Dead Of Winter (Willis/Carter #1)(42)

Back on the street they passed the porno elf, who was shovelling noodles into her mouth from a takeaway box. She scowled at them.

‘I found one of the girls backstage who recognized Sonny,’ Ebony said as they walked back to the car. ‘She said he was here last night.’

‘By now he’ll know we’re after him. Digger will have seen to that. Digger won’t like us going in there. He won’t like the extra police activity affecting business. These are lean times. He may be keen to distance himself from Sonny. He certainly won’t want him in his club. Sonny will do one of two things – go underground or brazen it out.’





Chapter 24


At eight that evening Carmichael parked his Jag behind a red Ferrari outside the small cocktail bar off Islington Green. This bar was new to him but Islington Green was the same as it had always been. Across the road from where he parked, there was the same fruit and veg shop that he and Louise had made special trips to. He was amazed at how whole areas of London had changed since he’d been away, while other places hadn’t even changed shopkeepers.

It was a tiny bar, like sitting in someone’s front room. There were a few friends at one of the tables and a couple at another. The mood was dark and intimate. As he walked in he saw Sonny, his broad thighs perched on the edge of a bar stool.

‘What you having?’ Sonny asked.

‘A single malt. Thanks for agreeing to show me round . . . appreciated.’

Sonny grunted. He wasn’t happy. Since the police visit earlier, Digger had ordered him to hang fire on bringing any more girls in for a few weeks and told him to stay out of Cain’s. Digger was hoping the new man Hart would discreetly take a few of the girls off his hands.

When the drinks arrived they moved to one of the tables and sat across from one another.

‘So . . . where did you come from, Hart? Did some checking. You seem to have arrived here out of thin air. You got some high-up friends – but most of them are dead.’ He made a sound like laughter and his eyes narrowed like a cat’s as he studied Carmichael. When Sonny blinked his eyes shut a little too long it was as if they became stuck for a fraction of a second. ‘You spent some time in South America? What was your business out there?’

Carmichael smiled into his whisky. ‘Staying alive. What does anyone do out there? Same business the world over . . . make money.’

Sonny sat back and studied Carmichael. ‘You buy a brand-new car like that?’ He gestured towards the Jag outside. ‘You must have made a lot of money. There’s a lot about you which looks good on paper but doesn’t really add up – like the fact you walk like a Para . . . you got Sandhurst on your CV?’

Carmichael smiled. ‘It’s a good guess but it’s not right . . . airforce, not Marines.’ Carmichael was about to see how Micky’s story would stand up to scrutiny. ‘You want to know how? I’m going to level with you, Sonny, because I think maybe we can do business better that way. I was in the airforce straight from school; got my pilot’s licence there, learned to fly a helicopter and just about anything in the air. But by the time I was thirty I was sick of it; realized there was more to life than serving queen and country and I could earn a lot more doing commercial work. For a time I worked in the Pacific, tracking tuna, then I went off travelling, went to join an old girlfriend in South America. Then she disappeared on me. I went looking and found out that she’d been acquired by some local cartel. I joined forces with the men I needed to get her back. I found my skills were sought after. Started making a name for myself transporting people in and out of trouble; I’m a good shot, I can handle myself. I’m discreet, hard-working.’

Sonny couldn’t hide the admiration on his face:

‘Did you get her back?’

‘Yes. But, you know what? Love’s a fickle thing and I have to say it didn’t feel the same. Shortly after that she disappeared for good.’ He watched Sonny’s reaction. Sonny laughed.

‘It’s a good story, Hart. Let’s hope it’s true, for your sake. You want to see what Digger was talking about? Let’s go.’

So far so good; well done, Micky, thought Carmichael.

They drove down towards Finsbury Park in Sonny’s red Ferrari and stopped on a street with once-elegant Victorian semi-detached and terraced houses. Now the big houses had been subdivided so many times they had become warrens for prostitutes and pushers. After they parked up, Sonny called three lads over and paid them twenty quid to both look after the car and leave it alone.

Sonny led the way across the street and in through a wrought-iron gate to a house second from the end. They had to step over a pile of rubbish at the foot of the steps leading to the front door. As they walked up the steps a dog went ballistic in the basement flat trying to get out to rip them to shreds. Sonny rang the bell to the ground-floor flat.

They heard the sound of keys in the door. A sickly-looking mixed-race lad answered the door. He had big ears, bad skin and his head was too small to be shaved the way it was.

‘You wanna clean up outside, Tyrone; we’ll be attracting vermin,’ Sonny said to the boy. He shuffled nervously in front of them; his clothes were baggy, the crotch of his jeans between his knees, as he led the way inside.

‘Yes, boss. Sorry, boss . . . it’s the foxes. They got clever, worked out how to open the rubbish box.’ Tyrone looked at Carmichael.