is he? Where is your son, Ilie?’
‘I am not able to tell you that. I do not know.’
The big man levelled the muzzle of his Kalashnikov at Marin’s head.
‘No, please,’ Marin pleaded.
The big man swivelled left and unloaded ten rounds into a wall hanging hunting scene above the fireplace.
‘For the last time. Where is he?’
‘He is not here.’
‘We know that.’
‘He has not been here.’
The big man raised the Kalashnikov and smashed Marin round the temple. The Bullybasa collapsed in a heap on the marble tiled floor.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Enough. He has been here. He was here three weeks ago. But he is not here now. He is very afraid. He has run. He has gone. But he told me to say you will get your money. He is very sorry, it was not his fault.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He has gone to England, to get your money.’
‘Where in England?’
‘London, maybe. I’m not sure. But he will be back with your money. He will steal cars, ship them to me. I will sell them, give money to you.’
‘Not good enough.’
The big man put the Kalashnikov to Marin’s head. He pressed his Gucci loafer into his throat.
The second Russian reached into the pocket of his Armani linen suit, took out a chamois leather pouch and removed a pair of silver-plated pliers.
‘You know what they say about Russian dentistry?’ The big man smiled for the first time. ‘It’s all true.’
As he pressed his foot into Marin’s Adam’s apple, the second Russian knelt beside him and squeezed the Bullybasa’s streaming nostrils. Marin gasped for breath.
The second Russian clamped the pliers onto Marin’s golden front tooth and yanked. Marin let out an agonized, terrified screech and his tooth was wrenched from its roots, ripping his gum and top lip in the process. He writhed in agony on the floor as the big man released his grip. His mouth was a claret gash. The blood poured through his fingers. The pain was excruciating.
‘We’ll call that a down payment,’ said the big man.
Marin cried out in pain, like a wounded fox caught in a snare.
‘London?’ mused the big man, wiping his forehead with a silk handkerchief.
‘He will get your money,’ Marin tried to reassure the Russian, even though he was gagging on his own blood.
‘Money?’ laughed the big man. ‘It’s gone beyond money.’
He lowered the Kalashnikov and pumped two bullets into Marin’s skull, one in each eye, putting the Bullybasa out of his misery.
The three Russians walked out of the house and settled back into the Mercedes.
The driver reversed, engaged Drive and motored slowly out of town. There was no reason to hurry. The Bullybasa was dead. The car was bulletproof. And the police never come within twenty-five miles of the Tigani.
As they drew onto the road to Bucharest, the big man picked a satellite phone from the centre console and punched in a number.
Seconds later, a voice in Moscow answered.
‘Sacha, it’s me,’ said the big man. ‘Who do we know in London?’
London
Mickey French handed over two £50 notes and trousered his £2 change. Petrol had hit a tenner a gallon during the last fuel blockade and what went up never seemed to come down again.
He walked back to the car, turned the key in the ignition and pressed the pre-set button on the radio.
‘You’re listening to Rocktalk 99FM. I’m Ricky Sparke and these are the latest headlines. In Kent, another thirty-five Romanian nationals were found wandering along the hard shoulder of the A2. Police officers gave them meal vouchers and rail tickets to Croydon, where they will be able to register for free housing and social benefits. It brings to over 150,000 the number of asylum-seekers currently waiting for their applications to be processed.
‘Fighting broke out on the Chiswick flyover in west London as motorists abandoned their vehicles to escape a five-hour, ten-mile traffic jam caused by the new 25 mph speed limit on the M4, which is being rigorously enforced by cameras and satellite technology.
‘Police made more than two hundred arrests, three for assault, two for threatening behaviour and the rest for exceeding the temporary 15 mph speed limit on the elevated contraflow section.
‘The trouble was witnessed from above by the Deputy Prime Minister who was flying by helicopter to Norwood, where an RAF jet was waiting to transport him to Acapulco for a seventeen-day fact-finding conference on the future of the lesser-spotted Venezuelan swamp vole.
‘More news later. This is Madness.’
You can say that again, old son. Complete madness. Mickey French shook his head, smiled a resigned smile and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as his old drinking mate, Ricky Sparke, fired up the opening bars of ‘House of Fun’.
‘Thank Christ I’m out of it,’ he said to his wife Andi, perched beside him on the passenger seat of his pearl-white M-reg Scorpio Ghia.
‘How many times have I heard that? I’m still not sure you really mean it,’ she said, as he pulled off the forecourt and forced his way into the right-turn-only lane to avoid the half-mile queue for the pumps in either direction.
‘Honest, love. I do mean it. Cross my heart, on our babies’ eyes.’
The babies in question were sitting in the back seat, oblivious to their parents, to each other, to the outside world.
Katie was now fifteen and had a portable stereo permanently glued to her head. Occasionally she paused to change her chewing gum or call a friend on her pay-as-you-go mobile.
Her semi-permanent pout could not, however, obscure her looks. Katie was destined to break a few hearts. She was a pretty girl, dark-haired, olive complexion, slight, boyish figure, pert nose, just like her mum, who was of Greek Cypriot extraction, maiden name Androula Kleanthous, known to all as Andi.
Katie would sometimes complain that she wasn’t as full-hipped or ample-breasted as her classmates, but Andi reassured her that she’d be grateful for that in twenty or thirty years’ time.
Andi
