at the end of Old Compton Street, an intimate bar in theatreland, with rich burgundy walls and theatre bills on the ceiling. It was best when it was quiet, near enough to Soho for the buzz, far enough away from the noise.
But it wasn’t quiet. Theatre-luvvies mixed with the gay parade of Old Compton Street, packed into a small room, blowing smoke to keep out the fumes from the buses on Charing Cross Road, the noise of the engines mixing with the soft mutter of street life. The people crammed themselves in to get out of the heat. They just made it hotter.
I rubbed at my eyes. I could go home. I lived just a few grubby doors away, in a small flat that cost the same as a suburban house. But I liked it, the movement, the colour, part porno, part gangland. I glanced outside and saw tourists slide by, young European kids with rucksacks hunting in packs. A homeless woman, big coat, too many layers, walked up and down, shouting at passers-by. She looked sixty, was probably thirty-five.
My name is Jack Garrett and I’m a freelance reporter. I work the crime beat, so I spend the small hours listening to police scanners and chasing tip-offs. I hang around police bars and pick up the gossip, the rumours. Sometimes I get enough to write something big, maybe bring down a name or two, backed up by leaked documents and unnamed police sources. Most nights, though, I chase drug raids and hit and runs. Dawn over the rooftops is my rush hour, blue and clean, as I condense a night of grime into short columns, each one sent to the big London dailies. Some of the stories might make the second edition, but most make the next day’s paper, so I spend the mornings chasing updates. It’s grunt work, but it pays the rent.
I didn’t mind the night shift. I chased excitement, always one good tip from a front-page by-line. But the working week was like the city, fast and relentless, and it took the snap out of my skin and the shine from my eyes. I caught my reflection in a mirror and screwed up my nose. I could feel the night hanging around me like old smoke. My hair looked bad and my complexion was pale and drawn. My clothes looked how I felt, crumpled and worn.
I closed my eyes and let the sound of the bar wash over me. I needed a quiet day.
Sophie watched as Ben paced around the apartment. They were estate agents. It was all about sales and targets, and Ben seemed jittery. He was having a quiet month, but that just made him keener. Maybe the job wasn’t for her. He had a focus she struggled to match.
‘Ten minutes and we’re leaving,’ he said, snatching looks at his watch and then staring out of the window, down into Old Compton Street. ‘We’ve got three more after this.’ He looked round at Sophie, flashed a look up her body. She spotted it.
‘What’s the punter’s name, anyway?’ he asked.
Sophie glanced at her appointment checklist. ‘Paxman, it says here.’
He looked back out of the window. ‘Look at all this,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Did you know it was named after a churchgoer?’
‘What was?’
‘This street. Look at it. Fucking queers, blacks, foreigners. It’s just about sex, nothing more. Men looking for men.’
‘Give it a rest, Ben.’ God, she hated estate agents. Hated having to be one. She liked Ben even less.
She joined him at the window, tried to see his problem. The Three Greyhounds across the road was full of people. The black and white Tudor stripes looked too dark in the sunshine, but the tables were busy, the pavements full of movement, men laughing, smiling, flirting, all nations, all types. People drank coffee and were smoked out by delivery transits, cyclists weaving through. The apartment seemed quiet by comparison, empty of furniture, wooden blinds keeping out the sun.
‘It’s the only place in London where people seem like they’re smiling,’ she said, and turned away. ‘Maybe it’s a no-show.’
Ben turned round. ‘Oh, there’ll be a show. You know what it’s like around here. They’re all busting a gut to get a window over this. Fucking Queer Street.’
Sophie shook her head. He was a fool. Hated people. Maybe saw in them the things about himself he hated. But he could sell homes to people who didn’t like them for prices they couldn’t afford. Maybe it was the hate in him that helped him. And he would collect the pound, pink or not.
She was about to answer when the doorbell chimed.
Ben saluted. ‘Time to earn some money,’ he chirped, before skipping down the stairs to let the customer in.
When he returned, the buyer was on his shoulder, smartly dressed in a black suit, but nervous, twitchy, looking around, walking slowly. A large holdall clunked heavily as it was set down on the floor. The buyer took in the view from the window, the blinds clinking shut as Sophie exchanged shrugs with Ben. They had a weird one.
‘Isn’t it a great view?’ Ben said, with saccharine sincerity. ‘It makes this property a popular one. In fact, you’re the third one today.’
The buyer turned around, smiling. Maybe guessed the lie. ‘Yeah, I suppose so. I’m sorry.’
Ben flashed a look of disappointment as the buyer rummaged in the bag, looking for paper to make some notes, words coming out as a distracted mumble.
But then Sophie sensed something was wrong when she saw Ben’s eyes grow wide. Then she heard him splutter, ‘What the fuck?’
‘Scream and I’ll shoot.’
It was said polite and slow, as if the buyer were making conversation.
Sophie looked. She saw two handguns, one in each hand, long and mean charcoal steel, pointing straight at their heads.
Henri Dumas walked quickly through Soho, baseball cap on his head, hiding behind Gucci sunglasses, dodging between the tight T-shirts, admiring glances, men on the hunt.
As one of the biggest football stars in the Premiership, it was hard to walk around. Autographs, photographs, shaking hands. He preferred his car, with its tinted privacy. He liked Soho even less. Streets came at him from all sides, dog-legged twists of neon and movement; he was always scared of being photographed looking into the wrong shop, the wrong bar.
He sensed the mutter as he walked past pavement cafes, past busy pubs, alleys, sex shops, clubs. Men smiled at him, tilted and flirted as he passed them. If he just kept walking, he could get there. Get away from the glare, the seediness.
He thought about turning back, but he knew he had to get to the meet. He thought about his fiancée, the other half of a new celebrity brand, millions in the making. She sang in a band, he played football, and the press loved them, the new golden couple. They bought their contrived paparazzi snaps, so-called secret pictures set up by his agent and rehearsed until the look was just right, and filled the column inches with every new style or story. The press loved his Gallic verve, his brooding dark eyes, strong jaw, flowing dark hair. Their engagement was great business. On his own, he kicked a football. Together, they dominated the glossies, every word they spoke worth something.
He checked his watch. He was going to be early. He didn’t like that, but he knew how the English liked to be on time. And if he didn’t get there, his life as a tabloid hero would be over. At least, in the way he’d known it.
He stepped up the pace.
Back at the apartment, Ben was facedown on the floor, his hands behind his back, his nose pressed against the cherry wood. His eyes were wide, his breaths hot and heavy. Sophie was astride his legs, binding his wrists with silver duct tape, tight and strong, her tears falling onto his back, hot and wet. There was a gun pressed hard into the back of her neck, the other one aimed at the back of Ben’s head.
Once she’d finished his bindings, Sophie looked round. She saw the muzzle of the gun and shrank back.
‘Get on the floor, face down.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ wailed Sophie, tears streaming down her face. She was scared, the sounds coming in fast, her instincts running faster.
The gun was pressed harder into