Dead Of Winter (Willis/Carter #1)(35)
‘What you going to do when you find the people responsible?’
‘I’m going to kill every one of them . . . slowly.’
Carmichael worked all night as he watched the information come in from Micky. He sat at his desk, kept the fire burning and focused like he hadn’t done for many years. He set a trail of retrospective events in place. Micky instant-messaged him all through the night. They went back and forth with ideas.
‘Airforce do?’ Micky wrote.
‘Yes.’
‘You had a girlfriend who disappeared. How does that sound?’
‘Captured by little known rivals to the Tijuana Cartel? Sounds perfect, Micky.’
Together they threaded Carmichael’s name in where there was a gap and only the dead knew the truth. Now he was Mr Hart: money-, arms-, drugs-and people-trafficker. He was as well connected to the great but dead names as you could get.
Carmichael had almost finished packing when Bridget arrived at ten the next morning. He saw her pass by the window on her way to the barn.
He went over to the shelf and took down the photo of Louise and Sophie and put it in the bag. He shut down the laptop and closed it up before packing it away in the holdall, then zipped it up ready. He walked out through the kitchen and tack room. The skinned dog fox swung from the end of a hook fixed to the edge of the stable block outside. Half of its face was missing where the bullet had passed through. Carmichael crossed the yard, opened the stable door, and led Tor out of his stable and tied him to a post in the yard.
Tor gave a sigh and then he snorted white dragon breath into the air through his flared nostrils as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other, pawing the ground with his unshod hoof gently scraping at the hardstanding.
‘Alright, Tor . . . stand still.’
He stripped off the horse’s rugs and hung them over the open stable door. Then he picked up the brush and brushed long hard sweeps down over the animal’s flanks. Tor turned to bite him. Carmichael swore at him and the horse moved one ear at a time as it listened, then it shook its mane and carried on transferring weight from one leg to another.
Bridget passed him on her way down from the barn. She came to press the flat of her hand against Tor’s soft velvet muzzle. He began licking her palm.
‘I am going away for a while, Bridget. Look after things here for me till I get back. The sheep will need extra care now otherwise we’ll get no more lambs from them.’
She looked at him over Tor’s neck. ‘How long for?’
‘I don’t know.’ She looked away. ‘I’ll leave enough money and I’ll leave instructions with the bank so that you can get what you need.’ She nodded. ‘You stay here at the house and look after the animals. I don’t know whether Rusty will make it but I trust you to do the best you can for him.’
She picked up the fork, went to get the wheelbarrow and started mucking out Tor’s stable. Twenty minutes later she heard the motorbike start up. She stopped working and listened to the sound of him leaving.
Carmichael stopped off at the bank to sign papers. He got a shave, a haircut. Four hours of riding, allowing for a stop-off at an out-of-town shopping outlet to buy some clothes, tools and get some cards printed up. He made sure they were sleek and top-quality, black and gold with just his name and his mobile number, then he drove through London and pulled his Triumph Tiger motorbike into the space in front of the old club in a run-down side street of Shoreditch. The estate agent stopped talking on his phone as he saw Carmichael get off his bike and walk across. He shook Carmichael’s hand with his hot one.
‘Great premises. Fab property. You certainly know a good deal when you see it. The owners are keen to get the property let.’ Either side of the club were empty properties. ‘This is the area in London. You’re guaranteed a great business once this is up and running.’
‘Why is it empty?’ Carmichael asked, but he already knew the answer. He followed the young Indian, heavily weighed down with muscles and jewellery, as he opened an envelope with keys inside and began unlocking the doors. There were locks top and bottom of the door and a padlock in the centre. Carmichael looked up to where the CCTV camera had been. Someone had ripped off the bracket but the plate was still drilled into the brickwork; that would save him some time.
‘They had some sort of trouble with the last tenants. Nothing to do with the landlords or this area. It was a personal matter.’ The estate agent smiled nervously and unlocked the large doors into the dark. ‘The press exaggerated things the way they always do.’
‘Yeah . . . I’m sure.’ Carmichael smiled to himself.
‘There are offices behind here.’ They stood in the club, a cashier’s office to the left. The estate agent closed the doors behind them. ‘I’ll show you those in a minute.’ Stepping further inside he switched on the lights. ‘The landlords have kept the electricity running here so that we can show you round properly. Here to the right are stairs up to the cloakrooms and a further office and storage space. ‘Straight ahead is the main section of the club. If you’d like to follow me . . .’ Inside, it still had the smell of years of smokers and spilt drinks embedded in its nicotine-filmed walls and spongy floor. A long bar stretched away to the right, the dance floor was down a few steps to the left. It was long and rectangular, a raised area to the left: dancing poles at either end of the floor; above it two cages were on a raised plinth, the hook and chains that held them in place still there. ‘Just to let you know, Mr Hart, the owners would accept a slightly lower offer than stated. And we can settle it all today. If all is agreed I have been instructed to give you the keys. You’ll have to apply for a licence but it shouldn’t be a problem.’