call in to the police. The Met were never the speediest bastards in the world, but if the person on the other end of the blower sounded desperate enough, they’d probably pull their finger out. That would mean a five-or six-minute initial response time, which didn’t give us a lot of leeway.

But things were coming together, and that was the main thing. Johnny Hexham, a man always in pursuit of money, had already stolen the first car, the one I was in now, and was currently hunting down a van to use as transport for Holtz. Joe, acting as a businessman in pursuit of some much-needed recuperation, had made a verbal agreement to hire one of the farmhouses I’d seen on a one-month let, starting the following day, and was scheduled to go down there in a few hours’ time to put down the money and pick up the keys. Johnny was on driving standby every night the following week, and the rest of the team were together, although I still hadn’t met the jeweller’s brother, Kalinski. If all went according to plan, I’d get to give him the once-over the following night when the four of us, minus Johnny, met to discuss the final details.

A black Toyota Land Cruiser pulled up outside Heavenly Girls and stopped, engine rumbling, by the side of the road. A couple of seconds later a big bloke, at least six four, probably more, stepped out. This was Fitz, if Elaine’s description was correct. Another bloke, only slightly shorter and with the same build, came out the other side. Big Mick. And then the man himself, Krys Holtz, emerged from the front passenger side and stepped onto the pavement. Krys was a lot shorter than the other two, probably no more than five ten, but again he had the big build. He was no fucking oil painting either, and you could understand why he had to pay for it a fair amount. He dressed well, in an expensive dark suit and leather coat, but his face was all fat and jowly, like someone had lived in it too long, and his haircut — a big black Elvis-style quiff that had gone out of fashion when the King was still below fifteen stone — was all over the shop. He was only meant to be thirty but he looked at least ten years older. I was surprised that the sight of him didn’t fill me with rage. Instead, I watched him calmly, knowing that I’d be getting even shortly.

Krys hurried up the steps to the house, flanked by the other two, then the door opened and a very satisfied-looking Tugger Lewis stepped out. Tugger moved aside, avoiding the group, who walked through the space he’d just occupied as if he wasn’t there. He made his way over to the car and, after turning round to check that Krys and his men had entered the building, got in the passenger side. I started the engine and pulled away from the kerb. It was 1.25 a.m.

‘So, how did it go?’

‘Very nice,’ said Tugger in his thick Geordie accent. ‘The lasses are high quality, I have to say.’

‘They ought to be for that sort of price.’

‘Aye, I know. Two hundred quid for half an hour. That’s about two quid a thrust. It’s a shocking price. I was down at a place in Puerto Banus a couple of years back and it cost?38.70 for a girl once the exchange rate was taken into account. And you got forty minutes.’

‘See, that’s what I’d consider a fair deal. A quid a minute. Not much more expensive than a fairground waltzer.’

‘And considerably more exciting.’

‘Exactly. So, what’s the layout in there like?’

‘Reception’s on the second floor. There’s a lift goes up there. You come straight out into a foyer and you’re facing the lass on the desk.’

‘Security?’

‘Two bouncers in dickie bows. Big lads, mind, but not armed. As far as I saw, it’s only them, and they won’t be any trouble. There’s a bar that’s off the foyer and that’s where the lasses hang out when they’re not otherwise engaged. You can go in there and have a drink with them; if you like one, you go off with her to one of the rooms. I’m not sure how many rooms there are, definitely no more than a dozen. I went up to the next floor and there were six that I counted, all very spacious and comfortable. They use rooms on the fourth floor as well, and I reckon it’ll be the same layout. The second floor’s just the reception area, and the first and ground floor’s accommodation for the staff, I think. Basically, the whole building belongs to them.’

‘Well, you know the plan, Tugger. Will it work in that sort of place?’

He appeared to think about it for a moment. ‘Aye, I think so, but it’s risky, no doubt about it.’

I grinned at him. ‘But think of the rewards. Think of how far a hundred grand’ll go up your way. You could probably buy a whole street in the north-east for that.’

‘Aye, maybe so, but you’ll have to move up there too, Max. You can’t even get a garden shed round here for that sort of price. Hardly worth risking your neck for.’

‘It’s only a short piece of work,’ I replied, stopping at a red light. It struck me then that Fowler had said pretty much the same thing on the day we’d first met.

But you know what they say. Once bitten, twice ready.