Private London - James Patterson [46]
‘I’m not, Miss Harris,’ said the dark-haired detective. ‘I think your brother was murdered.’
Chapter 58
WALKING INTO THE Turk’s Head Tavern in Tufnell Park with a gun in your pocket is seriously not a good idea.
But I did it anyway.
The conversation didn’t exactly stop when Sam and I stepped through the pub’s door. But it was pretty damn close.
The Turk’s Head was just one of many buildings owned by Ronnie Allen. And every Saturday night the man himself was usually in attendance, playing poker or dealing with business. Not the sort of business the revenue men got a cut of.
Sure enough, that night Allen was at his usual table at the back of the bar. I knew it was his usual table because I had done some business with him before. That is to say Private had. He’d bought a dog-racing track two years ago and had totally refurbished it. He had hired us to overhaul and update all the security. A lot of money changes hands at a dog track, millions of pounds over the year, and there are people in the world stupid enough, seemingly, to try stealing from the man. Brad Dexter had been in charge of the project and we had never had any complaints from Ronnie Allen. He even paid his bill.
Like I said, there were very few people stupid enough to cross him but here Sam and I were, about to beard the lion in his den.
We walked towards his table and a couple of very large men in regulation goon suits stood up and glared at us.
‘Bottle of Corona for me, and …’ I looked across at Sam.
‘Mineral water for me,’ he said. ‘Ice, no slice.’
‘You’re going to need a straw to drink it through the face cast, motherfucker!’ said the first goon.
‘It’s okay, Ralph – this man is known to me,’ said Ronnie Allen.
Ralph, for God’s sake. Seems even meatball-headed thugs had designer names now.
Ronnie Allen was sitting with Brendan Ferres. Another dark-suited man with an extremely glamorous blonde was sitting opposite them. I didn’t know the other man. He was in his late forties, with sleek silver hair, and was wearing sunglasses. I didn’t know his companion either but she looked like she had been poured into her cream-white dress and was nearly spilling out of it.
Ronnie Allen himself was a small man, five seven at a push, with cropped grey hair and amused eyes. Apparently they stayed amused even if one of his associates was taking a baseball bat to someone’s knees, or a blowtorch to their bare feet.
I flashed a smile at the blonde woman. ‘Sorry to interrupt your evening,’ I said.
‘Spit it out, Carter. I’m in a business meeting,’ said Allen.
‘Hannah Shapiro,’ I said simply.
‘Never heard of her.’
‘She was kidnapped last night.’
He shook his head, genuinely puzzled as far as I could tell. ‘The fuck has that got to do with me?’
I pointed a finger at Brendan Ferres. ‘Little Boy Blue here was seen at the premises shortly before she was taken.’
Allen looked over at Ferres who shrugged. It was like a bison rolling its shoulders. His cold, piggy eyes weren’t amused. They were full of hate. I managed to stop my knees from knocking as he glared at me.
‘I ain’t got a clue what he’s on about, Ronnie,’ he said.
‘Chancellors University. Yesterday afternoon. I take it you weren’t there getting a thesis marked.’
He ignored me and turned to his employer. ‘How about I just bounce these bozos out and teach them some manners?’
‘How about you just answer the question?’ Allen replied rhetorically.
‘What, I have to answer to some pansy-assed window peeper now, do I?’
‘No, Brendan. You answer to me.’
He said it quietly but Ferres got the point. He shrugged
‘Okay. It’s just business. One of the guys there at the college … we have dealings with him. I don’t know the first flying fuck about some cooze being kidnapped.’
Allen turned to me and flashed me a quick smile. ‘That answer your questions, gentlemen?’ he asked without a hint of irony.
I nodded. I didn’t get the sense he was lying.
‘That’s good, Mister Allen,’ I replied, showing him the respect he expected. ‘But if I find out King Kong Junior here had any hand in it,