diary. When they’d met, how often – and of course it was me who gave permission for the bug to be planted at their table in the first place –’
‘And they relocated you for that?’ Maggie knew she sounded slightly incredulous.
Nick’s face reddened. ‘Yes. The unfortunate thing was the two of them came from different sides of the tracks. One was a highly respected financier in the city of London and the other one was something very, very iffy in organised crime.’
There was a long pause. ‘And?’ prompted Maggie. It was like pulling teeth.
Nick sucked his bottom lip and slowly turned the coffee mug between his long fingers. ‘And after they were arrested the two of them tried to persuade me not to testify.’ His voice was low now and very controlled as he turned the mug around and around. ‘It got very nasty very quickly once they’d been picked up. They’re not the sort of people you mess with. They threatened to rearrange my anatomy so I could bear children, they firebombed my restaurant and filled my basement with raw sewage. Not them personally, of course, but their hired help.
By the time the case came to court they’d blown up my car, ruined my business, destroyed my marriage, terrorised my staff and driven me to breaking point.’ He sighed heavily. ‘The pair of them systematically destroyed everything I had built to try and stop me from taking the stand. The authorities extradited one of them to the States. The police had already decided by that time that I was at long-term risk from reprisals.’ He drained the dregs of his coffee. ‘So there we are, now you know, Maggie. That’s what I’m doing here.’
She stared at him, not quite sure, now that she had dragged the story out of him, what to say. ‘My God. So what happened to the two men?’
Nick shook his head, uncomprehendingly. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Which two men?’
Maggie looked heavenwards. Nice eyes but not too bright obviously. ‘The two men you gave evidence against? Your two regulars? Mr Vegetarian Lasagne and Mr Home-made Game Pie.’
Nick shook his head. ‘Oh no, you’ve got it wrong. It wasn’t two men I testified against, it was two women – and if they find me they’ll have me killed.’
Maggie swallowed hard. ‘Two women?’ she whispered.
Nick nodded.
‘Oh bugger,’ murmured Maggie, ‘You really are in trouble.’
Nimrod Brewster and Cain Vale had booked into the large anonymous hotel adjoining the airport. They had shed their suit jackets, turned on the TV and raided the mini-bar by the time their contact arrived. He was a man so undistinguished, so grey that he managed to render himself practically invisible. He stepped quietly into their hotel room and smiled without warmth.
‘All set then, are we, lads?’
Nimrod nodded and removed his mirrored shades to reveal the palest ice-blue eyes rimmed with piggy-white lashes. Outside, beyond the triple glazing, a silver jet rose noiselessly into the late evening sky.
‘Yeah, all fired up and ready to go. Brought everything we need, have yer?’ he asked, tucking his shades into the top pocket of his immaculately pressed shirt.
The man nodded and dropped a large manila envelope on one of the single beds.
‘There we are. Half now and half on completion, all expenses paid, as agreed. Oh and I thought you might like this.’ He pulled out a radio scanner and set it on the bed alongside the envelope. ‘You know how to use it?’
Nimrod nodded. ‘Nice touch. I always like to keep an ear out for the feds.’
The man paused and then looked at Nimrod thoughtfully as if weighing up just how much to tell him. ‘I want you to be especially careful with this one, Nimrod,’ he said in a low, unremarkable monotone.
‘Of course. We always are,’ said Nimrod, slightly affronted by the slur on his professionalism.
‘I know, I know, but just hear me out. Is your friend here with us?’ he said, stony-faced. Across the room Cain was stretched out on the other bed, his attention firmly fixed on the TV screen.
‘Don’t mind Cain, he loves all them crime reconstruction programmes, CCTV footage, anything like that, watches them all the time in case he sees someone we know. Saw his dad on there once. But when it comes down to the job, we’re there, you know that. Totally focused – one-hundred-and-ten per cent or nothing at all. It’s just that the planning side of it isn’t his forte.’ Nimrod’s tone was icy.
The little man nodded his head. ‘Sorry. I’m most certainly not implying that you’re normally careless. We wouldn’t have hired you if we thought that was the case.’ He paused. ‘It’s just that I think that somebody somewhere out there may already have got a sniff that something’s going down.’
Nimrod raised an eyebrow. He liked violence; he didn’t like unnecessary risks involving the law.
‘Yeah? What makes you say that, then?’
‘My clients are very insistent that Mr Lucas pays for his faux pas, and if you don’t take the hit someone else will, but what I’m saying is that if you don’t want it, it’s not too late to pull out.’ The man sucked his teeth, waiting for Nimrod’s reaction.
‘Go on,’ encouraged Nimrod. ‘Cough it up. We’re here now.’
‘My sources at Stiltskin have informed us that our friend, Mr Lucas, was all set to be relocated as one James Anthony Cook. Three days later and James Cook Esquire has vanished completely from their computer records only to reappear as one Mr Bernard Fielding.’
Nimrod nodded knowingly although he hadn’t got a clue what the man was going on about, his only real experience of computers involved creaming countless hoards of screaming aliens, but he did know when to keep schtum.
The little man continued. ‘My instincts tell me this may well be a complex double-bluff to throw us off the scent. I’m still convinced that James Cook is our man. The powers-that-be have just tried to dig him in a little bit deeper, added a soupçon more camouflage. Made it a little more difficult for anyone to find him. Maybe they suspect someone is hacking into their database, maybe they suspect a leak, who knows? One thing is for sure: if they knew for certain it was us then the likelihood is we would have been pulled in by now.’ He pointed towards the envelope on Nimrod’s bed. ‘We’ve already turned up several bank transactions in Banbury for our Mr Cook. New suit, good shoes –’ He grinned and tapped his nose. ‘Don’t ever doubt that Big Brother has his eye on you, lads.’
Nimrod grimaced. He sincerely hoped not; he had kneecapped his big brother back in ’86.
Across the room Cain was flicking through the channels while delicately stirring a maraschino cherry on a cocktail stick through the froth on the top of his Advocat snowball.
‘So, you’re saying that Nick Lucas is definitely now this James Cook bloke, then?’ Cain said slowly, suddenly looking up at their undistinguished visitor. ‘You’re certain? Only it could get very messy if you’ve got it wrong.’
The man sniffed, his smile opening up like an icy fissure.
‘Yes, absolutely. His new address is in the envelope, courtesy of the bank’s computer, then there’s photos, all the usual stuff that you need. He’s holed up in a caravan site near Banbury apparently, presumably sitting tight until they find him a house. So there we have it, lads. Your mission if you choose to accept it.’
Nimrod looked at Cain. For a moment their eyes met and Cain gave a barely perceivable nod.
Nimrod picked up the money. ‘Seems like the deal is on, then,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said their contact. ‘I knew you two wouldn’t let me down.’ He paused as he got to the door. ‘Ring me when it’s all over. And don’t blow it, lads. I don’t have to tell you that my clients are very influential people. Mr Lucas is to be made an example