TURKISH DELIGHT by Barry Faulkner (ebook reader wifi .TXT) 📗

until you have completed the job, Mr Nevis. Do not contact me under any circumstances, understood? If I think I have anything that will help you I will text you.’

‘Okay,’ I nodded. ‘But don’t hassle me – these kind of jobs have to be planned and can take a while.’

She laughed. ‘I won’t hassle you, Mr Nevis. But the sooner it is done, the sooner another eight hundred thousand pounds makes its way to Southwark.’ And with a beaming smile she got into the car and was gone.

‘Nice car,’ Gold said as she joined me from across the road where she’d been covering me.

‘Get the number?’

‘Yes, I’ll get an ex of mine to run it through ANPR.’

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CHAPTER 6

Well, where do you start looking for a man even MI6 can’t find? I sat down in my office the next morning and started on a computer search: his background, his companies, their files at Companies House, any relatives – anything at all. He was obviously a private man; one who valued his privacy greatly as the only lead I could find was a paparazzi picture of him and Eve at Ascot three years ago, and that wasn’t much help as the top hat and large sunglasses kept most of his head and face hidden. I hoped Gold was having more luck; she was twisting arms and pulling strings with her contacts in the upper class echelon of her ‘client’ list. It had worked for us before; household names and celebrities were always most keen to help when shown snippets of videos Gold had of them in scenarios they really wouldn’t want released on social media. Button cameras can be so useful.

I pulled up the Ascot picture on my Adobe, cropped it to just Nicholas Rambart’s face, enlarged it and printed it off. I sat back and studied it. Where oh where are you now, Mr Rambart?

The answer came quickly as the man himself, preceded and followed by two rather large gentlemen in long overcoats and dark glasses came into the office. No words were spoken whilst one of his goons checked the kitchen was empty; the other one stood outside the office door assuring his master of undisturbed privacy. I recognised the one checking the kitchen even behind his dark glasses: Grant Rankin, ex-Sergeant Grant Rankin, Met’s Organised Crime Squad. I never worked with Rankin but he had the reputation as a bit of a loner; kept himself to himself and spent most of the time I knew him deep underground, mixing amongst the East London Eastern European population where organised crime gangs from Romania were embedded. He had Iranian parents who fled when the IRGC started persecuting academics – both were teachers; he’d obviously quit the Met and gone into private security like me.

‘It says knock,’ I said, pointing at the notice on my door, and then sat back and crossed my arms, hoping to give out a relaxed image.

Nicholas Rambart took the chair opposite me and pointed to the printout. He smiled, ‘Ascot 1919.’

‘Did you back a winner?’ Well, what else could I say? There I was caught bang to rights looking at his mug shot.

He smiled. ‘I did not – I don’t gamble, Mr Nevis. However, it seems you do.’

I raised my eyebrows and gave a slight tilt to my head. ‘I do?’

‘Yes, and I fear you have backed a loser in Eve, my wife,’ his turn to raise the eyebrows and look at me for an answer. I stayed silent. How much did he know of the deal with Eve Rambart? Did he know anything at all other than she had been here, or was he fully aware of our arrangement? And more importantly, would I get out of here alive if he did? The goon at the office door didn’t look the sort that took prisoners.

Rambart sat back and let out a long breath. ‘She wants me dead, doesn’t she Mr Nevis? She would have told you that and offered a considerable sum of money for you to carry out the...’ He paused, searching for the word; he found it. ‘The hit – I think that is the term you people use, hit.’ He shook his head a little, side to side like a headmaster would when wondering what to do with a repeatedly naughty child. ‘Trouble is, Mr Nevis, you took the money, so I assume you do intend to kill me.’ He held up a hand to silence me as I was about to concoct some sort of denial. ‘Please don’t deny it, not unless you have a copper-bottomed reason for your visit to Coutts yesterday and the money transfer?’

I should have known; a man in his position would have all the angles covered. The bank manger probably made a call as soon as we had left; maybe the chauffeur was a plant put there to keep an eye on the wife? It didn’t matter, Nicholas Rambart knew I had taken a payment to kill him. I had my Walther PK380 in the desk drawer, but would I get to it before one of his men got me? I should probably have a go, as it was obvious I wasn’t going to be allowed to make good on my deal with Eve Rambart. I uncrossed my arms, ready to go for the drawer.

Rambart stroked his chin, sensing the change in my body language. ‘No, Mr Nevis, I am not going to kill you. In fact, I quite admire you for taking the job; she asked four other people before you and they all refused. You must be very confident in your ability to complete the job – either that or you must be very hard up. I think it’s the first, I think you have confidence in your ability. I like that in people, Mr Nevis, I could use more people like that in my