Blood Falls (27 page)

The pâté was incredible. Vic wished he’d eaten it more slowly, savoured it, but hey ho. It seemed like only two minutes after the plate was cleared away before the main course arrived, with the chicken on its
own plate and a bowl full of chunky posh chips. There was another pint of Guinness. Another brandy, too.

Had he ordered those?

‘Jesus, you guys are quick off the mark,’ he told the waiter, who murmured his thanks. Vic wondered if everyone got this treatment, or was it just because of Leon Race?

He looked round the room, still full of people eating, drinking, talking. Still avoiding his eye. Certainly they all looked happy to be here, and why not? Great food, great service. There was just one tiny niggling worry, but he couldn’t for the life of him think what it was.

Never mind. The salmon next: light and fluffy, melting in his mouth. Even the vegetables were tasty, albeit very crunchy. He wasn’t used to food that required a lot of chewing; it made his jaw hurt. The chips went down easily enough, but the extra order of chicken defeated him. He had to give up halfway through.

Vic pushed the plate away, sat back and burped. Jesus, he felt stuffed. Like that feller from the Monty Python film. Not funny, though. He didn’t want to throw up in here, in front of all these people …

That niggle again. What was it?

He glanced at the door, then at his wrist.
Old habits
… He’d pawned his watch months ago. The waiter was hovering, ready to clear away; Vic beckoned him over.

‘All finished, sir?’

‘Yeah, but leave the chicken. I might have another go at it. What’s the time?’

‘Two minutes past ten, sir.’

‘Don’t suppose you know when …?’

There was a noise from across the room; the inner door opening. A gust of cold air blew through, because the outer door hadn’t closed in time. The waiter smiled.

‘Here he is now, sir.’

* * *

Now Victor knew what was niggling him, but there wasn’t time to think about it properly because Leon Race was striding towards him like he owned the place, big and bold, shoulders thrown back. Another man waddling behind him: Fenton, just as Leon had said. Fenton the money man. The paymaster.

That door hadn’t opened before now. Vic had been here nearly an hour and a half, and in that time no one else had come or gone
…

Unless he’d missed it. He was pretty pissed, after all. But the place had been full when he’d arrived, and it was still full now. That seemed a bit weird.

Then Leon was standing over him. Taller and broader than Vic remembered from the only time they’d met before. Blond hair and a pink round face, like a chubby toddler. But the eyes didn’t belong to any toddler.

‘I know you, don’t I?’ Leon was squinting, as if searching his memory, but it struck a slightly false note.

‘Vic Smith. We met a few years ago, when I was working with Larry Milligan.’

‘You worked for Larry. That’s right.’ Leon looked at Fenton, who nodded, as though this was a pleasant chance meeting of old friends. It made Vic nervous, but he reminded himself that Leon had kept to his word: just him and Fenton, in a busy restaurant. And he certainly hadn’t stinted on the hospitality.

‘Sorry about the, er, deception, Mr Race,’ he said. ‘I just wasn’t sure how to, like, approach you without …’

Leon nodded away the apology. ‘I understand.’

‘And thanks for the meal. Best I’ve eaten in months.’

‘Yeah, nice little place here.’

‘Doing a roaring trade, as well.’ Vic gazed upon his fellow diners. Was it his imagination, or had it gone a lot quieter since Leon arrived?

‘This is my colleague, Clive Fenton,’ Leon said. ‘The big fat feller.’

Vic squirmed, but Fenton didn’t seem to take offence. They shook hands. Fenton’s grip was limp and moist. Leon’s wasn’t. Fenton took
the seat to Vic’s left, Leon sat opposite. The waiter returned, and both men ordered water. Vic declined another drink. He felt breathless, a bit sick. Maybe he’d had enough for now.

He could always have one for the road later, a final brandy to celebrate.

They did a bit of small talk: stuff about Cornwall, Trelennan, the train service. The waiter delivered a carafe of water, ice cubes clinking busily against the glass. The noise set Vic’s teeth on edge. He winced, then realised it was being amplified by other high-pitched sounds: the clatter of crockery, the scrape of chairs on the wooden floor, like a whole class scratching their fingers down a blackboard.

At first he thought his ears must have been blocked up and had suddenly cleared, but it wasn’t that. All round the room, the other diners were getting to their feet. Every single one of them. At some tables the plates were cleared; at several there were desserts that looked virtually untouched. Glasses full of wine, just abandoned: a heartbreaking sight to a man who’d gone without for so long.

And apart from the clatter, it was being done in total silence. No one said a word. None of the diners acknowledged the fact that everybody else was leaving at the same time.

The doors opened and stayed open as forty or fifty people filed out. The temperature plummeted, but Leon and Fenton didn’t seem to notice. They sat and sipped their water. From behind the bar, the staff emerged with their coats on, everyone brisk and a little tense, as if responding to an alarm that Victor alone could not hear.

It was an evacuation.

Outside, cars revving up, all those fancy Mercs and Beemers. Rich fumes drifting inside. The gastro-pub was empty but for the three of them. The last man out was the waiter, but he didn’t shut the inner door. He held it open for the people coming in.

Three men. You didn’t have to be a genius to know they were Leon’s crew. One of them was strangely familiar. Vic had a feeling that he’d seen him on the platform at Birmingham.

The three men had jobs to do. Locking the doors. Closing the last few blinds. Leon and Fenton ignored them, the way Larry Milligan had once ignored Vic.

‘Now,’ Leon said, ‘what shoes are you wearing?’

‘Shoes?’ Vic was in shock. The alcohol was keeping the panic to a manageable level, but it was also dulling his responses. He knew he wasn’t thinking straight; knew he ought to be a lot more scared than he was.

‘What kind of shoes?’ Leon repeated.

Gripping the table for balance, Fenton eased his head down to have a look. ‘They’re boots.’

Vic nodded. ‘Timberlands.’ He was proud of those boots: the only decent item in his wardrobe. He’d stolen them from an upmarket gym a couple of years ago; some wealthy pillock in too much of a hurry to use the lockers.

‘Are they in good shape?’ Leon asked. ‘Any holes in ’em?’

‘No. They’re top-quality, Mr Race.’

Vic had decided he’d better start ingratiating himself. Maybe Leon was a pervert, a foot fetishist or whatever it was. The evening had taken such a strange turn, it felt like anything was possible now.

‘Good,’ Leon said. ‘So they won’t leak?’

Forty-Seven

DESSERT WAS A
homemade chocolate hazelnut mousse with a raspberry coulis. Joe managed two helpings, to Ellie’s great amusement. Afterwards Ellie suggested coffee, but Joe said he was happy to wait a while. He wanted to hear about Leon Race.

‘All right. But you must have formed an opinion yourself?’

‘I’ve only been here a couple of days, but it’s certainly an impressive set-up. Way beyond what you’d expect from someone with his background.’ He mentioned the theory that Leon’s fondness for tracksuits and trainers were to remind people of his humble origins.?

‘I’d add another reason. Dressing as he does encourages people to underestimate him, which he can use to his advantage.’

‘True,’ Joe said. He recalled Patrick Davy making the same point.

‘Part of Glenn’s fascination with him was to do with Leon’s childhood. The whole family were notorious. You know how the media sometimes get hysterical about “neighbours from hell”? Well, the Races were like a textbook example. Leon was the youngest child. One of three, I think, but far and away the worst. He was always tall for his age, and terrorised his classmates virtually from the beginning. Tall and strong and fearlessly aggressive.’

‘The big fish in a small pond,’ Joe murmured.
A shark
.

‘Exactly. By the age of nine or ten he was out of control. Kids of fifteen or sixteen running scared of him. But he was really smart, too.
Not in a conventional sense – schools couldn’t hope to control him, much less interest him in the curriculum.’

‘Streetwise?’

‘Yes, but more than that. Glenn says he’s brilliant with numbers. A very sharp brain. But his real skill in those days was in avoiding getting caught. Even when he did he somehow managed to talk his way out of trouble.’

‘Hence a clean record,’ Joe said, ‘thereby enabling him to work in the security industry.’

Ellie nodded. ‘Some time in his mid to late teens he got his act together. Went off somewhere and came back a couple of years later, having transformed himself into this calm, focused entrepreneur.’

‘Any idea what happened to cause the transformation?’

‘Afraid not. If Glenn knows, he’s never said. And it wasn’t quite that obvious, to be honest. Leon’s first foray into business was with door security, providing bouncers for pubs and clubs along the coast. The big step-up came when he took over a taxi firm here in town.’

‘Ah. Patrick Davy mentioned that, as well as the methods Leon used to persuade the owner to sell up.’

‘Harassment?’ Ellie said. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised.’

‘Does all your knowledge come from Glenn, or are Leon’s practices known to the whole town?’

Ellie shrugged, gave a curious smile. ‘An interesting question, with no easy answer. It’s not as though we get together to compare notes. Most people avoid talking about him at all, just in case.’

‘So there would be reprisals if people did challenge his behaviour?’

‘Oh yes, but it would be done in such a way that you could never know for sure.’

‘Nothing to take to court?’

‘Exactly. Not that anyone in their right mind would ever give evidence against Leon. It was the same when he moved into domestic security. As you’ve probably noticed, Trelennan has a lot of expensive property.
Quite a few holiday homes and rental cottages. The owners pay handsomely for Leon’s guards to patrol the streets, especially out of season when the homes are empty. But when he first starting touting for business there wasn’t much interest.’

‘I suppose crime in these small towns has never been a huge problem?’

‘Not really. But guess what? Suddenly there was a spate of burglaries and vandalism …’

‘Which stopped as soon as they signed up for his patrols?’ Joe sighed. ‘The oldest trick in the book.’

‘You’ve got it. But one of the consequences was that crime in general just plummeted. On the rare occasion that somebody did run amok, they had to answer to Leon. A few broken bones later and everyone got the message. If you’ve got uniformed thugs patrolling the streets, no one’s going to break into a house, whether it has one of Leon’s alarms or not.’

‘And to the outside world it looks as though he’s wrought a miracle.’

‘Absolutely. Another thing you can’t fail to notice here is the absence of ethnic minorities. I’m ashamed to say it, but I suspect there’s a lot of unspoken support for Leon’s racism, even if no one wants to consider too closely what he might be doing to discourage black and Asian people from settling in Trelennan.’

Joe was reminded of the taxi driver’s taunt:
You’re gonna fucking love it here, you are
.

‘Why do people stand for it?’

Ellie rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. ‘The financial benefits. No crime, no vandalism: that equates to more tourists, more money being spent. A lot of businesses have flourished under Leon’s regime.’

‘So everyone’s happy?’ he said sardonically.

‘You sound like me. A born cynic.’ Ellie picked up her wine and then thought better of it, pausing with the glass almost touching her lower lip. She shook her head.

‘No, not happy,’ she said. ‘A whole town walking on eggshells isn’t conducive to happiness.’

First, they broke his toes. Before they asked a single question, they broke his toes.

Vic couldn’t believe it. Even when they tied him to the chair, he felt sure there’d be a chance to talk his way out of trouble. But Leon wouldn’t have it.

‘You’ll have an opportunity to explain later. First there’s punishment for taking the piss on a grand scale.’

They used a set of giant steel bolt cutters. The man who did it was called Reece, Vic gathered. The one he’d seen in Birmingham. Dimly, through the alcoholic haze, he worked it out. They must have recognised his voice, traced him to Tunstall and followed him down here.

Before Reece went to work, they stuffed a rubber gag between Vic’s teeth and put tape over his mouth so he couldn’t spit it out. To muffle the screams – but not because someone might hear and come to the rescue.

Because they didn’t want to listen to a lot of noise.

True to their word, his boots were kept on to reduce the mess. He couldn’t say for sure how many toes were broken: a couple on each foot, at least. A quick, efficient process, the steel jaws tightening beyond painful, down into a crushing, splintering agony the like of which he’d never known, and then …
snap snap
.

Sweat broke out over his whole body: a river of it, soaking his clothes as effectively as if he was standing out in a monsoon. When they were done there were puddles on the floor and he’d sweated out the alcohol, the last of his defences.

By the time they removed the gag he was brutally sober. He was proud that he hadn’t fainted, but he couldn’t stop himself from throwing up. They’d anticipated that: caught it in the towels which they used to mop up the sweat.

After vomiting himself ragged, Vic was too exhausted to scream or
cry. The broken bones were throbbing like bass drums, his feet swelling against the rigid leather. He couldn’t have taken the boots off now if he’d wanted to.

‘No more bullshit,’ Leon told him. ‘You answer every question truthfully. If you do that, and I’m happy with the answers, you might not have to suffer too much more pain. Clear?’