Dead Of Winter (Willis/Carter #1)(95)

‘Not sure if we’re going to get any more of him,’ said Ebony.

‘You better check the next post,’ said Harding.

Carmichael was doing the rounds of clubs who offered partially or fully nude tabletop dancers. Club Persuasion was his fifth club of the night and he was waiting for the owner, Buster Mills, to come and talk business. He knew he had to do it as part of his cover, build his profile, but his head was in a dark place; he wasn’t sure he could pull it off this evening.

Carmichael sat in the red leather booth and tried not to think about the news from Micky. He stared into space as the woman dressed as a cheeky schoolgirl swirled her gymslip round the pole in front of him.

She finished her dance and came up to sit next to him. ‘Fuck off.’ Carmichael was beginning to grow tired of the outfits, the smiles, the accents. He had enjoyed the first few dances but by this time he’d seen enough to make a living as a gynaecologist. The girl called him a pig and skulked off. Carmichael looked across at Buster making his way over. He was from Greece originally. His massive frame was a ball shape. Even his bald head had extra rolls of skin. He was an old player in gentlemen’s clubs and had been bankrupt more than once. He was hedging his bets with Club Persuasion. It had something for everyone: DJ sets in the week, football on a massive screen in the day, and strippers by night. Carmichael stood and shook his hand. Buster looked him over. He had a smile he could switch on and off.

‘Mr Hart. Nice of you to drop in. I hear you want to talk business?’

‘Buster . . . nice to meet you.’ He stood and shook Buster’s hand. ‘It’s a great place you have here. I’ve come to see if I can interest you in getting the best dancers for your club.’

‘Thank you. Come with me. Let’s talk.’

Buster opened a door onto a private lounge with a couple of sofas, a long dining table, a pole and a picture of the Queen. An elaborate drinks trolley was next to the dining table.

‘So come . . . sit down . . . I’ll get you a drink.’ Carmichael went round to sit at the far side of the table and Buster poured Carmichael a Scotch and handed it to him. He sat down opposite. ‘You are new here in London? We normally deal with Sonny . . . I saw the news today about his drowning. It’s a shame. Sonny’s mother is a good friend of mine.’ Buster kept his eye on Carmichael.

‘It’s very sad.’ Carmichael gave nothing away with his expression. He sat back, kept eye contact. ‘I’ll do the best I can to fill his shoes. In fact, I can confidently say I can do better. I have already expanded the network of contacts and have new girls just arrived; being acclimatized as we speak.’ Carmichael grinned. Buster smiled, tried to laugh; it came out high-pitched, strained. ‘You interested?’

Buster nodded.

‘Excuse me.’ Buster took his phone out of his pocket and read a text message. He put his phone back and looked at Carmichael, trying to hide it, but Carmichael could see he’d read something that made him nervous.

‘The thing is, Buster, I think Sonny made too many enemies. People felt ripped off by him. Take yourself, for instance. I understand that you felt loyalty but can you afford to waste hundreds of thousands a year? Sonny knew he’d captured the market with his father Dexter’s old friends. He knew his mother was well-respected. He’s been ripping off people like you for many years.’

Buster took a drink. He kept one eye on the door. Carmichael eased the revolver he’d stolen from Sonny out of his holster and held his hand steady, the silencer levelled against the underside of the table. He moved back slightly in his seat. Buster seemed not to be listening, to be thinking over what Carmichael had said, when the door opened and Deano walked in.

Carmichael concealed his gun as he turned to look over his shoulder at the man in the doorway. ‘Hart?’ Deano’s voice hit a bass note that boomed through the room.

‘Not here.’

Buster had started protesting but Deano was preprogrammed. Carmichael didn’t wait to find out what Deano wanted. As Deano took a step into the room Carmichael turned towards him and fired from beneath the cover of the table straight into Deano’s chest, three shots pop-pop-pop. He fell like a giant, just as Buster stood and reached for the gun he had concealed in his trouser belt. But it was like trying to get a monkey’s hand out of a jar. Carmichael swung back around and steadied his hand towards Buster’s chest and fired. He stepped over Deano and walked out.

He called Digger on his way back to the Velvet Lagoon:

‘Buster’s burst. Your mess . . . you clean it up. Don’t fuck with me. No more games. Deal with me or deal with no one. I’m coming over.’





Chapter 66


Carmichael walked through Soho and into Cain’s. Ray had been replaced by another barman he didn’t recognize. ‘Digger around?’

‘Who shall I say is asking, sir?’

‘Hart.’

The barman went away and returned a few moments later.

‘Digger says to go up to his apartment. Jock will take you up there.’

Carmichael turned to see a big black guy walking his way. He smiled. ‘Jock?’

‘Follow me, sir.’

Through the club, past the podiums and behind the velvet curtain, Jock opened a door and led the way up a steep flight of stairs: the back entrance to the floor upstairs and Digger’s apartment. Jock opened the apartment door for him and Carmichael heard the sound of laughter. He followed Jock around to the left and found Digger in a lounge that could have been used in a low-budget porn movie from the Seventies.