Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,27

which couldn’t be linked directly back, should anything go wrong.

By ‘wrong’, read ‘dead’.

His throat had gone suddenly dry. He coughed. ‘That’s right, boss. But we figured since the car was going to be cut up and the truck torched, it was no problem.’ He shifted uneasily on the hardback chair, trying to find the words to deflect attention away from what was clearly being seen as a failure on his part.

‘Of course they were. Not the point, though, is it? It was meant to go on longer, wasn’t it? That was the plan.’ The man behind the desk played a slow drum tattoo on his thumbnail with a gold pen, the tap-tap loud and ominous in the quiet room. Heavily inscribed and crowned with a dark-red ruby, a nod of admiration to the man holding it, the pen was rumoured to have been a gift from an admirer named ‘Topper’ Harris. Harris, the wealthy owner of a string of betting shops across the South East, was now dead and buried after an ostentatious funeral cortège complete with carriage and black horses down the Mile End Road, East London.

It had been Gerald ‘Ruby’ Ketch who had arranged the hit, just as he’d subsequently arranged the flashy send-off funeral. But everyone knew that the orders had come from his employers, known only as the Twins. Ketch was a frontman, but wielded considerable power. His was the day-to-day running of the Firm, as the gang was known, but every move was monitored by his bosses, who reigned supreme in their manor but discreetly out of the picture.

Following several close calls with the police, and excessive interest from the Metropolitan Police Flying Squad, they had taken an apparent back seat, leaving Ketch to take over operations. It left him more exposed than them, but he was well paid for the risk and took his job seriously.

And he didn’t want to end up in the ground like some others in the past, enemies real or imagined.

The funeral had been no more than a cynical East End stunt, a warning to anyone else who fancied changing sides. Seen allegedly talking to the Richardson gang who operated in South London, the dead man had been scooped up and shot dead with little hesitation. Rivals in crime, the Richardsons operated slots, protection rackets and the large-scale handling of stolen goods. Even being seen on their manor was viewed as a betrayal with only one outcome.

Unfortunately late for the dead man, it had emerged that he was innocent, and had been set up by another gang member. He had died vainly protesting his innocence, closely followed by his accuser, who was now rumoured to be holding up part of a new council car park in Basildon.

‘You see, George, we came to an arrangement with certain parties across the water,’ Ketch continued. ‘That arrangement was for you and the boys to go through a—’ He snapped his fingers and looked past Tasker. ‘What was it called, Brayne?’

‘A scenario.’ The answer came from a man sitting near the door.

‘That’s it. A scenario.’ Ruby Ketch smiled, pleased with his choice of word, and ran a hand over his Brylcreemed hair. He had similar dark good looks to those of his bosses, slightly spoilt by a broken nose, the result of an opponent’s headbutt in the boxing ring. Tasker didn’t like to think about what had happened to the other fighter. ‘To go through a scenario. But you cut it short, didn’t you? You came out early. Now, how am I supposed to explain that to our associates over there, eh? It’s embarrassing, is what it is. And I don’t like being embarrassed.’

Tasker felt his blood running cold. Ketch wasn’t really bothered by what the French thought; he’d be more wary of the Twins and their reaction. They were closer, for one thing – and unpredictable.

‘Sorry, boss.’ Christ, was this it? He’d never imagined getting himself in this sort of crack. Cock-ups were inevitable every now and then, no matter what precautions you took; timings got screwed, plans went out the window, people didn’t do what they were supposed to, someone got lucky. Fucking Calloway. He wondered who the poncey driver had phoned from the French cop shop. He’d never thought to ask him, only relieved at the time that they’d got out before the Froggies got really pissed off and threw them all in the Bastille.

History wasn’t Tasker’s strong point.

As if reading his mind earlier, Ketch said, ‘How did Calloway perform? Do